He affirmed that when in the morning he heard of this infamous abuse of confidence on the part of his patron, he had not had courage to meet his kinswoman at breakfast, but had decamped from the house in great haste, and had never seen the countess since that eventful day.

He said that he had heard how much she had suffered from the affair, at least for a short time; and that afterwards he had heard she had left the country; that he had since supposed the whole circumstance had been forgotten, and he did not even now understand how his disclosures should serve her, since no one now remembered the escapade of Captain Dugald.

As Isaacs spoke, Ishmael took down the statement in writing. When it was finished he turned to the Jew and said:

"You are mistaken in one thing—nay, indeed, in two things, Isaacs! The first is, in the supposition that your disclosures cannot now serve the countess, since the world has long ago done her full justice. It is true that the world has done her full justice, for there is no lady living more highly esteemed than is the Countess of Hurstmonceux. So if the world were only in question, Isaacs, I need never have troubled you to speak. But there is an individual in question; and this brings me to your second mistake in the matter; namely, in the supposition that the countess never married again. She did marry again; hut, a few months subsequent to her marriage, her husband heard the story of Captain Dugald's adventure, as it was then circulated and believed; and he thought himself the dupe of a cunning adventuress, and estranged himself from his wife from that day until this."

"Fader Abraham!" exclaimed the Jew, raising both his hands in consternation.

"Providence has lately put me in possession of all the facts in this case, and has enabled me to pave the way for a reconciliation between the long-severed pair—supposing that you will have the moral courage to do your kinswoman justice."

"Fader Abraham, I vill do her shustice! I vill do her more as shustice. I vill tell te whole truth. I vill tell more as te whole truth, and shwear to it. I vill do anyding. I vould do anyding alt te time, if I had known it," said the Jew earnestly.

"Thank you, Isaacs, I only want the simple truth; more than that would do us harm instead of good. This is the simple truth, I hope, that I have taken down from your lips?"

"Yesh, tat ish te zimple truth!"

"I will read the whole statement to you, Isaacs, and then you will be able to see whether I have taken down your words correctly," said Ishmael. And he took up the manuscript and read it carefully through, pausing frequently to give the Jew an opportunity of correcting him, if necessary.

"Dat ish all right," said Isaacs, when the reading was finished.

"Now sign it, Isaacs."

The Jew affixed his signature.

"Now, Isaacs that is all I want of you for the present; but should you be required to make oath to the truth of this, I suppose that you will be found ready to do so."

"Fader Abraham! yes, I vill do anyding at all, or anyding else, to serve mine kinswoman," said the Jew, rising.

"Thank you, Isaacs. Now tell me where I shall find you, in case you shall be wanted?"

"I am lotging mit mine frient, Samuel Phineas, Butter Lane, Burrough."

"I will remember. Thank you, Isaacs. You have done your kinswoman and her friends good service. She will be grateful to you. I have no doubt she will send for you. Would you like to come to her?"

"Mit all my feet. Vere ish she?"

"At her country-seat, Cameron Court, near Edinboro'."

"I ton't know id."

"No, you don't know it. It is a comparatively recent purchase of her ladyship, I believe," said Ishmael, rising to accompany the Jew from the room.

As they went out they rang the bell, to warn the waiter that they had evacuated the apartment. In the hall Isaacs bade him good- afternoon, and Ishmael turned into the sitting room occupied in common by himself and Mr. Brudenell. He found the table laid for dinner and Mr. Brudenell walking impatiently up and down the floor.

"Ah, you are there! I was afraid you would be late, and the fish and the soup would be spoiled, but here you are in the very nick of time," he said, as he touched the bell. "Dinner immediately," he continued, addressing himself to the waiter, who answered his summons. But it was not until after dinner was over, and the cloth removed, and Mr. Brudenell had finished his bottle of claret and smoked out his principe, that Ishmael told him of his interview with Isaacs, and laid the written statement of the Jew before him. Mr. Brudenell read it carefully through, with the deepest interest. When he had finished it, he slowly folded it up and placed it in his breast pocket, dropped his head upon his chest, and remained in deep thought and perfect silence.

After the lapse of a few moments Ishmael spoke:

"If you think it needful, sir, Isaacs is ready to go before a magistrate and make oath to the truth of that statement."

"It is not needful, Ishmael; I have not the least doubt of its perfect truth. It is not of that I am thinking; but—of my wife. How will she receive me? One thing is certain, that having deeply injured her, I must go to her and acknowledge the wrong and ask her forgiveness. But, oh, Ishmael, what atonement will that be for years of cruel injustice and abandonment? None, none! No, I feel that I can make her no atonement," said Mr. Brudenell bitterly.

"No, sir; you can make her no atonement, but—you can make her happy. And that is all she will need," said Ishmael gravely and sweetly.

"If I thought I could, Ishmael, I would hasten to her at once. In any case, however, I must go to her, acknowledge the wrong I have done her and ask for pardon. But, ah! how will she receive me?"

"Only go and see for yourself, sir, I implore you," said Ishmael earnestly.

"When do you return to Scotland, Ishmael?"

"When you are ready to accompany me, sir; I am waiting only for you," answered Ishmael, smiling.

"Then we will go by the early express train to-morrow morning," said Mr. Brudenell.

"Very well, sir; I shall be ready," smiled Ishmael.

Mr. Brudenell rang for tea. And when it was set on the table he ordered the waiter to call him at five o'clock the next morning, to have his bill ready, and get a fly to the door to take them to the Great Northern Railroad Station in time to meet the six o'clock express train for Edinboro'.

After tea the two gentlemen remained conversing some little time longer, and then retired to their bed-chamber, where, being without the help and hindrance of a valet, they packed their own portmanteaus. And then they went to bed early in order to secure a long and good night's rest, preparatory to their proposed journey of the next morning.



CHAPTER LII.

THE MEETING OF THE SEVERED PAIR.

For she is wise, if I can judge of her; And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true; And true she is as she hath proved herself; And therefore like herself, wise, fair, and true She shall be placed within my constant soul. —Shakspeare



Ishmael and Mr. Brudenell arose before the waiter called them. They dressed quickly, rang, and ordered breakfast, and had time to eat it leisurely before the hour at which the cab was ordered to take them to the railway station. They caught the six o'clock express on the point of starting, and had just settled themselves comfortably in a first-class carriage when the train moved.

There is a difference in the time kept even by express trains. This one seemed to be the fastest among the fast, since it steamed out of the London station at six in the morning and steamed into the Edinboro' station at four in the afternoon.

Ishmael called a cab for himself and fellow-traveler. And when they had taken their seats in it, he gave the order, "To Magruder's Hotel." And the cab started.

"I think, sir," said the young man to the elder, "as we are in such good time, we had better go to my rooms at Magruder's and renovate our toilets before driving out to Cameron Court and presenting ourselves to Lady Hurstmonceux."

"Yes, yes, certainly, Ishmael; for really I think after that dusty, smoky, cindery day's journey we should be all the better for soap and water and clean clothes. I don't know how I look, my dear fellow, but, not to flatter you, you present the appearance of a very interesting master chimney-sweep!" replied Mr. Brudenell.

Ishmael laughed.

Ah, yes; Herman Brudenell jested on the same principle that people are said to jest on their way to execution. Now, when he was so near Cameron Court and the Countess of Hurstmonceux, how ill at ease he had become; how he dreaded, yet desired, the interview that was to decide his fate.

The distance between the railway station and Magruder's Hotel was so short that it was passed over in a few minutes. Ishmael paid and dismissed the cab, and the two gentlemen went in. Ishmael's rooms in that house had never been given up; they had been kept for the use of his party, on their journeyings through the city. He conducted Mr. Brudenell to these rooms, and then ordered luncheon as soon as it could be served, and a fly in half an hour. Twenty minutes they gave to that "renovation" of the toilet advised by Ishmael, ten minutes to a simple luncheon of cold meat and bread, and then they entered the fly.

Ishmael gave the order, "To Cameron Court."

As they moved on Mr. Brudenell said:

"There are several points upon which I would like to consult you, before presenting myself to the countess.'

"Yes, sir," said Ishmael, looking up with a smile full of earnest encouragement.

"But, like all procrastinating natures, I have deferred the task until the last moment."

"There has been no better opportunity than the present, sir."

"That is true. Well, Ishmael, the first doubt that troubles me is this: That I should not, perhaps, intrude upon the countess, without first writing and apprising her of my intended visit. My appearance will be unexpected, startling, even embarrassing to her."

