Fleda's face gave small promise of opposition.

"You are not fit to travel now. You need some hours of quiet rest before we go any further."

"But when shall we get home?" said Fleda.

"In good time—not by the railroad—there is a nearer way that will take us to Queechy without going through Greenfield. I have ordered a room to be made ready for you—will you try if it be habitable?"

Fleda submitted; and indeed there was in his manner a sort of gentle determination to which few women would have opposed themselves; besides that her head threatened to make a journey a miserable business.

"You are ill now," said Mr. Carleton. "Cannot you induce your companion to stay and attend you?"

"I don't want her," said Fleda.

Mr. Carleton however mooted the question himself with Mrs. Renney, but she represented to him, though with much deference, that the care of her property must oblige her to go where and when it went. He rang and ordered the housekeeper to be sent.

Presently after a young lady in ringlets entered the room, and first taking a somewhat leisurely survey of the company, walked to the window and stood there looking out. A dim recollection of her figure and air made Fleda query whether she were not the person sent for; but it was several minutes before it came into Mr. Carleton's head to ask if she belonged to the house.

"I do, sir," was the dignified answer.

"Will you shew this lady the room prepared for her? And take care that she wants nothing."

The owner of the ringlets answered not, but turning the front view of them full upon Fleda seemed to intimate that she was ready to act as her guide. She hinted however that the rooms were very airy in winter and that Fleda would stand a better chance of comfort where she was. But this Fleda would not listen to, and followed her adviser to the half warmed and certainly very airy apartment which had been got ready for her. It was probably more owing to something in her own appearance than to Mr. Carleton's word of admonition on the subject that her attendant was really assiduous and kind.

"Be you of this country?" she said abruptly, after her good offices as Fleda thought were ended, and she had just closed her eyes.

She opened them again and said "yes."

"Well, that ain't in the parlour, is he?"

"What?" said Fleda.

"One of our folks?"

"An American, you mean?—No."

"I thought he wa'n't—What is he?"

"He is English."

"Is he your brother?"

"No."

The young lady gave her a good look out of her large dark eyes, and remarking that "she thought they didn't look much like," left the room.

The day was spent by poor Fleda between pain and stupor, each of which acted in some measure to check the other; too much exhausted for nervous pain to reach the height it sometimes did, while yet that was sufficient to prevent stupor from sinking into sleep. Beyond any power of thought or even fancy, with only a dreamy succession of images flitting across her mind, the hours passed she knew not how; that they did pass she knew from her handmaid in the long curls who was every now and then coming in to look at her and give her fresh water; it needed no ice. Her handmaid told her that the cars were gone by—that it was near noon—then that it was past noon. There was no help for it; she could only lie still and wait; it was long past noon before she was able to move; and she was looking ill enough yet when she at last opened the door of the parlour and slowly presented herself.

Mr. Carleton was there alone, Mrs. Renney having long since accompanied her baggage. He came forward instantly and led Fleda to the sofa, with such gentle grave kindness that she could hardly bear it; her nerves had been in an unsteady state all day. A table was set and partially spread with evidently much more care than the one of the morning; and Fleda sat looking at it afraid to trust herself to look anywhere else. For years she had been taking care of others; and now there was something so strange in this feeling of being cared for, that her heart was full. Whatever Mr. Carleton saw or suspected of this, it did not appear. On the contrary his manner and his talk on different matters was as cool, as quiet, as graceful, as if neither he nor Fleda had anything particular to think of; avoiding even an allusion to whatever might in the least distress her. Fleda thought she had a great many reasons to be grateful to him, but she never thanked him for anything more than at that moment she thanked him for the delicacy which so regarded her delicacy and put her in a few minutes completely at her ease as she could be.

The refreshments were presently brought, and Fleda was served with them in a way that went as far as possible towards making them satisfactory; but though a great improvement upon the morning they furnished still but the substitute for a meal. There was a little pause then after the horses were ordered.

"I am afraid you have wanted my former prescription to-day," said Mr. Carleton, after considering the little-improved colour of Fleda's face.

"I have indeed."

"Where is it?"

Fleda hesitated, and then in a little confusion said she supposed it was lying on Mrs. Evelyn's centre-table.

"How happens that?" said he smiling.

"Because—I could not help it, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda with no little difficulty;—"I was foolish—I could not bring it away."

He understood and was silent.

"Are you fit to bear a long ride in the cold?" he said compassionately a few minutes after.

"Oh yes!—It will do me good."

"You have had a miserable day, have you not?"

"My head has been pretty bad,—" said Fleda a little evasively.

"Well, what would you have?" said he lightly;—"doesn't that make a miserable day of it?"

Fleda hesitated and coloured,—and then conscious that her cheeks were answering for her, coloured so exceedingly that she was fain to put both her hands up to hide what they only served the more plainly to shew. No advantage was taken. Mr. Carleton said nothing; she could not see what answer might be in his face. It was only by a peculiar quietness in his tone whenever he spoke to her afterwards that Fleda knew she had been thoroughly understood. She dared not lift her eyes.

They had soon employment enough around her. A sleigh and horses better than anything else Quarrenton had been known to furnish, were carrying her rapidly towards home; the weather had perfectly cleared off, and in full brightness and fairness the sun was shining upon a brilliant world. It was cold indeed, though the only wind was that made by their progress; but Fleda had been again unresistingly wrapped in the furs and was for the time beyond the reach of that or any other annoyance. She eat silently and quietly enjoying; so quietly that a stranger might have questioned there being any enjoyment in the case. It was a very picturesque broken country, fresh-covered with snow; and at that hour, late in the day, the lights and shadows were a constantly varying charm to the eye. Clumps of evergreens stood out in full disclosure against the white ground; the bare branches of neighbouring trees, in all their barrenness, had a wild prospective or retrospective beauty peculiar to themselves. On the wavy white surface of the meadow-land, or the steep hill-sides, lay every variety of shadow in blue and neutral tint; where they lay not the snow was too brilliant to be borne. And afar off, through a heaven bright and cold enough to hold the canopy over Winter's head, the ruler of the day was gently preparing to say good-bye to the world. Fleda's eye seemed to be new set for all forms of beauty, and roved from one to the other, as grave and bright as nature itself.

For a little way Mr. Carleton left her to her musings and was as silent as she. But then he gently drew her into a conversation that broke up the settled gravity of her face and obliged her to divide her attention between nature and him, and his part of it he knew how to manage. But though eye and smile constantly answered him he could win neither to a straightforward bearing.

They were about a mile from Queechy when Pleda suddenly exclaimed,

"O Mr. Carleton, please stop the sleigh I—"

The horses were stopped.

"It is only Earl Douglass—our farmer," Fleda said in explanation,—"I want to ask how they are at home."

In answer to her nod of recognition Mr. Douglass came to the side of the vehicle; but till he was there, close, gave her no other answer by word or sign; when there, broke forth his accustomed guttural,

"How d'ye do!"

"How d'ye do, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda. "How are they all at home?"

"Well, there ain't nothin' new among 'em, as I've heerd on," said Earl, diligently though stealthily at the same time qualifying himself to make a report of Mr. Carleton,—"I guess they'll be glad to see you. I be."

"Thank you, Mr. Douglass. How is Hugh?"

"He ain't nothin' different from what he's been for a spell back—at least I ain't heerd that he was.—Maybe he is, but if he is I han't heerd speak of it, and if he was, I think I should ha' heerd speak of it. He was pretty bad a spell ago—about when you went away—but he's been better sen. So they say. I ha'n't seen him.—Well Flidda," he added with somewhat of a sly gleam in his eye,—"do you think you're going to make up your mind to stay to hum this time?"

"I have no immediate intention of running away, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda, her pale cheeks turning rose as she saw him looking curiously up and down the edges of the black fox. His eye came back to hers with a good-humoured intelligence that she could hardly stand.

"It's time you was back," said he. "Your uncle's to hum,—but he don't do me much good, whatever he does to other folks—nor himself nother, as far as the farm goes; there's that corn"—

"Very well, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda,—"I shall be at home now and I'll see about it."

"Very good!" said Earl as he stepped back,—"Queechy can't get along without you, that's no mistake."

They drove on a few minutes in silence.

"Aren't you thinking, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, "that my countrymen are a strange mixture?"

"I was not thinking of them at all at this moment. I believe such a notion has crossed my mind."

"It has crossed mine very often," said Fleda.

"How do you read them? what is the basis of it?"



"I think,—the strong self-respect which springs from the security and importance that republican institutions give every man. But," she added colouring, "I have seen very little of the world and ought not to judge."

"I have no doubt you are quite right," said Mr. Carleton smiling. "But don't you think an equal degree of self-respect may consist with giving honour where honour is due?"

"Yes—" said Fleda a little doubtfully,—"where religion and not republicanism is the spring of it."

"Humility and not pride," said he. "Yes—you are right."

"My countrymen do yield honour where they think it is due," said Fleda; "especially where it is not claimed. They must give it to reality, not to pretension. And I confess I would rather see them a little rude in their independence than cringing before mere advantages of external position;—even for my own personal pleasure."

"I agree with you, Elfie,—putting perhaps the last clause out of the question."

"Now that man," said Fleda, smiling at his look,—"I suppose his address must have struck you as very strange; and yet there was no want of respect under it. I am sure he has a true thorough respect and even regard for me, and would prove it on any occasion."

"I have no doubt of that."

"But it does not satisfy you?"

"Not quite. I confess I should require more from any one under my control."

"Oh nobody is under control here," said Fleda. "That is, I mean, individual control. Unless so far as self-interest comes in. I suppose that is all-powerful here as elsewhere."

"And the reason it gives less power to individuals is that the greater freedom of resources makes no man's interest depend so absolutely on one other man. That is a reason you cannot regret. No—your countrymen have the best of it, Elfie. But do you suppose that this is a fair sample of the whole country?"

