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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Insignificance," said his father, drily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Didn't!"

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

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

"Why, Charlton?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Large as life," answered her son.

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

"Your eyes are observant!" said Charlton.

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

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

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

"Who said that?" said Charlton.

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

"What's he staying here for?"

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

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

"Yes, Ma'am, a good deal he was often at Mrs. Evelyn's."

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

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

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

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

"You do?"

"Much better than that."

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

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

"To you!"

"To everybody that deserves it."

"Humph! And not proud?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"You have seen it?"

"Often."

"Where?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Superiority of what kind?" said Charlton, stiffly.

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

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

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

"Absurd!" said Charlton.

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

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

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

"Thorn don't like him, eh?"

"I think not."

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

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

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

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

"What is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When will you be back?"

"Not before nightfall."

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

"Cannot breakfast be ready?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I was thinking how well you talked."

"Why, Hugh! you should have helped me I talked too much."

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

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

"What has made you keep so thin?"

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

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

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

"But not glad to be home?"

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Rossitur was silent.

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

"Nor you."

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

"My flagging soul flies under her own pitch." DRYDEN.

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

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

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

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

"Fleda! you up at this hour!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned away, without answering her.

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

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

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

"Do you think so?" said Fleda, rousing herself. "I wouldn't venture to say as much as that, Barby."

"If you have, 'tain't in your cheeks," said Barby, decidedly. "You look just as if you was made of anything that wouldn't stand wear, and that isn't the way you used to look."

"I have been up a good while without breakfast my cheeks will be a better colour when I have had that, Barby they feel pale."

The second breakfast was a cheerfuller thing. But when the second traveller was despatched, and the rest fell back upon their old numbers, Fleda was very quiet again. It vexed her to be so, but she could not change her mood. She felt as if she had been whirled along in a dream, and was now just opening her eyes to daylight and reality. And reality she could not help it looked rather dull after dream-land. She thought it was very well she was waked up; but it cost her some effort to appear so. And then she charged herself with ingratitude, her aunt and Hugh were so exceedingly happy in her company.

"Earl Douglass is quite delighted with the clover hay, Fleda. said Hugh, as the three sat at an early dinner.

"Is he?" said Fleda.

"Yes you know he was very unwilling to cure it in your way, and he thinks there never was anything like it now."

"Did you ever see finer ham, Fleda?" inquired her aunt. "Mr. Plumfield says it could not be better."

"Very good!" said Fleda, whose thoughts had somehow got upon Mr. Carleton's notions about female education, and were very busy with them.

"I expected you would have remarked upon our potatoes before now," said Hugh. "These are the Elephants have you seen anything like them in New York?"

"There cannot be more beautiful potatoes," said Mrs. Rossitur. "We had not tried any of them before you went away, Fleda, had we?"

"I don't know, aunt Lucy no, I think not."

"You needn't talk to Fleda, mother," said Hugh, laughing "she is quite beyond attending to all such ordinary matters; her thoughts have learned to take a higher flight since she has been in New York."

"It is time they were brought down, then, said Fleda, smiling; "but they have not learned to fly out of sight of home, Hugh."

"Where were they, dear Fleda?" said her aunt.

"I was thinking, a minute ago, of something I heard talked about in New York, aunt Lucy; and, afterwards, I was trying to find out by what possible or imaginable road I had got round to it."

"Could you tell?"

Fleda said, "No," and tried to bear her part in the conversation. But she did not know whether to blame the subjects which had been brought forward, or herself, for her utter want of interest in them. She went into the kitchen, feeling dissatisfied with both.

"Did you ever see potatoes that would beat them Elephants?" said Barby.

"Never, certainly," said Fleda, with a most involuntary smile.

"I never did," said Barby. "They beat all, for bigness and goodness both. I can't keep 'em together. There's thousands of 'em, and I mean to make Philetus eat 'em for supper such potatoes and milk is good enough for him, or anybody. The cow has gained on her milk wonderful, Fleda, since she begun to have them roots fed out to her."

"Which cow?" said Fleda.

"Which cow? why the blue cow there aint none of the others that's giving any, to speak of," said Barby, looking at her. "Don't you know the cow you said them carrots should be kept for?"

Fleda half laughed, as there began to rise up before her the various magazines of vegetables, grain, hay, and fodder, that for many weeks had been deliciously distant from her imagination.

"I made butter for four weeks, I guess, after you went away," Barby went on; "just come in here and see and the carrots makes it as yellow and sweet as June I churned as long as I had anything to churn, and longer; and now we live on cream you can make some cheesecakes just as soon as you're a mind to see! aint that doing pretty well? and fine it is put your nose down to it "

"Bravely, Barby and it is very sweet."

"You ha'n't left nothing behind you in New York, have you?" said Barby, when they returned to the kitchen.

"Left anything! no what do you think I have left?"

"I didn't know but you might have forgotten to pack up your memory," said Barby, drily.

Fleda laughed, and then in walked Mr. Douglass.

"How d'ye do?" said he. "Got back again. I heerd you was hum, and so I thought I'd just step up and see. Been getting along pretty well?"

Fleda answered, smiling internally at the wide distance between her "getting along," and his idea of it.

"Well, the hay's first rate!" said Earl, taking off his hat, and sitting down in the nearest chair "I've been feedin' it out now for a good spell, and I know what to think about it. We've been feedin' it out ever since some time this side o' the middle o' November I never see nothin' sweeter, and I don't want to see nothin' sweeter than it is! and the cattle eats it liked May roses they don't know how to thank you enough for it."

"To thank you, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda, smiling.

"No," said he, in a decided manner "I don't want no thanks for it, and I don't deserve none! 'Twa'n't thanks to none or my foresightedness that the clover wa'n't served the old way. I didn't like new notions, and I never did like new notions, and I never see much good of 'em; but I suppose there's some on 'em that aint moonshine my woman says there is, and I suppose there is, and after this clover hay I'm willin' to allow that there is. It's as sweet as a posie if you smell to it and all of it's cured alike; and I think, Fleda, there's a quarter more weight of it. I ha'n't proved it nor weighed it, but I've an eye and a hand as good as most folks, and I'll qualify to there being a fourth part more weight of it and it's a beautiful colour. The critters is as fond of it as you and I be of strawberries."

"Well, that is satisfactory, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda. "How is Mrs. Douglass and Catherine?"

"I ha'n't heerd 'em sayin' nothin' about it," he said; "and if there was anythin' the matter, I suppose they'd let me know. There don't much go wrong in a man's house without his hearin' tell of it. So I think. Maybe 'tan't the same in other men's houses. That's the way it is in mine."