"No, sir, no; trust me it will not. If I have read that gentle lady's heart aright, she has been always hoping to see you; and, with the expectation that is born of hope, she has been always looking for you. No strange, unnatural appearance will you seem to Lady Hurstmonceux, believe me, sir. And, moreover, she has reason to expect you now. Listen, sir. It was on the day after I heard her story of Captain Dugald's midnight visit and the evil it brought her, I begged from her the loan of that miniature which I showed you. And I do think she half suspected the use that I was about to put it to. She loaned it to me freely, without question and without reserve, and she knew at the time that I was going directly to your presence; and finally, on the day before yesterday, when writing to Judge Merlin, I mentioned my hope that you would accompany me to Edinboro'. So you see, sir, Lady Hurstmonceux is not entirely unprepared to receive you."

"Ah, but how will she receive me, Ishmael? And how, indeed, shall I present myself to her?"

"She will welcome you with joy, sir; believe it. But you need not take her by surprise, sir, even supposing that she does not expect you. Indeed, in no event would it be well that you should risk doing so. When we reach Cameron Court you can remain in the fly, while I go in, and to her ladyship alone announce your arrival."

"Thank you, Ishmael. Your plan is a good one and I will adopt it. And now another thing, my dear boy. Ishmael, you have always refused to be publicly acknowledged as my son—"

"You know why, sir; I will not have unmerited reproach thrown upon my sainted mother's memory. She was a martyr to your mistake; it must never be supposed that she was a victim to her own weakness."

"Enough, Ishmael, enough! I will not urge the point, although Heaven only knows how great is the sacrifice I make in resigning the hope that you would take my name and inherit what is left of the family estates. But, there, Ishmael, I will say no more upon that point. You will continue to bear your mother's name—the name that you have already made famous, and that, I feel sure, you will make illustrious. So no more of that. But what I wished particularly to consult you about is the propriety of confiding to the countess the secret of our relationship. Ishmael, it shall be just as you please."

"Then, sir, tell her all. Have no secrets from the countess, she merits all your confidence; but tell her the circumstances under which you married my dear mother, that Nora Worth may be held blameless by her forever," said Ishmael solemnly.

It was strange to hear this middle-aged gentleman seeking counsel from this young man; but so it was that all who were brought within the circle of Ishmael's influence consulted him as an early Christian might have consulted a young St. John. Ishmael had not the experience that only age can bring; but he had that clear, strong, moral and intellectual insight which only purity of heart and life can give, and hence his counsels were always wise and good.

It was six o'clock when the carriage reached Cameron Court. When the carriage drew up before the principal entrance Ishmael observed that Mr. Brudenell had become very much agitated.

"Compose yourself, dear sir; compose yourself with the reflection that it is only a loving woman you are about to meet; a woman who loves you constantly and will welcome you with delight. Remain here until I go in and announce your visit; then I will return for you," he said, pressing Mr. Brudenell's hand as he left the carriage.

The professor opened the door for Mr. Worth. There was no regular porter at Cameron Court, but Dr. James Morris was acting in that capacity.

"All well, professor?"

"All well, sir. The judge and Lady Vincent have gone out for an airing in the close carriage. We expect them, back to dinner, which will be served presently. You are just in time, sir."

Ishmael was for once glad to hear that the judge and his daughter were absent and that the countess was alone. But then, suddenly he reflected that this latter supposition was not so certain, and he anxiously inquired:

"Is the countess at home, professor?"

"Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the library, reading."

"Alone?"

"Quite alone, sir."

"That will do; I can find her," said Ishmael, ascending the stairs and turning in the direction of the library, which was situated on the first floor.

Berenice, dressed in a rich, but simply made, black velvet robe, with delicate white lace under-sleeves and collar, sat near the centre table before the fire, reading. Her head was bent over her book, and her rich black ringlets fell forward, half shading her beautiful dark face. She raised her eyes when Ishmael entered, and seeing who it was, she threw aside her book and started up to meet him.

"Welcome, Mr. Worth; welcome back again," she said, offering her hand.

Ishmael took that beautiful little brown hand and held it within his own as he said:

"Thank you, Lady Hurstmonceux. I am really very glad to get back. But—"

"What, Mr. Worth?"

"I do not come alone, Lady Hurstmonceux!"

Her countenance suddenly changed. Her voice sank to at whisper as she inquired:

"Who is with you?"

Dropping his voice to the low tone of hers, Ishmael answered:

"Mr. Brudenell."

The countess snatched her hand from his grasp, threw herself into the nearest chair, covered her face with her hands, and so remained for several minutes. At last Ishmael approached and leaned over her, and, speaking in a subdued and gentle voice, said:

"This visit is not wholly unexpected, Lady Hurstmonceux?"

"No, no, Mr. Worth," she murmured, without removing the shield of her hands.

"Nor unwelcome, I hope?"

"No, oh, no!" she said, dropping her hands now and looking up, pale, and faintly smiling.

"You will see him then?" said Ishmael, speaking, as he had spoken throughout the interview, in a low, gentle tone.

"Presently. Give me a little time. Oh, I have waited for him so long, Ishmael," she said, with an involuntary burst of confidence. But then everyone, even the most reserved, confided in Ishmael Worth.

"I have waited for him so long, so long!" she repeated.

"He has come at last, dearest lady; come to devote his life to you, if you will accept the offering," Ishmael murmured, bending over her.

"Oh, Mr. Worth, I am sure that I owe this happiness to you," the countess exclaimed fervently, clasping his hand and holding it while she repeated, "' Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.'"

Lowly and reverently Ishmael bowed his head at the hearing of these words.

"Where is he, Mr. Worth?" at length breathed Berenice.

"In the carriage outside, awaiting your pleasure."

"Bring him to me, then," she said, pressing his hand warmly before she relinquished it.

Ishmael returned that pressure, and then went out to speak to Mr. Brudenell.

"Come in, sir. She invites you," he said.

Herman Brudenell stepped out of the carriage and entered with Ishmael. He threw his eyes around upon the magnificence that surrounded him. Was all this really to be his own? the gift of that sweet lady's slighted love? He could scarcely believe it.

Ishmael led him through the halls and upstairs to the library.

"She is in there alone," he whispered.

"Go in with me, Ishmael," whispered the other. But Ishmael shook his head, smiled, opened the door, announced, "Mr. Brudenell, Lady Hurstmonceux," shut it and retired.

Herman Brudenell found himself alone in the library with his long- neglected wife. She was sitting in the armchair, where Ishmael had left her. She arose to meet her visitor; then suddenly turned deadly pale and sunk back in her chair, overcome by her emotions, but even in so sinking she stretched her hands out to him in welcome, in invitation, in entreaty.

Slowly and deferentially he approached this woman, so holy in her immortal love. And dropping on one knee, beside her chair, he bent his head and murmured in a broken voice:

"Berenice, Berenice—can you forgive all these long, long years of cruel injustice?"

"Oh, bless you; bless you, Herman, for coming at last. I am so glad to see you!" she said, drawing his bowed head to her bosom, dropping her face caressingly upon it and bursting into tears. A few minutes passed and he was sitting by her side, with her hand clasped in his, telling her the story of the sinful and sorrowful past, and imploring her forgiveness.

Would she forgive him?

Reader, Berenice was one of those women whom the wisdom of this world can never understand; one of those women who love purely and passionately; who love but once and love forever. She loved Herman Brudenell; and in saying this I answer all questions. She would not acknowledge that she had anything to forgive; she was glad to give him herself and all that she possessed; she was glad to make him the absolute master of her person and her fortune. And in giving all she received all, for as she loved she was happy. After some little time had elapsed, and they had both recovered from the agitation of the meeting, the countess looked up at him and inquired:

"Who is Ishmael Worth? Who is this young man, so stately, yet so gracious? so commanding, yet so meek? who walks among other men as a young king should, but as a young king never does. Who is he?"

"He is my son," said Herman Brudenell, proudly but shyly; "my son, the child of that unfortunate marriage contracted when I supposed that you were lost to me; lost to me in every way, my Berenice. That marriage of which I have already told you. Do you forgive me, for him also, Berenice?"

"I congratulate you on him, for he is a son to be very proud of. I glory in him, for he is now my son also," said this generous woman fervently.

Herman Brudenell raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Oh, Herman, I knew it! I knew it twenty years ago, when I went to the Hill Hut and begged the babe to bring up as my own," she said.

"You did, Berenice? How divinely good you are."

