Under the working of these thoughts, Mr. Carleton sometimes forgot to talk to his little charge, and would walk for a length of way by her side, wrapped up in sombre musings. Fleda never disturbed him then, but waited contentedly and patiently for him to come out of them, with her old feeling, wondering what he could be thinking of, and wishing he were as happy as she. But he never left her very long. He was sure to wave his own humour and give her all the graceful kind attention which nobody else could bestow so well. Nobody understood and appreciated it better than Fleda.

One day, some months after they had been in Paris, they were sitting in the Place de la Concorde. Mr. Carleton was in one of these thinking fits. He had been giving Fleda a long detail of the scenes that had taken place in that spot; a history of it from the time when it had lain an unsightly waste, such a graphic lively account as he knew well how to give. The absorbed interest with which she had lost everything else in what he was saying, had given him at once reward and motive enough as he went on. Standing by his side, with one little hand confidingly resting on his knee, she gazed alternately into his face and towards the broad highly-adorned square by the side of which they had placed themselves, and where it was hard to realize that the ground had once been soaked in blood, while madness and death filled the air; and her changing face, like a mirror, gave him back the reflection of the times he held up to her view. And still standing there in the same attitude after he had done, she had been looking out towards the square in a fit of deep meditation. Mr. Carleton had forgotten her for a while in his own thoughts, and then the sight of the little gloved hand upon his knee brought him back again.

"What are you musing about, Elfie, dear?" he said, cheerfully, taking the hand in one of his.

Fleda gave a swift glance into his face, as if to see whether it would be safe for her to answer his question, a kind of exploring look, in which her eyes often acted as scouts for her tongue. Those she met pledged their faith for her security; yet Fleda's look went back to the square and then again to his face in silence.

"How do you like living in Paris?" said he. "You should know by this time."

"I like it very much indeed," said Fleda.

"I thought you would."

"I like Queechy better, though," she went on, gravely, her eyes turning again to the square.

"Like Queechy better! Were you thinking of Queechy just now when I spoke to you?"

"O no!" with a smile.

"Were you going over all those horrors I have been distressing you with?"

"No," said Fleda; "I was thinking of them, a while ago."

"What then?" said he pleasantly. "You were looking so sober, I should like to know how near your thoughts were to mine."

"I was thinking," said Fleda, gravely, and a little unwillingly, but Guy's manner was not to be withstood "I was wishing I could be like the disciple whom Jesus loved."

Mr. Carleton let her see none of the surprise he felt at this answer.

"Was there one more loved than the rest?"

"Yes the Bible calls him 'the disciple whom Jesus loved.' That was John."

"Why was he preferred above the others?"

"I don't know. I suppose he was more gentle and good than the others, and loved Jesus more. I think Aunt Miriam said so when I asked her once."

Mr. Carleton thought Fleda had not far to seek for the fulfilment of her wish.

"But how in the world, Elfie, did you work round to this gentle and good disciple from those scenes of blood you set out with?"

"Why," said Elfie, "I was thinking how unhappy and bad people are, especially people here, I think; and how much must be done before they will all be brought right; and then I was thinking of the work Jesus gave his disciples to do; and so I wished I could be like that disciple. Hugh and I were talking about it this morning."

"What is the work he gave them to do?'" said Mr. Carleton, more and more interested.

"Why," said Fleda, lifting her gentle wistful eyes to his, and then looking away, "to bring everybody to be good and happy."

"And how in the world are they to do that?" said Mr. Carleton, astonished to see his own problem quietly handled by this child.

"By telling them about Jesus Christ, and getting them to believe and love him," said Fleda, glancing at him again, "and living so beautifully that people cannot help believing them."

"That last is an important clause," said Mr. Carleton, thoughtfully. "But suppose people will not hear when they are spoken to, Elfie?"

"Some will, at any rate," said Fleda, "and by and by everybody will."

"How do you know?"

"Because the Bible says so."

"Are you sure of that, Elfie?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Carleton, God has promised that the world shall be full of good people, and then they will be all happy. I wish it was now."

"But if that be so, Elfie, God can make them all good without our help."

"Yes, but I suppose he wishes to do it with our help, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, with equal navet and gravity.

"But is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling, "rather the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?"

"No," said Fleda, "everybody has something to do with it the Bible says so; ministers must do it in their way, and other people in other ways; everybody has his own work. Don't you remember the parable of the ten talents, Mr. Carleton?"

Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute.

"I do not know the Bible quite as well as you do, Elfie," he said then, "nor as I ought to do."

Elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like, a look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness, which she did not venture to put into words. It had not for that the less power. But he did not choose to prolong the conversation. They rose up and began to walk homeward, Elfie thinking with all the warmth of her little heart that she wished very much Mr. Carleton knew the Bible better; divided between him and "that disciple" whom she and Hugh had been talking about.

"I suppose you are very busy now, Elfie," observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence.

"O yes!" said Fleda. " Hugh and I are as busy as we can be. We are busy every minute."

"Except when you are on some chase after pleasure?"

"Well," said Fleda, laughing, "that is a kind of business; and all the business is pleasure too. I didn't mean that we were always busy about work. Oh, Mr. Carleton, we had such a nice time the day before yesterday!" And she went on to give him the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which they had made to St. Cloud.

"And yet you like Queechy better?"

"Yes," said Fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to herself "if I had aunt Lucy, and Hugh, and uncle Rolf there, and everybody that I care for, I should like it a great deal better."

" 'Unspotted' yet," he thought.

"Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, presently "do you play and sing every day here in Paris?"

"Yes," said he, smiling, "about every day. Why?"

"I was thinking how pleasant it was at your house in England."

"Has Carleton the honour of rivalling Queechy in your liking?"

"I haven't lived there so long, you know," said Fleda, "I dare say it would if I had. I think it is quite as pretty a place."

Mr. Carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. Truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace.

He brought Fleda to her own door, and there was leaving her.

"Stop! Oh, Mr. Carleton," cried Fleda, "come in, just for one minute I want to show you something."

He made no resistance to that. She led him to the saloon, where it happened that nobody was, and repeating, "One minute!" rushed out of the room. In less than that time, she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. The rose was fairly eclipsed. She put the bud quietly, but with a most satisfied air of affection, into Mr. Carleton's hand. It had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of' their first visits to the Quai aux Fleurs. She had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing little rose-bush, that as yet showed nothing but leaves and green buds, partly, because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly, because she thought having no flowers, it would not cost much. The former reason, however, was all that she had given to Mr. Carleton's remonstrances.

"What is all this, Elfie?" said he. "Have you been robbing your rose-tree?"

"No," said Elfie, "there are plenty more buds! Isn't it lovely? This is the first one. They've been a great while coming out."

His eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. Fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that goodwill to him had been the moving power. He was so much struck and moved, that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. He turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted goodwill that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower he held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went.

Mr. Carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his text was a rose.

Laugh who will. To many it may seem ridiculous; and to most minds it would have been impossible; but to a nature very finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser senses cannot hear, comes with an utterance as clear as it is sweet-spoken; many a touch that coarser nerves cannot heed, reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that duller eyes have no skill to see, shows its fair features, hid away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the wings of a butterfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew. The material is but a veil for the spiritual; but, then, eyes must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impassable cloud.

That particular rose was to Mr. Carleton's eye a most perfect emblem and representative of its little giver. He traced out the points of resemblance as he went along. The delicacy and character of refinement for which that kind of rose is remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that called for gentle handling and tender cherishing; the sweetness, rare indeed, but asserting itself as it were timidly, at least with equally rare modesty; the very style of the beauty that, with all its loveliness, would not startle nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth, nor liability to infection.

As he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair character from the type before him, the feeling of contrast that he had known before pressed upon Mr. Carleton's mind; the feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be again what he once had been something like this. How changed now he seemed to himself not a point of likeness left. How much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less dignified, than that fair innocent child! How much better a part she was acting in life what an influence she was exerting, as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as unobtrusive, as the very rose in his hand! And he doing no good to an earthly creature, and losing himself by inches.

He reached his room, put the flower in a glass on the table, and walked up and down before it. It had come to a struggle between the sense of what was and the passionate wish for what might have been.

"It is late, Sir," said his servant, opening the door "and you were "

"I am not going out."

"This evening, Sir?"

"No not at all to-day. Spenser, I don't wish to see anybody let no one come near me."

The servant retired, and Guy went on with his walk and his meditations looking back over his life, and reviewing, with a wiser ken now, the steps by which he had come. He compared the selfish disgust with which he had cast off the world with the very different spirit of little Fleda's look upon it that morning; the useless, self-pleasing, vain life he was leading, with her wish to be like the beloved disciple, and do something to heal the troubles of those less happy than herself. He did not very well comprehend the grounds of her feeling or reasoning, but he began to see, mistily, that his own had been mistaken and wild.

His step grew slower, his eye more intent, his brow quiet.

