"You see, I don't like beef-tea very well, and I do love turkey. But, of course, if it's the thing"—and she submissively took up her spoon, prepared to attack the decoction.

Sara's cheeks had grown red at this; but when the professor added,—

"Between you and me, Molly, I think it's only fit for sick folks myself; but I suppose, as the saying is, we must eat by the card;" at which everybody laughed good-naturedly, her worried feeling wore off, and she began to think it would not, perhaps, be an unforgivable offence if one of them did commit a blunder or two.

In fact, by the time the bouillon disappeared to make room for the next course, she had quite forgotten her worries, so deeply was she interested in what Robert was telling her of the wonderful growth and vigor of his city home, Chicago; while the children, unwatched and well occupied, fell into order like well-trained soldiers; Molly now and then flinging out some naive remark which sent a ripple of laughter around the table, at which Morton would begin trying to frown her down, in his elder-brotherly way, and end by laughing with the rest.

When the ladies had returned to the drawing-room and coffee, leaving the gentlemen deep in a political discussion in the professor's snuggery, just off the dining-room, Mrs. Macon saw the children happily interested in some beautiful photographs of European scenes, viewed through a powerfully mounted lens, then turned to the others.

"Come," she said, "I want you to go up-stairs with me, and see Sara's dress. My dressmaker has done wonders the past week, and it is nearly ready."

They followed her to the little sewing-room, which Sara so well remembered as the first apartment of this hospitable house into which she had ever been introduced, and there lay the white gown over a chair. After viewing it critically, Sara in a quiet rapture, and madame with all a French woman's enthusiasm and epithets, Mrs. Macon said impulsively,—

"Do try it on, Sara; I'm a little afraid about this skirt; it looks short in front, and you know she has had to go almost entirely by measure, so far; here, let me pin the rest of this swan's-down in place, while you take off your dress."

Sara obeyed without a murmur, feeling all the delight of any young girl in trying on her first evening gown, while her two tire-women stood by, patting, punching, pulling, and commenting, as women will, pronouncing it a perfect fit, and quite long enough. When it was finally adjusted, they stepped back, and the little madame drew a long breath.

"Ah! but she is beautiful!" she said in her own language; "she might be one of the old noblesse," while Mrs. Macon, controlling her delight, remarked,—

"It is becoming, my dear: you have one of those peculiar complexions dead white only enhances. You look taller, too, a full inch, in that train. Really, the children ought to see you; let's go down-stairs and take them by surprise."

Sara, believing them still alone, did not object; and Mrs. Macon, if she had heard a closing door, and steps through the hall below, did not think it necessary to mention the circumstance. So down they went, the two attendants in front, and Sara following, with possibly a little intensification of her usual measured and stately tread. Thus they entered the drawing-room, the two ladies parting to right and left before her, as might two maids of honor attending some royal personage, the stately white-robed figure advancing, with head slightly bent, as if in modest disclaiming of all this parade over one so young.

"Oh!" cried Molly shrilly, "it's Sara, and she looks like a queen!" while the three gentlemen, farther down the room, turned quickly from their talk, and one said, under his breath,—

"A princess, indeed!"

Then they all surrounded her, even dignified Professor Macon showing his enjoyment of the masquerade, while Professor Grandet spread out both hands, and cried, "Beautifool! Beautifool!" in a French rapture.

Only Robert Glendenning said nothing more, unless eyes speak; but Sara did not seem to miss the lack of words on his part.

"It is strange, now," observed the host reflectively, after the first outburst had subsided, "what a transformation dress is! I shall never again quite dare to think of Miss Sara as a little girl; she has crossed the brook, she has entered into woman's kingdom, and all because of a long white gown!"

Sara turned to him.

"Oh, please, sir, I'd rather be the little girl. I"—with a pathetic tremble in her voice, "I'm barely twenty yet, and I've never had much of a girlhood."

The little cry, right from her heart, sent a thrill through every one; and there was not a person in the room, even to careless Molly, who did not, then and there, resolve that whatever was in their power should be done to bring that brightness into her life, in which it had been so greatly lacking. Robert Glendenning sought his aunt's eyes, and in his she saw an indomitable resolution, while in hers he read a sudden yielding, which made his heart leap with joy; for he knew no step could be a happy one for him which did not meet with her full approval.

The rest of the evening passed swiftly and merrily away, Sara once more in her plain black dress, modestly bearing her part in the bright, animated conversation, in which even the children were interested, as well as instructed. When they separated to their homes, Robert said,—

"Miss Sara, with your permission, I will walk home with you; I want to see where you live, and besides, there are a good many lawless students on the street to-night."

"And won't we see you again, Mr. Glendenning?" asked his hostess.

"I fear not, Mrs. Macon; I leave to-morrow at nine o'clock."

"Your stay is short."

"Yes, very; a business trip mostly, which I managed to bring about to take in Thanksgiving Day. Let me thank you for helping to make it one of the happiest I have ever known."

"I think," smiling mischievously, as she gave him her hand, "your thanks are due elsewhere; but as I never refuse anything that is offered me, so I won't these; and allow me to say," with intense meaning, "as far as I am concerned, you are most welcome!"

"Thank you again! Miss Olmstead, are you ready? I'll be home soon, aunt; good-night, Professor Macon," and Sara was conducted down the steps, her heart beating, and her head whirling with new, strange, unfathomable thoughts.

The dinner-party came off in due course of events, and Sara went through the ordeal with credit to her quartet of guardians. Indeed, she made so favorable an impression upon several that they really longed for a more extended acquaintance, and, for a time, invitations became quite a common affair. But she accepted these most sparingly.

"I can never return them," she said to Mrs. Macon, "and I do not like to be under obligations, except to those I love," with a sweet look into her friend's face.

"Yes, my dear, that is right, only in these cases the people expect no return, knowing fully your circumstances; your acceptance and enjoyment repay them sufficiently."

But Sara shook her head. She had her own ideas of these things, and besides, it was no trial for her, the doing without society. Here, as in Killamet, she preferred books to people; though she was often charmed to find herself deeply interested in some individual, who upon acquaintance developed qualities she had only dreamed of before. But it was simply as individuals that these interested her; taken en masse the world of men and women seemed cold almost to cruelty. After one or two evenings out, she went back to her books with a warm feeling of attachment.

"You cannot disappoint me, dear old friends!" she whispered lovingly, and the next invitation was answered by a formal regret.

So the winter passed quietly and swiftly away; for busy time is always swift time, and all three of our Olmstead household were thoroughly busy: Sara with her writing added to the museum work; Morton with his studies, in which he was growing deeply interested; and Molly in a little of everything. She had no special fondness for books, but a real genius for cookery and housework, most of which now devolved upon her in their modest establishment. But Molly was growing very pretty too, not with Sara's delicate, spirituelle attractions, but with a saucy, piquant, bewitching charm of her own that the students were not slow to notice, and which Molly was not slow to appreciate, and make the most of.

Still, Sara did not for some time take any notice of this; for she could not understand that what to her was a nuisance, and to be gotten rid of at once, was to Molly the source of the greatest amusement and delight, —their street admiration and attentions. It came upon her with a shock, one day, to find herself on the sidewalk behind some tall-hatted young sprig, accompanied by her little sister, rattling on to him with smiles, dimples, and tosses, in her own peculiar way, as if she had known him all her life, and she could scarcely wait to get the child indoors, before she began,—

"Molly, who was that?"

"That? Why, I've forgotten his name," coolly. "He's a 'fresh' though, I believe."

"And you're one, too, I should think!" strongly indignant. "What in the world were you doing?"

"Oh, just talking and laughing."

"When you don't even know who he is? O Molly!"

"Well, what of it? All the girls talk to them, coming home from school, and nobody thinks anything of it but you!" pouting and frowning, in her growing anger.

Sara looked at her with suddenly-awakened eyes. Even in her petulance she was wonderfully pretty, with her great surprised eyes, saucy little nose, and exquisite coloring; and a sudden sense of her helplessness, if this little sister should also prove to be vain, and careless of her good name, came over her with such crushing force that she dropped into a chair, feeling almost faint for the moment. Molly, frightened at her sudden pallor, cried out,—

"What is it, Sara? What have I done? Is it such a sin to walk with a student on the street?"

Sara shook her head helplessly.

"If I could only make you understand, Molly: you must understand! See here," with intense earnestness, "we are all alone in the world, Molly, you and Morton and I, all alone, except for a few friends, whose only interest in us depends upon our worthiness. Don't you see how careful we must be? We have no home, no money, no anything, except our good name: we must keep that! Nothing, nothing, must take it from us. The Bible says it is more precious than rubies, and it is, Molly, it is; indeed, with us it is everything! If you had a father and mother to back you, possibly you could make such acquaintances without harm, though it seems to me a hazardous thing, even then; but now it is absolutely dangerous! Promise me, Molly, that this shall end it."

"If I promise I shall break it," said the honest girl; "for they will speak to me, and I shall forget when I'm away from you."

"Then, Molly," with sudden resolution, "I shall resign my position, and take you back to Killamet. I can make enough with my pen to keep us from starving."

Molly looked at her, and knowing she was in deadly earnest burst out,—

"Oh, don't do that, Sara; 'twould be too dreadful! I'll try, I really will; but you must remember I'm not like you. I don't care for books, and I do like people; and it's awfully lonesome with nobody but you and Morton! Other girls have parties and rides, and lots of nice times; and I don't even have girlfriends to come and visit me; it's lonesome, it is!"

Sara felt the force of this as she had never felt it before. Here was a nature as opposite to her own as the two poles. The books, thoughts, and work, which gave her such pleasure were all a weariness to this sunny, companionable creature, longing for life, merriment, and all youthful pleasures. Could she greatly blame the child? And her tones softened as she said,—

"Poor little girl! Have I kept you too close? Believe me it was for your good."

