All the saints be praised for these little women! They are, after all, the balance-wheels of life, and the whole machinery would run riot and go to destruction without them. They bring us to ourselves, often, and so save us from ourselves. When they advise peace and patience, they are generally right, for at such times violence is seldom politic. Frank Wallace would probably have carried out his violent first intention, but for the hand of Emily which dropped upon his arm almost before he had risen, and the soft voice which spoke in his ear, very hurriedly:

"Don't, Frank, for my sake! Let me go, and sit still. You shall see me again in a day or two. I'll pay Pa for this!"

Very much consoled by these words, and especially by the last clause, Frank Wallace resumed his seat, merely indulging in a remark which was heard by many around him, and which may or may not have been heard by the person at whom it was aimed:

"Bah! you big brute!"

A little suppressed clapping of hands in the neighborhood, which the actors probably thought intended for themselves, but which certainly was not. Meanwhile Emily Owen, dropping her hand by some kind of unexplainable intuition to the very spot where Frank's was lying, gave it a quick squeeze, then stumbled gracefully over the legs of the persons sitting between her and the aisle, and followed her father. As she passed two or three steps up the aisle, the Judge leading pompously, and the gate-keeper calculating the chances of being able to crush him by accidentally letting the iron gate slam to against his legs,—she encountered a recognition that was almost an adventure. A young girl who sat in the next to the end seat of the back-row of the orchestra, leaned over the gentleman outside and caught her hand, saying:

"Emily Owen—I know it is! Do you not remember me?"

"Josephine Harris! How glad I am to see you!" was the reply of Emily, the moment her eyes fairly took in the face and figure before her.

"I could not see your face before, and did not know that you were here. How long it is since I saw you!—ever since I left Rutgers, and you were still hammering away there!" said Josephine Harris, who was indeed the other, having come down to Wallack's with a party of friends, for the evening, and who had not before had a chance to recognize her old friend and school-fellow at the Rutgers Institute.

"Come and see me. Papa is in a hurry, and I cannot wait," said Emily, doubtful whether her friend had or had not observed the preceding movements. "I have not time for a card—look in the Directory and send me yours. Good night!" and in a moment she was gone, following the Judge to that mental slaughter involved in riding home with him in his present mood, and leaving the performance to pass on again as if no interruption had occurred.

As may be supposed, Frank Wallace was something of an "object of interest" for the small remainder of the evening; but he had no acquaintances in the neighborhood, and not much remark was ventured. One man behind him, indeed, leaned over and said: "Lost your girl, eh?" but Frank's "Ya-a-s!" was so broad and discouraging for any further questions, that the inquiry was not pursued. Most men, under similar circumstances, would have left the theatre at once, to avoid observation and to hide annoyance: he did not, and he may have acted wisely or unwisely in that course of conduct.

Josephine Harris had observed the preceding movements on the part of Judge Owen, and it was through recognition of his figure that she looked after and recognized Emily. Had the latter been left quietly sitting beside her lover, her schoolmate would probably not have seen her face, they would have left the theatre without recognition of each other, and Judge Owen's house might have escaped a very early visit destined to work important changes in the relations of residents and visitors. The puissant and pompous Judge had effected two coups d'etat within as many days. The one had driven Aunt Martha fairly over into the ranks of the enemy: had the second introduced Joe Harris, an electric wire full charged with destruction, into the immediate vicinity of his domestic magazine?



CHAPTER XXI.

ANOTHER SCENE AT THE CRAWFORDS'—JOE HARRIS PLAYING THE DETECTIVE, WITH MUSICAL ACCOMPANIMENTS—A STRANGE CONVERSATION, AND A STRANGE VISIT TO A STRANGE DOCTOR.

Some chapters back in this narration, we saw Colonel Egbert Crawford playing volunteer physician to his invalid cousin Richard, and applying a certain bandage more or less suspicious in its character, while Josephine Harris held a very ambiguous position behind the parlor-door and drew certain deductions not complimentary to the character or intentions of the gallant Colonel. To take up the dropped thread of relation at that point—the Colonel left in a few moments afterwards, and Joe, from her position in the room up-stairs, watched his departure. By that time, the fearful agitation which had at first oppressed her, had somewhat moderated, and she was much more capable than before of thinking with clearness and acting with decision. "A perfect little fool" in many of her first confidences (as some of her friends paid her the doubtful compliment of calling her), Josephine Harris had yet a vein of distrust in her character, not difficult to touch; and when that vein was touched there was not "poppy or mandragora" enough in the world to lull to sleep her suspicions, until they were either proved true or fairly exploded.

Frank and generous natures will sometimes discern more clearly than subtle and designing ones, just as the naked eye will sometimes take in particulars in any scene more readily than when assisted by the glass. The power of discernment may be aided, in some degree, by the fact that they are not guarded against as some are because they bear the look or reputation of being dangerous. Many a man has taken off the outer garb of his soul and gone in his mental shirtsleeves (so to speak) from the impression on his mind that he was in the company of the confiding and the unobservant; and many a bad man has found detection and ruin in the experiment.

Josephine Harris had seen something in the eyes of Colonel Egbert Crawford, when directed towards his invalid cousin, which said: "I hate you, and I would put you out of the way if I could!" She had remarked the terrible agitation of Richard Crawford when she made her random observation to that effect. Now she had overheard enough to put her in possession of the conflict of interests; and she had at the same time witnessed the application to the body of the invalid, of a preparation that was expressly ordered to be kept from the knowledge of the physician. Taking all these things together, and jumping at a conclusion with a rash haste which such people will sometimes exhibit—away down in the depths of her mind she whispered the word "poison!" She might never have thought of the existence of an outward poison dangerous to human life, but she had read Mrs. Ann S. Stephens' touching story of "The Pillow of Roses," and remembered how the life of the first lover of Mary Stuart had been sacrificed by the introduction of a deadly bane into the silken pillow—the very gift of love on which he so confidingly laid his head. Might not this be something of the same kind—a murderous practice unknown to the great body of people, and yet in the knowledge of some peculiarly instructed? What more likely than that a lawyer whose line of business led him into the company of criminals and made him acquainted with their secret confessions, should have arrived at a knowledge so dangerous and resolved to apply it for his own benefit and the removal of a rival?

Such were the reflections of Josephine Harris, when her blood had a little cooled down from the terrible fever of fright and anxiety into which she had been thrown at the first discovery; and how nearly right she was in the most important particular—the fact of an attempted poisoning by outward application—all will recognize who remember the interview between the lawyer and the Obi woman of Thomas Street, with the dark paste which he brought away with him as the result of that visit.

At all events, the young girl felt that she had seen enough to remove any doubt of the propriety of making farther researches, and to do away with any shame that she had originally felt in playing the part of a spy and listener. Ardent natures like hers may possibly be blamed for adopting so readily the maxim that "the end justifies the means," and for plunging so determinedly into what cannot be considered their own business; but let those blame them who will, the good they accomplish may well be made a set-off for any evil they unwittingly cause; and the parable of the man who "fell among thieves," and the heartless wretches who "passed by on the other side," should make us a little slow in blaming the "good Samaritans" who work so enthusiastically even if uninvited and unskilfully.

The plain English of all which is, that Josephine Harris had determined to fathom the whole of the mystery lying between Richard Crawford and his cousin, no matter what deceptions she might be called upon to pursue in carrying out her plan, or what amount of time and trouble might be necessary for that purpose. She might have applied the rules of Egbert Crawford's own profession to him, in expressing this determination, and said that enough had been proved against the suspected person, to put him on his trial before a fair and impartial jury—that jury being herself in the first instance. Herself and herself only. For once Joe Harris determined to suppress her propensity for talking everywhere and to everybody, and to admit no confidant whatever into a knowledge of her suspicions. What else she intended to do, will in due time develop itself in action.

As a first step, she smoothed down her face with her hands, under some kind of impression that she could in that way remove the redness from her cheeks and the startled look from her eyes. Then she ran into Bell's chamber, assuming all the nonchalance she could pick up on the way, to ascertain whether that young lady was likely to remain away from the parlor for a brief period longer. She found her very busy among a miscellaneous heap of dresses and millinery (this was before the visit to the sorceress, which gave her something else to think about—let it be remembered,) and in that occupation she was safe to remain for an indefinite period. No visitors coming in, then, she was likely to have the field below-stairs to herself for a short time at least, and that time must be used vigorously.

She ran lightly down-stairs and into the empty parlor. There was no sound whatever coming out of the little room of the invalid—he was no doubt still alone. With the same care which she had before taken, she stepped to the glass doors, slid them apart as before, and looked through. Richard Crawford was yet lying on the sofa, and he was buttoning up his vest. A very simple and natural movement, and one not at all noticeable under ordinary circumstances; but to Josephine Harris, at that moment, it seemed very significant. There was poison; that poison lay in the bandage; he had suspected his cousin, allowed him to change and replace that bandage, and the moment he believed himself alone and unobserved, had taken it off! To say that Joe Harris's eyes sparkled at this proof of her suspicions, would be quite insufficient—they flashed, danced and radiated with delight, in such a manner as made it very fortunate for the peace of mind of the whole male sex that she happened to be alone.