"She is right, and I am wrong," he thought. "She is by far the nobler creature worth many such as I. Like her I cannot be I cannot regain what I have lost I cannot undo what years have done. But I can be something other than I am! If there be a system of remedy, as there well may, it may as well take effect on myself first. She says everybody has his work; I believe her. It must, in the nature of things, be so. I will make it my business to find out what mine is; and when I have made that sure, I will give myself to the doing of it. An All- wise Governor must look for service of me. He shall have it. Whatever my life be, it shall be to some end. If not what I would, what I can. If not the purity of the rose, that of tempered steel!"

Mr. Carleton walked his room for three hours; then rung for his servant, and ordered him to prepare everything for leaving Paris the second day thereafter.

The next morning over theirs coffee he told his mother of his purpose.

"Leave Paris! To-morrow! My dear Guy, that is rather a sudden notice."

"No, mother; for I am going alone."

His mother immediately bent an anxious and somewhat terrified look upon him. The frank smile she met put half her suspicions out of her head at once.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing at all if by 'matter' you mean mischief."

"You are not in difficulty with those young men again?"

"No, mother," said he, coolly. "I am in difficulty with no one but myself."

"With yourself! But why will you not let me go with you?"

"My business will go on better if I am quite alone."

"What business?''

"Only to settle this question with myself," said he, smiling.

"But, Guy! you are enigmatical this morning. Is it the question that of all others I wish to see settled?"

"No, mother," said he, laughing, and colouring a little; "I don't want another half to take care of till I have this one under management."

"I don't understand you," said Mrs. Carleton. "There is no hidden reason under all this that you are keeping from me?"

"I wont say that. But there is none that need give you the least uneasiness. There are one or two matters I want to study out; I cannot do it here, so I am going where I shall be free."

"Where?"

"I think I shall pass the summer between Switzerland and Germany."

"And when and where shall I meet you again?"

"I think, at home; I cannot say when."

"At home!" said his mother with a brightening face. "Then you are beginning to be tired of wandering at last?"

"Not precisely, mother," rather out of humour.

"I shall be glad of anything," said his mother, gazing at him admiringly, "that brings you home again, Guy."

"Brings me home a better man, I hope, mother," said he, kissing her as he left the room. "I will see you again by and by."

" 'A better man!' " thought Mrs. Carleton, as she sat with full eyes, the image of her son filling the place where his presence had been; "I would be willing never to see him better, and be sure of his never being worse."

Mr. Carleton's farewell visit found Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur not at home. They had driven out early into the country to fetch Marion from her convent for some holiday. Fleda came alone into the saloon to receive him.

"I have your rose in safe keeping, Elfie," he said. "It has done me more good than ever a rose did before."

Fleda smiled an innocently pleased smile. But her look changed when he added

"I have come to tell you so, and to bid you good-bye."

"Are you going away, Mr. Carleton?"

"Yes."

"But you will be back soon?"

"No, Elfie I do not know that I shall ever come back."

He spoke gravely, more gravely than he was used, and Fleda's acuteness saw that there was some solid reason for this sudden determination. Her face changed sadly, but she was silent, her eyes never wavering from those that read hers with such gentle intelligence.

"You will be satisfied to have me go, Elfie, when I tell you that I am going on business which I believe to be duty. Nothing else takes me away. I am going to try to do right," said he, smiling.

Elfie could not answer the smile. She wanted to ask whether she should never see him again, and there was another thought upon her tongue too; but her lip trembled, and she said nothing.

"I shall miss my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on, lightly; "I don't know how I shall do without her. If your wand was long enough to reach so far I would ask you to touch me now and then, Elfie."

Poor Elfie could not stand it. Heir head sank. She knew she had a wand that could touch him, and well and gratefully she resolved that its light blessing should "now and then" rest on his head; but he did not understand that; he was talking, whether lightly or seriously and Elfie knew it was a little of both he was talking of wanting her help, and was ignorant of the help that alone could avail him. "O that he knew but that!" What with this feeling and sorrow together, the child's distress was exceeding great; and the tokens of grief in one so accustomed to hide them were the more painful to see. Mr. Carleton drew the sorrowing little creature within his arm, and endeavoured with a mixture of kindness and lightness in his tone to cheer her.

"I shall often remember you, dear Elfie," he said; "I shall keep your rose always, and take it with me wherever I go. You must not make it too hard for me to quit Paris you are glad to have me go on such an errand, are you not?"

She presently commanded herself, bade her tears wait till another time as usual, and trying to get rid of those that covered her face, asked him "What errand?"

He hesitated.

"I have been thinking of what we were talking of yesterday, Elfie," he said at length. "I am going to try to discover my duty, and then to do it."

But Fleda at that clasped his hand, and squeezing it in both hers, bent down her little head over it to hide her face and the tears that streamed again. He hardly knew how to understand, or what to say to her. He half suspected that there were depths in that childish mind beyond his fathoming. He was not, however, left to wait long. Fleda, though she might now and then be surprised into showing it, never allowed her sorrow of any kind to press upon the notice or the time of others. She again checked herself and dried her face.

"There is nobody else in Paris that will be so sorry for my leaving it," said Mr. Carleton, half tenderly and half pleasantly.

"There is nobody else that has so much cause," said Elfie, near bursting out again, but she restrained herself.

"And you will not come here again;, Mr. Carleton?" she said, after a few minutes.

"I do not say that it is possible if I do, it will be to see you, Elfie."

A shadow of a smile passed over her face at that. It was gone instantly.

"My mother will not leave Paris yet," he went on you will see her often."

But he saw that Fleda was thinking of something else; she scarce seemed to hear him. She was thinking of something that troubled her.

"Mr. Carleton," she began, and her colour changed.

"Speak, Elfie."

Her colour changed again. "Mr. Carleton, will you be displeased if I say something?"

"Don't you know me better than to ask me that, Elfie?" he said, gently.

"I want to ask you something if you wont mind my saying it?"

"What is it?" said he, reading in her face that a request was behind. "I will do it."

Her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to have some difficulty in going on.

"I will do it whatever it is," he said, watching her.

"Will you wait for me one moment, Mr. Carleton?"

"Half an hour."

She sprang away, her face absolutely flashing pleasure through her tears. It was much soberer, and again doubtful and changing colour, when a few minutes afterwards she came back with a book in her hand. With a striking mixture of timidity, modesty, and eagerness in her countenance, she came forward, and putting the little volume, which was her own Bible, into Mr. Carleton's hands, said, under her breath, "Please read it." She did not venture to look up.

He saw what the book was; and then taking the gentle hand which had given it, he kissed it two or three times if it had been a princess's he could not with more respect.

"You have my promise, Elfie," he said; "I need not repeat it."

She raised her eves and gave him a look so grateful, so loving, so happy, that it dwelt for ever in his remembrance. A moment after it had faded, and she stood still where he had left her listening to his footsteps as they went down the stairs. She heard the last of them, and then sank upon her knees by a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. Their time was now, and she let them come. It was not only the losing a loved and pleasant friend, it was not only the stirring of sudden and disagreeable excitement poor Elfie was crying for her Bible. It had been her father's own it was filled with his marks it was precious to her above price and Elfie cried with all her heart for the loss of it. She had done what she had on the spur of the emergency she was satisfied she had done right; she would not take it back if she could; but not the less her Bible was gone, and the pages that loved eyes had looked upon were for hers to look upon no more. Her very heart was wrung that she should have parted with it; and yet, what could she do? It was as bad as the parting with Mr. Carleton.

That agony was over, and even that was shortened, for "Hugh would find out that she had been crying." Hours had passed, and the tears were dried, and the little face was bending over the wonted tasks, with a shadow upon its wonted cheerfulness, when Rosaline came to tell her that Victor said there was somebody in the passage who wanted to see her and would not come in.

It was Mr. Carleton himself. He gave her a parcel, smiled at her without saying a word, kissed her hand earnestly, and was gone again. Fleda ran to her own room, and took the wrappers off such a beauty of a Bible as she had never seen bound in blue velvet, with clasps of gold, and her initials in letters of gold upon the cover. Fleda hardly knew whether to be most pleased or sorry; for to have its place so supplied seemed to put her lost treasure further away than ever. The result was another flood of very tender tears; in the very shedding of which, however, the new little Bible was bound to her heart with cords of association as bright and as incorruptible as its gold mountings.



CHAPTER XV.

"Her sports were such as carried riches of knowledge upon the stream of delight." SIDNEY.

Fleda had not been a year in Paris, when her uncle suddenly made up his mind to quit it and go home. Some trouble in money affairs, felt or feared, brought him to this step, which a month before he had no definite purpose of ever taking. There was cloudy weather in the financial world of New York, and he wisely judged it best that his own eyes should be on the spot to see to his own interests. Nobody was sorry for this determination. Mrs. Rossitur always liked what her husband liked, but she had at the same time a decided predilection for home. Marion was glad to leave her convent for the gay world, which her parents promised she should immediately enter. And Hugh and Fleda had too lively a spring of happiness within themselves to care where its outgoings should be.

