"Oh, Marse Ishmael, you needn't have taken no trouble, not on my account, sir, I am sure; dough I'm thousand times obleege to you, and shall be proud o' de breas'pin, 'cause I does love breas'pins, 'specially coral," said Sally, courtesying and smiling all over her face.

"Well, well," said Hannah impatiently, "now be off with you directly, and show your thankfulness by getting supper for your Marse Ishmael as quick as ever you can. Never mind the table—I'll set that."

Sally dropped another courtesy and vanished.

"Where did you say your trunk was, Ishmael?" inquired Gray, as they walked into the house.

"He never said it was anywhere; he only said he had a coral breastpin in it for Sally," put in the literal Hannah.

"My trunk is at the Steamboat Hotel in Shelton, Uncle Reuben. I could not at once find a cart to bring it over, for I was too anxious to see you all to spend time looking for one. So I left it with the landlord, with orders to forward it on Monday."

"Oh, sho! And what are you to do in the meantime? And Sally'll go crazy for a sight of her breastpin! So I'll just go out and make Sam put the horse to the light wagon, and go right after it; he'll jest have time to go and get it and come back afore it's dark," said Reuben; and without waiting to hear any of Ishmael's remonstrances, he went out immediately to give his orders to Sam.

Hannah followed Ishmael up to his own old room in the garret, to see that he had fresh water, fine soap, clean towels, and all that was requisite for his comfort.

And then leaving him to refresh himself with a wash, she returned downstairs to set the table for tea.

By the time she had laid her best damask table-cloth, and set out her best japan waiter and china tea-set, and put her nicest preserves in cut glass saucers, and set the iced plumcake in the middle of the table, Ishmael, looking fresh from his renewed toilet, came down into the parlor.

She immediately drew forward the easiest arm-chair for his accommodation.

He sat down in it and called the two children and the dog, who all gathered around him for their share of his caresses.

And at the same moment Reuben, having dispatched Sam on his errand to Shelton, came in and sat down, with his big hands on his knees, and his head bent forward, contemplating the group around Ishmael with immense satisfaction.

Hannah was going in and out between the parlor and the pantry bringing cream, butter, butter-milk, and so forth.

Ishmael lifted John upon his knees, and while smoothing back the flaxen curls from the child's well-shaped forehead, said:

"This little fellow has got a great deal in this head of his! What do you intend to make of him, Uncle Reuben?"

"Law, Ishmael, how can I tell!" grinned Reuben.

"You should give him an education and fit him for one of the learned professions; or, no; I will do that, if Heaven spares us both!" said Ishmael benevolently; then smiling down upon the child, he said:

"What would you like to be when you grow up, Johnny?"

"I don't know," answered inexperience.

"Would you like to be a lawyer?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"Satisfactory! Would you like to be a doctor?"

"'No."

"Why?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"'As before.' Would you like to be a parson?"

"No."

"Why?"

"'Cause I wouldn't."

"Sharp little fellow, isn't he, Ishmael? Got his answer always ready!" said the father, rubbing his knees in delight.

Ishmael smiled at Reuben Gray and then turned to the child and said:

"What would you like to be, Johnny?"

"Well, I'd like to be a cart-driver like Sam, and drive the ox team!"

"Aspiring young gentleman!" said Ishmael, smiling.

"There now," said Hannah, who had heard the latter part of this conversation, "that's what I tell Reuben. He needn't think he is going to make ladies and gentlemen out of our children. They are just good honest workman's children, and will always be so; for 'what's bred in the bone will never come out in the flesh'; and 'trot mammy, trot daddy, the colt will never pace.' Cart-driver!" mocked Hannah, in intense disgust.

"Nonsense, Aunt Hannah! Why, don't you know that when I was Johnny's age my highest earthly ambition was to become a professor of odd jobs, like the renowned Jim Morris, who was certainly the greatest man of my acquaintance!"

While they were chatting away in this manner Sally brought in the coffee and tea, which was soon followed by dishes of fried oysters, stewed oysters, fried ham, and broiled chicken, and plates of waffles, rolls, and biscuits, and in fact by all the luxuries of a Maryland supper.

Hannah took her place at the head of the table and called her family around her.

And all sat down at the board. Even the dog squatted himself down by the side of Ishmael, where he knew he was sure of good treatment. Sally, neatly dressed, waited on the table. And presently Jim, who had a holiday this Saturday evening and was spending it with Sally, came in, and after shaking hands with "Mr. Ishmael" and welcoming him to the neighborhood, stood behind his chair and anticipated his wants as if he, Jim, had been lord-in-waiting upon a prince.

When supper was over and the service cleared away, Ishmael, Reuben, Hannah, and the children, who had been allowed to sit up a little longer in honor of Ishmael's visit, gathered together on the front porch to enjoy the delicious coolness of the clear, starlit, summer evening.

While they were still sitting there, chatting over the old times and the new days, the sound of wheels were heard approaching, and Sam drove up in the wagon, in which was Ishmael's trunk and a large box.

Jim was called in from the kitchen, where he had been engaged in making love to Sally, to assist in lifting the luggage in.

The trunk and the box were deposited in the middle of the parlor floor to be opened,—because, forsooth, all that simple family wished to be present and look on at the opening.

Ishmael's personal effects were in the trunk they guessed; but what was in the box? that was the riddle and they could not solve it. Both the children pressed forward to see. Even the dog stood with his ears pricked, his nose straight and his eyes fixed on the interesting box as though he expected a fox to break cover from it as soon as it was opened.

Ishmael had mercy on their curiosity and ended their suspense by ripping off the cover.

And lo! a handsome hobby-horse which he took out and set up before the delighted eyes of Johnny.

He lifted the tiny man into the saddle, fixed his feet in the stirrups, gave him the bridle, and showed him how to manage his steed.

"There, Johnny," said Ishmael, "I cannot realize your aspirations in respect to the driver's seat on the ox-cart, but I think this will do for the present."

"Ah, yes!" cried the ecstatic Johnny, "put Molly up behind! put Molly up behind and let her sit and hold on to me! My horse can carry double."

"Never mind! I've got something for Molly that she will like better than that," said Ishmael, smiling kindly on the little girl, who stood with her finger in her mouth looking as if she thought herself rather neglected.

And he unlocked his trunk and took from the top of it a large, finely painted, substantially dressed wooden doll, that looked as if it could bear a great deal of knocking about without injury.

Molly made an impulsive spring towards this treasure, and was immediately rendered happy by its possession.

Then Sally was elevated to the seventh heaven by the gift of the coral breastpin.

Hannah received a handsome brown silk dress and Reuben a new writing-desk, and Sam a silver watch, and Jim a showy vest-pattern.

And Ishmael, having distributed his presents, ordered his trunk to be carried upstairs, and the box into the outhouse.

When the children were tired of their play Hannah took them off to hear them say their prayers and put them to bed.

And then Ishmael and Reuben were left alone.

And the opportunity that Ishmael wanted had come.

He could have spoken of his parents to either Hannah or Reuben separately; but he felt that he could not enter upon the subject in the presence of both together.

Now he drew his chair to the side of Gray and said:

"Uncle Reuben, I have something serious to say to you."

"Eh! Ishmael! what have I been doing of? I dessay something wrong in the bringing up of the young uns!" said Reuben, in dismay, expecting to be court-martialed upon some grave charge.

"It is of my parents that I wish to speak, Uncle Reuben."

"Oh!" said the latter, with an air of relief.

"You knew my mother, Uncle Reuben; but did you know who my father was?"

"No," said Reuben thoughtfully. "All I knowed was as he married of your mother in a private manner, and from sarcumstances never owned up to it; but left her name and yourn to suffer for it—the cowardly rascal, whoever he was!"

"Hush, Uncle Reuben, hush! You are speaking of my father!"

"And a nice father he wur to let your good mother's fair name come to grief and leave you to perish a'most!"

"Uncle Reuben, you know too little of the circumstances to be able to judge!"

"Law, Ishmael, it takes but little knowledge and less judgment to understand, as when a feller fersakes his wife and child for nothink, and leaves 'em to suffer undesarved scandal and cruel want, he must be an unnatural monster and a parjured vilyun!"

"Uncle Reuben, you are unjust to my father! You must listen to his vindication from my lips, and then you will acquit him of all blame. But first I must tell you in confidence his name—it is Herman Brudenell!"

"There now!" exclaimed Reuben, dropping his pipe in his astonishment; "to think that I had that fact right afore my eyes all my life and never could see it! Well, of all the blind moles and owls, I must a been the blindest! And to think as I was the very first as warned the poor girl agin him at that birthday feast! But, law, arter that I never saw them together agin, no, not once! So I had no cause to s'picion him, no more nor others! Well and now, Ishmael, tell me all how and about it! Long as it was him, Mr. Herman, there must a been something uncommon about it, for I don't believe he'd do anythink dishonorable, not if he knowed it!"