"Mrs. Douglass would not thank you," said Fleda, wholly unable to keep from laughing. Earl's mouth gave way a very little, and then he went on.

"How be you?" he said. "You ha'n't gained much, as I see. I don't see but you're as poor as when you went away."

"I am very well, Mr. Douglass."

"I guess New York aint the place to grow fat. Well, Fleda, there ha'n't been seen in the hull country, or by any man in it, the like of the crop of corn we took off that 'ere twenty- acre lot they're all beat to hear tell of it they wont believe me Seth Plumfield ha'n't showed as much himself; he says you're the best farmer in the state."

"I hope he gives you part of the credit, Mr. Douglass how much was there?"

"I'll take my share of credit whenever I can get it," said Earl, "and I think it's right to take it, as long as you ha'n't nothing to be ashamed of; but I wont take no more than my share; and I will say I thought we was a-goin' to choke the corn to death, when we seeded the field in that way. Well, there's better than two thousand bushel more or less and as handsome corn as I want to see there never was handsomer corn. Would you let it go for five shillings? there's a man I've heerd of wants the hull of it."

"Is that a good price, Mr. Douglass? Why don't you ask Mr. Rossitur?"

"Do you s'pose Mr. Rossitur knows much about it?" inquired Earl, with a curious turn of feature, between sly and contemptuous. "The less he has to do with that heap of corn, the bigger it'll be that's my idee. I aint a-goin' to ask him nothin' you may ask him what you like to ask him but I don't think he'll tell you much that'll make you and me wiser in the matter o' farmin'."

"But now that he is at home, Mr. Douglass, I certainly cannot decide without speaking to him."

"Very good," said Earl, uneasily " 'taint no affair of nine as you like to have it, so you'll have it just as you please! But now, Fleda, there's another thing I want to speak to you about I want you to let me take hold of that 'ere piece of swamp land and bring it in. I knew a man that fixed a piece of land like that, and cleared nigh a thousand dollars off it the first year."

"Which piece?" said Fleda.

"Why, you know which 'tis just the other side of the trees over there between them two little hills. There's six or seven acres of it nothin' in the world but mud and briers will you let me take hold of it. I'll do the hull job if you'll give me half the profits for one year. Come over and look at it, and I'll tell you come! the walk wont hurt you, and it aint fur."

All Fleda's inclinations said no, but she thought it was not best to indulge them. She put on her hood and went off with him; and was treated to a long and most implicated detail of ways and means, from which she at length disentangled the rationale of the matter, and gave Mr. Douglass the consent he asked for, promising to gain that of her uncle.

The day was fair and mild, and in spite of weariness of body, a certain weariness of mind prompted Fleda, when she had got rid of Earl Douglass, to go and see her aunt Miriam. She went, questioning with herself all the way, for her want of goodwill to these matters. True, they were not pleasant mind-work; but she tried to school herself into taking them patiently as good life-work. She had had too much pleasant company, and enjoyed too much conversation she said. It had unfitted her for home duties.

Mrs. Plumfield, she knew, was no better. But her eye found no change for the worse. The old lady was very glad to see her, and very cheerful and kind as usual.

"Well, are you glad to be home again?" said aunt Miriam, after a pause in the conversation.

"Everybody asks me that question," said Fleda, smiling.

"Perhaps for the same reason I did because they thought you didn't look very glad."

"I am glad," said Fleda, "but I believe not so glad as I was last year."

"Why not?"

"I suppose I had a pleasanter time. I have got a little spoiled, I believe, aunt Miriam," Fleda said, with glistening eyes and an altering voice "I don't take up my old cares and duties kindly at first I shall be myself again in a few days."

Aunt Miriam looked at her with that fond, wistful, benevolent look which made Fleda turn away.

"What has spoiled you, love?"

"Oh! easy living and pleasure, I suppose," Fleda said, but said with difficulty.

"Pleasure?" said aunt Miriam, putting one arm gently round her. Fleda struggled with herself.

"It is so pleasant, aunt Miriam, to forget these money cares! to lift one's eyes from the ground, and feel free to stretch out one's hand not to be obliged to think about spending sixpences, and to have one's mind at liberty for a great many things that I haven't time for here. And Hugh and aunt Lucy somehow things seem sad to me."

Nothing could be more sympathizingly kind than the way in which aunt Miriam brought Fleda closer to her side, and wrapped her in her arms.

"I am very foolish," Fleda whispered. "I am very wrong I shall get over it."

"I am afraid, dear Fleda," Mrs. Plumfield said, after a pause, "it isn't best for us always to be without sad things though I cannot bear to see your dear little face look sad but it wouldn't fit us for the work we have to do it wouldn't fit us to stand where I stand now, and look forward happily."

"Where you stand?" said Fleda, raising her head.

"Yes, and I would not be without a sorrow I have ever known. They are bitter now, when they are present but the sweet fruit comes after."

"But what do you mean by 'where you stand?' "

"On the edge of life."

"You do not think so, aunt Miriam!" Fleda said, with a terrified look. "You are not worse?"

"I don't expect ever to be better," said Mrs. Plumfield, with a smile. "Nay, my love," she said, as Fleda's head went down on her bosom again "not so! I do not wish it either, Fleda. I do not expect to leave you soon, but I would not prolong the time by a day. I would not have spoken of it now if I had recollected myself; but I am so accustomed to think and speak of it, that it came out before I knew it. My darling child, it is nothing to cry for."

"I know it, aunt Miriam."

"Then don't cry," whispered aunt Miriam, when she had stroked Fleda's head for five minutes.

"I am crying for myself, aunt Miriam," said Fleda. "I shall be left alone."

"Alone, my dear child?"

"Yes there is nobody but you that I feel I can talk to."

She would have added that she dared not say a word to Hugh, for fear of troubling him. But that pain at her heart stopped her, and pressing her hands together, she burst into bitter weeping.

"Nobody to talk to but me?" said Mrs. Plumfield, after again soothing her for some time "what do you mean, dear?"

"Oh, I can't say anything to them at home," said Fleda, with a forced effort after voice; "and you are the only one I can look to for help Hugh never says anything almost never anything of that kind; he would rather others should counsel him."

"There is One friend to whom you may always tell everything, with no fear of wearying Him of whom you may at all times ask counsel, without any danger of being denied more dear, more precious, more rejoiced in, the more he is sought unto. Thou mayest lose friend after friend, and gain more than thou losest in that one."