At this Molly weakened instantly, and two arms flew about Sara's neck, while a penitent voice cried,—

"I know I'm just as mean as I can be, and you're the best sister in the world; but oh! I do wish I could ride horse-back, and go to parties and picnics, and have stacks of girls all the time, then those silly students might go to gr—I mean to College, where they belong; for I wouldn't care a cent for the whole lot of them!"

Sara laughed. After all, there was something in this honest, transparent child, from which evil had always seemed to slide, as dust slips from a polished mirror; and she said with conviction,—

"Molly, we'll both do differently. I like people too little, you perhaps too much; but after this I'll cultivate a fondness for them. There is no reason why we shouldn't both go out more, in certain ways, and see something of the life about us. If you will give up these wretched street acquaintances you shall have a party next Saturday."

"A party? O Sara!" her eyes dazzling in their delight.

"What kind of one?"

"A tea-party. Let's see, you might have nine girls, besides yourself; that would about fill our table, and I'll wait on you. I presume Morton will be off, as usual, on a geological ramble, so we needn't count him."

"O Sara! and may I have the table trimmed, and flowers all around? and may I make the cake? And oh!" clasping her hands together, "may I have Mr. Hoffstott freeze some cream?"

"Yes," laughed Sara; "yes, every one, if you'll keep your part of the contract."

"Sara," with intense solemnity, "if a student speaks to me I'll look right through him, like this," with a stare of Gorgonian stoniness; "and if he isn't completely silenced, I'll wither him this way," and she swept her sister with a slow, lofty, contemptuous glance, that would have scathed an agent.

"O Molly! Molly!" was all Sara said, as she laughed in spite of herself; but she felt she could trust the child who, with all her faults, had not a grain of slyness or deception in her nature.



CHAPTER XVII.

MOLLY GIVES A PARTY.

The party came off, "according to contract," as Molly observed, and for a few days kept the child in a flutter of delight. Sara purposely left the preparations to her, only giving advice as it was requested; and even she, though so well acquainted with Molly's housekeeping abilities, was astonished at the result. It gave her real respect for the girl to see the method with which she planned it all, from her list of invited guests to her list of grocer's stores, arranged with the probable cost at the side of each article, that Sara might understand just how much money would be needed.

Then the dishes she compounded, after intense calculations over the cook-book, and frequent racings down-stairs to consult with Mrs. Hoffstott, were really toothsome and delicate; besides being brought about with precision and forethought, so that all might not crowd together at the end.

"Now," she said, Friday night, consulting a much-worn bit of paper, and drawing a long, house-wifely sigh, "now I'm all ready, except the salad, and laying the table, and the decorating. If I only had a screen to put before the range, so that we needn't have the table in here! it will fill up so."

Sara looked up.

"There is one in our cloak-room at the museum. Perhaps the professor would let you take it for this grand occasion, if Morton will bring it home for you."

"Would you, Morton? would you?"

"Oh, I suppose so; anything for peace!" growled the latter, just glancing up from his Burroughs.

"That's a lovely boy! Well, and the flowers—how glad I am they're so cheap, now"—

"Oh, yes, Molly! I forgot to tell you: Mrs. Macon says she has a quantity of early blossoms in her hot-bed, and you can have a picking from them."

"Now, Sara, if you had forgotten that! How good she is! And I'm to have Mrs. Hoffstott's pretty old china, with the blue forget-me-nots, and— well, isn't everybody kind, anyhow?"

Sara put down her book with a laugh.

"Go on, dear; what's the use in trying to read when there's a party going on? Talk to me about it; I want to know all the arrangements;" and happy Molly ran on like a thoroughly well-oiled windmill for at least twenty minutes without a stop.

When, at the end of that time, there was a pause for breath, Sara said,—

"And how about the students?"

Molly gave a merry little laugh.

"It's the greatest fun, Sara! They can't understand at all; they look at me as if I was a Barnum's fat woman, or something, and I sail right by, with my head up, and never see them. I think" (reflectively), "if anything, it's better fun than the other way. That was too much like every girl you see, and this is just me alone: I really enjoy it."

"Molly, you are incorrigible!"

"What's that? I wish you wouldn't use such big words, Sara; I never could understand them; but if you mean I don't keep my promise, it isn't so! I do: you can ask Maud Wheeler if I don't."

"Is she coming to-morrow?"

"Yes; and she's your kind, Sara,—good, you know. You'll like her, and so do I, when I'm in my right moods, but sometimes I don't. You don't know, Sara," with a pathetic shake of her curls, "how hard it is to get along when you have bad streaks through you! Why, sometimes I'll go on for at least three days as smooth as can be, getting all my lessons, and being just as good as anybody; and then there comes a day that upsets it all. I can't study, and I see all the funny things, and how I can make 'em funnier with a touch; and I want to giggle at everything, and—well, it's that naughty streak, and I can't help myself, any more than you can help being good."

"Well, Molly," resignedly, "promise me this, that, whatever you do, you'll be out and out about it: no hiding, no shirking, no lies." "I never told a lie in my life, Sara Olmstead, never!" with a set of her bright head that was like the elder sister in her determined moods. "I'd feel mean forever!"

Sara smiled, and, with a rush of tenderness, bent forward and kissed her.

"No, darling, you won't lie, thank God! Now go to bed like a good girl, and be bright and rosy for to-morrow. Good-night!"

"Good-night, you blessed old sweet thing, you!" and with twenty kisses, and a strangling hug, the merry child ran off to dream,—not of students in elevated hats, but of creams and comfits, and pleased guests around a long table; for she was but a large-hearted, hospitable matron in embryo.

The party was really a brilliant success. Mrs. Macon sent a basketful of bright flowers, and some pretty draperies and decorations; while the professor willingly agreed to let the screen go, and insisted on Sara's taking the whole day off to assist at the fete. The madame came herself, and with deft fingers, and perfect taste, helped the two convert the little flat into a bower.

No one would have known the back room, with bright rugs covering its painted floor, and all the kitcheny suggestions hidden behind the ample screen; while the parlor was really charming in its tasteful dressings.

When the girls began to arrive, Sara watched her little sister with almost a dazed feeling. How rapidly this flower she had so cherished was unfolding before her eyes! And what was its quality to be? No modest daisy or violet certainly, nor yet a gaudy, flaunting tulip, but something bright, sweet, surprising, and enticing, all at once; and she thought of a carnation-pink shooting up from amid its ragged foliage, vivid, brilliant, and of a spicy fragrance. She watched the guests, also, with a critical eye, and was much pleased to note that Molly had shown good taste in their selection. They were all ladylike girls, evidently from good, well-guarded homes, and, though merry and care- free, had not a touch of vulgarity.

Madame Grandet had begged the privilege of remaining to help with the supper; and you may be sure every dish was served with a perfection and daintiness of touch only the French can give. Yes, it was a great success; and when, after the last guest had departed, Molly came and told her sister, almost with tears in her eyes, how happy she had been, Sara felt repaid for the sacrifice of quiet and seclusion she had made.

But she knew one party would not keep Molly. The active, restless, rapidly-unfolding nature must have constant occupations and interests; so for the sister's sake she did what she never would have done for her own.

She began to cultivate the social life of her church; went to Christian Endeavor meetings, socials, and Y.M.C.A. addresses. She made Morton go with them too, half dragging, half coaxing him; and soon the three, so dissimilar, yet all so intelligent and well-bred, came to be looked upon as most necessary factors in entertainments and social events.

When Sarah left Killamet, though she wore her white cross, she did not change her membership into any new circle of King's Daughters, but still remained one of Miss Prue's "Helpful Ten," as they called themselves in that little town. Now she and Molly joined a Dartmoor circle, and were soon known as active working members.

All this took time, thought, and money; and many times it was a puzzle to find the latter, though she had been drawing a slight advance in salary for several months, and Morton, by working in the college laboratory at odd hours, was now earning enough to clothe himself.

Yet, even with an occasional extra cheque for her published articles, the expenses were so increased that she often had difficulty to meet them; though, to Sara's great credit be it said, the girl had never allowed herself a useless debt. She dare not; the very thought frightened her, and Providence having blessed her with health, and simple wants, it had been possible to live within her income.

Summer advanced with her languid days, and the great event of the year in Dartmoor—class day—came and passed.

Last year her only interest in the parade had been that of a stranger seeing for the first time a novel spectacle; but this year things were different. She and Molly now knew many of the students; knew them in an orthodox, well-regulated manner, and met them in both private and church parlors. Morton sometimes brought them home at evening as well, and occasionally the girls went with one of them to a concert or lecture. Mrs. Macon often had the sisters to assist at her receptions, and occasional dinners also; and thus, without being society girls at all, in a certain sense they yet did see a good deal of the social life in Dartmoor in one way and another.

Professor and Madame Grandet meanwhile were far away, the former having joined a governmental party bound for South America, while the latter had gone to Chicago to be with her nephew during her husband's absence.

She and Sara had agreed to keep up an occasional correspondence; and it was impossible that these things could be kept out of the letters, when they occupied so much of her time and attention.

One evening the madame and Robert returned from a drive to Washington Park, by way of beautiful Michigan Avenue and Drexel Boulevard, and as they were re-entering their private sitting-room in the house where they boarded that lady espied a missive slipped into the edge of her door, and gave a little cry of pleasure as she tore off its end and drew forth the closely-written sheet.

Robert, too, knew the bold, graceful chirography, and watched her hungrily as she read.

"I should think," he said at last in an ill-used tone, "you might read it aloud. It isn't very comforting to try and guess at it second-hand from your face, if it is a speaking one!"

She looked up with a laugh.

