On the afternoon in question she decided to call upon an old lady who had lost nearly all her kindred and property. "Surely," thought the girl, "she has nothing to look forward to in this world but a few more straitened years, then death. I wish I were as old as she."

Taking a little delicacy she started out to pay the visit, hoping to gain an insight into the philosophy of patient endurance. She veiled herself heavily, for she was ever haunted by the fear of meeting Clancy on the street, and that her tell-tale face might lead him to guess the cost of her effort to avoid him.

An old colored woman showed the way into the parlor while she went up to prepare her mistress for the call. Reading by the window was a middle-aged gentleman who bowed gravely and resumed his book.

He riveted Mara's attention instantly, for her first glance revealed that he had lost his right leg and that crutches leaned against the arm of his chair. He could not be other than a veteran of the Confederate army, as it would be strange indeed to find an ex-soldier of the North in that abode. His strong, finely-cut side face, distinctly outlined against the light, was toward her. It was marked by deep lines as if the man had suffered and had passed through memorable experiences. He wore no beard or whiskers, but an iron-gray mustache gave a distinguished cast to a visage whose habitual expression was rather cold and haughty.

Mara had time to note these characteristics before she was summoned to Mrs. Bodine's apartment. Although the day was mild, the old lady, wrapped in shawls, sat by an open fire, and her wrinkled face lighted up with pleasure as the girl came toward her. Indeed, there was something like excitement in her manner as she kissed her guest and said: "Bring your chair close, my dear, so I can see you and hold your hand. I've something to tell you which I reckon will interest you almost as much as it does me."

When Mara was seated in a low chair she resumed: "How much you would look like your father, child, if your eyes were bright and laughing instead of being so large and sad! Well, well, there has been enough to make all our eyes sad, and you, poor child, have had more than enough. Yet you are good and brave, my dear. So far from sitting down in helpless grieving, you are taking care of yourself and have time to think of an old woman like me. Poor Mrs. Hunter! what would she do without you? She, like so many of us, has been blighted and stranded, and she would have been worse off than I if it had not been for you, for I have a little left, but oh, it is so little. Never did I wish it were more so much as I do now. You must be patient with me, child. I sit here so much alone that it is a godsend to have some one to talk to, and you are the very one I wanted to see. I was going to send for you, for I knew you would like to see my guests. My cousin and his daughter are visiting me, and I wish they could stay with me always. I knew you would like to meet Captain Bodine—"

"Captain Bodine!" exclaimed Mara, "why, that is the name of an officer who used to be in my father's regiment."

"He is the very same, my dear."

"Was that he in the parlor?" Mara asked, trembling with excitement.

"Yes, he and his daughter arrived only yesterday."

"Oh!" said Mara, "I've received letters from him, and I've longed to see him for years. Can I not go down and speak to him at once? I surely do not need any introduction to the old friend of my father."

"No, my dear, no indeed. You need no formal introduction to any guest or relative of mine. Besides, he knows you well and all about you, although he has never seen you since you were a child. It would please him greatly to have you go down and speak to him at once, for he would know that I would tell you about his being here, and he might think you cold or formal if you delayed seeing him. I'm glad you feel so, my dear, but you must come back and sit with me awhile before you go home. I'll ring for Hannah and have a nice little feast while you are downstairs."

Mara scrupulously veiled her impatience until her kind, garrulous friend was through, and then stole with swift, noiseless tread to the parlor below. Standing in the doorway, she saw that the object of her quest was absorbed in his book. "He is my ideal of the soldier of that day," she thought. "How truly he represents us, with his sad, proud face and mutilated body!" In a sort of awe she hesitated a moment and then said timidly, "Captain Bodine."

He looked up quickly, and seeing Mara's lustrous eyes and flushed face, divined instantly who she was.

"Is not this Miss Wallingford?" he asked, his face expressing glad anticipation as he began to gather up his crutches.

"Do not rise," cried Mara, coming forward instantly with outstretched hands.

But he was on his crutches, and said feelingly, "Heaven forbid that I should receive the daughter of my old friend with so little respect." He took the girl's face into his hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Yes," he resumed gently, "you are Sidney Wallingford's child. God bless you, my dear," and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You won't mind this from an old comrade of your father," he said as he made her take his chair and sat down near her. "We have been bereft of so much that what remains has become very precious. I know all about you, Mara."

Tears were in the girl's eyes as she replied falteringly, "And I know of you, sir, and have longed to meet you. You can scarcely know how much your words mean to me when you say you were my father's comrade and friend. I knew this, but it seems more real to me now, and I feel that seeing you is coming as near as I can to seeing him."

"My poor child! Would to God that he had lived, for you would have been his pride and solace, as my daughter is to me. When I saw you last you were a little black-eyed girl and happily did not understand your loss, although you looked as if you did. I never thought so many years would pass before I saw you again, but we have had to fight some of our hardest battles since the war," and he sighed deeply.

"How soon can I meet your daughter?" Mara asked, her eyes full of sympathy.

"Very soon. I urged her to take a walk on the Battery, for she has not been very well of late. I said I knew all about you, as I have been told of your loyalty and brave efforts and your kindness to my aged cousin, but now that I see you, I feel that I know very little. Your face is full of stories, my dear child. You are young, and yet you look as if the memories of the past had made you far older than your years warrant That is the trouble with us. We have much more to look back upon than to look forward to. Yet it should not be so with you."

"It can scarcely be otherwise," Mara answered sadly; "you have touched the very core of our trouble, and I suppose it is the trouble with us all who are so closely linked with the past—we have so little to look forward to. But now that you can tell me about my father the past seems so near and real that I do not wish to think about anything else."

Time sped rapidly as Captain Bodine recalled the scenes and incidents of his life which were associated with his old commander, and Mara listened with an absorbed, tearful interest which touched him deeply. The proud, reserved expression of his face had passed away utterly, and the girl appreciated the change. His sympathy, the gentleness of his tones and the profound respect which was blended with his paternal manner made her feel that her father's friend was already her friend in a very near and sacred sense. While he was reserved about his own affairs, and she also was conscious of a secret of which she could never speak, they had so much in common that she felt that they could talk for hours. But the old lady in the apartment above grew impatient, and at last Hannah stood courtesying in the door as she said, "Missus p'sent her compl'ments an' say would be glad to see you."