"I dare not say that," said Fleda. "I am afraid there is not so much intelligence and cultivation everywhere. But I am sure there are many parts of the land that will bear a fair comparison with it."

"It is more than I would dare say for my own land."

"I should think—" Fleda suddenly stopped.

"What?—" said Mr. Carleton gently.

"I beg your pardon, sir,—I was going to say something very presumptuous."

"You cannot," he said in the same tone.

"I was going to say," said Fleda blushing, "that I should think there might be a great deal of pleasure in raising the tone of mind and character among the people,—as one could who had influence over a large neighbourhood."

His smile was very bright in answer.

"I have been trying that, Elfie, for the last eight years."

Fleda's eye looked now eagerly in pleasure and in curiosity for more. But he was silent.

"I was thinking a little while ago," he said, "of the time once before when I rode here with you—when you were beginning to lead me to the problem I have been trying to work out ever since.—When I left you in Paris I went to resolve with myself the question, What I had to do in the world?—Your little Bible was my invaluable help. I had read very little of it when I threw aside all other books; and my problem was soon solved. I saw that the life has no honour nor value which is not spent to the glory of God. I saw the end I was made for—the happiness I was fitted for—the dignity to which even a fallen creature may rise, through his dear Redeemer and surety."

Fleda's eyes were down now. Mr. Carleton was silent a moment, watching one or two bright witnesses that fell from them.

"The next conclusion was easy,—that my work was at home.—I have wanted my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on smiling. "But I hope she will be contented to carry the standard of Christianity, without that of republicanism."

"But Christianity tends directly to republicanism, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, trying to laugh.

"I know that," said he smiling, "and I am willing to know it. But the leaven of truth is one thing, and the powder train of the innovator is another."

Fleda sat thinking that she had very little in common with the layers of powder trains. She did not know the sleigh was passing Deepwater Lake, till Mr. Carleton said,—

"I am glad, my dear Elfie, for your sake, that we are almost at the end of your journey."

"I should think you might be glad for your own sake, Mr. Carleton."

"No—my journey is not ended—"

"Not?"

"No—it will not be ended till I get back to New York, or rather till I find myself here again—I shall make very little delay there—"

"But you will not go any further to-night?" said Fleda, her eye this time meeting his fully.

"Yes—I must take the first train to New York. I have some reason to expect my mother by this steamer."

"Back to New York!" said Fleda. "Then taking care of me has just hindered you in your business."

But even as she spoke she read the truth in his eye and her own fell in confusion.

"My business?" said he smiling;—"you know it now, Elfie. I arrived at Mrs. Evelyn's just after you had quitted it, intending to ask you to take the long talked of drive; and learned to my astonishment that you had left the city, and as Edith kindly informed me, under no better guardianship than that in which I found you. I was just in time to reach the boat."

"And you were in the boat night before last?"

"Certainly."

"I should have felt a great deal easier if I had known that," said Fleda.

"So should I," said he, "but you were invisible, till I discerned you in the midst of a crowd of people before me in the car."

Fleda was silent till the sleigh stopped and Mr. Carleton had handed her out.

"What's going to be done

"I will send somebody down to help you with it," said Fleda. "It is too heavy for one alone."

"Well I reckon it is," said he. "I guess you didn't know I was a cousin, did you?"

"No," said Fleda.

"I believe I be."

"Who are you?"

"I am Pierson Barnes. I live to Quarrenton for a year back. Squire Joshua Springer's your uncle, ain't he?"

"Yes, my father's uncle."

"Well he's mine too. His sister's my mother."

"I'll send somebody to help you, Mr. Barnes."

She took Mr. Carleton's arm and walked half the way up to the house without daring to look at him.

"Another specimen of your countrymen," he said smiling.

There was nothing but quiet amusement in the tone, and there was not the shadow of anything else in his face. Fleda looked, and thanked him mentally, and drew breath easier. At the house door he made a pause.

"You are coming in, Mr. Carleton?"

"Not now."

"It is a long drive to Greenfield, Mr. Carleton;—you must not turn away from a country house till we have shewn ourselves unworthy to live in it. You will come in and let us give you something more substantial than those Quarrenton oysters. Do not say no," she said earnestly as she saw a refusal in his eye,—"I know what you are thinking of, but they do not know that you have been told anything—it makes no difference."

She laid her gentle detaining hand, as irresistible in its way as most things, upon his arm, and he followed her in.

Only Hugh was in the sitting-room, and he was in a great easy-chair by the fire. It struck to Fleda's heart; but there was no time but for a flash of thought. He had turned his face and saw her. Fleda meant to have controlled herself and presented Mr. Carleton properly, but Hugh started up, he saw nothing but herself, and one view of the ethereal delicacy of his face made Fleda for a moment forget everything but him. They were in each other's arms, and then still as death. Hugh was unconscious that a stranger was there, and though Fleda was very conscious that one was there who was no stranger,—there was so much in both hearts, so much of sorrow and joy, and gratitude and tenderness, on the one part and on the other, so much that even if they had been alone lips could only have said silently,—that for a little while they kissed each other and wept in a passionate attempt to speak what their hearts were too full of.

Fleda at last whispered to Hugh that somebody else was there and turned to make as well as she might the introduction. But Mr. Carleton did not need it, and made his own with that singular talent which in all circumstances, wherever he chose to exert it, had absolute power. Fleda saw Hugh's countenance change, with a kind of pleased surprise, and herself stood still under the charm for a minute; then she recollected she might be dispensed with. She took up her little spaniel who was in an agony of gratulation at her feet, and went out into the kitchen.

"Well do you mean to say you are here at last?" said Barby, her grey eyes flashing pleasure as she came forward to take the half hand which, owing to King's monopoly, was all Fleda had to give her. "Have you come home to stay, Fleda?"

"I am tired enough to be quiet," said Fleda. "But dear Barby, what have you got in the house?—I want supper as quickly as it can be had."

"Well you do look dreadful bad," said Barby eying her. "Why there ain't much particular, Fleda; nobody's had any heart to eat lately; I thought I might a'most as well save myself the fuss of getting victuals. Hugh lives like a bird, and Mis' Rossitur ain't much better, and I think all of 'em have been keeping their appetites till you came back; 'cept Philetus and me; we keep it up pretty well. Why you're come home hungry, ain't you?"

"No, not I," said Fleda, "but there's a gentleman here that came with me that must have something before he goes away again. What have you Barby?"

"Who is he?" said Barby.

"A friend that took care of me on the way—I'll tell you about it,—but in the mean time, supper, Barby."

"Is he a New Yorker, that one must be curious for?"

"As curious as you like," said Fleda, "but he is not a New Yorker."

"Where is he from, then?" said Barby, who was busily putting on the tea-kettle.

"England."

"England!" said Barby facing about. "Oh if he's an Englishman I don't care for him, Fleda."

"But you care for me," said Fleda laughing; "and for my sake don't let our hospitality fail to somebody who has been very kind to me, if he is an Englishman; and he is in haste to be off."

"Well I don't know what we're a going to give him," said Barby looking at her. "There ain't much in the pantry besides cold pork and beans that Philetus and me made our dinner on—they wouldn't have it in there, and eat nothing but some pickerel the doctor sent down—and cold fish ain't good for much."

"None of them left uncooked?"

"Yes, there's a couple—he sent a great lot—I guess he thought there was more in the family—but two ain't enough to go round; they're little ones."

"No, but put them down and I'll make an omelette. Just get the things ready for me, Barby, will you, while I run up to see aunt Lucy. The hens have begun to lay?"

"La yes—Philetus fetches in lots of eggs—he loves 'em, I reckon—but you ain't fit this minute to do a thing but rest, Fleda."

"I'll rest afterwards. Just get the things ready for me, Barby, and an apron; and the table—I'll be down in a minute. And Barby, grind some coffee, will you?"

But as she turned to run up stairs, her uncle stood in her way, and the supper vanished from Fleda's head. His arms were open and she was silently clasped in them, with so much feeling on both sides that thought and well nigh strength for anything else on her part was gone. His smothered words of deep blessing overcame her. Fleda could do nothing but sob, in distress, till she recollected Barby. Putting her arms round his neck then she whispered to him that Mr. Carleton was in the other room and shortly explained how he came to be there, and begged her uncle would go in and see him till supper should be ready. Enforcing this request with a parting kiss on his cheek, she ran off up stairs. Mr. Rossitur looked extremely moody and cloudy for a few minutes, and then went in and joined his guest. Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter could not be induced to shew themselves.

Little Rolf, however, had no scruples of any kind. He presently edged himself into the room to see the stranger whom he no sooner saw than with a joyous exclamation he bounded forward to claim an old friend.

"Why, Mr. Carleton," exclaimed Mr. Rossitur in surprise, "I was not aware that this young gentleman had the honour of your acquaintance."

"But I have!" said Rolf.

"In London, sir, I had that pleasure," said Mr. Carleton.

"I think it was I had the pleasure," said Rolf, pounding one hand upon Mr. Carleton's knee.

"Where is your mother?"

"She wouldn't come down," said Rolf,—"but I guess she will when she knows who is here—"

And he was darting away to tell her, when Mr. Carleton, within whose arms he stood, quietly restrained him, and told him he was going away presently, but would come again and see his mother another time.

"Are you going back to England, sir?"

"By and by."

"But you will come here again first?"

"Yes—if Mr. Rossitur will let me."

"Mr. Carleton knows he commands his own welcome," said that gentleman somewhat stately. "Go and tell your aunt Fleda that tea is ready, Rolf."

"She knows," said Rolf. "She was making an omelette—I guess it was for this gentleman!"

Whose name he was not clear of yet. Mr. Rossitur looked vexed, but Hugh laughed and asked if his aunt gave him leave to tell that. Rolf entered forthwith into discussion on this subject, while Mr. Carleton who had not seemed to hear it engaged Mr. Rossitur busily in another; till the omelette and Fleda came in. Rolf's mind however was ill at ease.