"I know it," said Fleda; "but dear aunt Miriam, don't you think human nature longs for some human sympathy and help too?"

"My sweet blossom! yes," said Mrs. Plumfield, caressingly, stroking her bowed head; "but let Him do what he will; he hath said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' "

"I know that too," said Fleda, weeping. "How do people bear life that do not know it?"

"Or that cannot take the comfort of it. Thou art not poor nor alone while thou hast him to go to, little Fleda. And you are not losing me yet, my child; you will have time, I think, to grow as well satisfied as I with the prospect."

"Is that possible, for others?" said Fleda.

The mother sighed as her son entered the room.

He looked uncommonly grave, Fleda thought. That did not surprise her, but it seemed that it did his mother, for she asked an explanation, which, however, he did not give.

"So you've got back from New York," said he.

"Just got back yesterday," said Fleda.

"Why didn't you stay longer?"

"I thought my friends at home would be glad to see me," said Fleda. "Was I mistaken?"

He made no answer for a minute, and then said

"Is your uncle at home?"

"No," said Fleda; "he went away this morning on business, and we do not expect him home before nightfall. Do you want to see him?"

"No," said Seth, very decidedly. "I wish he had staid in Michigan, or gone further west anywhere that Queechy'd never have heard of him."

"Why, what has he done?" said Fleda, looking up, half laughing, and half amazed at her cousin. But his face was disagreeably dark, though she could not make out that the expression was one of displeasure. It did not encourage her to talk.

"Do you know a man in New York by the name of Thorn?" he said, after standing still a minute or two.

"I know two men of that name," said Fleda, colouring and wondering.

"Is either on 'em a friend of your'n?"

"No"

"He aint?" said Mr. Plumfield, giving the forestick on the fire an energetic kick, which Fleda could not help thinking was mentally aimed at the said New Yorker.

"No, certainly, what makes you ask?"

"Oh," said Seth, drily, "folks' tongues will find work to do; I heerd say something like that; I thought you must take to him more than I do."

"Why what do you know of him?"

"He's been here a spell lately," said Seth, "poking round; more for ill than for good, I reckon."

He turned, and quitted the room abruptly; and Fleda bethought her that she must go home while she had light enough.

CHAPTER XII.

"Nothing could be more obliging and respectful than the lion's letter was, in appearance; but there was death in the true intent." L'ESTRANGE.

The landscape had grown more dark since Fleda came up the hill, or else the eyes that looked at it. Both, probably. It was just after sundown, and that is a very sober time of day in winter, especially in some states of the weather. The sun had left no largesses behind him; the scenery was deserted to all the coming poverty of night, and looked grim and threadbare already. Not one of the colours of prosperity left. The land was in mourning dress; all the ground, and even the ice on the little mill-ponds, a uniform spread of white, while the hills were draperied with black stems, here just veiling the snow, and there on a side view making a thick fold of black. Every little unpainted workshop or mill showed uncompromisingly all its forbidding sharpness of angle and outline darkening against the twilight. In better days, perhaps, some friendly tree had hung over it, shielding part of its faults, and redeeming the rest. Now nothing but the gaunt skeleton of a friend stood there doubtless to bud forth again as fairly as ever, should the season smile. Still and quiet, all was, as Fleda's spirit, and in too good harmony with it; she resolved to choose the morning to go out in future. There was as little of the light of spring or summer in her own mind as on the hills, and it was desirable to catch at least a cheering reflection. She could rouse herself to no bright thoughts, try as she would; the happy voices of nature that used to speak to her were all hushed, or her ear was deaf; and her eye met nothing that did not immediately fall in with the train of sad images that were passing through her mind, and swell the procession. She was fain to fall back and stay herself upon these words, the only stand-by she could lay hold of:

"TO THEM WHO, BY PATIENT CONTINUANCE IN WELL-DOING SEEK FOR GLORY, AND HONOUR, AND IMMORTALITY, ETERNAL LIFE!"

They toned with the scene and with her spirit exactly; they suited the darkening sky and the coming night; for "glory, honour, and immortality" are not now. They filled Fleda's mind after they had once entered, and then nature's sympathy was again as readily given; each barren, stern-looking hill in its guise of present desolation and calm expectancy seemed to echo softly, "patient continuance in well-doing." And the tears trembled then in Fleda's eyes; she had set her face, as the old Scotchman says, "in the right airth."* [* Quarter, direction.] "How sweet is the wind that bloweth out of the airth where Christ is!"

"Well," said Hugh, who entered the kitchen with her, "you have been late enough. Did you have a pleasant walk? You are pale, Fleda."

"Yes, it was pleasant," said Fleda, with one of her winning smiles "a kind of pleasant. But have you looked at the hills? They are exactly as if they had put on mourning nothing but white and black a crape-like dressing of black tree-stems upon the snowy face of the ground, and on every slope and edge of the hills the crape lies in folds. Do look at it when you go out! It has a most curious effect."

"Not pleasant, I should think?" said Hugh.

"You'll see it is just as I have described it. No; not pleasant, exactly; the landscape wants the sun to light it up just now it is cold and wilderness-looking. I think I'll take the morning in future. Whither are you bound?"

"I must go over to Queechy Run for a minute, on business I'll be home before supper I should have been back by this time, but Philetus has gone to bed with a headache, and I had to take care of the cows."

"Three times and out," said Barby. "I wont try again. [ didn't know as anything would be too powerful for his head; but I find, as sure as he has apple dumplin' for dinner, he goes to bed for his supper, and leaves the cows without none. And then Hugh has to take it. It has saved so many Elephants that's one thing."

Hugh went out by one door, and Fleda by another entered the breakfast-room, the one generally used in winter for all purposes. Mrs. Rossitur sat there alone in an easy-chair; and Fleda no sooner caught the outline of her figure than her heart sank at once to an unknown depth unknown before and unfathomable now. She was cowering over the fire her head sunk in her hands, so crouching, that the line of neck and shoulders instantly conveyed to Fleda the idea of fancied or felt degradation there was no escaping it how, whence, what, was all wild confusion. But the language of mere attitude was so unmistakable the expression of crushing pain was so strong, that, after Fleda had fearfully made her way up beside her, she could do no more. She stood there tongue-tied, spell-bound, present to nothing but a nameless chill of fear and heart-sinking. She was afraid to speak afraid to touch her aunt, and abode motionless in the grasp of that dread for minutes. But Mrs. Rossitur did not stir a hair, and the terror of that stillness grew to be less endurable than any other.