"But thou art cross, then, my poor boy? Well, listen and I will read, though blame me not if it is not always so pleasant to hear.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Time slips by so rapidly in our busy life that I can hardly realize whence it has flown, or recall in just what manner the hours have been spent. I told you in my last about the Bazar, and that an organ-concert was in progress. I'm sure you'll be interested to know it was a success, and the necessary funds are now nearly raised. Molly gave a song, also a recitation, and I was so foolish as to consent to read an original sketch.

"You should have heard and seen Molly! I was surprised at her myself! Her singing is so easy and natural, and her manner so vivacious, that no one seems to notice that she hasn't any voice. At any rate, they recalled her twice, and it was then she gave the recital on, which is half a song, you know, of 'Christmas at the Quarters.'

"They fairly shook the house with applause then, but she would not go back again.

"No," she said to me in her frank way, "it's time for the other girls to show off now—I'm done."

"(I'm sure Molly will never be too highly cultivated to call a spade a spade!)

"Morton is developing a good voice, and sang in the choruses. I think I have spoken to you of the young man he meets so often in the laboratory, and so greatly admires, Mr. Preston Garth. He also sang that night—he has a magnificent baritone—and it was quite funny to hear his and Molly's sparring, when he went home with us afterwards.

"He tells her frankly that she has no method, no voice, no tone, etc.,—I am not used to musical terms,—and she saucily replies by telling him that, where one person will enjoy his studied renderings of the old masters, a score will appreciate and be the happier for her little ballads, simply because she discards all methods and sings from the heart; and usually Molly talks him into silence, I suppose because he is too much of a gentleman to set her down as she deserves—the pert little Miss!

"It is useless for me to interfere, however, as both insist on finishing the argument in their own way. Mrs. Smythe has a party tonight; you remember Mrs. Smythe's parties—'a little gossip, less lemonade, and no cordiality'—to quote Mr. Garth"—

A sudden exclamation from Robert, as he sprang to his feet, interrupted the reading.

"What does that insufferable puppy mean? Who would ever have thought that Sara, little Princess Sara, would stoop to quote, and run around with, some fool of a singing student, an ill-natured one at that! I can't"—

"Robert," said his aunt severely, "how can I then read if you do thus make a jack-that-jumps of yourself? Can you not sit down once again while I continue?"

He sat down, frowning fiercely, and she read on,—

"'which is too severe, but made it easier for me to refuse his kind invitation to accompany me there. I often wish I could learn to like society better, if only for Molly's sake; but it is still too much in the way of a duty that I take what, to a well-regulated mind, should be a pleasure.'"

"Humph!" muttered the nephew, with a relieved look; and his aunt read the remaining page in peace.

It spoke of the Macons, her last article, etc., ending with the modest sentence, "and now, pray remember us all most kindly to your nephew."

Robert's face lighted up at this, though there was a lurking trouble in his eye. "Aunt Felicie," he said abruptly, "what am I waiting for?"

"How can I that thing tell, my nephew? Is it that you have need of me to mend a button, or"—

"Don't tease, auntie! You know I don't mean any such trivial thing. See here," fiercely, "it's been nearly three years, instead of one, and I've never changed, not for a minute. I've kept myself as pure and true as a man could; I've done everything you told me to; and now how do I know but some fellow, with a voice, has stepped in and spoiled it all! I say, what am I waiting for? I've a good salary."

"Good enough for four, Robert? If you do marry Sara, it must be to adopt the twins also."

"Well, I will! We can scrimp along somehow; and Morton will soon look after himself. I wish you were back at Dartmoor this minute so I could"—

"A thousand thanks, my boy, it is a truly kind and filial wish," said his aunt demurely.

"Aunt Felicie, you're enough to make a man wild! Why don't you help me out of this, instead of tormenting me so?"

"Ah, Robare, my too impatient one, could I then help you? No; if she loves you, then what is it to matter if there may be a hundred of fine young men about her now? And if she loves you not, then alas! could I create that love? Do not so foolish be, my son."

He felt the force of her remarks, but inwardly chafed at the way he seemed to be tied up here for the present, both by business and his aunt's presence. He dared not put his happiness to the test of a letter. That would seem abrupt and strange, with so little to lead up to it. No, he must do as he had been doing all along—just wait.

"But not for long!" he muttered, as he bade his aunt a pre-occupied good-night and strode off to his room. "We'll 'bide a wee,' Sara, but only a wee, or my name is not Robert Glendenning!"



CHAPTER XVIII.

A VISIT FROM MISS PRUE.

It was only a few days after sending this letter that Sara received a proposition from Mrs. Macon which she was not slow to accept; namely, that she should give up her room, store her furniture in the loft of their stable, and keep the Macon house for the summer, while its master and mistress took a long western trip. As they wished to retain their excellent cook as well as the gardener, these were to remain, at the Macons' expense, and assist in caring for the premises.

No need to say the Olmsteads were delighted with the plan,—especially as Sara had begun to feel that their rooms were far too close and stuffy to be healthy in warm weather,—so beautiful June had not yet begun to turn her back upon the young summer, when the Olmstead family found themselves lodged as they had never hoped to be; while the Macons, equally content with the arrangement, took their seats in a Pullman sleeper, unvexed by visions of tramps and fire, moths and carpet-bugs, or precious books ruined by dampness and mice.

The first morning after their arrival Sara woke early, wooed from her light slumbers by a charming bird-matinee in the shrubbery without, and gazed contentedly about her.

It was such a pretty bower. Clean India matting on the floor, and airy cane furniture, dressed up in pink and blue ribbons, scattered about; through the sheer muslin hangings at the windows the early sunshine glinted between the closed shutters, and danced in bars of light upon the delicately-tinted walls.

She nestled her head into the soft pillow with a sigh of intense satisfaction.

"One whole summer of luxury!" she mused. "Is it possible? How wonderfully good our Father has been to us! Friends, comfort, and a beautiful home," and with these serene thoughts, mingling with the Pareppian carols without, she again dropped into her "beauty sleep."

Nor did this content vanish with her second waking, but seemed to grow with every passing day; for, as once all things seemed going against them, now all were in their favor. Morton, who had for some time given desultory help in the college laboratory, was offered a permanent position there at a modest salary for next year, with limited hours, so that he might still keep on with recitations in school; and meanwhile was to act as clerk in a drug-store until the opening in September.

As for Molly, she was as happy as a bird in these pleasant surroundings, and danced about the house all day long; now concocting some delicate dish in the kitchen, under the supervision of Hetty, the cook, who had taken a great fancy to her; now taking an old dress or bonnet of Sara's, and, by a dexterous touch here, or a perked-up bow of fresh ribbon there, giving it an altogether new and elegant appearance; or else feeding the birds, or lounging in the hammock, chattering with a group of girls,—always busy, happy, and useful, if her studies were quite forgotten.

For Molly was as domestic as Sara was bookish, and relieved the latter now of so many little cares, that she found much more time to devote to her writing, especially as her duties at the museum were merely nominal during the professor's absence, chiefly attending to the specimens he occasionally sent on, and forwarding such of his correspondence as she was not empowered to dispose of herself.

To Sara the most attractive room in the house was the library, and she passed some of the happiest hours of her life in its quiet recesses. Here, every bit of wall-space, half way to the ceiling upon three sides, was given over to books; while the fourth, that opposite the door, contained a most artistic fireplace, above which, in lieu of the sometime mirror, the chimney had been divided to insert a window, one perfect sheet of plate glass, almost as clear as the ether itself through which was a delightful vista of green mingled with the vivid glow of blossoms.

The three other windows formed arched niches, apparently cut through the book-shelves; and in one was a comfortable knee-hole desk, containing all the paraphernalia of a literary worker; while in the others were the most seductive of reading-chairs, with book-rests attached.

She had been sitting one day, smiling and crying alternately over "Bleak House," when a sudden thought brought her to an upright position,—why not invite Miss Prue to visit her? When would she ever again be so fortunately situated to entertain her pleasantly?

"I'll do it at once!" she said, rising briskly; "Molly will be as delighted as I with the idea, for she has often wished Miss Prue could see how well off we are;" and not giving her resolution time to cool, she seated herself before the desk and wrote the invitation.

It was promptly accepted; and a week later Morton met at the station, and conveyed home, a rather old little figure, with the traditional band-box and bird-cage in hand.

"Here we are!" she cried merrily to the waiting girls on the piazza. "Both the spinsters, you see, for Polly and I are too old to be separated!" and, setting down the cage, she proceeded to embrace each pretty young creature with motherly warmth, Polly meanwhile remarking hoarsely,—

"How d'ye do? Go 'long! Come again! Oh, you fools!" at which Sam, the gardener, appeared wonderingly around the corner of the house.

"Beg parding, Miss," jerking off his ragged straw hat, "but I thought as how you might be havin' trouble with a tramp," glaring savagely at Miss Prue; "thought I heered a strange voice."

"Oh, it's nothing, Sam, nothing but a bird," laughed Molly.

"A burrd!" he cried, with an amazed look. "A burrd a-talkin' the likes o' thot? May all the saints defend us!"

While the laughing group stood by, Molly introduced the fowl, with proper explanations, at which Polly, probably thinking it necessary to vindicate her powers, broke out with,—

"Hold yer jaw! Get out! Shiver my timbers! What the"—

"You disgraceful old thing!" cried Miss Prue, snatching up the cage and rushing indoors, where she set it down with a thump on the hall-table; and, dragging off her black silk wrap, proceeded to muffle the profane creature in its shiny folds; then, turning to Sara with a distressed look, she implored,—

"Will you tell me what makes her so wicked? I've tried my best to teach her nice little moral axioms from Ben Franklin and Socrates, and bits of poetry from Tupper, but whenever she wants to show off, she goes back to that dreadful old sailor-talk she learned on shipboard, nobody knows how many years ago; it's discouraging!"