"There, I've been selfish and thoughtless," said Captain Bodine, "but I shall see you again, for it will give Ella and me great pleasure to call upon you."

"Yes, indeed, we must meet often," Mara added earnestly. "I hope you are going to make a long stay in Charleston."

"I scarcely know," he replied, and again there was an involuntary sigh; "but I must keep you no longer."



CHAPTER XIV

"ALL GIRLS TOGETHER"

"I'm not going to lose my visit altogether," said Mrs. Bodine, when Mara returned with an apology. "If the captain has only one leg, he can get out and around better than I can. Indeed it is wonderful how he does get around. He is the spryest man on crutches I ever saw, and you know, my dear, I've seen a good many. In that dreadful war we were only too glad to get our men back, what was left of them, and if an arm or a leg were missing we welcomed them all the more, but we couldn't give much more than a welcome. It was wreck and ruin on every side. If we had our own the captain would be well off, as you and I would be, but he is poor; poorer than most of us. In fact, he hasn't anything. He wasn't one of those supple jointed men who could conform to the times, and he wasn't brought up to make his living by thrifty ways. But he did his best, poor boy, he did his best. Would you like to hear more about him?"

"Yes, indeed," Mara replied, "you can't know how deeply I am interested in him and his daughter. He was my father's comrade in arms, his friend and follower. You must pardon me for staying away so long, but when he began talking of my father I felt as if I could listen forever, you know. I honor him all the more because he is poor."

"Yes, my dear, I know. Most of us are learning the hard lessons of poverty. I call him a boy because it seems only the other day he was a boy and a handsome one, too. He used to visit us here, and was so full of fun and frolic! But he has had enough to sober him, poor fellow. He was scarcely more than a boy when the war began, but he was among the first to enlist, and, like your father, he was a private soldier at first. He soon received a commission in the same regiment of which your father became colonel, and no doubt would have reached a much higher rank if he had not lost his leg. He met with this loss before your brave father was killed, but I suppose he told you."

"Yes," faltered Mara, "he told me why he was not with my father at the last."

"Yes, if he could he would have been with him and died with him, and sometimes I almost think he wishes that such had been his fate, he has suffered so much. During the remainder of the war he had command of inland positions which did not require marching, and he always made the record of a brave, high-minded officer. After the war he married a lovely girl, and tried to keep the old plantation: but his capital was gone, taxes were high, the negroes wouldn't work, and I suppose he and his wife didn't know how to practice close economy, and so the place had to be sold. It didn't bring enough to pay the mortgages. It cut him to the quick to part with the old plantation on which the family had lived for generations, but far worse was soon to follow, for his wife died, and that nearly broke his heart. Since that time he has lived in Georgia with his only child, Ella, getting such occupation as he could—office work of various kinds, but I suppose his reserved, gloomy ways rendered him unpopular; and even our own people, when it comes to business, prefer an active man who has a ready word for every one. I conjecture much of this, for he is not inclined to talk about himself. Poor as I am, I'm glad they accepted my invitation, and I mean to do all in my power to get him employment here. I have a little influence yet with some people, and perhaps a place can be found or made for him. He and his daughter don't require very much, and God knows I'd share my last crust with them, and," she concluded with a little apologetic laugh, "it is almost like sharing a crust."

"Oh, he will get employment," cried Mara, enthusiastically; "his disabled condition in itself will plead eloquently for him. How old is Ella?"

"She must be eighteen or thereabout."

"I wonder if she wouldn't like to help me?"

"Help you? She'd be delighted. But then, my dear, you must not be carried away by your generous feeling. We're all proud of you because you have struck out so bravely for yourself; but surely you have burdens enough already."

"Perhaps Ella can lighten my burden, and I hers; but it is very homely, humble work."

"You dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, with her little chirruping laugh, "you are not a very homely, humble doer of the work. I reckon there's no prouder girl in town. But that's the way it is with the captain and all of us, in fact. The poorer we are, the prouder we are. Well, well, our pride is about all we can keep in these times. You need have no fear, however, that Ella will hesitate in helping you, except as she may very naturally think herself incompetent, or that you are wronging yourself in trying to help her."

"We'll see about it," Mara remarked thoughtfully; "I will invite her to spend a morning with me, and then she can obtain a practical idea of my work. She might not like it at all, or she might like to do something else much better, and so would be embarrassed if I asked her to help me, disliking to refuse, and yet wishing to do so."

"Ah, well," said Mrs. Bodine, smiling; "we have some right to think ourselves 'quality' still, as old Hannah calls us. We are just as considerate of one another's feelings as if we were all Royal Highnesses. Have it your own way, my dear, if you truly think Ella can be of service to you. I reckon you need help, for you don't look as well as when I saw you last."

"Yes," acquiesced Mara, "I think I do need help. Aun' Sheba's granddaughter is assisting her, and a good deal more could be sold if it were properly prepared. It would be a great happiness if my need opened the way for Ella, for I feel it would please my father as much as it would please me if I could be of service to his old friend and his daughter."

"I have heard, dear, that you are always trying to do what you thought your father and mother would like."

"God forbid I should do otherwise," said the girl solemnly.

"Well, perhaps they know all about it," said the old lady, wiping a tear from her eye. "How close our troubles bring us together. You are lonely for your parents, and I am lonely for my husband and children."

"And yet you are braver and more cheerful than I," responded Mara; "I was so sad and discouraged over the future this afternoon, that I came to you, thinking that you might unconsciously teach me patience and courage. Truly I was guided, for you face everything like a soldier. Then in meeting Captain Bodine, I seem to have been brought nearer my father than ever before. I can't hear about him without tears, yet I would turn from any pleasure in the world to hear about him. What happiness if he had lived and I could help him in some way!"