Richard Crawford had taken off that bandage, and that bandage must come into her possession at once, while the preparation was fresh. But how was it to be obtained? Where had he put it? From the fact that he had been re-arranging his clothes while yet in a recumbent position, the chances seemed to be that he had taken off the bandage, if at all, without getting up, and that he then had it somewhere about him, intending to lock it up or put it away when he rose to go to the bed-room. He was very neat in his personal habits, as well as somewhat nervous in disposition; and on the score of cleanliness he was not likely to have put it into one of his pockets, while if he indeed felt it to be poison he would have been quite as unlikely to retain it so near his person. Joe felt that if removed, that bandage must be somewhere about the sofa. How to get it, even then? He would not be at all likely to go to bed, leaving it there; besides, she wanted it at once! He must be got suddenly out of the room, and he was too weak and suffering to remove often or on small provocation. The piano!—ah, yes, she would try the piano!

Joe's musical performances were always pyrotechnic; except on particular occasions when the sad soul that underlay the merriment came uppermost, and then they were mournful enough to tempt suicide. To say that she knew nothing about music, would be untrue of any one taught at the same trouble and expense; but to say that she understood it, taking the knowledge of other people as a standard, would be equally incorrect. When studying music under an excellent teacher, it had been found impossible to confine her to any set rules, and quite as impossible to make her execute her lessons properly. When she should have been performing that routine duty, her eolian piano at home was half the time turned into a banjo or a harp, tinkling a serenade, or into an organ, playing some ponderous old anthem or sobbing out some dirge of a broken heart. These were all well enough, in their way, but they were not studying the piano. As a result, she could produce all those effects upon the instrument, that no one else would ever have thought of attempting; the only penalty being, that what any one else could have done, she could not do at all. This did not suit some people, but it suited Miss Joe, exactly; and as she was pleased, perhaps no one else had a right to complain. If any one did complain he or she was likely to be at once treated to one of the lugubrious compositions before mentioned, producing the "dumps" for a month after.

On this occasion Joe threw open the lid of the piano with such dexterity as to tangle the cover inextricably with the lid, set up the stool with a whirl, and dashed into the midst of a composition that might have been conceived by a mad musician and wailed out on an instrument possessed, like Paganini's fiddle, one night when the demons of the storm were playing at hide-and-seek among the Hartz Mountains of Germany. It went from the top to the bottom of the scale, in such moanings, and wailings, and sobbings, intermingled with such fiendish dashes of exultation and laughter, that the nerves of a strong man might have been thrown into permanent disorder by it, while those of a sick one could not do otherwise than suffer the most exquisite torture.

"I think that will do!" said Miss Joe to herself, pausing for an instant and then going on again. She was right, for at the next partial pause she heard the voice of Dick Crawford, from the back-room, yelling out with more energy than the man himself had before thought that he possessed:

"Sto-o-o-op!"

She did stop—ran to the sliding-doors and opened them at once, to find Crawford sitting upon the sofa, with his hands to both ears.

"Eh? what's the matter, Dick? Does the music disturb you?" she asked, as naturally as if she had not before been aware of the fact.

"Disturb me? It murders me—you know it does, you torment!" was the reply of Crawford.

"I am so sorry," said Joe, with the least perceptible pout on her lip. "I suppose that I must go home, then, and play."

"No," said Crawford, who had no idea of being guilty of the ungallantry of driving a lady out of his house, especially dear, delicious, tormenting Joe. "No, don't go home. But if you must play, why not play something Christian and respectable—something that a man can listen to without gritting his teeth and stopping his ears more than half the time?"

"Well, that is complimentary!" sighed Josey. "Just when I was doing the very best that I could! Besides, I wasn't playing for you. You were not in the room, but stuck away off there in a corner. I'll tell you what I will do, Mr. Dick Crawford. Let me help you out here to a sofa in this room—the air will not hurt you, but do you good,—and I promise to play for you the very tunes you wish. If not—"

"Oh, you need not mention the alternative," said Crawford, remembering the preceding performance and afraid of a repetition. "Come here, give me your arm, and I will come out for a few minutes."

"Bravo!" thought wild Joe, but she did not say it. Very gently and tenderly she assisted the invalid from his sofa and to a standing position, and then quite as tenderly through the door and to the sofa that stood nearly opposite the piano. Then she ran back and closed the sliding-doors again, for fear, as she said, that there might be too much draught of air on the invalid. So far, so good! Richard Crawford had been coaxed out of his room and into the parlor that he scarcely entered once a month. What next?

"Play me a wreath of Scottish melodies," said Crawford, with the feeling of the old blood coming up within him. "And be sure that you throw in 'Roy's Wife' and 'Annie Laurie.' Will you?—That's a good girl?" Dick spoke more cheerfully than had been his late habit, and settled himself to an easy position on the sofa with more the air of a man ready to enjoy, than he had for some time manifested.

"Has there been an incubus suddenly lifted from his breast?" Joe Harris asked herself, noticing the change.

If there was anything that she really could play on the piano, her forte lay in those very Scottish airs, which she certainly rendered with exquisite feeling and with skill enough for the moderate demands of that class of music. And on this occasion she felt bound to exert herself, to repay the obligation of Crawford's coming out to hear her, though her brain was all in a whirl for fear something might occur to drive the patient back into his room, and her fingers, as they touched the white keys, itched to be busying themselves about the cushions of the invalid's sofa. For a few moments, while "Within a Mile of Edinboro' Town," "Roy's Wife," "Charlie is My Darling," "Bonnie Doon" and half a dozen others of the Scottish wreath were dripping from her fingers, and while Richard Crawford was enjoying his favorite music better than he had before enjoyed anything for many a week,—for this few moments Joe Harris was nonplussed. How should she get out of the room? Oh! Suddenly she remembered that there was some music on one of the tables up-stairs, and she acted upon that excuse for absence.

"Oh, Dick, please lie still a moment. There is a piece up-stairs that I must bring down and play for you. I know you will like it. One of Gottschalk's—'Las Ojos Criollos.'" She had caught sight of that composition lying at the top of the heap of music near her, and without being observed by Crawford she caught the sheet, rolled it up in her hand, and was out of the room in a moment.

"Tut! tut! what a pity that that girl never can be still a moment and do exactly what any one asks her to do!" was the mental comment of that gentleman as her flying skirts disappeared through the door.

Of course Josephine Harris did not go up stairs. She had no real errand whatever in that direction. There was a door opening from Richard's little bed-room, adjoining his study, into the hall; and her hope was to find that door unlocked. If not, some other excuse must be made to get into his room, to invent which she must play a few more tunes, and run a little more risk of being interrupted. She stepped very lightly to the door, with a repetition of that cat-step which seemed that day suddenly to have come to her. She turned the knob—it was unlocked—it opened. One dart through the other door and to the sofa. The cushion was a moveable one, as she knew, and very likely to be made a temporary hiding-place for any small article, by one lying upon it. She lifted the edge of the cushion, her heart beating at trip-hammers again, and her whole being almost as much excited as it had been half an hour before. Human life is full of blunders, but happily there are some movements that are not blunders; and this was one of them. A small, round roll of linen, three or four inches wide, was stuck a little distance under the edge. She drew it out, hastily unrolled it until she saw that a dark plaster lay in the middle, then, with a "Whew!" of triumph, quite as hastily rolled it up again and thrust it into her pocket. Half a minute more, and she had softly ascended a dozen steps of the stairs, and descended again with plenty of noise, springing down with a decided bump on the landing. Then she burst into the parlor with her piece of music, and sat down once more to the piano.

"Excuse my running away, Dick. Haven't been long—have I?"

"No, not very long," answered Crawford, whose impressions of Joe's steadiness were not enthusiastic. "You know I should not have been surprised if you had not come back in a week."

"Fie! fie! Dick Crawford! I have half a mind not to play for you at all, after that insult." But she did attempt to play, and to play "Las Ojos Criollos." If she ever could have played that most brilliant and difficult of all Gottschalk's pieces, which was very doubtful, she certainly was not capable of doing it when her fingers were in such a tremor, and with the mysterious package in her pocket; and though it may be an ungallant and improper thing to say of a lady's performance, she "made a mess of it."

"Pshaw!" she said, as naturally as if really vexed. "That piece is very difficult. I thought that I had mastered it, a dozen times, yet here it is bothering me again. Never mind!—I know what I can play—something that you like, or if you do not, you should!" And very much to Crawford's delight, for she did not often sing, though she frequently hummed,—she broke out with voice and instrument into that finest, though worst-hackneyed, of modern love-ballads—"Ever of Thee." There are unaccountable fancies, in music as well as in personal regard, and one piece will sometimes make itself the very key-note of a human heart, without being in itself so pre-eminently beautiful as to command that distinction. Crawford had before many times heard Josephine Harris humming that air, or touching it lightly on the keys of the piano, but he had never before heard her sing it. Before half of the first stanza was finished, he knew that it supplied to her a need in music that all the compositions of all the great masters would fail to fill; and before she had finished the last, he believed that some painful secret of her young life must be bound up in it. He was the more painfully confirmed in that belief, when he saw her rise from the piano the moment after she had concluded the song, and dash her hand to her eyes with the unmistakeable gesture of wiping away a tear.

"Joe—dear Joe," he said, "come here a moment."

She crossed the room at once and stood beside him. He held out his hand to her, and she took it as a sister might have taken that of a dearly beloved brother. There was nothing of heat or tremor in the touch, though there was everything of kindness. Absorbed in something else, both had for the moment forgotten the feeling before predominant—Crawford his sickness and crippled condition, and Joe Harris her anxieties and her plans with reference to him.

"Josephine Harris," he said, very kindly, almost tenderly, "answer me one question, as candidly as it is asked. Will you?"

"You could not ask me an improper question," she replied, "and so I could have no reason for refusing to answer you. I will."

