Stanton answered that he thought he should.

"Well," said Mr. Middleton, "I'll give you all my suits, just because you wouldn't drink and tell a lie to that little gal at home. I despise liars. Let me catch a body telling me a lie, I tell you—"

Here he lifted up his huge foot which was encased in a cowhide boot, something smaller than a canal-boat. He gave the table a kick which set all the spoons, knives and forks to dancing, spilt the milk and upset the gravy pot.

"Why, Mr. Middleton!" interposed his wife.

"I am sorry, honey," said he, "but I'll be hanged if that ar sling ain't gettin' the better of the old man."

After supper was over and the effects of the sling had left Mr. Middleton's head, he inquired further into the intentions of his guests. On learning that Mr. Raymond would teach, if he could get the chance, Mr. Middleton said, "I reckon you can teach in Mr. Miller's school. I'll write to him about you, and I reckon he can make room for you."

It was well for Raymond that Mr. Middleton did not observe his smile of contempt at the idea of being recommended by such an "old cur," as he secretly styled him.

At a late hour Mr. Middleton conducted the young men to their room, saying as they entered it, "This was Dick's room, poor dear boy! For his sake I wish 'twas better, for it was sometimes cold like in the winter; but he's warm enough now, I reckon, poor fellow!" So saying, he left the room; but Stanton noticed upon the old tin candlestick which his host had put upon the table something which looked very much like tears, so large that he was sure no one but Mr. Middleton could have wept them.



CHAPTER IX

THE RESEMBLANCE OF THE COUSINS

Among Mr. Middleton's negroes there was a boy twelve years of age whose name was Bob. On the morning following the incidents narrated in the last chapter, Bob was sent up to make a fire for "the young marsters." He had just coaxed the coal and kindlings into a blaze, when Raymond awoke, and spying the negro, called out, "Hello, there! Tom, Dick, Harry, what may be your name?"

"My name is Bob, sar."

"Oh, Bob is it? Bob what? Have you no other name?"

"No, sar, 'cept it's Marster Josh. I 'longs to him."

"Belong to Master Josh, do you? His name isn't Josh, it is Joshua."

"Yes, marster."

"Well, then, Bob, if his name is Joshua, what must yours be?" said Raymond.

"Dun know, unless it's Bobaway," answered the negro, with a broad grin.

"Bobaway! That's rich," said Raymond, laughing heartily at the rapid advancement of his pupil.

After a moment's pause, he again called out, "I say, Bobaway, did it snow last night?"

"No, sar, it didn't snow; it done frosted," said Bob.

"Done frosted, hey?" said Raymond. "You're a smart boy, Bob. What'll you sell yourself for?"

"Dun know; hain't nothing to sell 'cept my t'other hat and a bushel of hickory-nuts," answered Bob; "but I reckon how marster ax about five hundred, 'case I's right spry when I hain't got the rheumatiz."

"Got the rheumatiz, have you, Bob? Where?"

"In my belly, sar," answered Bob. Here the young men burst into a loud laugh, and Raymond said, "Five hundred is cheap, Bob; I'll give more than that."

Bob opened his large white eyes to their utmost extent, and looking keenly at Raymond slowly quitted the room. On reaching the kitchen he told Aunt Judy, who was his mother, "that ef marster ever acted like he was goin' for to sell him to that ar chap, what poked fun at him, he'd run away, sartin."

"And be cotched and git shet up," said Aunt Judy.

"I'd a heap rather be shet up 'tarnally than to 'long to anybody 'sides Marster Josh," said Bob.

During breakfast Mr. Middleton suddenly exclaimed, while looking at Stanton, "I've been tryin' ever since you've been here to think who you look like, and I've jest thought. It's Dr. Lacey."

"Who, sir?" said Stanton in some surprise.

"Dr. Lacey. D'ye know him?" asked Mr. Middleton.

"Dr. Lacey of New Orleans?" asked Stanton.

"The same," returned Mr. Middleton. "You look as much like him as two peas, only you wear goggles. Connection of your'n I reckon?"

"Yes, sir," answered Stanton, "he is my cousin. I have been told that we resemble each other."

"By Jupiter!" said Mr. Middleton, "that's just the checker. No wonder I like you so well. And Dr. Lacey goin' to marry Sunshine, too. Your sweetheart ought to look like Fanny. Got her picter, hey?"

Stanton handed him Nellie's daguerreotype, and he pretended to discover a close resemblance between her and Fanny; but neither Mrs. Middleton, nor Mr. Ashton could trace any, for which Mr. Middleton called them both blockheads.

"I think," said Mrs. Middleton, "that she looks more like Mr. Ashton than she does like Fanny."

"It is similarity of name which makes her resemble him," said Raymond.

"Why, is her name Ashton?" asked Middleton.

"Yes, sir," said Stanton.

"Mebbe she's your sister, Ashton. But Lord knows she don't look no more like you than she does like old Josh."

"She cannot be my sister," said Ashton, "for I had but one, and she is dead."

After breakfast Mr. Middleton ordered out his carriage and bade Ike drive the gentlemen to Frankfort.

"I'd go myself," said he, "but I've got a fetched headache. Give my love to my gals and tell them I'm comin' to see 'em shortly. You'd better go to the Whizzakor House, till you find out whether or not Miss Crane 'll board you."

The young men thanked him for his hospitality, and bade him good morning. As they were leaving the yard they passed Bob, who was still limping with the "rheumatiz." Raymond bade Ike stop, while he threw "Bobaway" some pennies. Bob picked them up and looked at them with a rueful face.

"What's the matter, Bobaway?" asked Raymond. "Don't they suit?"

"No, sir," said Bob. "I like fopences; I don't want nothin' of these old iron rocks."

Each of the men threw Bob a sixpence, for which they were rewarded with a sight of his ivories and a loud "thank-ee-sar." After a ride of two hours they reached the Weisiger House in Frankfort. Soon after arriving there, Mr. Ashton introduced Stanton into one of the best law offices in the town, and then repaired to his former lodgings.

In the course of the afternoon Raymond sought out Mr. Miller, and with a somewhat quizzical face handed him Mr. Middleton's letter of introduction. After reading it, Mr. Miller offered his hand to Raymond, and said, "I am glad, Mr. Raymond, that you happened here just at this time, for my school is large, and I am in want of a classical teacher. You are a graduate of Yale, it seems?"

"Yes, sir," returned Raymond; "and by the way, Mr. Middleton told me that you had won a New Haven girl—Miss Kate Wilmot. I knew her very well."

"Ah, is it possible?" said Mr. Miller, his face beaming. "Come with me to Mrs. Crane's," said he. "Kate will be glad to see an old friend."

"Thank you," answered Raymond; "but I have a companion with me, a Mr. Stanton, who also knew Miss Wilmot. He is going into a law office here. We both of us intend calling at Mrs. Crane's this evening, and if possible we shall procure board there."

So they parted, and Raymond returned to the Weisiger House, while Mr. Miller hastened home to make some inquiries concerning his new assistant, and to inform Mrs. Crane of her prospect for more boarders.

That evening Stanton and Raymond called. They found assembled in Mrs. Crane's parlor, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, Mrs. Carrington and Julia. Kate instantly recognized the young gentlemen as old acquaintances, and presented them to her friends. When Stanton entered the room all observed the strong resemblance between him and Dr. Lacey. At last Mr. Miller spoke of it, and Stanton replied, "Yes, I've been told so before. Dr. Lacey is my cousin."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Miller. Then turning to his wife, he added, "Where is Fanny? She ought to be here. It might do her as much good as seeing the doctor himself."

"I should like to see Miss Fanny," said Stanton, "as I am told she is to be my cousin."

A malicious smile curled Julia's lip, as she thought, "I think it is very doubtful whether she is ever your cousin"; but Mrs. Miller arose and said, "I think she is in her room. I will call her."

Going to Fanny's room she knocked gently at the door; there was no response, and she knocked again more loudly. But still there was no answer; and Mrs. Miller thought she could distinguish a low, stifled sob. Pushing open the door, she saw the usually gay-hearted Fanny seated on the floor, her head resting on a chair, over which her hair fell like a golden gleam of sunlight. A second glance convinced Kate that Fanny was weeping.

"Why, Fanny," said she, "what is the matter? What are you crying for?"

Fanny did not reply, but as Mrs. Miller drew her up from the floor and placed her on the sofa, she laid her head in Kate's lap and wept still more passionately. At length Mrs. Miller succeeded in soothing her, and then insisted on knowing what was the cause of her distress.

"Oh," said Fanny, "do not ask me, for I can only tell you that nobody loves me long at a time—nobody but my dear old father, mother, and the blacks."

"You should not say so, Fanny dear," said Kate. "You know we all love you very much, and you say that within a few weeks Julia has been uniformly kind and affectionate to you."

"Yes, I know she is, but—"

"But what?" said Mrs. Miller. "Anything the trouble with Dr. Lacey?"

"Yes, that's it! That's it!" said Fanny in a low voice.

"Why, what's the matter? Is he sick?" asked Kate.

"Oh, no. If he were I would go to him. But, Mrs. Miller, for four long weeks he has not written me one word. Now if he were sick or dead, somebody would write to me; but it isn't that—I am afraid he's false. Julia thinks he is, and she is sorry for me, there is some comfort in that."

"Not written in four weeks? Perhaps he has written and his letters have been miscarried," said Kate.

"Oh, no, that cannot be," answered Fanny. "His first four letters came in the course of two weeks, but since then I have not had a word."

"Have you written to him since his letters ceased?" asked Kate.

"Yes, once, and I am sorry I did," answered Fanny; "but I asked Julia if I had better, and she said it would do no harm."

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Miller, "he is intending to return soon and wishes to surprise you, or it may be he is testing the strength of your attachment. But I would not suffer myself to be so much distressed until I was sure he was false. Come, dry your eyes and go with me to the parlor. There are some young gentlemen here from New York. One of them is Dr. Lacey's cousin. He wishes to see you."

"Oh, no, no!" said Fanny, quickly. "I cannot go down. You must excuse me to him."

So Mrs. Miller returned to the parlor, and said Fanny was not feeling very well and wished to be excused.

Stanton and Raymond passed a very pleasant evening, and ere its close they had arranged with Mrs. Crane for rooms and board. On their way to the hotel, Raymond suddenly exclaimed, "I say, Bob, I'm head over heels in love!"

"In love with whom?" was Stanton's quiet reply.