"Aunt Fleda," said he, as soon as she had fairly taken her place at the head of the table, "would you mind my telling that you made the omelette for this gentleman?"

Fleda cast a confused glance first at the person in question and then round the table, but Mr. Carleton without looking at her answered instantly,

"Don't you understand, Rolf, that the same kindness which will do a favour for a friend will keep him in ignorance of it?"

Rolf pondered a moment and then burst forth,

"Why, sir, wouldn't you like it as well for knowing she made it?"

It was hardly in human gravity to stand this. Fleda herself laughed, but Mr. Carleton as unmoved as possible answered him, "Certainly not!"—and Rolf was nonplussed.

The supper was over. Hugh had left the room, and Mr. Rossitur had before that gone out to give directions about Mr. Carleton's horses. He and Fleda were left alone.

"I have something against you, fairy," said he lightly, taking her hand and putting it to his lips. "You shall not again do me such honour as you have done me to-day—I did not deserve it, Elfie."

The last words were spoken half reproachfully. Fleda stood a moment motionless, and then by some curious revulsion of feeling put both her hands to her face and burst into tears.

She struggled against them, and spoke almost immediately,

"You will think me very foolish, Mr. Carleton,—I am ashamed of myself—but I have lived here so long in this way,—my spirits have grown so quieted by different things,—that it seems sometimes as if I could not bear anything.—I am afraid—"

"Of what, my dear Elfie?"

But she did not answer, and her tears came again.

"You are weary and spent," he said gently, repossessing himself of one of her hands. "I will ask you another time what you are afraid of, and rebuke all your fears."

"I deserve nothing but rebuke now," said Fleda.

But her hand knew, by the gentle and quiet clasp in which it lay, that there was no disposition to give it.

"Do not speak to me for a minute," she said hastily as she heard some one coming.

She went to the window and stood there looking out till Mr. Carleton came to bid her good-bye.

"Will you permit me to say to Mrs. Evelyn," he said in a low tone, "that you left a piece of your property in her house and have commissioned me to bring it you?"

"Yes—" said Fleda, hesitating and looking a little confused,—"but—will you let me write a note instead, Mr. Carleton?"

"Certainly!—but what are you thinking of, Elfie? what grave doubt is lying under your brow?"

All Fleda's shadows rolled away before that clear bright eye.

"I have found by experience," she said, smiling a little but looking down,—"that whenever I tell my secret thoughts to anybody I have some reason afterwards to be sorry for it."

"You shall make me an exception to your rule, however, Elfie."

Fleda looked up, one of her looks half questioning, half fearing, and then answered, a little hesitating,

"I was afraid, sir, that if you went to Mrs. Evelyn's on that errand—I was afraid you would shew them you were displeased."

"And what then?" said he quietly.

"Only—that I wanted to spare them what always gives me a cold chill."

"Gives you!" said Mr. Carleton.

"No sir—only by sympathy—I thought my agency would be the gentlest."

"I see I was right," she said, looking up as he did not answer,—"they don't deserve it,—not half so much as you think. They talk—they don't know what. I am sure they never meant half they said—never meant to annoy me with it, I mean,—and I am sure they have a true love for me; they have shewn it in a great many ways. Constance especially never shewed me anything else. They have been very kind to me; and as to letting me come away as they did, I suppose they thought I was in a greater hurry to get home than I really was—and they would very likely not have minded travelling so themselves; I am so different from them that they might in many things judge me by themselves and yet judge far wrong."

Fleda was going on, but she suddenly became aware that the eye to which she was speaking had ceased to look at the Evelyns, even in imagination, and she stopped short.

"Will you trust me, after this, to see Mrs. Evelyn without the note?" said he smiling.

But Fleda gave him her hand very demurely without raising her eyes again, and he went.

Barby who had come in to clear away the table took her stand at the window to watch Mr. Carleton drive off. Fleda had retreated to the fire. Barby looked in silence till the sleigh was out of sight.

"Is he going back to England now?" she said coming back to the table.

"No."

Barby gathered a pile of plates together and then enquired,

"Is he going to settle in America?"

"Why no, Barby! What makes you ask such a thing?"

"I thought he looked as if he had dressed himself for a cold climate," said Barby dryly.

Fleda sat down by Hugh's easy-chair and laid her head on his breast.

"I like your Mr. Carleton very much," Hugh whispered after awhile.

"Do you?" said Fleda, a little wondering at Hugh's choice of that particular pronominal adjective.

"Very much indeed. But he has changed, Fleda?"

"Yes—in some things—some great things."

"He says he is coming again," said Hugh.

Fleda's heart beat. She was silent.

"I am very glad," repeated Hugh, "I like him very much. But you won't leave me, Fleda,—will you?"

"Leave you?" said Fleda looking at him.

"Yes," said Hugh smiling, and drawing her head down again;—I always thought what he came over here for. But you will stay with me while I want you, Fleda?"

"While you want me!" said Fleda again.

"Yes.—It won't be long."

"What won't be long?"

"I," said Hugh quietly. "Not long. I am very glad I shall not leave you alone, dear Fleda—very glad!—promise me you will not leave me any more."

"Don't talk so, dear Hugh!"

"But it is true, Fleda," said Hugh gently. "I know it. I sha'n't be here but a little while. I am so glad you are come home, dear Fleda!—You will not let anybody take you away till I am gone first?"

Fleda drew her arm close around Hugh's neck and was still,—still even to his ear,—for a good while. A hard battle must be fought, and she must not be weak, for his sake and for everybody's sake. Others of the family had come or were coming into the room. Hugh waited till a short breath, but freer drawn, told him he might speak.

"Fleda—" he whispered.

"What?"

"I am very happy.—I only want your promise about that."

"I can't talk to you, Hugh."

"No, but promise me."

"What?"

"That you will not let anybody take you away while I want you."

"I am sure he would not ask it," said Fleda, hiding her cheeks and eyes at once in his breast.



Chapter XLIX.



Do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela as well as a joyful?

Sidney.

Mr. Carleton came back without his mother; she had chosen to put off her voyage till spring. He took up his quarters at Montepoole, which, far though it was, was yet the nearest point where his notions of ease could have freedom enough.

One would have thought that saw him,—those most nearly concerned almost did think,—that in his daily coming to Queechy Mr. Carleton sought everybody's pleasure rather than his own. He was Fleda's most gentle and kind assistant in taking care of Hugh, soon dearly valued by the sick one, who watched for and welcomed his coming as a bright spot in the day; and loved particularly to have Mr. Carleton's hand do anything for him. Rather than almost any other. His mother's was too feeling; Fleda's Hugh often feared was weary; and his father's, though gentle to him as to an infant, yet lacked the mind's training. And though Marion was his sister in blood, Guy was his brother in better bonds. The deep blue eye that little Fleda had admired Hugh learned to love and rest on singularly.

To the rest of the family Mr. Carleton's influence was more soothing and cheering than any cause beside. To all but the head of it. Even Mrs. Rossitur, after she had once made up her mind to see him, could not bear to be absent when he was in the house. The dreaded contrast with old times gave no pain, either to her or Marion. Mr. Carleton forgot so completely that there was any difference that they were charmed into forgetting it too. But Mr. Rossitur's pride lay deeper, or had been less humbled by sorrow; the recollections that his family let slip never failed to gall him when Mr. Carleton was present; and if now and then for a moment these were banished by his guest's graces of mind and manner, the next breath was a sigh for the circles and the pleasures they served to recall, now seeming for ever lost to him. Mr. Carleton perceived that his company gave pain and not pleasure to his host and for that reason was the less in the house, and made his visits to Hugh at times when Mr. Rossitur was not in the way. Fleda he took out of the house and away with him, for her good and his own.

To Fleda the old childish feeling came back, that she was in somebody's hands who had a marvellous happy way of managing things about her and even of managing herself. A kind of genial atmosphere, that was always doing her good, yet so quietly and so skilfully that she could only now and then get a chance even to look her thanks. Quietly and efficiently he was exerting himself to raise the tone of her mind, to brighten her spirits, to reach those sober lines that years of patience had drawn round her eye and mouth, and charm them away. So gently, so indirectly, by efforts so wisely and gracefully aimed, he set about it, that Fleda did not know what he was doing; but he knew. He knew when he saw her brow unbend and her eye catch its old light sparkle, that his conversation and the thoughts and interests with which he was rousing her mind or fancy, were working, and would work all he pleased. And though the next day he might find the old look of patient gravity again, he hardly wished it not there, for the pleasure of doing it away. Hugh's anxious question to Fleda had been very uncalled for, and Fleda's assurance was well-grounded; that subject was never touched upon.

Fleda's manner with Mr. Carleton was peculiar and characteristic. In the house, before others, she was as demure and reserved as though he had been a stranger; she never placed herself near him, nor entered into conversation with him, unless when he obliged her; but when they were alone there was a frank confidence and simplicity in her manner that most happily answered the high-bred delicacy that had called it out.

One afternoon of a pleasant day in March Fleda and Hugh were sitting alone together in the sick room. Hugh was weaker than usual, but not confined to his bed; he was in his great easy-chair which had been moved up-stairs for him again. Fleda had been repeating hymns.

"You are tired," Hugh said.

"No—"

"There's something about you that isn't strong," said Hugh fondly. "I wonder where is Mr. Carleton to-day. It is very pleasant, isn't it?"

"Very pleasant, and warm; it is like April; the snow all went off yesterday, and the ground is dry except in spots."

"I wish he would come and give you a good walk. I have noticed how you always come back looking so much brighter after one of your walks or rides with him."

"What makes you think so, dear Hugh?" said Fleda a little troubled.

"Only my eyes," said Hugh smiling. "It does me as much good as you, Fleda."

"I never want to go and leave you, Hugh."

"I am very glad there is somebody to take you. I wish he would come. You want it this minute."

"I don't think I shall let him take me if he comes."

"Whither? and whom?" said another voice.

"I didn't know you were there, sir," said Fleda suddenly rising.