Fleda spoke to her it did not win the shadow of a reply again and again. She laid her hand then upon Mrs. Rossitur's shoulder, but the very significant answer to that, was a shrinking gesture of the shoulder and neck away from the hand. Fleda, growing desperate, then implored an answer in words prayed for an explanation with an intensity of distress in voice and manner, that no one whose ears were not stopped with a stronger feeling could have been deaf to; but Mrs. Rossitur would not raise her head, nor slacken in the least the clasp of the fingers that supported it; that of themselves in their relentless tension spoke what no words could. Fleda's trembling prayers were in vain in vain. Poor nature at last sought a woman's relief in tears but they were heart- breaking, not heart-relieving tears racking both mind and body more than they ought to bear, but bringing no cure. Mrs. Rossitur seemed as unconscious of her niece's mute agony as she had been of her agony of words; and it was from Fleda's own self-recollection alone that she fought off pain, and roused herself above weakness to do what the time called for.

"Aunt Lucy," she said, laying her hand upon her shoulder, and this time the voice was steady, and the hand would not be shaken off "Aunt Lucy, Hugh will be in presently hadn't you better rouse yourself and go up stairs for awhile? till you are better? and not let him see you so?"

How the voice was broken and quivering before it got through?

The answer this time was a low long-drawn moan, so exceeding plaintive and full of pain that it made Fleda shake like an aspen. But after a moment she spoke again, bearing more heavily with her hand to mark her words.

"I am afraid he will be in presently he ought not to see you now. Aunt Lucy, I am afraid it might do him an injury he might not get over"

She spoke with the strength of desperation; her nerves were unstrung by fear, and every joint weakened, so that she could hardly support herself. She had not, however, spoken in vain; one or two convulsive shudders passed over her aunt, and then Mrs. Rossitur suddenly rose, turning her face from Fleda; neither would she permit her to follow her. But Fleda thought she had seen that one or two unfolded letters or papers of some kind they looked like letters were in her lap when she raised her head.

Left alone, Fleda sat down on the floor by the easy chair, and rested her head there, waiting she could do nothing else till her extreme excitement of body and mind should have quieted itself. She had a kind of vague hope that time would do something for her before Hugh came in. Perhaps it did; for though she lay in a kind of stupor, and was conscious of no change whatever she was able, when she heard him coming, to get up and sit in the chair in an ordinary attitude. But she looked like the wraith of herself an hour ago.

"Fleda!" Hugh exclaimed, as soon as he looked from the fire to her face; "what is the matter? what is the matter with you?"

"I am not very well I don't feel very well," said Fleda, speaking almost mechanically; "I shall have a headache to- morrow."

"Headache! But you look shockingly: what has happened to you? what is the matter, Fleda?"

"I am not ill I shall be better by and by. There is nothing the matter with me that need trouble you, dear Hugh."

"Nothing the matter with you," said he, and Fleda might see how she looked in the reflection of his face; "where's mother?"

"She is up stairs you mustn't go to her, Hugh!" said Fleda, laying a detaining hand upon him with more strength than she thought she had; "I don't want anything."

"Why mustn't I go to her?"

"I don't think she wants to be disturbed"

"I must disturb her"

"You mustn't! I know she don't she isn't well something has happened to trouble her"

"What?"

"I don't know."

"And is that what has troubled you, too?" said Hugh, his countenance changing as he gained more light on the subject; "what is it, dear Fleda?"

"I don't know," repeated Fleda, bursting into tears. Hugh was quiet enough now, and sat down beside her, subdued and still, without even desiring to ask a question. Fleda's tears flowed violently for a minute, then she checked them for his sake, and they sat motionless, without speaking to one another, looking into the fire, and letting it die out before them into embers and ashes, neither stirring to put a hand to it. As the fire died, the moonlight streamed in : how very dismal the room looked!

"What do you think about having tea?" said Barby, opening the door of the kitchen.

Neither felt it possible to answer her.

"Mr. Rossitur aint come home, is he?"

"No," said Fleda, shuddering.

"So I thought, and so I told Seth Plumfield, just now he was asking for him. My stars! ha'n't you no fire here? what did you let it go out for?"

Barby came in and began to build it up.

"It's growing cold, I can tell you, so you may as well have something in the chimney to look at. You'll want it shortly, if you don't now."

"Was Mr. Plumfield here, did you say, Barby?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't he come in!"

"I s'pose he hadn't a mind to," said Barby. " 'Twa'n't for want of being asked. I did the civil thing by him if he didn't by me; but he said he didn't want to see anybody but Mr. Rossitur."

Did not want to see anybody but Mr. Rossitur, when he had distinctly said he did not wish to see him! Fleda felt sick, merely from the mysterious dread which could fasten upon nothing, and therefore took in everything.

"Well, what about tea?" concluded Barby, when the fire was going according to her wishes. "Will you have it, or will you wait longer?"

"No, we wont wait; we will have it now, Barby," said Fleda, forcing herself to make the exertion; and she went to the window to put down the hangings.

The moonlight was very bright, and Fleda's eye was caught in the very act of letting down the curtain, by a figure in the road slowly passing before the courtyard fence. It paused a moment by the horse-gate, and turning, paced slowly back till it was hid behind the rose-acacias. There was a clump of shrubbery in that corner thick enough even in winter to serve for a screen. Fleda stood with the curtain in her hand, half let down, unable to move, and feeling almost as if the very currents of life within her were standing still, too. She thought, she was almost sure, she knew the figure; it was on her tongue to ask Hugh to come and look, but she checked that. The form appeared again from behind the acacias, moving with the same leisurely pace the other way towards the horse-gate. Fleda let down the curtain, then the other two, quietly, and then left the room, and stole, noiselessly, out at the front door, leaving it open, that the sound of it might not warn Hugh what she was about; and stepping like a cat down the steps, ran, breathlessly, over the snow to the courtyard gate; there waited, shivering in the cold, but not feeling it for the cold within, while the person she was watching stood still a few moments by the horse-gate, and came again, with leisurely steps towards her.

"Seth Plumfield!" said Fleda, almost as much frightened at the sound of her own voice as he was. He stopped immediately, with a start, and came up to the little gate behind which she was standing, but said nothing.

"What are you doing here?"

"You oughtn't to be out without anything on," said he "you're fixing to take your death."

He had good reason to say so. But she gave him no more heed than the wind.

"What are you waiting here for? What do you want?"