"In love with whom?" repeated Raymond. "Why, Bob, is it possible your head is so full of Nellie Ashton that you do not know that we have been in company this evening with a perfect Hebe, an angel, a divine creature?"

"Please stop," said Stanton, "and not deal in so many superlatives. Which of the fair ladies made such havoc with your heart? Was it Mrs. Crane?"

"Mrs. Crane! Witch of Endor just as soon," answered Raymond. "Why, man alive, 'twas the beautiful Mrs. Carrington. I tell you what, Bob, my destiny is upon me and she is its star. I see in her my future wife."

"Why, Fred," said Mr. Stanton, "are you crazy? Mrs. Carrington is at least nearly thirty-five, and you are not yet twenty-five."

"I don't care for that," replied Raymond. "She may be thirty, and she may be a hundred, but she looks sixteen. Such glorious eyes I never saw. And she almost annihilated me with one of her captivating smiles. Her name, too, is my favorite."

"Her name? Pray, how did you learn her name?" asked Stanton.

"Why," answered Raymond, "you know we were talking together a part of the evening. Our conversation turned upon names, and I remarked that Ida was my favorite. Bob, you ought to have seen her smile as she told me Ida was her own name. Perhaps I said something foolish, for I replied that Ida was a beautiful name and only fitted for such as she; but she smiled still more sweetly and said I knew how to flatter."

"Well," answered Stanton. "I hardly think you will win her, if what our friend Ashton said is true. You have no million to offer her."

"Oh, fly on your million!" said Raymond. "She's got to have me any way. If I can't get her by fair means, I'll resort to stratagem."

Thus the young man raved for nearly half an hour about Mrs. Carrington, whose handsome features, glossy curls, bright eyes, brilliant complexion and agreeable manners had nearly turned his head. Mrs. Carrington, too, had received an impression. There was something in Raymond's dashing manner, which she called "air," and she felt greatly pleased with his flattering compliments. She thought he would be a very pleasant companion to flirt with for an hour or two; but could she have known what his real intentions concerning her were she would have spurned him with contempt—as she afterward did.

The next day at dinner Stanton and Raymond took their seats at Mrs. Crane's table. To Raymond's great delight Mrs. Carrington sat opposite him. Stanton occupied Dr. Lacey's seat, which brought Fanny directly in front of him. Fanny had been prepared in a measure for the striking resemblance between Stanton and Dr. Lacey; but when she was introduced to him, his looks brought Dr. Lacey so forcibly before her that she instantly grew pale and half wished to leave the room. But a look from Mrs. Miller reassured her, and she took her accustomed place at the table.

Ere dinner was over she had forgotten for the time her lover's neglect, and was in the midst of an animated conversation with Stanton, who was much pleased with his cousin's choice. Stanton's looks and manners were so much like Dr. Lacey's that Fanny felt herself irresistibly drawn toward him and her face assumed a brighter aspect than it had worn for many days. Julia watched her closely and felt that nothing could please her better than a flirtation between Stanton and her sister.

But such was not a part of Fanny's intentions. She liked Stanton because he was agreeable, intelligent and Dr. Lacey's cousin; but she would sooner have parted with her right hand than have done anything inconsistent with her engagement with Dr. Lacey. On the other hand, Stanton's heart was too strongly fortified with Nellie's charms to admit of an entrance to the gentle Fanny. But he admired her very much, and seemed to think that she had some claim upon him in the absence of his cousin.

Thus, as days went on, his polite attentions toward Fanny increased, and Julia resolved to make this fact work for the accomplishment of her designs.



CHAPTER X

TEMPEST FORGES A LETTER AND ITS RESULTS

Let us now go back for a few weeks and watch Julia's plot as it progresses. We have learned from Fanny that four letters arrived from Dr. Lacey; but the fifth she was destined never to receive. She was expecting it on Tuesday and was about going to the post office, when Julia said, "Fanny, I feel just like walking this morning; suppose you let me run round to the post office and get your expected letter."

"Very well," answered Fanny; "but don't be gone long."

"I won't," said Julia, gaily. "You sit down by the window and when I come round the corner on my return home. I will hold up your letter, and you will know you have one at least a minute before I reach home."

So saying she departed, and Fanny sat down by the window to await her return. For several days past there had been a change in Julia's deportment. She was very amiable and kind to the household in general and to Fanny in particular. This was a part of her plan, so that in the catastrophe that was about to follow, she might not be suspected of foul play.

At first Fanny was surprised at her affectionate advances, but it was so pleasant to have a sister who would love her that she did not ask the reason of so sudden a change, and when Julia very humbly asked forgiveness for all her former unkindness, the innocent-hearted Fanny burst into tears, and declared she had nothing to forgive, if her sister would only continue to love her always. Julia placed a Judas-like kiss on Fanny's pure brow, and gave a promise that she would try to be good; but she thought to herself, "this seeming change will make a favorable impression on Dr. Lacey when he hears of it."

She knew that Fanny was expecting a letter on the Tuesday morning of which we have spoken, and fearing that by some means Mr. Dunn might fail of securing it, she determined to go herself for the mail. When she reached the post office the sinister smile with which Mr. Dunn greeted her assured her that he had something for her, and she readily conjectured that it was Fanny's expected letter.

"Good morning, Mr. Dunn!" said she. "Anything for me this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Dunn, with a very low bow; and casting a furtive glance around to make sure that no one saw him, he drew from his pocket a letter, on which Julia instantly recognized Dr. Lacey's handwriting. She took it and placed it in the pocket of her dress.

On her way home, conscience clamored loudly in behalf of Fanny's rights. It said, "Beware what you do! Give Fanny her letter. It is a crime to withhold it." But again the monitress was stilled, and the crafty girl kept on her way, firm in her sinful purpose, until she reached the corner which brought her in sight of the window where Fanny was impatiently watching for her. The sight of that bright, joyous face, as it looked from the window, anxious for the expected sight of her letter, made Julia for a moment waver. She thought how gentle and loving Fanny had always been to her and involuntarily her hand sought the letter which lay like a crushing weight in her pocket. It was half drawn from its hiding place when the spirit of evil which seemed ever to follow Julia's footsteps whispered, "Let it alone. You have gone too far to retreat. You have Dr. Lacey to win, and it can be done in no other way."

Julia listened to the tempter, her hand was withdrawn, and Fanny looked in vain for her letter. A faint sickness stole over her for a moment but she thought, "Perhaps Julia means to tease me. I will appear very unconcerned and not ask for it." So when Julia entered the room, she found that her sister's attention was suddenly, distracted by something in the street; but Fanny was not accustomed to dissemble and the rosy flush on her cheek showed how anxious she was.

At last Julia said, "Why do you not ask for your letter, Fanny?"

Oh, how eager was the expression of the sweet, pale face which was instantly turned toward the speaker. Springing up she exclaimed, "Oh, Julia, you have got me one, haven't you? Please give it to me."

"I will tomorrow when it arrives," said Julia. "It has probably been delayed."

Fanny's countenance fell and she said, "Then you haven't got me a letter? Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Never mind, sister," said Julia. "It will come tomorrow, and will seem all the better for waiting."

Tomorrow came, but with it came no letter, and days wore on, until at last it was Saturday night. Alone in her room poor Fanny was weeping bitterly. Was Dr. Lacey sick or dead? This was the question which she continually asked herself. A suspicion of his unfaithfulness had not yet entered her mind. While she was yet weeping an arm was thrown affectionately round her, and a voice whispered in the sweetest possible tones, "Dear sister, do not weep so. If he were dead, some one would inform you. And now I think of it, why do you not write to him? There would be no harm in doing so. Come, sit down, and write him a few lines before dark, and I will take them to the office."

So Fanny sat down to her writing desk, and the few lines proved to be a long letter ere she had finished. It was a most touchingly sad letter, and ought to have drawn tears from Julia, instead of forcing the malicious smile which played around her mouth while reading her sister's effusion. It is needless to say that, although Julia went to the post office, this letter never did but was placed in a little box by the side of two others, which had arrived from Dr. Lacey that week.

After Julia returned from her walk that evening she said, "Fanny, if I were you I would not tell any one that I did not hear from Dr. Lacey, for you know it's just possible that he may not be sick, and in that case your best way would be to seem quite as forgetful of him."

"Forgetful!" said Fanny. "Why, Julia, what do you mean? You cannot—Oh, no, I know you do not think Dr. Lacey untrue to me?" And Fanny's large blue eyes were fixed on her sister with as much earnestness as though her answer could decide her fate forever.

"I do not like to think so, any more than you do," said Julia. "But Dr. Lacey is now in the gay city of New Orleans, surrounded by beauty and fashion, and were I his betrothed, I should not think it strange if he did not remain true to me."

Fanny answered slowly, as if speaking were painful to her, "Oh, no, no! He cannot be false—anything but that."

It was a new idea to her, and that night a weight of sadness, heavier than she had ever known before, filled her heart. She thought, "I will wait and see if he answers my letter before I believe him unfaithful."

The next day was the Sabbath. About church time Julia announced her intentions of remaining at home on the plea of a violent headache. Fanny immediately offered to stay with her, but Julia declined, saying that sooner than both should be absent from church she would go herself.

Accordingly Julia was left alone. She watched her sister until she disappeared down the street. Then she arose, and locking the door, drew from her pocket a small key, and unlocking a rosewood box, took from it one of Dr. Lacey's letters. Going to her writing desk, she sat down and commenced imitating his handwriting. She was very skillful in the art of imitation, and was delighted to find herself rapidly succeeding in her attempts at counterfeiting. So busily engaged was she that she did not heed the lapse of time, until her sister's footsteps were heard ascending the stairs. She sprang hastily up, and thrusting her writing materials into the box locked it, and had just time to throw herself upon the sofa when Fanny knocked at the door. Julia allowed her to knock twice, and then getting up she unfastened the door, at the same time yawning and rubbing her eyes as if just awakened from a sound slumber.

"Why, sister, I woke you up, didn't I?" said Fanny. "I am sorry."

"No matter," answered Julia, with another yawn, "I feel better. My nap has done my head good."

In the afternoon Fanny again went to church, and Julia resumed the occupation of the morning. She succeeded so well that before church was out she felt sure that after a few more attempts she could imitate Dr. Lacey's writing so exactly as to thoroughly deceive Fanny. "But not yet," said she to herself; "I do not wish to test my skill yet. It is hardly time."