"Well, my dear, we all have our own way of bearing our burdens, and I often wonder whether I have done more laughing or crying in my life. It has been one or the other most of the time. I have always thanked the Lord that when the pain or the trouble was not too severe, I could laugh, and soon I know all tears will be wiped away. It's harder for you, my dear; it is harder for you than me. My voyage has been long and stormy; husband, sons, and the cause for which they died all lost; but I'm coming into the harbor. You've got your voyage before you. But take courage. Who knows but that your early days may be your darkest days? They can't always be dark when you are so ready to brighten the lives of others. There, I hear Ella's voice."

A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Ella Bodine entered. We have all seen bright-hued flowers growing in shaded places, and among cold, grim rocks. Such brightness had the young girl who now appears upon the scene of our story. One speedily felt that its cause was not in externals, but that it resulted from inherent qualities. As with Mara, there had been much in her young life sad and hard to endure. She had not surmounted her trouble by shallowness of soul or callousness, but rather by a spiritual buoyancy which kept her above the dark waves, and enabled her to enjoy all the sunshine vouchsafed. Yet, unlike her father and Mara, she lived keenly in the present. She sympathized truly and honestly with her father, and in a large measure intelligently recognized the nature of the deep shadows projected across his life from the past, but it was her disposition to keep as near to him as possible and yet remain just beyond the shadows. She possessed a wholesome common-sense which taught her that the shadows were not hers and that they were not good for her father; so she was ever making inroads upon them, beguiling him into a smile, surprising him into a laugh—in brief, preventing the shadows from deepening into that gloom which is dangerous to bodily and spiritual health. She made his small earnings go a great way, and banished from his life the sordidness of poverty. God outlines an angel in many a woman's heart, and often privations and sorrow, more surely than luxury, fill out the divine sketch. In the instance of Ella Bodine the angelic was so sweetly and inextricably interwoven with all that was human that to mortal comprehension she was better than a wilderness of conventional angels. She was depressed now under one of the few forms of adversity that could cast her down. Her father was out of employment, their slender income had ceased, and they were dependent. She felt this cruel position all the more because Mrs. Bodine out of her poverty gave her hospitality so unstintedly and ungrudgingly.

To the sensitive, fine-natured girl it was like feeding upon the life of another, and that other a generous friend.

During her walk a score of schemes to earn money had presented themselves to her inexperienced mind, but her hands had learned only how to eke out a small salary and to minister to her father. She had come home resolute to do something, but troubled because she knew not what to do.

She paused a moment on the threshold of Mrs. Bodine's apartment, and looked questioningly at Mara, at the same time half divining who she was.

"Come along, Ella," cried Mrs. Bodine, with a little joyous laugh of anticipation, "and kiss one of your best friends, although you never saw her before."

"Is it Mara?"

Mara's smile and swift approach answered her question. In an instant the two girls were in each other's arms, their warm Southern hearts touched by the electric fire of sympathy and mutual understanding. Mrs. Bodine clapped her little, thin hands and cried, "Oh, that's fine. Southern girls have not died out yet. Why, even my old withered heart had one of the most delicious thrills it ever experienced. Now, my dears, come and sit beside me and get acquainted."

"Oh, I know you already, Mara Wallingford," said Ella with sparkling eyes.

"And I am learning to know you, Ella. I know you already well enough to love you."

"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, raising her hands in a comic gesture, "I reckon the ice is broken between you."

They all laughed at this sally, and Mara was so cheered, her nerves all tingling with excitement, that she could scarcely believe herself to be the half-despairing girl of a few hours before. "Now come," resumed Mrs. Bodine, "let us all be girls together and have a good talk. At this rate I'll soon be younger than either of you. I haven't had my share yet. Do you believe it, Ella? Mara has been downstairs petting your father for an hour."

"I wonder where he is. He wasn't in the parlor when I came in."

"I reckon he followed your good example and went out for a walk. I heard the door shut. Well, you girls make a picture that it does my old eyes good to look at. Here's Mara with her creamy white skin and eyes as lustrous now as our Southern skies when full of stars, but sometimes, oh so sad and dark. Dear child, I wish I could take the gloom all out of them, for then I could think your heart was light. But I know how it is; I know. Your mother gave you her sad heart when she gave you life, but you have your father's strength and courage, my dear, and you will never give up. And here is Ella with complexion of roses and snow and eyes like violets with the morning dew still on them—forgive an old woman's flowery speech, for that's the way we used to talk when I was young—yes, here is Ella, a little peach blossom, yet brimming over with the wish to become a big, luscious peach. Lor, Lor—oh, fie! Am I saying naughty words? But then, my dears, you know my husband was a naval officer, and no man ever swore more piously than he. Bad words never sounded bad to me when he spoke them—he was such a good Christian! and he always treated me as he expected to be treated when he was on deck. I reckon that I and the Commodore are the only ones that ever ordered him around," and the old lady cried and laughed at the same time, while the faces of her young companions were like flowers brightened by the sun while still wet with dew.

"Let me see," continued the old lady, "where was I when I began to swear a little; just a little, you know. It is a sort of tribute to my husband, and so can't be very wicked. Oh, I remember, I was thinking what fun it would have been to chaperon you two girls at one of our grand balls in the good old times. I would sail around like a great ship of the line, convoying two of the trimmest little crafts that ever floated, and all the pirates, I mean gallant young men, my dears, would hover near, dying to cut you out right under my guns, or nose, as land-lubbers would say. Well, well, either of you could lead a score of them a chase before you signed articles of unconditional surrender," and Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair and laughed in her silvery little birdlike twitter. The girls laughed with her, pleased in spite of themselves with visions that, both in their nature and by tradition, accorded with the young romantic period of life. But memory speedily began to restore gravity to Mara's face. Mrs. Bodine recognized this, and her own face grew gentle and sorrowful. Laying a hand on each of the girls heads she resumed, "Do not think I am a frivolous old woman because I run on so. I do not forget the present any more than Mara, I see, cannot. Dear children, the circumstances of your lot render you as burdened and, in some ways, almost as old as I am. Ella can forget easier than you, Mara, but that is because God has put brightness into her heart. Let us all face the truth together. I am long past being an elegant matron. I am only a poor old childless widow with but a few more days of feebleness and suffering before me, yet I do not sigh in a bitter, murmuring spirit. Old as I am, I am still God's little child, and sometimes I think this truth makes me as mirthful as a child. When the pain is hardest to bear, when the past, oh, the past—with all its immeasurable losses, begins to crush my very soul, I turn my dim eyes upward and repeat to myself, 'There is a Heaven of eternal rest and joy,' and so I grow serene in my waiting. I have always loved the bright, pleasant things of this world—it was my nature to do so—but He who bears the burdens and heartbreak of the whole world has gently lifted my love up to Him. Didn't He have compassion on the widow of Nain, and say to her, 'Weep not'? My gallant husband, my brave boys and this poor little widow are all in His hands, and I try to obey His gentle command not to weep except sometimes when I can't help it and He knows I can't."