"It is, indeed!" laughed Sara, while Molly furtively lifted a corner of the wrap, in hopes to start Polly off again. "But never mind Polly's capers, dear Miss Prue, we know what a respectable old bird she is, in spite of her lapses. Come into the library, where it's nice and cool, and tell me everything you can think of about dear old Killamet. Oh, how good, how good, it is to see you again, you blessed woman!" throwing an arm about her, and hugging her up rapturously, as they passed into the opposite apartment.

"What a paradise!" cried the elder maiden, stopping short on the threshold. "Do you tell me that is a window, in the middle of the chimney, or only some wonderful picture? I didn't know a room could be made so beautiful, could express so perfectly the refinement of work"— then breaking loose from Sara's embrace, she faced the young girl, and, taking her by the shoulders, held her at arm's length, and gazed at her critically. "Let me look at you," she said, sweeping her glance slowly from the proud little head, with its earnest, refined face, down over the lissome figure in its sheer, white gown, even to the daintily-shod feet peeping from beneath it, "let me see whether this is the niche you were intended for. Yes," slowly and reverently, "yes, I see. You fit in here; you are content, satisfied. It isn't the luxury, either, Sara; that you could do without; it is that better part one can hardly name, only feel; and your Maker has been slow in shaping you that you might fit the more perfectly. Kiss me, dear, I am glad you are my daughter!"

Sara kissed her tenderly, her eyes wet with tears of happiness; and Molly and Morton entering just then, with questions as to where Polly should be suspended, turned the talk into lighter channels.

The latter soon found herself chained to a perch of Sam's contriving, out on the deep veranda, and for the rest of her stay had a string of admirers ranged along the sidewalk at nearly all hours of the day, bandying words with her ladyship. As for Sam, he furtively admired her as much as the street-boys, and would be seen to slap his thighs and double over with silent merriment, when she was a little more wicked than usual; not that Sam was an encourager of vice; by no means; but as he confided to Hetty,—

"It do beat all nater to see that pious old gurrl so fond of a haythen creetur that's enough to disgrace a pirate hisself; an' the quareness of it just gets me, it do."

As to the "pious old girl," (according to Sam's disrespectful characterization of Miss Prue) she had quite given up in despair.

"Really, Sara," she remarked with deep melancholy, "it must be the city atmosphere" (Dartmoor was a town of perhaps fifteen thousand inhabitants), "for, you know, she never was so perverse in Killamet. I'm afraid she'll disgrace us all!" Upon which Sara would comfort her by saying that, as most parrots were trained by rough people, nothing better could be expected, and she was sure nobody would blame them; while Molly, the naughty little elf, would shake her curls with a solemn air, and exclaim,—

"It's a mercy the students and faculty are mostly away, Miss Prue; I'm afraid she'd have to be expelled if college was in session, in consideration of the morals of the institution!"

But, in spite of Polly's harrowing performances, it was a delightful visit; yet, as often happens with delightful things, it brought to Sara a new worry and a great temptation. There were several of the young people present one evening; and Miss Prue, enjoying the moonlighted veranda and the music from the gas-lighted drawing-room, as well as anybody, watched the little by-plays with keen, interested eyes. Among the group was Mr. Preston Garth, a tall, shapely young fellow, whose face was redeemed from plainness by a pair of large intelligent gray eyes, and a ready smile, accented by the whitest of teeth.

Miss Prue was attracted by his looks; and, being a close observer, she soon noted that, though he talked about laboratory matters with Morton, and was ready to joke or sing with Molly and the two older young ladies present, yet every time Sara addressed him, he turned to answer with an eagerly respectful air, different from the rather careless manner usual with the others.

The next day, as she sat with her favorite in the cool library, Molly being away on an errand, she asked, apropos of nothing,—

"Who is that Mr. Garth, Sara?"

The young girl smiled.

"Just what you see, Miss Prue; a college student, and seemingly a fine young man."

"But where does he live?"

"I believe in Trenton."

"Know anything about his family?"

"No, except that there are not many of them, I believe. At any rate, he has no parents. He's helping himself through college partly, though I understand he has a small property; that's why he works in the laboratory."

"H'm," Miss Prue bent towards the light to pick up a dropped stitch in her knitting. "He looks like a fine fellow; does he come here often?"

"Yes, rather," Sara answered carelessly, just then engaged in digging about the roots of a palm in the window with one of her hairpins; "he likes to sing with Molly."

Miss Prue did not answer, except by an expressive little grunt, and then, apparently, changed the subject.

"Do you ever hear from Cousin Jane nowadays?" ("Cousin Jane" was Mrs. Norris, Jasper's mother.)

"I haven't lately. She did write me a few times, and I answered; but the last letter came in cold weather,—I should say, before February." "Yes. Jasper has a schooner of his own now, did you know it?"

"No; has he? That's fine!"

"Yes; Jasper always was forehanded, and he has laid by quite a snug little sum; then of course his father helps him; you never hear from him?"

"No; that is, he did write a postscript in one of his mother's letters."

"Did you answer it?"

"Not directly. I expressed my thanks, etc., to Mrs. Norris when I next wrote."

Sara had resumed her chair and sewing; but at this she laid it in her lap, and looked curiously at her old friend, wondering what categorical fiend possessed her this morning. Miss Prue knitted two or three rounds in silence, then remarked, with elaborate carelessness,—

"You and Jasper have always been good friends?"

As she ended with the rising inflection, Sara answered,—

"Oh, yes, always," and picked up her sewing.

"I've about made up my mind," added Miss Prue, lowering her voice to a more confidential tone, "to make Jasper my heir. His mother has been for years my nearest of kin, and Jasper's a fine lad, honest and trustworthy. But I have some notions about woman's rights in property matters; and if I knew just the girl he would marry, I should leave it to both, share and share alike. I know whom he wants to marry," she finished decisively. "Is it Dolly Lee?" asked Sara, all interest.

"No, it isn't Dolly Lee," dryly; "it's Sara Olmstead."

The sewing dropped again.

"Miss Prue!"

"Well, it is, and you needn't speak as if I'd told a falsehood; for I know!"

Sara's cheeks had crimsoned warmly, and her voice faltered a little, as she asked,—

"Did he tell you himself?"

"Not in so many words; but I've known it, so has his mother, for a long time. He has cared for you ever since he was a little boy. And Sara," earnestly, "where would you find a better husband, a truer heart? I'm an old goose, I suppose, to speak out so plainly; but the fact is, Jasper's a bit afraid of you, and doesn't dare to speak, I imagine."

"Afraid of me?"

"Yes, he thinks you some kind of a goddess probably; most men do till they are married, and then they're too apt to think their wives are kitchen-maids; but I don't think Jasper'll be like that!" she added hastily.

Sara smiled.

"I've no doubt, Miss Prue, that Jasper would be all that is good and noble; ah! there is Molly coming back; I wonder if she succeeded in matching your yarn," and rising with a relieved air, she hurried out to meet her sister.

But the conversation lingered in her memory, and was often brought to mind by trivial events. During all of her visit, Miss Prue had an air of taking possession of Sara, which was, if not new, at least accented greatly, and occasionally would drop such expressions as,—

"If you should ever live in Killamet again," or "When you come back to us, Sara," which gave the girl an uneasy feeling that her future was being settled for her, leaving no alternative. Even her very last day, during the packing, there was an instance of this.

Sara and Molly, revelling in the midst of bags and boxes, while pretending to help, came upon a little morocco case of antique appearance.

"May I look at this, Miss Prue?" cried Molly, holding it up.

"Of course, child; just hand me that bundle, Sara; it's bandages I brought along in case of accidents; I always carry some in my hand-bag, besides my old Indian ointment."

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed Molly, as the cover of the case flew back, discovering a set of coral ornaments of exquisite workmanship, outlined against the faded blue satin lining. "Coral's all out of style now, but it's wonderfully pretty, just the same; and what an odd design; see Sara!"

She held them out towards the latter, then by a sudden impulse took the ear-rings and placed them against her sister's shell-like ears.

"Oh! look Miss Prue. Aren't they becoming?" "Exceedingly," said that lady, looking around with a critical air: "coral always becomes such a complexion and hair. I've always intended those for Jasper's wife."

Her accent and tone were so peculiar as she said this that even Molly noticed it.

"Jap's wife?" she cried gayly. "There's your chance, Sara. Why don't you set your cap for him, and the corals?"

"Molly!"

Sara drew back her head sharply, and thrust the jewels from her, but her face crimsoned as she did so; and though Molly dared say nothing further, her eyes danced with teasing merriment, while Miss Prue, pretending not to notice at all, took in every detail.

"Either she likes him so much she can't bear to have the subject made light of, or else the whole thing is distasteful to her; I wish I knew which it is," was her thought as she bustled about, apparently intent only on getting as many garments as possible into a given space.

She ruminated all the way home next day, making up her mind that she would not be quite happy now until this affair was arranged, and resolved that if Jasper happened to be at home when she reached there, she would have a word to say to him.

Meanwhile, Sara's tranquillity, having been invaded by this new idea, was effectually destroyed. It had been her life-long habit to reverence and obey Miss Prue; if she went against her in this matter it would be an unprecedented event. Then she could not but realize what a fine match it would be in a worldly point of view, allying her with those families she had, all her life, been taught to consider as first in her little world. It would give her dear ones certain comfort and herself rest from care and anxiety; she knew well what a warm nest Jasper's wife would step into, admired, petted, and cousined by relatives innumerable. Last of all, it would ally her to a young man she had always liked, and could thoroughly respect as well; one too, who would, she felt certain, be a tender, loyal mate. What was there against it? Why—as Molly would say— didn't she "jump at the chance"?

She felt really indignant at herself for her own perverseness; but, though she would not tell herself the reason why, she felt this thing to be impossible.

Better struggle along under her burdens as she had been doing, rather than go so reluctantly to that true and tender heart.