"Not if he knew it! You are right there, Uncle Reuben," said Ishmael, who immediately related the tragic story of his parents' marriage, ending with the family wreck that had ruined all their happiness.

"Dear me! dear, dear me! what a sorrowful story for all hands, to be sure! Well, Ishmael, whoever was most to be pitied in former times, your father is most to be pitied now. Be good to him," said Reuben.

"You may be sure that I will do all that I can to comfort my father, Uncle Reuben. And now a word to you! Speak of this matter to me alone whenever you like; or to Aunt Hannah alone whenever you like; but to no others; and not even to us when we are together! for I cannot bear that this old tragic history should become the subject of general conversation."

"I know, Ishmael, my boy, I know! Mum's the word!" said Reuben.

And the entrance of Hannah at that moment put an end to the conversation.

There was one subject upon which Ishmael felt a little uneasiness— the dread of meeting Claudia.

He knew that she was not expected at Tanglewood until the first of October; for so the judge had informed him in a letter that he had received the very night before he left Washington. And this was only the first of September; and he intended to give himself but two weeks' holiday and to be back at his office by the fourteenth at farthest, full sixteen days before the expected arrival of Lord and Lady Vincent at Tanglewood.

Yet this dread of meeting Claudia haunted him. His love was dead; but as he had told Bee, it had died hard and rent his heart in its death-struggles, and that heart was sore to the touch of her presence.

The judge's letter wherein he had spoken of the date of his daughter and son-in-law's visit had been written several days previous to this evening, and since that, news might have come from them, speaking of some change of plan, involving an earlier visit.

These Ishmael felt were the mere chimeras of imagination. Still he thought he would inquire concerning the family at Tanglewood.

"They are all well up at the house, I hope, Uncle Reuben?" he asked.

"Famous! And having everything shined up bright as a new shilling, in honor of the arrival of my lord and my lady, who are expected, come first o' next mont'."

"On the first of October? Are you sure?"

"On the first of October, sharp! Not a day earlier or later! I was up to the house yes'day afternoon, just afore you come; and sure enough the judge, he had just got a letter from the young madam,—my lady, I mean,—in which she promised not to disappoint him, but to be at Tanglewood punctually on the first of October to a day!"

Reuben, a hard-working man, who was "early to bed and early to rise," concluded this speech with such an awful, uncompromising yawn that Ishmael immediately took up and lighted his bedroom candle, bid them all good-night, and retired.

He was once more in the humble little attic room where he had first chanced upon a set of old law books and imbibed a taste for the legal profession.

There was the old "screwtaw," as Reuben called it, and there was the old well-thumbed volumes that had constituted his sole wealth of books before he had the range of the well-filled library at Tanglewood.

And there was the plain deal table standing within the dormer window, where he had been accustomed to sit and read and write; or, whenever he raised his head, to gaze out upon the ocean-like expanse of water near the mouth of the Potomac.

After all, this humble attic chamber had many points of resemblance with that more pretentious one he had occupied in Judge Merlin's elegant mansion in Washington. Both were on the north side of the Potomac. Each had a large dormer window looking southwest and commanding an extensive view of the river; within the recess of each window he had been accustomed to sit and read or write.

The only difference was that the window in the Washington attic looked down upon the great city and the winding of the river among wooded and rolling hills; while the window of the cottage here looked down upon broad fields sloping to the shore, and upon the vast sea-like expanse of water stretching out of sight under the distant horizon.

The comparison between his two study-windows was in Ishmael's mind as he stood gazing upon the shadowy green fields and the starlit sky and water.

Not long he stood there; he was weary with his journey; so he offered up his evening prayers and went to bed and to sleep.

Early in the morning he awoke, and arose to enjoy the beauty of a summer Sunday in the quiet country. It was a deliciously cool, bright, beautiful autumnal morning.

Ishmael looked out over land and water for a little while, and then quickly dressed himself, offered up his morning prayers and went below.

The family were already assembled in the parlor, and all greeted him cordially.

The table was set, and Sally, neat in her Sunday clothes and splendid in her coral brooch, was waiting ready to bring in the breakfast.

And a fine breakfast it was, of fragrant coffee, rich cream, fresh butter, Indian corn bread, Maryland biscuits, broiled birds, boiled crabs, etc.

And Ishmael, upon whom the salt sea air of the coast was already producing a healthful change, did ample justice to the luxuries spread before him.

"For church this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Reuben.

"Yes; but I must walk over to Tanglewood and go with the judge. He would scarcely ever forgive me if I were to go anywhere, even to church, before visiting him."

"No more he wouldn't, that's a fact," admitted Reuben.



CHAPTER VII.

AT TANGLEWOOD.

Are not the forests, waves and skies, a part Of me and of my soul as I of them? Is not the love of these deep in my heart With a pure passion? Should I not contemn All objects if compared with these? and stem A tide of sufferings, rather than forego Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm Of those whose eyes are only turned below, Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow? —Byron.



After breakfast Ishmael took his hat, and, promising to return in the evening, set out for Tanglewood to spend the day and go to church with the judge.

How he enjoyed that Sunday morning walk through the depths of the forest that lay between Woodside and Tanglewood.

He reached the house just as the judge had finished breakfast. He was shown into the room while the old man still lingered in sheer listlessness over his empty cup and plate.

"Eh, Ishmael! is that you, my boy? Lord bless my soul, how glad I am to see you! Old Jacob was never so glad to see Joseph as I am to see you!" was the greeting of the judge, as he started up, overturning his chair and seizing both his visitor's hands and shaking them vigorously.

"And I am very glad indeed to see you again, sir! I hope you have been well?" said Ishmael warmly, returning his greeting.

"Well? Hum, ha, how can I be well? What is that the poet says?

"'What stamps the wrinkle deepest on the brow, It is to be alone as I am now!'

I miss Claudia, Ishmael. I miss her sadly."

"Lady Vincent will be with you soon, sir," observed Ishmael, in as steady a voice as he could command.

"Yes, she will come on the first of October and stop with me for a month. So her letter of Wednesday received yesterday says. And then I shall lose her forever!" complained the judge, with a deep sigh.

"Ah, but you must look on the bright side, sir! You are independent. You have time and money at your own disposal; and no very strong ties here. You can visit Lady Vincent as often and stay with her as long as you please," smiled Ishmael cheerfully.

"Why, so I can! I never thought of that before! I may certainly pass at least half my time with my daughter if I please!" exclaimed the old man, brightening up.

"Are you going to church this morning, sir?" inquired Ishmael.

"You are, of course!" said the judge; "for you take care never to miss morning service! So I must go!"

"Not on my account. I know the road," smiled Ishmael.

"Oh, in any case I should go. I promised to go and dine at the parsonage, so as to attend afternoon service also. And when I mentioned to Mr. Wynne that I was expecting you down he requested me, if you arrived in time, to bring you with me, as he was desirous of forming your acquaintance. So you see, Ishmael, your fame is spreading."

"I am very grateful to you and to Mr. Wynne," said Ishmael, as his heart suddenly thrilled to the memory that Wynne was the name of the minister who had united his parents in their secret marriage.

"Has Mr. Wynne been long in this parish?" he inquired.

"Some three or four months, I believe. This is his native State, however. He used to be stationed at the Baymouth church, but left it some years ago to go as a missionary to Farther India; but as of late his health failed, he returned home and accepted the call to take charge of this parish."

Ishmael looked wistfully in the face of the judge and said:

"It was very kind in Mr. Wynne to think of inviting me. Why do you suppose he did it?"

"Why, I really do suppose that the report of your splendid successes in Washington has reached him, and he feels some curiosity to see a young man who in so short a time has attained so high a position."

"No, it is not that," said Ishmael, with a genuine blush at this great praise; "but do you really not know what it is?"

"I do not, unless it is what I said," replied the judge, raising his eyebrows.

"He married my parents, and baptized me; he knows that I bear my mother's maiden name; and he was familiar with my early poverty and struggles for life; he left the neighborhood when I was about eight years old," said Ishmael, in a low voice.

The judge opened his eyes and drooped his head for a few moments, and then said:

"Indeed! Your father, when he told me of his marriage with your mother, did not mention the minister's name. Everything else, I believe, he candidly revealed to me, under the seal of confidence; this omission was accidental, and really unimportant. But how surprised Brudenell will be to learn that his old friend and confidant is stationed here."

"Yes."

"And now I can thoroughly understand the great interest Mr. Wynne feels in you. It is not every minister who is the confidant in such a domestic tragedy as that of your poor mother was, Ishmael. It is not only the circumstances of your birth that interest him in you so much, but those taken in connection with your recent successes. I should advise you to meet Mr. Wynne's advances."

"I shall gratefully do so, sir."

"And now I really do suppose it is time to order the carriage, if we mean to go to church to-day," said the judge, rising and touching the bell.

Jim answered it.

"Have the gray horses put to the barouche and brought around. And put a case of that old port wine in the box; I intend to take it as a present to the parson. I always considered port a parsonic wine, and it really is in this case just the thing for an invalid," said the judge, turning to Ishmael as Jim left the room.

