The girls started up, and in a moment Frank stood between them, with an arm thrown around each. "Why, Mr. Cameron," said Florence, "what did you come for, and who knew you were coming?"

"I came to see you, and you knew I was coming," answered Frank.

"Well, then," returned Florence, "if you came to see me, do look at me, and not keep your eyes fixed so continually on Fanny. In a few days you will be breaking the commandment which says: 'Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife.'"

"Possibly I might had I never seen you," answered Frank.

At a late hour that night Florence moved with soft footsteps about her sleeping room, fearing lest she should awaken Fanny. Her precautions were useless, for Fanny was awake; looking at Florence, she said, "Oh, Flory, you naughty girl, what makes you blush so dreadfully?"

The next half hour was spent by Florence in telling Fanny what Frank had just asked her in four or five words, and which she had answered in one, viz., if she would be his wife. "But then," said Florence, pretending to pout, "he was so conscientious that he had to tell me what I already knew, which was that he once loved you better than he should ever love another."

Frank had asked Florence to share his lot through life, and she, like any other good, prompt Kentucky girl, had readily answered "yes," although she was frightened next moment for fear she had been too easily won by the "cold Yankee," as she called him, and she proposed taking back what she said just for the sake of being teased. Mr. Woodburn came next day to bring Florence some article of dress, which she would need. He was not surprised when Frank, taking him aside, modestly asked for his daughter; he said, "Yes," almost as readily as Florence had done, and then it was hard telling which seemed most happy—Frank or Dr. Lacey.

The 24th of December came at last. We at the North who, during six months of the year, blow our benumbed fingers, can scarcely imagine how bright and beautiful are some of the clear warm days of a Kentucky winter. On this occasion, as if Nature had resolved to do her best, the day was soft and sunny as in early autumn, presenting a striking contrast to the wild, angry storm which rent the sky when once more 'neath Uncle Joshua's roof a bridal party was assembled.

As night approached, carriage after carriage rolled up the long, graveled pathway, until Ike declared, "Thar was no more room in the barns, and if any more came he'd have to drive them into the kitchen."

Up and down the broad stairway tripped light and joyous footsteps until the rooms above, which Luce had put in so exact order, presented a scene of complete confusion. Bandboxes were turned bottom-side up and their contents indiscriminately scattered until it was impossible to tell what was yours and what wasn't.

At length through the parlor door came Dr. Lacey and Fanny, followed by Frank Cameron and Florence. Throughout the rooms was a solemn hush as Fanny was made Dr. Lacey's wife. Firmly Dr. Lacey held her hand until the last word was spoken; then when he felt sure that she was his, he stooped down and whispered in her ear, "Thank God that you are mine at last."

Three days after the wedding Mr. Middleton's carriage again stood before the door. When all was ready, Uncle Joshua knelt down, and winding his arm around Fanny, prayed in simple, touching language that God would protect his Sunshine, and at last bring them all to the same home. "All of us; and don't let one be missing thar." There was a peculiar pathos in the tone of his voice as he said the last words, and all knew to whom he referred.

Long and wearisome at Mr. Middleton's were the days succeeding Fanny's departure, while in Dr. Lacey's home all was joy and gladness.

It was about dark when Dr. Lacey arrived. Happy as a bird, Fanny sprang up the steps. Everything about her seemed homelike and cheerful. Kind, dusky faces peered at her from every corner, while Aunt Dilsey, with a complacent smile, stood ready to receive her. Fanny was prepared to like everything, but there was something peculiarly pleasing to her in Aunt Dilsey's broad, good-humored face. Going up to her she took both her hands, and said, "I know we shall be good friends. I shall like you and you shall love me a little, won't you, just as the old aunties did I left in Kentucky?"

Aunt Dilsey hadn't expected all this, and the poor creature burst into tears, saying, "Lord bless the sweet miss! I'd die for her this minute, I would."

Rondeau, Leffie and the other blacks belonging to the establishment, now came forward, and in the crowd little Jack's bow was entirely unappreciated; but Fanny next day made amends by giving him nearly a pound of candy, which had the effect of making him sick a week, but he got well in time to be present at Leffie's wedding, which took place just a week after Dr. Lacey's return.