"Good! Why, I only sought my own comfort in the babe. You were lost to me for the time, and your child was the best consolation I could have found. However, his stern kinswoman would not let me have him; would not even let me help him; denied that he was yours, and almost turned me out of doors."

"That was so like Hannah."

"But now at last he is mine; my gifted son. How I shall rejoice in him."

"He is yours, Berenice, as far as the most profound esteem and love can make him yours. But Ishmael will never consent to be publicly acknowledged by me," said Herman Brudenell sorrowfully.

"But why?" inquired the countess, in astonishment.

"For his mother's sake. Ishmael cherishes the most chivalric devotion for his angel mother, and I think also for all mortal women, for her sake. He bears her name, and is fond of it and will ever bear it, that whatever fame he may win in this world may be identified with it. He has vowed, with the blessing of Heaven, to make the name of Worth illustrious, and he will do so."

"A chivalric devotion, truly; and how beautiful it is. He is already, though so young, a distinguished member of the Washington bar, I hear. How did he get his education and his profession—that poor boy, whom I remember in his childhood as tramping the country with the old odd-job man—that very 'professor' who attends him as his servant now? You found him and educated him at last, I suppose, Herman?"

A fiery flush arose to Mr. Brudenell's brow, displacing its habitual paleness.

"No, Berenice, no! Not to me, not to any human being does Ishmael owe education or profession; but to God and to himself alone. Never was a boy born in this world under more adverse circumstances. His birth, in its utter destitution, reminds me (I speak it with the deepest reverence) of that other birth in the manger of Bethlehem. His infancy was a struggle for the very breath of life; his childhood for bread; his youth for education; and nobly, nobly has he sustained this struggle and gloriously has he succeeded. We are yet in our prime, my dear Berenice, and I feel sure that, if we live out the three-score years and ten allotted as the term of human life, we shall see Ishmael at the zenith of human greatness."

So carried away had Mr. Brudenell been in making this tribute to Ishmael that he had forgotten to explain the circumstances that would have exonerated him from the suspicion of having culpably neglected his child. Berenice brought him back to his recollection by saying:

"But I am sure you must have made some provision for this boy; how was it then that he never derived any benefit from it? How was it that he was left from the hour of his birth to suffer the cruelest privations, until the age of seven years, when he began to support himself, and to help support his aunt!"

"You are right, Berenice; I made a provision for him; but I left the country, and he never had the good of it. I will explain how that was by and by; but I believe the loss of it was providential. I believe it was intended from the first that Ishmael should 'owe no man anything,' for life, or bread, or education, or profession; but all to God and God's blessing on his own efforts. He is self-made. I know no other man in history to whom the term can be so perfectly well applied."

"Will you tell me all you know of his early struggles? I am so interested in this stately son of yours," said Berenice, who, while admiring Ishmael herself, saw also that he was the theme above all others that Mr. Brudenell loved to dwell upon.

Herman Brudenell told the story of Ishmael's heroic young life, as he had gathered it from many sources. And Berenice listened in admiration, in wonder, and sometimes in tears. And yet it was only the plain story of a poor boy who struggled up out of the depths of poverty, shame, and ignorance, to competence, honor, and distinction; a story that may be repeated again in the person of the obscurest boy that reads these lines.

After a little while, given to meditation on what she had heard, Berenice, with her hand still clasped in that of Herman Brudenell, looked up at him and said:

"Your mother and sisters?"

Slowly and sadly Mr. Brudenell shook his head:

"Ah, Berenice! I shall have to tell you now of a family self marred, as a set-off to the boy self-made."

And then he told the grievous story of the decadence of the Brudenell ladies, not, of course, forgetting the mad marriage of Eleanor Brudenell with the profligate Captain Dugald.

While Bernice was still wondering over these family mistakes and misfortunes, a footman opened the door and said:

"My lady, dinner is served."

"Have Judge Merlin and Lady Vincent returned from their drive?" inquired the countess.

"Yes, my lady; the judge and her ladyship are in the drawing room with Mr. Worth."

"Mr. Brudenell, will you give me your arm?" said the countess, rising, with a smile.

Herman Brudenell bowed and complied. And they left the library and passed on to the little drawing room. As they entered they saw Judge Merlin, Ishmael, and Claudia standing, grouped in conversation, near the fire.

The situation of this long-severed and suddenly reunited pair was certainly rather embarassing, especially to the lady; and to almost any other one it would have been overwhelming. But Berenice was a refined, cultivated, and dignified woman of society; such a woman never loses her self-possession; she is always mistress of the situation. Berenice was so now. But for the bright light in her usually pensive dark eyes, and the rosy flush on her habitually pale cheeks, there was no difference in her aspect, as, with her hand lightly resting on Mr. Brudenell's arm, she advanced towards the group.

Claudia turned around, not altogether in surprise, for Ishmael had thoughtfully prepared them all for this new addition to the family circle.

"Lady Vincent, I believe you have already met my husband, Mr. Brudenell," said the countess, gravely presenting him to her guest. And the form of her words purposely revealed the reconciliation that had just been sealed.

"Oh, yes, I know Mr. Brudenell well, and I am very glad to see him again," said Claudia, offering her hand.

"I had the honor of passing some weeks in Lady Vincent's company at her father's house in Washington," said Mr. Brudenell, gravely bowing. He next turned and shook hands with Judge Merlin. But the old man retained his hand, and took also that of the countess, and as the tears sprang to his aged eyes, he said:

"Dear Brudenell, and dearest lady, I sympathize with you in this reunion with all my heart. May you be very happy; God bless you!" and pressing both their hands, he relinquished them.

Mr. Brudenell and the countess simultaneously bowed in silent acknowledgment of this benediction.

Claudia involuntarily looked up to Ishmael's face; their eyes met— hers betraying the yearning anguish of a famishing heart, and his the most earnest sympathy, the most reverential compassion. Why did Claudia look at him so? Ah! because she could not help it. What was she dreaming of? Perhaps of another possible reunion, that should compensate her for all the woeful past, and bless her in all the happy future.

A moment more, and the folding doors connecting The drawing room with the dining room were thrown open.

"Mr. Brudenell, will you take Lady Vincent in to dinner?" said the countess, with a smile, as she herself gave her hand to Ishmael.

And thus they passed into the dining room.

But for the sadness of one mourning spirit present, the dinner was a pleasant one. And the reunion in the drawing room that evening was calmly happy.



CHAPTER LIII

HOME AGAIN.

Home again! home again! From a foreign shore! And oh, it fills my heart with joy To greet my friends once more.

Music sweet! music soft! Lingers round the place; And oh, I feel the childhood's charm, That time cannot efface! —M. S. Pike.



It had been decided in consultation between Judge Merlin and Ishmael that, under existing circumstances, it would be proper for their party to shorten their visit to Cameron Court, and leave the recently reconciled pair to the enjoyment of their own exclusive company.

And accordingly, while they were all seated at luncheon the next day, Wednesday, Judge Merlin announced their departure for Thursday morning.

This announcement was met by a storm of hospitable expostulation. Both the countess and Mr. Brudenell strongly objected to the early departure of their visitors, and urged their prolonged stay.

But, to all this friendly solicitation, the judge replied:

"My dear countess, painful as it will be for us all to leave Cameron Court, there are imperative reasons for our doing so. It is not only that we have engaged our passages on the steamer that sails on the 15th of this month of February, but that unless we really do sail on that day, we shall not have sufficient time to cross the ocean and get into port before the stormy month of March sets in."

"But this is only Wednesday. The 'Columbus' does not sail until Saturday after next. You might stay with us a week longer, and then have abundant time to run down to Liverpool and get comfortably embarked," said the countess.

"Thank you, dear lady; but the truth is, I wish to show my daughter London before we sail," replied the judge.

"The truth is," said the countess, smiling, "that you are all weary of Cameron Court. Well, so I will no longer oppose your departure. Very early in life I learned the twofold duty of hospitality: 'to greet the coming, speed the parting guest.'"

"Lady Hurstmonceux, we are not weary of Cameron Court. On the contrary we are attached to it, warmly attached to it; we have been happier here than we could have been anywhere else, while under our adverse circumstances. And we shall take leave of you, madam, with the deepest regret—regret only to be softened by the hope of seeing you some time in America," said the judge gravely.

The countess bowed and smiled, but did not in any other manner reply.

"Oh, Berenice; dear Berenice! You will come out to see us, some time, will you not?" urged Claudia.