In twenty minutes the carriage was ready, and they started for the church, which was some five miles distant. An hour's drive brought them to it.

A picturesque scene that old St. Mary's church presented. It was situated in a clearing of the forest beside the turnpike road. It was built of red brick, and boasted twelve gothic windows and a tall steeple. The church-yard was fenced in with a low brick wall, and had some interesting old tombstones, whose dates were coeval with the first settlement of the State.

Many carriages of every description, from the barouche of the gentleman to the cart of the laborer, were scattered about, drawn up under the shade of the trees. And saddle-horses and donkeys were tied here and there. And groups of negroes, in their gay Sunday attire, stood gossiping among the trees. Some young men, as usual, were loitering at the church door.

The judge's carriage drew up under the shade of a forest tree, and the judge and Ishmael then alighted, and leaving the horses in the care of the coachman went into the church.

The congregation were already assembled, and soon after Judge Merlin and his guest took their seats the minister entered and took his place at the reading-desk and the services commenced.

There was little in this Sunday morning's service to distinguish it from others of the same sort. The minister was a good man and a plodding country parson. He read the morning prayers in a creditable but by no means distinguished manner. And he preached a sermon, more remarkable for its practical bearing than for its eloquence or originality, his text being in these words: "Faith without works is dead."

At the conclusion of the services, while the congregation were leaving the church, the minister descended from his pulpit and advanced towards Judge Merlin, who was also hastening to meet his pastor.

There was a shaking of hands.

Judge Merlin, who was an eminently practical man in all matters but one, complimented the preacher on his practical sermon.

And then without waiting to hear Mr. Wynne's disclaimer, he beckoned Ishmael to step forward, and the usual formula of introduction was performed.

"Mr. Wynne, permit me—Mr. Worth, Mr. Wynne!"

And then were two simultaneous bows and more handshaking.

But both the judge and Ishmael noticed the wistful look with which the latter was regarded by the minister.

"He is comparing likenesses," thought the judge.

"He is thinking of the past and present," thought Ishmael.

And both were right.

Mr. Wynne saw in Ishmael the likeness to both his parents, and noted how happily nature had distinguished him with the best points of each. And he was wondering at the miracle of seeing that the all- forsaken child, born to poverty, shame, and obscurity, was by the Lord's blessing on his own persevering efforts certainly rising to wealth, honor, and fame.

Mr. Wynne renewed his pressing invitation to Judge Merlin and Mr. Worth to accompany him home to dinner.

And as they accepted the minister's hospitality the whole party moved off towards the parsonage, which was situated in another clearing of the forest about a quarter of a mile behind the church.

The parson was blessed with the parson's luck of a large family, consisting of a wife, several sisters and sisters-in-law, and nieces, and so many sons and daughters of all ages, from one month old to twenty years, that the judge, after counting thirteen before he came to the end of the list, gave up the job in despair.

Notwithstanding, or perhaps because of, this, for "the more, the merrier," you know, the family dinner passed off pleasantly. And after dinner they all returned to church to attend the afternoon service.

And when that was ended Judge Merlin and Ishmael took leave of the parson and his family and returned home.

When they reached Tanglewood and alighted, the judge, who was first out, was accosted by his servant Jim, who spoke a few words in a low tone, which had the effect of hurrying the judge into the house.

Ishmael followed at his leisure.

He entered the drawing room and was walking slowly and thoughtfully up and down the room, when the sound of voices in the adjoining library caught his ear and transfixed him to the spot.

"Yes, papa, I am here, and alone—strange as this may seem!"

It was the voice of Claudia that spoke these words.



CHAPTER VIII.

WHY CLAUDIA WAS ALONE.

Be not amazed at life. 'Tis still The mode of God with his elect: Their hopes exactly to fulfill, In times and ways they least expect.

Who marry as they choose, and choose, Not as they ought, they mock the priest, And leaving out obedience, lose The finest flavor of the feast. —Coventry Patmore.



Ishmael stood transfixed to the spot—for a moment, and then, breaking the spell with which the sound of Claudia's voice had bound him, he passed into the hall, took his hat from the rack, and said to Jim, who was still in attendance there:

"Give my respects to your master, and say that I have an engagement this evening that obliges me to withdraw. And give him my adieus."

"But, Mr. Ishmael, sir, you will wait for tea. Lady Vincent is here, sir, just arrived—" began Jim, with the affectionate freedom of a petted servant.

But Ishmael had left the hall, to keep his promise of spending the evening with Reuben and Hannah.

Claudia, standing by her father's side in the library, had also heard the sound of Ishmael's voice, as he spoke to the servant in the hall; and she suddenly ceased talking and looked as if turned to stone.

"Why, what is the matter, my dear?" inquired the judge, surprised at the panic into which she had been cast.

"Papa, he here!" she said.

"Who?"

"Ishmael!"

"Yes. Why?"

"Papa, make some excuse and get rid of him. I must not, cannot, will not, meet him now!" she exclaimed, in a half breathless voice of ill-suppressed excitement.

The judge looked at his daughter wistfully, painfully, for a moment, and then, as something like the truth in regard to Claudia's feelings broke upon him, he replied very gravely:

"My dear, you need not meet him; and he has saved me the embarrassment of sending him away. He has gone, if I mistake not."

"If you 'mistake' not. There must be no question of this, sir! See! and if he has not gone, tell him to go directly!"

"Claudia!"

"Oh, papa, I am nearly crazy! Go!"

The judge stepped out into the hall and made the necessary inquiries.

And Jim gave Ishmael's message.

With this the judge returned to Claudia.

"He is gone. And now, my dear, I wish to know why it is that you are here alone? I never in my life heard of such a thing. Where is Vincent?"

"Papa, I am nearly fainting with fatigue. Will you ring for one of the women to show Ruth my room? I suppose I have my old one?" she said, throwing herself back in her chair.

"Why—no, my dear; I fancy I saw Katie and the maids decorating the suite of rooms on the opposite side of the hall on this floor for you. I'll see."

"Anywhere, anywhere—'out of the world,'" sighed Claudia, as the judge sharply rang the bell.

Jim answered it.

"Tell Katie to show Lady Vincent's maid to her ladyship's chamber, and do you see the luggage taken there."

Jim bowed and turned to go.

"Stop," said the judge. "Claudia, my dear, what refreshment will you take before going up? A glass of wine? a cup of tea?" he inquired, looking anxiously upon the harassed countenance and languid figure of his daughter.

"A cup of coffee, papa, if they have any ready; if not, anything they can bring quickest."

"A cup of coffee for Lady Vincent in one minute, ready or not ready!" was the somewhat unreasonable command of the judge.

Jim disappeared to deliver all his master's orders.

And it seemed that the coffee was ready, for he almost immediately reappeared bearing a tray with the service arranged upon it.

"Is it strong, Jim?" inquired Claudia, as she raised the cup to her lips.

"Yes, miss—ma'am—my ladyship, I mean!" said poor Jim, who was excessively bothered by Claudia's new title and the changes that were rung upon it.

The coffee must have been strong, to judge by its effects upon Claudia.

"Take it away," she said, after having drunk two cupfuls. "Papa, I feel better; and while Ruth is unpacking my clothes I may just as well sit here and tell you why, if indeed I really know why, I am here alone. We were at Niagara, where we had intended to remain throughout this month of September. All the world seemed to know where we were and how long we intended to stay; for you are aware how absurdly we democratic and republican Americans worship rank and title; and how certain our reporters would be to chronicle the movements of Lord and Lady Vincent," said Claudia, with that air of world-scorn and self-scorn in which she often indulged.

"Well, Lady Vincent cannot consistently find fault with that," said the judge, with a covert smile.

"Because Lady Vincent shares the folly or has shared it," said Claudia; "but Lord Vincent did find fault with it; great fault—much greater fault than was necessary, I thought, and grumbled incessantly at our custom of registering names at the hotels, and at 'American snobbery and impertinence' generally."

"Bless his impudence! Who sent for him?"

"Papa, we should have quarreled upon this subject in our honeymoon, if I had had respect enough for him to hold any controversy with him."

"Claudia!"

"Well, I cannot help it, papa! I must speak out somewhere and to someone! Where so well as here in the woods; and to whom so well as to you?"

"You have not yet told me why you are here alone. And I assure you, Claudia, that the fact gives me uneasiness; it is unusual— unprecedented!"

"I am telling you, papa. One morning while we were still at Niagara I was sitting alone in our private parlor, when our mail was brought in—your letter for me, and three letters for 'my lord.' Of the latter, the first bore the postmark of Banff, the second that of Liverpool, and the third that of New York. They were all superscribed by the same hand; all were evidently from the same person. After turning them over and over in my hand, and in my mind, I came to the conclusion that the first dated was written to announce the writer as starting upon a journey; the second to announce the embarkment at Liverpool; and the third the arrival at New York; and that these letters, though posted at different times and places, had by the irregularities of the ocean mails happened to arrive at their final destination the same day. Lord Vincent has a mother and several sisters; yet I felt very sure that the letters never came from either of them, because in fact I had seen the handwriting of each in their letters to him. While I was still wondering over these rather mysterious letters my lord lounged into the room.