"Oh, I wish she had not spoken!" she whispered to herself passionately one day as these thoughts kept tormenting her. "I never knew Miss Prue to do so unkind a thing before! But why do I think about it? It's time enough to worry when Jasper speaks. Perhaps she's mistaken after all!" and she tried to content herself in this belief.

When a letter came from her old friend, giving a lively description of her journey home, and of a disgraceful squabble between Polly and a tiny pug, in which the former blasphemed, and the latter barked bravely from the arms of his mistress, until the wrathful conductor bundled both off into the baggage-car, but saying nothing of Jasper, except a casual remark that his schooner was expected in soon, she felt relieved.

"I have been making too much of nothing!" she said, and blushed all to herself at the thought that her vanity alone had caused her all these pangs.



CHAPTER XIX.

BERTHA GILLETTE.

There was a great deal of sickness that summer in Dartmoor, and much suffering among the poor. Sara, having little or no money to spare, felt she could only give herself, and thus set apart her Saturday afternoons (upon which she was now free from museum work) to visit the sick whenever she was needed, the circle to which she belonged having systematized this charity that it might not fall too heavily upon any one.

Molly sometimes went with her, and the two bright faces brought comfort to many forlorn hearts.

It was an intensely warm day, the first week in July, when a card bearing the silver cross reached her.

"Bad case in third ward. A young girl in the Trask tenement-house, cor. G and Tenth streets. Can you go? Get whatever you need at Reed's, and ask for Bertha Gillette, third floor."

She turned to Molly.

"Is it to-day you have an engagement with the dressmaker?"

"Yes, at three; why?"

Sara read the card, adding,—

"I suppose I'll have to go alone, then. If I should be kept till dark, be sure and have Morton come after me."

"What makes you go, Sara? It's fairly scorching outside!"

"I know, but I must, you see. 'A young girl.' Poor thing! She may have no friends, and be suffering for care. Yes, I must go. I'll wear my thinnest muslin, and take the large umbrella."

She was soon off, stepping briskly in spite of the heat. The air was scintillating under the almost vertical rays of the sun, whose intensity was merciless, and scarcely a leaf stirred; even the birds were drowsy, and kept in shelter, while every house was closed and barricaded against the heat as against an invading army.

For a time Sara had the shade of the great trees lining the sidewalks for protection; but as she left these wide avenues for the alleys of poverty, there was nothing but her umbrella between her and the scorching luminary, while mingled with the intensified heat were the dust and odors arising from unsprinkled and garbage-strewn streets.

She felt faint before she reached the tenement-house, and only the consciousness that she must not give way to illness in this neighborhood gave her strength to proceed.

Once inside, she dropped down on the lowest step of the stairway, regardless of dust, until she had recovered somewhat, then wearily climbed the steps. Half-way up she met a rough-looking man, who scowled at her, but said nothing; and she hurried by him, glad to see he kept on his way without looking back.

Reaching the third floor finally, she saw a rather pretty little girl standing in one of the many open doors, and asked which led to Miss Bertha Gillette's room.

"She ain't got no room," said the child shrilly; "she's in old Mis' Pierce's room, down thar," pointing to a closed door; "that's whar they took her when they brung her in. There wan't no room anywheres else."

"Oh! Was she taken ill on the street?"

The child nodded.

"Got a sunstroke, I guess," and Sara hurried on to the designated door.

She knocked lightly, then opened it and entered. It was a bare little room, with one window, but decently clean, and the sash was entirely removed, being replaced by a mosquito-netting tacked to the frame, so the air was not foul. On the old bed in the corner lay the young girl, white and still, and beside her sat an elderly woman with a kind, weather-beaten visage, who looked up inquiringly.

"I am Sara Olmstead, a King's daughter," touching the cross on her breast; "can I do anything for you?"

"I'm glad you've come," said the woman; "I've did what I could, but I've got to go to my work now. I'm meat cook in a restaurant, and I must git there by four; it's 'most that now; can you stay?"

"Yes," said Sara. "Please tell me all about her, the symptoms, and so on. Was it a sunstroke?"

"Might be—set down, Miss, you look tuckered out yourself," handing the one splint-bottomed rocker. "I don't know much more'n you. They picked her up down on the corner this morning and brought her into the hall,— thought 'twas a fit, I guess. I come in while they was all tearin' around like a passel of geese, and when they didn't seem any place for her lower down, told 'em they might bring her to my room. I'm about the only one that rooms alone, I guess."

"And hasn't she spoken at all?"

"Yes, she come to and told us her name, but that's about all. She grew flighty pretty soon; and now she either lies still and breathes hard, like you see her now, or mutters suthin', I can't make out what. If you need any help, Mis' Maloney's a good, kind woman, three doors to the left; she'll come in a minute, 'less the old man's drunk and she has to stay to watch the children; and here's her medicines. I got the health doctor right away, Dr. Browne. Was it him sent you?"

"I presume he reported the case to our circle, and they sent me word. You said a spoonful every half hour?"

"Yes; and if she gets so't she really senses things, she might want suthin' to eat. You'll find tea and bread in this cupboard, see? and I bile the water on this oil stove."

Sarah nodded wearily; she was feeling a strange lassitude from which it was difficult to rouse herself. The woman noticed her pallor.

"You don't look strong yourself, Miss, and I hate to leave you, but I guess there won't be much to do. If we don't have a big run at the restaurant,—and we won't, it's so hot—I'll git back by seven sure; and don't mind calling on Mis' Maloney, she's as clever as the day is long. Well, good-by to you," and she was gone.

Sarah looked about her with some curiosity, noting the bare edges of the floor around the faded strip of cheap carpeting in the centre, the little stand with a white towel over the top, upon which was a lamp and a Bible,—she was glad to see the Bible—the woodcuts from illustrated journals tacked to the walls, and the one straggling geranium in a tin can on the window sill, then examined more closely the girl on the bed.

She was extremely pale, and there were blue shadows about her nose and temples; but the brows were delicately pencilled, the lashes lying against the colorless cheek, thick and long, while the hair, of a brown so light as to be almost yellow, curled naturally around her forehead.

"She is really pretty," thought Sara, "but how thin and blue. And what mere claws her hands are!" looking at the one clutching a corner of the sheet. "Poor girl! I don't believe she is much older than I, but she looks as if she had suffered enough for an old woman. Ah! she's speaking."

The lips were moving, but at first no sound came from them; then she caught one word, "mother," and then a tear rolled from the closed eyes over the white cheeks.

Sara gently wiped it away, thinking pitifully, "Where can her mother be?" and while the thought was impressed upon her face in a look of tenderness and pity, the eyes of the young girl opened wide and gazed into her own.

"Who are—you?" she asked faintly. "An angel?"

Sara smiled.

"No, only a girl like yourself."

"Then I am—not dead?"

"No, indeed: you have been ill, but are better now. Here is something for you to take," placing a spoon to her lips.

The invalid swallowed the liquid docilely, never taking her large hazel eyes from Sara's face.

"Who are you? Where am I?" she asked again.

"I am Sara Olmstead, a King's daughter, come to stay with you this afternoon; and you are in a good woman's room, who is now gone to her work."

The eyes closed again, and an expression of pain or regret passed over the face.

"Do you suffer?" asked Sara gently.

The head was shaken slightly.

"Not in body, but I'm almost sorry it wasn't true."

"What, Bertha?"

"My first thought, that it was all over, and you were the angel appointed to waken me in the other world."

The tone, weak almost to whispering, was infinitely sad, and Sarah thrilled with sympathy. That one so young should long for death seemed incredible to her hardy nature. But nothing more was said till, bethinking herself, Sara asked,—

"Could you eat anything now?"

The eyes opened quickly.

"Yes," she said eagerly, "yes."

Sara hurried to light the little stove and make the tea, managing also to brown a slice of bread over the flame. She looked for milk and butter, but found none.

"There is only sugar for your tea," she began.

"Never mind," said the eager voice again, "let me have it. Oh, how good it smells!"

Sara brought the plain little repast to the bedside, and, rising to her elbow, the young girl partook with an eagerness that was pitiful.

"Poor thing!" thought Sara, "I do believe she was starved!" then aloud, "If you can hold the cup, I'll make you some more toast; shall I?"

"Yes, please!" in a stronger voice, "I never tasted anything so good!"

While she was eating the second piece, Sara took a pencil and small notebook from her satin bag and scribbling a line, stepped hastily down the hall to the third door. It was opened by the same little girl who had first directed her.

"Is this Mrs. Maloney's room?" asked Sara.

"Yes'm."

"And you are her little girl?"

"Yes'm."

"Could I get you to do an errand for me?"

"Mebbe."

"It's to take this paper to Reed's store on G Street, and bring home the things the clerk will give you. If you will I'll give you an orange when you come back."

The child's eyes brightened.

"I'll go," she said. "Ma's down-stairs, and I'm minding the baby, but I'll call her."

"Thank you," said Sara, and ran back to her charge.

She was glad to see that the pale face on the pillow did not look so deathly now, and the blue shadows had nearly disappeared. She even smiled with some brightness, and her grateful eyes followed Sara about the room. A breeze had arisen, and was blowing refreshingly through the window, and the latter gladly seated herself where she could catch it all.

"You look better," she remarked, as she returned the sick girl's smile; "tell me, Bertha, was it from hunger that you fainted? I am your friend and want to help you."

"Yes, it was. I haven't eaten since—what day is this?"

"Saturday; it is now about five o'clock."

"Then it was yesterday morning. I had a piece of bread about as large as my palm."

"And nothing since?"

"Not a crumb."

Sara shuddered.

"Poor, poor girl! How did you come to such want?" tears of pity filling her sweet eyes.

Bertha gazed at her wonderingly.

"How did you know me?" she asked. "What makes you care?"

"I know your name because you gave it when you first came out of your faint, and how could I help caring? You are pretty near my own age, I think."

"I'm twenty-two."

"Then you are a little the older. Bertha, have you a mother?"