So home they came, in good mood, bringing with them all manner of Parisian delights that Paris could part with furniture, that at home at least they might forget where they were; dresses, that, at home or abroad, nobody might forget where they had been; pictures, and statuary, and engravings, and books, to satisfy a taste really strong and well cultivated. And, indeed, the other items were quite as much for this purpose as for any other. A French cook for Mr. Rossitur, and even Rosaline for his wife, who declared she was worth all the rest of Paris. Hugh cared little for any of these things; he brought home a treasure of books and a flute, to which he was devoted. Fleda cared for them all, even Monsieur Emile and Rosaline, for her uncle's and aunt's sake; but her special joy was a beautiful little King Charles, which had been sent her by Mr. Carleton a few weeks before. It came with the kindest of letters, saying, that some matters had made it inexpedient for him to pass through Paris on his way home, but that he hoped, nevertheless, to see her soon. That intimation was the only thing that made Fleda sorry to leave Paris. The little dog was a beauty, allowed to be so not only by his mistress but by every one else, of the true black and tan colours; and Fleda's dearly loved and constant companion.

The life she and Hugh led was little changed by the change of place. They went out and came in as they had done in Paris, and took the same quiet but intense happiness in the same quiet occupations and pleasures; only the Tuileries and Champs Elyses had a miserable substitute in the Battery, and no substitute at all anywhere else. And the pleasant drives in the environs of Paris were missed too, and had nothing in New York to supply their place. Mrs. Rossitur always said it was impossible to get out of New York by land, and not worth the trouble to do it by water. But, then, in the house Fleda thought there was a great gain. The dirty Parisian hotel was well exchanged for the bright, clean, well-appointed house in State street. And if Broadway was disagreeable, and the Park a weariness to the eyes, after the dressed gardens of the French capital, Hugh and Fleda made it up in the delights of the luxuriously furnished library, and the dear at-home feeling of having the whole house their own.

They were left, those two children, quite as much to themselves as ever. Marion was going into company, and she and her mother were swallowed up in the consequent necessary calls upon their time. Marion never had been anything to Fleda. She was a fine, handsome girl, outwardly, but seemed to have more of her father than her mother in her composition, though colder-natured, and more wrapped up in self than Mr. Rossitur would be called by anybody that knew him. She had never done anything to draw Fleda towards her, and even Hugh had very little of her attention. They did not miss it. They were everything to each other.

Everything for now morning and night there was a sort of whirlwind in the house which carried the mother and daughter round and round, and permitted no rest; and Mr. Rossitur himself was drawn in. It was worse than it had been in Paris. There, with Marion in her convent, there were often evenings when they did not go abroad nor receive company, and spent the time quietly and happily in each other's society. No such evenings now: if by chance there were an unoccupied one, Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter were sure to be tired, and Mr. Rossitur busy.

Hugh and Fleda in those bustling times retreated to the library; Mr. Rossitur would rarely have that invaded; and while the net was so eagerly cast for pleasure among the gay company below, pleasure had often slipped away, and hid herself among the things on the library table, and was dancing on every page of Hugh's book, and minding each stroke of Fleda's pencil, and cocking the spaniel's ears whenever his mistress looked at him. King, the spaniel, lay on a silk cushion on the library table, his nose just touching Fleda's fingers. Fleda's drawing was mere amusement; she and Hugh were not so burdened with studies that they had not always their evenings free, and, to tell truth, much more than their evenings. Masters, indeed, they had; but the heads of the house were busy with the interests of their grown-up child, and, perhaps, with other interests, and took it for granted that all was going right with the young ones.

"Haven't we a great deal better time than they have down stairs, Fleda?" said Hugh, one of these evenings.

"Hum yes" answered Fleda, abstractedly, stroking into order some old man in her drawing with great intentness. "King! you rascal keep back and be quiet, Sir!"

Nothing could be conceived more gentle and loving than Fleda's tone of fault-finding, and her repulse only fell short of a caress.

"What's he doing?"

"Wants to get into my lap."

"Why don't you let him?"

"Because I don't choose to a silk cushion is good enough for his majesty. King!" (laying her soft cheek against the little dog's soft head, and forsaking her drawing for the purpose.)

"How you do love that dog!" said Hugh.

"Very well why shouldn't I? provided he steals no love from anybody else," said Fleda, still caressing him.

"What a noise somebody is making down stairs!" said Hugh. " I don't think I should ever want to go to large parties, Fleda; do you?"

"I don't know," said Fleda, whose natural taste for society was strongly developed; "it would depend upon what kind of parties they were."

"I shouldn't like them, I know, of whatever kind," said Hugh. "What are you smiling at?"

"Only Mr. Pickwick's face, that I am drawing here."

Hugh came round to look and laugh, and then began again.

"I can't think of anything pleasanter than this room as we are now."

"You should have seen Mr. Carleton's library," said Fleda, in a musing tone, going on with her drawing.

"Was it so much better than this?"

Fleda's eyes gave a slight glance at the room, and then looked down again with a little shake of her head sufficiently expressive.

"Well," said Hugh, "you and I do not want any better than this; do we, Fleda?"

Fleda's smile a most satisfactory one was divided between him and King.

"I don't believe," said Hugh, "you would have loved that dog near so well if anybody else had given him to you."

"I don't believe I should! not a quarter," said Fleda, with sufficient distinctness.

"I never liked that Mr. Carleton as well as you did."

"That is because you did not know him," said Fleda, quietly.

"Do you think he was a good man, Fleda?"

"He was very good to me," said Fleda, "always. What rides I did have on that great black horse of his!"

"A black horse?"

"Yes, a great black horse, strong, but so gentle, and he went so delightfully. His name was Harold. Oh, I should like to see that horse! When I wasn't with him, Mr. Carleton used to ride another, the greatest beauty of a horse, Hugh a brown Arabian so slender and delicate her name was Zephyr, and she used to go like the wind, to be sure. Mr. Carleton said he wouldn't trust me on such a fly-away thing."

"But you didn't use to ride alone?" said Hugh.

"O no! and I wouldn't have been afraid if he had chosen to take me on any one."

"But do you think, Fleda, he was a good man as I mean?"

"I am sure he was better than a great many others," answered Fleda, evasively "the worst of him was infinitely better than the best of half the people down stairs Mr. Sweden included."

"Sweden! you don't call his name right."

"The worse it is called the better, in my opinion," said Fleda.

"Well, I don't like him; but what makes you dislike him so much?"

"I don't know partly because Uncle Rolf and Marion like him so much, I believe I don't think there is any moral expression in his face."

"I wonder why they like him," said Hugh.

It was a somewhat irregular and desultory education that the two children gathered under this system of things. The masters they had were rather for accomplishments and languages than for anything solid the rest they worked out for themselves. Fortunately they both loved books, and rational books; and hours and hours, when Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter were paying or receiving visits, they, always together, were stowed away behind the book-cases or in the library window, poring patiently over pages of various complexion the soft turning of the leaves, or Fleda's frequent attentions to King, the only sound in the room. They walked together, talking of what they had read, though, indeed, they ranged beyond that into nameless and numberless fields of speculation, where, if they sometimes found fruit, they as often lost their way. However, the habit of ranging was something. Then when they joined the rest of the family at the dinner-table, especially if others were present, and most especially if a certain German gentleman happened to be there, who, the second winter after their return, Fleda thought came very often, she and Hugh would be sure to find the strange talk of the world that was going on unsuited and wearisome to them, and they would make their escape up-stairs again to handle the pencil, and to play the flute, and to read, and to draw plans for the future, while King crept upon the skirts of his mistress's gown, and laid his little head on her feet. Nobody ever thought of sending them to school. Hugh was a child of frail health, and though not often very ill, was often near it; and as for Fleda, she and Hugh were inseparable, and besides, by this time her uncle and aunt would almost as soon have thought of taking the mats off their delicate shrubs in winter, as of exposing her to any atmosphere less genial than that of home.

For Fleda, this doubtful course of mental training wrought singularly well. An uncommonly quick eye, and strong memory, and clear head, which she had even in childhood, passed over no field of truth or fancy without making their quiet gleanings; and the stores thus gathered, though somewhat miscellaneous and unarranged, were both rich and uncommon, and more than any one or she herself knew. Perhaps such a mind thus left to itself knew a more free and luxuriant growth than could ever have flourished within the confinement of rules perhaps a plant at once so strong and so delicate was safest without the hand of the dresser at all events it was permitted to spring and to put forth all its native gracefulness alike unhindered and unknown. Cherished as little Fleda dearly was, her mind kept company with no one but herself and Hugh. As to externals; music was uncommonly loved by both the children, and by both cultivated with great success. So much came under Mrs. Rossitur's knowledge; also every foreign Signor and Madame that came into the house to teach them spoke with enthusiasm of the apt minds and flexible tongues that honoured their instructions. In private and in public, the gentle, docile, and affectionate children answered every wish, both of taste and judgment. And perhaps, in a world where education is not understood, their guardians might be pardoned for taking it for granted that all was right where nothing appeared that was wrong certainly they took no pains to make sure of the fact. In this case, one of a thousand, their neglect was not punished with disappointment. They never found out that Hugh's mind wanted the strengthening that early skilful training might have given it. His intellectual tastes were not so strong as Fleda's his reading was more superficial his gleanings not so sound, and in far fewer fields, and they went rather to nourish sentiment and fancy than to stimulate thought, or lay up food for it. But his parents saw nothing of this.