"I am but just here—Rolf admitted me as he passed out."

Coming in between them and still holding the hand of one Mr. Carleton bent down towards the other.

"How is Hugh, to-day?"

It was pleasant to see, that meeting of eyes,—the grave kindliness on the one side, the confident affection on the other. But the wasted features said as plainly as the tone of Hugh's gentle reply, that he was passing away,—fast.

"What shall I do for you?"

"Take Fleda out and give her a good walk. She wants it."

"I will, presently. You are weary—what shall I do to rest you?"

"Nothing—" said Hugh, closing his eyes with a very placid look;—"unless you will put me in mind of something about heaven, Mr. Carleton."

"Shall I read to you?—Baxter,—or something else?"

"No—just give me something to think of while you're gone,—as you have done before, Mr. Carleton."

"I will give you two or three of the Bible bits on that subject; they are but hints and indications you know—rather rays of light that stream out from the place than any description of it; but you have only to follow one of these indications and see whither it will lead you. The first I recollect is that one spoken to Abraham, 'Fear not—I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'"

"Don't go any further, Mr. Carleton," said Hugh with a smile. "Fleda—do you remember?"

They sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long.

"You were going to walk," said Hugh without looking at them.

Fleda however did not move till a word or two from Mr. Carleton had backed Hugh's request; then she went.

"Is she gone?" said Hugh. "Mr. Carleton, will you hand me that little desk."

It was his own. Mr. Carleton brought it. Hugh opened it and took out a folded paper which he gave to Mr. Carleton, saying that he thought he ought to have it.

"Do you know the handwriting, sir?"

"No."

"Ah she has scratched it so. It is Fleda's."

Hugh shut his eyes again and Mr. Carleton seeing that he had settled himself to sleep went to the window with the paper. It hardly told him anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light.

"Cold blew the east wind And thick fell the rain, I looked for the tops Of the mountains in vain; Twilight was gathering And dark grew the west, And the woodfire's crackling Toned well with the rest.

"Speak fire and tell me— Thy flickering flame Fell on me in years past— Say, am I the same? Has my face the same brightness In those days it wore?— My foot the same lightness As it crosses the floor?

"Methinks there are changes— Am weary to-night,— I once was as tireless As the bird on her flight; My bark in full measure Threw foam from the prow;— Not even for pleasure Would I care to move now.

"Tis not the foot only That lieth thus still,— I am weary in spirit, I am listless in will. My eye vainly peereth Through the darkness, to find Some object that cheereth— Some light for the mind.

"What shadows come o'er me— What things of the past,— Bright things of my childhood That fled all too fast, The scenes where light roaming My foot wandered free, Come back through the gloamin'— Come all back to me.

"The cool autumn evening, The fair summer morn,— The dress and the aspect Some dear ones have worn,— The sunshiny places— The shady hill-side— The words and the faces That might not abide.—

"Die out little fire— Ay, blacken and pine!— So have paled many lights That were brighter than thine. I can quicken thy embers Again with a breath, But the others lie cold In the ashes of death."

Mr. Carleton had read near through the paper before Fleda came in.

"I have kept you a long time, Mr. Carleton," she said coming up to the window; "I found aunt Lucy wanted me."

But she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. Her own eye went to the paper in search of explanation.

"What have you there?—Oh, Mr. Carleton," she said, putting her hand over it,—"Please to give it to me!"

Fleda's face was very much in earnest. He took the hand but did not give her the paper, and looked his refusal.

"I am ashamed you should see that!—who gave it to you?"

"You shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said smiling.

"But have you read it?"

"Yes."

"I am very sorry!"

"I am very glad, my dear Elfie."

"You will think—you will think what wasn't true,—it was just a mood I used to get into once in a while—I used to be angry with myself for it, but I could not help it—one of those listless fits would take me now and then—"

"I understand it, Elfie."

"I am very sorry you should know I ever felt or wrote so."

"Why?"

"It was very foolish and wrong—"

"Is that a reason for my not knowing it?"

"No—not a good one—But you have read it now,—won't you let me have it?"

"No—I shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, Elfie," he said as he put it in a place of security.

"Pray do not!" said Fleda most unaffectedly.

"Why?"

"Because I remember Mrs. Carleton says you always have what you ask for."

"Give me permission to put on your bonnet, then," said he laughingly, taking it from her hand.

The air was very sweet, the footing pleasant. The first few steps of the walk were made by Fleda in silence, with eager breath and a foot that grew lighter as it trod.

"I don't think it was a right mood of mind I had when I wrote that," she said. "It was morbid. But I couldn't help it.—Yet if one could keep possession of those words you quoted just now, I suppose one never would have morbid feelings, Mr. Carleton?"

"Perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many things may make it weaker."

"Mine is weak," said Fleda. "But it is possible to keep firm hold of those words, Mr. Carleton?"

"Yes—by strength that is not human nature's—And after all the firm hold is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. The very hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. And so it is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the Author and Finisher of our faith."

"I love those words," said Fleda. "But Mr. Carleton, how shall one be sure that one has a right to those other words—those I mean that you told to Hugh? One cannot take the comfort of them unless one is sure."

Her voice trembled.

"My dear Elfie, the promises have many of them their double—stamped with the very same signet—and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise."

"Well—in this case?" said Fleda eagerly.

"In this case,—God says, 'I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.' Now see if your own heart can give the countersign,—'Thou art my portion, O Lord!'"

Fleda's head sank instantly and almost lay upon his arm.

"If you have the one, my dear Elfie, the other is yours—it is the note of hand of the maker of the promise—sure to be honoured. And if you want proof here it is,—and a threefold cord is not soon broken.—'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.'"

There was a pause of some length. Fleda had lifted up her head, but walked along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak.

"Have you the countersign, Elfie?"

Fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from weeping again.

"Yes.—But so I had then, Mr. Carleton—only sometimes I got those fits of feeling—I forgot it, I suppose."

"When were these verses written?"

"Last fall;—uncle Rolf was away, and aunt Lucy unhappy,—and I believe I was tired—I suppose it was that."

For a matter of several rods each was busy with his own musings. But Mr. Carleton bethought himself.

"Where are you, Elfie?"

"Where am I?"

"Yes—Not at Queechy?"

"No indeed," said Fleda laughing. "Far enough away."

"Where?"

"At Paris—at the Marche des Innocens."

"How did you get to Paris?"

"I don't know—by a bridge of associations, I suppose, resting one end on last year, and the other on the time when I was eleven years old."

"Very intelligible," said Mr. Carleton smiling.

"Do you remember that morning, Mr. Carleton?—when you took Hugh and me to the Marche des Innocens?"

"Perfectly."

"I have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early that morning."

"I think I was well paid at the time. I remember I thought I had seen one of the prettiest sights I had even seen in Paris."

"So I thought!" said Fleda. "It has been a pleasant picture in my imagination ever since."

There was a curious curl in the corners of Mr. Carleton's mouth which made Fleda look an inquiry—a look so innocently wistful that his gravity gave way.

"My dear Elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then."

"Am I?" said Fleda. "I dare say I am, for I feel so. I have the very same feeling I used to have then, that I am a child, and you taking the care of me into your own hands."

"One half of that is true, and the other half nearly so."

"How good you always were to me!" Fleda said with a sigh.

"Not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he said with a smile, "as the account bids fair to run a good while."

A silence again, during which Fleda is clearly not enjoying the landscape nor the fine weather.

"Elfie,—what are you meditating?"

She came back from her meditations with a very frank look.

"I was thinking,—Mr. Carleton,—of your notions about female education."

"Well?—"

They had paused upon a rising ground. Fleda hesitated, and then looked up in his face.

"I am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in the way of being all you wish me to be?"

Her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. He gave her no answer, except by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no longer and her own fell. Mr. Carleton recollected himself.

"My dear Elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant Elfie was at no loss for the tone now,—"what do you consider yourself deficient in?"

Fleda spoke with a little difficulty.

"I am afraid in a good many things—in general reading,—and in what are called accomplishments—"

"You shall read as much as you please by and by," said he, "provided you will let me read with you; and as for the other want, Elfie, it is rather a source of gratification to me."

Elfie very naturally asked why?

"Because as soon as I have the power I shall immediately constitute myself your master in the arts of riding and drawing, and in any other art or acquisition you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently."

"And will there be gratification in that?" said Fleda.

His answer was by a smile. But he somewhat mischievously asked her, "Will there not?"—and Fleda was quiet.



Chapter L.



Friends, I sorrow not to leave ye; If this life an exile be, We who leave it do but journey Homeward to our family.

Spanish Ballad.

The first of April came.

Mr. Rossitur had made up his mind not to abide at Queechy, which only held him now by the frail thread of Hugh's life. Mr. Carleton knew this, and had even taken some steps towards securing for him a situation in the West Indies. But it was unknown to Fleda; she had not heard her uncle say anything on the subject since she came home; and though aware that their stay was a doubtful matter, she still thought it might be as well to have the garden in order. Philetus could not be trusted to do everything wisely of his own head, and even some delicate jobs of hand could not be safely left to his skill; if the garden was to make any headway Fleda's head and hand must both be there, she knew. So as the spring opened she used to steal away from the house every morning for an hour or two, hardly letting her friends know what she was about, to make sure that peas and potatoes and radishes and lettuce were in the right places at the right times, and to see that the later and more delicate vegetables were preparing for. She took care to have this business well over before the time that Mr. Carleton ever arrived from the Pool.

One morning she was busy in dressing the strawberry beds, forking up the ground between the plants and filling the vacancies that the severe winter or some irregularities of fall dressing had made. Mr. Skillcorn was rendering a somewhat inefficient help, or perhaps amusing himself with seeing how she worked. The little old silver-grey hood was bending down over the strawberries, and the fork was going at a very energetic rate.

"Philetus—"

"Marm!"

"Will you bring me that bunch of strawberry plants that lies at the corner of the beds, in the walk?—and my trowel?"