Leffie, who chanced to be just the size of her young mistress, was thrown into ecstasies by the gift of a thin pink and white silk dress, which Fanny presented to her for a bridal gown. Aunt Dilsey, in order to show her thanks, went down on her knees, a thing she never attempted again, as it took her such an unheard-of length of time to recover a standing posture. Dr. Lacey had made Leffie the present of a pair of gold earrings, so that she was really a pretty bride, and Rondeau was the happiest negro in all New Orleans.

As weddings seem to be the order of this chapter, we may here, as well as anywhere, dispose of Mrs. Carrington, whom, you will remember, Raymond said he would one day marry. When he left Frankfort, he had no definite idea as to what he should do, but after reaching Cincinnati, it occured to him that his mother had a wealthy old bachelor uncle living in St. Louis, and thither he determined to go. This uncle, Mr. Dunlap, received the young man cordially, for he was the first relative he had met with in years. There was something, too, in the manner with which Raymond introduced himself that won for him a place in the crusty old man's good opinion.

"I am Fred Raymond," said he, "your niece Helen's son, and as poor a jack as there is this side of California. They say you are a stingy old customer, but I don't care for that. You have got to give me some business, and a home, too."

Raymond's method of approaching the old gentleman was successful, and he at once gave him a good position, which later developed into a partnership.

Feeling himself established and finding Mrs. Carrington in St. Louis, Raymond pressed his suit, and they were eventually married.

The couple were disappointed in their expectations of a fortune, for within two years after the marriage Mr. Dunlap suddenly died. He had intended to make his will and make Raymond his heir, but like many other men he put it off until it was too late, and his property, which was found to be less than supposed, went back to his brothers and sisters, and from them to their children and grandchildren, so that Raymond got but a small share.

He, however, retained his position as a merchant, and struggled hard to keep his wife in the same circumstances to which she had been accustomed. She appreciated his kindness, and when at the end of three years she was the mother of three children, she concluded it was time to lay aside all desire for fashionable amusements, and she became a tolerably affectionate wife, and a wonderfully indulgent mother.



CHAPTER XXV

THE WANDERER

In Uncle Joshua's home there were sad, troubled faces and anxious hearts, as the husband and daughter watched by the wife and mother, whose life on earth was well-nigh ended. From her mother's family Mrs. Middleton had inherited the seeds of consumption, which had fastened upon her.

Day by day, they watched her, and when at last she left them it seemed so much like falling away to sleep that Mr. Middleton, who sat by her, knew not the exact moment which made him a lonely widower. The next afternoon sympathizing friends and neighbors assembled to pay the last tribute of respect to Mrs. Middleton, and many an eye overflowed, and more than one heart ached as the gray-haired old man bent sadly above the coffin, which contained the wife of his early love. But he mourned not as one without hope, for her end had been peace, and when upon her face his tears fell he felt assured that again beyond the dark river of death he should meet her.

The night succeeding the burial Mr. Middleton's family, overcome with fatigue and grief, retired early to their rooms, but Fanny could not sleep, and between ten and eleven she arose and throwing on her dressing gown nervously walked up and down her sleeping room. It was a little over a year after her marriage. Through the closed shutters the rays of a bright September moon were stealing, and attracted by the beauty of the night, Fanny opened the blinds and the room was filled with a flood of soft, pale light. From the window where she stood she could distinguish the little graveyard, with its cypress and willow trees, and its white monument gleaming through the silvery moonlight, and near that monument was a dark spot, the grave of her beloved mother. "If all nights were as lovely as this," thought she, "it would not seem half so dreary to sleep in the cold dark grave," and then Fanny fell into a fit of musing of the night that would surely come when she would first be left alone in the shadowy graveyard.

In the midst of her reverie her attention was attracted by a slight female figure, which from some quarters had approached unperceived, and now upon the newly-made grave was bowing itself in apparent weeping. The size and form of the girl were so much like Luce that Fanny concluded it must be she, at the same time wondering how, with her superstitious ideas, she ventured alone near a grave in the night time. In a moment, however, she saw that Tiger, the watch dog, was with her, and at the same instant the sound of a suppressed sob fell on her ear. "Poor Luce," said she, "I did not think she loved my mother so well. I will go to her and mingle my tears with hers."