The third winter had not passed, when Fleda's discernment saw that Mr. Sweden, as she called him, the German gentleman, would not cease coming to the house till he had carried off Marion with him. Her opinion on the subject was delivered to no one but Hugh.

That winter introduced them to a better acquaintance. One evening Dr. Gregory, an uncle of Mrs. Rossitur's, had been dining with her, and was in the drawing-room. Mr. Schwiden had been there too, and he and Marion, and one or two other young people, had gone out to some popular entertainment. The children knew little of Dr. Gregory, but that he was a very respectable-looking elderly gentleman, a little rough in his manners. The doctor had not long been returned from a stay of some years in Europe, where he had been collecting rare books for a fine public library, the charge of which was now entrusted to him. After talking some time with Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur, the doctor pushed round his chair to take a look at the children.

"So that's Amy's child," said he. "Come here, Amy."

"That is not my name," said the little girl, coming forward.

"Isn't it? It ought to be. What is, then?"

"Elfleda."

"Elfleda! where in the name of all that is auricular did you get such an outlandish name?"

"My father gave it to me, Sir," said Fleda, with a dignified sobriety which amused the old gentleman.

"Your father! hum I understand. And couldn't your father find a cap that fitted you without going back to the old- fashioned days of King Alfred?"

"Yes, Sir; it was my grandmother's cap."

"I am afraid your grandmother's cap isn't all of her that's come down to you," said he, tapping his snuff-box, and looking at her with a curious twinkle in his eyes. "What do you call yourself? Haven't you some variations of this tongue-twisting appellative to serve for every day, and save trouble?"

"They call me Fleda," said the little girl, who could not help laughing.

"Nothing better than that?"

Fleda remembered two prettier nicknames which had been her's; but one had been given by dear lips long ago, and she was not going to have it profaned by common use; and "Elfie" belonged to Mr. Carleton. She would own to nothing but Fleda.

"Well, Miss Fleda," said the doctor, "are you going to school?"

"No, Sir."

"You intend to live without such a vulgar thing as learning?"

"No, Sir. Hugh and I have our lessons at home."

"Teaching each other, I suppose?"

"O no, Sir," said Fleda, laughing; "Mme. Lascelles and Mr. Schweppenhesser, and Signor Barytone come to teach us, besides our music masters."

"Do you ever talk German with this Mr. What's-his-name, who has just gone out with your cousin Marion!"

"I never talk to him at all, Sir."

"Don't you? Why not? Don't you like him?"

Fleda said, "Not particularly," and seemed to wish to let the subject pass, but the doctor was amused, and pressed it.

"Why, why don't you like him?" said he; "I am sure he's a fine-looking dashing gentleman; dresses as well as anybody, and talks as much as most people why don't you like him? Isn't he a handsome fellow eh?"

"I dare say he is, to many people," said Fleda.

"She said she didn't think there was any moral expression in his face," said Hugh, by way of settling the matter.

"Moral expression!" cried the doctor, "moral expression! and what if there isn't, you Elf! what if there isn't?"

"I shouldn't care what other kind of expression it had," said Fleda, colouring a little.

Mr. Rossitur "pished" rather impatiently. The doctor glanced at his niece, and changed the subject.

"Well, who teaches you English, Miss Fleda? you haven't told me that yet."

"Oh, that we teach ourselves," said Fleda, smiling, as if it was a very innocent question.

"Hum! you do! Pray how do you teach yourselves?"

"By reading, Sir."

"Reading! And what do you read? what have you read in the last twelve months, now?"

"I don't think I could remember all exactly," said Fleda.

"But you have got a list of them all," said Hugh, who chanced to have been looking over said list a day or two before, and felt quite proud of it.

"Let's have it, let's have it," said the doctor. And Mrs. Rossitur, laughing, said, "Let's have it;" and even her husband commanded Hugh to go and fetch it; so poor Fleda, though not a little unwilling, was obliged to let the list be forthcoming. Hugh brought it, in a neat little book covered with pink blotting paper.

"Now for it!" said the doctor; "let us see what this English amounts to. Can you stand fire, Elfleda?"

" 'Jan. 1. Robinson Crusoe.' * [* A true list made by a child of that age.]

"Hum that sounds reasonable, at all events."

"I had it for a New Year's present," remarked Fleda, who stood by with downcast eyes, like a person undergoing an examination.

" 'Jan. 2. Histoire de France.'

"What History of France is this?"

Fleda hesitated, and then said it was by Lacretelle.

"Lacretelle? what? of the Revolution?"

"No, Sir; it is before that; it is in five or six large volumes."

"What, Louis XV.'s time," said the doctor, muttering to himself.

" 'Jan. 27. 2 ditto, ditto.'

" 'Two' means the second volume, I suppose?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Hum if you were a mouse, you would gnaw through the wall in time, at that rate. This is in the original?"

"Yes Sir."

" 'Feb. 3. Paris. L. E. K.'

"What do these hieroglyphics mean?"

"That stands for the 'Library of Entertaining Knowledge,' " said Fleda.

"But how is this? do you go hop, skip, and jump through these books, or read a little, and then throw them away'? Here it is only seven days since you began the second volume of Lacretelle not time enough to get through it."

"Oh no, Sir," said Fleda, smiling: "I like to have several books that I am reading in at once; I mean at the same time, you know; and then if I am not in the mood of one I take up another."

"She reads them all through," said Hugh, "always, though she reads them very quick."

"Hum I understand," said the old doctor, with a humorous expression, going on with the list.

" 'March 3. 3 Hist. de France.'

"But you finish one of these volumes, I suppose, before you begin another; or do you dip into different parts of the same work at once?"

"Oh no, Sir; of course not!"

" 'Mar. 5. Modern Egyptians. L. E. K. Ap. 13.'

"What are these dates on the right, as well as on the left?"

"Those on the right show when I finished the volume."

"Well, I wonder what you were cut out for!" said the doctor. "A Quaker! you aren't a Quaker, are you?"

"No, Sir," said Fleda, laughing.

"You look like it," said he.

" 'Feb. 24. Five Penny Magazines, finished Mar. 4.'

"They are in paper numbers, you know, Sir."

" 'April 4. 4 Hist. de. F.'

"Let us see the third volume was finished, March 29 I declare you keep it up pretty well."

" 'Ap. 19. Incidents of Travel.'

"Whose is that?"

"It is by Mr. Stephens."

"How did you like it?"

"Oh, very much, indeed."

"Ay, I see you did; you finished it by the first of May. 'Tour to the Hebrides' what, Johnson's?"

"Yes Sir."

"Read it all fairly through?"

"Yes, Sir; certainly."

He smiled, and went on.

" 'May 12. Peter Simple.'"

There was quite a shout at the heterogeneous character of Fleda's reading, which she, not knowing exactly what to make of it, heard rather abashed.

" 'Peter Simple!' " said the doctor, settling himself to go on with his list; "well, let us see. 'World without Souls.' Why, you Elf! read in two days."

"It is very short, you know, Sir."

"What did you think of it?"

"I liked parts of it very much."

He went on, still smiling.

" 'June 15. Goldsmith's Animated Nature.'

" 'June I8. 1 Life of Washington.'

"What Life of Washington?"

"Marshall's."

"Hum. 'July 9. 2 Goldsmith's An. Na.' As I live, begun the very day the first volume was finished! Did you read the whole of that?"

"Oh yes, Sir. I liked that book very much."

" 'July 12. 5 Hist. de France.'

"Two histories on hand at once! Out of all rule, Miss Fleda! We must look after you."

"Yes Sir; sometimes I wanted to read one, and sometimes I wanted to read the other."

"And you always do what you want to do, I suppose?"

"I think the reading does me more good in that way."

" 'July 15. Paley's Natural Theology!' "

There was another shout. Poor Fleda's eyes filled with tears.

"What in the world put that book into your head, or before your eyes?" said the doctor.

"I don't know, Sir I thought I should like to read it," said Fleda, drooping her eyelids, that the bright drops under them might not be seen.

"And finished in eleven days, as I live!" said the doctor, wagging his head. " 'July 19. 3 Goldsmith's A. N.'

" 'Aug. 6. 4 Do. Do.' "

"That is one of Fleda's favourite books," put in Hugh.

"So it seems. '6 Hist. de France.' What does this little cross mean?"

"That shows when the book is finished," said Fleda, looking on the page "the last volume, I mean."

" 'Retrospect of Western Travel' 'Goldsmith's A. N., last vol.' 'Mmoires de Sully' in the French ?"

"Yes, Sir."

" 'Life of Newton' What's this? 'Sep. 8. 1 Fairy Queen!' not Spenser's?"

"Yes, Sir, I believe so the Fairy Queen, in five volumes."

The doctor looked up comically at his niece and her husband, who were both sitting or standing close by.