The two girls with their heads in her lap were crying softly from sympathy. With light, caressing touches to each the old lady continued, "Ella, my dear, you are like me in some respects. You, too, love the bright pleasant things of this world, and you are so divinely blessed with a buoyancy of heart that you will make what is hard and humdrum bright for yourself and others. You will embroider life with sunshine if there is any sunshine at all. Like myself, you will be able to smile and laugh whenever the pain is not too severe, yet I fear it will be very hard sometimes. Bat, as my husband would say, you are taut, trim and well ballasted, and good for a long, safe voyage. You have obeyed the Fifth Commandment, and its promise is yours.

"Mara, dear child my heart, for some reason, aches for you. I knew and loved your grandfather and your father and mother. You were born into a heritage of bitterness and sorrow, and I fear Mrs. Hunter, with all her good qualities, was not so constituted as to be able to counteract inherited tendencies. I wish I could have brought you up, for then we could have cried or laughed together over what happened.

"But you have learned to repress and to brood—two dangerous habits. You want to do some great thing, and alas! there is seldom a great thing which we poor women can do. You are not impelled by ambition or a desire for notoriety, but by a sort of passion for self-sacrifice.

"If you had lived twenty odd years ago no soldier of the South could have been braver or more devoted. You are not satisfied with mere living and making the best of life as it is. I don't know why, but I feel that there are depths in your heart which no one understands. Be careful, dear child, and be patient. Don't yield to some morbid idea of duty, or be involved in some chimerical plan of an achievement.

"Learn Ella's philosophy, and be as content with sunshine and daily duty as possible. Ella will do this unconsciously, my dear; you will have to do it consciously, just as a sick man seeks health. But you will both have to go forward and meet woman's lot. I was once a young girl, fancy free, like you. How much has happened since! I now feel like an old hen that would like to gather you both under her wing in shelter from all trouble," and again her little laugh chimed out while she wiped away the tears which sprang from her motherly heart.

The thump of Captain Bodine's crutches was heard on the stair. "Bring him in," said Mrs. Bodine, mopping her eyes vigorously.

Ella ran to the door and admitted him, and then, with a pretty custom she had, took away a crutch, and substituting one of her own round shoulders supported him to a large armchair. The low western sun flooded the room with light. He looked questioningly at the dewy eyes of the two girls and at the evidences of emotion which Mrs. Bodine had not been fully able to remove.

"Well," said he, "what part am I to have in this mournful occasion?"

Ella stood beside him with her arm about his neck, and was about to speak, when Mrs. Bodine said quickly in her piquant way, "You are to be chief mourner."

"A role for which I am peculiarly fitted," he replied sadly, not catching her humor.

"Oh, papa, you don't understand," cried Ella, "we have been having just a heavenly time."

He looked at Mara as she stood beside the old lady, and his very soul was touched by the sympathy expressed for him in her beautiful eyes. Standing there, enveloped in sunshine, it seemed to him that no angel of God could regard him more kindly. It was not pity, but rather honor, affection and that deep commiseration of which but few women are capable. He felt instinctively that she knew all and that her woman's heart was suffering vicariously with him and for him. The very air was electrical with deep human feeling, and he, yielding to a strong impulse scarcely understood, said earnestly, "God bless you, Mara Wallingford."

Sensible old Mrs. Bodine felt that it was time to come back to every-day life, so she said promptly, "Yes, and He is going to bless her, and bless us all. If there is any mourning to be done on this occasion you must do it. We three girls have been having a good talk, and are the better for it. That's the demmed total—oh, fie! there I am at it again. Well, Cousin Hugh, to take you into our entire confidence, we have been facing things and have arrived at several conclusions, one of which is—now, Ella, shut your ears—that you have one of the best daughters in the world, and that she and Mara have quite broken the ice between them and are going to be very good friends, and I was saying how I would like to convoy two such girls in one of our ballrooms in the good old times—oh, well, we have just been having a long lingo as girls will when they get together."

Captain Bodine was gifted with tact and a quick appreciation. He understood the old lady and her purpose.

"Cousin Sophy," he said, "you are just the same as when, a boy, I used to visit you—tears and smiles close together. Well, I believe that Heaven comes down very near when you three girls get together."

The old lady lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. "Oh, Ella, if you only knew what a mischievous boy your father was once! But, there, we have had enough of the past and the future for one day. Mara, my dear, you must stay and banquet with us. No, no, no, I won't hear any excuse. When I once get on quarter-deck every one must obey orders. Ella, direct Hannah to spread the festive board. You and Mara can lend a hand, and you can put on all we have in five minutes. To think that I should have eaten that delicious jelly you brought, greedy old cormorant that I am!"

A few moments later Mara supported the old lady down to the dining-room, and, though the viands were few and meagre, the banqueters, to say the least, were not commonplace. Mara said nothing of her plan, but Ella was invited to spend the following morning with her. In the late lingering twilight Captain Bodine escorted the young girl home. On the way thither they came plump upon Owen Clancy. He glanced keenly from one to the other as he lifted his hat. Mara's only response was a slight bow.