"You have been singing 'Ever of Thee,'" he went on. "Your whole heart was in it when you sung, and when you stopped your voice was broken and your eyes were full of tears. Tell me—is there a sad secret of your life connected with that song? Consider me your brother, and do not be afraid or ashamed to answer me."

"Richard Crawford, I do consider you as a brother," the young girl replied—"a dear brother, in whom I would confide as in one of my own blood. I mean to prove to you, some day, what a true sister I am. I am neither afraid or ashamed to answer your question. I have no grief or sad memory connected with 'Ever of Thee,' any more than with any other sadly beautiful piece of music with words of the same character."

"Indeed!—I thought otherwise!" said Crawford, with something of disappointment in his tone. "And yet it moves your light heart very strangely."

"It does," said Josephine Harris. "I never sing it or hear it sung without the tears gathering in my eyes, even if they do not fall."

"And you can give no reason for this peculiar feeling?"

"Oh yes," answered the young girl, "though no doubt you will laugh at my reason when you hear it."

"I think not," said Crawford. "Tell me."

"You think me very gay and merry," said Josephine. "So I am, but I suppose that I have something deeper in my nature, that 'crops out' occasionally, as the geologists say. I suppose that I am a visionary in some respects and among my visions is a love worthily fixed and fully returned. So few seem to find this, that I fear I shall miss it—either miss it altogether or find it too late. The thought is a sad one, and that song seems insensibly to blend with it. When I am singing 'Ever of Thee,' I am singing to my ideal love that may be escaping beyond the reach of my fingers forever."

True woman of the golden heart!—God in heaven grant that to you and such as you this vision may be no dim unreality! God grant you true hearts against which your own may beat, and faithful arms upon which you may lean when the day of your probation is accomplished I And failing this fruition, the same God of love and peace grant you a truer and more enduring union with hearts that pulsate truly to your own, in that land where the sad wail of "Too Late!" is never heard and where no binding link fetters the limbs or galls the spirit!

"I understand you now," said Richard Crawford. "And yet yours is a strange fancy and would be a dangerous one in many minds. But you are a brave girl, I believe, and that makes all the difference. Besides, you have health and strength, and most of the time high spirits. An invalid—a miserable cripple like myself, housed and shut away, can scarcely hope to understand or appreciate anything that comes freshly in out of God's sunshine!" The old sad and repining spirit had once more come over Richard Crawford, perhaps invoked by something in the young girl's words; and she saw the shadow almost as soon as he felt it. From that moment she was the rattle-pate again, and he caught no more glimpses into the sanctuary of her inner heart. He was to catch no more, forever; for the next time they spoke together in private was after certain events already related had occurred—after her hand had lain in another, in so significant a pressure that no time or change could ever take away the tingle of the blood which it communicated—after her eyes began to open on a new phase of destiny—and after "Ever of Thee" ceased to be a sad abstraction.

Just now she rattled on, as she assisted the invalid back to his room, endeavoring to rouse his once-more sinking spirits, with all her old gayety and abandon.

"You call me brave, do you?" she said. "Dick Crawford, if I was not a little ashamed of you for allowing yourself to have these fits of low spirits, I would tell you something to prove how 'brave' I am! Well, I will tell you, because I know that it is exceedingly improper and I ought not to do so. Two or three weeks ago, spending an evening at Mrs. R——'s, her daughters showed me a suit of clothes belonging to a stripling brother, just gone away to the war. One of them bantered me to put on the suit and go down-stairs among the gentlemen. I thought it would be a good joke, and I tried it. The girls said that I made a very handsome boy—hem! and I suppose that I did. At all events, I went down-stairs and opened the parlor-door, bold as a sheep, when—what do you think happened? Why, I thought, all at once, that all the clothes were sticking tight to my limbs; and when one of the gentlemen came towards me, I grabbed the cloth from the centre-table for a cloak, and played hob with some Bohemian glassware and a few Parisian ornaments, finishing by skedaddling up-stairs a good deal more rapidly than I came down. Was not there 'courage' for you?"

"No want of it, certainly," said Crawford, who had been laughing a little, spite of his low spirits, at the naivete of the relation. "It was modesty and not want of personal courage that drove you out of that very funny position."

"Think so?" said the wild girl. "Then as I am a coward and mean to be known for what I am, I must tell you another story. A few weeks ago I went into a menagerie, and one of the lions made a rush at the bars of his cage—probably because he saw me. There was about as much danger of his getting out, I suppose, as there would have been of my doing so in the same circumstances; but of course I made a fool of myself, got frightened, yelled, and had all the visitors in the menagerie looking at me. How was that? No want of courage? Eh?"

"That," said Richard Crawford, sententiously, "that was the woman."

"Humph!" said Joe, as she once more assisted the invalid to dispose himself comfortably on his usual couch. "Now you will not agree to my estimate of myself, perhaps you will think better of my estimate of you."

"Perhaps so," said Crawford. "Try me."

"Well, then, I have been watching you half the afternoon, and I have made up my mind about you more nearly than ever before."

"And what am I?" asked Crawford, with just a dash of impatience in his tone.

"A hypochondriac!" said Joe. "You are a little sick, and you think yourself much worse. You look better and feel better within the last hour—"

"Eh, what?" said the invalid, startled apparently by some sudden thought connected with the words.

"I say that you look better and feel better, within the last hour, than you have done for weeks. You are getting better, and you have neither the honesty to acknowledge it or the grace to thank God for it! Dick Crawford, if you ever die—and I suppose you will, some time—you will commit suicide by taking an over-dose of low spirits!"

How flippantly the wild girl spoke!—and yet she was right, and Dick Crawford felt that she was right. The supplying cause of his malady removed, such a lecture, from such ready lips, was precisely the thing that he needed, to break up the habit of despondency—the habit of enjoying and nursing suffering (that phrase may express the fact as well as another) which settles so often like a murky cloud upon the minds of those who have been kept for weeks or months as confirmed invalids, after lives of previous activity. She was right, too, as to the suicide of low spirits. The red devils of Pandemonium may be terrible, fresh from the flames of the pit; but they are nothing to their brothers in blue, who people the air, overcloud the eyes and set up torture-chambers in the brain. Bunyan, in that ever-living "Pilgrim's Progress," paints no tyrant so terrible as "Giant Despair," and no obstruction to the way so fatally impassable as the "Slough of Despond." And we have never read over the sorrowful conclusion of the "Bride of Lammermoor" without believing that the young master of Ravenswood, on that sombre November morning, sunk the sooner and the more fatally in the quicksands of the Kelpie's Flow, from the weight of the leaden heart he carried in his bosom.

Suddenly, and before Richard Crawford had quite decided how to answer her last remark, Josephine Harris said, as if the thought had only that instant come to her:

"Oh, Dick, I am going to ask a favor, in return for my good opinion. The carriage is in, I believe. May I ring for it, for an hour?"

"Certainly," said Crawford. Josephine rung the bell, and the order was given.

"It is dusk, you see," said the young girl, apologetically, "and I must go down the Avenue before I go home. Many thanks. Be a good boy and take care of yourself, till I see you again. John will set me down at home when my little errand is over. Good night!" and her kiss fell warm and soft upon his forehead—a sister's kiss, pure and unimpassioned, even if there was no tie of blood between them.

Bell Crawford came down stairs and sat by her brother's side when she heard the carriage roll away with her friend. And whither did that carriage roll? Richard Crawford had no idea that Joe's "little errand" could possibly have any connection with himself; and yet it had—a most intimate and important connection, as will be perceived.

The coachman, at her request, drove out to Fifth Avenue, then down that avenue to Tenth Street, where he opened the door and set her down, receiving orders to wait there for her return. The young girl tripped up from the corner, a few doors on the left hand side, past a church, and entered the front-yard railing of one of two or three unpretending three-story brick-houses standing together. It was now past dusk and the street-lamps were lighted; and looking in at the basement windows of this house, Joe saw that no curtains were drawn, that the gas was burning within, over a table and under a shade; and that at the table sat a man with head bent down and fingers busy at some kind of mechanical contrivance.

"That will do," she muttered to herself. "The Doctor is in, as I believed he might be at this hour, and I shall have no occasion to disturb the people up-stairs."

Passing under the steps she reached the closed door, and instead of ringing, banged half a dozen times against the panels with her hand, very slowly and tragically, as the ghost in "Don Giovanni" might ask to be admitted, provided it had any occasion for using the door. Immediately there was a shuffle inside, and directly the door opened and a tall figure stood in the doorway. There was enough light from the street-lamp to make the young girl's face and figure pretty plainly visible, and the moment he saw her the occupant said:

"I thought so—mischief! I thought I knew that knock! No one else ever takes such liberties with my office-door. What do you want now? But come in, before you forget it!" and seizing both her hands with a playful gesture, he dragged her within the door, closed it, pulled her through the side-door into the front basement which formed the office, drew up a clumsy cushioned operating-chair near the table, sat her down in it, then cast himself into a chair immediately in front of her, threw one leg over the other and his hands behind his head, and said:

"Now I am resigned and prepared. Out with it!"