"I handed him the letters, the Banff one being on the top. As soon as he saw the handwriting he gave vent to various exclamations of annoyance, such as I had never heard from a gentleman, and scarcely ever expected to hear from a lord. 'Bosh!' 'Bother!' 'Here's a go!' 'Set fire to her,' etc., being among the most harmless and refined. But presently he saw the postmarks of Liverpool and New York on the other letters, and, after tearing them open and devouring their contents, he gave way to a fury of passion that positively appalled me. Papa, he swore and cursed like a pirate in a storm!"

"At you?"

"At me? I think not," answered Claudia haughtily; "but at some person or persons unknown. However, as he forgot himself so far as to give vent to his passion in my presence, I got up and retired to my chamber. Presently he came in, gracefully apologized for his violence,—did not explain the cause of it, however,—but requested me to give orders for the packing of our trunks and be ready to leave for New York in one hour."

"Did he give you no reason for his sudden movement?"

"Not until I inquired; then he gave me the general, convenient, unsatisfactory reason 'business.' In an hour we were off to New York. But now, papa, comes the singular part of the affair. When we reached the city, instead of driving to one of the best hotels, as had always been his custom, he drove to quite an inferior place, and registered our names—'Captain and Mrs. Jenkins.'"

"What on earth did he do that for?"

"How can I tell? When I made the same inquiry of him he merely answered that he was tired of being trumpeted to the world by these 'impertinent Yankee reporters!' The next day he left me alone in that stupid place and went out on his 'business,' whatever that was. And when he returned in the evening he told me that the 'business' was happily concluded, and that we might as well go on to Washington and Tanglewood to pay our promised visit to you. I very readily acceded to that proposition, for, papa, I was pining to see you."

"My dear child!" said the judge, with emotion.

"So next morning we started for the Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington station. We were in good time, and were just comfortably seated in one of the best cars when Lord Vincent caught sight of someone on the platform. And papa, with a muttered curse he started up and hurried from the car, throwing behind to me the hasty words, 'I'll be back soon.' Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed, and he did not come. And while I was still anxiously looking for him the train started. It was the express, and came all the way through. And that is why myself and attendants are here alone."

"All this seems very strange, Claudia," said the judge, with a troubled countenance.

"Yes, very."

"What do you make of it? Of course you, knowing more of the circumstances, are better able to judge than I am."

"Papa, I do not know."

"Who was it that he caught sight of on the platform?"

"A tall, handsome, imperious-looking woman between thirty and forty years of age, I should say; a sort of Cleopatra; very dark, very richly dressed. She was looking at him intently when he caught sight of her and rushed out as I said."

"And you can make nothing of it?"

"Nothing. I do not know whether he missed the train by design or accident; or whether he is at this moment on board the cars steaming to Washington or on board one of the ocean packets steaming to Liverpool."

"A bad, bad business, Claudia; all this grieves me much. You have been but two months married, and you return to me alone and your husband is among the missing; a bad, bad business, Claudia," said the judge very gravely.

"Not so bad as your words would seem to imply, papa. At least I hope not. I am inclined to think the detention was accidental; and that Lord Vincent will arrive by the next boat," said Claudia.

"But how coolly and dispassionately you speak of an uncertainty that would drive any other woman almost mad. At this moment you do not know whether you are abandoned or not, and to be candid with you, you do not seem to care," said the judge austerely.

"Papa, what I paid down my liberty for,—this rank, I mean—is safe! And so whether he goes or stays I am Lady Vincent; and nothing but death can prevent my becoming Countess of Hurstmonceux and a peeress of England," said Claudia defiantly, as she arose and drew her shawl around her shoulders and looked about herself.

"What is it that you want, my dear?" inquired the judge.

"Nothing. I was taking a view of the old familiar objects. How much has happened since I saw them last. It seems to me as if many years had passed since that time. Well, papa, I suppose Ruth has unpacked and put away my clothes by this time, and so I will leave you for the present."

And with a weary, listless air Claudia left the room and turned to go upstairs.

"Not there, not there, my dear, I told you. The rooms on this floor have been prepared for you," said the judge, who had followed her to the door.

With a sigh Claudia turned and crossed the hall and entered the "parlor-chamber," as the large bedroom adjoining the morning room was called.

Ruth was hanging the last dresses in the wardrobe, and Jim was shouldering the last empty trunk to take it away.

"I have left out the silver gray glace, for you to wear this evening, if you please, my lady," said Ruth, indicating the dress that lay upon the bed.

"That will do, Ruth," answered her mistress, whose thoughts were now not on dresses, but on that time when Ishmael, for her sake, lay wounded, bleeding, and almost dying on that very bed.



CHAPTER IX.

HOLIDAY.

Ha! like a kind hand on my brow Comes this fresh breeze. Cooling its dull and feverish glow, While through my being seems to flow She breath of a new life—the healing of the seas.

Good-by to pain and care! I take Mine ease to-day; Here where these sunny waters break, And ripples this keen breeze. I shake All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away.



With every nerve, vein, and artery throbbing with excitement Ishmael hurried away from the house that contained Claudia.

The solitary walk through the thick woods calmed his emotion before he reached Woodside.

He found a tidy room, a tempting tea-table, and smiling faces waiting to welcome him.

"That's my boy!" exclaimed Reuben, coming forward and grasping his hand; "I telled Hannah to keep the tea back a spell, 'cause I knowed you wouldn't disappoint us."

"As if I ever thought you would, Ishmael! Reuben is always prophesying things that can't fail to come true, like the rising of the sun in the east every day, and so forth. And he expects to get credit for his foresight," said Hannah, taking her seat before the steaming tea-pot and calling upon the others to sit down.

"Well, that was rayther a surprise, as met you and the judge, when you comed home from church, wasn't it?" inquired Reuben, as he began to cut slices from the cold ham.

"You knew of the arrival, then?" questioned Ishmael.

"Why, bless you, yes! Why, laws, you know the carriage passed right by here, and stopped to water the horses afore going on to Tanglewood. But look here! There was nobody in it but Mrs. Vincent— blame my head—I mean Mrs. Lord Vincent—and her city maid."

"Lady Vincent, Reuben. How many times will I have to tell you that?" said Hannah impatiently.

"All right, Hannah, my dear; I'll remember next time. Ishmael, my boy, I think you got all your interlects from Hannah. You sartainly didn't get 'em from me. Well as I was a-saying of, there was no one inside except Mrs. Lord—I mean Mrs. Lady Vincent and her city waiting-maid. And on the outside, a-sitting alongside o' the driver, was a gentleman, as Jim as happened to be here introduced to me as Mr. Frisbie, Lord Vincent's vallysham, whatever that may be."

"Body-servant, Reuben," said his monitress.

"Servant! Well, if he was a servant, I don't know nothink! Why, there ain't a gentleman in S'Mary's county as dresses as fine and puts on as many airs!"

"That is quite likely, Uncle Reuben; but for all that, Frisbie is Lord Vincent's servant," said Ishmael.

"Well, hows'ever that may be, there he was alongside o' the driver. But what staggers of me is, that there wa'n't no Lord Vincent nowhere to be seen! He was 'mong the missin'. And that was the rummest go as ever was. A new bride a-comin' home to her 'pa without no bridegroom. And so I jest axed Mr. Frisbie, Esquire, and he telled me how his lordship missed the trail. What trail! And what business had he to be offen the trail, when his wife was on it? That's what I want to know. And, anyways, it's the rummest go as ever was. Did you hear anythink about it, Ishmael?"

"I chanced to overhear Lady Vincent say to her father—that she was alone. That was all. I did not even see her ladyship."

"Well, now, that's another rum go. Didn't wait to see her. And you sich friends? Owtch! Oh! Ah! What's that for, Hannah? You've trod on my toe and ground it a'most to powder! Ah!"

"If your foot is as soft as your head, no wonder every touch hurts it!" snapped Mrs. Gray.

"Law, what a temper she have got, Ishmael!" said poor Reuben, carressing his afflicted foot.

Hannah had effected the diversion she intended, and soon after gave the signal for rising from the table. And she took good care during the rest of the evening that the subject of Lord and Lady Vincent should not be brought upon the tapis.

The next morning being Monday, Ishmael accompanied Reuben in his rounds over his own little farm and the great Tanglewood estate, to see the improvements. The "durrum" cow and calf and the "shank-bye" fowls received due notice. And the first ripe bunches of the "hamburg" grapes were plucked in the visitor's honor.

In the afternoon they went down to the oyster banks and amused themselves with watching Sam rake the oysters and load the cart.

They returned to a late tea.