In a short time Fanny was in the open air, and on her way to the graveyard. As she approached her mother's grave, she said gently, "Luce, Luce, why are you out so late?"

The person addressed partially raised her head and answered hurriedly, "Oh, Fanny, Fanny, do not be frightened and leave me; I am not dead, and never was buried in that grave, as you suppose, but I am here tonight a living, repentant woman," and throwing back her bonnet, the thin, white face of Julia Middleton was in the bright moonlight perfectly distinguishable to Fanny, who at first recoiled in fear and leaned for support against the marble pillar near which she was standing.

She, however, soon recovered her self-command and glancing at the object on the grave, saw that she was caressing Tiger, who seemed trying various ways to evince his joy at finding one whom he had long missed, for he had ever been Julia's favorite. Their fiery natures accorded well! Again Julia spoke, "Fanny, dear Fanny. In an adjoining state I heard of mother's illness and hastened to see her, but I am too late. Now, do not think me a phantom, for see, Tiger recognizes me and welcomes me home, and will not you?"

An instant Fanny wavered, then with a half-fearful, half-joyful cry she went forward, and by the grave of the mother that day lowered to the dust, the sisters met in a long, fervent embrace.

Into the best chamber of their father's house Fanny led the weeping, repentant girl, and gently removing her bonnet and shawl, bade her lie down on the nicely-cushioned lounge, while she went for her father. As she was leaving the room Julia arose and laid her small, bony hand on Fanny's shoulder. It had rested there before, for in the graveyard, with their buried mother between them, Julia's arms had encircled her sister's neck; but the first excitement was over, and now involuntarily Fanny shrank from that touch, for in spite of all her courage, she could not help associating Julia with the grass-grown grave, and the large white monument.

"What is it, Julia?" she said calmly. "Do you wish to see father?"

"Oh, yes, yes," answered Julia, "but not him, the other one—at least not tonight. You understand."

"I do," said Fanny, and she glided down the stairs toward her father's room. He was awake, for ere her hand touched the doorknob, his sonorous "Who's thar?" fell on her ear. This somewhat disconcerted her, for she had intended stopping near his door, to devise the best means by which to break the intelligence. But "Who's thar?" was again repeated, and entering the room she said softly, "It's I, father."

"Why, sure enough," said he, and then as the light from her lamp fell on her features, he exclaimed, "why, how white you be! What's the matter? Who's upstairs? Is George sick?"

"No, George is not sick," said Fanny, "but—," and then as well as she could she told him all she knew.

Uncle Joshua's nervous system was unstrung, and his physical health impaired by long nights of watching with his wife, and now when this fresh shock came upon him, he fell back half-fainting upon his pillow. Then rousing himself, he said, "Alive and come back! I don't desarve this. But where is she? I will go to her."

Fanny directed him where to find her, and then returned to Julia, whither her father soon followed. Uncle Joshua was not prepared for the change in his daughter. He did not even think of her as he saw her last, wasted by sickness, but in imagination he beheld her as she was in her days of health and dazzling beauty, when with diabolical cunning she had brought Dr. Lacey to her feet. Now, however, her face was thin, white and haggard, for such a life as she had lived had never conduced to the beauty and health of any one. Her eyes, sunken in their sockets, and swollen with recent weeping, looked frightfully large and wild, and to complete the metamorphosis, her beautiful, glossy hair was now cut short on her neck, and pushed far back from a brow, across which lay more than one premature wrinkle.

The sight of her for a time unsettled the old man's reason. Taking her in his arms he alternately cried and laughed over her, saying, "I knew you'd come. I expected it. I've waited for you."

Julia's altered appearance troubled him, and drawing her head down upon his bosom, and laying his hand on her thin, white face, he said, "Poor child, what has changed you so, and whar have you been; and who did I buy that big stun for if 'twasn't for you?"