CHAPTER XV

TWO LITTLE BAKERS

Mara led Captain Bodine up to their little parlor and introduced him to Mrs. Hunter, who received him most cordially, feeling that in him she recognized a congenial spirit. He treated her with the respect and old-time courtesy which she said was "so truly Southern." Their feelings and beliefs touched closely at several points, yet they were very different in their essential characteristics. Poor Mrs. Hunter had been limited by nature and education. She could not help being narrow in all her views; she was scarcely less able to dismiss her intense, bitter prejudices. She was quite incapable of reasoning herself into her mental position; it was simply the inevitable result of her circumstances, her lot and her own temperament. Captain Bodine was a proud man, as proud toward himself as toward others. The cause for which he and his kindred had suffered and lost so much had been sacred, and therefore it ever would be sacred. To change his views, to begin revising his opinions, would be to stultify himself and to reflect dishonor on his comrades in arms who had perished. In the very depths of his young, ardent spirit he had once devoted himself to the South; he had listened reverently to prayers from the pulpit that God would bless the Southern armies; he had never entered into battle without petitions to Heaven, not that he might escape, but that the "Northern invader" might be overcome; his uniform had been stained with blood again and again as he held dying comrades in his arms and spoke words of cheer. In his more limited way, he had the spirit of "Stonewall" Jackson. It was impossible for a man with his nature and with his memories to argue the whole matter over coolly and recognize misleading errors. During his youth and early manhood his feelings had been so intense as to be volcanic, and that feeling, like lava, had cooled of into its present unchangeable forms and sombre hues. What was bitterness and almost spite in Mrs. Hunter was a deep, abiding sorrow in his heart, a great dream unfulfilled, a cause lofty because so idealized, in support of which he often saw in fancy, when alone, spectral thousands in gray, marching as he once had seen them in actual life. That all had been in vain, was to him one of those mysterious providences to which he could only bow his head in mournful resignation, in patient endurance. He had no hate for the North, for he was broad enough in mind to recognize that it saw the question from its own point of view, and, as a soldier, he knew that its men had fought gallantly. But the North's side of the question was not his side. He had been conquered in arms but not convinced in spirit. While he had respect and even admiration for many of his old foes, and malice toward none, he still felt that there was a bridgeless chasm between them, and, by the instincts of his nature, he kept himself aloof. If he could perform an act of kindness to a Northerner he would do so unhesitatingly; then he would turn away with the impulse of an alien. He had no ambitious schemes or hopes for the future; he had buried the "lost cause" as he had buried his wife, with a grief that was too deep for tears. He had come to value life only for Ella's sake, and he tried to do his best from a soldier-like and Christian sense of duty, until he too could join his old comrade in arms.

Mrs. Hunter could not comprehend such a man, and he gave to her but the casual, respectful sympathy which he thought due to a gentlewoman who had lost much like so many other thousands in the South. After a brief call he hobbled away on his crutches, forgetting Mrs. Hunter and, indeed, almost everything in the deep interest excited by Mara, the daughter of his old friend. "Would to God," he muttered, "that Sidney Wallingford could have lived and seen that girl look at him as she looked at me to-day."

Soon after Captain Bodine's departure, Mara pleaded fatigue and retired to her room, promising to answer her aunt's many questions on the morrow. She was very sad and discouraged with herself, and yet she had not the despairing sense of the utter futility of her life which had oppressed her when she started out in the early afternoon.

She had become so absorbed and interested by the incidents and experiences of her visit as to be almost happy. Just as she had attained a condition of mind which had not blessed her for months, she must meet Owen Clancy. With a sort of inward rage and wonder, she asked herself: "Why did my heart flutter so? Why did every nerve in my body tingle? He is nothing to me and never can be, yet, when he passed, a spirit from heaven could hardly have moved me more. What is his mysterious power which I cannot eradicate? Oh, oh, was not my life hard enough before? Must I go on, hiding this bitter secret? fighting this hopeless and seemingly endless fight? Well, well, thank God for this day, after all. In Ella Bodine and her father I have found friends who will occupy my thoughts and become incentives which I did not possess before. Dear father, my own dear, dead, soldier father, it would please you to have me do something for your old friend."

The next morning was bright and sunny, and, after an early breakfast, Mara was in the kitchen, with all the ingredients of the dainties she so skilfully produced, spread out upon the tables. Ella had been asked to come early; her father had escorted her to Mara's residence, and then gone away on an errand of his own.

The young girl was greeted with a warmth which made her at home at once, and proved the experiences of the previous afternoon were not the result of mood or passing sentiment. There was a depth in Mara's eyes and a firmness about her mouth and chin which did not indicate changing and unreasoning "moods and tenses." In the clearer, calmer thought of the morning all her kind purposes toward Captain Bodine and Ella had been strengthened, and she also believed more fully that by interesting herself in them she would find the best antidote for her own trouble.

Ella had been welcomed by Mrs. Hunter, and now, as she sat in the little sun-lighted kitchen, there was neither past nor future to her. The present scene, with its simple, homely details, was all absorbing.

It meant very much to the girl, for she saw how Mara was achieving independence, and by work, too, which housekeeping for her father enabled her to understand better than any other. Mara's pulses were also quickened, for she understood the eager, intelligent glances of her friend. For a few moments, Ella, as company, felt compelled to maintain the quiet position of spectator; then overborne, she sprang up exclaiming: "Oh, Mara, dear, do give me an apron and let me help you. I'd have such a jolly forenoon!"

"Why, certainly, Ella, if it would give you pleasure."

The article was produced, and, with a sigh of deep content, the girl tied it around a waist by no means waspish. Then off came the little cuffs, and up the sleeves were rolled to the shoulder.

"Ella, what lovely arms you have! If I were a man I should be distracted by such a pair of arms."

"Well," remarked the girl, looking at them complacently, "they'd be strong enough to help a man that I cared sufficiently for to marry, but I haven't seen that man yet, and I hope his lordship will keep his distance indefinitely—till I have more time to bother with him and his distractions."

