"Yes, by leaving me, and holding your tongue! There's the devil to pay!" was the answer.

Peter was accustomed to hearing of his master's debts in that direction, and to being told to hold his tongue, and he answered, "All right, sir," and left the room. For some moments the Colonel sat perfectly still, his heart beating so fast that he could scarcely breathe. Then he opened Jake's letter, and read as follows:

"Palmetto Clarin', Oct. —, 18—.

"Mister Kurnel Krompton,

"Deer Sir:

"Glory to God. I'se done sung all day for his mussy in lettin' me heer from lil Miss Dory onc't mo' an' 'noin' she ain't ded as I feared she was. Mas'r Minister Mason, who done 'tended the funeral of t'other Miss Dory done tole me how she's livin' with you, an' a lil off in her mind. The lam'! What happened her, I wonder? Her granny, ole Miss Lucy, was quar. All the Harrises was quar. Mebby she got it from them. A site of me will cure her sho'. Tell her I'se comin' to see her as soon as I hear from you that it is her, sho'. Thar might be some mistake, an' I doan' want to take the long journey for nothin', 'case I'm ole, tho' I feels mighty peart now wid de news. Rite me wen you git this. I shall wait till I har, an' then start to onc't.

"Yours to command,

"JAKE HARRIS."

"P.S.—Mandy Ann, you 'members her, what took care of lil chile. She's a grown woman now in course, an' has ten chillen, 'sides Ted. You 'members Ted, on de 'Hatty.' No 'count at all; but Mandy Ann, wall, she's a whopper, an' when she hears de nuse, she 'most had de pow'. She sen's her regrets, an' would come, too, if she hadn't so many moufs to feed, an' Ted doin' nothin' but playin' gemman.

"Onc't mo', yours,

"JAKE."

To describe the Colonel's state of mind as he read this letter is impossible. He forgot the pain in his leg and knee in the greater sensation of the cold, prickly feeling which ran through his veins, making his fingers feel like sticks, and powerless to hold the letter, which dropped to the floor. With every year he had hugged closer and closer the secret of his life, becoming more and more morbid and more fearful, lest in some way his connection with the palmetto clearing should be known and he fall from the high pedestal on which he had stood so long, and from which his fall would be greater because he had been there so long. It would all be right after he was dead. He had seen to that, and didn't care what the world would say when he was not alive to hear it. But he was very much alive now, and his sin bade fair to find him out.

"Just as I feared when that rector told me who his father was," he thought, cursing the chance which had sent the Rev. Arthur Mason to Crompton,—cursing the Rev. Charles for giving information to Jake,—and cursing Jake for the letter, which he spurned with his well foot, as it lay on the floor. He had hoped the negro might be dead, as he had heard nothing from him in a long time; and here he was, alive and waiting for a word to come. "If he waits for that he will wait to all eternity," he said to himself. "I shall write and make it worth his while to stay where he is. He knows too much of Amy's birth and her mother's death to be trusted here. Uncertainty is better than the truth. I have made matters right for Amy, and confessed everything. They'll find it when I'm gone, and can wag their tongues all they please. It won't hurt me then, but while I live I'll keep up the farce. It might have been better to have told the truth at first, but I didn't, and it's too late now. Who in thunder is that knocking at the door? Not Amy, I hope,—and I can't reach that letter," he continued, as there came a low rap at the door.

"Come in!" he called, when it was repeated, and Cora, the housemaid, entered.

She had been in the family but a few days and did not yet understand her duties with regard to the Colonel, and know that she was not to trouble him. Tim Biggs had been commissioned by Eloise to take her note to Mrs. Amy, together with the chairs.

"You can't carry both at one time, so take the sea this morning, and the wheel this afternoon," Mrs. Biggs said, just as Tom Walker appeared.

He had been to the house two or three times since the Rummage, ostensibly to ask when Eloise was going to commence her duties as teacher, but really to see her and hear her pleasant "Good-morning, Thomas, I am glad to see you."

Whatever Mrs. Biggs knew was soon known to half of District No. 5, and the news that Eloise was going to California had reached Tom, and brought him to inquire if it were true.

"And won't you come back?" he asked, with real concern on his homely face.

"Perhaps so. I hope so," Eloise replied, and he continued, "I'm all-fired sorry you are goin', because,—well, because I am; and I wish I could do something for you."

"You can," Eloise said. "You can take the wheel chair back to the Crompton House and save Tim one journey."

Tom cared very little about saving Tim, but he would do anything to serve Eloise, and the two boys were soon on their way, quarrelling some as they went, for each was jealous of the other's attention to the "little schoolmarm," as they called her. Tom reached the house first, but Tim was not far behind, and both encountered Cora, who bade them leave the chairs in the hall, while she inquired as to their disposition. Had Peter been in sight she might have consulted him, but he was in the grounds, and, entering the Colonel's room she said, "If you please, sir, what shall I do with the chairs?"

"What chairs?" the Colonel asked, and Cora replied, "A sea chair, I think, and a wheel chair, which Tom Walker and Tim Biggs have just brought home."

"My sea chair, and my wheel chair! How in thunder can that be, when I'm sitting in the wheel, and how came Tom Walker, the biggest rascal in town, by my chairs, or Tim Biggs either?" the Colonel exclaimed; and Cora replied, "I think they said the schoolma'am had them. Here's a note from her to Mrs. Amy."

Since his last attack of the gout the Colonel had in a measure forgotten Eloise, and ceased to care whether she were rooted and grounded in the fundamentals or not. That Howard and Jack had been in the habit of calling upon her he did not suspect, and much less that for the last two weeks or more she had been enjoying his sea chair, and the fruit and flowers sent her with Mrs. Amy's compliments. At the mention of her he roused at once.

"That girl had my chair! How the devil came she by it? A note for Mrs. Amy! Give it to me, and pick up that paper on the floor and go!"

Cora was not long in obeying, and the irascible old man was again alone. First tearing Jake's letter in strips, he turned Eloise's note over in his hand, and read, "Mrs. Amy Smith, Crompton Place." The name "Smith" always made him angry, and he repeated it with a quick shutting together of his teeth.

"Smith!" he said, "I can't abide it! And what has she to say to Mrs. Smith?"

The note was not sealed, and without the least hesitancy he opened it and read, commenting as he did so.

"My dear Mrs. Smith." (Her dear Mrs. Smith! I like that.) "I am going away (Glad to hear it) and I wish to thank you for the many things you have sent me. (The deuce she has! I didn't know it.) The pretty hat I want to keep, with the slippers, which remind me of my mother. (Slippers,—remind her of her mother, who, I dare say, never wore anything but big shoes, and coarse at that," the Colonel growled, and read on.) The chairs I return, with my thanks for them, and the fruit and flowers and books. I would like so much to see you, and thank you personally, but as this cannot be I must do it on paper. Be assured I shall never forget your kindness to me, a stranger.

"Your very truly,

"E.A. SMITH."

"Smith again! E.A. Smith!" the Colonel said. "Why couldn't she write her whole name? E.A., ELIZA ANN, of course! That's who she is, ELIZA ANN SMITH!"

If there was one name he disliked as much as he did Smith, it was Eliza Ann, and he repeated it again: "ELIZA ANN SMITH! Fruit and flowers and books, and shoes and my sea chair and a wheel chair sent to her by Amy! Where did she get the wheel, I'd like to know? I don't believe it!" he added, as a sudden light broke upon him. "It's that dog Howard's work, and that other chap."

Ringing the bell which stood on the table beside him, he bade Cora, who appeared, to send Mrs. Amy to him. Amy had not slept well, and was more easily confused than usual, but she came and asked what he wanted. It did not occur to him to give her the note, which he kept in his hand while he said, in a much softer tone than that in which he had been talking to himself, "Have you sent things to Eliza Ann Smith,—fruit and flowers and books, and my sea chair and a wheel chair, and a bonnet and shoes, and the Lord knows what else?"

Amy was bewildered at once.

"Eliza Ann Smith!" she repeated. "I don't know her. Who is she?"

"Why, the girl that jammed a hole in Brutus's neck and stained the cushions of my carriage, and broke her leg at Mrs. Biggs's," the Colonel replied.

At the mention of Mrs. Biggs, Amy's face brightened. Since the day after the accident, when she sent the hat and slippers, Eloise had not been mentioned in her presence, and she had entirely forgotten her. Now she was all interest again, and said, "Oh, yes; I remember now, Poor girl! I did send her a hat and some slippers, which I hated because I wore them when I sang. Did they fit her?"

"Lord Harry! How do I know? It isn't likely your shoes would fit her. They would be a mile too small!" the Colonel said, and Amy asked, "Does she want anything?"

"No," the Colonel replied. "Somebody has sent her flowers and chairs and books and things. She thought it was you and wished to thank you."

"It was not I, and I am sorry I forgot her," Amy rejoined, as she turned to leave him, with a confused feeling in her brain, and a pang of regret that she had perhaps neglected the little girl at Mrs. Biggs's.