" 'Sep. 10. Paolo e Virginia' in what language?"

"Italian, Sir; I was just beginning, and I haven't finished it yet."

" 'Sep. 16. Milner's Church History!' What the deuce! 'Vol. 2. Fairy Queen.' Why, this must have been a favourite book, too."

"That's one of the books Fleda loves best," said Hugh; "she went through that very fast."

"Over it, you mean, I reckon; how much did you skip, Fleda?"

"I didn't skip at all," said Fleda; "I read every word of it."

" ' Sep. 20. 2 Mm. de Sully.' Well, you're an industrious mouse, I'll say that for you. What's this? 'Don Quixote!' 'Life of Howard.' 'Nov. 17. 3 Fairy Queen.' 'Nov. 29. 4 Fairy Queen.' 'Dec. 8. 1 Goldsmith's England.' Well, if this list of books is a fair exhibit of your taste and capacity, you have a most happily proportioned set of intellectuals. Let us see history, fun, facts, nature, theology, poetry and divinity! upon my soul! and poetry and history the leading features! a little fun as much as you could lay your hand on, I'll warrant, by that pinch in the corner of your eye. And here, the eleventh of December, you finished the Fairy Queen; and ever since, I suppose, you have been imagining yourself the 'faire Una,' with Hugh standing for Prince Arthur or the Red-cross Knight haven't you?"

"No, Sir. I didn't imagine anything about it."

"Don't tell me. What did you read it for?"

"Only because I liked it, Sir. I liked it better than any other book I read last year."

"You did! Well, the year ends, I see, with another volume of Sully. I wont enter upon this year's list. Pray, how much of all these volumes do you suppose you remember? I'll try and find out next time I come to see you. I can give a guess, if you study with that little pug in your lap."

"He is not a pug!" said Fleda, in whose arms King was lying luxuriously "and he never gets into my lap, besides."

"Don't he! Why not?"

"Because I don't like it, Sir. I don't like to see dogs in laps."

"But all the ladies in the land do it, you little Saxon! it is universally considered a mark of distinction."

"I can't help what all the ladies in the land do," said Fleda. "That wont alter my liking; and I don't think a lady's lap is a place for a dog."

"I wish you were my daughter!' said the old doctor, shaking his head at her with a comic fierce expression of countenance, which Fleda perfectly understood and laughed at accordingly. Then as the two children with the dog went off into the other room, he said, turning to his niece and Mr. Rossitur

"If that girl ever takes a wrong turn with the bit in her teeth, you'll be puzzled to hold her. What stuff will you make the reins of?"

"I don't think she ever will take a wrong turn," said Mr. Rossitur.

"A look is enough to manage her, if she did," said his wife. " Hugh is not more gentle."

"I should be inclined rather to fear her not having stability of character enough," said Mr. Rossitur. "She is so very meek and yielding, I almost doubt whether anything would give her courage to take ground of her own, and keep it."

"Hum well, well!" said the old doctor, walking off after the children. "Prince Arthur, will you bring this damsel up to my den some of these days? the 'faire Una' is safe from the wild beasts, you know; and I'll show her books enough to build herself a house with, if she likes."

The acceptance of this invitation led to some of the pleasantest hours of Fleda's city life. The visits to the great library became very frequent. Dr. Gregory and the children were little while in growing fond of each other; he loved to see them, and taught them to come at such times as the library was free of visitors and his hands of engagements. Then he delighted himself with giving them pleasure, especially Fleda, whose quick curiosity and intelligence were a constant amusement to him. He would establish the children in some corner of the large apartments, out of the way behind a screen of books and tables; and there, shut out from the world, they would enjoy a kind of fairyland pleasure over some volume or set of engravings that they could not see at home. Hours and hours were spent so. Fleda would stand clasping her hands before Audubon, or rapt over a finely illustrated book of travels, or going through and through, with Hugh, the works of the best masters of the pencil and the graver. The doctor found he could trust them, and then all the treasures of the library were at their disposal. Very often he put chosen pieces of reading into their hands; and it was pleasantest of all when he was not busy and came and sat down with them; for with all his odd manner he was extremely kind, and could and did put them in the way to profit greatly by their opportunities. The doctor and the children had nice times there together.

They lasted for many months, and grew more and more worth. Mr. Schwiden carried off Marion, as Fleda had foreseen he would, before the end of spring; and after she was gone, something like the old pleasant Paris life was taken up again. They had no more company now than was agreeable, and it was picked not to suit Marion's taste, but her father's a very different matter. Fleda and Hugh were not forbidden the dinner-table, and so had the good of hearing much useful conversation, from which the former, according to custom, made her steady, precious gleanings. The pleasant evenings in the family were still better enjoyed than they used to be. Fleda was older; and the snug, handsome American house had a home-feeling to her that the wide Parisian saloons never knew. She had become bound to her uncle and aunt by all but the ties of blood; nobody in the house ever remembered that she was not born their daughter; except, indeed, Fleda herself, who remembered everything, and with whom the forming of any new affections or relations somehow never blotted out or even faded the register of the old. It lived in all its brightness; the writing of past loves and friendships was as plain as ever in her heart; and often, often the eye and the kiss of memory fell upon it. In the secret of her heart's core; for still, as at the first, no one had a suspicion of the movings of thought that were beneath that childish brow. No one guessed how clear a judgment weighed and decided upon many things. No one dreamed, amid their busy, bustling, thoughtless life, how often, in the street, in her bed, in company and alone, her mother's last prayer was in Fleda's heart; well cherished; never forgotten.

Her education and Hugh's meanwhile went on after the old fashion. If Mr. Rossitur had more time, he seemed to have no more thought for the matter; and Mrs. Rossitur, fine-natured as she was, had never been trained to self-exertion, and, of course, was entirely out of the way of training others. Her children were pieces of perfection, and needed no oversight; her house was a piece of perfection too. If either had not been, Mrs. Rossitur would have been utterly at a loss how to mend matters, except in the latter instance, by getting a new housekeeper; and as Mrs. Renney, the good woman who held that station, was in everybody's opinion another treasure, Mrs. Rossitur's mind was uncrossed by the shadow of such a dilemma. With Mrs. Renney, as with every one else, Fleda was held in highest regard always welcome to her premises, and to those mysteries of her trade which were sacred from other intrusion. Fleda's natural inquisitiveness carried her often to the housekeeper's room, and made her there the same curious and careful observer that she had been in the library or at the Louvre.

"Come," said Hugh, one day when he had sought and found her in Mrs. Renney's precincts "come away, Fleda! What do you want to stand here and see Mrs. Renney roll butter and sugar for?"

"My dear Mr. Rossitur," said Fleda, "you don't understand quelquechoses. How do you know but I may have to get my living by making them, some day?"

"By making what?" said Hugh.

"Quelquechoses Anglice, kickshaws alias, sweet trifles, denominated merrings."

"Pshaw, Fleda!"

"Miss. Fleda is more likely to get her living by eating them, Mr. Hugh, isn't she?" said the housekeeper.

"I hope to decline both lines of life," said Fleda, laughingly, as she followed Hugh out of the room. But her chance remark had grazed the truth sufficiently near.

Those years in New York were a happy time for little Fleda a time when mind and body flourished under the sun of prosperity. Luxury did not spoil her; and any one that saw her in the soft furs of her winter wrappings, would have said that delicate cheek and frame were never made to know the unkindliness of harsher things.



CHAPTER XVI

"Whereunto is money good? Who has it not wants hardihood. Who has it has much trouble and care, Who once has had it has despair." LONGFELLOW. From the German.

It was the middle of winter. One day Hugh and Fleda had come home from their walk. They dashed into the parlour, complaining that it was bitterly cold, and began unrobing before the glowing grate, which was a mass of living fire from end to end. Mrs. Rossitur was there in an easy chair, alone, and doing nothing. That was not a thing absolutely unheard of, but Fleda had not pulled off her second glove before she bent down towards her, and in a changed tone tenderly asked if she did not feel well.

Mrs. Rossitur looked up in her face a minute, and then drawing her down, kissed the blooming cheeks, one and the other, several times. But as she looked off to the fire again, Fleda saw that it was through watering eyes. She dropped on her knees by the side of the easy chair, that she might have a better sight of that face, and tried to read it as she asked again what was the matter; and Hugh, coming to the other side, repeated her question. His mother passed an arm round each, looking wistfully from one to the other, and kissing them earnestly, but she said only, with a very heart-felt emphasis, "Poor children!"

Fleda was now afraid to speak, but Hugh pressed his inquiry.

"Why 'poor', Mamma? what makes you say so?"

"Because you are poor really, dear Hugh. We have lost everything we have in the world."

"Mamma! What do you mean?"

"Your father has failed."

"Failed! But, Mamma, I thought he wasn't in business?"

"So I thought," said Mrs. Rossitur; "I didn't know people could fail that were not in business; but it seems they can. He was a partner in some concern or other, and it's all broken to pieces, and your father with it, he says!"