The countess looked toward her husband with that proud, fond deference which loving wives glory in bestowing, and she said:

"When Mr. Brudenell visits his mother and sisters I shall of course accompany him, and we shall spend a portion of our time at Tanglewood, if you will permit us."

"Berenice, Berenice; what words you use! We know how happy we should be to see you," said Claudia.

"And how honored," said the judge.

Lady Hurstmonceux smiled on Claudia and bowed to the judge. And then the circle arose from the luncheon table and dispersed.

That day Ishmael wrote to Bee, announcing the speedy return of himself and his party, and Judge Merlin wrote to his manager, Reuben Gray, to have the house at Tanglewood prepared for the reception of himself and daughter on or before the 1st of March.

Early on Thursday morning our party took a most affectionate leave of their friends at Cameron Court, and set out in one of the countess' carriages for the railway station at Edinboro', which they reached in time to catch the ten o'clock express for London.

A twelve hours' flight southward brought them into that city. It was ten o'clock, therefore, when they ran into the King's Cross Station. There they took a fly to Morley's Hotel, in the Strand, where they arrived about eleven o'clock. They engaged a suite of apartments, and settled themselves there for a week. A very brief epitome must describe their life in London during that short period.

It was Thursday night when they arrived.

On Friday morning they visited the Tower, taking the whole day for the study of that ancient fortress and its awful traditions; and in the evening they went to Drury Lane, to see Kean in "Macbeth."

On Saturday morning they went to Westminster Abbey, and in the evening to Covent Garden.

On Sunday they attended divine service at St. Paul's, morning and afternoon, and they spent the evening at home.

On Monday they visited the two Houses of Parliament, and in the evening they wed to the Polytechnic.

On Tuesday they went over the old prison of Newgate, and in the evening they heard a celebrated philanthropist lecture at Exeter Hall.

On Wednesday they went down to Windsor and went over Windsor Castle, park, and forest, and they spent the evening looking over the illustrated guidebooks that described these places.

On Thursday morning they returned to London, and employed the day in shopping and other preparations for their homeward voyage; and Ishmael, among his more important purchases, did not forget the dolls for little Molly, nor the box of miniature carpenter's tools for Johnny. They passed this last evening of their stay quietly at home.

On Friday morning they left London for Liverpool, where they arrived at nightfall. They put up at the "Adelphi," the hotel favored by all American travelers, and where they found all their national tastes gratified.

Early on Saturday morning they embarked on their homeward-bound steamer and sailed from England. They were blessed with one of the most favorable voyages on record; the wind was fair, the sky was blue, and the sea smooth from the beginning to the end of their voyage, and on the evening of the tenth day out they ran safely into the harbor of New York. This was Thursday, the 25th of February.

The evening mail for the South had not yet gone; and, while waiting in the office of the Custom House, Ishmael wrote to Bee, announcing the safe arrival of his party; and the judge dashed off a few lines to Reuben Gray, warning him to have all things ready to receive the returning voyagers.

Only one night they rested in the city, and then on Friday morning they left New York, taking the shortest route to Tanglewood—namely, by railroad as far as Baltimore, and then by steamboat to Shelton, on the Potomac.

Our whole party landed at Shelton on Saturday evening. The judge dispatched a messenger on horseback from the little hotel to Tanglewood, to order Reuben Gray to have the fires kindled and supper ready against their arrival, and then, after some little search,—for the hamlet boasted few hackney coaches,—they found a carriage for the judge and his companions and a wagon for the servants and the luggage. It was nine o'clock when they reached Tanglewood.

Hannah and Reuben were standing out under the starlight, listening for the sound of wheels, and they ran forward to greet them as they alighted from the carriage.

"Oh, welcome; welcome home, sir! Thank God, I receive you safe again!" exclaimed Reuben Gray, as he grasped the judge's extended hand and wept for joy.

"Thank you, thank you, Gray. I'm happy to be home once more."

"Oh, my boy; my boy! Do I see you again? Do I really see you again? Thank Heaven; oh, thank Heaven!" cried Hannah, bursting into a passion of tears, as she threw her arms around Ishmael's neck and was pressed to his affectionate heart.

"God bless you, dear Aunt Hannah! I am very glad to come to you again? How are the little ones?"

"Oh, as well as possible, dear."

"Speak to Lady Vincent," whispered Ishmael.

"Madam, I am very glad to see you home once more, but sorry to see you in such deep mourning," said Hannah respectfully.

Judge Merlin then hurried the whole party out of the biting winter air into the house. Here they found all ready for them; the fires kindled, the rooms warmed, the tables set in the comfortable parlor, and the supper ready to be dished. They took time only to make a very slight toilet in their well-warmed chambers, and then they went down to supper. The judge insisted that Hannah and Reuben should join them on this occasion and remain their guests for the evening. And what a happy evening it was. After all their weary wanderings, perils and sorrows in foreign lands, how delightful to be at home once more in their dear native country, gathered together under one beloved roof, and lovingly served by their own affectionate domestics. Ah! one must lose all these blessings for a while, in order to truly to enjoy them.

How earnest was the thanksgiving in the grace uttered by the judge as they all gathered around the supper table! How earnest was the amen silently responded by each heart!

After supper they all went into the well warmed and lighted crimson drawing room. And Claudia sat down before her grand piano, and tried its keys. From long disuse it was somewhat out of tune, certainly; but her fingers evoked from those keys a beautiful prelude, and her voice rose in that simple, but soul-stirring little ballad, "Home Again."

As she sang Ishmael came up behind her, turned the leaves of her music book, and accompanied her in his rich bass voice. At the end of that one song she arose and closed her piano.

"Thank you, my dear," said the judge, drawing his daughter to him and kissing her cheek. "Your song was very appropriate; there is not one here who could not enter into its sentiment with all his heart."

Slowly and sadly Claudia bowed her head; and then she passed on to one of the side tables, took up a lighted bedroom candle, bade them all good-night and retired.

Reuben and Hannah, who on this occasion, at Judge Merlin's request, had remained in the drawing room, now arose and took a respectful leave. And soon after this, Ishmael and the judge separated and retired to their respective chambers.

Ishmael was shown into that one which he had occupied during that eventful first sojourn at Tanglewood. How full of the most interesting associations, the most tender memories, that chamber was. There was the bed upon which he had lain for weeks, a mangled sufferer for Claudia's sake. There was the very same armchair she had sat in hour after hour by his side, beguiling the tedious days of convalescence by talking with him, reading to him, or singing and playing to him on her guitar. Sigh after sigh burst from Ishmael's bosom as he remembered these times. He went to bed, but could not sleep; he lay awake, meditating and praying.

While Ishmael in his lonely chamber prayed, another scene was going on in another part of the house.

Old Katie was holding a reception in the kitchen. All the house servants, all the field laborers, and all the neighboring negroes— bond and free, male and female—were assembled at Tanglewood that night to welcome Katie and her companions home and hear their wondrous adventures in foreign lands.

Katie, in the most gorgeous dress of Scotch plaid, that displayed the most brilliant tints of scarlet, blue and yellow, purple, orange, and green, with a snow-white turban on her head and a snow- white kerchief around her neck, with broad gold ear-rings in her ears and thick gold finger-rings on her fingers—sat in the seat of honor, the chip-bottom armchair, and, for the benefit of the natives, delivered a lecture on the manners and customs of foreign nations, illustrated by her own experiences among them.

Now, if Katie had only related the plain facts of her life in Scotland and in the West India Islands, they had been sufficiently interesting to her simple hearers, but Katie exaggerated her adventures, wrongs, and sufferings beyond all hope of pardon.

"I seen the Queen," she said. "She rode about in a silver coach drawed by a hundred milk-white hosses, wid a golden, crown on her head a yard and a half high, and more niggers to wait on her, chillun, dan you could shake sticks at."

The least of her fictions was this:

"Chillun, I was fust kilt dead, den buried alibe, and kept so till wanted; den fotch to life ag'in, and sold to pirates, and took off to de Stingy Isles, and sold ag'in into slabery; arter which Marster Ishmael Worf drapped right down out'n de clear sky inter de middle ob de street, and if you don't beliebe it jes go ax Marse Ishmael hisse'f, as nebber told a falsehood in his life."

"And so he brought you away, Katie?" inquired Reuben's Sam, who was, of course, present.

"Well, I jes reckon he did some! He made dem Stingy Island barbariums stan' roun' now, I tell you, chillun."