"Is your time, then, so completely occupied?"

"It isn't occupied at all, and that's the plague of it. But I reckon it soon will be," she added with an emphatic little nod. "Papa shall learn that I can do something more for him than cook, and your example has fired my ambition. I'll ransack this town till I find something to do that will bring money. Dear old Mrs. Bodine! wasn't she perfectly enchanting yesterday? Do you think I can be content to live in idleness on her slender means? No, indeed. I'd buy a scrubbing-brush first. Oh, isn't this fun?" and the flour was already up to her elbows.

"Oh, Ella, dear, I'd feel just as you do if I had a father to work for."

"Now, Mara, don't talk so, or I'll put my floury arms right about your neck and spoil this dough with a flood of briny tears. See, the sun is shining and there is work to be done. Let's be jolly, and we'll have our little weep after sundown. Oh, Mara, dear, I wish I could make you as light-hearted as I am. I used to think it was almost wicked for me to be so light-hearted, but I don't think so any more, for I know I've kept papa from going down into horrid depths of gloom. And then this irrepressible spirit of fun helps me over ever so many hard places." She sprang back into the middle of the room, and, striking a serio-comic attitude, continued: "Here I am in no end of trouble—for me. There is a grief preying on my vitals that would make a poet's hair stand on end should he attempt to portray it. Were there a lover around the corner, sighing like a furnace, I would say to him 'Avaunt! My heart is broken, and do you think I can bother with you?' I am at odds with fate. I am in the most deplorable position into which any human being can sink. I have nothing to do. But here is a weapon by which one girl has conquered destiny," and she brandished the roller with which she had been pressing out the dough, "and I, too, shall find a sword which will cut all the pesky knots of this snarled-up old world. Then when I have achieved complete and lofty victory and independence, as you have, dear, I may say to the lover around the corner, 'Step this way, sir. I must consider first whether you would be agreeable to papa, and then whether you would be agreeable to me and then'—Oh, what a little fool I am, and so many cookies to make. Please don't send me home. I will work now like a beaver," and her round white arms grew tense as she rolled with a vigor that would almost flatten brickbats.

Mara stood at one side watching her with eyes that grew wonderfully lustrous as was ever the case when she was pleased or excited. Then she stole up behind Ella, and, putting her arm around her neck, looked into her eyes as she asked, "Wouldn't you like to help me?"

"Of course I like to help you," said Ella, turning with surprise upon her friend.

"Now, Ella, be frank with me. Say no if you feel no. Wouldn't you like to help me all the time and earn money in this way?"

A slow deep flush overspread Ella's face as she stood for a moment with downcast eyes as if oppressed with a sense of shame. Then she said humbly: "Forgive me, Mara. I've been very thoughtless. I didn't think you would take my ranting as an appeal to your generous heart. Believe me, Mara, I was not hinting to you that I might share in the little you are earning so bravely. As if you had not burdens enough already."

Mara never once removed her eyes from the girl's ingenuous face and permitted her to reveal the unselfishness and sacred pride of her nature; then she said gently and firmly: "No, Ella, I did not misunderstand you a moment, and I want you to understand me. In one sense we have been acquainted always, yet we have loved each other from personal knowledge but a few short hours. We Southern girls need no apologies for our swift intuitions, our quick, warm feelings. I had this on my mind as soon as Mrs. Bodine told me about your being here, and I had quite set my heart upon it as soon as I saw you. Ella, dear, I need help; I have more than I can do. There is business enough to support us both, and I had almost concluded to ask Aim' Sheba to get me a helper. But what a delight it would be to work with you!"

Ella's face had been brightening as if gathering all the sunshine in the spring sky, and she was about to speak eagerly when Mara stopped her by a gesture. "Wait," she said, "I did not say anything of this last evening because I was not sure you would like the work. If you do not like it, you must be frank to tell me so. If you do enter on it you must let me manage all in business-like ways, for I fear that you, like Aun' Sheba, will be inclined toward very loose accounts. You must be willing to take what I feel that you should have, and there must be no generous insubordination. Now you have the exact truth."

Ella's lip was quivering and her eyes were filling with gathering tears. With a little quaver in her voice she struggled hard to give a mirthful conclusion to the affair. "I accept the position, ma'am," she faltered, making a courtesy, then rushed into her friend's arms and sobbed: "Oh, Mara, Mara, you have lifted such a burden from my heart! I have had many troubles, but somehow it seemed that I couldn't bear this one, though I tried hard to keep the pain to myself—papa and I being dependent. And then to have the whole trouble banished by working with you in just the kind of work I like! Oh, Mara, darling, how can I ever thank you enough?"

"Good Lawd, honey, hab you heerd on any ob you'se folks dyin'?" and Aun' Sheba's awed face and ample form filled the doorway, with Vilet's wondering little visage peeping around behind her.

Ella sprang away, and, turning her back on the newcomers, mopped her face vigorously with her floury apron.

"No, Aun' Sheba," replied Mara, smiling through her tears, for Ella's strong emotion had unsealed the fountain of her eyes, "I've only followed your good advice and secured just the kind of help I need, the daughter of my father's dear old friend, Captain Bodine. I reckon you remember him."

"Well, now, de Lawd be bressed!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba, sitting down with her great basket at her feet. "'Member him? Reckon I does. I kin jes' see de han'-som boy as he march away wid you'se fader. An' his little Missy is you'se helper?" and she looked curiously at Ella, who was still seeking to gain self-control.

The girl wheeled around with a face wonderfully stained and streaked with flour and tears, and, ducking just such a courtesy as Vilet would have made, said to Aun' Sheba, "Yes'm. I'm the new hand. I'm a baker by trade."