Once the Colonel thought to call her back and give her the note. Then, thinking it did not matter, he let her go without it. Just what influence was at work in Amy's mind that morning it were difficult to tell. Whatever it was, it prompted her on her return to her room to take the little red cloak from the closet where it was kept and examine it carefully. It had been the best of its kind when it was bought, and, though somewhat faded and worn, had withstood the ravages of time wonderfully. It had encircled her like a friend, both when she was sad and when she was gay. It had been wrapped around the Baby, of whom she never thought without a pang and a blur before her eyes. It was the dearest article she had in her wardrobe, and because of that and because she had been so forgetful, she would send it to Eliza Ann Smith!

"But not for good," she said to Sarah, who was commissioned to take it to Eloise the next morning. "She can keep it till she is well. Somebody told me she had a sprained ankle. I had one once, and I put it across my lap and foot, it was so soft and warm. Tell her I am sorry I forgot about her. I am not always quite myself."

* * * * *

"Sent that old red cloak she's had ever since she was knee high! I shouldn't s'pose there'd be a rag of it left! She must be crazy as a loon to-day," was Mrs. Biggs's comment, when Sarah told her errand. "What possessed her?"

Sarah only knew that her mistress was more dazed than usual that morning, and had insisted upon her bringing the cloak.

"I think it rattled her when the chairs came back. She didn't know anything about 'em, nor the Colonel either," Sarah said.

Mrs. Biggs laughed, and replied, "I didn't s'pose they did. Them young men, I b'lieve, was at the bottom of it, and I or'to have told Miss Smith to send her thanks to them, but I wasn't quite sure about the sea chair. So I let it slide, thinkin' it was a good joke on 'em to thank Amy. They pretended the things was from her."

Taking the cloak from the girl, she carried it into the room where Eloise had fallen asleep, with her foot resting upon a hassock, and a shawl thrown over it. Removing the shawl and putting the red cloak in its place, Mrs. Biggs stole noiselessly out, saying to herself, "I guess she'll wonder where that came from when she wakes up."



CHAPTER III

ELOISE AT THE CROMPTON HOUSE

For an hour or more Eloise slept on, and then awoke suddenly and saw the scarlet cloak across her foot. At first it was the color which attracted her. Then taking it in her hands she began to examine it, while drops of sweat came out upon her forehead and under her hair. She knew that cloak! She had worn it many and many a time when she was a child. She had seen her mother fold and pack it far more carefully, when they were starting on a starring tour, than she did the fine dresses she wore on the stage.

"It is my mother's, but how came it here?" she thought, as she took it into the kitchen where she heard Mrs. Biggs at her work. "Where did you get my mother's cloak?" she asked.

Mrs. Biggs, who always washed on Saturdays, had just put Tim's shirt through the wringer. Holding it at arm's length with one hand and steadying herself on the side of the tub with the other, she stared blankly at Eloise for a moment, and then said, "Your mother's cloak! Child alive, that's Mrs. Amy's. I've seen her wear it a hundred times when she was a little girl. She has got on a spell of givin' this mornin', and sent it to you by Sarah. She's kep' it well all these years. What ails you?" she continued, as Eloise's face grew as white as the clothes in Mrs. Biggs's basket.

Ray after ray of light was penetrating her mind, making her wonder she had not seen it before, and bringing a possibility which made her brain reel for a moment.

"Sit down," Mrs. Biggs continued, "and tell me why you think this is your mother's cloak."

"I know it is," Eloise answered. "I have worn it so many times, and once I tore a long rent in the lining and mother darned it. It is here,—see!"

She showed the place in the silk lining where a tear had been and was mended.

"For the Lord's sake, who be you?" Mrs. Biggs exclaimed, still flourishing Tim's shirt, which she finally dropped back into the tub, and in her excitement came near sitting down in a pail of bluing water instead of a chair.

"I am Eloise Albertina Smith, and my father was Homer Smith, and my mother was Eudora Harris from Florida, and sang in concerts, and lost her mind, and was in a private asylum in San Francisco, and my father died, and a strange man took her out a few months ago. I did not know where she was, and was going to California to find her. I believe your Mrs. Amy is she, and I am going to the Crompton House to inquire!"

"For Heaven's sake!" was Mrs. Biggs's next ejaculation. "Harris was Amy's name before she was called Crompton, and her name is Amy Eudora, too; but I never heard she had a girl."

"Yes, she had, and I am that girl," Eloise said, "and I am going up there now, right off!"

"You can't walk," Mrs. Biggs suggested. "That ankle would turn before you got half way there. If you must go,—and I believe I would,—Tim will git a rig from the livery. Here, Tim," she called, as she heard him whistling in the woodshed, "run to Miller's and git a carriage and a span, quick as you can,—a good one, too," she added, as the possibility grew upon her that Eloise might belong to the Cromptons, and if so, ought to go up in style.

It did not take long for Tim to execute his mother's order, and the best turn-out from Miller's stable soon stood before the door.

"I b'lieve I'll go, too. The washin' will keep, and this won't," the widow said, beginning to change her work-dress for a better one.

Eloise was too much excited to care who went with her, and with Mrs. Biggs she was soon driving up the broad avenue under the stately maples to the door of the Crompton House. Peter saw the carriage, and thinking it came from town with callers on Amy, went out to say she could not see them, as she was not feeling well and was lying down.

"But I must see her," Eloise said, alighting first and brushing past him, while he stood open-mouthed with surprise.

"She thinks she is Amy's girl, and, I swan, I begin to think so, too," Mrs. Biggs said, trying to explain and getting things a good deal mixed, and so bewildering the old man that he paid no attention to Eloise, who, with the cloak on her arm, was in the hall and saying to a maid who met her, "Take me to Mrs. Amy."

All her timidity was gone, as she gave the order like one who felt perfectly at home.

"Mrs. Amy is asleep, and I don't like to disturb her. She is unusually nervous this morning. Will you see the Colonel instead?" the girl said, awed by Eloise's air of authority.

"My business is with Mrs. Amy, but perhaps I'd better see Col. Crompton first," she replied.

Mrs. Biggs and Peter were in the house by this time, and heard what Eloise was saying.

"Better not," Peter began. "I don't know as you can see him. You stay here. I'll inquire."

He started up the stairs, followed by Eloise, who had no idea of staying behind.

"Wait," he said, motioning her back as he reached the Colonel's door, and saw her close beside him. "Let me go in first."

He left the door ajar and walked into the room where the Colonel was sitting just as he had sat the morning before, when Jake's letter and Eloise's note were brought to him. He had not slept at all during the night, and was in a trembling condition, with a feeling of numbness in his limbs which he did not like.

"Well?" he said sharply, as Peter came in, and he saw by his face that something had happened. "What's up now?"

"Nothing, but Miss Smith, the teacher," Peter replied. "She wants to see you."

"Miss Smith, the normal? Do you mean Eliza Ann? Tell her to go away. I can't see anybody," the Colonel said.

"I'll tell her, but I'm afraid she won't go," Peter replied, starting for the door, through which a little figure came so swiftly as nearly to knock him down, and Eloise, who had forgotten her lameness, stood before the astonished Colonel, her face glowing with excitement, and her eyes shining like stars as she confronted him.

Old as he was, the Colonel was not insensible to female beauty, and the rare loveliness of this young girl moved him with something like admiration, and made his voice a little softer as he said, "Are you Eliza Ann Smith? What do you want?"

"I am not Eliza Ann," Eloise answered quickly. "I am Eloise Albertina Smith. My father was Homer Smith; my mother was Eudora Harris, from Florida, a concert singer, till she lost her mind and was put in a private asylum in San Francisco. You took her out, and she is here. You call her Mrs. Amy. She never told me of you. I don't know why. She never talked much of her girlhood. I don't think she was very happy. She sent me this cloak, and that's how I knew she was here. I have worn it many times when a child. I knew it in a moment, and I have come to see her. Where is she?"

This was worse than Jake's letter, and every nerve in the Colonel's body was quivering with excitement, and he felt as if a hundred prickly sensations were chasing each other up and down his arms and legs, and making his tongue thick as he tried to call for Peter. Succeeding at last, he said faintly, "Take this girl away before she kills me."

"I shall not go," Eloise rejoined, "until I see my mother. I tell you she is my mother. Has she never spoken of me?"

"Never," the Colonel answered. "She has talked of a baby who died, and you are not dead."

"No, but I am Baby,—her pet name for me always. Why she should think me dead, I don't know. Send for her, and see if she does not know me."

She had come close to the trembling old man, and put one of her hands on his cold, clammy one. He didn't shake it off, but looked at her with an expression in his eyes which roused her sympathy.

"I don't mean any harm," she said. "I only want my mother. Send for her, please."