Katie went on with her lecture. Her version of the fate of Lord Vincent, Mrs. Dugald, and Frisbie was rather a free one.

"I walked myse'f right 'traight up to de Queen soon as ebber I totched English ground, and told her all about dem gran' willians, and de Queen ordered de execution ob de whole lot. Which dey was all hung up by de neck till dey was dead de berry next mornin'," she said.

"What, all hung so quick, Katie!" exclaimed Sam, in astonishment.

"All hung; ebery single one ob dem. My lordship and de ehamwally and de whited saltpeter. All hung up by de neck till dey was dead, in de middle ob de street, right in de sight ob ebberybody going along, and serbe 'em right and hopes it did 'em good," said Katie emphatically.

"That was quick work, though," said Sam dubiously.

"Quick work? Dey deserbed it quick, and quicker dan dat. Hi, boy, what you talkin' 'bout? Didn't dey kill me dead, and bury me alibe, amd sell me inter slabery? You'spect how de Queen gwine let sich going on go on while she's de mis'tess ob England? No,'deed; not arter she see all dey made me suffer," exploded Katie.

"'Deed, Aunt Katie, you did see heep o' trouble, didn't you?" said one of her amazed hearers.

"Yes; but, you see, Aunt Katie wanted to see de worl'! "Member how she used to tell us how she wasn't a tree as couldn't be transplanted, and how she was a libin' soul, and a p'og'essive sperrit, and how she wanted to see somefin' ob dis worl' she libbed in afore she parted hence and beed no more," said another.

"Well, I reckon you has seed 'nough ob de worl' now. Hasn't you, Aunt Katie?" inquired a third.

"Well, I jes reckon I has, chillun. I nebber wants to see no more ob dis worl' long as ebber I libs on dis yeth, dere. I be satisfied to settle down here at Tanglewood for de 'mainder ob my mortal days, and thank my 'Vine Marster down on my knees as I has got here safe," said Katie.

"If I was you, Aunt Katie, I'd publish my travels," said Sam.

"I gwine to, honey, 'deed is I. I gwine to publish um good, too. I gwine to get my extinguish friend, de professor dere, to write um all down fur me; and I gwine to publish um good. And now, Sam, chile, as de kettle is b'iling, I wish you jes' make de hot punch, 'cause I'se dead tired, and arter I drinks it I wants to go to bed."

And when the punch was made and served around, this circle also separated for the night.

The next morning, before breakfast, Ishmael walked through the forest to Woodside to see the little children of whom he was so fond. They were already up and waiting for him at the gate. On seeing him they rushed out to meet him with acclamations of joy, and laid hold of his overcoat and began to pull him towards the house.

Ishmael smiled on them, and talked to them, and would have taken them up in his arms, but that his arms were already full, for under one was Molly's family of dolls and under the other Johnny's box of tools. Smilingly he suffered them to pull him into the house, and push him into the arm-chair, and climb up on his knees and seize and search his parcels.

Molly knew her parcel by the feet of the dolls protruding through the end of the paper, and she quickly laid hands on it, sat down flat on the floor and tore it to pieces, revealing to her delighted eyes:

"Dolls, and more dolls, and so many dolls!" as she ecstatically expressed it. Then in the midst of her bliss, she suddenly remembered her benefactor, dropped all her treasures, jumped into his lap, threw her arms around his neck, and said:

"Oh, Cousin Ishmael, what pretty dolls! I will pray to the Lord to give you a great many things for giving me theses."

Ishmael kissed her very gravely and said:

"Pray to the lord to give me wisdom, Molly, for that is the best of all gifts, and I would rather a child should ask it for me than a bishop should."

And he sat Molly down again to enjoy her treasures.

Meanwhile Johnny had torn open his box of miniature carpenter's tools and run out to try their edges on the fences and out-houses; and all without one word of thanks to the donor. Boys, you know, are about as grateful as pigs, who devour the acorns without ever once looking up to see whence they come.

At the moment that Ishmael sat Molly down upon the floor, Hannah came in from a back room, where she had been at work.

On seeing the dolls she lifted both her hands and cried out:

"Oh, Ishmael, Ishmael, what extravagance!"

"Not at all, aunt. Look at little Molly! See how much happiness has been purchased at a trifling outlay, and talk no more of extravagance," said Ishmael, rising and taking his hat.

"Where are you going now? You have not been here a minute," said Hannah.

"Pardon me, I have been here half an hour, and now I must go back to Tanglewood, because they will wait breakfast for me there."

"Well, I declare!" wrathfully began Hannah, but Ishmael gently interrupted her:

"I have bought a fine Scotch tartan shawl for you, Aunt Hannah, and a heavy shepherd's maud for Uncle Reuben. They are such articles as you cannot purchase in this country. I will send them to you by one of the servants. I would have brought them myself, only you see my arms were full."

"Well, I should think so. Thank you, Ishmael! Thank you very much indeed. But when are you coming here to stop a bit?"

"Just as soon as I can, Aunt Hannah. This morning I must go to The Beacon. You may well suppose how anxious I am to be there."

"Humph! I thought now Mrs. Lord Vincent was a widder, all that was over."

"Aunt Hannah, what do you take me for?" exclaimed the young man, in sorrowful astonishment.

"Well, Ishmael, I didn't mean to insult you, so you needn't bite my head off," snapped Mrs. Gray.

"Good-by, Aunt Hannah," said Ishmael, stooping and kissing her cheek.

He hurried away and walked briskly through the woods and reached the house in good time for breakfast; and a happy breakfast it was, but for one sad face there. The old man was so delighted to be home again, under his own forest-shaded roof, seated at his own table, attended by his own affectionate servants, that it seemed as though the years had rolled back in their course and restored to him all the freshness of his youth.

After breakfast Ishmael arose and announced his departure for The Beacon, and requested of the judge the loan of two saddle horses.

"Ishmael, you have refused all compensation beyond your traveling expenses for your services; and I know, indeed, they were of a nature that money could not repay. Yet I do wish to make you some more substantial acknowledgment than empty words of my indebtedness to you. Now there is my Arabian courser, Mahomet. He is a gift worthy of even your acceptance, Ishmael. He has not his equal in America. I refused three thousand dollars for him before I went to Europe. I will not lend him to you, Ishmael! I will beg your acceptance of him—there, now don't refuse! I shall never use him again, and Claudia cannot, for he is not a lady's horse, you know."

"I shall never ride again," here put in Claudia, in a sorrowful voice.

Ishmael started and turned towards her; but she had arisen from the table and withdrawn to the window-seat.

Judge Merlin continued to press his gift upon the young man. But though Ishmael had almost a passion for fine horses, he hesitated to accept this munificent present until he saw that his refusal would give the judge great pain. Then, with sincere expressions of gratitude, he frankly accepted it.

The judge rang a bell and ordered Mahomet saddled and brought around for Mr. Worth, and a groom's horse for his servant.

Ishmael put on his riding-coat and took his hat and gloves. When the horses were announced, Ishmael went and shook hands with his host.

"God bless you, Ishmael; God bless you, my dear boy, for all that you have done for me and for mine! Yea, God bless you, and speed the time when you shall be nearer to me than at present," said the judge, pressing both Ishmael's hands before be dropped them.

Ishmael then crossed the room to take leave of Claudia. She was sitting in the armchair, within the recess of the bay window; her elbow rested on a little stand at her side, and her head was bowed upon her hand; this was her usual attitude now.

"Farewell, Lady Vincent," said Ishmael, in a grave, sweet voice, as he stood before her. She raised her head and looked at him. Oh, what a world of grief, despair, and passionate remorse was expressed in those large, dark, tearless eyes!

"Farewell, Lady Vincent," said Ishmael, deferentially taking her hand.

Her fingers closed spasmodically upon his, as though she would have held him to her side forever.

"Oh, must it be indeed farewell, Ishmael?" she breathed in a voice expiring with anguish.

"Farewell," he repeated gravely, kindly, reverentially; bowing low over the throbbing hand he held; and then he turned and softly left the room.

"It is his sense of honor. Oh, it is his chivalric, nay, his fanatical sense of honor that is ruining us! Unless Bee has the good taste and modesty to release him voluntarily, he will sacrifice me, himself, and her, to the Moloch, Honor," wailed Claudia, as she dropped her head upon her hands in a grief too deep for tears.

Was she right?



CHAPTER LIV.

WHICH IS THE BRIDE?

His horse went on, hoof after hoof, Went on and never stopped, Till down behind the Mansion roof, At once, the red sun dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a lover's head!— "Oh, Heaven!" to himself he cried, "If—if she should be dead!" —Wordsworth.