Aun' Sheba's appreciation of humor was instantaneous, and she sat back in her chair, which shook and groaned under her merriment. "Can't fool dis culled pusson," she began at last. "You tink we doesn't keep up wid de times, but we does. I'se had a bery int'restin' season wid ole Hannah, who lib wid Mis' Bodine, bress her heart! She's quality yere on arth an' she gwine ter be quality in Hebin. I knows a heap 'bout you an' you'se pa. I knowd him 'fore you did. I'se seed him in de gran' ole house in Meetin' Street a dinin' agin an' agin wid Marse Wallingford an' my deah Misse Mary, den a bride, an' de gran' ole Major Buggone. Oh, Missy Mara, ef you could ony seen de ole major, you'd a seen a genywine So' Car'liny gen'l'man ob wat dey call de ole school. Reckon dey habn't any betteh schools now. An' young Marse Sidney, dat's you'se fader, Missy, and young Marse Hugh, dat's you'se fader, Missy Ella, dey was han'som as picters an' dey drink toasts ter Missy Mary an' compliment her an' she'd blush like a red rose; an' wen dey all 'bout ter march away Missy Mary kiss Marse Hugh jes as ef he her own broder. Lor, Lor, how it all come back ter me! Ef de Lawd don' bress de pa'na'ship twix' you two gyurls den I des dun beat."

Regardless of flour the two little bakers stood before Aun' Sheba with arms around each other while she indulged in reminiscences, then Ella, dashing away the tears that were gathering again, said brusquely, "The new hand will have to be boss if we go on this way. Aun' Sheba, we haven't got a blessed thing ready to put in your basket."

"Many han's make light wuck," said the old woman sententiously. "I come yere arly dis mawnin' to gib Missy Mara a lif' kase she's been lookin' po'ly an' I hab her on my min' anxious-like. But now, wid a larfin', sunshiny little ting like you aroun', Missy Ella, she'll soon be as peart as a cricket. Vilet, chile, jes wait on me an' han' me tings, an' dese two baskets'll be filled in de quickest jiffy you eber see."

And so it turned out. Aunt Sheba was a veteran in the field. Flour, sugar and spices seemed to recognize her power and to come together as if she conjured. The stove was fed like the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, and the girls' faces suggested peonies as the cake grew light and brown.

Mrs. Hunter, having finished her morning duties, entered at last and looked with doubtful, troubled eyes upon the scene. Ella and Aun' Sheba's mirthful talk ceased, while little Vilet regarded the tall, gray-haired woman with awe.

"Well, times have changed," said the lady, with a sort of groan. "Our home has become little better than a bake-shop."

"Well, Missus," replied Aun' Sheba, with the graven-image expression that she often assumed before Mrs. Hunter, "I'se know'd of homes dat hab become wuss dan bake-shops. Neber in my bawn days hab I heerd on an active, prosp'rous baker starbin'. Jes' you try dis cooky right fum de stove an' see ef it doan melt in you'se mouf." And so Aun' Sheba stopped Mrs. Hunter's lamentations and clinched her argument.



CHAPTER XVI

HONEST FOES

Captain Bodine's errand was characteristic of the man. He had accepted his cousin's hospitality and sympathy most gratefully, and his quick apprehension had gathered from some of her words that she was bent on moving her little segment of "heaven and earth," to secure him employment. While perfectly ready to receive any gracious benefactions from heaven, where he justly believed that the good old lady's power centred chiefly, he shrank from her terrestrial efforts in his behalf, knowing that they must be made with very few exceptions among those who were straitened and burdened already. He did not want a "place made" for him and to feel that other Southern men were practicing a severer self-denial in order to do so. With a grim, set look on his face as if he were going into battle, he halted downtown to the counting-room of one of the wealthiest merchants and shippers in the City. He knew this man only by reputation, and his friends would regard an application for employment to Mr. Houghton, as extraordinary as it certainly would be futile in their belief. Mr. Houghton was quite as bitter against the South in general and Charleston in particular as Mrs. Hunter in her enmity of all that savored of the North; and, as human nature goes, they both had much reason, or rather cause, for their sentiments. The experiences of many of that day were not conducive to calm historical estimates or to "the charity that suffereth long and is kind." Mr. Houghton was a New England man, and hated slavery almost as intensely as it deserved to be hated. The trouble with him had been that he did not separate the "peculiar institution" widely enough from the men who had been taught by their fathers, mothers and ministers to believe in it. He made no allowances for his Southern fellow-citizens, as many of them would make none for him. With him, it was "Slave-driver"; with them, "Abolitionist"; yet he revered and they revered the great-hearted planter of Mount Vernon.

When the war came at last to teach its terrible, yet essential lessons, Mr. Houghton's eldest son was among the first to exercise the courage of the convictions which had always been instilled into his mind. The grim New Englander saw him depart with eyes that, although tearless, were full of agony, also of hatred of all that threatened to cost him so much. His worst fears were fulfilled, for his son was drowned in a night attack on Fort Sumter, and, in his father's morbid fancy, still lay in the mud and ooze at the bottom of Charleston harbor.

The region gained a strange fascination for the stricken man, and he at last resolved to live near his son's watery grave and take from the very hands of those whom he regarded as his boy's murderers the business which they might regard as theirs naturally. So he removed to Charleston, and employed his capital almost as an instrument of revenge. He did not do this ostentatiously, or in any way that would thwart his purpose or his desire to accumulate money, but his aims had come to be very generally recognized, and he received as much hate as he entertained. Yet his wealth and business capacity made him a power in commercial circles, and Southern men, who would no more admit him to their homes than they would an ogre, dealt with him in a cool politeness that was but the counterpart of his grim civility.

Captain Bodine knew that Mr. Houghton employed much help in his business. He knew that the work of many of his employes must be largely mechanical, requiring little or no intercourse with the master, and the veteran reasoned, "I could give him honest work, and he in return, pay me my salary, we personally not being under the slightest social obligation to each other. I'd rather wring money from his hard fist than take it from the open hand of a too generous friend. I could then get bread for Ella and myself on the simple ground of services rendered."

He therefore entered the outer office and asked for Mr. Houghton. A clerk said, "He is very busy, sir. Cannot I attend to your matter?"

"I wish to see Mr. Houghton personally."

"Will you send in your card, sir?"