Thus the days glided away. Nearly two weeks passed, and there came no answer to Fanny's letter. She did not know that regularly, twice a week, letters had arrived from New Orleans, and had been handed to Julia by Mr. Dunn. In the last of these letters, Dr. Lacey complained because Fanny had neglected writing so long. We will give the following extract:

"MY PRECIOUS SUNSHINE:

"—Can it be that you are sick? I do not wish to think so; and yet what else can prevent your writing? I have not a thought that you are forgetful of me, for you are too pure, too innocent to play me false. And yet I am sometimes haunted by a vague fear that all is not right, for a dark shadow seems resting over me. One line from you, dearest Fanny, will fill my heart with sunshine again—"

Thus wrote the doctor, and Julia commented on it as follows: "Yes, you are haunted, and I am glad of it. The pill is working well; I'll see whether 'Sunshine,' as you and my old fool father call her, will steal away everybody's love for me. I suppose I'm the dark shadow, for father calls me a spirit of darkness, and yet, perhaps, if he had been more gentle with me, I might have been better; but now it's too late." And the letter was placed in the rosewood box by the side of its companions.

Slowly but surely the painful conviction fixed itself upon Fanny's mind that Dr. Lacey was false. It was dreadful to think so, but there seemed no other alternative, and Fanny's heart grew sadder, and her step less joyous and elastic, while her merry laugh was now seldom heard ringing out in its clear, silvery tones, making the servants stop their work to listen and exclaim, "How lonesome t'would be without Miss Fanny; she's the life of the house, Lor' bless her."

The change was noticed and spoken of by the inmates of Mrs. Crane's dwelling. Mr. Miller attributed it to a too close application to books, and recommended her to relax somewhat in her studies. Fanny had too much of woman's pride to allow anyone except Julia to know the real cause of her sadness, and was glad to have her languor ascribed to over-exertion. On the night when Kate had found her weeping she had involuntarily told her secret, but she went to Mrs. Miller the next morning and won from her a promise not to mention what she had revealed, even to her husband.

Mr. Stanton's presence seemed to divert Fanny's mind, and the two weeks following his arrival passed away more pleasantly than she had thought two weeks could pass, uncheered by a line from Dr. Lacey. At the end of that time it pleased Julia that Fanny should have a pretended letter from New Orleans. Several days were spent in preparing it, but at last it was completed, folded, sealed and directed. Mr. Dunn pronounced the deception perfect. He stamped it with the Frankfort postmark so slightly that one would as soon have called it "New Orleans" as anything else.

Fanny was seated in the parlor in company with Stanton when Julia suddenly entered the room and said, "Oh, here you are, sister. I've looked everywhere for you. Here is a letter."

One glance at the superscription assured her that it was from Dr. Lacey. A bright, beautiful flush suffused Fanny's face, which became irradiated with sudden joy. Asking Mr. Stanton to excuse her, she went to her rooms, so as to be alone when she perused the precious document. After she was gone, Julia spoke of Dr. Lacey and asked Stanton if he had ever heard from him. Stanton replied, "While Dr. Lacey was in college he spent a part of his vacations at my father's; but I almost always chanced to be absent at school, and consequently we are not much acquainted. He did write to me a few times while I was in college, but our correspondence gradually ceased and I have not heard from him in a long time. I hope he will return to Frankfort, for I should like to renew our acquaintance."

This answer gave Julia great relief; she had feared Stanton might write to Dr. Lacey, and that by some means her scheme might be ruined. But all was safe, and in a few moments she arose to go to her room and witness the result of the letter. Let us go before her and see the result for ourselves.

On reaching her apartment, Fanny sat down on the sofa, while a tremulous nervousness shook her frame. She dreaded to open the letter, for a strange forboding of evil came over her. At last the seal was broken and Fanny's heart stood still, and a dizziness crept over her as she read. For the reader's benefit we will look over her shoulder and read with her the following:



"MY ONCE DEAR AND STILL MUCH ADMIRED FANNY: I hardly know how to write what I wish to tell you. If I knew exactly your opinion concerning me, I might feel differently. As it is I ardently hope that your extreme youth prevented my foolish, but then sincere, attentions from making any very lasting impression on you. But why not come to the point at once. Fanny, you must try and forget that you ever knew one so wholly unworthy of you as I am. It gives me great pain to write it, but I am about to engage myself to another.

"Do not condemn me unheard. There is a young lady in this city, who is beautiful, wealthy and accomplished. Between her father's family and mine there has long existed an intimacy which our fathers seem anxious to strengthen by a union between myself and the young lady I have mentioned. For a time I resisted manfully. For, ever between me and the tempting bait came the image of a pale, bright-haired girl, whose blue eyes looked mournfully into mine and whispered, 'Do not leave me.' But at last I yielded, and now, Fanny, will you forgive me? It cost me more anguish to give you up than I hope you will ever feel. Be happy, Fanny, and some time when I am traveling through Kentucky, let me find you the cheerful, contented wife of some one more suitable for you than I am. With kind wishes for your happiness, I remain,

"Your true friend,

"GEORGE LACEY."

"P.S.—It is just possible that the young lady and myself may not become engaged, but if we do not, after what has passed, it will be best for you and me to try to forget each other. Give my compliments to your sister Julia. By the way, do you know that I always admired her very much? What a sensation she would make in the fashionable world of New Orleans. But pshaw! What nonsense I'm writing."



Alas for Fanny! She did not need to read the letter twice, for every syllable had burned into her soul, and she could have repeated each word of the cruel message. This, then, was the end of her bright dream of bliss! She did not weep, for she could not. The fountain of her tears seemed dried up. A heavy weight had suddenly fallen on all her faculties. The objects in the room chased each other in rapid circles, while Dr. Lacey stood in the distance mocking her anguish. A faint feeling gathered round her heart. She uttered a low cry and fell heavily forward.

When Julia entered the room she found her sister extended on the floor, cold and white as a piece of marble, while the blood was gushing from her nostrils and moistening the curls of her long hair. Julia's first feeling was one of intense horror, or fear her sister might be dead, but a touch assured her that Fanny had only fainted. So she lifted her up, and bearing her to the window applied the usual restoratives. As Julia looked on the death-like face of her young sister she murmured, "Had I thought she loved him so well, never would I have done so wickedly."

But she made no promise to repair the mischief, and stifled all the better impulses of her nature by saying, "It is too late now: it is too late."

At last Fanny opened her eyes. Her first thought was for her letter, which was still tightly clenched in her hand. Passing it to Julia she said, faintly, "Read it, sister."

Julia took it, and pretending to read it, burst into a violent passion, abusing Dr. Lacey for his meanness, and ending by telling Fanny that she ought to consider herself fortunate in escaping from such a man. Fanny seemed disturbed to hear evil spoken of Dr. Lacey, so Julia changed her manner, and said, "I do not wonder you feel badly, Fanny. You and I can sympathize together now."

Fanny looked at her sister in some surprise, but at last answered, "Oh no, you cannot know how I feel. Mr. Wilmot loved you to the last. Dr. Lacey is not dead, but—"

Here Julia interrupted her by saying, "I do not mean to refer to Mr. Wilmot. I was flattered by his attentions, but I never knew what it was to love until I saw Dr. Lacey."

"Dr. Lacey!—You love Dr. Lacey!" said Fanny, and again she fell back cold and motionless. A second time Julia restored her to consciousness, but for an hour she did not speak or scarcely move. At the end of that time, calling her sister to her, in a low, subdued tone, she said, "Tell me all, Julia. I can bear it. I am calm now."

The traitress kissed her cheek, and taking one of the little hands in hers, told her how truly she had loved Dr. Lacey, and how she had struggled against it when she saw that he loved another. "I have," said she, "lain awake many a night, and while you slept sweetly, dreaming, perhaps, of your lover, I have wept bitter tears because I must go alone through the cold world, unloved and uncared for. And forgive me, Fanny, but sometimes I have felt angered at you, because you seemed to steal everybody's love from me. Our old father never speaks to me with the same affection which marks his manner when addressing you."

"I know it, I know it," said Fanny. "I wish he would not do so, but Dr. Lacey—Dr. Lacey—I never thought you wanted him to love you; if I had—"

"What would you have done?" asked Julia, with noticeable eagerness.

The voice was mournfully low which replied, "I would have given him up for you. I could not have married one whom my sister loved." And then she suddenly added, "It seems doubtful whether he marries that young lady. If anything should happen to prevent it, he may yet make you his wife."

"And you, what would you do?" asked Julia.

"Oh, it is impossible for me to marry him now," said Fanny. "But if you were happy with him, I would try to be happy, too."

"God bless you, sweet sister," said Julia; "but it will never be."

Fanny did not reply, and after a moment's silence Julia said, "Sister, if I were you I would keep all this a secret, and even if I were unhappy, I would try to assume a forced cheerfulness, for fear people would suspect the truth, and call me lovesick."

Fanny did not reply to this either. She was trying to still the painful throbs of her aching heart. Through all the long, weary hours of that night she was awake. Sometimes she would watch the myriad host of stars, as they kept on their unwearied course through the clear, blue sky, and would wonder if there was room beyond them for one so unhappy as she was, and would muse on the past days of happiness now forever gone, and although a choking sensation was in her throat, not a tear moistened her cheek. "I shall never weep again," thought she, "and why should I? The world will not know what I suffer. I will be as gay and merry as ever." And a fearful laugh rang through the room as she said, "Yes, how gayly I'll dance at the wedding. I'll hold my heart so fast that none shall ever know in how many pieces it is broken."

Thus she talked on. Delirium was stealing over her, and when morning broke, the rapid moving of her bright eye, and the crimson spot which burned on either cheek, showed that brain fever was doing its work.

A physician was immediately called and by the means of powerful remedies the progress of the disease was checked, so that Fanny was seriously ill for only a week. She was delirious a great part of the time, but Julia was delighted to find out that not one word of Dr. Lacey ever passed her lips. At the commencement of her illness her father and mother were sent for. The old man came quickly, for Fanny was his idol, and if she should die, he would be bereaved indeed. With untiring love he watched by her bedside until the crisis was passed. He would fan her fevered brow, moisten her parched lips, chafe her hot, burning hands, smooth her tumbled pillow, and when at last he succeeded in soothing her into a troubled slumber, he would sit by her and gaze on her wan face with an earnestness which seemed to say that she was his all of earth, his more than all of heaven. Julia too was all attention. Nothing tired her, and with unwearied patience she came and went at her father's bidding, doing a thousand little offices pertaining to a sick chamber. For once her father's manner softened toward her and the tones of his voice were gentle and his words kind while speaking to his first born. Could he have known what part she had in causing the illness of his "darling Sunshine," all Frankfort would have shaken with the heavy artillery of oaths and execrations, which would have been disgorged from his huge lungs, like the eruption of some long pent-up volcano! But he did not suspect the truth, and in speaking of Fanny's illness, he said, "It is studyin' so close that ailed her. As soon as ever she can bar to be moved, we will carry her home, and Aunt Katy'll nuss her up quicker."