Mrs. Rossitur's face was distressful. They were all silent for a little, Hugh kissing his mother's wet cheeks. Fleda had softly nestled her head in her bosom. But Mrs. Rossitur soon recovered herself.

"How bad is it, mother?" said Hugh.

"As bad as can possibly be."

"Is everything gone?"

"Everything!"

"You don't mean the house, Mamma?"

"The house, and all that is in it."

The children's hearts were struck, and they were silent again, only a trembling touch of Fleda's lips spoke sympathy and patience, if ever a kiss did.

"But, Mamma," said Hugh, after he had gathered breath for it, "do you mean to say that everything, literally everything, is gone? Is there nothing left?"

"Nothing in the world not a sou."

"Then what are we going to do?"

Mrs. Rossitur shook her head, and had no words.

Fleda looked across to Hugh to ask no more, and putting her arms around her aunt's neck, and laying cheek to cheek, she spoke what comfort she could.

"Don't, dear aunt Lucy! there will be some way things always turn out better than at first, I dare say we shall find out it isn't so bad by and by. Don't you mind it, and then we wont. We can be happy anywhere together."

If there was not much in the reasoning, there was something in the tone of the words, to bid Mrs. Rossitur bear herself well. Its tremulous sweetness, its anxious love, was without a taint of self-recollection; its sorrow was for her. Mrs. Rossitur felt that she must not show herself overcome. She again kissed and blessed, and pressed closer in her arms, her little comforter, while her other hand was given to Hugh.

"I have only heard about it this morning. Your uncle was here telling me just now a little while before you came in. Don't say anything about it before him."

Why not? The words struck Fleda disagreeably.

"What will be done with the house, Mamma?" said Hugh.

"Sold sold, and everything in it."

"Papa's books, Mamma! and all the things in the library!" exclaimed Hugh, looking terrified.

Mrs. Rossitur's face gave the answer; do it in words she could not.

The children were a long time silent, trying hard to swallow this bitter pill; and still Hugh's hand was in his mother's, and Fleda's head lay on her bosom. Thought was busy, going up and down, and breaking the companionship they had so long held with the pleasant drawing-room, and the tasteful arrangements among which Fleda was so much at home; the easy chairs in whose comfortable arms she had had so many an hour of nice reading; the soft rug, where, in the very wantonness of frolic, she had stretched herself to play with King; that very luxurious bright grateful of fire, which had given her so often the same warm welcome home an apt introduction to the other stores of comfort which awaited her above and below stairs; the rich-coloured curtains and carpet, the beauty of which had been such a constant gratification to Fleda's eye; and the exquisite French table and lamps they had brought out with them, in which her uncle and aunt had so much pride, and which could nowhere be matched for elegance they must all be said "good-bye" to; and as yet fancy had nothing to furnish the future with; it looked very bare.

King had come in, and wagged himself up close to his mistress, but even he could obtain nothing but the touch of most abstracted finger-ends. Yet, though keenly recognised, these thoughts were only passing compared with the anxious and sorrowful ones that went to her aunt and uncle; for Hugh and her, she judged, it was less matter. And Mrs. Rossitur's care was most for her husband; and Hugh's was for them all. His associations were less quick, and his tastes less keen, than Fleda's, and less a part of himself. Hugh lived in his affections; with a salvo to them he could bear to lose anything and go anywhere.

"Mamma," said he, after a long time "will anything be done with Fleda's books?"

A question that had been in Fleda's mind before, but which she had patiently forborne just then to ask.

"No, indeed!" said Mrs. Rossitur, pressing Fleda more closely, and kissing in a kind of rapture the sweet, thoughtful face "not yours, my darling; they can't touch anything that belongs to you I wish it was more and I don't suppose they will take anything of mine either."

"Ah, well!" said Fleda, raising her head, "you have got quite a parcel of books, aunt Lucy, and I have a good many how well it is I have had so many given me since I have been here! That will make quite a nice little library, both together, and Hugh has some; I thought perhaps we shouldn't have one at all left, and that would have been rather bad."

"Rather bad!" Mrs. Rossitur looked at her, and was dumb.

"Only don't you wear a sad face for anything!" Fleda went on earnestly; "we shall be perfectly happy if you and uncle Rolf only will be."

"My dear children!" said Mrs. Rossitur, wiping her eyes, "it is for you I am unhappy you and your uncle; I do not think of myself."

"And we do not think of ourselves, Mamma," said Hugh.

"I know it; but having good children don't make one care less about them," said Mrs. Rossitur, the tears fairly raining over her fingers.

Hugh pulled the fingers down and again tried the efficacy of his lips.

"And you know Papa thinks most of you, Mamma."

"Ah, your father!" said Mrs. Rossitur shaking her head; "I am afraid it will go hard with him! But I will be happy as long as I have you two, or else I should be a very wicked woman. It only grieves me to think of your education and prospects"

"Fleda's piano, Mamma!" said Hugh, with sudden dismay.

Mrs. Rossitur shook her head again and covered her eyes, while Fleda stretching across to Hugh, gave him, by look and touch, an earnest admonition to let that subject alone. And then, with a sweetness and gentleness like nothing but the breath of the south wind, she wooed her aunt to hope and resignation. Hugh held back, feeling or thinking that Fleda could do it better than he, and watching her progress, as Mrs. Rossitur took her hand from her face and smiled, at first mournfully, and then really mirthfully, in Fleda's face, at some sally that nobody but a nice observer would have seen was got up for the occasion; and it was hardly that, so completely had the child forgotten her own sorrow in ministering to that of another. "Blessed are the peacemakers!" It is always so.

"You are a witch or a fairy," said Mrs. Rossitur, catching her again in her arms "nothing else! You must try your powers of charming upon your uncle."

Fleda laughed without any effort; but as to trying her slight wand upon Mr. Rossitur, she had serious doubts. And the doubts became certainty when they met at dinner; he looked so grave that she dared not attack him. It was a gloomy meal, for the face that should have lighted the whole table cast a shadow there.

Without at all comprehending the whole of her husband's character, the sure magnetism of affection had enabled Mrs. Rossitur to divine his thoughts. Pride was his ruling passion; not such pride as Mr. Carleton's, which was rather like exaggerated self-respect, but wider and more indiscriminate in its choice of objects. It was pride in his family name; pride in his own talents, which were considerable; pride in his family, wife, and children, and all of which he thought did him honour if they had not, his love for them assuredly would have known some diminishing; pride in his wealth, and in the attractions with which it surrounded him; and, lastly, pride in the skill, taste, and connoisseurship which enabled him to bring those attractions together. Furthermore, his love for both literature and art was true and strong; and for many years he had accustomed himself to lead a life of great luxuriousness, catering for body and mind in every taste that could be elegantly enjoyed; and again proud of the elegance of every enjoyment. The change of circumstances which touched his pride, wounded him at every point where he was vulnerable at all.

Fleda had never felt so afraid of him. She was glad to see Dr. Gregory come in to tea. Mr. Rossitur was not there. The Doctor did not touch upon affairs, if he had heard of their misfortune; he went on as usual in a rambling cheerful way all tea-time, talking mostly to Fleda and Hugh. But after tea he talked no more, but sat still and waited till the master of the house came in.

Fleda thought Mr. Rossitur did not look glad to see him. But how could he look glad about anything? He did not sit down, and for a few minutes there was a kind of meaning silence. Fleda sat in the corner with the heartache, to see her uncle's gloomy tramp up and down the rich apartment, and her aunt Lucy's gaze at him.

"Humph! well! So!" said the Doctor, at last, "You've all gone overboard with a smash, I understand?"

The walker gave him no regard.

"True, is it?" said the doctor.

Mr. Rossitur made no answer, unless a smothered grunt might be taken for one.

"How came it about?"

"Folly and devilry."

"Humph! bad capital to work upon. I hope the principal is gone with the interest. What's the amount of your loss?"

"Ruin."

"Humph! French ruin, or American ruin? because there's a difference. What do you mean?"

"I am not so happy as to understand you, Sir; but we shall not pay seventy cents, on the dollar."

The old gentleman got up, and stood before the fire, with his back to Mr. Rossitur, saying, "That was rather bad."

"What are you going to do?"

Mr. Rossitur hesitated a few moments for an answer, and then said

"Pay the seventy cents, and begin the world anew with nothing."

"Of course," said the doctor. "I understand that; but where and how? What end of the world will you take up first?."

Mr. Rossitur writhed in impatience or disgust, and after again hesitating, answered drily, that he had not determined.

"Have you thought of anything in particular?"

"Zounds! no, Sir, nothing except my misfortune. That's enough for one day."

"And too much," said the old doctor, "unless you can mix some other thought with it. That's what I came for. Will you go into business?"

Fleda was startled by the vehemence with which her uncle said, "No, never!" and he presently added, "I'll do nothing here."

"Well, well," said the doctor to himself; "will you go into the country?"

"Yes! anywhere! the further the better."

Mrs. Rossitur startled, but her husband's face did not encourage her to open her lips.

"Ay; but on a farm, I mean?"

"On anything, that will give me a standing."