It was while they were sitting out on the vine-shaded porch, enjoying their usual evening chat under the star-lit sky, that they heard the sound of approaching wheels.

And a few moments afterwards a carriage drew up at the gate.

Reuben walked up to see who was within it. And Ishmael heard the voice of Lord Vincent inquiring:

"Is this the best road to Tanglewood?"

"Well, yes, sir; I do s'pose it's the best, if any can be called the best where none on 'em is good, but every one on 'em as bad as bad can be!" was the encouraging answer.

"Drive on!" said Lord Vincent. And the carriage rolled out of sight into the forest road.

After all, then, the viscount had not absconded. He probably had missed the train. But why had he missed it? That was still the question.

On Tuesday morning Ishmael took leave of Hannah and Reuben, promising to stop and spend another day and night with them on his return to Washington; and mounted on a fine horse, borrowed from Reuben, with his knapsack behind him, he started for the Beacon.

It was yet early in the forenoon when he arrived at that cool promontory where the refreshing sea breezes met him.

As he rode up to the house, that you know fronted the water, he saw Bee, blooming and radiant with youth and beauty, out on the front lawn with her younger sisters and brothers.

Their restless glances caught sight of him first; and they all exclaimed at once:

"Here's Ishmael, Bee! here's Ishmael, Bee!" and ran off to meet him.

Bee impulsively started to run too, but checked herself, and stood, blushing but eager, waiting until Ishmael dismounted and came to greet her.

She met him with a warm, silent welcome, and then, looking at him suddenly, said:

"You are so much better; you are quite well. I am so glad, Ishmael!"

"Yes, I am well and happy, dearest Bee—thanks to you and to Heaven!" said Ishmael, warmly pressing her hands again to his lips, before turning to embrace the children who were jumping around him.

Then they all went into the house, where Mr. and Mrs. Middleton met him with an equally cordial welcome.

"And how did you leave the family at Tanglewood? Family, said I? Ah! there is no family there now; no one left but the old judge. How is he? And when is Claudia and her lordling expected back?" inquired Mr. Middleton, when they were all seated near one of the sea-view windows.

"The judge is well. Lord and Lady Vincent are with him," replied Ishmael.

And then in answer to their exclamations of surprise he told all he knew of the unexpected arrival.

A luncheon of fruit, cream, cake, and wine was served, and the welcome guest was pressed to partake of it.

Ishmael tasted and enjoyed all except the wine—that, faithful to his vow, he avoided, and was rewarded by a sympathetic look from Bee.

This was one of the bright days of Ishmael's life. Nowhere did he feel so much at home or so happy as with these kind friends. They had an early seaside dinner—fish, crabs, oysters, and water-fowl, forming a large portion of the bill of fare. Luscious, freshly gathered fruits composed the dessert. After dinner, as the evening was clear and bright, the wind fresh and the waters calm, they went for a sail down to Silver Sands, and returned by starlight.

Ishmael remained all the week at the Beacon. And it was a week of rare enjoyment to him. He passed nearly all the time with Bee and her inseparable companions, the children. He helped them with the lessons in the schoolroom in the morning; he went nutting with them in the woods, or strolled with them on the beach; and he gave himself up to the task of amusing them during the hour after the lamp was lighted that they were permitted to sit up.

All this was due partly to his desire to be with his betrothed, and partly to his genial love to children.

About the middle of the week, as they were all seated at breakfast one morning, missives came from Tanglewood to the Beacon— invitations to dine there the following Wednesday evening. These invitations included Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, Beatrice, and Ishmael.

"You will go, of course, Worth?" said Mr. Middleton.

"I am due at Brudenell Hall on Tuesday evening, and I must keep my appointment," said Ishmael.

"Well, I suppose that settles it, for I never knew you to break an appointment, under any sort of temptation," said Mr. Middleton.

And Bee, who well understood why, even had Ishmael's time been at his own disposal, he should not have gone to Tanglewood, silently acquiesced. On this day Ishmael sought an interview with Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, and besought them, as his present income and future prospects equally justified him in taking a wife, to fix some day, not very distant, for his marriage with Bee.

But the father and mother assured him, in the firmest though the most affectionate manner, that at least one year, if not two, must elapse before they could consent to part with their daughter.

Ishmael most earnestly deprecated the two years of probation, and finally compromised for one year, during which he should be permitted to correspond freely with his betrothed, and visit her at will.

With this Ishmael rested satisfied.

The remainder of the week passed delightfully to him.

Mrs. Middleton took the children off Bee's hands for a few days, to leave her to some enjoyment of her lover's visit.

And every morning and afternoon Ishmael and Bee rode or walked together, through the old forest or along the pebbly beach. Sometimes they had a sail to some fine point on the shore. Their evenings were passed in the drawing room, with Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, and were employed in music, books, and conversation.

And so the pleasant days slipped by and brought the Sabbath, when all the family went together to the old Shelton church.

Monday was the last day of his visit, and he passed it almost exclusively in the society of Bee. In the evening Mr. and Mrs. Middleton left them alone in the drawing room, that they might say their last kind words to each other unembarrassed by the presence of others.

And on Tuesday morning Ishmael mounted his horse and started for Brudenell.



CHAPTER X.

ISHMAEL AT BRUDENELL

God loves no heart to others iced, Nor erring flatteries which bedim Our glorious membership in Christ, Wherein all loving His, love Him. —M. F. Tupper.



It was a long day's ride from the Beacon to Brudenell Hall. The greater length of the road lay through the forest. It was, in fact, the very same route traversed, five years before, by Reuben Gray, when he brought Hannah and Ishmael from the Hill Hut to Woodside.

Ishmael thought of that time, as he ambled on through the leafy wilderness.

At noon he stopped at a rural inn to feed and rest his horse, and refresh himself, and an hour afterwards he mounted and resumed his journey.

It was near sunset when he came in sight of the bay and the village to which it gave the name of Baymouth. How well he remembered the last time he had been at that village—when he had run that frantic race to catch the sleigh which was carrying Claudia away from him, and had fallen in a swoon at the sight of the steamer that was bearing her off.

How many changes had taken place since then! Claudia was a viscountess; he was a successful barrister; their love a troubled dream of the past.

He rode through Baymouth, looking left and right at the old familiar shops and signs that had been the wonder and amusement of his childhood; and at many new shops and signs that the march of progress had brought down even to Baymouth.

He paused a moment to gaze at Hamlin's book store, that had been the paradise of his boyhood; and he recalled that noteworthy day in August, when, while standing before Hamlin's window, staring at the books, he had first been accosted by Mr. Middleton, afterwards assaulted by Alfred Burghe, and finally defended by Claudia Merlin. Claudia was noble then—but, ah, how ignoble now!

He passed on, unrecognized by anyone, first because the years between the ages of seventeen, when he was last there, and twenty- one, when he was now there, really had wrought serious changes in his personal appearance, and secondly because no one was just then expecting to see Ishmael Worth at all, and least of all in the person of the tall, distinguished-looking, and well-mounted stranger, who came riding through their town and taking the road to Brudenell.

Every foot of that road was rich in memories to Ishmael. Over it he had ridden, in Mr. Middleton's carriage, on that fateful day of his first meeting with Claudia.

Over it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.

And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in the possession of his recovered treasure.

Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the Hill Hut.

No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in sight of the hut.

It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.

He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming dimly in the starlight.

He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it. Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned and left the spot.

He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode on his way.

Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell Hall.

Here also every yard of the road was redolent of past associations.

How often, while self-apprenticed to the Professor of Odd Jobs, he had passed up and down this road, carrying a basket of tools behind his master.

At length he came to the cross-roads, and to the turnstile, where he had once seen and been accosted by the beautiful Countess of Hurstmonceux.

He rode past this spot, and taking the lower arm of the road entered upon the Brudenell grounds.

A very short ride brought him to the semi-circular avenue leading to the house.

It was now quite dark; but the front of the house was lighted up, holding forth, as it were, its hands in welcome.

As he rode up and dismounted a servant took his horse.

And as he walked up the front steps Mr. Brudenell came out of the front door and, holding out his hand, said cordially:

"You are welcome, my dear Ishmael! I received your letter this morning, and have been looking for you all afternoon!"

"And I am very glad to get here at last, sir," said Ishmael, returning the fervent pressure of his father's hands.

"Come up, my boy! Felix, go before us with the light to the room prepared for Mr. Worth," he said to a mulatto boy who was waiting in the hall.

Felix immediately led the way upstairs to a large back room, whose windows overlooked the star-lit, dew-spangled garden, and which Ishmael at once recognized as the happy schoolroom of his boyhood, now transformed into his bedroom. He welcomed the old familiar walls with all his heart; he was glad to be in them.

Mr. Brudenell himself took care that Ishmael had everything he was likely to want, and then he left him.

When Ishmael had changed his dress he went below to the drawing room, where he found his father waiting. The late dinner was immediately served.

Old Jovial, who on account of his age and infirmity had been left to vegetate on the estate, waited on the table.