Had Josephine Harris not been familiar with the place and its occupant, as it was quite evident that she was, she would have looked twice at the one and several times at the other. That little basement-room was not only the office in which Doctor LaTurque received professional calls, but it was also the sanctum in which were prepared most of the oddly-trenchant articles in the Scimetar, a quarterly medical and critical publication with a habit cutting as its name and a reputation dangerous enough to suit the most sensational fancy. Few persons connected with the practice of medicine in or about the great city, who had not first or last suffered some incision from the trenchant blade of the Scimetar, wielded by the wiry arm of the Doctor; and few humbugs but he had pricked and exposed, by the same means or in personal conversation, while he was himself the greatest humbug of all. Others habitually humbugged others: he humbugged himself, or tried to do so, insisting to himself that he was a hard man, an iron man, a brute, a skeptic, and everything that was ugly and detestable; while in fact he had the warm heart of an unspoiled child, and a faith in everything good, that was really part of his being—all combined with the vigor of the experienced surgeon and the close study of the untiring student. He used hard words—rough ones, sometimes, and tried to make himself believe that they were the emanations of a hard disposition; while every rough word was really made under protest from his nature, and few men on the whole earth were more ready to do an act of genuine kindness. It is not for us to say that there was not some intentional affectation of singularity underlying his manner; for he evidently loved notice if not notoriety; and other means than the white coat and disarranged trowsers of the Tribune Philosopher have sometimes been adopted to secure the same end.

Certainly Dr. LaTurque was not remarkably choice in the style of his "den," if he had handsomely furnished apartments in the house above, and if his windows did look out on Fifth Avenue. The ceilings were low, the walls plain, the furniture was very common, and yet a little odd, as became the place. The floor was oil-clothed; a table covered with dark cloth stood in the middle of the room; an old-fashioned secretary, with books piled on either end, stood against the wall on the right as the visitor entered, with a globe half hidden behind it; on the wall opposite hung the print of a muscular Apollo (muscular, because it was drawn anatomically, with no flesh covering the integuments); on either end of the mantel stood a small statue; in the centre was an impudent placard of bronze on japanned tin, announcing that no complimentary visits could possibly be received in that room, while the occupant, if there, was ready to falsify the announcement at any moment; on a small table between the windows, under a glass globe, lay the cast in plaster of a marvellously handsome male Italian face; two or three small pictures, commonly framed, hung over secretary and mantel; in the corner between the mantel and the window stood a stuffed eagle on a low table covered with the suggestive appliances of a fractured leg; and just behind it, on a bit of rug, nestled a disabled pigeon from his pet flock on the roof, that had come down, with excellent judgment, to be nursed and tended by the surgeon.

In the midst of this odd assemblage Dr. LaTurque was himself not by any means the least remarkable object. He was certainly a singular-looking man, and had a fancy (or pretended to have a fancy) that he was a very homely one. He was not so, however, to any eye of taste—only striking. In figure he was tall and rather thin, but the same epithet we have applied to his arm may be used for the whole man—wiry. He seemed capable of strong nervous effort and of great endurance; and one could see that something more than fifty years had not diminished the locomotive will or power. In the too large and too aquiline nose (literally a beak)—in the iron-gray moustache, imperial, and heavy brown hair—in the thin cheeks and keen gray eye,—there was a marvellous reminder of the portraits of Louis Napoleon, and at the same time another and a stronger suggestion. There is no close observer of physiognomy but has remarked bird, beast and even reptile reproduced in the faces of different men—one being a human lion, another a human bear, a third a human hyena, and still a fourth a human serpent. It scarcely seemed that it could have been by chance that the gray eagle stood stuffed in the corner; for the observer just as naturally detected the eagle in that human face, as he could ever have detected either of the others named, in different physiognomies, and the dead bird seemed the totem of the living man.

"Well, battle and murder and sudden death!" said the medical Laurence Boythorn, when he had forced the young girl down into a seat. "What is it you want? Who is married or dead, or whom do you intend to kill, or what is it?"

"Are you sober?" asked the young girl, looking into his eyes very gravely.

"Why, you impudent demon in petticoats!" said the Doctor, with a great appearance of indignation. "What do you mean? You know that I am never otherwise than sober."

"From the effects of liquor, of course not," was the reply. "But your hot head, like mine, has the capacity of becoming intoxicated sometimes without any thanks to liquor; and I want to know whether you are cool and clear, or whether you have been puzzling over some bad case, or talking with some man with a stupid skull, until your head is all muddled?"

"Clear as one of the mountain springs that you are some day going with me to see," said the Doctor. "Now out with it."

"Well," said Joe, "I know that you hate chemistry, but in spite of that you must give me a little chemical judgment. I want you to tell me," and she took out the surreptitiously-obtained roll of linen, unrolled it and laid it upon the table, under the full light of the burner—"I want you to tell me what is that dark substance which looks like black paste, whether it is animal, vegetable, or mineral, and what you think its properties."

"And after I do tell you, if I can," said the Doctor, eyeing the suspicious-looking mass, "I suppose that I am to be told why you wish to know?"

"Not one word," said Joe. "At least, not at present. All your reward is to be the honor of conversing with me on the subject."

"Bravo, Empress; I rather like that!" said the Doctor, who did like it, nevertheless, to judge by the jolly expression of his face. "You are a refreshing young woman, and some day I expect to see you stretch out your arm with imperial dignity and clear off all the pigmies from the face of the earth with a 'Go away, small people! I have had enough of you! You may leave!'"

"Very likely," said Joe. "But meanwhile I have not quite done with you. Please examine that stuff, for I am in a hurry."

"As usual!" commented the Doctor, going on to smell, inspect, and even taste the dark compound on the cloth.

"Take care!" cried the young girl, in alarm, when she saw him apply his tongue to the substance.

"Pshaw!" said the Doctor. "Don't be alarmed. I am so full of dangerous ingredients myself, that the most virulent of poisons could not produce any effect on me."

"I should not like to see you trust it too far—that is, not if I cared for you!" said the lady, as if she had been the chemist and he the neophyte.

"Well," said the Doctor, after a moment's pause and a still closer inspection, "you will give me no particulars, and so I shall give you none. I suppose the main fact is what you want to know. The substance is a little dried, and consequently it has lost some of its aroma. But my impression is that it is a very powerful vegetable poison, compounded from certain simples that grow along running streams in the tropics, and especially in some of the West Indies."

"I thought so!" said Joe, almost involuntarily, and an unmistakeable gleam of pleasure lighting up her face. "But would that poison produce any effect if applied outwardly?"

"I should think so," replied the Doctor, "though, as you say, I hate chemistry. I should think that substance, applied to any vital part of the body, and kept there continuously, would produce racking pains and weakness, and be very likely to result in a disease resembling inflammatory rheumatism, or possibly paralysis, and death."

"Thank you—thank you a dozen times," said Joe, springing up and grasping the Doctor very warmly by the hand. "You do not know how much good you may be doing by this examination; but you shall know, sometime—I will tell you all about it. And now good-night!" rolling up the package and putting it back into her pocket. "My time is up, Mother will be worried about me, and I have a borrowed carriage waiting at the corner."

"Allow me to see you to it," said the Doctor, rising with quick courtesy.

"No farther than the gate, for the world," said the young girl. "For certain reasons, which you shall know some time, I must not be seen in your company to-night, even by the coachman."

She tripped away instantly, the Doctor accompanying her to the gate,—and rolled away homeward at once. What a day that had been to her! And in what a whirl was her brain when she reflected on all she had discovered and tried to arrange in her own mind the details of what she yet felt it necessary to do! It was within forty-eight hours after, and when her mind had not become at all calmed from the thoughts of the crime surrounding her and those she loved, that the visit to the sorceress was made, as before recorded. How much of additional information she may really have expected to gain from the sorceress, it is impossible to say,—or whether this matter of the attempted poisoning was really the matter which sent her to that questionable fountain of intelligence; but it is not at all strange that she should have blended the terrors of the real and the imaginary together, and been powerfully impressed by the events of that day which marked so important an era in her existence.

It may be said here, that two days after the events just narrated, when Bell accompanied her to the sorceress, she did not see Richard Crawford. Thereafter, for many days, she did not visit the house at all, for reasons that will soon make themselves manifest; and consequently the awkwardness of any meeting with the invalid, which might have involved questions she did not care to answer at that moment, was avoided. Joe Harris felt that for once in her life she had a "mission"—something to do, and to do in her own way; and until that work was done, or she had utterly failed in the attempt, she did not mean to let that chattering tongue of hers say one word that could give a clue to her thoughts or intentions. We shall see, presently, how nearly and in what manner her plans were carried out.



CHAPTER XXII.

A LITTLE ARRANGEMENT BETWEEN TOM LESLIE AND JOE HARRIS—UP THE HUDSON-RIVER ROAD—A DETENTION AND A RECOGNITION—GOING TO WEST FALLS, AND A PEEP AT THE HALSTEAD HOMESTEAD.

There are some things too sacred to be pryed into, and there are some things too difficult to make any progress in that attempt, even when the effort is made with the most determined will. Both these conditions will to some extent apply to the intimacy between Tom Leslie and Josephine Harris, which commenced on a day we well remember, and which may not close until their joint destiny is accomplished. The very next day after that adventure, he called at the house of Mrs. Harris, was introduced to her with great empressement by her daughter, and received by her with great cordiality. The good lady, whom we have no intention whatever of describing, was a splendid specimen of the widowed matron in comfortable circumstances, with just enough threads of silver shining amid her dark hair, to make her matron-hood sacred and all the more loveable. That she, who was not always pleased with a new-comer, chanced to like him from the first, completed the vanquishment of the journalist, if that object had not before been entirely accomplished; and within an hour after setting foot within that comfortable little home the young man felt that it had become dearer to him than any other building of bricks and mortar into which he had ever entered.