There was a motion of assent toward Peter, who left the room, encountering Mrs. Biggs outside the door. There was too much going on for her not to have a hand in it, and she stood listening and waiting till Amy came down the hall, her white cashmere wrapper trailing softly behind her, and her hair coiled under a pretty invalid cap. She had been roused from a sound sleep, which had cleared her brain somewhat, and when told the Colonel wished to see her, she rose at once and started to go to him, fearing he was worse. He heard her coming, and braced himself up. Eloise heard her, and, with her head thrown back and her hands clasped together, stood waiting for her. For a moment Amy did not see her, so absorbed was she in the expression of the Colonel, who was watching her intently. When at last she did see her, she started suddenly, while a strange light leaped into her eyes. Then a wild, glad cry of "Baby! Baby!" rang through the room, and was answered by one of "Mother! Mother!" as the two women sprang to each other's arms.

Amy was the first to recover herself. Turning Eloise around and examining her minutely, she said, "I thought you dead. He told me so, and everything has been a blank to me since."

"You see she is my mother!" Eloise said to the Colonel; "and if she is your daughter, you must be my grandfather!"

If the Colonel had been carved in stone he could not have sat more motionless than he did, giving no sign that he heard.

"No matter! I shall find it all out for myself," Eloise continued, as she turned again to her mother, who was examining the red cloak as if she wondered how it came there.

The mention of "finding it out" affected the Colonel more than anything else had done. Amy had said the same thing to him once. She had not found it out, but this slip of a girl would, he was sure, and with something like a groan he sank back in his chair with a call for Peter.

"Take them away," he said huskily. "I can't bear any more, and,—and,—the girl must stay, if Amy wants her, and bring me a hot-water bag,—two of them,—I was never so cold in my life."

Peter nodded that he understood, and, ringing the bell for Amy's maid, bade her take her mistress to her room, and the young lady, too. "She is Mrs. Amy's daughter," he added.

There was no need to tell this, for Mrs. Biggs had done her duty, and every servant in the house had heard the news and was anxious to see the stranger. Amy was always at her best in her own room, where Sarah left her alone with Eloise, and hastened away to gossip with Mrs. Biggs and Peter. The shock, instead of making Amy worse, had for the time being cleared her brain to some extent, so that she was able to talk quite rationally to Eloise, whose first question was why she had thought her dead. "I was so homesick for you, and cried so much after you went away that he was angry and hard with me,—very hard,—and I said at last if he didn't send for you I'd never sing again, and meant it, too," Amy replied. "It was at Los Angeles on a concert night. I must have been pretty bad, and he seemed half afraid of me, and finally told me you were dead, and had been for three weeks, and that he had meant to keep it from me till the season was over. I believed him, and something snapped in my head and let in a pain and noise which have never left it; but they will now I have found you. I went before the footlights once that night, and the stage was full of coffins in which you lay, and I saw the little grave in the New England cemetery where he said you were buried. At last I fainted, and have never sung again. They were very kind to me at Dr. Haynes's, where he came often to see me till I heard he was dead. I was not sorry; he had been so,—so—I can't explain."

"I know," Eloise said, remembering her father's manner toward this weak, timid woman, who went on: "Then Col. Crompton came and brought me home. I used to live here years ago and called him father, till he said he was not my father. I never told you of him, or that this was once my home, although I described the place to you as something I had seen. If he were not my father I did not want to know who was, and did not want to talk about it, and after I married Mr. Smith it was very dreadful. He hated the Colonel when he found he could not get money from him, and sometimes taunted me with my birth, saying I was a Harris and a Cracker; but the cruelest of all was telling me you were dead. Why did he do it?"

"I think your fretting for me irritated him, and he feared you might never sing again unless he sent for me, and he did not want me," Eloise said. "He never wanted me. He was a bad man, and I could not feel sorry when he died."

"You needn't," Amy exclaimed excitedly, and, getting up she began to walk the floor as she continued, "It is time things were cleared up. I am not afraid of him now, although I was when he was living. He broke all the spirit I had, till the sound of his voice when he was angry made me shake. Thank God he was not your father! there has been a lie all the time, and that wore upon me. Your father,—Adolph Candida,—is lying in the Protestant burying-ground in Rome."

Grasping her mother's arm Eloise cried, "Oh, mother, what is this you are saying, and why have I never heard it before?"

Amy had been tolerably clear in her conversation up to this point, but she was getting tired, and it was a long, rambling story she told, with many digressions and much irrelevant matter, but Eloise managed to follow her and get a fairly correct version of the truth. Candida, whom Amy loved devotedly, and with whom she had been very happy, had died after a brief illness when Eloise was an infant. Homer Smith, the handsome American, who had attached himself to the Candidas, was very kind to the young widow, whom he induced to marry him, and to let her little girl take his name.

"I don't know why I did that," Amy said; "only he always made me do what he pleased, and he pretended to love you so much, and he didn't want his friends to know he was my second husband when he came to America. I couldn't understand that, but I yielded, as I did in everything. He seemed to hate the name of Candida, and was jealous of him in his grave, and would never let me speak of him. I think he was crazy, and he said I was, and shut me up. He once wrote to Col. Crompton for money and got a dreadful letter, telling him to go to that place where I am afraid he has gone, and saying I was welcome to come home any time, if I would leave the singing master. There was a bad word before the 'singing,' which I can't speak. I meant to go home some time and take you with me. I hated the stage, and the pain got in my head, and I forgot so many things after he said you were dead, but never forgot you, although I didn't talk about you much. I couldn't, for a bunch came in my throat and choked me, and my head seemed to open and shut on the top when I thought of you. Col. Crompton has been very kind to me since I came. I think now he is my father. I asked him once, and he said, No. I believed him then, and accepted in my mind some Mr. Harris, for I knew my mother was a true woman. We will find it all out, you and I."

"Yes," Eloise replied, "and the pain will go away, and you will tell me more of my own father. I know now why I never could feel a daughter's love for the other one. Does grandmother know? She was always kind to me, and I love her."

Amy shook her head, and said, "I think not, but am not sure. It will be clearer by and by. I must sleep now."

When she was tired she always slept, and, adjusting the cushions on the sofa, Eloise made her lie down, and spread over her the little red cloak which had been the means of bringing them together.

"Yes, that's right. Cover me with the dear old cloak Jakey gave me," Amy said sleepily. "You'll help me find him."

Eloise didn't know who Jakey was, or what connection he had with the cloak; but she answered promptly, "Yes, I'll help you find him and everything."

Thus reassured, Amy fell asleep, while Eloise sat by her until startled by the entrance of Mrs. Biggs. That worthy woman had been busy telling the servants everything she knew about Eloise since she came to Crompton, and that she had always mistrusted she was somebody out of the common. Then, as Eloise did not appear, and the carriage from Miller's was still waiting at a dollar and a half an hour, it occurred to her that if Eloise should not prove to be somebody out of the common she would have to pay the bill, as she had ordered the turn-out. Going to Amy's room, she walked in unannounced, and asked, "Be you goin' home with me, or goin' to stay?"

"I don't know what I am to do," Eloise said, starting to her feet.

Amy decided for her. Mrs. Biggs had roused her, and, hearing what was wanted, she protested so vehemently against Eloise's leaving her even for an hour, that Mrs. Biggs departed without her, thinking to herself as she rode in state behind the fleet horses, "It beats the Dutch what luck some folks have. I've lost my boarder, and Ruby Ann has got the school, just as I knew she would, and mebby I'll have to pay for the rig. I wonder how long I've had it."



CHAPTER IV

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

This was on Saturday, and by Monday the whole town of Crompton, from District No. 5 to the village on the seashore, was buzzing with the news told eagerly from one to another. The young girl who had sprained her ankle while coming to take charge of the school in District No. 5 had, it was told, turned out to be the daughter of Mrs. Amy, and was at the Crompton House with her mother, who had thought her dead. This some believed and some did not, until assured by Mrs. Biggs, who, having done her washing on Saturday, was free on Monday to call upon her neighbors and repeat the story over and over, ending always with, "I mistrusted from the first that she was somebody."

The second piece of news was scarcely less exciting, but sad. After his interview with Eloise, the Colonel had complained of nausea and faintness, and had gone early to bed. Before going, however, he had asked if Eliza Ann were still in the house. An idea once lodged in his brain was apt to stay, and Eliza Ann had taken too strong a hold upon his senses to be easily removed.

"Bring her here," he said.

She came at once and asked what she could do for him.

"Sit down," he said. "You seem to be lame."

He had evidently forgotten about the accident, and Eloise did not remind him of it, but sat down while he catechised her with regard to what she had told him of herself. Some of his comments on Homer Smith were not very complimentary, and this emboldened Eloise to tell him who her real father was.

"Thank God!" he said emphatically. "I'm glad you are not that rascal's, and because you are not you can stay with Amy and fare as she fares. But why did she think you dead?"

Eloise told him all she thought necessary to tell him, while his face grew purple with anger, and his clenched fists beat the air as if attacking an imaginary Homer Smith.