"Not tonight, dear father," answered Julia. "Let me rest tonight and tomorrow I will tell you all."



CHAPTER XXVI

JULIA AT HOME AGAIN

Overcome with fatigue and excitement, Julia immediately after her father left her on the preceding night, had fallen into a deep sleep, which was unbroken till long after dawn. Then she was aroused by her father calling up the negroes. Hastily starting up, she looked around her and, for a moment, strove to remember what had happened. Soon she remembered all, and burying her face in the pillows, she sobbed out: "Father, I thank Thee; the prodigal is at last at home."

Hastily arising she proceeded with her toilet, which was nearly completed when Fanny tapped gently at the door, and immediately entered the room, saying, "Good morning, dear Julia. I am so glad you really are here and that it is not a dream. But come, breakfast is waiting and so is father, and so is—so is—George."

"Oh, I can't see him, I can't," said Julia, and Fanny answered, "Oh, never mind him. I have told him all about it, and he is ready to receive you as a sister."

So saying, she led the reluctant girl down the long staircase, through the wide hall to the door of the breakfast room, where Mr. Middleton stood waiting for them. His tones and manner were very affectionate as he kissed the wanderer, and said, "I am so glad you're here."

Julia could have wept, but she would not. There was yet another to meet, and choking down her tears she nerved herself for the trial. Of what occurred next she knew nothing until her cold white hand was clasped by another so warm, so life-giving in its touch that she raised her eyes and met the calm, quiet gaze of Dr. Lacey. Neither of them spoke until Julia, averting her eyes, said, "Am I forgiven?"

"You are," was the answer, and then Uncle Joshua exclaimed, "thar, that'll do. Now come to your breakfast, children, for I'm mighty hungry, and shan't wait another minute."

After breakfast Julia was greatly surprised at seeing her father take from the bookcase the old family Bible, on whose dark dusty covers she remembered having many a time written her name. All was now explained. Her father's gentleness of look and manner were accounted for; and as for the first time in her life she knelt by his side and heard him as he prayed, her heart swelled with emotion, and she longed to tell him, though she dared not hope she was a Christian, she was still trying to lead a different, a better life.

That afternoon in her chamber were seated Mr. Middleton and Fanny, while Julia recounted the story of her wanderings. "The idea of leaving my home," said she, "was not a sudden impulse, else had I returned sooner, but it was the result of long, bitter reflection. In the first days of my humiliation I wished that I might die, for though the thought of death and the dread hereafter made me tremble, it was preferable to the scorn and contempt I should necessarily meet if I survived. Then came a reaction, and when our angel mother glided so noiselessly around my sick room; when you, darling Fanny, nursed me with so much care, and even father's voice grew low and kind as he addressed me, my better nature, if I had any, was touched, and I thought I would like to live for the sake of retrieving the past. But the evil spirit which has haunted me from infancy whispered that as soon as I was well all would be changed. You, Fanny, would hate me, and father would treat me as he always had, only worse."

"Poor dear child! I didn't or'to do so, I know," said Uncle Joshua, and Julia continued: "Then I thought how the world would loathe, and despise and point at me, until I was almost maddened, and when Dr. Gordon said I would live, the tempter whispered suicide; but I dared not do that. About that time I heard rumors of a marriage which would take place as soon as I was well; and Fanny will you forgive me? I tried to be sick as long as possible for the sake of delaying your happiness."

A pressure of the hand was Fanny's only answer, and Julia proceeded: "I could not see you married to him. I could not meet the world and its censure, so I determined to go away. I had thirty dollars in my purse, of which no one knew, and taking that I started, I knew not where. On reaching the schoolhouse something impelled me to enter it, and I found there a young girl about my own size. Under other circumstances I might have been frightened, but now utterly fearless, I addressed her, and found from her answers that she was crazy. A sudden idea entered my brain. I would change clothes with her, and thus avoid discovery. She willingly acceded to my proposition, and in my new attire I again started toward Lexington, which I reached about four in the morning. I had no definite idea as to where I wanted to go, but the sight of the Cincinnati stage drawn up before the Phoenix determined me. I had purposely kept my own bonnet and veil, as the maniac girl wore neither. Drawing the latter over my face, I kept it there while securing my place in the coach, and until we were many miles from the city. Passengers entered and left, and some looked inquisitively at me and my slightly fantastic dress.