So of the confidence which at once began to exist between the two lovers. Yes—let the word be set down—lovers. When Josephine Harris accompanied Tom Leslie to the door, on the night of his first visit to her at home, he held out his arms to her, without a word, and she nestled into them in the same silence, and returned the first kiss he pressed upon her lips. Thenceforth their lips, we may believe, belonged exclusively to neither, but had a divided interest. What matter, thereafter, how many times they were pressed together, or how long that pressure lingered? What matter how many words they spoke, or what formed the burden of those words? They had accidentally touched, when drifting down the stream of life, and who should thenceforth have power to separate them? A month before, Tom Leslie, who had had fifty flirtations or less, would have laughed at the idea of being "in love," with what seemed like a life-passion; and even three days before Josephine Harris would have considered such an event, on her part, not undesirable, but simply impossible. So much for what we know, to-day, of that which is to exist to-morrow, even in the "best-regulated families!"

It was on the third visit paid to the house by Leslie, that Josephine communicated to him her intention to be absent from the city for a week or ten days, visiting some friends in one of the country sections reached by the New York Central Railroad; after which she was again to return to the city and accompany her mother, late in July, on her annual pilgrimage to the Ocean House at Newport. She would leave for the north on one of the first days of July—perhaps the Third or the Fourth. Strangely enough, Leslie had arranged to go to Niagara for a few days, at about the same time, and he suddenly found it a matter of no consequence that he should go by the Erie Road, as he had at first intended. Subsequent inquiries proved that the young girl would go unattended, and leave the railroad at Utica, taking stage for the short remainder of her journey. Leslie felt it almost a matter of inexcusable impudence, after so short an acquaintance, to ask the favor of timing his journey by hers and being her escort so far as Utica; but he dared the risk, as he had dared many a risk before, from things quite as deadly as woman's eyes; and he did not meet even one objection or expression of embarrassment. Josephine Harris accepted his escort as freely as offered, and seemed rather pleased than otherwise! How absurd, and in fact how improper! She should have blushed, simpered, and hinted that she would be very much pleased with his escort—but—so short an acquaintance—all her friends would know it—what would people say?—etc., etc. Joe Harris did not understand all these things, exactly; but the next woman would have acted out that role to perfection.

Not to linger over these details, Mamma Harris not objecting, they left the city of New York by the five o'clock train on the Hudson River Railroad, on the evening of the Fourth of July, just when the city was sweltering in its most deadly heat and all ablaze with patriotic fireworks. Leslie had certain patrio-political engagements which occupied him until after noon on that day, rendering it impossible to leave by the morning train. Leaving by that at five o'clock, they would connect with the train on the New York Central leaving Albany at midnight, and reach Utica very early in the morning. There Josephine would be set down, while Leslie, after seeing to her stage accommodation, would whirl onward with the train, for Niagara.

The connection between love and railroad-riding may not be obvious to all; and there are some, no doubt, who think the flying speed of the modern conveyance terribly unromantic. But there are others who know of nothing more thoroughly pleasant than lounging back easily in the cushioned seat of a railway-carriage, with the one close beside, with one hand in reach at any moment, the one face ready to reply in smiles to the look of pleasure given, and the one head ready to repose upon the shoulder when night comes on or the continued motion of the train brings on drowsiness. Of the latter class were both Tom Leslie and Joe Harris, both of whom had travelled much, though very differently, and neither of whom had ever before experienced the luxury of the one peculiar companionship. They may ride far and see Nature in her most wonderful phases, in other days; but it is doubtful whether either will ever experience a greater pleasure than that of sitting by the side of the other, on that July afternoon, conscious that they were together, and of very little else, but dimly aware, too, that they were sweeping away from the hot and dusty city, with its thousands of sweltering inhabitants, and flying through green woods, among towering hills and beside flashing waters.

It is not more true that "man proposes but God disposes," of any other series of events in life than railroad connections. That Albany express-train on the Hudson-River Road, dashed merrily on for the Highlands, meeting excursion-trains passing backwards and forwards between the various towns on the line, all decked with flags, and evergreens, and the passengers in all waving flags and shouting out their patriotic merriment. Already the Highlands of the Hudson were rising close before them, with the westering sun sinking low and casting broad shadows from their tops over the quiet river,—when suddenly, a little below Peekskill, the train came to a halt, without any station appearing in view.

"What is the matter?" asked some of the passengers, after the halt had been prolonged a few minutes. "Have we met with any accident?" asked others when that halt was longer protracted; and "Are we never going to get on?" asked all parties together, when the delay lengthened to more than half an hour and there appeared to be no signs of starting.

Finally, when more than the half hour had elapsed, a brake-man satisfied the eager inquiries of the passengers by the information that a coal-schooner had attempted to pass through the draw-bridge half a mile above Peekskill, when the tide was too far spent—that she had managed to get aground in the draw-bridge, immediately across the track—and that, consequently, no train could possibly pass until the tide rose again and released the unfortunate boat, well along towards midnight! Here was a pleasant predicament, especially for those who, like our travellers, had connections to make at Albany for the North and West; and yet, to their credit be it said, that particular couple bore the delay with wonderful equanimity! It is just possible that both remembered that they would be together a few hours longer on account of the accident, and that they were prepared to endure even a longer forced companionship!

At last the train moved on, but slowly, through the village of Peekskill, and reached the little creek, under the very edge of the Highlands, where the accident had occurred. The scene was certainly a picturesque one, with the grounded boat, the swung draw-bridge, the men laboring to lighter-off the vessel by unloading the coal, the passengers crowding and swarming from the cars, the setting sun over the noble headlands to the West, and the placid river coming out from the dark shadow of the Highlands and sweeping grandly down to Haverstraw Bay.

It had been arranged that all the passengers by the up-train should disembark and cross the long bridge over the estuary, on the narrow strips of plank temporarily laid down for that purpose, so as to be ready to take the next down-train from Albany, the moment it arrived, and go back with it;—while the passengers by the down-train would cross in the same manner and run back with the up-train towards New York;—thus saving what would otherwise be hours of additional detention. Then streamed across those planks a most picturesque line of pedestrians, sturdy men and timid women, each a little afraid of so narrow a footing over the water, some of the women nervous and screaming a little, and some of the men quite as cowardly but much more ashamed to acknowledge the feeling. The novelty of the picture was materially added to, meanwhile, by the fact that nearly every male passenger was loaded like a pack-horse with baggage, and the ladies with shawls, parasols and bundles,—and that all, when they reached the neck of land at the end of the bridge, squatted down miscellaneously on the dry grass and among the wood and timber, like so many Arabs making a noon encampment.

"Oh, isn't this jolly!" exclaimed Joe Harris, as Tom Leslie was leading her over the line of plank, when they were about half way across, and when, from the instability of a part of the structure, there seemed a fair prospect of taking a duck in the river.

"Bravo, little girl!" said Tom Leslie, in reply. "That is the way to take detention and disappointment in travelling; and after that expression I would bet on you for ascending Mont Blanc or living on a raft." Such little events, to close observers, sometimes furnish keys to the capabilities of whole characters.

"You compliment me," said the young girl, "but there is really nothing to compliment me about. I am not enduring, but enjoying. Look out!—there I go! No I don't!" as she partially lost her balance and then recovered it. "Why we should have lost all this, but for the accident; and probably nothing in our whole ride could have compensated it."

"It is indeed a striking scene," said Leslie, his quick appreciation of the beautiful actively brought into play, as they landed safely on the sward at the end of the bridge. "See the dusky shadows creeping over the Highlands, yonder, and their still duskier shadows in the still water. See the orange and pink of the sunset sky, reaching half way to the zenith, and that quarter moon dividing the sunset colors from the dark blue beyond, like a sentinel. Then see that steamboat creeping close in under the shadow of the land, as if she was trying to steal by unobserved. And then yonder, that smelting furnace perched on one of the hills, throwing out its gleams of molten metal, with their glowing reflection in the little creek. And last, not least, Peekskill lying across the cove yonder, with its Independence flags still flying, those untimely rockets going up, boats with singing parties putting off from the shore, and the music of the band coming over the water just softly enough to make an undertone for the feeling of the place and the hour."

"It is indeed a picture worth remembering," said Josephine, "and the more so after you have so graphically described it." But suddenly, and without any perceptible reason, at that moment the young girl pulled away from his arm, on which she had been leaning, flung down the light veil of her bonnet, stepped away a few paces, and turned her face towards the river. Leslie looked around to see what could have caused the movement, but saw nothing except a few of the last passengers leaving the planks, and among them a military officer in full colonel's uniform, whose face he did not recognize. He saw that the officer passed on, farther up the railroad-track; and the moment after, slightly turning her head, but very warily, the young girl appeared to be beckoning to him. He stepped towards her at once, and turning her head once more towards the river and the western skies, she said:

"Excuse my strange behaviour; I know that you will do so when you understand my reasons—no, you cannot understand them all, at least just now—but part of them. I dare not turn around my head, for fear of being recognized. You saw an officer coming off the bridge just now. Did you know him?"

"No, I did not," answered Leslie, and it must be confessed that he wished to add, though he did not do so, "But what the deuce is the mystery in your young life, that you are obliged to shun recognition in this manner?"

Josephine Harris, from the position in which she stood, could not clearly see his face, and she was consequently spared his look of surprise, almost of pain, which was momentary. The instant after, she asked:

"Is he here still? Is he close by us?"

"No," said Leslie, looking around, "he has passed up the track some distance. But tell me—what can be the matter?"

"I know you must think it odd," said the young girl, turning her face around towards Leslie, now that she knew the officer was not near them. "Not only odd, but a little suspicious. But a few words will explain all that it is either necessary or proper for me to say in this place. Keep an eye on that man, please, and if you see him coming this way again, let me know. That officer is Colonel Egbert Crawford, of whom you may have heard."