"It's a comfort to know, if there is a God—and I know there is—he is getting his deserts," he said. Then, as his mood changed, he continued, "And you are the little normal I didn't want, and you board with Mrs. Biggs?"

"Yes," Eloise replied. "I am the normal you did not want, and I board with Mrs. Biggs, where I heard a great deal of Mrs. Amy, as they call her. I must have a slow, stupid mind, or I should have suspected who she was. I never heard the name Harris connected with her. If I had I should have known. It is so clear to me now."

The Colonel looked at her a moment, and then said, "If you are Amy's daughter you are a Harris, and they are queer, with slow minds,—and now go. I am infernally tired, and cannot keep up much longer."

He moved his hand toward her, and Eloise took it and pressed it to her lips.

"D-don't," the Colonel said, but held fast to the soft, warm hand clasping his. "If one's life could roll back," he added, more to himself than to Eloise, as his head dropped wearily upon his breast, and he whispered, "I am sorry for a great deal. God knows I am sorry. Call Peter."

The old servant came and got him to bed, and sat by him most of the night. Toward morning, finding that he was sleeping quietly, he, too, lay down and slept until the early sun was shining into the room. Waking with a start, he hurried to his master's side, to find him with wide-open eyes full of terror as he tried to ask what had happened to him. All power to move except his head was gone, and when he tried to talk his lips gave only inarticulate sounds which no one could understand.

"Paralysis," the doctor said when summoned. "I have expected it a long time," he continued, and would give no hope to Amy and Eloise, who hastened to the sick-room.

The moment they came in the Colonel's eyes brightened, and when Amy stooped and kissed him he tried to kiss her back. Then he fixed his eyes on Eloise with a questioning glance, which made her say to him, "Do you know me?"

He struggled hard for a moment, and then replied, "Yesh, 'Lisha Ann! Stay!" and those were the only really intelligible words he ever spoke.

They telegraphed to Worcester for Howard, and learning that he was in Boston, telegraphed there, and found him at the Vendome. "Come at once. Your uncle is dying," the telegram said, and Howard read it with a sensation for which he hated himself, and which he could not entirely shake off. He tried to believe he did not want his uncle to die, but if he did die, what might it not do for him, the only direct heir, if Amy were not a lawful daughter? And he did not believe she was. She had not been adopted, and he had never heard of a will, and before he was aware of it a feeling that he was master of Crompton Place crept over him. Amy would live there, of course, just as she did now, even if he should marry, as he might, and there came up before him the memory of a rainy night and a helpless little girl sitting on a mound of stones and dirt and crying with fear and pain. He had seen Jack's interest in Eloise with outward indifference, but with a growing jealousy he was too proud to show. He admired her greatly, and thought that under some circumstances he might love her. As a Crompton he ought to look higher, and if he proved to be the heir it would never do to think of her even if Jack were not in his way. All this passed like lightning through his mind as he read the telegram and handed it to Jack, who, he insisted, should return with him to Crompton.

"I feel awfully shaky, and I want you there if anything happens," he said, while Jack, whose first thought had been that he would be in the way, was not loath to go.

Eloise was in Crompton, and ever since he left it, a thought of her had been in his mind.

"If I find her as sweet and lovely as I left her, I'll ask her to be my wife, and take her away from Mrs. Biggs," he was thinking as the train sped on over the New England hills toward Crompton, which it reached about two P.M.

Peter was at the station with Sam, and to Howard's eager questions answered, "Pretty bad. No change since morning. Don't seem to know anybody except Mrs. Amy and Miss Eloise. She's with him all the time, and he tries to smile when she speaks to him."

"Who?" both the young men asked in the same breath, and Peter told them all he knew of the matter during the rapid drive to the house.

Howard was incredulous, and made Peter repeat the story twice, while his brain worked rapidly with a presentiment that this new complication might prove adverse to him.

"What do you think of it?" he asked Jack, who replied, "I see no reason to doubt it," and he was conscious of a pang of regret that he had not asked Eloise to be his wife before her changed circumstances.

"She would then know that I loved her for herself, and not for any family relations," he thought.

He had no doubt that Amy was Col. Crompton's daughter, and if so, Eloise's position would be very different from what it had been.

"I'll wait the course of events, as this is no time for love-making," he decided, as they drove up to the door, from which the doctor was just emerging.

"Matter of a few hours," he said to Howard. "I am glad you have come. Evidently he wants to see you, or wants something, nobody can make out what. You have heard the news?"

Howard bowed, and entering the house, ran up to his uncle's room. The Colonel was propped on pillows, laboring for breath, and trying to articulate words impossible to speak, while, if ever eyes talked, his were talking, first to Amy and then to Eloise, both of whom were beside him, Amy smoothing his hair and Eloise rubbing his cold hands.

They had been with him for hours, trying to understand him as he struggled to speak.

"There is something he wants to tell us," Eloise said, and in his eyes there was a look of affirmation, while the lips tried in vain to frame the words, which were only gurgling sounds.

What did the dying man want to say? Was he trying to reveal a secret kept so many years, and which was planting his pillow with thorns? Was he back in the palmetto clearing, standing in the moonlight with Dora, and exacting a promise from her which broke her heart? No one could guess, and least of all the two women ministering to him so tenderly,—Amy, because she loved him, and Eloise, because she felt that he was more to her than a mere stranger. She was very quiet and self-contained. The events of the last two days had transformed her from a timid girl into a fearless woman, ready to fight for her own rights and those of her mother. Once when Amy was from the room a moment she bent close to the Colonel and said, "You are my mother's father?"

There was a choking sound and an attempt to move the head which Eloise took for assent.

"Then you are my grandfather?" she added.

This time she was sure he nodded, and she said, "It will all be right. You can rest now," but he didn't rest.

There was more on his mind which he could not tell.

"I believe it is Mr. Howard," Eloise thought, and said to him, "He is coming on the next train. I hear it now. He will soon be here. Is that what you want?"

The dying man turned his head wearily. There was more besides Howard he wanted, but when at last the young man came into the room, his eyes shone with a look of pleased recognition, and he tried to speak a welcome. In the hall outside Jack was waiting, and as Eloise passed out he gave her his hand, and leading her to a settee, sat down beside her, and told her how glad he was for the news he had heard of her, but feeling the while that he did not know whether he were glad or not. She had never looked fairer or sweeter to him than she did now, and yet there was a difference which he detected, and which troubled him. It would have been easy to say "I love you," to the helpless little school-teacher at Mrs. Biggs's, and he wished now he had done so, and not waited till she became a daughter of the Crompton House, as he believed she was. Now he could only look his love into the eyes which fell beneath his gaze, as he held her hand and questioned her of the Colonel's sudden attack, and the means by which she had discovered her relationship to Amy.

Again he repeated, "I am so glad for you," and might have said more if Howard had not stepped into the hall, his face clouded and anxious.

"He wants you, I think," he said to Eloise. "At least he wants something,—I don't know what."

Eloise went to him at once, and again there was a painful effort to speak. But whatever he would say was never said, and after a little the palsied tongue ceased trying to articulate, and only his eyes showed how clear his reason was to the last. If there was sorrow for the past, he could not express it. If thoughts of the palmetto clearing were in his mind, no one knew it. All that could be guessed at was that he wanted Amy and Eloise with him.

"Call him father. I think he will like it," Eloise said to her mother, while Howard looked up quickly, and to Peter, who was present, it seemed as if a frown settled on his face as a smile flickered around the Colonel's mouth at the sound of the name Amy had not given him since she came from California.

All the afternoon and evening they watched him, as his breathing grew shorter and the heavy lids fell over the eyes, which, until they closed, rested upon Amy, who held his hand and spoke to him occasionally, calling him father, and asking if he knew her. To the very last he responded to the question with a quivering of the lids when he could no longer lift them, and when the clock on the stairs struck twelve, the physician who was present said to Eloise, "Take your mother away; he is dead."



CHAPTER V

LOOKING FOR A WILL

For three days the Colonel lay in the great drawing-room of the Crompton House, the blinds of which were closed, while knots of crape streamed from every door, and the servants talked together in low tones, sometimes of the dead man and sometimes of the future, wondering who would be master now of Crompton Place. Speculation on this point was rife everywhere, and on no one had it a stronger hold than on Howard himself. He would not like to have had it known that within twenty-four hours after his uncle's death he had gone through every pigeon-hole and nook in the Colonel's safe and private drawers, and turned over every paper searching for a will, and when he found none, had congratulated himself that in all human probability he was the sole heir. He was very properly sad, with an unmistakable air of ownership as he went about the place, giving orders to the servants. To Amy he paid great deference, telling the undertaker to ask what she liked and abide by her decisions. And here he was perfectly safe. With the shock of the Colonel's death Amy had relapsed into a dazed, silent mood, saying always, "I don't know; ask Eloise," and when Eloise was asked, she replied, "I have been here too short a time to give any orders. Mr. Howard will tell you."