"I have nothing better to do with my time," said he; "I thought I'd walk up and down here a little. You go in!"

"Are you waiting to see uncle Rolf?" she said, with teeth chattering.

"You mustn't stay out here," said he, earnestly; "you're like nothing but a spook this minute I'd rather see one, or a hull army of 'em. Go in, go in!"

"Tell me if you want to see him, Seth."

"No, I don't I told you I didn't."

"Then why are you waiting for him?"

"I thought I'd see if he was coming home to-night I had a word to say if I could catch him before he got into the house."

"Is he coming home to-night?" said Fleda.

"I don't know!" said he, looking at her. "Do you!"

Fleda burst open the gate between them, and putting her hands on his, implored him to tell her what was the matter. He looked singularly disturbed; his fine eye twinkled with compassion; but his face, never a weak one, showed no signs of yielding now.

"The matter is," said he, pressing hard both her hands, "that you are fixing to be down sick in your bed by to-morrow. You mustn't stay another second."

"Come in, then."

"No not to-night."

"You wont tell me?"

"There is nothing I can tell you maybe there'll be nothing to tell run in, run in, and keep quiet."

Fleda hurried back to the house, feeling that she had gone to the limit of risk already. Not daring to show herself to Hugh in her chilled state of body and mind, she went into the kitchen.

"Why, what on earth's come over you!" was Barby's terrified ejaculation, when she saw her.

"I have been out and got myself cold "

"Cold!" said Barby "you're looking dreadful! What on earth ails you, Fleda?"

"Don't ask me, Barby," said Fleda, hiding her face in her hands, and shivering; "I made myself very cold just now Aunt Lucy doesn't feel very well, and I got frightened," she added, presently.

"What's the matter with her?"

"I don't know if you'll make me a cup of tea, I'll take it up to her, Barby."

"You put yourself down there," said Barby, placing her with gentle force in a chair; "you'll do no such a thing till I see you look as if there was some blood in you. I'll take it up myself."

But Fleda held her, though with a hand much too feeble indeed for any but moral suasion. It was enough. Barby stood silently, and very anxiously watching her, till the fire had removed the outward chill at least. But even that took long to do, and before it was well done, Fleda again asked for the cup of tea. Barby made it without a word, and Fleda went to her aunt with it, taking her strength from the sheer emergency. Her knees trembled under her as she mounted the stairs, and once a glimpse of those words flitted across her mind "patient continuance in well-doing." It was like a lightning flash in a dark night showing the way one must go. She could lay hold of no other stay. Her mind was full of one intense purpose to end the suspense.

She gently tried the door of her aunt's room; it was unfastened, and she went in. Mrs. Rossitur was lying on the bed; but her first mood had changed, for at Fleda's soft word and touch she half rose up, and, putting both arms round her waist, laid her face against her. There were no tears still, only a succession of low moans, so inexpressibly weak and plaintive, that Fleda's nature could hardly bear them without giving way. A more fragile support was never clung to. Yet her trembling fingers, in their agony, moved caressingly among her aunt's hair and over her brow, as she begged her when she could, she was not able at first to let her know the cause that was grieving her. The straitened clasp of Mrs. Rossitur's arms, and her increased moaning, gave only an answer of pain. But Fleda repeated the question. Mrs. Rossitur still neglecting it, then made her sit down upon the bed, so that she could lay her head higher on Fleda's bosom; where she hid it, with a mingling of fondness given and asked a poor seeking for comfort and rest, that wrung her niece's heart.

They sat so for a little time; Fleda hoping that her aunt would by degrees come to the point herself. The tea stood cooling on the table, not even offered; not wanted there.

"Wouldn't you feel better if you told me, dear aunt Lucy?" said Fleda, when they had been for a little while perfectly still. Even the moaning had ceased.

"Is your uncle come home?" whispered Mrs. Rossitur, but so low that Fleda could but half catch the words.

"Not yet."

"What o'clock is it?"

"I don't know not early it must be near eight. Why?"

"You have not heard anything of him?"

"No nothing."

There was silence again for a little, and then Mrs. Rossitur said in a low, fearful whisper

"Have you seen anybody round the house?"

Fleda's thoughts flew to Seth, with that nameless fear to which she could give neither shape nor direction, and after a moment's hesitation she said

"What do you mean?"

"Have you?" said Mrs. Rossitur, with more energy.

"Seth Plumfield was here a little while ago."

Her aunt had the clue that she had not, for with a half scream, half exclamation, she quitted Fleda's arms, and fell back upon the pillows, turning from her and hiding her face there. Fleda prayed again for her confidence, as well as the weakness and the strength of fear could do; and Mrs. Rossitur presently grasping a paper that lay on the bed, held it out to her, saying only, as Fleda was about quitting the room, "Bring me a light."

Fleda left the letter there and went down to fetch one. She commanded herself under the excitement and necessity of the moment all but her face; that terrified Barby exceedingly. But she spoke with a strange degree of calmness; told her Mrs. Rossitur was not alarmingly ill; that she did not need Barby's services, and wished to see nobody but herself, and didn't want a fire. As she was passing through the hall again, Hugh came out of the sitting-room to ask after his mother. Fleda kept the light from her face.

"She does not want to be disturbed I hope she will be better to-morrow."

"What is the matter, Fleda?"

"I don't know yet."

"And you are ill yourself, Fleda? you are ill?"

"No I shall do very well never mind me. Hugh, take some tea I will be down by and by."

He went back, and Fleda went up stairs. Mrs. Rossitur had not moved. Fleda set down the light, and herself beside it, with the paper her aunt had given her. It was a letter.

"Queechy, Thursday.

"It gives me great concern, my dear Madam, to be the means of bringing to you a piece of painful information but it cannot be long kept from your knowledge, and you may perhaps learn it better from me than by any other channel. May I entreat you not to be too much alarmed, since I am confident the cause will be of short duration?

"Pardon me for what I am about to say.

"There are proceedings entered into against Mr. Rossitur there are writs out against him on the charge of having, some years ago, endorsed my father's name upon a note of his own giving. Why it has lain so long I cannot explain. There is, unhappily, no doubt of the fact.