"I think I have heard the name, through the newspapers. Getting up a bogus regiment, or something of that kind, isn't he?" asked Leslie. "Any relation to Miss Bell, who accompanied us the other day on that—that expedition?"

"Which you regard as among the most foolish things of your life? Eh, Mr. Leslie?" asked Joe, with a little mischief in her tone.

"Which I regard as one of the most fortunate events in my whole existence," said the young journalist, managing to touch her hand at the same time. She appeared to understand the words and the gesture, and went on with the explanation that had been interrupted.

"He is a cousin of Miss Bell Crawford, and very intimate in the family. I have met him very often, and he would recognize me in a moment if he should see my face. If he should do so, probably the great object of my visit to the North would be prevented."

"And that is—" began Leslie.

"Precisely what I cannot tell you, until I know more of the matter myself, because I have no right to take liberties with the characters of others. Would you have thought me so prudent?" concluded the young girl.

"I do not now need to learn for the first time," answered Leslie, "that those whom the world calls 'rattle-brains'—and I am sure they call you one,—have sometimes plenty of forethought and a good deal of prudence."

"Thank you," said Josephine, and no doubt she did thank him, from her soul. For the rarest flattery is of course the sweetest, and poor wild Joe was in the habit of being oftener complimented for any thing else rather than that terrible quality "forethought."

"But I may tell you," the young girl resumed, "that I have very grave suspicions of that man's honesty, in some of his dealings with the Crawfords, who are my very dear friends; and I am going to unsex myself, I suppose, in your mind, by acknowledging that I am playing the part of a detective, en amateur, for a few days."

"Not a particle unsexed," said Leslie, rubbing a match on his boot-sole and preparing to desecrate the sweet air of evening with cigar-smoke. "Go on, please."

"Well," said Joe, "if I do not mistake, Col. Egbert Crawford and myself are going to the very same place—at least to houses not a quarter of a mile apart; and if he should know of my presence in the neighborhood all my researches might be blocked. Do you see?"

"I see," said Leslie, though how he could see through that cloud of cigar-smoke, was a little unaccountable.

"That is why I turned away and dropped my veil," the young girl went on. "And now I am under the necessity of troubling you a little more than I intended. You must look out, for me, that we do not get into the same car, and afterwards you may have a good deal more of trouble to keep us apart. May I tax you so far?"

"I think so," answered Leslie. "Hark!"

Through the hills above them there swept down a rumble, a roar, and a rattle, growing deeper every moment.

"Clear the track, there," cried Leslie, loud enough to be heard by all the hundreds of passengers. "The down-train is coming!"

In an instant the train from Albany broke into sight from the woods above, and came thundering down, barely giving the passengers who had been lounging on the track, time to drag themselves and their baggage out of the way. It was now growing dusk, but the train stopped upon the bridge without accident; and in a few moments the down passengers were unloaded and transferred, those going up were on board, and the long line moved back again, the locomotive in the rear and pushing all the cars backwards like a gigantic wheelbarrow.

Leslie had taken Miss Harris' hint at once, and kept his eye on the Colonel when the embarkation was being made. He saw him step on board one of the rear cars, and himself and his companion took places farther forward, so that any danger of recognition was past for the time.

There was nothing of incident in the night-ride which followed, demanding description in these pages, except that Leslie found a pleasure he had not anticipated, in Miss Josey's growing drowsy and making a pillow of him eventually. There, have been heavier burdens than that he bore; and what with the soft breath playing so near his cheek in the innocence of slumber—the light form around which he was obliged to clasp his arm (as a matter of duty—to keep her from slipping from the seat, of course!)—the dashes through dusky woods and the glimpses of the moonlit river,—what with all these and the pleasant company of a heart that had never yet known what it was to be desponding, Tom Leslie managed to enjoy the latter portion of the ride to Albany, amazingly. At one o'clock he woke up the pleasant burden on his arm, and half an hour after, Josephine Harris was cradled in soft slumbers at the Delavan, in Albany, while Tom Leslie, a very human description of guardian angel, was watching over her slumbers from his sleepless pillow in another wing of the building.

Corresponding precautions to those of the evening were taken in the morning, when the travellers took the cars of the Central Road, for Utica and their separation; but in that instance they seemed to be superfluous. Whether Colonel Egbert Crawford disdained to pursue his route at that early hour in the morning, or whether he had one more favorable report to make at the Adjutant-General's office, of the condition of the Two Hundredth Regiment, detaining him in Albany for another train,—certain it is that he did not make his appearance, and that the "amateur detective" and her companion were free to choose any of the cars of the train. A rapid ride through the Mohawk Valley, with the quiet river of the same name ever at their side, and the Erie Canal continually in view, with its pleasant reminder of the extent and the wealth of the Empire State,—and before their morning's conversation was half finished (for what check or bound is there to the invaluable nothings of two lovers who have not yet recovered from the novelty of their first impressions?) they dashed up to the station at Utica and alighted for dinner at the American.

It is no matter, here, what arrangements had been made between the two for their subsequent meeting and correspondence; it is enough to know that no fetter has yet been forged by any Tubal Cain of them all, strong enough to hold apart those who choose to single out each other from the world. Tom Leslie and Josephine Harris were to meet again, and at an early day; and with that understanding both were reasonably well content—the male member of the combination because he had no option, and the female member because she really had such a multitude of benevolent plans in her busy brain that she had no time to be otherwise.

Before Josephine Harris had finished her capital dinner at the American, and ceased trifling with those magnificent strawberries, the finest of any season within memory, (that young person was favored with a most unromantic appetite, and often managed to astonish those who had the pleasure of paying her bills at a restaurant dinner or supper)—before all this was accomplished, and before the bell had rung, calling the passengers for the Northward to resume their seats on the train, Leslie had succeeded in discovering the whereabouts of the proper stage for the remainder of Miss Josey's journey, and making the necessary arrangements for her baggage and her personal accommodation. This done, and his mind at rest on that particular point, the bell rung, the two made a hurried farewell, in which a warm pressure of the hand served (for propriety's sake) in the place of a parting kiss understood; and Leslie sprung into his car and was whirled away Northward towards the Mecca of American summer-tourists; while the young girl went up to "do" Utica in a bird's-eye view from the window of her room, and to await the four o'clock that was to bear her away in the lumbering stage to West Falls. Perhaps Tom Leslie felt at that moment that he would have been glad of any excuse or any shadow of invitation to accompany her to that rustic paradise, instead of going away alone to any paradise named in Bible or Koran; and perhaps Joe Harris had the faintest suspicion of a heavy and lonely feeling at her heart, at parting with the "eyes" and the merry brain that lay behind them, so suddenly flung as an element into her own existence.

Henceforward, for the present, the business of this narration only requires that the course of Miss Josephine Harris shall be traced, leaving the "other half" of her incomplete "pair of scissors" to be picked up hereafter.

No one who has ever travelled among the mountains or through any of the Northern hill-sections, needs any description of the heavy lumbering "Concord coach" in which the young girl and her stage-companions were slowly dragged up Genesee Street, Utica, by four horses of lymphatic temperament, on that sultry July afternoon with occasional sprinkles of shower thrown in to make it endurable. They are all alike—those heavy coaches—except as to paint and upholstery, wherever we meet them,—whether they drag us up the Cattskills, bear us over from Moreau to Lake George, dash down with us through the gorges of the White Mountains, or jog us heavily along the rough roads that thread the Alleghanies. The same half cord of wood in each of the curved bodies—the same complication of sole-leather in the swinging jacks which serve in the place of springs—the same cumbrous weight of wheel, suggesting that a mill may have gone out on its travels, locomoted on its running-gear. And yet there is no conveyance so safe or so easy for the mountain; and some of us have enjoyed pleasant hours lounging back upon those polished leather cushions within, or shouting out enthusiastic admiration of scenery from the pokerish seats on the top.

It is a pleasant ride, at any season of the year—that from Utica over the range of hills which lies westward, to the Oneida Valley which nestles down a few miles beyond. And it was especially pleasant and enjoyable, that afternoon, with the cloud-shadows playing over the yet uncut wheat-fields, and the glints of sunlight falling on the roofs and gables of cozy-looking farmsteads bordering the road on either hand or peeping out from behind clumps of woods in the distance. The opened back-curtains of the coach gave a delicious view, when they had surmounted the height, of Utica lying on the slope below, stretching downwards towards the Mohawk and the Canal, with its clustering domes and spires and the melancholy Lunatic Asylum overlooking all from the North-west. And a view not less pleasant opened before, of the long stretch of valley lying in the distance, bounded on either side by a continuous range of hills rising up with an almost even slope, crowned with woods and diversified with the divisions of cultivated fields, and here and there a glint of water, showing where the silver Sauquoit, most laboriously taxed of all minor streams except those of the Naugatuck and Housatonic Valleys, wound its busy way down to the Mohawk.

And when the eye tired of resting upon these, it could find variety in studying the Welsh contour and primitive aspect of many of the Oneida countrymen passing upon the road—the clumsy contrivances of a hundred years ago, on which the gathered loads of hay were going homeward from some of the out-lands—and the long, low wagons on which great pyramids of boxes of cheese, the staple of the section, were being slowly dragged towards Utica and a market.

But fair Oneida showed that war was in the land, removed though it might be from the great centres of recruiting operations. Joe Harris had noticed that a recruiting tent for McQuade's gallant Fourteenth stood in the middle of Genesee Street, only a little way above the hotels, with drums beating and flags and placards exhibited; and even in the fields she saw traces of the effort to answer the President's last demand for troops. Where on the visits of previous years she had seen only men toiling in the sunshine, many women were laboring now, and the change was significant. The homes of Oneida had already given of their best and bravest to the cause of the nation, and still the Moloch of war demanded more!—more, ever and continually more!

