"Yes, occasionally. Molly has made a raid on them every week or so, with gasoline, I believe—I don't think they've made much headway."

"Well, it's perfectly charming; and I should break out into 'Home, sweet Home,' or something else equally original, if I had an atom of a voice. Now tell me all the news,—who's married, and to whom have the storks brought the blessed babies?"

"Yes, don't forget the babies," laughed her husband. "Marian has spent most of her trip acting as nursemaid to poor little sticky-faced souls, whose mothers were utterly discouraged, I'm daily expecting that the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children will send her a gold medal, for I am sure she richly deserves it."

"Well, I shall be far more proud of it than of any old fossilized remnant of antediluvial times, I can assure you," was the quick retort. "And Henry needn't say anything, either, for he walked the coach-aisle a good half-hour with a crying baby yesterday—to be sure it had a lovely little mamma, who hadn't an idea how to manage it."

"Yes, it was all for the mamma," assented the professor demurely, with a twinkle at Molly, who was heartily enjoying the scene, and only impatient to put in her oar, as now.

"Did you have many engaged couples on the train?" she questioned wickedly. "I think they're worse than babies—so uninteresting, you know, besides being oblivious to the point of idiotcy. I've been so tired picking up after—oh! I nearly forgot myself—I mean generally speaking, of course."

Sara's face was a study, but one easy to decipher; for the cheeks crimsoned with embarrassment, the lips quivering with indignation, and the eyes aglow with a happiness no mortification could conceal, told all her secret in living characters. Mrs. Macon nearly sprang from her chair.

"Who is it, Sara? Mr. Garth—Mr. Steene—that little professor of mathematics with the bald head, or—oh! tell me, is it Mr. Glendenning?"

"What a wonderful guesser you are!" cried Molly.

"And not born in Yankeedom, either!" laughed the professor, really pitying Sara's distress.

Morton came to the rescue, as usual.

"If it is Mr. Glendenning, that's no reason for blazening it around all over the country, as if you were too proud of it to keep still. Robert Glendenning's a nice fellow, but I never saw anybody quite good enough for Sara."

"Nor I," said Molly, entirely unruffled; "but she's like those of royal blood, you see—she makes a man honorable by marrying him."

Amid the laughter over the cool impudence of this assumption, Sara recovered herself somewhat, and received with tranquillity the hearty congratulations which followed.

"I'm not a bit surprised—I saw it as long ago as last Thanksgiving," observed Mrs. Macon.

"Yes," put in her husband placidly, "Mrs. Macon's foresight is almost up to the Irishman's."

"Well, you may laugh, but I did—and what's more, I gave my consent. I told him he was most welcome, and he understood me!"

"That was generous," said the professor ironically, beginning to cut the leaves of half a dozen periodicals which awaited him upon the library table; at which the rest—taking the hint—adjourned to the veranda, to talk it over at their leisure.



CHAPTER XXII.

GOOD-BY TO KILLAMET.

The next day, as Mrs. Macon and Sara found themselves alone in the former's special boudoir, that lady remarked,—

"You haven't asked me yet what the proposition is that I mentioned in my letter."

"No," answered Sara with a smile, remembering their conversation over it; "are you ready to make it now?"

"Yes, and more hopeful of the answer I desire since I have heard of your approaching marriage. Sara, Henry and I want to adopt Molly."

"Adopt Molly?" repeated the sister, with wide, astonished eyes.

"Yes; she is just what we both need to give us an interest in life, and to make our home the bright, joyous place we want it to be. My original proposition was to have been that, while we legally adopted her, and gave her our name in addition to her own, so that there need never be any trouble about property matters, you should still keep up all your ties of kindred, and that Morton and yourself should find board near by, and make our house your second home. Then Henry would of course use all his influence to advance you both. Your marriage will change the plan a trifle, leaving Morton, as it does, somewhat unprovided for, and Henry has commissioned me to say that, if you will consent to our adoption of Molly, Morton shall have a home here, also, till of age, and all the help we can give him—though we will not adopt him as our own. What do you think of it?"

"I am so surprised, dazed, I can't think; it is most generous!"

"Not generous; we expect to receive all that we give; yet we won't be selfish, either. I don't ask you to give Molly up at all, in one sense— only to let us share with you in her love, and take from you all expense and care."

"Dear Mrs. Macon, you are a mother to us now—have been from the first day I saw you—and Molly is a happy girl to have won your approbation! She shall decide this matter for herself; I will consent to whatever she wishes."

"Then will you tell her, Sara? I want her to decide unbiassed by my presence;" to which Sara readily agreed.