Accordingly, as soon as the physician pronounced it safe to move her, she was taken home, and by her mother's assiduous care, and Aunt Katy's skilful nursing, her physical health was soon much improved. But no medicine could reach the plague spot which preyed upon her heart and cast a dark shadow over every feeling of pleasure. As soon as her health was fully restored, she asked permission to return to school. At first Mr. Middleton refused, but not long did he ever withstand any request which "Sunshine" made. So at last he consented, on condition that she would give up the study of Latin, and promise not to apply herself too closely to anything. To this Fanny readily agreed, and in a few days she was in Frankfort, occupying her accustomed seat at Mrs. Crane's and bending over her task in the old schoolroom, which seemed suddenly illuminated by her presence.

The schoolgirls welcomed back their young companion with many demonstrations of joy, for they said, "the schoolroom seemed dark and lonely when she was absent." Dear little Fanny! There was love enough left for her in the hearts of all who knew her, but it did not satisfy. There was still an aching void, which one love alone could fill, and that love she thought was lost to her forever. She was mistaken.

During her illness she thought much of what Julia had said relative to concealing her disappointment with an assumed gayety, and she resolved to do so, partly from wounded pride, and partly from love of her dear old father, who seemed distressed whenever anything troubled his "Sunshine." When she returned to Frankfort none but the most acute observer would have suspected that the sparkling eye and dancing footstep were the disguise of a desolate, aching heart and that the merry laugh and witty repartee were but the echoes of a knell of sadness, whose deepest tones were stifled ere they reached the ear of the listener. In the darkness of night however, all was changed. The Sunshine was obscured, and Julia alone knew what anguish Fanny endured. Still the cruel girl never wavered in her purpose. "The worst is over," said she. "She will not die now, even if she saw him wedded to me." So she suffered her sister's cheek to grow paler, and her delicate form thinner, at the supposed desertion of her lover. Little did Fanny think that he, whose false-heartedness she deplored, dreamed each night of his distant dear one, and that each day his warm heart beat more quickly, because no tidings came from her.

A few days after Fanny's return there came cards of invitation for a large party at the residence of a Mr. C——. The evening was propitious, and at the usual hour Mrs. C——'s parlors were filled with the beauty and fashion of the city. Among all the belles who that evening graced the brilliantly lighted drawing rooms, none was so much admired as Julia Middleton, who appeared dressed in a rich crimson velvet robe, tastefully trimmed with ermine. Magnificent bracelets, which had cost her father almost as many oaths as dollars, glittered on her white, rounded arms. Her snowy neck, which was also uncovered, was without ornament. Her glossy hair, dark as night, was arranged in the most becoming manner.

At the time Mr. Middleton had given Julia her bracelets, he had presented Fanny with a bandeau of pearls. But Julia found it an easy task to persuade her sister that pearls were not becoming to her style of beauty; so on the evening of the party they gleamed amid the heavy braids of Julia's hair. Wherever she went she was followed by a train of admirers, who had little thought that that soft smile and beautiful face concealed a heart as hard as the flinty rock.

Contrary to all the rules of propriety, the heartless Mrs. Carrington was there, dealing out her fascinating smiles and bland words. She had thrown aside her mourning for the occasion and was arrayed in a dress of black velvet. An elegant lace bertha covered her white, beautiful neck, while one of her fair arms was clasped by a diamond bracelet. To this bracelet was attached a small locket which contained the daguerreotype of him, upon whose quiet grave the suns of scarce five months had risen and set. Amid that brilliant scene she had no thought for the dead, but others wondered much that he should be so soon forgotten. She was attended by Raymond, who scarcely left her side during the whole evening, although she made several ineffectual attempts to shake him off, for she did not care to be too much noticed by a "poor Yankee schoolmaster."

Henry Ashton was also there, but his attention was wholly engrossed in the bright eyes and sunny face of Florence Woodburn, who had recently returned from Philadelphia, where she had been attending for the last two years. Florence was the only daughter of the Mr. Woodburn, who was mentioned in the first chapter of this narrative. Her father lived several miles from the city, but she had friends in town and spent much of her time there. She was very handsome and very agreeable, and as she would probably be quite an heiress, her appearance in the fashionable world created a great sensation.

During the evening, as she was standing by Ashton and commenting on Julia's wondrous beauty, she said, "Where is the younger Miss Middleton? Is she as handsome as her sister?"

Ashton replied, "She is not called half as beautiful, but she is much more amiable; but see there she comes," continued he, as Fanny entered the room leaning on Stanton's arm.

She was so pale that her skin seemed almost transparent, but the excitement of the evening brought a bright glow to her cheek which greatly enhanced her loveliness. She was simply attired in a plain white muslin, low at the neck, which was veiled by the soft curls of her silken hair. Her arms were encircled by a plain band of gold, and a white, half-opened rosebud was fastened to the bosom of her dress.

As she entered the room many admiring eyes were turned toward her, and Miss Woodburn exclaimed, "Oh, how lovely she is. Her sister seems more like the flashing diamond, while Fanny's beauty is like the soft lustre of the pearl. But tell me," she continued, "is she not engaged to a Dr. Lacey of New Orleans?"

"Yes, or, that is, it was so rumored," answered Ashton, "but he has gone home, and since then I have heard nothing of it. Young Stanton seems very attentive. I should not wonder if something grows out of it."

"Always making matches, Mr. Ashton," said Mrs. Carrington, who for a moment rid herself of Raymond and now came near Ashton and Florence. She had heard them speak of Dr. Lacey and Fanny, and as she knew Florence was soon going to New Orleans, she wished to give her a little Frankfort gossip to take with her.

"Oh, Mrs. Carrington," said Mr. Ashton, bowing politely, "allow me to introduce Miss Woodburn. We were just talking of the probability of Miss Fanny's being engaged to Dr. Lacey. Perhaps you can enlighten us."

"Oh," said Mrs. Carrington, "I assure you I know but little about the matter. It is rather uncertain whom Miss Fanny likes or dislikes. It is currently reported that she was in love with a Mr. Wilmot, who died, and who was known to be engaged to her sister. Since then Dr. Lacey has flirted with her, whether seriously or not I cannot tell; I should rather think not, however, for Mr. Stanton now seems to be the favored one."

"Oh," said Mr. Ashton, "I never supposed Fanny was so much of a coquette."

"Neither do I think she is," said Florence, whose heart warmed toward Fanny as soon as she saw her.

"Perhaps she is not," said Mrs. Carrington. "Fanny is very young yet, but when fully matured will perhaps make a noble woman, but she has not the solidity of her sister, who tries hard to keep her from assuming the appearance of a flirt." Then turning to Florence, she said, "I believe you are soon going to New Orleans?"

"Yes, madam," answered Florence.

"You will probably meet Dr. Lacey there," continued Mrs. Carrington. "Perhaps you had better say nothing to him about Fanny's flirtation with Stanton, for he would hardly believe it."

Florence merely nodded, thinking to herself that she should do as she chose about it. From the first she had been attracted toward Fanny. There was something in her face, and in the expression of her eye, which interested Florence. It seemed to her that Fanny would gladly have left the scene of gayety, and going out by herself, would have poured out all her soul in tears. She earnestly desired an introduction, and at last it was obtained. There must have been some secret magnet which attracted these young girls toward each other, for in a few moments they were arm in arm, talking familiarly upon different topics as though they had been acquainted a lifetime.

Florence was a warm-hearted, affectionate girl, and after a time she said, "Miss Middleton, I am going to New Orleans soon. I believe you have an acquaintance there. If I see him what shall I tell him?"

Fanny's voice trembled slightly as she answered, "Tell whom?"

"Oh, Miss Middleton," said Florence, laughing gayly, "how that blush becomes you! Tell whom? Why, whom should it be but Dr. Lacey, who everybody, except Mrs. Carrington, says is engaged to you."

The fire shot in to Fanny's eyes, but one look at the open face at her side assured her, and she answered, "I am not answerable for what the world pleases to say of me."

"I am to consider the report true, then," persisted Florence.

A momentary struggle took place in Fanny's mind. Love and resentment strove for the mastery. The latter conquered, and the voice was calm and decided which replied, "I assure you, Miss Woodburn, that Dr. Lacey bears no relation to me except that of a common acquaintance."

"Indeed," said Florence. "I am sorry, for I was anticipating much pleasure in describing Dr. Lacey's intended lady to the New Orleans girls."

Fanny did not answer, and as Stanton just then approached, and asked her to go to the music room, she took his arm readily, glad to escape so painful a conversation.

"She is a strange girl," thought Florence, "and yet I know I should love her. I wonder what makes her so sad. Can it be that she really loved that Mr. Wilmot? At any rate, I am sorry for her and hope she will marry Mr. Stanton, who seems much pleased with her."

This was the impression left on Florence's mind, which was productive of much mischief. At a late hour the company dispersed. Fanny returned home, weary and sick at heart. Her conversation with Florence had awakened painful reminiscences of the past, and the gray daylight was beginning to streak the eastern horizon ere her heavy lids closed in slumber. In a few days Florence Woodburn departed for New Orleans, where her mother's brother resided. We will take passage with her and pay a visit to Dr. Lacey in his Southern home.



CHAPTER XI

A GLANCE AT NEW ORLEANS SOCIETY

The house which Dr. Lacey occupied was situated on one of the pleasantest streets of New Orleans. It was a large, airy structure, which had formerly been owned by a wealthy French gentleman who had spared neither money nor pains to adorn it with every elegance which could minister to the luxurious habits common to a Southern clime. When it passed into the hands of Dr. Lacey's father, he gratified his Northern taste, and fitted it up with every possible convenience, molding its somewhat ancient aspect into a more modern style.

When Dr. Lacey reached the age of twenty-one, his father made him the owner of the house, he himself removing to another part of the city. At the time of which we are speaking, nothing could exceed the beauty of the house and grounds.

The yard which surrounded the building was large, and laid out with all the taste of a perfect connoisseur. In its center was a fountain, whose limpid waters fell into a large marble basin, while the spray which constantly arose from the falling stream seemed to render the heat of that sultry climate less oppressive. Scattered throughout the yard were the numerous trees and flowering shrubs which grow in profusion at the "sunny South." Here the beautiful magnolia shook its white blossoms in the evening breeze, and there the dark green foliage of the orange trees formed an effectual screen from the mid-day sun.