"I was in Queechy some days ago, on business of my own, when I became aware that this was going on my father had made no mention of it to me. I immediately took strict measures, I am happy to say, I believe with complete success to have the matter kept a profound secret. I then made my way as fast possible to New York to confer on the subject with the original mover of it unfortunately I was disappointed. My father had left for a neighbouring city, to be absent several days. Finding myself too late to prevent, as I had hoped to do, any open steps from being taken at Queechy, I returned hither immediately to enforce secrecy of proceedings and to assure you, Madam, that my utmost exertions shall not be wanting to bring the whole matter to a speedy and satisfactory termination. I entertain no doubt of being able to succeed entirely even to the point of having the whole transaction remain unknown and unsuspected by the world. It is so entirely as yet, with the exception of one or two law officers, whose silence I have means of procuring.

"May I confess that I am not entirely disinterested? May the selfishness of human nature ask its reward, and own its moving spring! May I own that my zeal in this cause is quickened by the unspeakable excellencies of Mr. Rossitur's lovely niece which I have learned to appreciate with my whole heart and be forgiven? And may I hope for the kind offices and intercession of the lady I have the honour of addressing, with her niece, Miss Ringgan, that my reward the single word of encouragement I ask for may be given me? Having that, I will promise anything I will guarantee the success of any enterprise, however difficult, to which she may impel me and I will undertake that the matter which furnishes the painful theme of this letter shall never more be spoken or thought of by the world, or my father, or by Mrs. Rossitur's obliged, grateful, and faithful servant,

LEWIS THORN."

Fleda felt, as she read, as if icicles were gathering about her heart. The whirlwind of fear and distress of a little while ago, which could take no definite direction, seemed to have died away and given place to a dead frost the steady bearing down of disgrace and misery, inevitable, unmitigable, unchangeable; no lessening, no softening of that blasting power, no, nor ever any rising up from under it; the landscape could never be made to smile again. It was the fall of a bright star from their home constellation, but alas! the star was fallen long ago, and the failure of light which they had deplored was all too easily accounted for; yet now they knew that no restoration was to be hoped. And the mother and son what would become of them? And the father what would become of him? what further distress was in store? Public disgrace? and Fleda bowed her head forward on her clasped hands with the mechanical, vain endeavour to seek rest or shelter from thought. She made nothing of Mr. Thorn's professions, she took only the facts of his letter; the rest her eye had glanced over as if she had no concern with it, and it hardly occurred to her that she had any. But the sense of his words she had taken in, and knew, better perhaps than her aunt, that there was nothing to look for from his kind offices. The weight on her heart was too great just then for her to suspect, as she did afterwards, that he was the sole mover of the whole affair.

As the first confusion of thought cleared away, two images of distress loomed up and filled the view her aunt, broken under the news, and Hugh still unknowing to them; her own separate existence Fleda was hardly conscious of. Hugh especially how was he to be told, and how could he bear to hear, with his most sensitive conformation of both physical and moral nature? And if an arrest should take place there that night! Fleda shuddered, and, unable to go on thinking, rose up and went to her aunt's bedside. It had not entered her mind till the moment she read Mr. Thorn's letter that Seth Plumfield was sheriff for the county. She was shaking again from head to foot with fear. She could not say anything the touch of her lips to the throbbing temples, soft and tender as sympathy itself, was all she ventured.

"Have you heard anything of him?" Mrs. Rossitur whispered.

"No I doubt if we do at all to-night."

There was a half breathed "Oh!" of indescribable pain and longing; and with a restless change of position Mrs. Rossitur gathered herself up on the bed and sat with her head leaning on her knees. Fleda brought a large cloak and put it round her.

"I am in no danger," she said "I wish I were!"

Again Fleda's lips softly, tremblingly touched her cheek.

Mrs. Rossitur put her arm round her and drew her down to her side, upon the bed, and wrapped half of the big cloak about her; and they sat there still in each other's arms, without speaking or weeping, while quarter after quarter of an hour passed away nobody knew how many. And the cold bright moonlight streamed in on the floor, mocking them.

"Go!" whispered Mrs. Rossitur, at last "go down stairs, and take care of yourself and Hugh."

"Wont you come?"

Mrs. Rossitur shook her head.

"Mayn't I bring you something? do let me."

But Mrs. Rossitur's shake of the head was decisive. Fleda crawled off the bed, feeling as if a month's illness had been making its ravages upon her frame and strength. She stood a moment to collect her thoughts; but alas, thinking was impossible; there was a palsy upon her mind. She went into her own room, and for a minute kneeled down not to form a petition in words she was as much beyond that; it was only the mute attitude of appeal, the pitiful outward token of the mind's bearing, that could not be forborne a silent uttering of the plea she had made her own in happy days. There was something of comfort in the mere feeling of doing it; and there was more in one or two words that even in that blank came to her mind "Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him;" and she again recollected that "Providence runneth not upon broken wheels." Nothing could be darker than the prospect before her, and these things did not bring light; but they gave her a sure stay to hold on by and keep her feet a bit of strength to preserve from utterly fainting. Ah! the store-house must be filled, and the mind well familiarized with what is stored in it while yet the days are bright, or it will never be able to find what it wants in the dark.

Fleda first went into the kitchen to tell Barby to fasten the doors, and not sit up.

"I don't believe uncle Rolf will be home to-night; but if he comes, I will let him in."

Barby looked at her with absolutely a face of distress; but not daring to ask, and not knowing how to propose anything, she looked in silence.

"It must be nine o'clock now," Fleda went on.

"And how long be you going to sit up?" said Barby.

"I don't know a while yet."

"You look proper for it!" said Barby, half sorrowfully and half indignantly; "you look as if a straw would knock you down this minute. There's sense into everything. You catch me a- going to bed, and leaving you up! It wont do me no hurt to sit here the hull night; and I'm the only one in the house that's fit for it, with the exception of Philetus, and the little wit he has by day seems to forsake him at night. All the light that ever gets into his head, I believe, comes from the outside; as soon as ever that's gone, he shuts up his shutters. He's been snoozing a'ready now this hour and a half. Go yourself off to bed, Fleda," she added, with a mixture of reproach and kindness, "and leave me alone to take care of myself and the house too."

Fleda did not remonstrate, for Barby was as determined in her way as it was possible for anything to be. She went into the other room without a particle of notion what she should say or do.

Hugh was walking up and down the floor a most unusual sign of perturbation with him. He met and stopped her as she came in.

"Fleda, I cannot bear it. What is the matter? Do you know?" he said, as her eyes fell.

"Yes "

"What is it?"

She was silent, and tried to pass on to the fire. But he stayed her.

"What is it?" he repeated.

"Oh, I wish I could keep it from you!" said Fleda, bursting into tears.