She shook her head sadly.

"No, I haven't anybody; it would have been better, I say. What can a girl do all alone in this great, wicked world?"

"Tell me about it, Bertha; perhaps I can help you."

No one could resist that tone; and Bertha, after one long look into the sympathetic face, drew a sigh and began.

"We were always poor, but not to real want. Father had a small farm, and we lived off from it till he died. Then it all went for debts and funeral expenses, and we took what little was left, mother and I, and came here. We managed to live while she was alive. She took in sewing, and I worked in Ball's factory, and we were as cosey as could be in our one room; but last winter she died."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she stopped a moment, then went on.

"The factory turned off a third of its hands in May, and I with them. I've tried everything since, but I'm not strong enough for many kinds of work. If I could only stand housework I could find plenty to do, but the heavy part is too much for me; twice I've broken down, lost my place, and had to use all the wages I'd saved up for doctor's bills. A second girl's work I could do, but it's difficult to get into those aristocratic houses, unless you have friends and recommends, especially in summer, when so many are closed while the families are away.

"I've done shop-work, and indeed a little of everything; but for a week I haven't had a thing, and I was reduced to my last crumb. I knew, if I couldn't pay for my room to-night, I'd be turned into the street, so for two days I've walked and walked, hunting for work, till I actually dropped, as you see. There's one thing, though," with sudden fire, "I've kept straight! If I had been really dead, as I for a moment thought, I would not have been afraid to meet my mother. But it's been a hard struggle! Do you wonder I was sorry when I found you weren't a real angel, and heaven was still far away?"

Sara, her eyes filled with tears, was about to answer, when Nora Maloney appeared at the door with her bundles.

"I've got 'em, mum!" she cried, and at sight of her bright face both girls smiled again.

"That's my good girl!" was Sara's approving comment; "and here, didn't I promise you something?"

"Yes'm," her eyes snapping, "an orange."

Sara opened a package, and took out two.

"What will you do with this, if I'll give it to you?" pointing to the extra one.

"I'll hide 'em both till pa gets away, an' then I'll divvy up with Nan and Jack, and Ma and baby," was the ready answer.

Sara handed over the two yellow globes.

"That's right! I'm glad you're such a generous little girl, and I am much obliged to you for doing the errand. Good-by."

"Good-by'm; thankee mum!" was Nora's hearty answer, as she hurried home to show her treasures, before it should be necessary to hide them from the father whom drink had transformed into a brute; to be avoided if possible, and if not, to be fed and cajoled, then, if still implacable, fled from in terror as from any other ferocious, untamable beast.

Sara took from the bundles oranges, grapes, biscuit, and sliced ham, the sick girl watching her, meanwhile, with eyes that grew brighter every moment.

"Now we'll have supper together," said Sara, arranging them neatly on the little stand; "for I'm getting hungry too, and while we're eating, we'll talk things over. That tea and toast will do for first course, try this bunch of grapes and the sandwich I am fixing for the second."

Bertha took them with a delighted air.

"Oh, how good! We used to have grapes at home; and father always cured his own hams. I was never really hungry in my life till nowadays. We've always been poor, and sometimes I didn't have any best dress, but there was never any lack of food. Do you know"—solemnly—"it's an awful thing to get so hungry? I could have stolen—murdered almost—for food, only I didn't dare touch anything for fear of jail. All my ideas of right and wrong were confused, and for the time I was more of a wild beast than any thing else—oh, it was dreadful!"

Sara gently touched the thin hand.

"Poor girl!" she murmured, "I know something of it too!" then aloud, "Bertha, how would the place of a companion suit you?"

"A companion?"

"Yes, to an invalid lady. I know of a Mrs. Searle who needs one. She is rich, and ought to pay well; but she would want somebody who could read intelligibly—and I suspect it would require infinite patience to put up with her whims."

"I haven't a bad temper," said Bertha simply; "and I used to read aloud to mother while she was sewing—we both of us liked books. How I wish she would try me!"

"Perhaps she will; at any rate, you shall be looked after in some way. I am poor, myself, but I'm sure our circle will see that you find work. Do you know what the 'King's Daughters' are?"

"I've heard of them, but you're the first I ever met. If they're all like you, the Lord must be proud to own them."

The sincere, almost childish, tone in which these words were said divested them of any irreverence. Sara merely smiled, as she told Bertha some of their aims and practices; and when Mrs. Pierce returned, she was astonished to see her patient sitting up in bed, with almost a flush on her cheeks, and a glad light in her eyes.

"Lawful suz!" she cried in the doorway, "what have you done to her?"

"Fed her," laughed Sara; "and I have been helping her to take my prescriptions, you see. Won't you join us?"

"Well, I'm beat! Thank you—guess I will. Was that all't ailded her— jest hunger?"

"That's all," answered Bertha for herself, "and quite enough too!"

Then she repeated something of her story, thanking the good woman heartily for her kindness. It was decided she should stay till Monday with Mrs. Pierce, who seemed anxious to befriend the girl, though so poor herself; and Sara finally left them, still planning most amicably, in order to reach home before darkness should necessitate Morton's coming after her.

"How much cooler it seems!" she thought, as she stepped into the street, glancing up at the sky, which was partially overcast with purplish-black clouds; "I wish, now, I had brought a wrap."

She hurried on; but the storm moved more rapidly than she, and just as she turned into the avenue she felt the splash of a large raindrop in her face. She attempted to raise her umbrella, but a sudden squall of wind nearly wrenched it from her grasp, and, becoming convinced it would be impossible to hold it against the now shrieking blast, she made no more effort to raise it, but ran on—the rain falling more heavily every moment.

By the time she sprang up the steps into the shelter of the veranda, she was thoroughly drenched. Morton met her there, just about to go in search of her, with a waterproof and overshoes, and cried,—

"Why, Sara, how wet you are!"

"Yes," she shivered, "I'm drenched," and hurried on and up to her room without more words.

By the time she was disrobed, however, that same sensation, as of utter weariness, came over her, and she concluded to retire for the night, telling Molly—who soon came up—that she was tired and thought she had better get some rest.

"I've been to supper," she added; "and Molly, tell Morton when he goes to the store, to-night, that I'd like him to do an errand at Mrs. Searle's for me, on the way. Just hand me a sheet of paper and a pen, dear."

"Won't it do in the morning, Sara? You look so tired!"

"No, to-morrow's Sunday, you know, and this is something that must be attended to before anything happens."

She took the writing materials from Molly, and wrote the explanation and request in regard to Bertha, then folding it with a listless gesture, handed it to her sister.

"Don't let him forget—it's important," she said wearily. "Molly, I'm so cold, can't I have another blanket?"

Molly brought it and ran down with the note.

"Don't stay late, Morton," she urged in a worried tone; "if Sara ever was sick, I should say she was going to be now."



CHAPTER XX.

WEAKNESS.

Molly was confirmed in her surmise; for in an hour Sara was in a burning fever, and there was little sleep in the house that night. To have Sara ill was unprecedented—almost unbearable—and the whole household was visibly affected by it. Morton's face settled into a gravity which nothing could move, and Molly's dimpled visage had never looked so long and care-full.

Hetty bustled up and down, important and anxious, while Sam stood about in the hall, and asked everybody who passed along "how she wor a-doin' now."

The doctor came, looked wise, talked about malaria, exposure to the heat and over-fatigue, left some pills and powders, and went away again— after which the house settled down to that alert silence, so different from the restful quiet of an ordinary night. Sara, tossing to and fro in the fiery grasp of fever, moaned and talked, Hetty and Molly watching alternately beside her, while Morton tried to sleep in the next room, only to start from frightful dreams to the more harrowing reality that his beloved sister was actually and painfully ill.

It was a sharp illness, but not of long duration. The fever was broken up on the fourteenth day, but it left a very weak and ghostly Sara to struggle back to health once more. Still, there were no relapses, thanks to good care, for Hetty had been faithfulness itself, while Molly had settled down to her new duties with a steadiness no one would have expected. As for Morton, he would have brought up half the drugstore, if he had been permitted, and was made perfectly content whenever allowed to share the night-watches, which was seldom, as he had to work all day. In these Hetty was soon relieved by those members of the circle who had become personal friends of the girls; and as there was little to do, except give the medicines regularly, they thus managed well without calling in a regular nurse.

Three weeks from the day of her seizure Sara began to sit up in bed, looking once more something like the girl of old, though she still talked (to quote Molly) as if she had hot pebbles in her mouth, and the veins on her temples were much too clearly defined beneath the white skin.

Thus sitting, one delightful day, she read a note from Bertha, which had been awaiting her some time. It was a rapturous expression of thanks for the good place she had found with Mrs. Searle, and begged that she might see her as soon as Sara was able. Molly said, as she handed it, "She has been here two or three times, begging to do anything for you that was needed, and I promised you should see her just as soon as possible."

So, a day or two later, Bertha came. Sara would hardly have known her, and indeed the two seemed to have changed places,—Sara was the weakling now, Bertha the strong and rosy one.

"I have such a good place," she said, in answer to the former's questions; "Mrs. Searle is very kind to me. Of course she is exacting and fretful at times, but that is only because of her illness, and I can get along with it; but she has given me a pretty room, and allows me an hour or two for air and exercise every day. I am happier there than I have been since mother died."

"That is good!" said Sara.

"And only think," continued the pleased girl, "she is talking now of going to the seashore. You don't know how I long for a sight of the ocean! The only trouble is, she can't find a place quiet enough to suit her—she hates to go to a great hotel, or where there is a crowd."

Sara looked up with a sudden thought.

"Killamet would be quiet enough—how nice it would be if she'd take my house there!"

"Your house! Have you a house?"

"Yes, the children and I; it's not much of one—just a cottage, but perfectly comfortable in summer. If Mrs. Searle would send down some furniture, I think she could really make it cosey."