He stole wistful glances at the strange young man who was his master's guest, and who somehow or other reminded him of somebody whom he felt he ought to remember, but knew he could not.

At length Ishmael, attracted by his covert regards, looked at him in return, and in spite of his bowed and shrunken form and thinned and whitened hair, recognized the old friend of his boyhood, and exclaimed, as he offered his hand:

"Why, Jovial, it is never you!"

"Mr. Ishmael, sir, it's never you!" returned the old man with a grin of joyful recognition.

They shook hands then and there.

And old Jovial showed his increased regard for the guest by continually proffering bread, vegetables, meat, poultry, pepper, salt, in short, everything in succession over and over again, thereby effectually preventing Ishmael from eating his dinner, by compelling his constant attention to these offerings; until at length Mr. Brudenell interfered and brought him to reason.

The next morning Mr. Brudenell proposed to Ishmael to go out for a day's shooting. And accordingly they took their fowling-pieces, called the dogs and started for the wooded valley where game most abounded.

They spent the day pleasantly, bagged many birds and returned home to a late dinner; and the evening closed as before.

"What would you like to do with yourself this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Mr. Brudenell, as they were seated at breakfast on Thursday.

"I wish to go in search of a valued old friend of mine, known in this neighborhood as the Professor of Odd Jobs," was the reply.

"Oh, Morris. Yes. You will find him, I fancy, in the old place, just on the edge of the estate," replied Mr. Brudenell.

And when they arose from the table the latter went out and mounted his horse to ride to the post office, for Herman Brudenell's establishment was now reduced to so small a number of servants that he was compelled to be his own postman. To be plain with you, there were but two servants—old Jovial, who was gardener, coachman, and waiter; and old Dinah, his wife, who was cook, laundress, and chambermaid.

Felix, the lad mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, was scarcely to be called one, upon account of the mental imbecility that confined his usefulness to such simple duties as running little errands from room to room about the house.

So Mr. Brudenell rode off to the post office, and Ishmael walked off to the cottage occupied by Jim Morris.



CHAPTER XI.

THE PROFESSOR OF ODD JOBS.

An ancient man, hoary gray with eld. —Dante.



The little house was situated right at the foot of the hill south of Brudenell Hall.

Ishmael approached it from behind and walked around to the front. He opened the little wooden gate of the front yard and saw seated in the front door, enjoying that early autumn morning, a stalwart old man, whose well-marked features and high forehead were set in a rim of hair and beard as white as snow. A most respectable and venerable-looking form, indeed, though the raiment that clothed it was old and patched. But Ishmael had to look again before he could recognize in this reverend personage the Professor of Odd Jobs.

A curiosity to know whether the professor would recognize him induced Ishmael to approach him as a stranger. As he came into the yard, however, Morris arose slowly, and, lifting his old felt hat, bowed courteously to the supposed stranger.

"Your name is Morris, I believe," said Ishmael, by way of opening a conversation.

But at the first word the professor started and gazed at his visitor, and exclaiming: "Young Ishmael! Oh, my dear boy, how glad I am to see you once more before I die!" burst into tears.

Ishmael went straight into his embrace, and the old odd-job man pressed the young gentleman to his honest, affectionate heart.

"You knew me at once, professor," said Ishmael affectionately.

"Knew you, my boy!" burst out the old man, with enthusiasm. "Why, I knew you as soon as ever you looked at me and spoke to me. I knew you by your steady, smiling eyes and by your rich, sweet voice, young Ishmael. No one has a look and a tone like yours."

"You think so because you like me, professor."

"And how you have grown! And they tell me that you have risen to be a great lawyer? I knew it was in you to do it!" said the professor, holding the young man off and gazing at him with all a father's pride.

"By the blessing of Heaven, I have been successful, dear old friend," said Ishmael affectionately; "but how has it been with you, all these years?" he asked.

"How has it been with me? Ah, young Ishmael—I should say 'Mr. Worth.'"

"Young Ishmael, professor."

"No, no; 'Mr. Worth.' I shall love you none the less by honoring you more. And with me you are henceforth 'Mr. Worth.'"

"As you please, professor. But I hope it has been well with you all these years?"

"Come in, Mr. Worth, and sit down and I will tell you."

The professor led the way into the humble dwelling. It was as neat as ever, with its sanded floor, flag-bottom chairs, and pine tables,—all of the professor's manufacture,—and its bright tinware and clean crockery ranged in order on its well scrubbed shelves.

But its look of solitude struck a chill upon Ishmael's spirits.

"Where are they all, professor?" he inquired.

"Gone, Mr. Worth," answered Morris solemnly, as he placed a chair for his guest.

"Gone! not dead!" exclaimed Ishmael, dropping into the offered seat.

"Not all dead, but all gone," answered the professor sadly, letting himself sink into a seat near Ishmael.

"Your wife?" inquired the young man.

"There—and there," answered the professor, pointing first down and then up; "her body is in the earth; her soul in heaven, I hope."

"And your daughters, professor?" inquired Ishmael, in a voice of sympathy.

"Both married, Mr. Worth. Ann Maria married Lewis Digges, old Commodore Burghe's boy that he set free before he died, and they have moved up to Washington to better themselves, and they're doing right well, as I hear. He drives a hack and she clear starches. They have three children, two girls and a boy. I have never seen one of them yet."

"And your other daughter?"

"Mary Ellen? She married Henry Parsons, a free man, by trade a blacksmith, and they live in St. Inigoes. They have one child, a boy. I haven't seen them either since they have been married."

"And you are quite alone?" said Ishmael, in a tender voice

"Quite alone, young Ishmael," answered the professor, who forgot on this occasion to call his sometime pupil Mr. Worth.

"And how is business, professor?"

"Business has fallen off considerably; indeed I may say it has fallen off altogether."

"I am very sorry to hear it. How is that, professor?"

"Why, you see, Mr. Worth, its falling off is the natural result of time and progress, of which I cannot complain, and at which I ought to rejoice. It was all very well for the neighborhood to patronize a Jack of all trades like me when there was nothing better to be had; but now you see there are lots of regular mechanics been gradually coming down and settling here—carpenters and stone-masons and painters and glaziers and plumbers and tinners and saddlers and shoemakers, and what not. Law, why you might have seen their signs as you rode through Baymouth."

"I did."

"Well, you see these mechanics, they have journeymen and apprentices with their trades at their fingers' ends, and they can do their work not only easier and quicker and better than I can, but even cheaper. So I cannot complain that they have taken the custom of the neighborhood from me."

"Professor, I really do admire the justice and forbearance of your nature."

"Well, young Ishmael, there was another thing. I was getting too old to tramp miles and miles through the country with a heavy pack on my back, as I used to do."

"Well, then, I hope you have saved a little money, at least, old friend, to make you comfortable in your old age," said Ishmael feelingly.

The poor, old odd-job man looked up with a humorous twinkle in his eye, as he replied:

"Why, law, young Ishmael, the idea of my saving money! When had I ever a chance to do it in the best o' days? Why, Ishmael, they say how ministers of the gospel and teachers of youth are the worst paid men in the community; but I think, judging by my own case, that professors are quite as poorly remunerated. It used to take everything I could rake and scrape to keep my family together; and so, young Ishmael, I haven't saved a dollar."

"Is that so?" asked Ishmael, in a voice of pain.

"True as gospel, young Ishmael—Mr. Worth."

"How then do you manage to live, Morris? I ask this from the kindest of feelings."

"Don't I know it, young—Mr. Worth. Well, sir, I do an odd job once in a while yet, for the colored people, and that keeps me from starving," said the professor, with a smile.

Ishmael fell into a deep thought for a while, and then lifting his head, said:

"Well, professor, you have been in your day and generation as useful a man to your fellow-creatures as any other in this world. You have contributed as much to the comfort and well-being of the community in which you live as any other member of it! And you should not and you shall not be left in your old age, either to suffer from want or to live on charity—"

"I may suffer for want, Mr. Worth, but I never will consent to live on charity!" said the odd-job man with dignity.

"That I am sure you never will, professor; though mind! I do not believe it to be any degradation to live by charity when one cannot live in any other way. For if all men are brethren should not the able brother help the disabled brother, and that without humbling him?"

"Yes; but I am not disabled, young—Mr. Worth. I am only disused."

"That is very true. And therefore I spoke as I did when I said just now that you should not suffer from want nor live by charity. Listen to me, professor. I have a proposition to make to you. Your daughters are all married and your work is done; you are alone and idle here. But you are not a mere animal to be tied down to one spot of earth by local attachment. You are a very intelligent man with a progressive mind. You will never stop improving, professor. You have improved very much in the last few years. I notice it in your conversation—"

"I am glad you think so, young—Mr. Worth! but I'm getting aged."

"What of that? You are 'traveling towards the light,' and after improving all your life here you will go on progressing through all eternity."

"Well, sir, that thought ought to be a great comfort to an old man."