He was still a moment; and then, bringing her to the arm- chair, made her sit down, and stood himself before her, silently waiting, perhaps because he could not speak, perhaps from the accustomed gentle endurance of his nature. But Fleda was speechless too.

"You are keeping me in distress," he said, at length.

"I cannot end the distress, dear Hugh," said Fleda.

She saw him change colour, and he stood motionless still.

"Do you remember," said Fleda, trembling even to her voice, "what Rutherford says about Providence 'not running on broken wheels?' "

He gave her no answer but the intent look of expectation. Its intentness paralysed Fleda. She did not know how to go on. She rose from her chair and hung upon his shoulder.

"Believe it now, if you can; for oh, dear Hugh! we have something to try it."

"It is strange my father don't come home," said he, supporting her with tenderness, which had very little strength to help it; "we want him very much."

Whether or not any unacknowledged feeling prompted this remark, some slight involuntary movement of Fleda's made him ask, suddenly

"Is it about him?"

He had grown deadly pale, and Fleda answered, eagerly

"Nothing that has happened to-day it is not anything that has happened to-day: he is perfectly well, I trust and believe."

"But it is about him?"

Fleda's head sank, and she burst into such an agony of tears that Hugh's distress was for a time divided.

"When did it happen, Fleda?"

"Years ago."

"And what?"

Fleda hesitated still, and then said

"It was something he did, Hugh."

"What?"

"He put another person's name on the back of a note he gave."

She did not look up, and Hugh was silent for a moment.

"How do you know?"

"Mr. Thorn wrote it to aunt Lucy; it was Mr. Thorn's father."

Hugh sat down and leaned his head on the table. A long, long, time passed unmeasured by the wild coursing of thought to and fro. Then Fleda came and knelt down at the table beside him, and put her arm round his neck.

"Dear Hugh," she said and if ever love, and tenderness, and sympathy could be distilled in tones, such drops were those that fell upon the mind's ear "can't you look up at me?"

He did then, but he did not give her a chance to look at him. He locked his arms about her, bringing her close to his breast; and for a few minutes, in utter silence, they knew what strange sweetness pure affection can mingle, even in the communion of sorrow. There were tears shed in those minutes that, bitter as they seemed at the time, memory knew had been largely qualified with another admixture.

"Dear Hugh," said Fleda, "let us keep what we can. Wont you go to bed and rest?"

He looked dreadfully as if he needed it; but the usual calmness and sweetness of his face was not altered; it was only deepened to very great sadness. Mentally, Fleda thought, he had borne the shock better than his mother; for the bodily frame she trembled. He had not answered, and she spoke again.

"You need it worse than I, poor Fleda."

"I will go, too, presently: I do not think anybody will be here to-night."

"Is are there is this what has taken him away?" said Hugh.

Her silence and her look told him; and then, laying her cheek again alongside of his, she whispered (how unsteadily!)

"We have only one help, dear Hugh."

They were still and quiet again for minutes, counting the pulses of pain, till Fleda came back to her poor wish "to keep what they could." She mixed a restorative of wine and water, which, however little desired, she felt was necessary for both of them, and Hugh went up stairs. She staid a few minutes to prepare another glass, with particular care, for her aunt. It was just finished, and, taking her candle, she had bid Barby good night, when there came a loud rap at the front door. Fleda set down candle and glass, from the quick inability to hold them, as well as for other reasons, and she and Barby stood and looked at each other, in such a confusion of doubt and dread, that some little time had passed before either stirred even her eyes. Barby then threw down the tongs, with which she had begun to make preparations for covering up the fire, and set off to the front.

"You mustn't open the door, Barby," cried Fleda, following her. "Come in here, and let us look out of one of the windows."

Before this could be reached, however, there was another prolonged repetition of the first thundering burst. It went through Fleda's heart, because of the two up stairs who must hear it.

Barby threw up the sash.

"Who's there?"

"Is this Mr. Rossitur's place?" inquired a gruff voice.

"Yes, it is."

"Well will you come round and open the door?"

"Who wants it open?"

"A lady wants it open."

"A lady! what lady?"

"Down yonder, in the carriage."

"What lady? who is she?"

"I don't know who she is: she wanted to come to Mr. Rossitur's place. Will you open the door for her?"

Barby and Fleda both now saw a carriage standing in the road.

"We must see who it is first," whispered Fleda.

"When the lady comes, I'll open the door," was Barby's ultimatum.

The man withdrew to the carriage, and, after a few moments of intense watching, Fleda and Barby certainly saw something in female apparel enter the little gate of the court-yard, and come up over the bright, moonlit snow towards the house, accompanied by a child; while the man with whom they had had the interview came behind, transformed into an unmistakable baggage-carrier.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Zeal was the spring whence flowed her hardiment." FAIRFAX.

Barby undid bolt and lock, and Fleda met the traveller in the hall. She was a lady; her air and dress showed that, though the latter was very plain.

"Does Mr. Rossitur live here?" was her first word.

Fleda answered it, and brought her visitor into the sitting- room. But the light falling upon a form and face that had seen more wear and tear than time, gave her no clue as to the who or what of the person before her. The stranger's hurried look around the room seemed to expect something.

"Are they all gone to bed?"

"All but me," said Fleda.

"We have been delayed we took a wrong road we've been riding for hours to find the place hadn't the right direction." Then, looking keenly at Fleda, from whose vision an electric spark of intelligence had scattered the clouds, she said

"I am Marion Rossitur."

"I knew it!" said Fleda, with lips and eyes that gave her already a sister's welcome; and they were folded in each other's arms almost as tenderly and affectionately, on the part of one at least, as if there had really been the relationship between them. But more than surprise and affection struck Fleda's heart.

"And where are they all, Fleda? Can't I see them?"

"You must wait till I have prepared them; Hugh and aunt Lucy are not very well. I don't know that it will do for you to see them at all to-night, Marion."

"Not to-night! They are not ill?"

"No only enough to be taken care of not ill. But it would be better to wait."

"And my father?"

"He is not at home."

Marion exclaimed in sorrow, and Fleda, to hide the look that she felt was on her face, stooped down to kiss the child. He was a remarkably fine-looking, manly boy.

"That is your cousin Fleda," said his mother.

"No aunt Fleda," said the person thus introduced "don't put me off into cousindom, Marion. I am uncle Hugh's sister and so I am your aunt Fleda. Who are you?"

"Rolf Rossitur Schwiden."