The building was surrounded on all sides by a double piazza, the slender pillars of which were entwined by the flowering honeysuckle and luxuriant passion-flower, which gave the house the appearance of a closely wreathed arbor. Within the piazza was filled with rare tropical plants. The beautiful oleander, magnificent rose and sweet-scented geranium, here united their fragrance, while the scarlet verbenum and brilliant heliotrope added beauty to the scene.

The interior of the building corresponded with the exterior. The rooms, large and airy, were carpeted with velvet, and adorned with costly marble and rosewood furniture. The windows, which were constructed in the French style, that is, reaching to the floor, were curtained with richly-embroidered lace. Let us ascend the winding staircase, and enter the dressing room of the owner of all this splendor.

Half reclining on a crimson lounge sits Dr. Lacey, dressed in a fashionable brocade morning gown. On first glancing at him we think there is no change in his countenance since we last saw him on Mrs. Crane's steps in Frankfort, but as we note the expression of his face we can perceive a shade of anxiety resting there. At last he rises and rather impatiently pulls the bell rope.

His summons is immediately answered by an exquisite dandy, who is neither African, European, French, nor Spanish, but an odd mixture of the four. He is dressed in the extreme of fashion, and on entering the room bows most gracefully, at the same time casting an admiring glance at himself in the large mirror, and passing his hand carelessly through his perfumed locks. With the utmost deference, he awaits the commands of his master.

"Well, Rondeau," said Dr. Lacey, "haven't you finished breakfast yet?"

"Yes, marster," answered Rondeau, with a very low bow. "I've got through a moment since. What can I do for you. Will you ride this morning?"

"No," answered Dr. Lacey, "I do not wish to ride, but I want you to go to the post office and back immediately; remember now, and not stop to gossip."

"Certainly not," said the negro. "When marster's in a hurry, Rondeau is never foolin' away time."

"And don't stop more than an hour in the kitchen to talk to Leffie. Do you understand?" continued the doctor.

"Oh, yes, I won't," said Rondeau, extending his mouth into a broad grin at his master's allusion to Leffie, a bright-looking, handsome, mulatto girl, whom next to himself, Rondeau thought was the prettiest creature in the world.

At last he bowed himself out of the room, and proceeded to execute his master's commands. On passing the kitchen, he "just looked in a little," and the sight of Leffie's bright eyes and rosy lips made him forgetful of his promise. Going up to her, he announced his intention of kissing her. A violent squabble ensued, in which the large china dish which Leffie held in her hand was broken, two pickle jars thrown down, chairs upset, the baby scalded, and the dog Tasso's tail nearly crushed! At last Aunt Dilsey, the head cook and mother of Leffie, interposed, and seizing the soup ladle as the first thing near her, she laid about her right and left, dealing no very gentle blows at the well-oiled hair of Rondeau, who was glad to beat a retreat from the kitchen, amid the loud laughter of the blacks who had witnessed the scene.

Leaving the house he was soon on his way to the post office, and having procured his master's mail he started for home. At length, slackening his pace, he took from his pocket the letters and carefully scrutinized the inscription of each. He was in the habit of going to the post office, and after his master's return from Kentucky, he had noticed two or three letters written in what he called "a mighty fineified hand," and he had whispered to Leffie as a great secret that "'twere his private opinion marster was going to marry some Kentucky girl." Recently he had noticed the absence of those letters, and also the absence of his master's accustomed cheerfulness. Rondeau was pretty keen, and putting the two circumstances together, he again had a whispered conference with Leffie, whom he told that "most probably the Kentucky girl had flunked, for marster hadn't had a letter in ever so long, and every time he didn't get one he looked as blue as a whetstone!"

"Glad on't," said Leffie. "Hope he won't have any your foreigners. Allus did wish he'd have Miss Mortimer. Next to old marster and young marster Lacey, her father's the toppinest man in New Orleans. And it's a pity for young marster to stoop."

After examining all the letters closely, Rondeau came to the conclusion that the right one wasn't there, and he thought, "Well, Leffie'll be glad, and marster'll be sorry, and hang me if I ain't sorry too, for marster's a plaguey fine chap, and desarves anybody there is in Kentucky."

Meanwhile Dr. Lacey was anxiously awaiting Rondeau's return, and when he caught sight of him, coming at an unusually rapid pace toward the house, he thought, "Surely Rondeau would never hurry so if he had not good news for me," but the next thought was, "How should he know what it is I am so anxious to get?" Still he waited rather impatiently for Rondeau to make his appearance. In a moment he entered the room, and commenced pulling the letters from his pocket, saying, "I've got a heap this time, marster."

He then laid them one by one on the marble dressing table, counting them as he did so; "Thar's one, thar's two, thar's three, thar's four."

"Stop counting them, can't you, and give me all you have directly," said Dr. Lacey, as his eye ran hurriedly over the superscription of each, and found not the one he sought.

"That's jist what I've done, marster," said Rondeau, bowing. "The one you want wasn't thar."

Dr. Lacey glanced hastily at his servant, and felt assured that the quick-witted negro was in possession of his secret. "You may go," said he, "and mind, never let me hear of your commenting about my letters."

"No, marster, never; 'strue's I live," said Rondeau, who left the room and went in quest of Leffie. But he did not dare to repeat the scene of the morning, for Aunt Dilsey was present, bending over a large tub of boiling suds, and he felt sure that any misdemeanor on his part would call forth a more affectionate shower bath than he cared about receiving. So he concluded to bring about his purpose by complimenting Aunt Dilsey on her fine figure (she weighed just two hundred!).

"Aunt Dilsey," said he, "'pears to me you have an uncommon good form, for one as plump and healthy-like as you are."

Aunt Dilsey was quite sensitive whenever her size was alluded to, and she replied rather sharply: "You git along, you bar's ile skullcap. 'Twon't be healthy for you to poke fun at me."

"'Pon my word," said the mischievous Rondeau, "I ain't poking fun at you. I do really think so. I thought of it last Sunday, when you had on that new gown, that becomes you so well."

"Which one?" said Aunt Dilsey, a little mollified, "the blue and yaller one?"

"The same," answered Rondeau. "It fits you good. Your arm looks real small in it."

Leffie was nearly convulsed with laughter, for she had tried the experiment, and found that the distance round her mother's arm was just the distance round her own slender waist.

"Do tell!" said Aunt Dilsey, stopping from her work and wiping the drops of perspiration from her shining forehead. "Do tell! It feels drefful sleek on me, but my old man Claib says it's too tight."

"Not an atom too tight," answered Rondeau, at the same time getting nearer and nearer to Leffie, and laying his hand on her shoulder.

Before she was aware of his intention, he stole the kiss he was seeking for. Leffie rewarded him by spitting in his face, while Aunt Dilsey called out, "Ain't you 'shamed to act so, Leffie? Don't make a fool of yourself!"

Assured by this speech, Rondeau turned, and kissing Aunt Dilsey herself, was off just in time to escape a basin of hot suds which that highly-scandalized lady hurled after him.

"I'll tell marster this minute," said she, "and see if he hain't got nothin' to set the lazy lout a-doin'." So saying, the old lady waddled into the house, and going upstairs, knocked at Dr. Lacey's door.

"Come in," said the doctor, and Aunt Dilsey entered. In a very sad tone, she commenced telling how "that 'tarnal Rondeau was raising Cain in the kitchen. He's kissed Leffie, and me too!"

"Kissed you, has he?" said Dr. Lacey.

"Yes, sar, he done that ar very thing, spang on the mouth," said Dilsey.

"Well, Dilsey," said the doctor with a roguish twinkle of the eye, "don't you think he ought to be paid?"

Aunt Dilsey began to cry, and said, "I never thought that marster would laugh at old Aunt Dilsey."

"Neither will I," said the doctor. Then tossing her a picayune, he said, "take that, Aunt Dilsey. I reckon it will pay for the kiss. I'll see that Rondeau does not repeat his offense, on you at least."

Aunt Dilsey went back to the kitchen, thinking that "Marster George was the funniest and best marster on earth."

While Rondeau was carrying on his flirtation in the kitchen, Dr. Lacey was differently employed. Hope deferred had well nigh made his heart sick. "What can be the reason," thought he, "that Fanny does not write? I have written repeatedly for the last two months and have had no answer." Then as a new idea struck him, he added, "Yes, I'll write to Mr. Miller, and ask him what has happened." Suiting the action to the word, he drew up his writing desk, and in a short time a letter was written and directed to Mr. Miller.

He arose to summon Rondeau to take it to the office; but ere he had touched the bell rope, pride whispered, "Don't send that letter; don't let Mr. Miller into your private affairs. If Fanny were sick, some one would write to you."

So the bell was not rung, and during the next half-hour Dr. Lacey amused himself by mechanically tearing it into small fragments. Ah, Dr. Lacey, 'twas a sorry moment when you listened to the whispering of that pride! Had that letter been sent, it would have saved you many sleepless nights of sorrow. But it was not to be.

That night there was to be a large party at the house of Mr. Mortimer, whom Leffie had mentioned as second to the Laceys in wealth. Mr. Mortimer was the uncle at whose house Florence Woodburn was visiting, and the party was given in honor of her arrival, and partly to celebrate Mabel Mortimer's birthday. Mabel was an intelligent, accomplished girl, and besides being something of a beauty, was the heiress expectant of several hundred thousand. This constituted her quite a belle, and for three or four years past she and Dr. Lacey had been given to each other by the clever gossips of New Orleans. Mr. Lacey senior was also rather anxious that his son should marry Mabel; so Julia was not far out of the way when she wrote to Fanny that Dr. Lacey's parents wished to secure a match between him and a New Orleans belle. Had Dr. Lacey never seen Fanny, he possibly might have wedded Mabel. But his was a heart which could love but once, and although the object of his love should prove untrue, his affections could not easily be transferred to another; so that it was all in vain that Mabel Mortimer, on the evening of the party, stood before her mirror arranging and rearranging the long curls of her dark hair and the folds of her rich white satin, wondering all the while if Dr. Lacey would approve her style of dress.

Turning to Florence, she said, "Cousin, did you see Dr. Lacey while he was in Frankfort?"

"No; I did not," answered Florence; "but I do hope he will be here tonight, for I am all impatient to see this lion who has turned all your heads."