"Yes. Now what I want to propose to you is this—I think you love me, professor?"

"Love you, young—Mr. Worth! Why the Lord in heaven bless your dear heart, I love you better than I do anything on the face of the earth, and that's a fact," said the professor, with his face all in a glow of feeling.

And all who knew him might have known that he spoke truth; for though he was not in the least degree deficient in affection for his daughters, yet his love of Ishmael amounted almost to idolatry.

"Dear old friend, I will prove to you some day how high a value I set upon your love. I think, professor, that loving me, as you do, you could live happily with me?"

"What did you say, young—Mr. Worth? I did not quite understand."

"I will be plain, professor. You have lived out your present life here; it is gone. Now, instead of vegetating on here any longer, come into another sphere, a more enlarged and active sphere, where your thoughts as well as your hands will find employment and your mind as well as your body have food."

"How is that to be done, young—Mr. Worth?"

"Come with me to Washington. I have a suite of three very pleasant rooms in the house where I board. Now suppose you come and live with me and take care of my rooms? Your services would be worth a good, liberal salary, from which you would be enabled to live very comfortably and save money."

"What, young Ishmael! Me! I go to Washington and live with you all the time, day and night, under one roof! and live where I can get books and newspapers and hear lectures and debates and see pictures and models, and, in short, come at everything I have been longing to reach all my life?"

"Yes, professor, that is what I propose to you."

"There! I used to say that you'd live to be a blessing to my declining years, young—Mr. Worth (I declare I'll not forget myself again), Mr. Worth! there! Do you really mean it, sir?"

"Really and truly."

"There, then, I am not going to be a hypocrite and pretend to higgle-haggle about it. I'll go, sir; and be proud to do it; it will be taking a new lease of life for me to go. Do you know, I never was in a large city in all my life, though I have always longed to go? Well, sir, I'll go with you. And I will serve you faithfully, sir; for mine will be a service for love more than for money. And I will never forget the proprieties so far as to call you anything else but 'Mr. Worth,' or 'sir,' in the presence of others, sir, though my heart does betray me into calling you young Ishmael sometimes here."

"I shall leave here on Saturday morning. Can you be ready to go with me as soon as that?"

"Of course I can, Mr. Worth. There's nothing for me to do in the way of preparation but to pack my knapsack and lock my door," answered this "Rough and Ready."

"Very well, then, professor, I like your promptitude. Meet me at Brudenell Hall on Saturday morning at seven o'clock, and in the meantime I will find a conveyance for you."

"All right; thank you, sir; I will be ready."

And Ishmael shook hands with the professor and departed, leaving him hopeful and happy.

At the dinner-table that day, being questioned by his father, Ishmael told him of the retainer he had engaged.

"Ah, my dear boy, it is just like you to burden yourself with the presence and support of that poor old man, and persuade him—and yourself, too, perhaps—that you are securing the services of an invaluable assistant. And all with no other motive than his welfare," said Mr. Brudenell.

"Indeed, sir, I think it will add to my happiness to have Morris with me. I like and esteem the old man, and I believe that he really will be of much use to me," replied the son.

"Well, I hope so, Ishmael; I hope so."

There was through all his talk a preoccupied air about Mr. Brudenell that troubled his son, who at last said:

"I hope, sir, that you have received no unpleasant news by this mail?"

"Oh, no; no, Ishmael! but I have had on my mind for several days something of which I wish to speak to you—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Ishmael, since I have been down here I have followed your counsel. I have gone about among my tenants and dependents, and—without making inquiries—I have led them to speak of the long period of my absence from my little kingdom, and of the manner in which Lady Hurstmonceux administered its affairs. And, Ishmael, I have heard but one account of her. With one voice the community here accord her the highest praise."

"I told you so, sir."

"As a wife, though an abandoned one, as mistress of the house, and as lady of the manor, she seems to have performed all her duties in the most unexceptionable manner."

"Everyone knows that, sir."

"But still remains the charge not yet refuted."

"Because you have given her no chance to refute it, sir. Be just! Put her on her defense, and my word for it, she will exonerate herself," said Ishmael earnestly.

Mr. Brudenell shook his head.

"There are some things, Ishmael, that on the very face of them admit of no defense," said Mr. Brudenell, with an emphasis that put an end to the conversation.

Punctually at seven o'clock Saturday the professor, accoutered for a journey, with knapsack on his back, presented himself at the servant's door at Brudenell Hall.

His arrival being announced, Ishmael came out to meet him.

"Well, here I am, Mr. Worth; though how I am to travel I don't know. I have walked, by faith, so far!" he said.

"All right, professor. Mr. Brudenell will lend me an extra horse."

And father and son took leave of each other with earnest wishes for their mutual good.



CHAPTER XII.

THE JOURNEY.

Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view? The fountains fall, the rivers flow, The woody valleys, warm and low, The windy summit, wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky! The pleasant seat, the chapel tower, The naked rock, the shady bower, The town and village, dome and farm, Each gave each a double charm, As pearls upon a woman's arm. —Dyer.



Ishmael and his aged retainer rode on, down the elm-shaded avenue and out upon the turnpike road. There seemed to be a special fitness in the relations between these two. Ishmael, you are aware, was a very handsome, stately, and gracious young man. And the professor was the tallest, gravest, and most respectable of servants. Ah, their relative positions were changed since twelve years before, when they used to travel that same road on foot, as "boss" and "boy."

Many men in Ishmael's position would have shrunk from all that would have reminded them of the poverty from which they had sprung; and would have avoided as much as possible all persons who were familiar with their early struggles.

But Ishmael did not so. While pressing forward to the duties and distinctions of the future, with burning aspiration and untiring energy, he held the places and persons of the past in most affectionate remembrance.

To a vain or haughty man in Ishmael's situation there could scarcely have occurred a more humiliating circumstance than the constant presence of the poor, old odd-jobber, whose "boy" he had once been.

But Ishmael was neither the one nor the other; he was intellectual and affectionate. His breadth of mind took in his past memories, his present position, and his future prospects, and saw them all in perfect harmony. And his depth of heart found room for the humblest friends of his wretched infancy, as well as for the higher loves of his manhood's prime.

Ishmael was at ease with the old odd-job man, and he would have been at ease with his imperial majesty, had circumstances brought him into the immediate circle of the Czar; because from the depths of his soul he was intensely conscious of the innate majesty of man.

Ishmael had no more need of a servant than a coach has of a fifth wheel. He took the professor into his service for no other purpose than to take care of the poor old man and make him happy, never foreseeing how really useful and important this gray-haired retainer would eventually become to him. He was planning only the professor's happiness, not his own convenience. But he found both.

As they rode along that pleasant September morning he was pleasing himself with thinking how that intelligent old man, starved all his life for mental food, would delight himself amid the intellectual wealth of his new life.

They were approaching the turn-stile at the cross-roads, memorable for the weary watchings of Lady Hurstmonceux.

As they reached the spot and took the road leading to Baymouth Ishmael looked back to the professor, who, as he felt in duty bound to do, rode in the rear of his master, and, as was natural, looked a little serious.

"Do you remember, professor, how often you and I have traveled afoot up and down this road in the exercise of our useful calling of odd- jobbing? Your great shoulders bowed under an enormous load of pots, pans, kettles, umbrellas, and everything that required your surgical skill; and my little back bent beneath the basket of tools?" inquired Ishmael, by way of diverting him.

"Ah, do I not, sir! But why recall those days? You have left them far behind, sir," said the professor, in grave consideration of his master's dignity.

"Because I like to recall them, professor. It quickens my gratitude to the Lord for all his marvelous mercies, and it deepens my love for my friends for their goodness to me then," said Ishmael fervently.

"The Lord knows I don't know who was good to you then! Of course, now, sir, there are multitudes of people who would be proud to be numbered among your friends. But then, of all the abandoned children that ever I saw, you were about the most friendless," said the professor, with much feeling.

"You, for one, were good to me, professor; and I do not forget it."

"Ah, the Lord knows it was but little I could do."

"What you did do was vital to me, professor. My life was but a little flame, in danger of dying out. You fed it with little chips, and kept it alive."

"And it burns great hickory logs now, and warms the world," said the professor, looking proudly and fondly upon the fine young man before him.

"It shall at least warm and shelter your age, professor. And whatever of prosperity the Lord accords me, you shall share."

As he said these words he turned an affectionate look on his retainer, and saw the tears rolling down the old man's cheeks.

"It was but a few, poor crumbs I cast upon the waters, that all this bread should come back to me after many days," he muttered in a broken voice.

"We were really very happy, professor, when we used to trudge the road together, plying our profession; but we are going to be much happier now, because our lives will be enlarged."

The professor smiled assent and they rode on.

They passed through Baymouth, where the professor directed his master's attention to the new signs of the mechanics who had taken his custom from him,

"But it is a true saying, sir, that there never was one door closed but what there was another opened. Many doors were closed against me at once; but just see what a broad, beautiful door you have opened to me, letting me into a glorious new life!"