"I will!—" said Mr. Skillcorn.

It was another hand however that brought them and laid them beside her; but Fleda very intent upon her work and hidden under her close hood did not find it out. She went on busily putting in the plants as she found room for them, and just conscious, as she thought, that Philetus was still standing at her side she called upon him from time to time, or merely stretched out her hand, for a fresh plant as she had occasion for it.

"Philetus," she said at length, raising her voice a little that it might win to him round the edge of her hood without turning her face,—"I wish you would get the ground ready for that other planting of potatoes—you needn't stay to help me any longer."

"'Tain't me, I guess," said the voice of Philetus on the other side of her.

Fleda looked in astonishment to make sure that it really was Mr. Skillcorn proceeding along the garden path in that quarter, and turning jumped up and dropped her trowel and fork, to have her hands otherwise occupied. Mr. Skillcorn walked off leisurely towards the potato ground, singing to himself in a kind of consolatory aside,—

"I cocked up my beaver, and who but I!— The lace in my hat was so gallant and so gay, That I flourished like a king in his own countray."

"There is one of your countrymen that is an odd variety, certainly," said Mr. Carleton, looking after him with a very comic expression of eye.

"Is he not!" said Fleda. "And hardly a common one. There never was a line more mathematically straight than the course of Philetus's ideas; they never diverge, I think, to the right hand or the left, a jot from his own self-interest."

"You will be an invaluable help to me, Elfie, if you can read my English friends as closely."

"I am afraid you will not let me come as close to them," said Fleda laughing.

"Perhaps not. I shouldn't like to pay too high a premium for the knowledge. How is Hugh, to-day?"

Fleda answered with a quick change of look and voice that he was much as usual.

"My mother has written me that she will be here by the Europa, which is due to-morrow—I must set off for New York this afternoon; therefore I came so early to Queechy."

Fleda was instinctively pulling off her gardening gloves, as they walked towards the house.

"Aunt Miriam wants to see you, Mr. Carleton—she begged I would ask you to come there some time—"

"With great pleasure—shall we go there now, Elfie?"

"I will be ready in five minutes."

Mrs. Rossitur was alone in the breakfast-room when they went in. Hugh she reported was asleep, and would be just ready to see Mr. Carleton by the time they got back. They stood a few minutes talking, and then Fleda went to get ready.

Both pair of eyes followed her as she left the room and then met with perfect understanding.

"Will you give your child to me, Mrs. Rossitur?" said the gentleman.

"With all my heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur bursting into tears,—"even if I were left alone entirely—"

Her agitation was uncontrolled for a minute, and then she said, with feeling seemingly too strong to be kept in,

"If I were only sure of meeting her in heaven, I could be content to be without her till then!—"

"What is in the way, my dear madam?" said Mr. Carleton, with a gentle sympathy that touched the very spring he meant it should. Mrs. Rossitur waited a minute, but it was only till tears would let her speak, and then said like a child,—

"Oh, it is all darkness!—"

"Except this," said he, gently and clearly, "that Jesus Christ is a sun and a shield; and those that put themselves at his feet are safe from all fear, and they who go to him for light shall complain of darkness no more."

"But I do not know how—"

"Ask him and he will tell you."

"But I am unworthy even to look up towards him," said Mrs. Rossitur, struggling, it seemed, between doubts and wishes.

"He knows that, and yet he has bid you come to him. He knows that,—and knowing it, he has taken your responsibility and paid your debt, and offers you now a clean discharge, if you will take it at his hand;—and for the other part of this unworthiness, that blood cannot do away, blood has brought the remedy—'Shall we who are evil give good things to our children, and shall not our Father which is in heaven give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him?'"

"But must I do nothing?" said Mrs. Rossitur, when she had remained quiet with her face in her hands for a minute or two after he had done speaking.

"Nothing but be willing—be willing to have Christ in all his offices, as your Teacher, your King, and your Redeemer—give yourself to him, dear Mrs. Rossitur, and he will take care of the rest."

"I am willing!" she exclaimed. Fresh tears came, and came freely. Mr. Carleton said no more, till hearing some noise of opening and shutting doors above stairs Mrs. Rossitur hurriedly left the room, and Fleda came in by the other entrance.

"May I take you a little out of the way, Mr. Carleton?" she said when they had passed through the Deepwater settlement.—"I have a message to carry to Mrs. Elster—a poor woman out here beyond the lake. It is not a disagreeable place."

"And what if it were?"

"I should not perhaps have asked you to go with me," said Fleda a little doubtfully.

"You may take me where you will, Elfie," he said gently. "I hope to do as much by you some day."

Fleda looked up at the piece of elegance beside her, and thought what a change must have come over him if he would visit poor places. He was silent and grave however, and so was she, till they arrived at the house they were going to.

Certainly it was not a disagreeable place. Barby's much less strong minded sister had at least a good share of her practical nicety. The little board path to the door was clean and white still, with possibly a trifle less brilliant effect. The room and its old inhabitants were very comfortable and tidy; the patchwork counterpane as gay as ever. Mrs. Elster was alone, keeping company with a snug little wood fire, which was near as much needed in that early spring weather as it had been during the winter.

Mr. Carleton had come back from his abstraction, and stood taking half unconscious note of these things, while Fleda was delivering her message to the old woman. Mrs. Elster listened to her implicitly with every now and then an acquiescing nod or ejaculation, but so soon as Fleda had said her say she burst out, with a voice that had never known the mufflings of delicacy and was now pitched entirely beyond its owner's ken. Looking hard at Mr. Carleton,

"Fleda!—Is this the gentleman that's to be your—husband?"

The last word elevated and brought out with emphatic distinctness of utterance.

If the demand had been whether the gentleman in question was a follower of Mahomet, it would hardly have been more impossible for Fleda to give an affirmative answer; but Mr. Carleton laughed and bringing his face a little nearer the old crone, answered,

"So she has promised, ma'am."



It was curious to see the lines of the old woman's face relax as she looked at him.

"He's—worthy of you!—as far as looks goes," she said in the same key as before, apostrophizing Fleda who had drawn back, but not stirring her eyes from Mr. Carleton all the time. And then she added to him with a little satisfied nod, and in a very decided tone of information,

"She will make you a good wife!"

"Because she has made a good friend?" said Mr. Carleton quietly. "Will you let me be a friend too?"

He had turned the old lady's thoughts into a golden channel, whence, as she was an American, they had no immediate issue in words; and Fleda and Mr. Carleton left the house without anything more.

Fleda felt nervous. But Mr. Carleton's first words were as coolly and as gravely spoken as if they had just come out from a philosophical lecture; and with an immediate spring of relief she enjoyed every step of the way and every word of the conversation which was kept up with great life, till they reached Mrs. Plumfield's door.

No one was in the sitting-room. Fleda left Mr. Carleton there and passed gently into the inner apartment, the door of which was standing ajar.

But her heart absolutely leaped into her mouth, for Dr. Quackenboss and Mr. Olmney were there on either side of her aunt's bed. Fleda came forward and shook hands.

"This is quite a meeting of friends," said the doctor blandly, yet with a perceptible shading of the whilome broad sunshine of his face.—"Your—a—aunt, my dear Miss Ringgan,—is in a most extraordinary state of mind!"

Fleda was glad to hide her face against her aunt's and asked her how she did.

"Dr. Quackenboss thinks it extraordinary, Fleda," said the old lady with her usual cheerful sedateness,—"that one who has trusted God and had constant experience of his goodness and faithfulness for forty years should not doubt him at the end of it."

"You have no doubt—of any kind, Mrs. Plumfield?" said the clergyman.

"Not the shadow of a doubt!" was the hearty, steady reply.

"You mistake, my dear madam," said Dr. Quackenboss,—"pardon me—it is not that—I would be understood to say, merely, that I do not comprehend how such—a—such security—can be attained respecting what seems so—a—elevated—and difficult to know."

"Only by believing," said Mrs. Plumfield with a very calm smile. "'He that believeth on him shall not be ashamed;'—'shall not be ashamed!'" she repeated slowly.

Dr. Quackenboss looked at Fleda, who kept her eyes fixed upon her aunt.

"But it seems to me—I beg pardon—perhaps I am arrogant—" he said with a little bow,—"but it appears to me almost—in a manner—almost presumptuous, not to be a little doubtful in such a matter until the time comes. Am I—do you disapprove of me, Mr. Olmney?"

Mr. Olmney silently referred him for his answer to the person he had first addressed, who had closed her eyes while he was speaking.

"Sir," she said, opening them,—"it can't be presumption to obey God, and he tells me to rejoice. And I do—I do!—'Let all those that love thee rejoice in thee and be glad in thee!'—But mind!" she added energetically, fixing her strong grey eye upon him—"he does not tell you to rejoice—do not think it—not while you stand aloof from his terms of peace. Take God at his word, and be happy;—but if not, you have nothing to do with the song that I sing!"

The doctor stared at her till she had done speaking, and then slunk out of her range of vision behind the curtains of the bed-post. Not silenced however.

"But—a—Mr. Olmney," said he hesitating—"don't you think that there is in general—a—a becoming modesty, in—a—in people that have done wrong, as we all have,—putting off being sure until they are so? It seems so to me!"

"Come here, Dr. Quackenboss," said aunt Miriam.

She waited till he came to her side, and then taking his hand and looking at him very kindly, she said,

"Sir, forty years ago I found in the Bible, as you say, that I was a sinner, and that drove me to look for something else. I found then God's promise that if I would give my dependence entirely to the substitute he had provided for me and yield my heart to his service, he would for Christ's sake hold me quit of all my debts and be my father, and make me his child. And, sir, I did it. I abhor every other dependence—the things you count good in me I reckon but filthy rags. At the same time, I know that ever since that day, forty years ago, I have lived in his service and tried to live to his glory. And now, sir, shall I disbelieve his promise? do you think he would be pleased if I did?"

The doctor's mouth was stopped, for once. He drew back as soon as he could and said not another word.