A slight shade of displeasure passed over Mabel's fine features, but quickly casting it off she said, "Why are you so anxious, Florence? Have you any designs on him? If you have, they will do you no good, for I have a prior claim, and you must not interfere."

"Dear me, how charmingly you look!" said Florence. "But, fair coz, do not be too sanguine. Suppose I should tell you that far off in old Kentuck, as the negroes say, there is a golden-haired little girl, who has—"

"Stop, stop," said Mabel. "You shall not tell me. I will not hear it."

At that instant the doorbell rang, and in a moment several young girls entered the dressing room, and in the chattering and laughing and fixing which followed, Mabel forgot what her cousin had been saying. After a time the young ladies descended to the spacious drawing rooms, which were rapidly filling with the elite of the city.

Mabel's eye took in at a glance all the gentlemen, and she felt chagrined to find Dr. Lacey absent. "What if he should not come?" thought she. "The party would be a dreadfully dull affair to me." Some time after, she missed Florence and two or three other girls, and thinking they were in the parlor above, she went in search of them. She found them on the balcony not far from the gentlemen's dressing room, the windows of which were open. As she approached them, they called out, "Oh, here you are, Mabel! Florence is just going to tell us about Dr. Lacey's sweetheart."

"Dr. Lacey's sweetheart!" repeated Mabel. "Who is Dr. Lacey's sweetheart, pray?"

"Do not blush so, Mabel; we do not mean you," said Lida Gibson, a bright-eyed, witty girl, with a sprinkling of malice in her nature.

"Of course you do not mean me," said Mabel, laughingly. "But come, cousin; what of her?" And the young girls drew nearer to each other, and waited anxiously for Florence's story.

Little did they suspect that another individual, with flushed brow, compressed lip and beating heart was listening to hear tidings of her whom Florence had designated as his sweetheart. Dr. Lacey had entered the gentlemen's dressing room unobserved. He heard the sound of merry voices on the balcony, and was about to step out and surprise the girls when he caught the sound of his own name coupled with that of Fanny Middleton. His curiosity was aroused and he became a listener to the following conversation:

"Come, Florence," said Lida, "do not keep us in suspense any longer. Tell us whether she is black or white, fat or lean, rich or poor."

"But first," said Mabel, "tell us how you know she is anything to Dr. Lacey."

"That is what I don't know," said Florence. "I am only speaking of what has been."

"Well, then," said Mabel, more gayly, "go on,"

"This Fanny Middleton," said Florence, "looks just as you would imagine a bright angel to look."

How Dr. Lacey blessed her for these words.

"But," continued Florence, "there is a singularly sad expression on her marble face."

"I never observed it," thought Dr. Lacey.

"What makes her sad?" asked Lida.

"That is a mystery to me," answered Florence. "Report says that she loved a Mr. Wilmot, who was engaged to her sister."

"Engaged to her sister!" repeated Mabel. "How strange! But won't it make trouble?"

"It cannot," said Florence. "Mr. Wilmot is dead, and it is whispered that Fanny's heart was buried with him. I should not be surprised if it were so, for Fanny has the saddest face I ever saw. It made me want to cry when I looked at her. I should have pitied her more, however, had she not been so well cared for by a Mr. Stanton, of New York."

Large drops of perspiration stood thickly on Dr. Lacey's forehead, and his hands, convulsively clasped, were pressed against his heart; still he did not lose a syllable as Florence continued, "I did not blame her for liking Stanton, for he would break half your hearts and turn the rest of you crazy."

"But the sister," asked all the young ladies, "how was she affected to think Fanny loved her betrothed?"

"Oh, that sister!" said Florence. "You ought to see her! She is beautiful beyond anything I can describe. She eclipsed everything and everybody."

"And she is as agreeable as handsome?" asked Mabel, whose fears were aroused that Julia might be the rival, instead of Fanny.

Florence replied, "I was told that she was formerly very passionate, so much so that her father nicknamed her Tempest. Within a few months she has entirely changed, and is now very amiable; but I like Fanny's looks the best."

"But Dr. Lacey—what had he to do with Fanny?" asked Lida.

"It was said they were engaged; but I do not think they are. In fact, I know they are not, from what Fanny said herself; for she assured me that Dr. Lacey was nothing to her more than a common acquaintance; and the sad but sweet smile which broke over her face whenever she raised, her soft blue eyes to Stanton's animated countenance confirmed what she said."

"So, Mabel, you can have the doctor after all," said Lida. "You know you used to say that it was all settled, for your parents and his had arranged it."

Dr. Lacey waited for no more. He knew of a back stairway down which he could escape into the open air unobserved. In a moment he stood alone in Mr. Mortimer's garden, but the evening breeze, although it cooled his brow, failed to calm his excited feelings. Suddenly it occurred to him that his absence from Mr. Mortimer's would excite attention in those who saw him enter, so he made a desperate effort to be calm, and retracing his steps, was soon in the drawing room with Mabel Mortimer on his arm, much to that young lady's satisfaction.

As they passed near a group of girls, in the center of which stood Florence Woodburn, Mabel suddenly said, "Oh, Dr. Lacey, let me introduce you to cousin Florence. She has just come from Frankfort and knows some of your acquaintances there."

So saying, she drew him toward Florence, who had all the evening been waiting for an introduction to him. Dr. Lacey rather wished to avoid making Florence's acquaintance, fearing that she might say something to him of Fanny. But there was no escape, and he greeted Florence with a smile and a bow, which, to use her own words, "nearly drove every idea from her head."

Once during the evening he found himself standing with Florence, alone, near an open window. Florence improved her opportunity, and raising her bewitching hazel eyes to the doctor's face, said, "Why do you not ask me about your Kentucky friends, Dr. Lacey?"

Had Florence observed her companion closely, she would have noticed the pallor which for an instant overspread his face. It passed away, and he replied with an assumed gayety, "How should I know that we have any acquaintances in common in Frankfort?"

Before Florence had time to reply, Mabel joined them. She was unwilling to risk a tete-a-tete between the doctor and her fascinating cousin, and as soon as she found them standing alone she went up to them. Her example was followed by several other young ladies, among whom was Lida Gibson, who began by saying, "Doctor, do you know that Miss Florence has told us all about your love affairs, and also described the Golden Fairy? Now, why didn't you fall in love with her sister? Florence says she is far more beautiful."

Dr. Lacey answered calmly, "What reason has Miss Woodburn to think I am in love with either."

"No reason," said Mabel, quickly; "neither does she think you are in love with her either."

"Dear me," said Lida. "Of course you do not wish me to think so, and we all know why; but never mind frowning so dreadfully, Mabel; I won't tell!" and the mischievous girl glided away, laughing to think that she had succeeded so well in teasing Mabel Mortimer.

After a moment, Dr. Lacey turned to Florence and said "It seems you saw Julia Middleton. Do you not think her very handsome?"

"Yes, very," answered Florence; "but I liked Fanny's looks the best."

A pang shot through Dr. Lacey's heart at the mention of Fanny's name, but he continued to inquire concerning his friends in Kentucky. Before the party closed, Florence, Mabel and Lida had each managed to repeat to him all the conversation which he had overheard in the first part of the evening, never once thinking how desolate was the heart which beat beneath the calm manner and gay laugh of him who listened to their thoughtless raillery.

At length the party drew to a close. Dr. Lacey was among the first that left. He longed to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Mechanically bidding Mabel "Good night," he ran down the marble steps, and stepping into his carriage, ordered Claib, the coachman, to drive home as soon as possible. There was no particular necessity for this command, for Claib had been fretting for the last hour about "White folks settin' up all night and keepin' niggers awake. Darned if he didn't run the horses home like Satan, and sleep over next day, too."

With such a driver the horses sped swiftly over the smooth road and in a very few minutes Dr. Lacey was at home, alone in his room. Then the full tide of his sorrow burst forth. He did not weep. He would scorn to do that. But could one have seen him as he hurriedly paced the apartment, he would have said, his was a sorrow which could not vent itself in tears. Occasionally he would whisper to himself, "My Fanny false!—she whom I believed so truthful, so loving, so innocent! And she loves another—one, too, whom it were almost a sin to love. Fool, that I did not see it before, for what but love could have drawn such devotion to him on his deathbed? And yet she assured me that I was the first, the only one, she had ever loved; and I believed it, and gave her the entire affection of my heart."

Then came a reaction. Resentment toward Fanny for thus deceiving him mingling with his grief. But he had loved her too deeply, too truly, to cherish an unkind feeling toward her long. Throwing himself upon the sofa, and burying his face in his hands, he went back in fancy through all the many happy hours he had spent in her society. While doing this sleep descended upon him and in his dreams he saw again his darling Fanny, not false and faithless as he had feared, but arrayed in a spotless bridal robe. She stood by his side as his own wedded wife. Was that dream ever realized? We shall see.



CHAPTER XII

THE LETTER THAT WAS NOT DELIVERED

The next morning, Rondeau waited for a long time for his master's usual orders that he should go to the post office, but no such commands came, and as Dr. Lacey had not been heard moving in his room yet, Rondeau concluded to go at all events.

"I know,", said he, "that'll be the first thing he'll tell me to do, and I may as well go on my own hook, as to wait and be sent."

Accordingly he again started for the post office, thinking to himself, "I hope that marster'll get a letter this time, for he don't seem no more like the wide-awake chap he did when he first come from Kentuck, than nothin'. I don't want him to have Miss Mabel nohow; for their niggers say she's awful spunky."

By the time this soliloquy was ended, he had reached the office. The clerk handed him two letters, both of which Rondeau eyed sharply. On looking at the second, the cavity between the ears widened to an enormous extent, and he gave vent to his joy by uttering aloud, "Crackee, this is just the thing!"

"What's the matter, Rondeau? Can you read writing?" asked the clerk in some surprise.

"No, sir, not but a little," said Rondeau; "but I know this hand write, I reckon."

In a twinkling, he was in the street. "This is a fine morning," thought he. "I've got the right letter this time, so I won't hurry home, for marster ain't goin' to find any fault if I don't git thar till noon."

So the next hour was spent in gossiping with all the blacks which could be found lounging round the streets. Suddenly one of the negroes called out, "Ho, Rondeau! Thar's yer old marster Lace comin'. You'd better cut stick for home, or he'll be in yer har."

Rondeau instantly started for home, where he was greeted by Aunt Dilsey with a torrent of abuse, that good lady rating him soundly for being gone too long. "Warn't he 'shamed to be foolin' away his time? 'Twan't his time nuther, 'twas marster's time. Was that ar fulfillin' of Scripter, which says, 'we must be all eye sarvants,' which means ye must all keep clus where yer marsters can see you?"