Ishmael galloped along the road leading to The Beacon, followed at a short distance by the professor, who found some difficulty in keeping up with his master.

Ishmael's aspect was not altogether that of a happy lover going to see his beloved; for his countenance was thoughtful, grave, and sad. How could it be otherwise with him, after the scene he had left? His thoughts, his sympathies, his regrets were with Claudia, the earliest friend of his friendless childhood; with Claudia, grand, noble, and beautiful, even in the wreck of her happiness; with Claudia, loving now as she had never loved before. Yes, his thoughts, his regrets, his sympathies were with her, but where were his love, his esteem, and his admiration?

As he rode on the figure of Claudia, in her woe, became lost in a shadow that was gradually stealing over his soul-one of those mysterious shadows that approaching misfortunes are said to cast before them. In vain he tried by reason to dispel this gloom. The nearer he approached The Beacon, the deeper it settled upon his spirit!

What could it mean? Was all well at The Beacon? Was all well with Bee?

Reuben Gray, when questioned, had said that he had not heard from them in a week. And what might not have happened in a week? At that thought a pang like death shot through his heart, and he put spurs to his horse and urged him forward at his best speed, but with all his haste, the short February day was drawing to its close, and the descending sun was sinking behind the mansion-house and its group of out-buildings when Ishmael rode into the front yard, followed closely by his servant. It was but the work of a moment to spring from his horse, throw the reins to the professor, bound Tip the steps to the front door and ring the bell. The door was opened by Mr. Middleton in person. This was an unprecedented, and ominous circumstance.

Bee's father looked very grave as he held out his hand, saying:

"How do you do, Ishmael? I am glad that you have all returned safely."

"How do you do, Mr. Middleton? I hope—I hope that I find you all well?" said Ishmael, striving to speak composedly.

"Y-yes. Come into the library, my young friend; I wish to speak with you alone before you see any other member of the family," said Mr. Middleton.

Nearly overwhelmed with his emotions, dreading, he knew not what, Ishmael followed Mr. Middleton into the library and dropped into the chair that gentleman pushed towards him.

"Bee-Bee! For Heaven's sake tell me? Is she well?" he asked.

"Y-yes," answered Mr. Middleton hesitatingly, gravely. "Bee is well."

"Good Heaven, sir, can you not speak plainly? We say of the sainted dead that they are well; that it is well with them. Oh, tell me, tell me, is Bee alive and well?" exclaimed the young man, as drops of sweat, forced forth by his great agony of suspense, started from his brow.

"Yes, yes! Bee is alive and well."

Ishmael dropped his head upon his hands and breathed a fervent:

"Thanks be to God!"

"I have given you unintentional alarm, Ishmael."

"Oh, sir, alarm does not begin to express what I have suffered. You have wrung my heart. But let that pass, sir. What is it that you wished to say to me?" said Ishmael, raising his head.

"Take a glass of wine first," said Mr. Middleton, bringing a decanter and glasses from a side-table.

"Thank you, sir, I never touch it. Pray do not regard me; but go on with what you were about to say."

"I will then, Ishmael. And I hope you will forgive me if I speak very plainly."

"Speak then, sir; Bee's father has a holy right to speak plainly to Bee's betrothed," replied Ishmael, wondering what portentous communication these words prefaced.

"It is as Bee's father, and no less as your friend, Ishmael, that I do speak. Ishmael," continued Mr. Middleton solemnly, "we all knew your strong, your very strong attachment to Claudia Merlin before she became Lady Vincent—'

"Well, sir?" said the young man gravely.

"We all knew how nearly heart-broken you were for a considerable time after her marriage, and indeed until you found consolation and healing in the sympathy and affection of my daughter Beatrice."

"Yes, sir," said Ishmael, speaking low and bending his head.

"You possibly mistook this sisterly love of the companion of your childhood for that deeper love that should bind husband and wife together for time and for eternity. And you asked me to give you Bee, and I, rashly perhaps, consented—for who could foresee the end?"

Ishmael grew very pale, but compressed his lips, and governed his strong emotions.

Mr. Middleton continued:

"Lady Vincent fell into trouble. She needed the help of a man with a strong arm, wise head, and pure heart. You were that man, Ishmael. At her first cry for help wafted across the Atlantic, you threw up all your professional prospects, left your office and your clients to take care of themselves, and flew to her relief. It was to your wonderful intelligence, inspired, no doubt, by your pure love, that she owed her deliverance from all the snares laid for her destruction. You have rescued her and brought her safely home. Are you listening, Ishmael?"

"I am listening, sir," answered the young man very gravely. By this time he had begun to understand the drift of Mr. Middleton's discourse, and had recovered his composure, and his look was somewhat stern.

"Well, then, in a word—Lord Vincent is dead, Claudia is free, you have been her constant companion since her widowhood. Now, then, Ishmael, if in these days of close companionship with Lady Vincent your love for Claudia Merlin has revived—"

"Mr. Middleton, how can you speak to me thus?" interrupted Ishmael, in a stern voice, and with flashing eyes, and in very righteous indignation. The next instant, however, he recovered himself. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said sorrowfully. "I should not have spoken so to the father of my betrothed—to my own father, I might almost say. I beg your pardon sincerely."

"Compose yourself, Ishmael, and listen to me. I speak the words of truth and soberness, and you must hear them. I say if in these days of intimate association with Lady Vincent your love for Claudia Merlin has revived, you must break with Bee."

"Mr. Middleton!"

"Gently, Ishmael! If this is so, it cannot be helped, and none of us blame you. The human heart should be free. Nay, it will be free. So—"

"But, Mr. Middleton—"

"Gently, gently, Ishmael, I beg; hear me out. I know what you were about to say. You were about to talk of your plighted word, of fidelity, and of honor. But I think, Ishmael, that, if it is as I suppose, there would be more honor in frankly stating the case to Bee, and asking for the release that she would surely give you than there would be in marrying her while you love another. You should not offer her a divided love. Bee is worthy of a whole heart."

"Do I not know it?" broke forth Ishmael, in strong emotion. "Oh, do I not know it? And do I not give her my whole, unwavering, undivided heart? Mr. Middleton, look at me," said the young man, fixing his truthful, earnest, eloquent eyes upon that gentleman's face. "Look at me! It is true that I once cherished a boyish passion for Lady Vincent—unreasoning, ardent, vehement as such boyish passions are apt to be. But, sir, her marriage with Lord Vincent killed that passion quite. It was dead and buried, without the possibility of resurrection. It was impossible for me to love another man's wife. Every honorable principle, every delicate instinct of my nature forbade it. On her marriage day my boyish flame burned to ashes; and, sir, such ashes as are never rekindled again. Never, under any circumstances. It is true that I have felt the deepest sympathy for Lady Vincent in her sorrows; but not more, sir, than it is my nature to feel for any suffering woman; not more, sir, I assure you, than I felt for that poor, little middle-aged widow who was my first client; not more, scarcely so much, as I felt for Lady Hurstmonceux in her desertion. Oh, sir, the love that I gave to Bee is not the transient passion of a boy, it is the steadfast affection of a man. And since the blessed day of our betrothal my heart has known no shadow of turning from its fidelity to her. Sir, do you believe me?"

"I do, I do, Ishmael, and I beg you to forgive me for my doubts of you."

"For myself, I have nothing to forgive. But, sir, I hope, I trust, that you have not disturbed Bee with these doubts."

"Well, Ishmael, you know, I felt it my duty gradually to prepare her mind for the shock that she might have received had those old coals of yours been rekindled."

"Then Heaven forgive you, Mr. Middleton! Where is she? Can I see her now?"

"Of course you can, Ishmael. In any case, you should have seen her once more. If you had been going to break with her, you would have had to see her to ask from her own lips your release."

"Where is she—where?"

"In the drawing room—waiting, like the good girl that she is, to give you your freedom, should you desire it of her."

"I say—God forgive you, Mr. Middleton!" said Ishmael, starting off.

Suddenly he stopped; he was very much agitated, and he did not wish to break in on Bee in that disturbed state. He poured out a large glass of water and drank it off; stood still a minute to recover his composure, and then went quietly to the drawing room. Very softly he opened the door.

There she was. Ah, it seemed ages since he had seen her last. And now he stood for a moment looking at her, before he advanced into the room.