Thus everything was left to him, as he meant it should be, stipulating that Eloise meet the people who came, some to offer their sympathy, and more from a morbid curiosity to see whatever there was to be seen. This Eloise did with a dignity which surprised herself, and if Howard were the master, she was the mistress, and apparently as much at home as if she had lived there all her life. Ruby was the first to call. She had not seen Eloise since the astounding news that she was Amy's daughter.

"I am so glad for you," she said, and the first tears Eloise had shed sprang to her eyes as she laid her head on Ruby's arm, just as she had done in the days of her trouble and pain.

Mrs. Biggs came, too,—very loud in her protestations of delight and assertions that she had always known Eloise was above the common.

Never since the memorable lawn party many years ago had there been so great a crowd in the house and grounds as on the day of the funeral. In honor of his memory, and because he had given the school-house to the town, the school was closed, and the pupils, with Ruby Ann at their head, marched up the avenue with wreaths of autumn leaves and bouquets of flowers intended for the grave. The Rev. Arthur Mason read the burial service, and as he glanced at the costly casket, nearly smothered in flowers, and at the crowd inside and out, he could not keep his thoughts from his father's description of another funeral, where the dead woman lay in her cheap coffin, with Crackers and negroes as spectators; and only a demented woman, a little child, and black Jake and Mandy Ann as mourners. The mourners here were Amy and Howard, Eloise and Jack, and next to him a plain-looking, elderly woman, who, Mrs. Biggs told every one near her, was old Mrs. Smith, Eloise's supposed grandmother from Mayville.

Eloise had sent for her, and while telling the story of deception and wrong which had been practised so long, and to which the mother listened with streaming eyes, she had said, "But it makes no difference with us. You are mine just the same, and wherever I live in the future, you are to live, too, if you will."

Mrs. Smith had smiled upon the young girl, and felt bewildered and strange in this grand house and at this grand funeral, unlike anything she had ever seen. It seemed like an endless line of carriages and foot passengers which followed the Colonel to the grave, and when the services were over, a few friends of the Colonel, who had come from a distance, returned to the house, and among them Mr. Ferris, the lawyer, who had been the Colonel's counsel and adviser for years, and managed his affairs. This was Howard's idea. He could not rest until he knew whether there was in the lawyer's possession any will or papers bearing upon Amy. When lunch was over he took the old man into his uncle's library, and said, hesitatingly, "I do not want to be too hasty, but it is better to have such matters settled, and if I have no interest in the Crompton estate I must leave, of course. Did my uncle leave a will?"

Lawyer Ferris looked at him keenly through his glasses, took a huge pinch of snuff, and blew a good deal of it from him and some in Howard's face, making him sneeze before he replied, "Not that I know of; more's the pity. I tried my best to have him make one. The last time I urged it he said, 'There's no need. I've fixed it. Amy will be all right.' I was thinking of her. If there is no will, and she wasn't adopted and wasn't his daughter, it's hard lines for her."

"But she was his daughter," came in a clear, decided voice, and both the lawyer and Howard turned to see Eloise standing in the door.

Rain was beginning to fall, and she had come to close a window, with no thought that any one was in the library, until she heard the lawyer's last words, which stopped her suddenly. Where her mother was concerned she could be very brave, and, stepping into the room, she startled the two men with her assertion, "She was his daughter."

"He told me so," she continued.

"He did? When?" Howard asked, and Eloise replied, "I asked him, and his eyes looked yes, and when I said, 'You are my grandfather?' I was very sure he nodded. I know he meant it."

The lawyer smiled and answered her, "That is something, but not enough. We must have a will or some document. He might have been your mother's father. I think he was; and still, she may not be—be—"

He hesitated, for Eloise's eyes were fixed upon him, and the hot blood of shame was crimsoning her face. After a moment he continued, "A will can set things right; or, if we can prove a marriage, all will be fair sailing for your mother and you."

"I was not thinking of myself," Eloise returned. "I am thinking of mother. I know all the dreadful gossip and everything. Mrs. Biggs has told me, and I am going to find out. Somebody knows, and I shall find them."

She looked very fearless as she left the room, and Howard felt that she would be no weak antagonist if he wanted to contest his right to the estate. But he didn't, he told himself, and Mr. Ferris, too. He was willing to abide by the law. If there was a will he'd like to find it; and, in any case, should be generous to Amy and—Eloise!

"No doubt of it," the lawyer said, looking at him now over his spectacles, and taking a second pinch of snuff preparatory to the search among the dead man's papers, which Howard suggested that he make.

Every place Howard had gone through was gone through again,—every paper unfolded and every envelope looked into. There was no will or scrap of writing bearing upon Amy. There were some receipts from Tom Hardy, of Palatka, for money received from the Colonel and paid over to Eudora Harris, and at these the lawyer looked curiously.

"Harris was the name Amy sometimes went by before her marriage, I believe," he said. "Eudora was probably her mother. Now, if we can find Tom Hardy we may learn something. Shall I write to Palatka and inquire?"

"Certainly," Howard replied, with a choke in his throat which he managed to hide from the lawyer.

He didn't mean to be a scoundrel. He only wanted his own, and he meant to do right if chance made him master of Crompton, he said to himself, as he went to the drawing-room, where Jack and Eloise were sitting with a few friends who seemed to be waiting for something. Ruby and Mrs. Biggs, who, on the strength of their intimacy with Eloise, had remained in the house while the family was at the grave, were there, evidently expectant. It was not Howard's idea to broach the subject at once. He wanted to talk it over with Jack and Eloise, and make himself right with them. The lawyer had no such scruples. He had read wills after many funerals, and now that there was none to read, he spoke up:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry I can't oblige you, but there ain't any will as we can find, and nothing to show who Mrs. Amy is, and matters must rest for a spell as they are. Meanwhile, Mr. Howard Crompton, as the Colonel's nephew and only known heir, must take charge of things."

Eloise's face flushed, and Jack, who stole a look at her, saw that her hands trembled a little. No one spoke until Mrs. Biggs rose and said, "'Squire Ferris, if no will ain't found, and nothin' is proved for Mrs. Amy,—adoption nor nothin',—you know what I mean,—can't she inherit?"

"Not a cent!" was the reply.

"You mean she'll have nothin'?"

"Legally nothing!"

"And Mr. Howard will have everything?"

"Yes, everything, as he is sole heir and next of kin."

"Get out with your 'sole heir and next of kin' and law!" Mrs. Biggs exclaimed vehemently. "There ain't no justice in law. Look a-here, Squire; when women vote we'll have things different. Here is Amy, been used to them elegancies all her life." She swept her arm around the room, and, still keeping it poised, continued: "And now she's to be turned out because there ain't no will and you can't prove nothin'! And that's law! It makes me so mad! Who is goin' to take care of her, I'd like to know?"

"I am!" and Eloise sprang to her feet, the central figure now in the room. "I shall take care of my mother! I don't care for the will, nor anything, except to prove that she is Col. Crompton's legitimate daughter, and that I will do. I am going where she was born, if I can find the place, and take her with me. I am not very lame now, and I would start to-morrow if—"

She stopped, remembering that in her purse were only two and one half dollars, and this she owed to Mrs. Biggs for board; then her eyes fell upon Ruby, the friend who had stood by her in her need, and who had been the first to congratulate her on finding her mother. Ruby had offered her money for the journey to California, and something in Ruby's face told her it was still ready for her, and she went on: "I was foolish enough to think Crompton Place was her rightful home, and be glad for her, but if it is not, I shall take her away at once. No one need worry about mother! I shall care for her."

"Bravo!" Mrs. Biggs rejoined, as Eloise sank back in her chair. "That's what I call pluck! Law, indeed! It makes me so mad! You can fetch her to my house any minit. Your old room is ready for you, and I won't charge a cent till you find something to do and can pay. Maybe Ruby'll give up the school. Won't you, Ruby Ann?"

"Certainly, if she wishes it," Ruby answered, and going over to Eloise, she said, "You are a brave little girl, and the money is still waiting for you if you want it."

As for Jack, he was ready to lay himself at her feet, but all he could do then was to say to Ruby, "Perhaps Miss Smith had better go to her room; she seems tired," and taking her arm, he went with her to the door, which Howard opened for her. That young man did not feel very comfortable, and as soon as Eloise was gone he said to the inmates of the room, "If any of you think me such a cad as to turn Mrs. Amy and her daughter from the house, or to allow them to go, you are mistaken. If it should prove that I am master here, they will share with me. I can do no more."

"Good for you!" Jack said, wringing Howard's hand, while the party began to break up, as it was time for those who lived at a distance to take the train.

Among those who arose to go was the Rev. Arthur Mason, whom Howard had asked to lunch after the burial. As he left the house he said to Jack, who stood for a moment with him on the piazza, "Please say to Miss Smith that I can direct her to her mother's birthplace in Florida. My father is preaching there."

"Thanks! I will tell her," Jack replied, in some surprise, and then went in to where Howard was standing, with an expression on his face not quite such as one ought to have when he has just come into possession of a fortune.