Before anybody had broken the silence Seth came in; and after shaking hands with Fleda, startled her by asking whether that was not Mr. Carleton in the other room.

"Yes," Fleda said,—"he came to see aunt Miriam."

"Ain't you well enough to see him, mother?"

"Quite—and very happy," said she.

Seth immediately went back and invited him in. Fleda dared not look up while the introductions were passing,—of "the Rev. Mr. Olmney," and of "Dr. Quackenboss,"—the former of whom Mr. Carleton took cordially by the hand, while Dr. Quackenboss conceiving that his hand must be as acceptable, made his salutation with an indescribable air at once of attempted gracefulness and ingratiation. Fleda saw the whole in the advancing line of the doctor's person, a vision of which crossed her downcast eye. She drew back then, for Mr. Carleton came where she was standing to take her aunt's hand; Seth had absolutely stayed his way before to make the said introductions.

Mrs. Plumfield was little changed by years or disease since he had seen her. There was somewhat more of a look of bodily weakness than there used to be; but the dignified, strong-minded expression of the face was even heightened; eye and brow were more pure and unclouded in their steadfastness. She looked very earnestly at her visiter and then with evident pleasure from the manner of his look and greeting. Fleda watched her eye softening with a gratified expression and fixed upon him as he was gently talking to her.

Mr. Olmney presently came round to take leave, promising to see her another time, and passing Fleda with a frank grave pressure of the hand which gave her some pain. He and Seth left the room. Fleda was hardly conscious that Dr. Quackenboss was still standing at the foot of the bed making the utmost use of his powers of observation. He could use little else, for Mr. Carleton and Mrs. Plumfield after a few words on each side, had as it were by common consent come to a pause. The doctor, when a sufficient time had made him fully sensible of this, walked up to Fleda, who wished heartily at the moment that she could have presented the reverse end of the magnet to him. Perhaps however it was that very thing which by a perverse sort of attraction drew him towards her.

"I suppose—a—we may conclude," said he with a somewhat saturnine expression of mischief,—that Miss Ringgan contemplates forsaking the agricultural line before a great while."

"I have not given up my old habits, sir," said Fleda, a good deal vexed.

"No—I suppose not—but Queechy air is not so well suited for them—other skies will prove more genial," he said; she could not help thinking, pleased at her displeasure.

"What is the fault of Queechy air, sir?" said Mr. Carleton, approaching them.

"Sir!" said the doctor, exceedingly taken aback, though the words had been spoken in the quietest manner possible,—'it—a—it has no fault, sir,—that I am particularly aware of—it is perfectly salubrious. Mrs. Plumfield, I will bid you good-day;—I—a—I hope you will get well again!"

"I hope not, sir!" said aunt Miriam, in the same clear hearty tones which had answered him before.

The doctor took his departure and made capital of his interview with Mr. Carleton; who he affirmed he could tell by what he had seen of him was a very deciduous character, and not always conciliating in his manners.

Fleda waited with a little anxiety for what was to follow the doctor's leave-taking.

It was with a very softened eye that aunt Miriam looked at the two who were left, clasping Fleda's hand again; and it was with a very softened voice that she next spoke.

"Do you remember our last meeting, sir?"

"I remember it well," he said.

"Fleda tells me you are a changed man since that time?"

He answered only by a slight and grave bow.

"Mr. Carleton," said the old lady,—"I am a dying woman—and this child is the dearest thing in the world to me after my own,—and hardly after him.—Will you pardon me—will you bear with me, if that I may die in peace, I say, sir, what else it would not become me to say?—and it is for her sake."

"Speak to me freely as you would to her," he said with a look that gave her full permission.

Fleda had drawn close and hid her face in her aunt's neck. Aunt Miriam's hand moved fondly over her cheek and brow for a minute or two in silence; her eye resting there too.

"Mr. Carleton, this child is to belong to you—how will you guide her?"

"By the gentlest paths," he said with a smile.

A whispered remonstrance from Fleda to her aunt had no effect.

"Will her best interests be safe in your hands?"

"How shall I resolve you of that, Mrs. Plumfield?" he said gravely.

"Will you help her to mind her mother's prayer and keep herself unspotted from the world?"

"As I trust she will help me."

A rogue may answer questions, but an eye that has never known the shadow of double-dealing makes no doubtful discoveries of itself. Mrs. Plumfield read it and gave it her very thorough respect.

"Mr. Carleton—pardon me, sir,—I do not doubt you—but I remember hearing long ago that you were rich and great in the world—it is dangerous for a Christian to be so—Can she keep in your grandeur the simplicity of heart and life she has had at Queechy?"

"May I remind you of your own words, my dear madam? By the blessing of God all things are possible. These things you speak of are not in themselves evil; if the mind be set on somewhat else, they are little beside a larger storehouse of material to work with—an increased stewardship to account for."

"She has been taking care of others all her life," said aunt Miriam tenderly;—"it is time she was taken care of; and these feet are very unfit for rough paths; but I would rather she should go on struggling as she has done with difficulties and live and die in poverty, than that the lustre of her heavenly inheritance should be tarnished even a little.—I would, my darling!—"

"But the alternative is not, so," said Mr. Carleton with gentle grace, touching Fleda's hand who he saw was a good deal disturbed. "Do not make her afraid of me, Mrs. Plumfield."

"I do not believe I need," said aunt Miriam, "and I am sure I could not,—but sir, you will forgive me?"

"No madam—that is not possible."

"One cannot stand where I do," said the old lady, "without learning a little the comparative value of things; and I seek my child's good,—that is my excuse. I could not be satisfied to take her testimony—"

"Take mine, madam," said Mr. Carleton. "I have learned the comparative value of things too; and I will guard her highest interests as carefully as I will every other—as earnestly as you can desire."

"I thank you, sir," said the old lady gratefully. "I am sure of it. I shall leave her in good hands. I wanted this assurance. And if ever there was a tender plant that was not fitted to grow on the rough side of the world—I think this is one," said she, kissing earnestly the face that yet Fleda did not dare to lift up.

Mr. Carleton did not say what he thought. He presently took kind leave of the old lady and went into the next room, where Fleda soon rejoined him and they set off homewards.

Fleda was quietly crying all the way down the hill. At the foot of the hill Mr. Carleton resolutely slackened his pace.

"I have one consolation," he said, "my dear Elfie—you will have the less to leave for me."

She put her hand with a quick motion upon his, and roused her self.

"She is a beautiful rebuke to unbelief. But she is hardly to be mourned for, Elfie."

"Oh I was not crying for aunt Miriam," said Fleda.

"For what then?" he said gently.

"Myself."

"That needs explanation," he said in the same tone. "Let me have it, Elfie."

"O—I was thinking of several things," said Fleda, not exactly wishing to give the explanation.

"Too vague," said Mr. Carleton smiling. "Trust me with a little more of your mind, Elfie."

Fleda glanced up at him, half smiling, and yet with filling eyes, and then as usual, yielded to the winning power of the look that met her.

"I was thinking," she said, keeping her head carefully down,—"of some of the things you and aunt Miriam were saying just now,—and—how good for nothing I am."

"In what respect?" said Mr. Carleton with praiseworthy gravity.

Fleda hesitated, and he pressed the matter no further; but more unwilling to displease him than herself she presently went on, with some difficulty; wording what she had to say with as much care as she could.

"I was thinking—how gratitude—or not gratitude alone—but how one can be full of the desire to please another,—a fellow-creature,—and find it constantly easy to do or bear anything for that purpose; and how slowly and coldly duty has to move alone in the direction where it should be the swiftest and warmest."

She knew he would take her words as simply as she said them; she was not disappointed. He was silent a minute and then said gravely,—

"Is this a late discovery, Elfie?"

"No—only I was realizing it strongly just now."

"It is a complaint we may all make. The remedy is, not to love less what we know, but to know better that of which we are in ignorance. We will be helps and not hindrances to each other, Elfie."

"You have said that before," said Fleda still keeping her head down.

"What?"

"About my being a help to you!"

"It will not be the first time," said he smiling,—"nor the second. Your little hand first held up a glass to gather the scattered rays of truth that could not warm me into a centre where they must burn."

"Very innocently," said Fleda with a little unsteady feeling of voice.

"Very innocently," said Mr. Carleton smiling. "A veritable lens could hardly have been more unconscious of its work or more pure of design."

"I do not think that was quite so either, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda.

"It was so, my dear Elfie, and your present speech is nothing against it. This power of example is always unconsciously wielded; the medium ceases to be clear so soon as it is made anything but a medium. The bits of truth you aimed at me wittingly would have been nothing if they had not come through that medium."

"Then apparently one's prime efforts ought to be directed to oneself."

"One's first efforts, certainly. Your silent example was the first thing that moved me."

"Silent example!" said Fleda catching her breath a little. "Mine ought to be very good, for I can never do good in any other way."

"You used to talk pretty freely to me."

"It wasn't my fault, I am certain," said Fleda half laughing. "Besides, I was sure of my ground. But in general I never can speak to people about what will do them any good."

"Yet whatever be the power of silent example there are often times when a word is of incalculable importance."

"I know it," said Fleda earnestly,—"I have felt it very often, and grieved that I could not say it, even at the very moment when I knew it was wanting."

"Is that right, Elfie?"

"No," said Fleda, with quick watering eyes,—"It is not right at all;—but it is constitutional with me. I never can talk to other people of what concerns my own thoughts and feelings."

"But this concerns other people's thoughts and feelings."

"Yes, but there is an implied revelation of my own."

"Do you expect to include me in the denomination of 'other people'?"

"I don't know," said Fleda laughing.

"Do you wish it?"

Fleda looked down and up, and coloured, and said she didn't know.

"I will teach you," said he smiling.

The rest of the day by both was given to Hugh.



Chapter LI.



O what is life but a sum of love, And death but to lose it all? Weeds be for those that are left behind, And not for those that fall!

Milnes.