"I thought that, too," said Dr. Gregory, now whirling about. "I have a fine piece of land that wants a tenant. You may take it at an easy rate, and pay me when the crops come in. I shouldn't expect so young a farmer, you know, to keep any closer terms."

"How far is it?"

"Far enough up in Wyandot County."

"How large?"

"A matter of two or three hundred acres of so. It is very fine, they say. It came into a fellow's hands that owed me what I thought was a bad debt: so, for fear he would never pay me, I thought best to take it and pay him; whether the place will ever fill my pockets again remains to be seen doubtful, I think."

"I'll take it, Dr. Gregory, and see if I cannot bring that about."

"Pooh, pooh! fill your own. I am not careful about it; the less money one has the more it jingles, unless it gets too low, indeed."

"I will take it, Dr. Gregory, and feel myself under obligation to you."

"No, I told you, not till the crops come in. No obligation is binding till the term is up. Well, I'll see you further about it."

"But Rolf!" said Mrs. Rossitur, "stop a minute; uncle, don't go yet; Rolf don't know anything in the world about the management of a farm; neither do I."

"The 'faire Una' can enlighten you," said the doctor, waving his hand towards his little favourite in the corner. "But I forgot! Well, if you don't know, the crops wont come in; that's all the difference."

But Mrs. Rossitur looked anxiously at her husband. "Do you know exactly what you are undertaking, Rolf!" she said.

"If I do not, I presume I shall discover in time."

"But it may be too late," said Mrs. Rossitur, in the tone of sad remonstrance that had gone all the length it dared.

"It can not be too late!" said her husband, impatiently. "If I do not know what I am taking up, I know very well what I am laying down; and it does not signify a straw what comes after if it was a snail-shell, that would cover my head!"

"Hum " said the old doctor, "the snail is very well in his way, but I have no idea that he was ever cut out for a farmer."

"Do you think you will find it a business you would like, Mr. Rossitur?" said his wife, timidly.

"I tell you," said he, facing about, "it is not a question of liking. I will like anything that will bury me out of the world."

Poor Mrs. Rossitur! She had not yet come to wishing herself buried alive, and she had small faith in the permanence of her husband's taste for it. She looked desponding.

"You don't suppose," said Mr. Rossitur, stopping again in the middle of the floor, after another turn and a half "you do not suppose that I am going to take the labouring of the farm upon myself? I shall employ some one, of course, who understands the matter, to take all that off my hands."

The doctor thought of the old proverb, and the alternative the plough presents to those who would thrive by it; Fleda thought of Mr. Didenhover; Mrs. Rossitur would fain have suggested that such an important person must be well paid; but neither of them spoke.

"Of course," said Mr. Rossitur, haughtily, as he went on with his walk, "I do not expect, any more than you, to live in the back woods the life we have been leading here. That is at an end."

"Is it a very wild country?" asked Mrs. Rossitur of the doctor.

"No wild beasts, my dear, if that is your meaning and I do not suppose there are even many snakes left by this time."

"No, but, dear uncle, I mean, is it in all unsettled state?"

"No, my dear, not at all perfectly quiet."

"Ah! but do not play with me," exclaimed poor Mrs. Rossitur, between laughing and crying; "I mean, is it far from any town, and not among neighbours?"

"Far enough to be out of the way of morning calls," said the doctor; "and when your neighbours come to see you, they will expect tea by four o'clock. There are not a great many near by, but they don't mind coming from five or six miles off."

Mrs. Rossitur looked chilled, and horrified. To her he had described a very wild country indeed. Fleda would have laughed if it had not been for her aunt's face; but that settled down into a doubtful anxious look that pained her. It pained the old doctor too.

"Come," said he, touching her pretty chin with his fore-finger "what are you thinking of? folks may be good folks, and yet have tea at four o'clock, mayn't they?"

"When do they have dinner!" said Mrs. Rossitur.

"I really don't know. When you get settled up there, I'll come and see."

"Hardly," said Mrs. Rossitur. "I don't believe it would be possible for Emile to get dinner before the tea-time; and I am sure I shouldn't like to propose such a thing to Mrs. Renney."

The doctor fidgeted about a little on the hearth-rug, and looked comical, perfectly understood by one acute observer in the corner.

"Are you wise enough to imagine, Lucy," said Mr. Rossitur, sternly, "that you can carry your whole establishment with you? What do you suppose Emile and Mrs. Renney would do in a farmhouse?"

"I can do without whatever you can," said Mrs. Rossitur, meekly. "I did not know that you would be willing to part with Emile, and I do not think Mrs. Renney would like to leave us."

"I told you before, it is no more a question of liking," answered he.

"And if it were," said the doctor, "I have no idea that Monsieur Emile and Madame Renney would be satisfied with the style of a country kitchen, or think the interior of Yankeeland a hopeful sphere for their energies."

"What sort of a house is it?" said Mrs. Rossitur.

"A wooden-frame house, I believe."

"No, but, dear uncle, do tell me."

"What sort of a house? Humph large enough, I am told. It will accommodate you in one way."

"Comfortable?"

"I don't know," said the doctor, shaking his head "depends on who's in it. No house is that per se. But I reckon there isn't much plate glass. I suppose you'll find the doors all painted blue, and every fireplace with a crane in it."

"A crane!" said Mrs. Rossitur, to whose imagination the word suggested nothing but a large water-bird with a long neck.

"Ay!" said the doctor. "But it's just as well. You wont want hanging lamps there and candelabra would hardly be in place either, to hold tallow candles."

"Tallow candles!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur. Her husband winced, but said nothing.

"Ay," said the doctor, again "and make them yourself, if you are a good housewife. Come, Lucy," said he, taking her hand, "do you know how the wild fowl do on the Chesapeake? duck and swim under water till they can show their heads with safety. 'T wont spoil your eyes to see by a tallow candle."

Mrs. Rossitur half smiled, but looked anxiously towards her husband.

"Pooh, pooh! Rolf wont care what the light burns that lights him to independence and when you get there, you may illuminate with a whole whale if you like. By the way, Rolf, there is a fine water power up yonder, and a saw-mill in good order, they tell me, but a short way from the house. Hugh might learn to manage it, and it would be fine employment for him."

"Hugh!" said his mother, disconsolately. Mr. Rossitur neither spoke nor looked an answer. Fleda sprang forward.

"A saw-mill! Uncle Orrin! where is it?"

"Just a little way from the house, they say. You can't manage it, fair Saxon! though you look as if you would undertake all the mills in creation, for a trifle."

"No, but the place, uncle Orrin; where is the place?"

"The place? Hum why it's up in Wyandot County some five or six miles from the Montepoole Spring what's this they call it? Queechy! By the way!" said he, reading Fleda's countenance, "it is the very place where your father was born! it is! I didn't think of that before."

Fleda's hands were clasped.

"Oh, I am very glad!" she said. "It's my old home. It is the most lovely place, aunt Lucy! most lovely and we shall have some good neighbours there too. Oh, I am very glad! The dear old saw-mill! "

"Dear old saw-mill!" said the doctor, looking at her. "Rolf, I'll tell you what, you shall give me this girl. I want her. I can take better care of her, perhaps, now, than you can. Let her come to me when you leave the city it will be better for her than to help work the saw-mill; and I have as good a right to her as anybody, for Amy before her was like my own child."

The doctor spoke not with his usual light jesting manner, but very seriously. Hugh's lips parted Mrs. Rossitur looked with a sad thoughtful look at Fleda Mr. Rossitur walked up and down looking at nobody. Fleda watched him.

"What does Fleda herself say?" said he, stopping short suddenly. His face softened, and his eye changed as it fell upon her, for the first time that day. Fleda saw her opening; she came to him, within his arms, and laid her head upon his breast.

"What does Fleda say?" said he, softly kissing her.

Fleda's tears said a good deal, that needed no interpreter. She felt her uncle's hand passed more and more tenderly over her head so tenderly that it made it all the more difficult for her to govern herself and stop her tears. But she did stop them, and looked up at him then with such a face so glowing through smiles and tears it was like a very rainbow of hope upon the cloud of their prospects. Mr. Rossitur felt the power of the sunbeam wand; it reached his heart; it was even with a smile that he said, as he looked at her

"Will you go to your uncle Orrin, Fleda?"

"Not if uncle Rolf will keep me."

"Keep you!" said Mr. Rossitur; "I should like to see who wouldn't keep you! There, Dr. Gregory, you have your answer."

"Hum! I might have known," said the doctor, "that the 'faire Una' would abjure cities. Come here, you Elf!" and he wrapped her in his arms so tight she could not stir "I have a spite against you for this. What amends will you make me for such an affront?"

"Let me take breath," said Fleda, laughing, "and I'll tell you. You don't want any amends, uncle Orrin."

"Well," said he, gazing with more feeling than he cared to show into that sweet face, so innocent of apology-making you shall promise me that you will not forget uncle Orrin, and the old house in Bleecker Street."

Fleda's eyes grew more wistful.

"And will you promise me that if ever you want anything, you will come, or send straight there?"