Alas, how wide are the ramifications of evil! How was what might have been very pure pleasure utterly poisoned and turned into bitterness! It went through Fleda's heart with a keen pang, when she heard that name and looked on the very fair brow that owned it, and thought of the ineffaceable stain that had come upon both. She dared look at nobody but the child. He already understood the melting eyes that were making acquaintance with his, and half felt the pain that gave so much tenderness to her kiss, and looked at her with a grave face of awakening wonder and sympathy. Fleda was glad to have business to call her into the kitchen.

"Who is it?" was Barby's immediate question.

"Aunt Lucy's daughter."

"She don't look much like her!" said Barby, intelligently.

"They will want something to eat, Barby."

"I'll put the kettle on. It'll boil directly. I'll go in there and fix up the fire."

A word or two more, and then Fleda ran up to speak to her aunt and Hugh.

Her aunt she found in a state of agitation that was frightful. Even Fleda's assurances, with all the soothing arts she could bring to bear, were some minutes before they could in any measure tranquillize her. Fleda's own nerves were in no condition to stand another shock, when she left her and went to Hugh's door. But she could get no answer from him, though she spoke repeatedly.

She did not return to her aunt's room. She went down stairs, and brought up Barby and a light from thence.

Hugh was lying senseless and white not whiter than his adopted sister, as she stood by his side. Her eye went to her companion.

"Not a bit of it!" said Barby, "he's in nothing but a faint just run down stairs and get the vinegar-bottle, Fleda the pepper vinegar. Is there any water here?"

Fleda obeyed, and watched she could little more the efforts of Barby, who indeed needed no help, with the cold water, the vinegar, and rubbing of the limbs. They were for some time unsuccessful the fit was a severe one, and Fleda was exceedingly terrified before any signs of returning life came to reassure her.

"Now, you go down stairs and keep quiet!" said Barby, when Hugh was fairly restored, and had smiled a faint answer to Fleda's kiss and explanations "Go, Fleda! you aint fit to stand. Go and sit down some place, and I'll be along directly and see how the fire burns. Don't you s'pose Mis' Rossitur could come in, and sit in this easy-chair a spell without hurting herself?"

It occurred to Fleda immediately, that it might do more good than harm to her aunt if her attention were diverted even by another cause of anxiety. She gently summoned her, telling her no more than was necessary to fit her for being Hugh's nurse, and, in a very few minutes, she and Barby were at liberty to attend to other claims upon them. But it sank into her heart, "Hugh will not get over this!" and when she entered the sitting-room, what Mr. Carleton, years before, had said of the wood-flower, was come true in its fullest extent "A storm- wind had beaten it to the ground."

She was able, literally, to do no more than Barby had said sit down and keep herself quiet. Miss Elster was in her briskest mood, flew in and out, made up the fire in the sitting-room, and put on the kettle in the kitchen, which she had been just about doing when called to see Hugh. The much- needed supper of the travellers must be still waited for; but the fire was burning now, the room was cozily warm and bright, and Marion drew up her chair with a look of thoughtful contentment. Fleda felt as if some conjurer had been at work there for the last few hours the room looked so like and felt so unlike itself.

"Are you going to be ill too, Fleda?" said Marion, suddenly. "You are looking very far from well!"

"I shall have a headache to-morrow," said Fleda, quietly, "I generally know the day beforehand."

"Does it always make you look so?"

"Not always I am somewhat tired."

"Where is my father gone?"

"I don't know. Rolf, dear," said Fleda, bending forward to the little fellow, who was giving expression to some very fidgety impatience "what is the matter? what do you want?"

The child's voice fell a little from its querulousness towards the sweet key in which the questions had been put, but he gave utterance to a very decided wish for "bread and butter."

"Come here," said Fleda, reaching out a hand and drawing him, certainly with no force but that of attraction, towards her easy-chair "come here and rest yourself in this nice place by me see, there is plenty of room for you and you shall have bread and butter and tea, and something else, too, I guess, just as soon as Barby can get it ready."

"Who is Barby?" was the next question, in a most uncompromising tone of voice.

"You saw the woman that came in to put wood on the fire that was Barby she is very good and kind, and will do anything for you if you behave yourself."

The child muttered, but so low as to show some unwillingness that his words should reach the ears that were nearest him, that "he wasn't going to behave himself."

Fleda did not choose to hear, and went on with composing observations, till the fair little face she had drawn to her side was as bright as the sun, and returned her smile with interest.

"You have an admirable talent at moral suasion, Fleda," said the mother, half smiling "I wish I had it."

"You don't need it so much here."

"Why not?"

"It may do very well for me, but I think, not so well for you."

"Why? what do you mean? I think it is the only way in the world to bring up children the only way fit for rational beings to be guided."

Fleda smiled, though the faintest indication that lips could give, and shook her head ever so little.

"Why do you do that? tell me."

"Because, in my limited experience," said Fleda, as she passed her fingers through the boy's dark locks of hair "in every household where 'moral suasion' has been the law, the children have been the administrators of it. Where is your husband?"

"I have lost him years ago" said Marion, with a quick expressive glance towards the child. "I never lost what I at first thought I had, for I never had it. Do you understand?"

Fleda's eyes gave a sufficient answer.

"I am a widow these five years in all but what the law would require," Marion went on. "I have been alone since then except my child. He was two years old then; and since then I have lived such a life, Fleda!"

"Why didn't you come home?"

"Couldn't the most absolute reason in the world. Think of it! Come home! It was as much as I could do to stay there!"

Those sympathizing eyes were enough to make her go on.

"I have wanted everything except trouble. I have done everything except ask alms. I have learned, Fleda, that death is not the worst form in which distress can come."

Fleda felt stung, and bent down her head to touch her lips to the brow of little Rolf.

"Death would have been a trifle!" said Marion. "I mean not that I should have wished to leave Rolf alone in the world; but if I had been left I mean I would rather wear outside than inside mourning."

Fleda looked up again, and at her.

"Oh, I was so mistaken, Fleda!" she said, clasping her hands "so mistaken! in everything; so disappointed in all my hopes. And the loss of my fortune was the cause of it all."

Nay, verily! thought Fleda, but she said nothing; she hung her head again; and Marion, after a pause, went on to question her about an endless string of matters concerning themselves and other people, past doings and present prospects, till little Rolf, soothed by the uninteresting soft murmur of voices, fairly forgot bread and butter and himself in a sound sleep, his head resting upon Fleda.

"Here is one comfort for you, Marion," she said, looking down at the dark eyelashes which lay on a cheek rosy and healthy as ever seven years old knew; " he is a beautiful child, and I am sure, a fine one."