She was standing at the west window, apparently looking out at the wintry, red sunset. Although it was afternoon, she still wore a long, flowing, white merino morning dress, and her bright golden brown hair was unwound, hanging loose upon her shoulders. The beams of the setting sun, streaming in full upon her, illumined the outlines of her beautiful head and graceful form. A lovely picture she made as she stood there like some fair spirit.

Ishmael advanced softly towards her, stood behind her.

"Bee; dear, dear Bee!" he said, putting his arms around her.

She turned in a moment, exclaiming:

"Dear Ishmael; dearest brother!" and was caught to his bosom. She dropped her head upon his shoulder, and burst into a flood of tears. She wept long and convulsively, and he held her closely to his heart, and soothed her with loving words. It seemed she did not take in the full purport of those words, for presently she ceased weeping, gently disengaged herself from his embrace, and sat down upon the corner of the sofa, with her elbow resting on his arm, and her head leaning upon her hand. And then, as he looked at her, Ishmael saw for the first time how changed, how sadly changed she was.

Bee's face had always been fair, clear, and delicate, but now it was so white, wan, and shadowy that her sweet blue eyes seemed preternaturally large, bright, and hollow. She began to speak, but with an effort that was very perceptible:

"Dear Ishmael, dearest and ever dearest brother, I did not mean to weep so; it was very foolish; but then you know we girls weep for almost anything, or nothing; so you—"

Her voice sank into silence.

"My darling, why should you weep at all? and why do you call me brother?" whispered Ishmael, sitting down beside her, and drawing her towards him.

But again she gently withdrew herself from him, and looking into his face with her clear eyes and sweet smile, she said:

"Why? Because, dear Ishmael, though we shall never meet again after to-day—though it would not be right that we should—yet I shall always hold you as the dearest among my brothers. Oh, did you think; did you think it could be otherwise? Did you think this dispensation could turn me against you? Oh, no, no, no, Ishmael; it could not. Nothing that you could do could turn me against you, because you would do no wrong. You have not done wrong now, dear; do not imagine that any of us think so. We do not presume to blame you—none of us; not my father, not my mother—least of all myself. It was—-"

Again her sinking voice dropped into silence. "Bee; darling, darling Bee, you do not know what you are talking about. I love you, Bee; I love you," said Ishmael earnestly, again trying to draw her to his heart; but again she gently prevented him, as with a wan smile, and in a low voice, she answered:

"I know you do, dear; I never doubted that you did. You always loved me as if I were your own little sister. But not as you loved her, Ishmael."

"Bee—-"

"Hush, dear, let me speak while I have strength to do so. She was your first love, Ishmael; your first friend, you remember. With all her faults—and they are but as the spots upon the sun—she is a glorious creature, and worthy of you. I always knew that I was not to be compared to her."

"No, Heaven knows that you were not," breathed Ishmael inaudibly, as he watched Bee.

"All your friends, Ishmael—all who love you and who are interested in your welfare—if they could influence your choice, would direct it to her, rather than to me. You are making your name illustrious; you will some time attain a high station in society. And who is there so worthy to bear your name and share your station as that queenly woman?"

"Bee, Bee, you almost break my heart. I tell you I love you, Bee. I love you!"

"I know you do, dear; I have said that you do; and you are distressed about me; but do not be so, dear. Indeed I shall be very well; I shall have work to occupy me and duties to interest me; indeed I shall be happy, Ishmael; indeed I shall; and I shall always love you, as a little sister loves her dearest brother; so take your trothplight back again, dear, and with it take my prayers for your happiness," said Bee, beginning to draw the engagement ring from her finger.

"Bee, Bee, what are you doing? You will not listen to me. I love you, Bee! I love you. Hear me! There is no woman in the world that can rival you for an instant in my heart; no, not one; and there has never been one. That boyish passion I once cherished for another, and that haunts your imagination so fatally, was but a blaze of straw that quickly burned out. It was a fever common to boyhood. Few men, arrived at years of discretion, Bee, would like to marry their first follies—for it is a misnomer to call them first loves. Yes, very few men would like to do so, Bee, least of all would I. What I give you, Bee, is a constant, steadfast love, a love for time and for eternity. Oh, my dearest, hear me, and believe me," he said, speaking fervently, earnestly, forcibly.

She had started and caught her breath; and now she was looking and listening, as though she doubted the evidence of her own eyes and ears.

He had taken her hand and was resetting the ring more firmly on the finger, from which, indeed, she had not quite withdrawn it.

"Do you believe me now, dear Bee?" he softly inquired.

"Believe you? Why, Ishmael, I never doubted your word in all my life. But—but I cannot realize it. I cannot bring it home to my heart yet. How is it possible it should be true? How is it possible you should choose me, when you might marry her?" said Bee, with large, wondering eyes.

"How is it possible, my darling one, that you should not know how much more lovely you are than any other girl, or woman, I have ever seen—except one."

"Except one, Ishmael?" she inquired, with a faint smile.

"Except the Countess of Hurstmonceux, who is almost as good and as beautiful as you. Bee, my darling, are you satisfied now?"

"Oh, Ishmael, I cannot realize it. I have been schooling my heart so long, so long, to resign you."

"So long? How long, my dearest?"

"Oh, ever since we heard that she was free. And that has been—let me see—why, indeed, it has been but a week. But oh, Ishmael, it seems to me that years and years have passed since my father told me to prepare for a disappointment."

"Heaven pardon him; I scarcely can," said Ishmael to himself.

"But is it indeed true? Do you really love me best of all? And can you be satisfied with me, with me?"

"'Satisfied' with you, dearest? Well, I suppose that is the best word after all. Yes, dearest; yes, perfectly, eternally satisfied with you, Bee," he said, drawing her to his heart. And this time she did not withdraw herself from his embrace; but, with a soft sob of joy, she dropped her head upon his bosom.

"You believe my love now, Bee?" he stooped and whispered.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, Ishmael; and I am so happy," she murmured.

"Now then listen to me, dearest, for I have something to say to you. Do you remember, love, that day you came to me in the arbor? I was sleeping the heavy sleep of inebriation; and you wept over me and veiled my humbled head with your own dear handkerchief, and glided away as softly as you came. Do you remember, dear, that night you sat up at your window, watching and waiting to let me in with your own dear hand, that none should witness my humiliation? Bee, apparently that was a compassionate sister, trying to save from obloquy an earing brother. But really, Bee, as the truth stands in the spiritual world, it is this: A sinner was sleeping upon one of the foulest gulfs in the depths of perdition. A single turn in his sleep and he would have been eternally lost; but an angel came from Heaven, and with her gentle hand softly aroused him and drew him out of danger. Bee, I was that sinner on the brink of eternal woe, and you that angel from Heaven who saved him. Bee, from that day I knew that God had sent you to be my guardian spirit through this world. And when I forget that day, Bee, may the Lord forget me. And when I cease to adore you for it, Bee, may the Lord cease to love me. But as love of Heaven is sure, Bee, so is my love for you. And both are eternal. Oh, love, bride, wife; hear me; believe me; love me!"

"Oh, I do, I do, Ishmael, and I am so happy. And the very spring of my happiness in the thought that I content you."

"With an infinite content, Bee."

"And now let us go to my dear mother; she will be so glad; she loves you so much, you know, Ishmael," said Bee, gently releasing herself—and looking up, her fair face now rosy with delicate bloom and the tones of her voice thrilling with subdued joy.

Ishmael arose and gave her his arm, and they passed out of the drawing room and entered the morning room, where Mrs. Middleton sat among her younger children.

"Mamma," said Bee, "we were none of us right; here is Ishmael to speak for himself."

"I know it, dear; your papa has just been in here, and told me all about it. How do you do, Ishmael? Welcome home, my son," said Mrs. Middleton, rising and holding out her arms.

Ishmael warmly embraced Bee's mother.

But by this time the children had gathered around him, clamorous for recognition. All children were very fond of Ishmael.

While he was shaking hands with the boys, kissing the little girls, and lifting the youngest up in his arms, Mr. Middleton came in, and the evening passed happily.

Ishmael remained one happy week with Bee, and then leaving her, recovered, blooming, and happy, he returned to Washington, where he was affectionately welcomed by the two fair and gentle old ladies, who had put his rooms in holiday order to receive him. He returned in good time for the opening of the spring term of the circuit court, and soon found himself surrounded with clients, and the business of his office prospered greatly.



CHAPTER LV.

CONCLUSION.