"If ever I want anything I can't get nor do without," said Fleda.

"Pshaw!" said the doctor, letting her go, but laughing at the same time. " Mind my words, Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur if ever that girl takes the wrong bit in her mouth Well, well! I'll go home."

Home he went. The rest drew together particularly near, round the fire Hugh at his father's shoulder, and Fleda kneeling on the rug, between her uncle and aunt, with a hand on each; and there was not one of them whose gloom was not lightened by her bright face and cheerful words of hope, that, in the new scenes they were going to, "they would all be so happy."

The days that followed were gloomy, but Fleda's ministry was unceasing. Hugh seconded her well, though more passively. Feeling less pain himself, he perhaps for that very reason was less acutely alive to it in others not so quick to foresee and ward off, not so skilful to allay it. Fleda seemed to have intuition for the one and a charm for the other. To her there was pain in every parting; her sympathies clung to whatever wore the livery of habit. There was hardly any piece of furniture, there was no book or marble or picture, that she could take leave of without a pang. But it was kept to herself; her sorrowful good-byes were said in secret; before others, in all those weeks, she was a very Euphrosyne light, bright, cheerful of eye, and foot, and hand a shield between her aunt and every annoyance that she could take instead a good little fairy, that sent her sunbeam wand, quick as a flash, where any eye rested gloomily. People did not always find out where the light came from, but it was her witchery.

The creditors would touch none of Mrs. Rossitur's things, her husband's honourable behaviour had been so thorough. They even presented him with one or two pictures, which he sold for a considerable sum; and to Mrs. Rossitur they gave up all the plate in daily use, a matter of great rejoicing to Fleda, who knew well how sorely it would have been missed. She and her aunt had quite a little library, too, of their own private store; a little one it was indeed, but the worth of every volume was now trebled in her eyes. Their furniture was all left behind; and in its stead went some of neat light painted wood, which looked to Fleda deliciously countrified. A promising cook and housemaid were engaged to go with them to the wilds, and about the first of April they turned their backs upon the city.



CHAPTER XVII.

"The thresher's weary flinging-tree The lee-lang day had tired me: And whan the day had closed his e'e, Far i' the west, Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest." BURNS.

Queechy was reached at night. Fleda had promised herself to be off almost with the dawn of light the next morning to see aunt Miriam, but a heavy rain kept her fast at home the whole day. It was very well; she was wanted there.

Despite the rain and her disappointment it was impossible for Fleda to lie abed from the time the first grey light began to break in at her windows those old windows that had rattled their welcome to her all night. She was up and dressed, and had had a long consultation with herself over matters and prospects before anybody else had thought of leaving the indubitable comfort of a feather bed for the doubtful contingency of happiness that awaited them down stairs. Fleda took in the whole length and breadth of it, half wittingly and half through some finer sense than that of the understanding.

The first view of things could not strike them pleasantly; it was not to be looked for. The doors did not happen to be painted blue; they were a deep chocolate colour doors and wainscot. The fire-places were not all furnished with cranes, but they were all uncouthly wide and deep. Nobody would have thought them so indeed in the winter, when piled up with blazing hickory logs; but in summer they yawned uncomfortably upon the eye. The ceilings were low; the walls rough papered or rougher whitewashed; the sashes not hung; the rooms, otherwise well enough proportioned, stuck with little cupboards, in recesses and corners, and out-of-the-way places, in a style impertinently suggestive of housekeeping, and fitted to shock any symmetrical set of nerves. The old house had undergone a thorough putting in order, it is true; the chocolate paint was just dry, and the paper-hangings freshly put up; and the bulk of the new furniture had been sent on before and unpacked, though not a single article of it was in its right place. The house was clean and tight that is, as tight as it ever was. But the colour had been unfortunately chosen perhaps there was no help for that; the paper was very coarse and countrified; the big windows were startling, they looked so bare, without any manner of drapery; and the long reaches of wall were unbroken by mirror or picture-frame. And this to eyes trained to eschew ungracefulness and that abhorred a vacuum as much as nature is said to do! Even Fleda felt there was something disagreeable in the change, though it reached her more through the channel of other people's sensitiveness than her own. To her it was the dear old house still, though her eyes had seen better things since they loved it. No corner or recess could have a pleasanter filling, to her fancy, than the old brown cupboard or shelves which had always been there. But what would her uncle say to them! and to that dismal paper! and what would aunt Lucy think of those rattling window sashes! this cool raw day, too, for the first!

Think as she might, Fleda did not stand still to think. She had gone softly all over the house, taking a strange look at the old places and the images with which memory filled them, thinking of the last time, and many a time before that and she had at last come back to the sitting-room, long before anybody else was down stairs; the two tired servants were just rubbing their eyes open in the kitchen, and speculating themselves awake. Leaving them, at their peril, to get ready a decent breakfast (by the way she grudged them the old kitchen), Fleda set about trying what her wand could do towards brightening the face of affairs in the other part of the house. It was quite cold enough for a fire, luckily. She ordered one to be made, and meanwhile busied herself with the various stray packages and articles of wearing apparel that lay scattered about, giving the whole place a look of discomfort. Fleda gathered them up, and bestowed them in one or two of the impertinent cupboards, and then undertook the labour of carrying out all the wrong furniture that had got into the breakfast-room, and bringing in that which really belonged there from the hall and the parlour beyond, moving like a mouse that she might not disturb the people up stairs. A quarter of an hour was spent in arranging to the best advantage these various pieces of furniture in the room; it was the very same in which Mr. Carleton and Charlton Rossitur had been received the memorable day of the roast-pig dinner, but that was not the uppermost association in Fleda's mind. Satisfied at last that a happier effect could not be produced with the given materials, and well pleased too, with her success, Fleda turned to the fire. It was made, but not by any means doing its part to encourage the other portions of the room to look their best. Fleda knew something of wood fires from old times; she laid hold of the tongs, and touched and loosened and coaxed a stick here and there, with a delicate hand, till, seeing the very opening it had wanted without which neither fire nor hope can keep its activity the blaze sprang up energetically, crackling through all the piled oak and hickory, and driving the smoke clean out of sight. Fleda had done her work. It would have been a misanthropical person indeed that could have come into the room then, and not felt his face brighten. One other thing remained setting the breakfast-table; and Fleda would let no hands but hers do it this morning; she was curious about the setting of tables. How she remembered or divined where everything had been stowed; how quietly and efficiently her little fingers unfastened hampers and pried into baskets, without making any noise; till all the breakfast paraphernalia of silver, china, and table- linen was found, gathered from various receptacles, and laid in most exquisite order on the table. State Street never saw better. Fleda stood and looked at it then, in immense satisfaction, seeing that her uncle's eye would miss nothing of its accustomed gratification. To her the old room, shining with firelight and new furniture, was perfectly charming. If those great windows were staringly bright, health and cheerfulness seemed to look in at them. And what other images of association, with "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," looked at her out of the curling flames in the old wide fire- place! And one other angel stood there unseen the one whose errand it is to see fulfilled the promise, "Give, and it shall be given to you; full measure, and pressed down, and heaped up, and running over."

A little while Fleda sat contentedly eyeing her work; then a new idea struck her and she sprang up. In the next meadow, only one fence between, a little spring of purest water ran through from the woodland; water-cresses used to grow there. Uncle Rolf was very fond of them. It was pouring with rain; but no matter. Her heart beating between haste and delight, Fleda slipped her feet into galoches, and put an old cloak of Hugh's over her head, and ran out through the kitchen, the old accustomed way. The servants exclaimed and entreated, but Fleda only flashed a bright look at them from under her cloak as she opened the door, and ran off, over the wet grass, under the fence, and over half the meadow, till she came to the stream. She was getting a delicious taste of old times; and though the spring water was very cold, and with it and the rain one-half of each sleeve was soon thoroughly wetted, she gathered her cresses, and scampered back with a pair of eyes and cheeks that might have struck any city belle chill with envy.

"Then, but that's a sweet girl!" said Mary the cook to Jane the housemaid.

"A lovely countenance she has," answered Jane, who was refined in her speech.

"Take her away, and you've taken the best of the house, I'm a thinking."

"Mrs. Rossitur is a lady," said Jane, in a low voice.

"Ay, and a very proper behaved one she is, and him the same, that is, for a gentleman I mean; but Jane; I say, I'm thinking he'll have eat too much sour bread lately! I wish I knowed how they'd have their eggs boiled till I'd have them ready."

"Sure it's on the table itself they'll do 'em," said Jane. "They've an elegant little fixture in there for the purpose."

"Is that it!"

Nobody found out how busy Fleda's wand had been in the old breakfast-room. But she was not disappointed; she had not worked for praise. Her cresses were appreciated; that was enough. She enjoyed her breakfast the only one of the party that did. Mr. Rossitur looked moody; his wife looked anxious; and Hugh's face was the reflection of theirs. If Fleda's face reflected anything, it was the sunlight of heaven.

"How sweet the air is after New York!" said she.

They looked at her. There was a fresh sweetness of another kind about that breakfast-table. They all felt it, and breathed more freely.