There was a reminder of the war, too, within the coach, and a reminder of the mode in which the recruiting service was being conducted. On one of the front seats sat a fine-looking young man, bright-eyed and keen-faced, in the shoddy uniform of a private. His conversation was at once that of a patriot and a gentleman; and it did not require many moments of unavoidable listening for the young girl to discover that he was well educated. Further conversation between himself and other passengers who seemed to know and respect him, showed that he had abandoned his studies in a leading institution, to answer the call of the country—that mathematics and military science had formed a considerable part of his studies—that he had had some hopes, when he enlisted, of obtaining the grade of a subaltern officer, when he should succeed in procuring sufficient enlistments—that by his personal efforts and fervid eloquence he had already succeeded in enlisting more than fifty men for the regiment with which he was connected, and was then on his way to another section of the county to make further efforts in the same direction—and that he was still a "full private," with a certainty of rising no higher, because he had neither money nor political influence to put him forward. So that this young patriot and soldier, who showed the power and energy of his nature in every glance of his eye and every word he spoke, was to be kept in the lowest position known to the service, and commanded by men who had never heard of a book on military science or tactics, a week before, but who could buy commissions or command a certain number of votes at a town-meeting! Josephine Harris had studied the current history of the time, enough to know and recognize the picture set before her, and to say, silently and between her set teeth:

"Oh, I wish I was only a man, to start out with a horsewhip and lash these incapables until they howled!"

Six o'clock, and the stage went rumbling and swaying into the little village of West Falls, which it is hoped that no matter-of-fact reader will attempt to find on the map of Oneida, albeit it has a veritable existence there under another name. It was a cozy little spot, nestled down into the valley of a small stream, half creek and half river, that formed a cataract in the neighborhood and gave it the name. Factories clustered along the stream, making the idle water labor for the benefit of man, and within them whirred the spindle of the cotton or wool spinner and clanked the hammer of the worker in iron and steel. The village itself lay partly in the valley, along the east margin of the stream, and partly climbing the slight range of hills that bounded it still farther eastward. A wilderness of shade-trees bordered the main street and seemed to cluster around every house on the narrow lanes that branched from it, presenting a cool and refreshing picture in the hot summer afternoon, and suggesting rosy-cheeked lasses, breezy halls and bed-rooms, real milk instead of the manufactured article, and all the other pleasant things traditionally supposed to belong to summer in the country.

Up the long shady street, then down a wide bye-street that branched to the left under the very edge of the hills, and the accommodating stage set the city girl down at the gate of a neat-looking story-and-a-half house, buried in trees and bowered in summer flowers, unvisited by her for the previous three years, but before that time the scene of many an hour of quiet rustic enjoyment. For reasons best known to herself, Josephine Harris had chosen not to advise her hostess of her intended visit, but she had no fears that it could possibly find her "not at home," and indeed before the clanking steps of the coach were well let down, the new-comer had been recognized from the house, and a young girl came flying down the pathway to the gate. This was Susan Halstead, her cousin, three years younger than herself, petite in figure, brown-haired and round-faced, with the curls flying loose over her shoulders and her childish mouth all puckered with pleasure at once more seeing and embracing "Cousin Joe."

The stage rolled away, the luggage found its way inside the white gate, and Josephine was soon in the arms of her matronly-looking Aunt Betsey, her mother's sister and the country type of the family as Mrs. Harris herself supplied that representing the city. Much taller in figure than her daughter, a little deaf and with many threads of silver shining in her dark hair, but with the kindest face and the merriest laugh in the world, Mrs. Betsey Halstead furnished a pleasant specimen of those moderately-circumstanced Lady Bountifuls of the country and the country village, who always have a spare bed for the wayfarer, always a cup of milk and a slice of fresh bread for the weak and the needy, and always an unalloyed enjoyment in the coming of "company," i.e., visitors.

It need scarcely be said that the coming of merry Joe was a pleasure, as well as a surprise, that she was overwhelmed with welcomes as well as questions, that aunt and cousin and the tidy "help" all vied in the effort to "put away her things," and that in five minutes the city girl was more pleasantly flustered than she would have been on entering a fashionable ball at Irving Hall or attending the first hop of the season at Newport. Pleasantly flustered—that is, she did not quite know whether her head was on or off her shoulders, and yet she knew that she was for the time in a quiet little haven of country rest from the noise and whirl of the great city, very pleasant to contemplate.

"And you did not write us a word about your coming?" said Aunt Betsey, interrogatively, when the bonnet had been laid off, the dust brushed away, and the second kiss of meeting exchanged.

"Not a word, Aunt," was the young girl's reply. "You know that I never do things like other people. I knew that you would be at home—knew that you would be glad to see me—did not know that I was coming, myself, until a day or two ago—and do not think that I should have written, if I had, when it was so much easier to bring the information myself."

"Still the same rattle-brain!" said Aunt Betsey, shaking her head with that peculiar gesture which really implies admiration of a prodigy. "So mother is still in the city, is she? Why did not she come along?"

"Yes?" echoed Susan. "Why didn't she come along? Did you come all the way alone?"

"No," answered Josey, with the least little bit of hesitation in her answer, and the tiniest flush creeping up on her face, that neither of the others had the tact to see. "There were some friends of mine going on to Niagara, and so I had company all the way to Utica, and they set me down there." Sly Joe!—why did she use the plural number,—"friends," and "they"? Why will people, even those belonging to the most irreproachable classes of society, indulge in these little fibs upon occasion?

"Oh, Cousin Joe," said Susy, "you do not know what a nice little room we have for you, up-stairs. The vines have climbed up and half covered the window, and a robin has built its nest in one of the branches of the big apple-tree, that hangs so close to it. Little robie will wake you early in the morning, I'll be bound—none of the late lying in bed that they say you all practice in the great city!"

"No, you rose-bud!" exclaimed Joe. "I will get up as early as any of you, especially as I have not come out here to be idle, but to work. But where is Uncle?—I have not seen him yet?"

"Your Uncle Halstead," said Aunt Betsey, with a shade of sorrow momentarily crossing her kindly face. "Oh, I suppose you did not know it! Your Uncle has gone to the war, with the rest of them. There have a great many gone from Oneida—scarcely a family that does not miss one member at least. Some of them will not come back, I suppose; and some may. God shelter and keep your Uncle! It was a little hard to part with him, after being together nearly all the time for so many years; but he felt that he must go, and he knew his duty best."

"And you so cheerful about it that I did not even know till now that he was gone!" said Joe, with surprise.

"Why yes," said her Aunt. "If they have a duty to fight for the country, we have a duty to be patient while they are gone and do the best we can with what they leave behind them!"

Bravely and truly said, wife of the Oneida soldier! If the battles of the Union are lost, half the fault will lie with the women who have preferred their own ease and the contentment of their own affections, to the peril of their native land; and if those battles are won, no small share of the credit will be due to those true-hearted descendants of Molly Starke, who have emulated the self-sacrificing spirit of the women of old Rome and sent off the husbands they loved and the sons upon whom they leaned, to win their love and confidence over again on the battle-field, or to die for the worshipped flag and the perilled nation!

"God shelter and keep him, indeed!" responded the young girl. "And he will, without a doubt." No one could exactly understand why it should be so, in conjunction with the dash and freedom of her character; but hidden away somewhere among the dark glossy hair was a bump of Veneration that recognized the Supreme Being with the most filial love and trust, and in the heart there was a corresponding throb of gratitude, confidence and childlike dependence.

"But what have you got, out-of-doors?" she asked, changing her manner again to that of one who had no thought beyond the present. "I have not quite forgotten how the old yard looks, with the smoke-house, close to the back door, and the barn at the other end. Got any pigs and chickens? And how's your cat?"

"The cat is well," said Susan, gravely—"that is, as well as could be expected. She has quite a family. We have lots of chickens—you must have seen some of them in the front yard as you came in. And pigs—a pen full of them, but a little too big to suit you. They are too heavy and dirty to take in your arms, and all the curl is gone out of their tails."

"So sorry!" said Miss Josey, with the most melancholy of pouts on her lip, and with a funny reminder of Laura Keene when she uses the same expression to the discarded Pomander in "Peg Woffington."

"But we have something else that you will like," Susy continued, determined to atone for any disappointment in the pigs and their terminations. "We have got a calf—a nice red-and-white spotted calf, only about a week old."

"Oh, that is the thing!" cried the merry girl. "We will go at once and have a look at the calf. Does it hook?"

"Hook?—you stupid thing!" laughed Susy. "Why it is only a week old, I tell you; and of course it hasn't any horns. But come along!" and down from a convenient peg she pulled a couple of sun-bonnets, her mother's and her own, sticking one on the gypsy head of Josey and the other on her own refractory curls. "But stop—we have something else that you have not thought of"—and she pulled down the head of her cousin and whispered in her ear.

"Cherries! oh good gracious!" absolutely yelled the young lady. "Quick—get me some boy's-trousers and a step-ladder! No, you needn't mind the trousers, as long as it is only you, Susy, who is going to help me pick; but the step-ladder—don't forget the step-ladder!" and away she went, flying out of the house, her hand in that of Susan, and the whole movement more suggestive than anything else, of two young colts turned out in a clover-field for a summer-day frolic.