How long Aunt Dilsey might have gone expounding Scripture is not known, for Rondeau interrupted her by saying, "Don't scold so, old lady. Marster ain't a-goin' to care for I've got him something this time better than victuals or drink."

"What is it?" said Leffie, coming forward. "Have you got him a letter from Kentuck?"

"I hain't got nothin' else, Miss Leffie Lacey, if you please," said Rondeau, snapping his fingers in her face, and giving Aunt Dilsey's elbow a slight jostle, just enough to spill the oil, with which she was filling a lamp.

"Rondeau, I 'clar' for't," said Aunt Dilsey, setting down her oil can. "If marster don't crack your head, my old man Claib shall, if he ever gits up agin. Thar he is in his bunk, snorin' like he was a steamboat; and marster's asleep upstairs, I reckon. Well, 'tain't no way to live. Things would go to rack and ruin if I didn't sweat and work to keep 'em right end up, sartin."

Aunt Dilsey was really a very valuable servant, and had some reason for thinking herself the main spoke in the wheel which kept her master's household together. She had lived in the family ever since Dr. Lacey's early recollection, and as she had nursed him when an infant, he naturally felt a great affection for her, and intrusted her with the exclusive management of the culinary department, little negroes and all. His confidence in her was not misplaced, for from morning till night she was faithful to her trust, and woe to any luckless woolly head who was found wasting "marster's" sweetmeats and pickles.

On the first hand Aunt Dilsey was very sensitive, for being naturally active and stirring herself, "She," to use her own words, "couldn't bar to see folks lazin' round like thar was nothin' to do, but to git up and stuff themselves till they's fit to bust." She also felt annoyed whenever her young master indulged himself in a morning nap. "Ought to be up," she said, "and airin' hisself."

On the morning following the party, her patience was severely taxed in two ways. First, Claib, her husband, had adhered to his resolution of sleeping over, and long after the clock struck eleven he was sleeping profoundly. He had resisted all Aunt Dilsey's efforts to rouse him. Her scoldings, sprinklings with hot and cold water, punching with the carving fork, had all proved ineffectual, and as a last resort, she put the baby on his bed, thinking "that would surely fetch him up standin', for 'twasn't in natur to sleep with the baby wollopin' and mowin' over him." Her master, too, troubled her. Why he couldn't get up she couldn't see. "His breakfast was as cold as a grave stun, and she didn't keer if 'twas. She had enough to do 'tendin' to other affairs, without keepin' the niggers and dogs from porkin' thar noses in it."

At a late hour Dr. Lacey awoke from his uneasy slumber. The return of morning brought comparative calmness to his troubled spirit. Hope whispered that what he had heard might be a mistake. At least he would wait for further confirmation. He did not know how near that confirmation was. Rondeau had been waiting for his masters summons until his patience was exhausted. So, relying on the letter to counteract any apparent disrespect, he stalked upstairs and knocked at Dr. Lacey's door, just as that gentleman was about ringing for him.

As soon as he entered the room, he called out, "Here, master, I've got 'em this time!" at the same time extending a letter, the superscription of which made Dr. Lacey turn pale, for he recognized, as he supposed, Fanny's delicate handwriting.

"You may leave me alone, Rondeau," said he, "and I will ring for you when I want you." So Rondeau departed with the remaining letter in his pocket. He had forgotten to deliver it, but it was not missed.

Oh, Rondeau, Rondeau! It was very unfortunate that you forgot that letter, and suffered it to remain in your pocket unheeded for so many days. Its contents would have scattered the dark, desolating tempest which was fast gathering over your young master's pathway.

As soon as Dr. Lacey was alone, he sat down, anxious, yet fearing to know the contents of his letter. At last he resolutely broke the seal, thinking to himself, "It cannot contain anything worse than I already know." One glance at the beginning and end of the letter confirmed his fears, and for a few moments he was unable to read a line; then summoning all his remaining courage, he calmly read the letter through, not omitting a single word, but comprehending the meaning of each sentence. It was as follows:



"Frankfort, March 25th, 18—.

"DR. LACEY:

"SIR—Have you, during some weeks past, ever wondered why I did not write to you? And in enumerating to yourself the many reasons which could prevent my writing, has it ever occurred to you that possibly I might be false? Can you forgive me, Dr. Lacey, when I tell you that the love I once fancied I bore for you has wholly subsided, and I now feel for you a friendship, which I trust will be more lasting than my transient girlish love?

"Do you ask how I came to change so suddenly? I can only answer by another confession still more painful and humiliating to me. When I bade you adieu, I thought I loved you as well as I ever could again. I say again, for—but how shall I tell you? How confess that my first affection was not given to you? Yes, ere I had ever seen you, I loved another, and one, too, whom some would say it were sinful to love.

"But why harrow my feelings by awakening the past? Suffice it to say that he whom I loved is dead. We both saw him die, and I received upon my lips his last breath. Truly if he were Julia's in life, he was mine in death. Did you never suspect how truly I loved Mr. Wilmot? You were blinded by your misplaced affection for me, if you did not. Julia, my noble-hearted sister Julia, knew it all. I confessed my love to her, and on my knees begged her not to go to him, but to let me take her place at his bedside. She complied with my request, and then bravely bore in silence the reproaches of the world for her seeming coldness.

"Dear Julia! She seems strangely changed recently, and you would hardly know her, she is so gentle, so obliging, so amiable. You ought to have heard her plead your cause with me. She besought me almost with tears not to prove unfaithful to you, and when I convinced her that 'twas impossible for me to love another as I had Mr. Wilmot, she insisted on my writing, and not keeping you in suspense any longer.

"Dr. Lacey, if you could transfer your affection from me—, but no, why should I speak of such a thing! You will probably despise all my family. Yet do not, I beseech you, cast them off for your poor Fanny's sin. They respect you highly, and Julia would be angry if she knew that I am about to tell you how she admires a certain Southern friend, who probably, by this time, thinks with contempt of little

"FANNY MIDDLETON."



There was no perceptible change in Dr. Lacey's manner after reading the heartless forgery, but the iron had entered his soul, and for a time he seemed benumbed with its force. Then came a moment of reflection. His love had been trampled upon, and thrown back as a thing of naught by her who had fallen from the high pedestal on which he had enthroned the idol of his heart's deepest affection.

"I could have pitied, and admired her, too," thought he, "had she candidly confessed her love for Mr. Wilmot; but to be so basely deceived by one whom I thought incapable of deception is too much."

Seizing the letter, he again read it through, and this time he felt his wounded pride somewhat soothed by thinking that the beautiful Julia admired and sympathized with him. "But pshaw!" he exclaimed, "most likely Julia is as hollow-hearted as her sister, and yet many dark spots on her character seem wiped away by Fanny's confession." Throwing the letter aside he rang the bell, and ordered his breakfast to be sent up to him.

That afternoon he called on Mabel Mortimer and her cousin. He found the young ladies in the drawing room, and with them a dark, fine-looking, middle-aged gentleman, whom Mabel introduced as Mr. Middleton. Something in the looks as well as name of the stranger made Dr. Lacey involuntarily start with surprise, and he secretly wondered whether; this gentleman was in any way connected with the Middletons of Kentucky. He was not kept long in doubt, for Florence, who was very talkative, soon said, "We were just speaking of you, Dr. Lacey, and Mr. Middleton seems inclined to claim you as an acquaintance, on the ground of your having been intimate with his brother's family in Kentucky."

"Indeed!" said Dr. Lacey; then turning to Mr. Middleton, he said, "Is it possible that you are a brother of Mr. Joshua Middleton?"

"Yes, sir," returned the stranger, eyeing Dr. Lacey closely; "Joshua is my brother, but for more than twenty years I have not seen him, or scarcely heard from him."

"Ah," answered Dr. Lacey, in some astonishment, and then, as he fancied there was something in Mr. Middleton's former life which he wished to conceal, he changed the subject by asking Mr. Middleton if he had been long in the city.

"Only two weeks," he replied, and he proceeded to speak of himself, saying, "For many years past I have been in the Indies. About the time my brother Joshua married, my father died. When his will was opened, I thought it a very unjust one, for it gave, to my brother a much larger share than was given to me. In a fit of anger, I declared I would never touch a penny of my portion, and leaving college, where I was already in my senior year, I went to New York, and getting on board a vessel bound for the East Indies, I tried by amassing wealth in a distant land, to forget that I ever had a home this side of the Atlantic. During the first years of my absence my brother wrote to me frequently, and most of his letters I answered, for I really bore him no malice on account of the will. I had not heard from him for a long time, until I reached this city."

"Are you going to visit Kentucky?" asked Dr. Lacey.

"It is my present intention to do so," answered Mr. Middleton; "but first I wish to purchase a summer residence near the Lake, and after fitting it up tastefully, I shall invite my nieces to visit me. You are acquainted with them, I believe."

Dr. Lacey answered in the affirmative, and Mr. Middleton continued, "I am told by Miss Woodburn that they are very beautiful, especially one of them, and quite accomplished. Is it so?"

Dr. Lacey replied very calmly, "The world, I believe, unites in calling Miss Julia beautiful."

"But what of the other one?" asked Mr. Middleton. "I am prepossessed in her favor, for she bears the name of the only sister I ever had."

Dr. Lacey sighed, for he remembered the time when he was drawn toward Fanny, because he fancied she resembled the only sister he ever had. Mr. Middleton observed it, and immediately said, "Does it make you sigh just to mention Fanny? What is the matter? Has she jilted you? If she has, she does not partake of the nature of the Middletons, for they could never stoop to deceit."

Here Florence came to Dr. Lacey's relief by saying, "Why, Dr. Lacey, Mr. Middleton wants you to repeat what I have already told him, that Julia is exceedingly beautiful and that Fanny is as lovely as a Houri, and has the saddest, sweetest face I ever saw, and the softest, mildest blue eye."

Dr. Lacey laughingly said, "Thank you, Miss Florence; Mr. Middleton will please take what you have said as my opinion concerning his fair nieces."

Mr. Middleton bowed and then said, "How does my brother appear? He used to be very rough and abrupt in his manner."

Dr. Lacey laughed. He could not help it. His risible faculties were always excited when he thought of Joshua Middleton, and he answered, that although he highly esteemed Mr. Middleton, he feared his manners were not much improved.