How saidst thou!-Labor:-why his work is pleasure; His days are pleasantness, his nights are peace; He drinks of joys that neither cloy, nor cease, A well that gushes blessings without measure; Yea, and to crown the cup of peace with praise, Both God and man approve his works and ways. —Martin F. Tupper.



Early in the spring of the following year a great distinction awaited Ishmael Worth. Young as he then was, he had won the admiration and confidence of the greatest statesmen and politicians of the day. And there were statesmen as well as politicians then. "There were giants in those days." And from among all the profound lawyers and learned judges of the country, young Ishmael Worth was selected by our government as their especial ambassador to the Court of France, to settle with the French ministry some knotty point of international law about which the two countries were in danger of going to war.

Ishmael was to sail in May. His marriage with Bee had been deferred upon different pretexts by her family; for not very willingly do parents part with such a daughter as Bee, even to a husband so well beloved and highly esteemed as Ishmael; and Ishmael and Bee had reluctantly, but dutifully, submitted to their wishes, but not again would Ishmael cross the Atlantic without Bee. So, on the 1st of May they were very quietly married in the parish church that the family attended. Judge Merlin and his daughter were, of course, invited to be present at the ceremony; but both sent excuses, with best wishes for the happiness of the young pair. Not yet could Claudia look calmly on the marriage of Ishmael and Bee.

On the 7th of May Ishmael and his bride sailed from New York to Havre, for Paris. There he satisfactorily concluded the important business upon which he had been sent, and it is supposed to have been owing to his wise diplomacy alone, under Divine Providence, that a war was averted, and the disputed question settled upon an amicable and permanent basis. Having thus performed his mission, he devoted himself exclusively to his bride. She was presented at the French court, where her beauty, resplendent now with perfect love and joy, made a great sensation, even in that court of beauties. She went to some of the most select and exclusive of the ambassadors' balls, and everywhere, without seeking or desiring such distinction, she became the cynosure of all eyes. When the season was over in Paris they made the tour of Europe, seeing the best that was to be seen, stopping at all the principal capitals, and, through our ministers, entering into all the court circles; and everywhere the handsome person, courtly address, and brilliant intellect of Ishmael, and the beauty, grace, and amiability of Bee, inspired admiration and respect. They came last to England. In London they were the guests of our minister. Here also Bee was presented at court, where, as elsewhere, her rare loveliness was the theme of every tongue.

Meanwhile, Claudia, living in widowhood and seclusion, learned all of Bee's transatlantic triumphs through the "court circulars" and "fashionable intelligence" of the English papers; and through the gossiping foreign letter writers of the New York journals; all of which in a morbid curiosity she took, and in a self-tormenting spirit studied. In what bitterness of soul she read of all these triumphs! This was exactly what she had marked out for herself, when she sold her soul to the fiend, in becoming the wife of Lord Vincent! And how the fiend had cheated her! Here she was at an obscure country house, wearing out the days of her youth in hopeless widowhood and loneliness. This splendid career of Bee was the very thing to attain which she had sacrificed the struggling young lawyer, and taken the noble viscount. And now it was that very young lawyer who introduced his bride to all these triumphs; while that very viscount had left her to a widowhood of obscurity and reproach! In eagerly, recklessly, sinfully snatching at these social honors she had lost them all, while Bee, without seeking or desiring them, by simply walking forward in her path of love and duty, had found them in her way. But for her own wicked pride and mental short- sightedness, she might be occupying that very station now so gracefully adorned by Bee.

What a lesson it was! Claudia bowed her haughty head and took it well to heart. "It is bitter, it is bitter; but it is just, and I accept it. I will learn of it. I cannot be happy; but I can be dutiful. I have but my father left in this world. I will devote myself to him and to God," she said, and she kept her word.

There is one incident in the travels of Ishmael and Bee that should be recorded here, since it concerns a lady(?) that figured rather conspicuously in this history. The young pair were at Cameron Court, on a visit to the Countess of Hurstmonceux and Mr. Brudenell, whom they found enjoying much calm domestic happiness. Making Cameron Court their headquarters, Ishmael and Bee went on many excursions through the country and visited many interesting places. Among the rest, they inspected the model Reformatory Female Prison at Ballmornock. While they were going through one of the workrooms, Bee suddenly pressed her husband's arm and whispered:

"Ishmael, dear, observe that poor young woman sitting there binding shoes. How pretty and lady-like she seems, to be in such a place as this, poor thing!"

Ishmael looked as desired; and at the same moment the female prisoner raised her head; and their eyes met.

"Come away, Bee, my darling," said Ishmael, suddenly turn his wife around and leading her from the room.

"She really seemed to know you, Ishmael," said Bee, as they left the prison.

"She did, love; it was Mrs. Dugald."

Bee's blue eyes opened wide, in wonder and sorrow, and she walked on in silence and in thought.

Yes, the female prisoner, in the coarse gray woolen gown and close white linen cap, who sat on the wooden bench binding shoes, was Katie's "whited sepulcher." She had been sent first to the Bridewell, where for a few days she had been very violent and ungovernable, but she soon learned that her best interests lay in submission; and for months afterwards she behaved so well that at length she was sent to the milder Reformatory, to work out her ten years of penal servitude. Here she was supplied with food, clothing, and shelter—all of a good, coarse, substantial sort. But she was compelled to work very steadily all the week, and to hear two good sermons on Sunday, and as she had never in her life before enjoyed such excellent moral training as this, let us hope that the Reformatory really reformed her.

Ishmael and Bee returned home in the early autumn. Almost immediately upon his arrival in Washington, Ishmael was made district attorney. The emoluments of this office, added to the income from his private practice, brought him in a revenue that justified him in taking an elegant little suburban villa, situated within its own beautiful grounds and within an easy distance from his office. Here he lived with Bee, as happy, and making her as happy, as they both deserved to be.

It was in the third winter of Claudia's widowhood that the health of her father began to fail. A warmer climate was recommended to him as the only condition of his prolonged life. He went to Cuba, attended by Claudia, now his devoted nurse. In that more genial atmosphere his health improved so much that he entered moderately into the society of the capital, and renewed some of his old acquaintance. He found that Philip Tourneysee had succeeded at last in winning the heart of the pretty Creole widow, Senora Donna Eleanora Pacheco, to whom he had been married a year. He met again that magnificent old grandee of Castile, Senor Don Filipo Martinez, Marquis de la Santo Espirito, who at first sight became an ardent admirer of Claudia, and the more the Castilian nobleman of this pale pensive beauty, the more he admired her; and the more he observed her devotion to her father, the more he esteemed her. At length he formally proposed to her and was accepted. And at about the same time the marquis received the high official appointment he had been so long expecting. Claudia, in marrying him, became the wife of the Captain General of Cuba, and the first lady on the island. But, mark you! she had not sought nor expected this distinction. She simply found it in the performance of her duties; and if she did not love her stately husband with the ardor of her youth, she admired and revered him. In his private life she made him a good wife; in his public career an intelligent counselor; in everything a faithful companion. Judge Merlin spent all his winters with them in Havana; and all his summers at Tanglewood, taken care of by Katie.

A few words about the other characters of our story.

Old Mrs. Brudenell and her daughters vegetated on at Brudenell Hall, in a monotony that was broken by only three incidents in as many years. The first was the death of poor Eleanor, whose worthless husband had died of excess some months before; the second incident was the marriage of Elizabeth Brudenell to the old pastor of her parish, who repented of his celibacy because he had become infirm, and took a wife because he required a nurse; and the third was the visit of the Countess of Hurstmonceux and Mr. Brudenell, who came and spent a few months among their friends in America, and then returned to their delightful home in Scotland.

The Middletons continued to live at The Beacon, but every winter they spent a month at The Bee-Hive, which was the name of the Worths' villa; and every summer Ishmael, Bee, and their lovely little daughter, Nora, passed a few weeks amid the invigorating sea- breezes at The Beacon.

The professor lived with Ishmael, in the enjoyment of a vigorous and happy old age.

Reuben and Hannah Gray continued to reside at Woodside, cultivating the Tanglewood estate and bringing up their two children.

Alfred Burghe was cashiered for "conduct unworthy of an officer and a gentleman," as the charge against him on his trial set forth; and he and his brother have passed into forgetfulness.

Sally and Jim were united, of course, and lived as servants at Tanglewood, where old Katie, as housekeeper, reigned supreme.

What else?

Ishmael loved, prayed, and worked—worked more than ever, for he knew that though it was hard to win, it was harder to secure fame. He went on from success to success. He became illustrious.

THE END