"I congratulate you, old boy," Jack said cheerily, as he went up to him.

"Don't!" Howard answered impetuously. "Nothing is sure. A will may be found, or my uncle's marriage proved; in either case, I sink back into the cipher I was before. I cannot say I'm not glad to have money, but I don't want people blaming me. I can't help it if my uncle made no will and did not marry Amy's mother, and I don't believe he did, or why was he silent so many years?"

Jack could not answer him and left the room, taking his way, he hardly knew why, to the village, where he fell in again with the rector. To talk of the recent events at the Crompton House was natural, and before they parted Jack knew the contents of the Rev. Charles's letter to his son, and in his mind there was no doubt of a secret marriage and Amy's legitimacy.

"It will be hard on Howard," he thought, "but Amy ought to have her rights,—and,—Eloise! And she shall!" he added, as he retraced his steps to the Crompton House.

Chancing to be alone with her, he told her in part what he had heard from the rector, keeping back everything pertaining to the poverty of the surroundings, and speaking mostly of Jakey and Mandy Ann, whom Amy might remember.

"She does," Eloise replied, "and at every mention of them her brain seems to get clearer. Peter has brought me a copy of a letter which Col. Crompton received from Jake just before he went for my mother, and which he has kept all these years. It may help me to find whatever there is to be found, good or bad." She handed him the copy, and continued, "The letter was mailed in Palatka, but from what you tell me, Jakey is farther up the river. Shall I have any trouble in finding him, do you think?"

"None whatever," Jack replied, a plan rapidly maturing in his mind as to what he would do if Eloise persisted in going to Florida. "Better leave your mother here," he said, when she told him of her determination to unravel the mystery.

"No," she answered. "Mother must go. I expect much from a sight of her old home and Jakey."

Jack shivered as he recalled the Rev. Charles Mason's picture of that home, but he would not enlighten her. She must guess something from Jakey's note to the Colonel, he thought. Evidently she did, for she asked him what a Cracker was.

"I ought to know, of course, and have some idea," she said. "I asked mother, and she said she was one. What did she mean?"

"If you go to Florida you will probably learn what a Cracker is," Jack replied, as he bade her good-night, pitying her for what he knew was in store for her.

The next day a telegram from New York called him to the city. But before he went he had an interview with Ruby with regard to the journey which Eloise was designing to take as soon as her mother should have recovered from the shock of the Colonel's death.

For a few days after his departure matters moved on quietly at the Crompton House, where Howard assumed the head unostentatiously, and without giving offence to any of the servants. The Crompton estate, as reported to him by Lawyer Ferris, was larger than he had supposed, and if it were his he would be a richer man than he had ever hoped to be. He liked money, and what it would bring him, and if he had been sure of his foothold he would have been very happy. And he was nearly sure. There was no will in the house, he was certain, for he had gone a second and third time through every place where one could possibly have been put, and found nothing. He was safe there, and as he did not know all which Mr. Mason had written to his son, he did not greatly fear the result of Eloise's trip to the South, which he thought a foolish undertaking. But she was bent upon going and the day was fixed. Grandmother Smith had returned home to await developments. Amy was ready. Eloise's lameness was nearly gone, "And to-morrow we start," she said to him one evening, when, after dinner, she joined him in the library, where he spent most of his time.

Every day since his uncle's death, and he had seen so much of Eloise, Howard's interest in her had increased, until it amounted to a passion, if not positive love. Jack was a formidable rival, he knew, but now that he was probably master of Crompton Place, where her mother would be happier than elsewhere, she might think favorably of him. At all events he'd take the chance, and now was his time. Looking up quickly as she came in, and drawing a chair close to him for her, he said, "Sit down a moment while I talk to you." She sat down, and he continued, "I wish you would give up this journey, which can only end in disappointment. I have no idea there was a marriage, or that you could prove it if there was. My uncle was not a brute. He loved Amy, and would not have kept silent till he died if she had been his legitimate daughter. Give up the project. I will gladly share the fortune with you, and be a son to your mother. Will you, Eloise? I must call you that, and I ask you to be my wife. It is not so sudden as you may think," he continued, as he saw her look of surprise. "I do not show all I feel. I admired you from the first, but Jack seemed to be ahead, and I gave way to him, not understanding until within the last few days how much you were to me. I love you, and ask you again to be my wife."

He had one of her hands in his, but it was cold and pulseless, and it seemed to him it told her answer before she said, very kindly, as if sorry to give him pain:

"I believe you are my cousin, or, rather, my mother's, and I can esteem you as such, but I cannot be your wife."

"Because you love Jack Harcourt, I suppose," Howard said, a little bitterly, and Eloise replied, "I do not think we should bring Mr. Harcourt into the discussion. When he asks me to be his wife it will be time to know whether I love him or not. I cannot marry you."

She arose to go, while Howard tried to detain her, feeling every moment how his love was growing for this girl who had so recently come into his life, and was crossing his path, as he had felt she would when he first heard of her from his uncle, and had promised to sound her as to her fitness for a teacher. There had been no need for that; his uncle was dead, and she was going from him, perhaps to return as a usurper.

"Eloise," he said again, with more feeling in his voice than when he first spoke, "you must listen to me. I cannot give you up. I would rather lose Crompton, if it is mine, than to lose you."

Rising to his feet, he took her face between his hands and kissed it passionately.

"How dare you!" she said, wresting herself from him.

"Because I dare! Jack may have the second kiss, but I have had the first," he replied. Then his manner changed, and he said, entreatingly, "Forgive me, Eloise, I was beside myself for a moment. Don't give me an answer now. Think of what I have said while you are gone, if you will go; and if you fail, remember this is your home and your mother's, just as much as it will be if you succeed. Promise me you will come back here whatever happens. You will come?"

"For a time, yes; till I know what to do if I fail," she replied.

Then she went out and left him alone, to go again through the pigeon-holes and drawers and shelves he had been through so often and found nothing.



CHAPTER VI

IN FLORIDA

The Boston train was steaming into the Central Station in New York, and Eloise was gathering up her satchels and wraps, and looking anxiously out into the deepening twilight, wondering if the cars would be gone from the Jersey side, and what she should do if they were. She had intended taking a train which reached New York earlier, but there was some mistake in her reading of the time-table, and now it was growing dark, and for a moment her courage began to fail her, and she half wished herself back in Crompton, where every one had been so kind to her, and where every one had looked upon the journey as useless, except the rector and Ruby. These had encouraged her to go, and Ruby had furnished the money and had been very hopeful, and told her there was nothing to fear even in New York, which Eloise dreaded the most. Howard had seen her to the train and got her seats in the parlor car, and said to her, as he had once before:

"I'd like to offer you money, but you say you have enough."

"Oh, yes," Eloise answered; "more than enough. Ruby has been so kind."

Then he said good-by, and went back to the house, which seemed empty and desolate.

"I ought at least to have gone to New York with them, but that little girl is so proud and independent, I dare say she would not have let me," he said to himself, and all day his thoughts followed them, until by some clairvoyant process he seemed to see them at the station alone and afraid, just as for a short time Eloise was afraid and wished she had not come.

Then, rallying, she said to herself, "This won't do. I must keep up," and she helped her mother from the car, and began to walk through the long station toward the street. Only half the distance had been gone over when a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and a voice which made her heart bound with delight, said to her, "Here you are! I was afraid I had missed you in the crowd."

"Oh, Mr. Harcourt, I am so glad! How did you know we were coming?" Eloise exclaimed, her gladness showing in her eyes and sounding in her voice.

"Oh, I knew," Jack answered, taking her satchel and wraps and umbrella from her, and giving his disengaged arm to her mother. "I have a friend at court who lets me know what is going to happen. It is Ruby. She telegraphed."

Calling a carriage, which was evidently waiting for him, Jack put the ladies into it, attended to the baggage, and then sprang in himself. With him opposite her, Eloise felt no further responsibility. Everything would be right, she was sure, and it was. They were in time for the south-bound train, and after a word with the porter, were ushered into a drawing-room compartment, which Jack said was to be theirs during the long journey.

"Yes, I know," Eloise said. "It is large and comfortable, and away from the people, but I'm afraid it costs too much."

"It's all right," Jack answered, beginning to remove Amy's jacket, with an air of being at home.

Just then Eloise glanced from the window and saw they were moving.

"Oh, Mr. Harcourt!" she screamed. "We have started! You will be carried off! Do hurry!"

She put both hands on his arm to force him from the room, while he laughed and said, "Did you think I would let you go to Florida alone? I am going with you. I have a section all to myself outside, where you can sit when you are tired in here. Are you sorry?"

"Sorry!" she repeated. "I was never so glad in my life. But are you sure you ought to go? Is it right?"

"You mean proper? Perfectly!" he answered. "Your mother is with us. Your friend Ruby knows I am going, and Mr. Mason, and Mrs. Biggs, and everybody else by this time. It's all right. Mrs. Grundy will approve."