"I'll tell her about it" said Bertha, and did, with the result that the lady decided to take it for the next two months, at a fair rental.

This little excitement over, Sara had only herself and the children to think of, and in her weak physical condition these thoughts were far from pleasant.

What was to prevent Bertha's experience from becoming her own, or possibly Molly's, in case of evil fortune? If she should often be ill, who would care for them? She seemed to herself, just then, such a frail plank between them and want! She raised her white, blue-veined hands and looked at them; they did not seem made for struggling, and a sense of powerlessness, born of bodily weakness, enwrapped her in its hopeless gloom.

There is a certain period, after convalescence is well progressed, that is even more trying to many natures than actual illness—that time when we are supposed to be well, and yet have not quite resumed our wonted strength.

How the long-dropped burdens of our lives loom up before us now! Is it possible we ever bent our backs to such a load? Can we ever do it again? Yet, even as we hesitate, relentless necessity pushes us on, and bids us hoist the burden.

Sara felt this often now, and all her former bravery seemed gone with her strength. She had already decided that, next Monday, she must return to the museum, and bring up her neglected work; then there was a half- written article to be finished and copied, whose motive and central thought she had almost forgotten, while at her side loomed a basketful of stockings to be darned, and garments to be mended before the Sabbath dawn.

In this reluctant mood, trying to rally her forces for renewed conflict with life's hard duties, she could not help thinking how different it might all be—how she might be cared for, instead of looking out for others; how she might be the centre of a home, enclosed and guarded, rather than, as now, trying vainly to encompass one, making a wall of her feeble self to shelter others—and hot tears of rebellious weakness filled her eyes, and dropped slowly upon the trembling little hands, which were painfully weaving the threads to and fro through a preposterous hole in one of Morton's socks.

A step in the hall made her hasten to dash away the tell-tale drops, as Hetty knocked, before peeping in to say,—

"There's a gentleman in the parlor asking to see you, Miss Olmstead."

"A gentleman? One of the professors?"

"I don't think it is; I never see him before—it's a young man."

Sara rose, adjusted her dress a little, and descended to the drawing- room. In its close-shuttered condition she did not at first recognize the figure which rose to meet her, but a second look wrung from her almost a cry.

"Jasper?" "Yes, Sairay, it's me. You—you've been sick, I hear."

She bowed her head, unable to speak for the second.

"And you show it too," with an awed look into her lovely face, spiritualized by illness, as he took her extended hand.

"Yes," recovering herself, "but I'm nearly well now—how are they all in Killamet?"

"Oh, so-so, I guess; but I haven't been home to stay any since last month—soon after Cousin Prue was here, it was. I had business in Norcross yesterday, and I come over from there by train. Mother wrote about your having the fever."

She had motioned him to a chair, and dropped into another herself, feeling weak in body, and perplexed in mind. Why had he come? Was he the answer to her repining thoughts? His voice roused her from the sort of lethargic state into which she had dropped for a moment.

"Sairay," he said, with a little choke, "I—I couldn't stay away any longer—when I heard about you—and I've come"—

He stopped again, but she did not help him out—she could not. With her fingers locked together in her lap, she waited for what was coming, with the feeling that she was drifting down stream, and had neither the strength, nor inclination, to arrest her swift descent. He drew a sigh that was almost a gasp, and plunged on,—

"Sairay, it's too hard for you—all—all this—and I—Oh! you know how I love you—I've always loved you, and what is the use in your working so when I'd give my very eyes to take care of you? Don't speak, Sairay," raising his hand in protest, "I've got a-going, now, and I want to say it all. I know I'm not good enough for you—who is?—but if love that never tires, and kindness, and—and—being as true as steel, and as tender as a mother, can count for anything, they'll plead for me, Sairay; I'm not much on fine speech-making, as you know."

He had risen, and stood before her, tall and stalwart, and, for the moment, such strength and tenderness seemed good to her—why not accept them, and be at rest? Perhaps he felt her yielding mood; at any rate, he held out both hands with an assured gesture.

"Say yes, Sairay—tell me you"—

There was a jarring slam and a flood of light; one of the shutters had blown open. Both started, glanced around, then faced each other again; but that noisy interruption had thoroughly aroused Sara. She looked at Jasper in this brighter light, and a quick revulsion of feeling swept over her. What was she doing? Would she lie to him?

She did not love him; did she dare to tell him that she did? A thought of another manly figure, bearing a certain refinement and nobility lacking in this, rose before her mind's eye, and when Jasper finished his sentence—"tell me you love me!" her answer was ready.

"I can't, Jasper," she said low, but firmly, "It wouldn't be"—

He stopped her again.

"Don't answer me now; take time to think—take till tomorrow. This is too sudden; nobody can know their minds all in a minute. I'll come again when you've had time to think."

She shook her head.

"No, Jasper, that is not necessary. You have always been one of my best friends—be so still! But—that is all. I can't give you what you ask for, and time will never change me—don't think it. The best way is to have perfect truth between us. Now, Jasper," trying to speak easily, "put this aside, and stay with us this evening. I want you to see Morton and"—

"I can't," said Jasper, in a voice of intense calmness (she could imagine him giving an order in just that tone, when life or death hung on the proper execution of it), "I—must go. You—you're sure you know your mind?"

"Yes, sure."

He picked up his hat,—she noticed it was a silk tile, and thought vaguely how incongruous it looked upon him, though she was used to little else among the students,—and jammed it absently down on his head, as he was accustomed to fasten on his tarpaulin during a storm.

"Good-by" he said hoarsely, turning towards the door.

She stepped towards him.

"Jasper, wait!"

He obeyed—but reluctantly.

"I beg of you, don't let this make you feel hard towards us all. I have depended on your goodness all my life—don't let it fail me now!"

She held out her hand with that look which few could resist, a look of winning trustfulness words cannot describe. Jasper hesitated, turned, looked into her face—and yielded.

"Sairay," he said, grasping her hand closely, "it's no use; you always did have your way, and you always will! I'll be anything to you that you want me to be, but—it's bitter hard luck!" and, wringing her hand till it ached, he left her.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE PRINCE COMETH.

"A letter from Mrs. Macon, I think," said Morton, handing it across the table to Sara, with a glance at the western postmark.

"I shouldn't wonder if it is to announce their return," she remarked, opening it.

"Heaven forbid!" groaned Molly. "I love the Macons, but I adore their home! Why don't you praise these muffins, Morton? I made 'em."

"Is that what ails them?" making a wry face. "Give me another at once. We must make way with them as fast as possible!" and Molly passed him the plate, with a well-pleased laugh.

"Yes," interrupted Sara, looking up, "they will be at home inside of a fortnight, but she kindly says,—

"'Don't hurry to find rooms. I want to help you decide, and I shall be so glad to come home to a houseful of young people rather than to the usual gloom and stuffiness of long-closed rooms; besides, I have a proposition to make you.'"

"What can it be?" cried Molly. "She may want me to stay, in place of Hetty, for cook." "And me for coachman," added Morton, buttering his third muffin.

"Then, Sara, there is nothing left for you but to be lady's maid!" giggled the other twin.

"I should rather like the position," smiled Sara, "to read aloud to her, answer her notes, do her errands, and"—

"Button her boots!" put in atrocious Molly again, at which Morton slapped at her with his napkin, when she fled—pursued by him—to the veranda, where decency demanded a cessation of hostilities.

Sara soon joined them, and a little later, Preston Garth,—who was back in town for a day or so, to assist in setting up some new apparatus lately arrived at the laboratory,—strolled up the walk.

"You're too late!" exclaimed Molly saucily, as he dropped upon the upper step, and began fanning himself vigorously with his hat; "Morton's eaten up all the muffins, and I think Sara finished the peaches."

"And I suppose, as usual, Miss Molly had nothing," was the ironic reply.

"Oh, a trifle—not worth mentioning"—

"Yes, Molly has a starved appearance, as you may have observed," put in Sara. "But, Mr. Garth, in spite of her discouraging remarks, I think we could find"—

"Oh, thank you, Miss Olmstead—I have been to tea; just left the table, in fact, and am on my way back to the museum, so dropped in here. Has anybody noticed the sunset to-night?" All turned to observe it (the house fronted towards the south), and simultaneously exclaimed at its grandeur. The sun was just dropping behind a thunderous bank of clouds, closely resembling a range of mountains capped with snow, now tinged ruddily with the dying light, and between these crowding peaks was an arched opening, as if a vaulted passageway had been blasted through the mass of rock, giving a vista of pale blue sky, from which radiated prismic bars of light, while way above the topmost peak, like some beacon-light suspended high, swung the new moon, a slender crescent, also near its setting.

"Oh, I saw it over my right shoulder!" cried Molly gayly. "Don't you long to hear what wish I made?"

"Not half so much as you long to tell it," replied Morton cruelly.

"How snubbed I feel!" she sniffed, amid the laughter, making a face at him. "But if you knew it included you—Mr. Garth, do you believe in omens?"

"Really, Miss Molly, I never thought—in fact, I don't know of any, do I? What omens?"

"Oh, that you're going to quarrel, if you spill the salt, and that it's bad luck to step over a crack in the floor, and you musn't begin things on Friday, and"—

"Molly, what nonsense! I thought we agreed to forget all that kind of thing when the mirror broke," said Morton.

"Yes; when instead of bringing us misfortune it brought us comfort. Did we ever tell you about that, Mr. Garth?" asked Sara; then, as he gave a negative sign, she repeated the story.

He listened interestedly.

"Where did you live, then, Miss Olmstead?"

"In Killamet—a tiny fishing-village on the coast. We are the children of a fisherman, perhaps you know."

"You?" surprisedly. "I would never have thought it! I supposed"—He stopped in some confusion, and colored.

"Say it out!" urged Morton.