But when told, Molly was even more amazed than her sister had been, and at first ran and clung to her, like a child about to be torn from its mother's arms.

The almost involuntary action touched Sara deeply, and for a moment the sisters remained locked in a close embrace, each sobbing uncontrollably. After a little they grew more quiet, and talked the matter over in all its bearings, and Sara could see that the idea pleased the child.

"If it was to give you and Morton up, I'd never consent," she said decidedly, "but it isn't. Mrs. Macon is just as fond of you as of me, Sara, and all the difference is that now you and Robert can marry without worrying over my future."

"We have never worried, dear; lay that up to Robert's credit, and remember that his offer of a home to you and Morton was as hearty and sincere as Mrs. Macon's own. I should not have been so fond and proud of him otherwise."

Molly, sitting affectionately on her sister's knee, toyed with her hair a moment, then said diffidently,—

"Sara."

"Well, Molly?"

"Don't be provoked, dear, but I've sometimes thought you would marry Jasper."

"Why, child?" trying not to color beneath the searching young eyes.

"Oh, he always seemed to like you so well; and Miss Prue too, I think she wanted it anyhow."

Sara hesitated a moment, then said gently,—

"I should consider it a great compliment if Miss Prue had felt so—and that makes me think—I must not delay longer to write her of these new plans of ours. And now, dear little sister, go to Mrs. Macon yourself, and tell her your decision. She is waiting in her own room."

"But you'll come with me, Sara?"

"No, child, best go alone."

"But what shall I say?" diffidently.

"Now, Molly, as if you were ever at a loss."

"But I so often say the wrong thing, and you never do, Sara," with a sudden spasm of feeling that brought hot tears to her eyes; "it doesn't seem right! You've been so good, and look at all the hard times you've had, while I'm just penetrated with naughtiness, and yet things always go smoothly with me!"

"Well, dear, then you have only to be thankful, and as good as possible; nor worry about me, God has blessed me abundantly."

A little later, Mrs. Macon moving restlessly about her pleasant room, heard a timid knock at the door, most unlike Molly's usual frank and earnest rapping; and at her invitation to enter, there appeared a much disguised edition of that damsel; for in place of the merry, fearless creature we all know, here stood a timid, blushing girl, apparently afraid to take another step forward.

Mrs. Macon felt inclined to a burst of laughter, which verged closely upon tears, as Molly sidled in, and began in a voice as soft as Sara's own,—

"Dear Mrs. Macon, I've come to be your child, if you want me, and it's easy to say I shall love you well, but"—suddenly breaking out into her usual frankness—"I'll tell you what it is, you're getting much the worst of the bargain!"

"We can only leave that for time to tell, Molly," drawing the girl to her with a tender kiss; "and now, Mary Olmstead Macon, I formally claim you as my own dear daughter; will it be hard for you to call me mother?"

"Not hard, but strange, dear Mrs.—mother—" blushing vividly; then, throwing her arms about the lady's neck with all the abandon she would have shown to Sara, she said heartily, "No, it isn't hard, dear, sweet mother, for I'm going to love you with all my heart!" and Mrs. Macon held her close, with a new fondness, born of possession, thrilling all her being.

After this there was no question but that Sara should be married from this new home, as both the professor and his wife insisted upon it; and when she tried to speak of paying board, Mrs. Macon only laughed at her.

"Now, Sara, do be quiet!" she said. "You may go on helping Henry till you get his new assistant broken in, of course—I won't say a word against that—but you must have every cent for your trousseau— and we'll show the madame some things that will make her open even her French eyes, I imagine!" this outburst having been called out by the receipt of a letter from the little woman that very morning.

Though it was one of warm approval and hearty good wishes, Mrs. Macon fancied she could read, between the lines of charming French-English, a desire to take the direction of affairs as soon as her husband's already improved condition should permit; and this did not suit the energetic manageress of this new family at all.

She had never been so much in her element for years. She delighted in life, stir, youth, and business; she liked to direct people—and, fortunately, Sara was one who could take even interference sweetly. So she arranged shopping tours, made engagements with dressmakers and milliners, and matched silk and lace with the greatest gusto, Sara being occasionally allowed a word in the matter.

Sometimes the latter attempted a remonstrance.

"But, Mrs. Macon," she whispered once, in alarm, "aren't you ordering more than I need of that silk? I'm afraid"—

"Now, my dear, I'm not going to have your dress spoiled for the lack of a yard or two. It's all fixed, and the clerk understands—and see here, don't be buying thread and linings, and such things—I've more than enough at home, so don't let's clutter ourselves with useless articles."