"We reached Cincinnati about ten in the morning, and with a long glad breath I stepped from the coach, and felt that Kentucky and my notorious character were behind. I stopped at the —— Hotel, and the next two days were spent in procuring myself a decent outfit. Each night I went to a different house, for the sake of avoiding suspicion, and as my bills were promptly paid, no questions were ever asked. At the D—— House I saw in a paper an advertisement for a teacher in a school in one of the interior towns. I had formed some such plan for the future, and instantly determined personally to apply for the situation. I did so, but credentials were required, and I had none to give. Somewhat weary of my adventure I returned to Cincinnati, and in passing through one of the streets, my eye caught the sign 'Fashionable Dressmaking and Millinery.' I knew I had a taste for that, and I concluded to offer myself as an apprentice."

Then she told how she had toiled on day after day with dim eye and aching head for over a year in the unwholesome atmosphere of a crowded workshop conducted by a slave-driving, inconsiderate woman named Miss Dillon, while thoughts of home and remorse for the past preyed on her heart.

"But why did you not come back?" asked Fanny. "We would have received you most gladly."

"I felt that I could not do that," said Julia. "I knew that you thought me dead, and I fancied that father, at least, would feel relieved."

"Oh, child," groaned Uncle Joshua, "don't say so. I was mighty mean, I know, but I never got to that."

After a moment Julia told them that she had had to deliver a party dress to Florence Woodburn at Mr. Graham's house one evening and, while waiting in the hall, had heard Florence read a letter from Nellie Stanton aloud to Alice Graham. In the letter, Nellie said that Mrs. Middleton was not expected to live and that Dr. Lacey and Fanny from New Orleans were with her.

This news caused her to resign her position at Miss Dillon's and hurry home. "I reached Lexington," said she, "about nine o'clock in the evening, and as I thought my baggage might incommode me, I purposely left it there, but hired a boy to bring me home. When we reached the gate at the entrance of the woods I told him he could return, as I preferred going the remainder of the way alone. He seemed surprised, but complied with my request. I had never heard of the new house, and as I drew near I was puzzled, and fancied I was wrong; but Tiger bounded forward, at first angrily, then joyfully, and I knew I was right. All about the house was so dark, so still, that a dreadful foreboding filled my heart—a fear that mother might be dead. I remembered the little graveyard and instantly bent my steps thither. I saw the costly marble and the carefully kept grave, and a thrill of joy ran through my veins, for they told me I was kindly remembered in the home I had so darkened. But another object riveted my attention. It was a fresh mound, and I knew full well who rested there. Never have I shed such tears of anguish as fell upon the sod which covers my sainted mother. In the intensity of my grief I was not conscious of Fanny's approach until she stood near me. The rest you know; and now, father, will you receive to your home and affection one who has so widely strayed?"

"Willin'ly, most willin'ly," said Uncle Joshua, as he folded her to his bosom, "and if I had done as I or'to, a heap of this wouldn't have happened. Oh, I didn't or'to do so, I didn't; and I ain't goin' to any more. You shall live with me when Sunshine's gone; and we would be so happy, if your poor mother could only see us and know it all."

From that time nothing could exceed Uncle Joshua's kindness to his daughter. He seemed indeed trying to make up for the past, and frequently he would whisper to himself, "No, I didn't or'to do so. I see more and more that I didn't." Still his fondness for Fanny was undiminished, and occasionally, after looking earnestly at both his children, he would exclaim, "Hang me, if I don't b'lieve Sunshine is a heap the handsomest"; but if these words caused Julia any emotion, 'twas never betrayed.