Eloise was too happy to care for Mrs. Grundy, and her happiness increased with every hour which brought her nearer to Florida, and she saw more and more how thoroughly kind and thoughtful Jack was. Sometimes he sat with her and her mother in the compartment he had engaged for them, but oftener when Amy was resting she sat with him in his section, planning what she was to do first when Florida was reached, and how she was to find Jakey. Jack knew exactly what to do, but he liked to listen to her and watch the expression of her face, which seemed to him to grow more beautiful every hour. On the last evening they were to be upon the road, she was sitting with him just before the car lamps were lighted, and he said to her, "Suppose you don't succeed? What will you do?"

For a moment Eloise was silent; then she replied, "I shall take mother home to my grandmother's. I call her that still, although you know she is not really mine, but I love her just the same, and shall take care of her and mother. I can do it. Ruby will let me have the school, I am sure, if I ask her, but I couldn't take it from her now. I can get another somewhere, or if not a school, I can find something to do. I am not afraid of work."

She was trying to be very brave, but there was a pathetic look in her face which moved Jack strangely. Her hands were lying in her lap, and taking the one nearest to him, he said, "Eloise, I'll tell you what you are going to do, whether you succeed or not. You are going to be my wife! Yes, my wife!"

"Mr. Harcourt!" Eloise exclaimed, trying to withdraw her hand from him.

But he only held it closer, while he said, "Don't Mr. Harcourt me! Call me Jack, and I shall know you assent. I think I have loved you ever since I saw you on the rostrum in Mayville,—at any rate, ever since that stormy night when you came near being killed. I did not mean to speak here in the car, but I am glad I have settled it."

He was taking her consent for granted, and was squeezing her hand until she said involuntarily, "Oh, Jack, you hurt me!"

Then he dropped it and, stooping, kissed her, saying, "I am answered. You have called me Jack. You are mine,—my little wife,—the dearest a man ever had."

He kissed her again, while she whispered, "Oh, Jack, how can you, with all the people looking on? and it isn't very dark yet."

"There are not many to look on, and they are in front of us, and I don't care if the whole world sees me," Jack replied, passing his arm around her and drawing her close to him.

"You must not, right here in the car; besides that, I haven't told you I would," she said, making an effort to free herself from him, as the porter began to light the lamps.

He was satisfied with her answer, and kept his arm around her in the face of the porter, who was too much accustomed to such scenes to pay any attention to this particular one. He had spotted them as lovers from the first and was not surprised, but when eleven o'clock came and every berth was made up except that of Jack, who still sat with Eloise beside him, loath to let her go, the negro grew uneasy and anxious to finish his night's work.

"Sir," he said at last to Jack, "'scuse me, but you might move into the gentlemen's wash-room whiles I make up the berth; it's gwine on toward mornin'."

In a flash Eloise sprang up, and without a word went to her mother, who was sleeping quietly, just as she had left her three hours before. A lurch of the train awoke her, and, kneeling beside her, Eloise said to her, "Mr. Harcourt has asked me to be his wife. Are you glad?"

"Yes, daughter, very glad. Are we in Florida?" Amy replied.

"Yes, mother, and before long we shall reach your old home and Jakey," was Eloise's answer, as she kissed her mother good-night and sought her own pillow to think of the great happiness which had come to her in Jack Harcourt's love, and which would compensate for any disappointment there might be in store for her.



CHAPTER VII

IN THE PALMETTO CLEARING

There were not many guests at the Brock House as the season had not fully opened, and Jack had no trouble to find rooms for the ladies and himself. Amy's was in front, looking upon the St. John's, which here spreads out into Lake Monroe. She had had glimpses of the river from the railway car, but had not seen it as distinctly as now, when she stood by the window with an expression on her face as if she were thinking of the past, before her reason was clouded.

"Oh, the river!—the beautiful river!" she said. "It brings things back,—the boat I went in; not like that," and she pointed to a large, handsome steamboat lying at the wharf. "Not like that. What was its name?"

Jack, who was in the room, and who had read Mr. Mason's letter to his son, suggested, "The 'Hatty'?"

"Yes, the 'Hatty'!" Amy said. "Strange, I remember it when I have forgotten so much. And he was with me,—my father. Wasn't he my father?"

She looked at Eloise, who answered promptly, "Yes, he was your father."

"I thought so. He said I was to call him so," Amy went on, more to herself than to Eloise. "I didn't always, he was so cold and proud and hard with me, but he was kind at the last, and he is dead, and this is Florida, where the oranges and palm trees grow. They are there,—see!" and she pointed to the right, where a tall palm tree raised its head above an orange grove below.

She was beginning to remember, and Eloise and Jack kept silent while she went on: "And we are here to find my mother and Jakey."

She looked again at Eloise, who answered her: "To find Jakey,—yes; and to-morrow we shall see him. To-night you must rest."

"Yes, rest to-night, and to-morrow go to Jakey," Amy replied, submissive as a little child to whatever Eloise bade her do.

She was very tired, and slept soundly without once waking, and her first question in the morning was, "Is it to-morrow, and are we in Florida?"

"Yes, dearest, we are in Florida, and going to find Jakey," was Eloise's reply, as she kissed her mother's face, and thought how young and fair it was still, with scarcely a line upon it.

Only the eyes and the droop of the mouth showed signs of past suffering, and these were passing away with a renewal of old scenes and memories. Jack had found the Rev. Mr. Mason, who received him cordially.

"I was expecting you," he said. "A telegram from my son told me you were on the way. I have not seen Jake, as it was only yesterday I had the despatch. I have one piece of news, however, for which I am sorry. Elder Covil died in Virginia soon after the war, and nothing can be learned from him."

Jack was greatly disappointed. His hope had been to find Elder Covil, if living, or some trace of him, and that was swept away; but he would not tell Eloise. She was all eagerness and excitement, and was ready soon after breakfast for the drive to the palmetto clearing, and Amy seemed almost as excited and eager. Born amid palms and orange trees, and magnolias and negroes, the sight of them brought back the past in a misty kind of way, which was constantly clearing as Eloise helped her to remember. Of Mr. Mason she of course had no recollection, and shrank from him when presented to him. He did not tell her he had buried her mother. He only said he knew Jakey, and was going to take her to him, and they were soon on their way. The road was very different from the one over which he had been driven behind the white mule, and there were marks of improvement everywhere,—gardens and fields and cabins with little negroes swarming around the doors, and these, with the palm trees and the orange trees, helped to revive Amy's memories of the time when she played with the little darkys among the dwarf palmettos and ate oranges in the groves.

In the doorway of one of the small houses a colored woman was standing, looking at the carriage as it passed. Recognizing Mr. Mason, she gave him a hearty "How d'ye, Mas'r Mason?" to which he responded without telling his companions that it was Mandy Ann. He wished Amy to see Jake first.

"Here we are," he said at last. "This is the clearing; this is the house, and there is Jake himself."

He pointed to a negro in the distance, and to a small house,—half log and half frame, for Jake had added to and improved it within a few years.

"I'se gwine to make it 'spectable, so she won't be 'shamed if she ever comes back to see whar she was bawn," he had thought, and to him it seemed almost palatial, with its addition, which he called a "linter," and which consisted of a large room furnished with a most heterogeneous mass of articles gathered here and there as he could afford them.

Conspicuous in one corner was "lil Dory's cradle," which had been painted red, with a lettering in white on one side of it, "In memory of lil chile Dory." This he had placed in what he called the parlor that morning, after dusting it carefully and putting a fresh pillow case on the scanty pillow where Amy's head had lain. He was thinking of her and wondering he did not hear from the Colonel, when the sound of carriage wheels made him look up and start for his house. Mr. Mason was the first to alight; then Jack; then Eloise; and then Amy, whose senses for a moment left her entirely.

"What is it? Where are we?" she said, pressing her hands to her forehead.

Evidently the place did not impress her, except as something strange.

"Let's go!" she whispered to Eloise. "We've nothing to do here; let's go back to the oranges and palmettos."

"But, mother, Jakey is here!" Eloise replied, her eyes fixed upon the old man to whom Mr. Mason had been explaining, and whose "Bress de Lawd. I feels like havin' de pow', ef I b'lieved in it," she heard distinctly.

Then he came rapidly toward them, and she could see the tears on his black face, which was working nervously.

"Miss Dory! Miss Dory! 'Tain't you! Oh, de Lawd,—so growed,—so changed! Is it you for shu'?" he said, stretching his hands toward Amy, who drew closer to Eloise.

"Go gently, Jake; gently! Remember her mind is weak," Mr. Mason said.

"Yes, sar. I 'members de Harris's mind mostly was weak. Ole Miss didn't know nuffin', an' Miss Dory was a little quar, an' dis po' chile is like 'em," was Jake's reply, which brought a deep flush to Eloise's face.