"I dare say not," said the brother. "When he was at home, he was always saying things which our mother called 'impolite,' our father 'outlandish,' and the blacks 'right down heathenish.' However, with all his roughness, I believe there never was a more truly honorable man, or a more sincere friend."

After a few moments of general conversation, Mr. Middleton said, turning to Dr. Lacey, "I feel some anxiety about this summer residence which I intend purchasing. I am told that you have fine taste both in selecting a good locality and in laying out grounds. If you have leisure, suppose you accompany me on my exploring excursion, and I will reward you by an invitation to spend as much time with me as you like after my nieces arrive."

Dr. Lacey thanked Mr. Middleton for the compliment paid to his taste, and he politely expressed his willingness to assist his friend in the selection of a country seat. "By the way," continued he, "you are stopping at the St. Charles, I believe. Suppose you exchange your rooms at the hotel for a home with me, and become my guest until you leave the city for Kentucky?"

Mr. Middleton accepted Dr. Lacey's invitation willingly, and the three weeks which he spent at his residence passed rapidly and pleasantly away. During that time Dr. Lacey met with a gentleman who owned a very handsome villa near the lake shore. This he wished to dispose of, and Mr. Middleton and Dr. Lacey went down to inspect it. They found it every way desirable, and Mr. Middleton finally purchased it at an enormous price, and called it the "Indian Nest." "Here," said he, speaking to Dr. Lacey, "here I shall at last find that happiness which I have sought for in vain during forty years. I shall have both my nieces with me, besides Miss Mortimer and Miss Woodburn. I suppose I shall have to invite some other young gentleman besides yourself, for the girls will hardly fancy the old Indian for a beau."

Dr. Lacey did not reply. He was thinking how much pleasure such an arrangement would have given him a few months ago; but now all was changed, and the thought of again meeting Fanny afforded him more pain than pleasure.

Mr. Middleton noticed his silence, and as he was slightly tinctured with the abruptness which characterized his brother, he said, "Why, young man, what is the matter? Have you been disappointed, or what makes you manifest so much indifference to spending the summer, or a part of it, with four agreeable girls?"

Dr. Lacey saw the necessity of rousing himself from his melancholy mood, and assuming a gayety he did not feel, he said, "I feel very much flattered, Mr. Middleton, with the honor you confer upon me, but I have for some time past been subject to low spirits; so you must not mind it if I am not always gay. Come, let us go into the garden and see what improvements are needed there."

So saying, they turned together into the large terraced garden. While they were engaged in walking over the handsome grounds which surrounded "The Indian Nest," Rondeau, who had accompanied his master, was differently occupied. Strolling down to the lake shore, he amused himself for a time by watching the waves as they dashed against the pebbly beach, and by fancying that each of them reflected the image of Leffie's bright, round face. Then buttoning up his coat he would strut back and forth, admiring his shadow, and thinking how much more the coat became him than it did his young master. It had been given to him by Dr. Lacey, with the order "not to wear it out in two days"; so Rondeau had not worn it before since the morning when he gave his master one letter and forgot the other. He had brought it with him to the lake, and was trying the effect of his elegant appearance.

Chancing to thrust his hand in his pocket, he felt the long-forgotten letter and drew it forth, then looking at it with wide open eyes and mouth, gave vent to his surprise as follows: "Who'd a b'leved it! Here's this letter been in my pocket two weeks. I deserve to be cracked over the head, and anybody but marster would do it. I'll run and give it to him now—but no, I won't," said he, suddenly slackening his pace, "I've heard him say he could always trust me, and if I own up this time, he'll lose his—what's the word? Conference?—Yes, conference in me. I don't believe this letter's of any account, for its a great big letter, just like a man's handwrite. Any way, I'll wait till I get home and consult Leffie."

The letter was accordingly put in his pocket, and in a few moments he rejoined his master and Mr. Middleton. The next day they returned home. Rondeau's first act was to draw Leffie aside, and after winning from her various strong promises of secrecy, he imparted to her the astounding fact that, "He had found one of marster's letters in his trousers—no, his coat pocket. It had been there two weeks, and he didn't know what in cain to do with it. If he gave it to marster now, 'twould make him lose faith in him, and so forth."

Leffie heard him through, and then fully agreed with him that 'twas best not to tell marster at this late hour. "But," said she, "I'd put it out of the way, so 'twouldn't be poppin' out in sight some time."

"Shall I burn it?" asked Rondeau.

"Oh, no," said Leffie; "keep it so marster can have it, if he ever hears of it. There's your cigar box, take it and bury the letter in it."

"Whew-ew," said Rondeau, with a prolonged whistle, "it takes you women to calculate anything cute!"

The cigar box was brought out, and in a few moments the poor letter was lying quietly under a foot and a half of earth.

"There," said Leffie, as Rondeau laid over the spot a piece of fresh green turf, "nobody'll ever have any idee whose grave this is."

Rondeau rolled up his eyes, and assuming a most doleful expression, said, "Couldn't you manage to bust a tear or two, just to make it seem like a real buryin'?"

Leffie answered him by a sound box on his ear, at the same time threatening to expose his wickedness at the next class meeting. Aunt Dilsey's voice was now heard calling out, "Leffie, Leffie, is you stun deaf and blind now that fetched Rondeau's done gone home? Come here this minute!"

Rondeau and Leffie returned to the house, leaving buried a letter, the reading of which would have changed the tenor of their master's feelings.

For a knowledge of its contents as well of its author, we must go back for a time to Frankfort whence it came, promising that Mr. Middleton will follow us in a few days.



CHAPTER XIII

LETTERS WRITTEN BUT NEVER RECEIVED

In order to keep the threads of our narrative connected, it is necessary that we go back for a time, and again open the scene in Frankfort, on the 24th of March, several days after the party, at which Florence Woodburn met Fanny Middleton. Seated at her work table, in one of the upper rooms of Mrs. Crane's boarding house, is our old friend, Kate Miller. Her dazzling beauty seems enhanced by the striking contrast between the clearness of her complexion and the sable of her robe.

On a low stool, at her feet, sits Fanny. Her head is resting on Mrs. Miller's lap, and she seems to be sleeping. She has been excused from school this afternoon, on account of a sick, nervous headache, to which she has recently been frequently subject. Finding the solitude of her own chamber rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller's room, where she was ever a welcome visitor. To Kate she had imparted a knowledge of the letter which she supposed Dr. Lacey had written.

Mrs. Miller's sympathy for her young friend was as deep and sincere as was her resentment against the supposed author of this letter. As yet, she had kept Fanny's secret inviolate, and not even her husband had ever suspected the cause of Fanny's failing strength. But, this afternoon, as she looked on the fair girl's sad, white face, which seemed to grow whiter and thinner each day, she felt her heart swell with indignation toward one who had wrought this fearful change. "Surely," thought she, "if Dr. Lacey could know the almost fatal consequence of his faithlessness he would relent; and he must, he shall know it. I will tell Mr. Miller and he I know will write immediately." Then came the thought that she had promised not to betray Fanny's confidence; but she did not despair of gaining her consent, that Mr. Miller should also know the secret.

For a time Fanny slept on sweetly and quietly; then she moved uneasily in her slumber, and finally awoke.

"How is your head now?" asked Mrs. Miller, at the same time smoothing the disordered ringlets which lay in such profusion over her lap.

"Oh, much better," said Fanny. "I had a nice sleep, and so pleasant dreams, too."

"Did you dream of him?" asked Mrs. Miller, in a low tone.

Quick as thought the crimson tide stained Fanny's cheek and forehead, but she answered, somewhat bitterly, "Oh, no, no! I never dream of him now, and I am trying hard to forget him. I do not think I love him half as well now as I once thought I did."

Poor little Fanny! How deceived she was! After a time Mrs. Miller said, "Fanny, Mr. Miller seems very anxious about your altered and languid appearance. May I not tell him the truth? He will sympathize with you as truly as I do; for he feels for you almost the affection of a brother."

At first Fanny objected. "I know," said she, "that Mr. Miller would only think me a weak, silly girl." Mrs. Miller, however, finally gained permission to tell everything to her husband. "I know, though," persisted Fanny, "that he will laugh at me. You say he likes me; I know he did once; but since the time when he visited my father's, more than a year ago, he has not treated me with the same confidence he did before. I never knew the reason, unless it was that foolish, romping mistake which I made one afternoon by riding into the schoolhouse!"

With many tears and some laughing—for the remembrance of the exploit always excited her mirth—Fanny told a part of what we already know concerning Mr. Miller's visit at her father's the winter previous. She related the adventure of the sled ride, and said that the morning after she noticed a change in Mr. Miller's manner toward her. The unsuspecting girl little thought what was the true reason of that change.

While she was yet speaking, Mr. Miller entered the room. On seeing Fanny there, and weeping, he said: "What, Sunshine in tears? That is hardly the remedy I would prescribe for headache. But come, Fanny, tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot!" said Fanny, and again she buried her face in Kate's lap.

Mr. Miller looked inquiringly at his wife, who had not yet ceased laughing at Fanny's ludicrous description of her sled ride; but overcoming her merriment, she at length found voice to say, "Fanny is crying because she thinks you do not like her as well as you used to."

Kate had never dreamed that her husband had once felt more than a brother's love for the weeping girl before her, and she did not know what pain her words inflicted on his noble heart. Neither did she think there was the least ground for Fanny's supposition, and she desired her husband to say so.

"I cannot say so and tell the truth," said Mr. Miller, "but I can assure you that Bill Jeffrey's sled had nothing to do with it."

"What was it then?" asked Kate and Fanny, both in the same breath.

Mr. Miller drew Fanny toward him with the freedom of an elder brother, and, in a low, earnest tone, said: "Did nothing else occur during my visit, which could have changed my opinion of you?"

Fanny lifted her large blue eyes to Mr. Miller's face with so truthful, wondering a gaze that he was puzzled. "Can it be," thought he, "that I did not hear aright, that I was deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she spent that evening," so he said: "Fanny, do you remember where you were, or how you were occupied during the last evening of my stay at your father's?"

At first Fanny seemed trying to recall the events of that night; then she said: "Oh, yes, I remember now perfectly well. You and Mr. Wilmot had letters to write, and went to your room early, while father and mother went to one of the neighbors, leaving Julia and me alone in the sitting room."

"Did you both remain in the sitting room during the evening?" continued Mr. Miller.

"Yes," said Fanny, "or, that is, I stayed there all the time; but Julia was gone a long time, and when she returned she would not tell me where she had been."