"Yes, relieve your mind," added Molly; "it won't stand too much pressure."

"Molly, be quiet!" interposed Sara peremptorily.

"Well," said the young man at this, giving Molly a queer glance, "I had always supposed fishermen to be a rude sort of people—entirely unlike you all, of course."

"'With the exception of one,' you would say, if you dared," added Molly instantly. "But you needn't blame any of my ancestors for my tongue— Sara will tell you our mother was a real lady, in speech and manners, and our father one of Nature's noblemen. I was probably changed in the cradle by some wicked fairy."

"Let us thank the creature for leaving such a unique specimen, at least," laughed Mr. Garth, completely mollified; (if you will not accuse us of an insane desire to make a pun). "Come, fairy changeling, and let's have a song together."

"Yes, if you won't insist upon classical music more than half the time. Do you know what I'd like to sing to-night?" rising to go indoors; "one of those rollicking, rioting old sailor-songs, with no tune, and not many more words, but with a catchiness in the two or three bars that gives you the sensation of a ship rolling and pitching under your feet— but Sara won't let me, so"—laughing mischievously—"I suppose I'll have to come down to Bach and Wagner!"

Sara left alone outside, for Morton now departed for the store, seated herself in one of the piazza-chairs to listen at her leisure. The twilight was deepening into the warm, scented dusk of a mid-summer eve, with nameless soft noises amid the dew and the perfume, as countless tiny creatures settled themselves to repose or came out for their nightly dance beneath the stars.

The tender influences of night and silence inwrapped the girl as if in motherly arms, and she felt glad, and hushed, and still. What was the little struggle of a day when all this great, yet minute world lived, slept, woke and worked, subject to one Will—a Will mighty enough to control the universe, precise enough to make perfect and beautiful the down upon the wing of an insect invisible except under a powerful microscope? Why should she fret, or worry, or dread?

"I have but one care," she said, "to do right—to abide by my inner heaven-given instinct, which we call conscience, the rest is of the Will."

She leaned her head back restfully against the small down pillow tied by gay ribbons to her chair; but her resting soul leaned against an Arm,— mighty to save, and tender to feel. Amid all her musings ran the sweet strains of the old English ballad the others were singing inside, whose refrain only was clear to her,—

"Trust me, Love, only Trust!"

A figure moving with a springing motion came swiftly up the gravelled walk and mounted the steps. Not till then did Sara notice it. She turned, rose, and stepped forward; and as the figure advanced to meet her, it stood full in the light streaming through the drawing-room windows.

"Robert?" she questioned, still in a dream, and not realizing that she had used a name only whispered in her own heart till now.

"Yes, Sara," was the reply, "I have come—were you waiting for me?"

Still only half herself, so sudden and surprising was all this, she answered in his own tone, quiet, but threaded with deep meaning,—

"Yes, I—think I was."

He drew her to him, whispered three little words—and the new moon, just dipping her last upturned horn beneath the horizon, may have seen their kiss of betrothal; but if so, she modestly withdrew from sight, and never told the sweet secret.

I suppose my story should properly end here, but Sara felt that hers was just beginning. With arm linked in arm the two went softly down the steps, and strolled through the odorous hush of the garden, trying to tell the emotions of three years in as many minutes, while the unconscious couple within sang, and sparred, and sang again, perfectly certain of their unseen listener outside. After the first few moments, in which they could think of nothing but their own two selves, so strangely and quickly bound into one, Sara asked,—

"But how did you happen to be here just now, Robert?"

"Because I came! I was like a chained beast all the time you were ill, though Molly's letters gave only the most cheering news, but I knew I couldn't see you if I were here, and I mustn't leave aunt; but when word came from uncle that he was down with a malarial attack at Omaha, on his way home, and she started at once to nurse him, I made up my mind very shortly as to my next move—which was to pack my grip and come on, to 'put my courage to the test, to win or lose it all.'"

"It required a great deal of courage!" laughed Sara.

"More than you think, sweetheart. I was not at all sure of your feelings towards me—to tell the truth, I have been horribly jealous of that singing-fellow—what's his name—Garth, isn't it?"

Sara laughed merrily, and just then a booming strain rolled out from the drawing-room upon the silent air.

"Listen!" she said; "isn't that a fine baritone? That's something from Offenbach, I think."

"Magnificent!" returned Robert unsuspiciously, thrilling at her light, trustful touch upon his arm. "Who is it? Some friend of the Macons?"

"No, of ours. It is—Mr. Preston Garth."

He started, looked at her, and even in the dusk caught the amused flash of her eye.

"The rascal! Must I then run upon him the very first minute of my meeting you?" he queried tragically.

"Not necessarily—still perhaps, just for politeness' sake, we had better go back and say good-night to him. I think they have finished now, the music seems to have ceased."

They turned back towards the house just as Molly, who, with Mr. Garth, had now come out upon the veranda, cried excitedly,

"Why, she's gone. Sara! Sara! Where are you?"

"I am here, Molly," advancing with her companion, "here with—Mr. Glendenning."

"Oh!" said Molly; and Mr. Garth, feeling a sudden twinge of doubt and dread, waited but a moment longer, going through with the introductions almost mechanically—then, becoming suddenly aware of his neglected engagement at the museum, hastened on his way—leaving Robert in full possession of the field.

After answering a question of Molly's he entered the house with the two girls. They had just stepped into the brightly-lighted drawing-room, when the younger, a trifle in advance, turned with some light remark, and was at once arrested by the beatified expression upon both faces.

Her remark died on her lips; and her eyes, filled with wonderment, travelled from one countenance to the other, as if determined to drag the secret from them by mesmeric force.

"Tell her, Robert," said Sara softly; upon which Molly's hands came together sharply, after an old, childish trick of hers.

"No need! No need!" she cried with her usual frankness; "I'm not blind— and I never saw a couple so plainly ticketed 'sold' before!" Then holding out a hand to each of the somewhat abashed pair, she cried merrily, "It's lovely, though! And remember, Mr. Glendenning, I always share in all Sara's good things, so now you'll have to be my brother, if you have determined to be her—master," pointed by one of her indescribable grimaces.

"Master, eh?" queried the young man, raising his eyebrows. "Do you know, Molly, I shall be more than happy to be just her—husband?"

"Well, what's the difference? 'A rose by any other name,' you know; only look out for Sara! I never saw a girl quite like her; while she's seeming to give up she always gets her way"—

"As she has now!" put in that maiden with a happy laugh. "Don't tell Robert all my faults tonight, dear; let him have a surprise now and then."

"That means she is convinced that now you think her perfect," interrupted the saucy girl, with a trill of laughter. Then growing suddenly as gentle and tender as she had been elfish before, she added sweetly, "And Robert, you are right; you have won a real treasure—a perfect darling—as nobody knows better than her naughty, teasing sister."

Robert stayed a week, which time was to both lovers like a leaf blown back from Eden. The weather, as if in chime with their mood, was simply exquisite; and after the more imperative duties at the museum were over, they passed the hours together, walking, riding, or boating on the river, as utterly self-centred, and as foolishly happy as if one were not a thorough-going business man, and the other a studious worker and writer, beginning to make a reputation for herself. Just then the world, with its cares, its ambitions, and demands, was quite shut out, while love and happiness reigned supreme.

Such days, however, soon come to an end in this work-a-day world. An imperative telegram recalled Robert to Chicago and business; but not till he had won a definite promise from Sara that the marriage should take place the following October.

"So soon!" she cried, when he made the proposition. "But have you stopped to think? There is Molly—yes, and Morton, for I could not leave him here alone, though he is almost self-supporting now."

"Yes, I have thought it all out. My salary is not large for an expensive city, like Chicago, but we can all live upon it modestly, even there; and fortunately we none of us have extravagant tastes."

Sara's eyes filled.

"Robert, how good you are! Would you really burden yourself with my brother and sister? It is too much to ask!"

"I shall not look upon it as a burden, dearest. If they are yours they are also mine; and, as you say, Morton will soon take care of himself, for I can easily secure him a position there. As for Molly, we'll send her to school a while yet; but mark me, Sara, she'll be carried off before we know it, such a pretty girl as she."

"Well, there's one thing, Robert, I can write: you won't object to that?"

"Object! I'm proud of it! Write all you like, and be as learned as you please. The world may know you as a sage and a philosopher; but I,—ah! how little they guess what you are to me, my little princess by the sea! And now, if all your objections have been properly overruled, will you give me the answer I desire?"

"Yes," said Sara, "if"—

"There! You have said all that is required," laying his finger on her lips, "don't spoil it with conjunctions. A simple affirmative is quite enough; I'll imagine the rest," and Sara, only too happy to be thus overmastered, attempted no more objections to demands so sweet.

* * * * *

From this dream of bliss Sara plunged directly into a deep vortex of house-cleaning, for she was determined that the premises should be in perfect order upon the Macons' arrival. For four days chaos reigned, with the broom and scrubbing-brush for prime ministers. Morton took refuge at the store, but poor Sam, not so fortunate, had to face it all; and he felt as if the deluge had come again, with some new and harrowing accompaniments, in which woman's rights and demands were prominent. Then, on the fifth, they rested from their labors in the clean, soap- charged atmosphere—walking gingerly over spick and span carpets, laying each book and paper demurely in place, and gazing, at a proper distance, through diamond-bright windows; and on the sixth the Macons arrived.

They seemed delighted to be at home once more, and both looked unusually well, having gained in flesh and color. The professor was genial and serene, Mrs. Macon full of life and sparkle. She ran from room to room, like a child; then through the gardens and shrubberies, returning quite out of breath.

"O Henry!" she cried, "isn't it nice to find everything in such good condition? I remember after our last long trip it was really dreadful for a week or two—everything yellow and musty; mice and cockroaches camping in the library and bedrooms, and spiders everywhere. By the way, Sara, have you had to fight moths much?"