"Here's something come, Fleda," said Barby walking into the sick room one morning a few days afterwards,—"a great bag of something—more than you can eat up in a fortnight—it's for Hugh."

"It's extraordinary that anybody should send me a great bag of anything eatable," said Hugh.

"Where did it come from?" said Fleda.

"Philetus fetched it—he found it down to Mr. Sampion's when he went with the sheep-skins."

"How do you know it's for me?" said Hugh.

"'Cause it's written on, as plain as a pikestaff. I guess it's a mistake though."

"Why?" said Fleda; "and what is it?"

"O I don't much think 'twas meant for him," said Barby. "It's oysters."

"Oysters!"

"Yes—come out and look at 'em—you never see such fine fellows. I've heerd say," said Barby abstractedly as Fleda followed her out and she displayed to view some magnificent Ostraceans,—"I've heerd say that an English shilling was worth two American ones, but I never understood it rightly till now."

To all intents and purposes those were English oysters, and worth twice as much as any others Fleda secretly confessed.

That evening, up in the sick room,—it was quite evening, and all the others of the family were taking rest or keeping Mr. Rossitur company down stairs,—Fleda was carefully roasting some of the same oysters for Hugh's supper. She had spread out a glowing bed of coals on the hearth, and there lay four or five of the big bivalves, snapping and sputtering in approbation of their quarters in a most comfortable manner; and Fleda standing before the fire tended them with a double kind of pleasure. From one friend, and for another, those were most odorous oysters. Hugh sat watching them and her, the same in happy simplicity that he had been at eleven years old.

"How pleasant those oysters smell," said he. "Fleda, they remind me so of the time when you and I used to roast oysters in Mrs. Renney's room for lunch—do you recollect?—and sometimes in the evening when everybody was gone out, you know; and what an airing we used to have to give the dining-room afterwards. How we used to enjoy them, Fleda—you and I all alone."

"Yes," said Fleda in a tone of doubtful enjoyment. She was shielding her face with a paper and making self-sacrificing efforts to persuade a large oyster-shell to stand so on the coals as to keep the juice.

"Don't!" said Hugh;—"I would rather the oysters should burn than you. Mr. Carleton wouldn't thank me for letting you do so."

"Never mind!" said Fleda arranging the oysters to her satisfaction,—"he isn't here to see. Now Hugh, my dear—these are ready as soon as I am."

"I am ready," said Hugh. "How long it is since we had a roast oyster, Fleda!"

"They look good, don't they?"

A little stand was brought up between them with the bread and butter and the cups; and Fleda opened oysters and prepared tea for Hugh, with her nicest, gentlest, busiest of hands; making every bit to be twice as sweet, for her sympathizing eyes and loving smile and pleasant word commenting. She shared the meal with him, but her own part was as slender as his and much less thought of. His enjoyment was what she enjoyed, though it was with a sad twinge of alloy which changed her face whenever it was where he could not see it; when turned upon him it was only bright and affectionate, and sometimes a little too tender; but Fleda was too good a nurse to let that often appear.

"Mr. Carleton did not bargain for your opening his oysters, Fleda. How kind it was of him to send them."

"Yes."

"How long will he be gone, Fleda?"

"I don't know—he didn't say. I don't believe many days."

Hugh was silent a little while she was putting away the stand and the oyster-shells. Then she came and sat down by him.

"You have burnt yourself over those things," said he sorrowfully;—"you -shouldn't have done it. It is not right."

"Dear Hugh," said Fleda lightly, laying her head on his shoulder,—"I like to burn myself for you."

"That's just the way you have been doing all your life."

"Hush!" she said softly.

"It is true,—for me and for everybody else. It is time you were taken better care of, dear Fleda."

"Don't, dear Hugh!"

"I am right though," said he. "You are pale and worn now with waiting upon me and thinking of me. It is time you were gone. But I think it is well I am going too, for what should I do in the world without you, Fleda?"

Fleda was crying now, intensely though quietly; but Hugh went on with feeling as calm as it was deep.

"What should I have done all these years?—or any of us? How you have tired yourself for everybody—in the garden and in the kitchen and with Earl Douglass—how we could let you I don't know, but I believe we could not help it."

Fleda put her hand upon his mouth. But he took it away and went on—

"How often I have seen you sleeping all the evening on the sofa with a pale face, tired out—Dear Fleda," said he kissing her cheek, "I am glad there's to be an end put to it. And all the day you went about with such a bright face that it made mother and me happy to look at you; and I knew then, many a time, it was for our sakes—

"Why do you cry so, Fleda? I like to think of it, and to talk of it, now that I know you won't do so any more. I knew the whole truth, and it went to the bottom of my heart; but I could do nothing but love you—I did that!—Don't cry so, Fleda!—you ought not.—You have been the sunshine of the house. My spirit never was so strong as yours; I should have been borne to the ground, I know, in all these years, if it had not been for you; and mother—you have been her life."

"You have been tired too," Fleda whispered.

"Yes at the saw-mill. And then you would come up there through the sun to look at me, and your smile would make me forget everything sorrowful for the rest of the day—except that I couldn't help you."

"Oh you did—you did—you helped me always, Hugh."

"Not much. I couldn't help you when you were sewing for me and father till your fingers and eyes were aching, and you never would own that you were anything but 'a little' tired—it made my heart ache. Oh I knew it all, dear Fleda.—I am very, very glad that you will have somebody to take care of you now that will not let you burn your fingers for him or anybody else. It makes me happy!"

"You make me very unhappy, dear Hugh."

"I don't mean it," said Hugh tenderly. "I don't believe there is anybody else in the world that I could be so satisfied to leave you with."

Fleda made no answer to that. She sat up and tried to recover herself.

"I hope he will come back in time," said Hugh, settling himself back in the easy-chair with a weary look, and closing his eyes.

"In time for what?"

"To see me again."

"My dear Hugh!—he will to be sure, I hope."

"He must make haste," said Hugh. "But I want to see him again very much, Fleda."

"For anything in particular?"

"No—only because I love him. I want to see him once more."

Hugh slumbered; and Fleda by his side wept tears of mixed feeling till she was tired.

Hugh was right. But nobody else knew it, and his brother was not sent for.

It was about a week after this, when one night a horse and wagon came up to the back of the house from the road, the gentleman who had been driving leading the horse. It was late, long past Mr. Skillcorn's usual hour of retiring, but some errand of business had kept him abroad and he stood there looking on. The stars gave light enough.

"Can you fasten my horse where he may stand a little while, sir? without taking him out?"

"I guess I can," replied Philetus, with reasonable confidence,—"if there's a rope's end some place—"

And forthwith he went back into the house to seek it. The gentleman patiently holding his horse meanwhile, till he came out.

"How is Mr. Hugh to-night?"

"Well—he ain't just so smart, they say," responded Philetus, insinuating the rope's end as awkwardly as possible among the horse's head-gear,—"I believe he's dying."

Instead of going round now to the front of the house, Mr. Carleton knocked gently at the kitchen door and asked the question anew of Barby.

"He's—Come in, sir, if you please," she said, opening wide the door for him to enter,—"I'll tell 'em you're here."

"Do not disturb any one for me," said he.

"I won't disturb 'em!" said Barby, in a tone a little though unconsciously significant.

Mr. Carleton neglected the chair she had placed for him, and remained standing by the mantelpiece, thinking of the scenes of his early introduction to that kitchen. It wore the same look it had done then; under Barby's rule it was precisely the same thing it had been under Cynthia's.—The passing years seemed a dream, and the passing generations of men a vanity, before the old house more abiding than they. He stood thinking of the people he had seen gathered by that fireplace and the little household fairy whose childish ministrations had given such a beauty to the scene,—when a very light step crossed the painted floor and she was there again before him. She did not speak a word; she stood still a moment trying for words, and then put her hand upon Mr. Carleton's arm and gently drew him out of the room with her.

The family were all gathered in the room to which she brought him. Mr. Rossitur, as soon as he saw Mr. Carleton come in, shrunk back where he could be a little shielded by the bed-post. Marion's face was hid on the foot of the bed. Mrs. Rossitur did not move. Leaving Mr. Carleton on the near side of the bed Fleda went round to the place she seemed to have occupied before, at Hugh's right hand; and they were all still, for he was in a little doze, lying with his eyes closed, and the face as gently and placidly sweet as it had been in his boyhood. Perhaps Mr. Rossitur looked at it; but no other did just then, except Mr. Carleton. His eye rested nowhere else. The breathing of an infant could not be more gentle; the face of an angel not more peacefully at rest. "So he giveth his beloved sleep,"—thought the gentleman, as he gazed on the brow from which all care, if care there had ever been, seemed to have taken flight.

Not yet—not quite yet; for Hugh suddenly opened his eyes and without seeing anybody else, said,

"Father—"

Mr. Rossitur left the bed-post and came close to where Fleda was standing, and leaning forward, touched his son's head, but did not speak.

"Father—" said Hugh, in a voice so gentle that it seemed as if strength must be failing,—"what will you do when you come to lie here?"

Mr. Rossitur put his hands to his face.

"Father—I must speak now if I never did before—once I must speak to you,—what will you do when you come to lie where I do?—what will you trust to?"

The person addressed was as motionless as a statue. Hugh did not move his eyes from him.

"Father, I will be a living warning and example to you, for I know that I shall live in your memory—you shall remember what I say to you—that Jesus Christ is a dear friend to those that trust in him, and if he is not yours it will be because you will not let him. You shall remember my testimony, that he can make death sweeter than life—in his presence is fulness of joy—at his right hand there are pleasures for evermore. He is better,—he is more to me,—even than you all, and he will be to you a better friend than the poor child you are losing, though you do not know it now. It is he that has made my life in this world happy—only he—and I have nothing to look to but him in the world I am going to. But what will you do in the hour of death, as I am, if he isn't your friend, father?"

Mr. Rossitur's frame swayed, like a tree that one sees shaken by a distant wind, but he said nothing.