It was of no use to remonstrate—Marian Macon always had her way—and, if Sara would have honestly preferred a less expensive outfit, entirely of her own purchasing, she felt that it was little enough to do to sacrifice her well-loved independence to the generous whims of so kind and true a friend.

Miss Prue's answer to Sara's letter, announcing her engagement, was prompt and characteristic. She wished her every happiness, and was enthusiastic over Molly's good-fortune, but she could not help one little outburst.

"I did think you loved the sea, and your own people, too well to leave us forever—but I see it is not so—and I must say you've turned all my plans topsy-turvy! But perhaps, if you'll come down, and talk it over with me, I can bring myself to forgive you. Do come, Sara! If you go so far away, I may never see you again; for Polly and I are getting older, and more set in our ways, every day."

"I must go," she said to Mrs. Macon, reading part of the letter aloud, "if only for a few days; perhaps, too, I can then make some definite arrangement in regard to our cottage—how I do wish I could find a purchaser for it!"

She had expected to take the stage around the long way from Norcross to Killamet; but when she descended from the train what was her pleased surprise to be greeted by Bertha and—of all people—Jasper! They informed her they had rowed across the bay on purpose to take her home.

She tried not to feel embarrassed in the latter's presence, and wondered how much he knew of her plans; but Bertha was so bright and full of talk that there was little space for confusion or wonderings.

"How well you're looking, Bertha!" she said, as—now in the boat— Jasper pulled out from the sleepy little wharf. "You are as brown and rosy as any fisher-girl of us all."

As she spoke, half-idly, her glance taking in both figures before her, she could almost have sworn that a lightning-like eye-signal passed between them, before Bertha answered, with a conscious little laugh,—

"Well, I enjoy the life as if I had been born to it. Do you know, I can row—yes, and swim—as well as anybody, and I know all your old nooks, and"—

She paused suddenly, and Sara cried,—

"All mine? Why, who told you? Some of them you could never have found, I'm sure."

Bertha blushed, but Jasper spoke up bravely,—

"Oh, I showed her. She's a great climber as you used to be, Sairay."

"That was nice of you, Jasper! So you know the 'Mermaid's Castle,' and the pine walk, and all?"

Bertha assented, then turned the subject to Mrs. Searle, the cottage, etc., while Sara began to have a dawning feeling that, possibly, she need not worry over Jasper's future happiness, at least to the exclusion of her own.

Miss Prue greeted her warmly; and everything was so exactly the same, from the white, curving beach, and long fish-sheds, the unpainted houses and the plants in the bow-windows, to the red and green carpet, and dragon-china in her little parlor, that Sara could hardly believe she had ever been away. Hester, seemingly not a day older, and wearing the identical turban she had last seen her in, Sara felt certain, greeted her with respectful warmth, and Polly grunted,—

"Come in—shut the door—how d'ye do?—Git out!" in her old familiar style.

Jasper had come with her to the door to carry the large valise, which was the only luggage she had brought; but Bertha bade them au revoir at the turn, saying she must hurry back to Mrs. Searle.

"Won't you come in and stay to supper, Jasper?" asked Miss Prue, as he set the valise down and prepared to depart.

"No, thank you, Cousin Prue, I've got some marketing to take home to mother that she sent for to Norcross."

"Well, come down this evening, then."

"Guess I will, thank you. I told Bertha I'd call around after her—she'd like to come too."

"Humph! very well," said his cousin, closing the door after him with more vim than was strictly necessary.

"How good it seems to be here once more!" exclaimed Sara, looking all about her. "You've had a new set of book-shelves put in, haven't you? That's all the change I see."

"Yes, and all you'll find in the whole village, likely, except in your own house—that you'd never know."

"Have you made acquaintance with Mrs. Searle and Bertha?" asked Sara, after Miss Prue had returned from trotting away with her wraps. "Oh, yes; she's a nice woman when she isn't under the dominion of her nerves, and she says she hasn't been so well in years as she is here; the air seems to agree with her, and she enjoys the quiet."

"I'm glad of that. How do you like Bertha?"

"Oh, she's a nice girl," carelessly; "she thinks the world of you."

"Does she?" smiling a little; "it's mutual."

Then her hostess asked after the twins, the Macons, etc., after which they went out to supper.

In the evening Bertha came with Jasper. There was an abounding joyousness in her manner, which so tallied with Sara's deep happiness that she could not but notice it; and it was evident that there was at least perfect good feeling, if nothing more, between her and Jasper.