"Life is what we make of it, professor. To you, who will appreciate and enjoy every good thing in it, no doubt your new life will be very happy," replied Ishmael.

And so conversing they passed through the town and entered the deep forest that lay along the shores of the river between Baymouth and Shelton.

They rode all the morning through the pleasant woods and stopped an hour at noon to rest and refresh themselves and their horses; and then resumed their journey and rode all the afternoon and arrived at Woodside just as the sun was setting.

As before, Reuben, Hannah, Sam, Sally, the children, and the dog, all rushed out to welcome Ishmael.

Much astonished was Hannah to see her old friend, the professor, and much delighted to hear that he was going up to Washington to fill the place of major-domo to Ishmael. For Hannah shared the old woman's superstition, that the young man is never able to take care of himself; and notwithstanding all that had come and gone— notwithstanding that Ishmael had taken care of himself and her too, from the time he was eight years old, for years more, still she thought that he would be all the safer for having "an old head to look after him."

There was plenty of news to tell, too.

As soon as the bounteous supper that Reuben and Hannah always provided for favored guests was over, and they were all gathered around the bright little wood fire that the capricious autumn weather rendered desirable, the budget was opened.

Lord and Lady Vincent were to have an evening reception, at Tanglewood.

And on the first of October they were to sail for Europe.

Lady Vincent was going to take three of the servants with her—old Aunt Katie, Jim, and Sally.

Jim was to go as lady's footman; Sally as lady's maid; and old Aunt Katie in no particular capacity, but because she refused to be separated from the two beings she loved the most of all in the world.

She had nursed Miss Claudia, and she was bound to nurse Miss Claudia's children, she said.

Lady Vincent had decided to take her, and was rather glad to do it.

Lord Vincent, it was supposed, did not like the arrangement, and stigmatized the black servants as "gorillas," but Lady Vincent, it was confidently asserted, never deigned to consult his lordship, or pay the slightest attention to his prejudices. And so matters stood for the present.

All this was communicated to Ishmael by Reuben and Hannah. And in the midst of their talk, in walked one of the subjects of their conversation—Aunt Katie.

She was immediately welcomed and provided with a seat in the chimney-corner. She was inflated with the subject of her expected voyage and glowing with the importance of her anticipated office. She expatiated on the preparations in progress.

"But don't you feel sorry to leave your native home, Aunt Katie?" inquired Hannah.

"Who, me? No, 'deed! I takes my native home along with me when I takes Miss Claudia and Jim and Sally! For what says the catechism?— 'tis home where'er de heart is!' And my heart is 'long o' de chillun. 'Sides which I don't want to be allus stuck down in one place like an old tree as can't be moved without killing of it. I'm a living soul, I am, and I wants to go and see somethin' of this here world afore I goes hence and bees no more," said Katie briskly.

Evidently Katie was a progressive spirit, and would not have hesitated to emigrate to Liberia or any other new colony where she could better herself or her children, and begin life afresh at fifty.

At last Katie got up to go, and bade them all a patronizing farewell.

Sally, and Jim, who as usual was spending his evening with her, arose to accompany Katie.

And Ishmael took his hat and walked out after them.

Very much embarrassed they were at this unusual honor, which they could in no wise understand, until at length when they had gone some little way into the woods Ishmael said:

"I have something to say to you three."

"Yes, sir," said Katie, speaking for the rest.

"Katie, you are acquainted with that psychological mystery called presentiment, for I have heard you speak of it," said Ishmael, smiling half in doubt, half in derision of his present feelings.

"Ye-es, sir," answered Katie hesitatingly, "I believe in persentiments; though what you mean by sigh-what's-its-name, I don't know."

"Never mind, Katie, you believe in presentiments?"

"Indeed do I! and got reason to, too! Why, law! the month before Mrs. Merlin, as was Miss Claudia's mother, died. I sperienced the most 'stonishing—"

"Yes, I know. You told me all about that before, Katie."

"Why, so I did, to be sure, sir, when you were lying wounded at the house!"

"Yes. Well, Katie, some such feeling as that of which you speak, vague, but very strong, impels me to say what I am about to say to you all."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" said Katie, in a voice of such awful solemnity that Ishmael again smiled at what he was inclined to characterize as the absurdity of believing in presentiments.

"You three are going to Europe in attendance upon Lady Vincent."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" again said Katie, keeping her eyes fixed upon Ishmael and nudging her companions right and left with her elbows.

"You will be all of her friends, all of her native country, all of her past life that she will take with her."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun!" and another elbow dig, right and left.

"She is going among strangers, foreigners, possibly rivals and enemies."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun—now it's a-comin'!"

"She may need all your devotion. Be vigilant, therefore. Watch over her, care for her, think for her, pray for her; let her honor and happiness be the one charge and object of your lives."

"Yes, sir. Listen, chillun! you hears, don't you?"

A sharp reminder right and left brought out the responses "yes" and "yes" from Jim and Sally.

"And when you are far away you will remember all this that I have said to you; for, as I told you before, I feel, deep in my spirit, that your lady will need your utmost devotion," said Ishmael earnestly.

"You may count on me, for one, Mr. Ishmael, sir; not only to devote myself to my lady's sarvice, but to keep the ole 'oman and Sally in mind to go and do likewise," said Jim, with an air of earnest good faith that could not be doubted.

"That is right. I will take leave of you now. Good-by! God bless you!"

And Ishmael shook hands with them all around, and left them and walked back to the cottage.

The next day, being the Sabbath, he went with Hannah and Reuben and the professor to church. He had almost shrunk from this duty, in his dread of meeting Claudia there; but she was not present. Judge Merlin's pew was empty when they entered, and remained empty during the whole of the morning service.

When the benediction had been pronounced, and the congregation were going out, Ishmael was about to leave his pew when he saw that the minister had come down from the pulpit and was advancing straight towards him to speak to him. He therefore stopped and waited for Mr. Wynne's approach.

There was a shaking of hands and mutual inquiries as to each other's health, and then Mr. Wynne invited Ishmael to accompany him home and dine with him.

Ishmael thanked him and declined the invitation, saying that he was with friends.

Mr. Wynne then smilingly shook hands with Hannah and Reuben and the professor, claiming them all as old friends and parishioners, and extending the invitation to them.

But Hannah pleaded the children left at home, and, with many thanks, declined the honor.

And the friends shook hands and separated.

Very early on Monday morning Ishmael and his gray-haired retainer prepared for their departure for Washington.

Ishmael left two commissions for Reuben. The first was to make his apologies and adieus to Judge Merlin. And the second was to send back the horse, borrowed for the use of the professor, to Mr. Brudenell at Brudenell Hall. Both of which Reuben promised to execute.

After an early breakfast Ishmael and his venerable dependent took leave of Hannah, the children and the dog, and seated themselves in the light wagon that had been geared up for their accommodation, and were driven by Reuben to Shelton, where they arrived in time to catch the "Errand Boy" on its up trip. Reuben took leave of them only half a minute before the boat started.

They had a pleasant run up the river, and reached the Washington wharf early on Wednesday morning, where Ishmael took a carriage to convey himself, servant, and his luggage to his lodgings.

As they drove through the streets the professor, seated on the front seat, bobbed about from right to left, looking out at the windows and gazing at the houses, the shops, and the crowds of people. Nothing could exceed the surprise and delight of the intellectual but childlike old man, who now for the first time in his life looked upon a large city. His enthusiasm at the sight of the Capitol was delicious.

"You shall go all through it some day, as soon as we get settled," said Ishmael.

"There is only one thing that I am doubtful about," said the professor.

"And what is that?"

"That I have not years enough left to live to see all the wonders of the world."

"None of us—not the youngest of us have, professor. But you will live to see a great many. And by the time that you have seen everything that is to be found in Washington, I shall be ready to go to Europe; for I expect to see Europe some time or other, professor, and you shall see it with me."

"Oh!" ejaculated the odd-job man, who seemed to think that the millennium was not far off.

And at that moment the carriage drew up before Ishmael's lodgings. And the driver and the professor carried the luggage into the front hall. And when the carriage was paid and dismissed Ishmael conducted the professor to the inner office where the two clerks that were in charge of it arose to welcome their principal.

When he had shaken hands with them, he led his retainer into the bedroom, and showed him a small vacant chamber adjoining that, and told him that the latter should be his—the professor's own sanctuary. Then he showed the old man the pleasant garden, all blooming now with late roses, chrysanthemums, dahlias, and other gorgeous autumn flowers, and told him that there he might walk or sit, and smoke his pipe in pleasant weather. And finally he brought the professor back to the front office, where he found his hostesses, Miss Jenny and Miss Nelly Downey, waiting to welcome him. Nice, delicate, refined-looking old maiden ladies they were—tall, thin, and fair complexioned, with fine, gray hair, and cobweb lace caps and pale gray dresses, and having pleasant smiles and soft voices.