Five minutes afterwards, a subterranean observer, could such a person have been possible, would have seen Miss Josey most unromantically astride of a limb, half way up the big Tartarean cherry tree overhanging the smoke-house, appropriating those pulpy little purple globes at a most luxurious rate, and staining her cherry lips and her white fingers very nearly of the same color. Susy stood below, laughing and clapping her hands at mad Joseph's position, and eating, by way of sympathy, the few clusters thrown down to her by the busy fingers.

But we cannot linger upon this picture, pleasant as it is—nor yet upon the adventures of Josey among the pigs, chickens, cats, with the calf (which managed to "butt" her over, even if it could not "hook"), and among all and singular the belongings and appliances connected with that cozy little retreat in the country village. Then what a supper followed, with the flaky white tea-biscuit made by Aunt Betsey's own hands, with the fresh cream equally divided between the cherries and the strawberries, and the scent of the roses stolen by the slight evening breeze and thrown in at the windows. Then an hour of moonlight, but only an hour, for the young girl was wearied out by the changes of scene that had kept her excited during the day, and the broken rest of the night before. Long hours earlier than Tom Leslie heard the whistle of his train, braking-up at Suspension Bridge, Josephine was nestling among the white sheets and cool pillows of her pleasant chamber, nodded at by the vines at the window and just lovingly kissed by one glint of the moon that stole in upon her privacy—sleeping such a sleep as wealth and power turn wearily upon their pillows and pray for without hope.



CHAPTER XXIII.

JOSEPHINE HARRIS IN SEARCH OF INFORMATION—A BIG FIB FOR A GOOD END—MARY CRAWFORD WITH HER EYES SHUT, AND WITH THE SAME EYES OPENED—A BOMB-SHELL FOR COLONEL EGBERT CRAWFORD.

Pleasant though those hours in the little homestead at West Falls may have been, they must be passed rapidly over, except as each bore some event connected with the progress of this story.

When Josephine Harris woke next morning with the birds singing Sunday matins under her window, all the fogs and mists of merriment and country enjoyment seemed for the time to have rolled away from her brain, and the prime object of her visit to West Falls came prominently into her mind. In order to effect it, it was necessary that her aunt and cousin should both be taken somewhat into her confidence; and she had no fear of any evil result from this, as their location at a distance from the city would prevent any ill effects even from an unguarded word. Whatever these confidences were to be, however, there was no occasion to make them with any great suddenness; and in her character of an "amateur detective" she naturally preferred to make what discoveries might be possible, before explaining her motives for making the inquiries.

Accordingly, when breakfast and the Sunday "morning work" had been dispatched, she pulled little Susy away from the house, under the pretence of taking a "swing" in the popular abomination of that name, suspended between two of the trees in the back-yard. Seated side by side on the board seat between the ropes, and with their arms clasping each other's waists, the two girls fell into a conversation which was very soon led by Josephine into the direction she wished. Not, however, until she had propitiated the demon of mischief within her, by making an onslaught upon a daguerreotype which she had found in one of the drawers of the bureau in her room during an imprudent "rummage" before breakfast. A few sly hits at the appearance of the face there depicted, brought a sudden flush to the face of little Susy; and not long elapsed before they elicited the information, given through deeper and warmer blushes, that she was under an engagement of marriage to the young man whose portrait was thus made a hidden treasure—that he was an engineer on a distant railroad, who could only make his visits to West Falls at intervals of a month or two—and that they were to be married sometime during the ensuing year, if life and health would permit. Simple Susy!—what a pity that she could not have been informed of some of the events in the life of her cousin which had occurred during the previous few days—especially of the "friends" who had accompanied her to Utica! In that case it is just possible that the blushes might have been duplicated, though no corresponding confidence could have been elicited, for the best of all reasons. As it was, Susan had nothing to do but to pour out the one life-secret of her innocent heart, receiving nothing in return but a peal or two of merry laughter and a final assurance that "he would do," and that "he was not so very homely and awkward, after all!"

When she had reduced her cousin to that state of defencelessness and subserviency, Pussy Harris (as we have before had occasion to call her) suspended amusement, went into business, and commenced her round of enquiries.

A quarter of a mile away, in full sight of the grounds in the neighborhood of the barn, from its elevated position near the top of a gently-swelling knoll, a little separated from the main chain of hills that stretched away eastward—stood a large two-story farm-house, a little old and Dutch in its appearance, but thrifty-looking and suggesting that the man who made it a residence was the owner of many broad acres. This appearance was very much added to by the size and extent of the barns and out-houses; and the impression of age and stability was enhanced by the fine old trees which surrounded the yards and added so much to the pleasantness of the situation. From her old memory of the place, and of conversations during previous visits when she had no interest whatever in the inmates, Josephine Harris had an impression that this house was the abode of the Crawfords; and it was upon that supposition that she began her enquiries.

"Let me see—I almost forget," she said, pausing in their swing, and with the air of one trying very hard to remember—"Who was it that used to live in the big house yonder on the hill? Thompson? Johnson? What was the name?"

"The big house? oh, Crawford—the Crawfords live there," answered Susan, very innocently.

"Oh, yes, the name was Crawford," said Joe. "Let me see—there was an old man—"

"Yes, old John Crawford," so Susan supplied the missing name.

"And he had one daughter—only one daughter, and only one child, I think," said Josephine, working her features into a terrible semblance of trying to recollect something in the past, that had almost escaped her.

"Why yes, he had only one child, Mary," said Susan, evincing a little surprise. "But I did not know that you ever met her, so as to take any interest in her."

"Humph! well, I never did meet her, except at church," said the city girl, evasively. "But you were pretty young, then, and you would scarcely have remembered it if I had. I remember thinking that the old house must be a nice place for living in the country, and I thought of it again this morning. Is the old man living still?"

Less unsophisticated persons than little Susan Halstead might have been led into pursuing a subject of village gossip, by so specious a trap as that set by Josephine; and it is not strange that she fell at once into the line of conversation that the other desired.

"Yes, old Mr. Crawford is still living," said Susy, "and that is about all that can be said. He is old and very feeble, and they have been expecting him to die any day for the past three or four months. And that is not all—as you seem to have known something about Mary, I do not care if I tell you. There is serious trouble in that house, Cousin Josey!"

"Trouble?" echoed the young girl. "Indeed! why what is the matter?"

"It is a long story," said Susan, "but perhaps I can tell it without using many words. You know that the Crawfords are richer than most of us here—they say that the old man is very rich—and so they belong to the aristocracy and do not associate with everybody. Mary is older than myself, a year or two, but we were at school together. We have not had much intimacy since, but a little, in spite of the difference in our circumstances. Mary is a dear, good soul, and not a bit proud, though the family are proud as Lucifer. Well, she used to come here once in awhile, and she made me come over there, though I always felt out of place in the big house. She was as gay and merry, then, as could be, and seemed always happy and light-hearted. She used to think a great deal of Mother, apparently; and once, two years ago, when Mother was very sick, she came down two or three times a day and brought her everything nice that she could think of. Lately she has not come here at all, and as she is richer than I, I am too proud to put myself in her way."

"Did nothing occur between you, to make any change in her behavior towards you?" asked the female lawyer.

"Nothing at all," answered little Susy. "I suppose that some of her fine acquaintances told her that she must not visit people poorer than herself, and that may have made the difference."

"But this is not the 'trouble' you spoke of, is it?" asked the young girl, who did not by any means intend to allow the cross-examination to fall through at this point.

"Oh, not at all," said the unsuspicious Susan. "I was coming to that directly. There was a cousin of Mary's, Richard, from New York, who used to come up here very often. I sometimes saw them together, and then it was that she looked so gay and happy. I am sure that they loved each other, and every one thought that some day they would be married. Of course I have never heard any of these things from her, and perhaps I ought not to talk about them; but you know such things will creep out. Well, Richard Crawford does not come up here any more. They say that he has been leading a dreadful life, drinking and going into bad places, until he is all broken down and a miserable cripple. There is another cousin, a Colonel, who comes up here now, and he and Mary go out together sometimes. The Crawfords are notorious for trying to keep all their property in the family; and so, as the other has proved so bad, probably this cousin and Mary may be married. But she looks like a ghost when I meet her, at church or when she is riding out; and I know that she is unhappy. Perhaps she loves the poor young man still, bad as he is. Don't you think that is possible, cousin Joe? And may that not be what ails her?"

"Why yes, you dear little soul, I should think very likely!" said the city girl, leaning down her head on her hand and trying to still the throbbing of her temples. What a revelation was here, from lips so innocent and evidently so truthful! And how the whole story tallied with what she had heard in her ambush and conjectured from other circumstances! She was on the right scent, beyond a question—but here came her difficulty,—how to cut this knot of villainy, even now that it lay plainly before her! This was the question that labored through the young girl's brain and bent down her head on her hand. And yet it must be done, whatever the difficulty. Courage, Joseph Harris!—there never was a difficult thing, either in wickedness or benevolence, that a woman could not master when she once fairly set about it!

"It is indeed a sad story that you have been telling," she said, "and it interests me more and more in the family and especially in Mary. I wish I could see her and talk to her for half an hour." She had gathered all the information that she had any right to expect, and now came the necessary confidence. "What would you say now, Susy, if I could put back some of the light into Miss Mary Crawford's eyes?"

"You?" and the country girl looked at her as if a pair of horns had suddenly sprouted from under the dark hair.

"Yes, I!" echoed the "amateur detective."

"I don't see how you can do it, especially as you do not know these people or anything much about them," said Susan. "But indeed I should be very much pleased if you could, and I should—yes, I should just think you a witch!"