From Julia's story there could be no doubt that the maniac girl was laid in the grave which Uncle Joshua had thought belonged to his daughter. No tidings of her had been heard, although one gentleman thought that he once had met with a girl answering to her description in the stage coach between Lexington and Cincinnati. All search in that quarter was unavailing, and over her fate a dark mystery lay, until Julia suddenly appeared and threw light on the matter. The afflicted father (for she had no mother) was sent for, and when told where his child was laid, asked permission to have her disinterred and taken to his family burial place. His request was granted, the grave was opened, and then refilled and leveled with the earth. The monument Julia took care to have carefully preserved as a memento of the olden time.

As will be supposed, Julia's return furnished the neighborhood and surrounding country with a topic of conversation for many weeks. At first nearly all treated her with cool neglect, but as she kept entirely at home, curiosity to see one who had, as it were, come back from the dead triumphed over all other things; and at last all who came to see Fanny asked also for her sister.

Among the few who at once hastened to give the penitent girl the hand of friendship was Kate Miller; and as she marked her gentle manner and the subdued glance of her still somewhat haughty eyes, she wound her arm about her neck and whispered, "I shall in time learn to love you dearly for the sake of more than one."

Julia comprehended her, or thought she did, and answered, "Oh, Mrs. Miller, that one dreadful crime has troubled me more than all the rest. I killed him, your noble brother, and from the moment I deliberately determined to do so I became leagued with the tempter, who lured me madly on. But I outdid myself, and was entangled in the snare my own hands had laid."

"It is ever so," answered Kate. "Our most secret sins will in the end find us out."

The reader is perhaps anxious to know whether back across the Atlantic, Ashton brought his Spanish bride. Yes, he did. Mr. William Middleton accompanied him to the house of Sir Arthur Effingham, whom they found to be dying; his property was gone, and he feared that he must leave the youthful Inez to the cold charities of the world and a miserly brother. When Mr. Middleton made himself known, the dying man pointed to Inez, and said, "You once loved the mother; care for the daughter when I am gone, will you?"

"I will," answered Mr. Middleton, "on condition that you consent to having a young friend of mine share the care with me." At the same time he presented Ashton.

Sir Arthur recognized him immediately and answered, "Willingly, most willingly. I was a fool to spurn you once as I did."

In a few hours Sir Arthur was dead, and Inez was an orphan. But her grief was soothed by the presence of Ashton, who, a few days before sailing for America, made her his wife. During the voyage Mr. Middleton informed Ashton that as soon as he reached home he intended making his will, by which he should bequeath his property to Inez. Said he, "I have spent so many years of my life in India that I find the climate of New Orleans more congenial to my feelings than a colder one would be, consequently I shall purchase a house in that city, and as I look upon you and Inez as my children, I shall insist upon your living with me if you have no objection."

During the winter Fanny wrote frequently to her father urging him to visit her; but this he declined doing, and early the following May, he stood one evening impatiently awaiting the arrival of Ike, who had gone to Frankfort with the expectation of meeting Fanny and her husband. Everything had been put in readiness. The parlors and best chamber were opened and aired. The carriage and carriage horses had been brushed up, a new saddle had been bought for Fanny's pony, and a new dress for each of the black women, and everything and everybody seemed expecting a joyful time.

As the carriage approached the house Uncle Joshua looked wistfully toward it, trying to catch a glimpse of "Sunshine," whom he had not seen for nearly a year and a half. But only the face of a little negro girl was seen looking from the window, and Uncle Joshua exclaimed, "Now, what's possessed them to fetch that yaller gal! I've got niggers enough to wait on 'em."

But the "yaller gal" knew very well why she was there, and so ere long did Uncle Joshua. The steps were let down, and there, blithesome and gay as ever, Fanny sprang from the carriage and ran into the arms of her father, who kissed her again and again, holding her off to look at her and then again drawing her to him and saying, "You're handsomer than ever."

During this process the yellow girl, Rose, had brought from the carriage a mysterious looking bundle of flannel and white cambric, which now in Dr. Lacey's arms was crowing with delight as its little nurse bobbed up and down, making at it all sorts of grimaces.

"What the ——, no, I forgot, I didn't mean so. But what—is—that!" said Uncle Joshua, releasing Fanny and advancing toward Dr. Lacey, who proudly placed in his arms a beautiful nine-month-old baby, saying, "We have brought you a second Sunshine."

THE END