"Will you remember me happily, father, if you come to die without having done as I begged you? Will you think of me in heaven and not try to come there too? Father, will you be a Christian?—will you not?—for my sake—for little Hugh's sake, as you used to call him?—Father?—"

Mr. Rossitur knelt down and hid his face in the coverings; but he did not utter a word.

Hugh's eye dwelt on him for a moment with unspeakable expression, and his lip trembled. He said no more; he closed his eyes; and for a little time there was nothing to be heard but the sobs which could not be restrained, from all but the two gentlemen. It probably oppressed Hugh, for after a while he said with a weary sigh and without opening his eyes,

"I wish somebody would sing."

Nobody answered at first.

"Sing what, dear Hugh?" said Fleda, putting aside her tears and leaning her face towards him.

"Something that speaks of my want," said Hugh.

"What do you want, dear Hugh?"

"Only Jesus Christ," he said with a half smile.

But they were silent as death. Fleda's face was in her hands and her utmost efforts after self-control wrought nothing but tears. The stillness had lasted a little while, when very softly and sweetly the notes of a hymn floated to their ears, and though they floated on and filled the room, the voice was so nicely modulated that its waves of sweetness broke gently upon the nearest ear.

"Jesus, the sinner's friend, to Thee, Lost and undone, for aid I flee; Weary of earth, myself, and sin, Open thine arms and take me in.

"Pity and save my sin-sick soul,— 'Tis thou alone canst make me whole; Dark, till in me thine image shine, And lost I am, till thou art mine.

"At length I own it cannot be, That I should fit myself for thee, Here now to thee I all resign,— Thine is the work, and only thine.

"What shall I say thy grace to move?— Lord, I am sin, but thou art love! I give up every plea beside,— Lord, I am lost,—but thou hast died!"

They were still again after the voice had ceased; almost perfectly still; though tears might be pouring, as indeed they were from every eye, there was no break to the silence, other than a half-caught sob now and then from a kneeling figure whose head was in Marion's lap.

"Who was that?" said Hugh, when the singer had been silent a minute.

Nobody answered immediately; and then Mr. Carleton bending over him, said,

"Don't you know me, dear Hugh?"

"Is it Mr. Carleton?"

Hugh looked pleased, and clasped both of his hands upon Guy's which he laid upon his breast. For a second he closed his eyes and was silent.

"Was it you sang?"

"Yes."

"You never sang for me before," he remarked.

He was silent again.

"Are you going to take Fleda away?"

"By and by," said Mr. Carleton gently.

"Will you take good care of her?"

Mr. Carleton hesitated, and then said, so low that it could reach but one other person's ear,

"What hand and life can."

"I know it," said Hugh. "I am very glad you will have her. You will not let her tire herself any more."

Whatever became of Fleda's tears she had driven them away and leaning forward she touched her cheek to his, saying with a clearness and sweetness of voice that only intensity of feeling could have given her at the moment,

"I am not tired, dear Hugh."

Hugh clasped one arm round her neck and kissed her—again and again, seeming unable to say anything to her in any other way; still keeping his hold of Mr. Carleton's hand.

"I give all my part of her to you," he said at length. "Mr. Carleton, I shall see both of you in heaven?"

"I hope so," was the answer, in those very calm and clear tones that have a singular effect in quieting emotion, while they indicate anything but the want of it.

"I am the best off of you all," Hugh said.

He lay still for awhile with shut eyes. Fleda had withdrawn herself from his arms and stood at his side, with a bowed head, but perfectly quiet. He still held Mr. Carleton's hand, as something he did not want to part with.

"Fleda," said he, "who is that crying?—Mother—come here."

Mr. Carleton gave place to her. Hugh pulled her down to him till her face lay upon his, and folded both his arms around her.

"Mother," he said softly, "will you meet me in heaven?—say yes."

"How can I, dear Hugh?"

"You can, dear mother," said he kissing her with exceeding tenderness of expression,—"my Saviour will be yours and take you there. Say you will give yourself to Christ—dear mother!—sweet mother! promise me I shall see you again!—"

Mrs. Rossitur's weeping it was difficult to hear. But Hugh hardly shedding a tear still kissed her, repeating, "Promise me, dear mother—promise me that you will;"—till Mrs. Rossitur in an agony sobbed out the word he wanted,—and Hugh hid his face then in her neck.

Mr. Carleton left the room and went down stairs. He found the sitting-room desolate, untenanted and cold for hours; and he went again into the kitchen. Barby was there for some time, and then she left him alone.

He had passed a long while in thinking and walking up and down, and he was standing musing by the fire, when Fleda again came in. She came in silently, to his side, and putting her arm within his laid her face upon it with a simplicity of trust and reliance that went to his heart; and she wept there for a long hour. They hardly changed their position in all that time; and her tears flowed silently though incessantly, the only tokens of sympathy on his part being such a gentle caressing smoothing of her hair or putting it from her brow as he had used when she was a child. The bearing of her hand and head upon his arm in time shewed her increasingly weary. Nothing shewed him so.

"Elfie—my dear Elfie," he said at last very tenderly, in the same way that he would have spoken nine years before—"Hugh gave his part of you to me—I must take care of it."

Fleda tried to rouse herself immediately.

"This is poor entertainment for you, Mr. Carleton," she said, raising her head and wiping away the tears from her face.

"You are mistaken," he said gently. "You never gave me such pleasure but twice before, Elfie."

Fleda's head went down again instantly, and this time there was something almost caressing in the motion.

"Next to the happiness of having friends on earth," he said soothingly, "is the happiness of having friends in heaven. Don't weep any more to-night, my dear Elfie."

"He told me to thank you—" said Fleda. But stopping short and clasping with convulsive energy the arm she held, she shed more violent tears than she had done that night before. The most gentle soothing, the most tender reproof, availed at last to quiet her; and she stood clinging to his arm still and looking down into the fire.

"I did not think it would be so soon," she said.

"It was not soon to him, Elfie."

"He told me to thank you for singing. How little while it seems since we were children together—how little while since before that—when I was a little child here—how different!"

"No, the very same," said he, touching his lips to her forehead,—"you are the very same child you were then; but it is time you were my child, for I see you would make yourself ill. No—" said he softly taking the hand Fleda raised to her face,—"no more tonight—tell me how early I may see you in the morning—for, Elfie, I must leave you after breakfast."

Fleda looked up inquiringly.

"My mother has brought news that determines me to return to England immediately."

"To England!"

"I have been too long from home—I am wanted there."

Fleda looked down again and did her best not to shew what she felt.

"I do not know how to leave you—and now—but I must. There are disturbances among the people, and my own are infected. I must be there without delay."

"Political disturbances?" said Fleda.

"Somewhat of that nature—but partly local. How early may I come to you?"

"But you are not going away tonight? It is very late."

"That is nothing—my horse is here."

Fleda would have begged in vain, if Barby had not come in and added her word, to the effect that it would be a mess of work to look for lodgings at that time of night, and that she had made the west room ready for Mr. Carleton. She rejected with great sincerity any claim to the thanks with which Fleda as well as Mr. Carleton repaid her; "there wa'n't no trouble about it," she said. Mr. Carleton however found his room prepared for him with all the care that Barby's utmost ideas of refinement and exactness could suggest.

It was still very early the next morning; when he left it and came into the sitting-room, but he was not the first there. The firelight glimmered on the silver and china of the breakfast table, all set; everything was in absolute order, from the fire to the two cups and saucers which were alone on the board. A still silent figure was standing by one of the windows looking out. Not crying; but that Mr. Carleton knew from the unmistakable lines of the face was only because tears were waiting another time; quiet now, it would not be by and by. He came and stood at the window with her.

"Do you know," he said, after a little, "that Mr. Rossitur purposes to leave Queechy?"

"Does he?" said Fleda rather starting, but she added not another word, simply because she felt she could not safely.

"He has accepted, I believe, a consulship at Jamaica."

"Jamaica!" said Fleda. "I have heard him speak of the West Indies—I am not surprised—I know it was likely he would not stay here."

How tightly her fingers that were free grasped the edge of the window-frame. Mr. Carleton saw it and softly removed them into his own keeping.

"He may go before I can be here again. But I shall leave my mother to take care of you, Elfie."

"Thank you," said Fleda faintly. "You are very kind—"

"Kind to myself," he said smiling. "I am only taking care of my own. I need not say that you will see me again as early as my duty can make it possible;—but I may be detained, and your friends may be gone—Elfie—give me the right to send if I cannot come for you. Let me leave my wife in my mother's care."

Fleda looked down, and coloured, and hesitated; but the expression in her face was not that of doubt.

"Am I asking too much?" he said gently.

"No sir," said Fleda,—"and—but—"

"What is in the way?"

But it seemed impossible for Fleda to tell him.

"May I not know?" he said, gently putting away the hair from Fleda's face, which looked distressed. "Is it only your feeling?"

"No sir," said Fleda,—"at least—not the feeling you think it is—but—I could not do it without giving great pain."

Mr. Carleton was silent.

"Not to anybody you know, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, suddenly fearing a wrong interpretation of her words,—"I don't mean that—I mean somebody else—the person—the only person you could apply to—" she said, covering her face in utter confusion.

"Do I understand you?" said he smiling. "Has this gentleman any reason to dislike the sight of me?"

"No sir," said Fleda,—"but he thinks he has."

"That only I meant," said he. "You are quite right, my dear Elfie; I of all men ought to understand that."

The subject was dropped, and in a few minutes his gentle skill had well nigh made Fleda forget what they had been talking about. Himself and his wishes seemed to be put quite out of his own view, and out of hers as far as possible; except that the very fact made Fleda recognize with unspeakable gratitude and admiration the kindness and grace that were always exerted for her pleasure. If her good-will could have been put into the cups of coffee she poured out for him, he might have gone in the strength of them all the way to England. There was strength of another kind to be gained from her face of quiet sorrow and quiet self-command which were her very childhood's own.