After they had gone, Sara turned with a mischievous look to her old friend.

"I've an idea, Miss Prue, that Bertha is quite in love with—Killamet and its environs; she seems really enthusiastic. But how does it happen that Jasper is at home now?"

"Well, the season is nearly over, and I believe his schooner is undergoing repairs—he's his own master now, and goes and comes as he likes."

"Yes; that must be pleasant! He seems unusually well; I never saw him looking so handsome."

"Humph!" said Miss Prue, and drew the curtain sharply, after which they adjourned for the night.

Sara found Miss Prue was right about her own house. Two coats of paint outside gave it a decidedly spruce appearance, while, inside, that lady's vision as to its capabilities had been more than realized. The blending of roughness and luxury, of camp and home characteristics, gave the large central apartment a quaintness that had real charm for eyes weary of too great sameness in house-decoration; and when Mrs. Searle began negotiations for buying the place, Sara felt, for a moment, very loath to sell. But she quickly conquered the feeling, knowing its uselessness; and as the purchaser was in real earnest, and no haggler, while the seller had not an idea how to drive a hard bargain, they soon came to terms satisfactory to both.

As Mrs. Searle held out her feeble hand from her invalid chair to bid Sara farewell, she retained the young girl's a moment to say,—

"You will not mind an old woman's congratulating you upon your future, will you? I knew Robert Glendenning's father in my youth; and if the son is like him in character, you may well be congratulated."

Sara blushingly murmured her acknowledgments, and the lady continued,—

"I want to thank you for sending me Bertha, also; she's a real little treasure."

"I'm so glad you like each other, Mrs. Searle! Do you know, that whole affair has always seemed providential to me? I was a passive instrument in wiser hands." "As we all are, more often than we think—-well, good- by, and when you long for a sight of the old home, and the sea, you will always be welcome here."

It was Sara's only visit to the cottage, for her stay in Killamet was necessarily short. She spent all the time possible with her dear old friend, who she could plainly see, was losing in vigor daily. But though she frankly referred to her approaching marriage, and discussed her future plans in detail, it was not till the last day that either touched upon the subject as affecting Jasper.

He had sailed away that morning, bidding her a kind farewell, but reserving his last look and handclasp for Bertha; and as the two girls walked back together from the beach, stopping to call on Zeba Osterhaus and Mrs. Updyke by the way, she could but notice how quiet her friend seemed, and mentioned it later to Miss Prue, with the bold comment,—-

"She will miss Jasper greatly, for, as I understand, they have been together almost constantly these last two months."

Her hostess knitted a round or two before she answered.

"Well, and I suppose you think that shows conclusively that he never cared anything for you—-but it doesn't. Jasper's as steady and faithful as the sun, and if you had married him he would have been a loyal husband to his dying day. But you wouldn't. At least that's my explanation of matters; I know he went down to Norcross on business, and came home looking as if he had buried all his friends. He acknowledged he had seen you, and it didn't take me long to figure out the matter— and, Sara Olmstead, I will own I was disappointed in you—dreadfully disappointed! He met Bertha right here at my house—happened in one day when she was here on an errand—and she said something pleasant about you. That caught his attention, and I really believe, for a while, he sought that girl out just to hear her praises of you; and if it has grown to be something different with time, you ought to be the last one to blame him."

"Blame him? My dear Miss Prue, I think it's the nicest thing in the world—only, I came down here, you know, on purpose to win your forgiveness, and I'm not willing to go back without it."

"Oh, of course you'll get it—you know that—but I've got to go and plan out a whole new will, for I had determined to leave everything equally divided between you and Jasper which I can't do now without splitting everything in two, so"—

"I'm to be cut off with a shilling?" gayly; "but I won't complain, if you'll only continue to give me your love—ah! dear Miss Prue, I am mercenary in one way, only—I do want all the affection I can beg or borrow!"

For answer, the elder maiden took the younger in her arms and gave her a most tender kiss—so peace was made, and the ambassador who had failed to bring about the nuptials so ardently desired was at last propitiated.

This time it was old Adam Standish who rowed Sara over the bay to Norcross,—Adam, unchanged in lineament or costume,—while faithful friends, as before, watched from the beach. Again she looked back with tear-dimmed eyes; for tender memories of father, mother, baby-brother, and all childhood's associations, tugged at her heart-strings—but there was now no dread and fear to paralyze her.

She faced an uncertain future, it is true, but one bounded by tenderness and care, whose horizon-line glowed before her with rosy visions, which stretched away in glad promise to the infinite deeps of Heaven!

THE END