She had felt her cheeks burning all the time she had been looking round on her mother's home, wondering what Jack would think of it. At Jake's mention of the Harrises she glanced at him so appealingly, that for answer he put his arm around her and whispered, "Keep up, darling, I see your mother is waking up."

Jake had taken one of her hands, and was looking in her face as if he would find some trace of the "lil chile Dory" who left him years ago. And she was scanning him, not quite as if she knew him, but with a puzzled, uncertain manner, in which there was now no fear.

"Doan' you know me, Miss Dory? I'm Shaky,—ole Shaky,—what use' to play b'ar wid you, an' tote you on his back," he said to her.

"I think I do. Yes. Where's Mandy Ann?" Amy asked.

"She 'members,—she does!" Jake cried, excitedly. "Mandy Ann was de nuss girl what looked after her an' ole Miss." Then to Amy he said, "Mandy Ann's done grow'd like you, an' got chillen as big as you. Twins, four on 'em, as was christened in your gown. Come into de house. You'll member then. Come inter de gret room, but fust wait a minit. I seen a boy out dar,—Aaron,—one of Mandy Ann's twins, an' I'se gwine to sen' for Mandy Ann.

"Hello, you flat-footed chap!" he called. "Make tracks home the fastest you ever did, an' tell yer mother to come quick, 'case lil Miss Dory's hyar. Run, I say."

The boy Aaron started, and Jake led the way to the door of the "gret room," which he threw open with an air of pride.

"Walk in, gemmen an' ladies, walk in," he said, holding Amy's hand.

They walked in, and he led Amy to a lounge and sat down beside her, close to the red cradle, to which he called her attention.

"Doan' you 'member it, Miss Dory?" he said, giving it a jog. "I use' ter rock yer to sleep wid you kickin' yer heels an' doublin' yer fists, an' callin' me ole fool, an' I singin':

"'Lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam', Mudder's gone to heaven, Shaky leff behime To care for lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam'.'

Doan' you 'member it, honey,—an' doan' you member me? I'm Shaky,—I is."

There was a touching pathos in Jakey's voice as he sang, and it was intensified when he asked, "Doan' you 'member me, honey?"

Both Mr. Mason and Jack turned their heads aside to hide the moisture in their eyes, while Eloise's tears fell fast as she watched the strange pair,—the wrinkled old negro and the white-faced woman, in whom a wonderful transformation seemed to be taking place. With the first sound of the weird melody and the words "Lil chile Dory, Shaky's lil lam'," she leaned forward and seemed to be either listening intently or trying to recall something which came and went, and which she threw out her hands to retain. As the singing went on the expression of her face changed from one of painful thought to one of perfect peace and quiet, and when it ceased and Jakey appealed lo her memory, she answered him, "Yes, Shaky, I remember." Then to Eloise she said, "The lullaby of my childhood, which has rung in my ears for years. He used to want me to sing a negro melody to the people, and said it made them cry. That's because I wanted to cry, as I do now, and can't. I believe I must have sung it that last night in Los Angeles before everything grew dark."

Moving closer to Jakey she laid her head upon his arm and whispered to him, "Sing it again, Shaky. The tightness across the top of my head is giving way. It has ached so long."

Jake began the song again, his voice more tremulous than before, while Amy's hands tightened on his arm, and her head sank lower on his breast. As he sang he jogged the cradle with one foot, and kept time with the other and a swaying motion of his body, which brought Amy almost across his lap. When she lifted up her head there were tears in her eyes, and they ran at last like rivers down her cheeks, while a storm of hysterical sobs shook her frame and brought Eloise to her.

"Don't cry so," she said. "You frighten me."

Amy put her aside, and answered, "I must cry; it cools my brain. There are oceans yet to come,—all the pent-up tears of the years—since he told me you were dead. I am so glad to cry."

For some moments she wept on, until Jakey began to soothe her with his "Doan' cry no mo', honey. Summat has done happened you bad, but it's done gone now, an' we're all here,—me an' I do' know her name, but she's you uns, an' Mas'r Mason an' de oder gemman. We're all here, an' de light is breakin'. Doan' you feel it, honey?"

"Yes, I feel it," she said, lifting up her head and wiping away her tears. "The light is breaking; my head is better. This is the old home. How did we get here?"

Her mind was misty still, but Eloise felt a crisis was past, and that in time the films which had clouded her mother's brain would clear away, not wholly, perhaps, for she was a Harris, and "all the Harrises," Jake said, "were quar." She was very quiet now, and listened as they talked, but could recall nothing of her mother or the funeral, which Mr. Mason had attended. She seemed very tired, and at Eloise's suggestion lay clown upon the lounge and soon fell asleep, while Jack put question after question to Jake, hoping some light would be thrown upon the mystery they had come to unravel.



CHAPTER VIII

THE LITTLE HAIR TRUNK

Jake could tell them but little more than he had told Mr. Mason on a former visit. This he repeated with some additions, while Eloise listened, sometimes with indignation at Col. Crompton, and sometimes with shame and a thought as to what Jack would think of it. Her mother's family history was being unrolled before her, and she did not like it. There was proud blood in her veins, and she felt it coming to the surface and rebelling against the family tree of which she was a branch,—the Harrises, the Crackers, and, more than all, the uncertainty as to her mother's legitimacy, which she began to fear must remain an uncertainty. It was not a very desirable ancestry, and she glanced timidly at Jack to see how he was taking it. His face was very placid and unmoved as he questioned Jake of the relatives in Georgia, whom Amy's mother had visited.

"We must find them," he said. "Do you know anything of them? Were they Harrises, or what?"

Jake said they were "Browns an' Crackers; not the real no 'counts. Thar's a difference, an' I'm shu' ole Miss Lucy was fust class, 'case Miss Dory was a lady bawn."

"Are there no papers anywhere to tell us who they were?" Jack asked, and Jake replied, "Thar's papers in de little har trunk whar I keeps de writin' book Miss Dory used, an' de book she read in to learn, but dem's no 'count. Some receipts an' bills an' some letters ole Mas'r Harris writ to Miss Lucy 'fo' they was married,—love letters, in course, which I seen Miss Dory tie up wid a white ribbon. I've never opened dem, 'case it didn't seem fittin' like to read what a boy writ to a gal."

"Why, Jake," Jack exclaimed, "don't you see those letters may tell us where Miss Lucy lived in Georgia? and that is probably where Miss Dory visited. Bring us the trunk."

"'Clar for't. I never thought of that," Jake said, rising with alacrity and going into the room where he slept.

Mr. Mason, too, stepped out for a few moments, leaving Eloise alone with Jack. Now was her time, and, going up to him, she said, "Jack, I want to tell you now, you mustn't marry me!"

"Mustn't marry you!" Jack repeated. "Are you crazy?"

"Not yet," Eloise answered with a sob, "but I may be in time, or queer, like all the Harrises,—mother and her mother and 'old Miss.' We are all Harrises, and,—and,—oh, Jack, I know what a Cracker is now; mother is one; I am one, and it is all so dreadful; and mother nobody, perhaps. I can't bear it, and you must not marry me."

"I shall marry you," Jack said, folding her in his arms. "Do you think I care who your family are, or how queer they are? You'll never be queer. I'll shield you so carefully from every care that you can't even spell the word."

He took her hands and made her look at him, while he kissed her lips and said, "It is you I want, with all the Harrises and Crackers in Christendom thrown in, if necessary. Are you satisfied?"

He knew she was, and was kissing her again when Jake appeared with the trunk, which he said had held Miss Dory's clothes when she went to Georgia. There was a musty odor about it when he opened it, and the few papers inside were yellow with age.

"Dis yer is de reader Miss Dory use' to go over so much," Jake said, handing the book to Eloise, who turned its worn pages reverently, as if touching the hands of the dead girl, who, Jake said, "had rassled with the big words an' de no 'count pieces. She liked de po'try, an' got by heart 'bout de boy on de burnin' deck, but de breakin' waves floo'd her, 'case 'twan't no story like Cassy-by-anker."

He pointed the latter poem out to Eloise, who said, "Will you give me this book?"

Jake hesitated before he replied, "He wanted it, the Colonel, an' I tole him no, but you're different. I'll think about it."

Mr. Mason had returned by this time, and with Jack was looking at the bundle of letters tied with a satin ribbon which Jake said Miss Dory had taken from her white dress, the one he believed she was married in, as it was her bestest. There were four letters and a paper which did not seem to be a letter, and which slipped to the floor at Eloise's feet as Jack untied the ribbon. There was also a small envelope containing a card with "James Crompton" upon it, the one Mandy Ann had carried her mistress on a china plate, and which poor Dora had kept as a souvenir of that visit. With the card were the remains of what must have been a beautiful rose. The petals were brown and crumbling to dust, but still gave out a faint perfume, which Eloise detected. While she was looking at these mementos of a past, Jack was running his eyes over the almost illegible directions on the letters, making out "Miss Lucy Brown, Atlanta, Ga."