Captain Bodine took one from his pocket and wrote upon it, "I wish to see you briefly on a personal matter." A moment later he was ushered into Mr. Houghton's presence, who was writing rapidly at his desk. Bodine stood still, balancing himself on his crutches while the merchant finished the sentence. He looked at the hard wrinkled face and shock of white hair with the same steady composure that he had often faced a battery, as yet silent, but charged with fiery missiles.

At last Mr. Houghton looked up with an impatient word upon his lip, but checked it as he saw the striking figure before him. For an instant the two men looked steadily into each other's eyes. Ever since the war, Captain Bodine had dressed in gray, and Mr. Houghton knew instinctively that his visitor was a Confederate veteran. Then the captain's mutilation caught his attention, and his very manhood compelled him to rise and stiffly offer a chair.

"You wished to see me personally," he remarked, coldly. "I must request you to be brief, for I rarely allow myself to be disturbed at this hour."

"I will be brief. I merely come to ask if you have employment for a tolerably rapid, accurate penman?"

"Do you refer to yourself?" Mr. Houghton asked, his brow darkening.

"I do, sir."

"Do you think this a sufficient excuse for interrupting me at this hour?"

"Yes, sir."

Again there was a fixed look in each other's eyes, and Mr. Houghton, with his large knowledge of men and affairs, became more distinctly aware that he was not dealing with an ordinary character. He put his thought in words, for at times he could be very blunt, and he was conscious of an incipient antagonism to Bodine.

"You think you are a Southern gentleman, my equal, or rather, my superior, and entitled to my respectful consideration at any hour of the day."

"I certainly think I am a Southern gentleman. I do not for a moment think I am entitled to anything from you."

"Yet you come and ask a favor with as much dignity as if you represented the whole State of South Carolina."

"No, sir, I represent only myself, and I have asked no favor. There are many in your employ. I supposed your relations with them were those of business, not of favor."

"Well, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, coldly, "there are plenty with whom I can enter into such relations without employing an enemy of my country."

"Mr. Houghton, I will bring this interview to a close at once, and then you can settle the matter in a word. Your country will never receive any harm from me. I am one of a conquered people, and I have now no ambition other than that of earning bread for my child and myself. You have dealings with Southern men and ex-Confederate soldiers. You buy from them and sell to them. I, as one of them, ask nothing more than that you should buy my labor for what it is worth to you in dollars and cents. Regard my labor as a bale of cotton, and the case is simple enough."

The lava-crust over the crater of the old man's heart was breaking up, for the interview was recalling all the associations which centred around the death of his son. Captain Bodine evoked a strange mixture of antipathy and interest. There was something in the man which compelled his respect, and yet he seemed the embodiment of the spirit which the New Englander could neither understand nor tolerate. His thought had travelled far beyond business, and he looked at his visitor with a certain wrathful curiosity. After a moment he said abruptly, "You fought through the war, I suppose?"

"I fought till I was disabled, sir, but I tried to do a soldier's duty to the close of the war."

"Duty!" ejaculated Mr. Houghton, with an accent of indescribable bitterness. "You would have killed my son if you had met him?"

"Certainly, if I met him in fair fight and he did not kill me first."

"There wasn't any fair fight at all," cried the old man passionately. "It was an atrocious, wicked, causeless rebellion."

The dark blood mounted to Captain Bodine's very brow, but he controlled himself by a strong effort, and only said calmly, "That is your opinion."

The veins fairly stood out on Mr. Houghton's flushed, usually pallid, face. "Do you know," he almost hissed, "that my boy lies at the bottom of your accursed harbor yonder?"

"I did not know it, sir. I do know that the sons of Southern fathers and the fathers themselves lie beside him."

"But what was the use of it all? Damn the whole horrible crime! What was the use of it all?"

A weaker, smaller-brained man than Bodine would have retorted vehemently in kind and left the place, but the captain was now on his mettle and metaphorically in the field again, with the foe before him. What is more, he respected his enemy. This Northern man did not belong to the ex-governor Moses type. He was outspoken and sincere to the heart's core in his convictions, and moreover that heart was bleeding in father-love, from a wound that could never be stanched. Bodine resolved to put all passion under his feet, to hold his ground with the coolness and tenacity of a general in a battle, and attain his purpose without the slightest personal compromise. His indomitable pride led him to feel that he would rather work for this honest, implacable foe than for any man in the city, because their relations would be so purely those of business, and to bring him to terms now would be a triumph over which he could inwardly rejoice.

"Mr. Houghton," he said, gravely, "we have wandered far from the topic which I at first introduced. Your reference to your son proves that you have a heart; your management of business certifies to a large brain. I think our conversation has made it clear that we are both men of decided convictions and are not afraid to express them. If you were a lesser man than you are, I would have shrugged my shoulders contemptuously and left your office long ago. Yet I am your equal, and you know it, although I have scarcely a penny in the world. I am also as honest as you are, and I would work for you all the more scrupulously because you detest me and all that I represent. I, on the other hand, would not expect a single grain of allowance or consideration, such as I might receive from a kindly disposed employer. We would not compromise each other in the slightest degree by entering into the relations of employer and employed. I would obey your orders as a soldier has learned to obey. Apart from business we should be strangers. I knew we were hostile in our feelings, but I had the impression—which I trust may be confirmed—that you were not a commonplace enemy. The only question between us is, 'Will you buy my labor as you would any other commodity in the Charleston market?'"

Captain Bodine's words proved his keen appreciation of character. The old man unconsciously possessed the spirit of a soldier, and it had been evoked by the honest, uncompromising attitude of the Southerner. His emotion passed away. His manner became as courteous as it was cold and impassive. "You are right, sir," he said, "we are hostile and will probably ever remain so, but you have put things in a light which enables me to comply with your wishes. I take you at your word, and will buy your labor as I would any other article of value. I know enough of life to be aware of the courtesy which occasionally exists between men whose feelings and beliefs strongly conflict, yet I agree with you that, apart from business, we can have little in common. When can you come?"

"To-morrow."

"Are you willing to leave the question of compensation open till I can learn what your services are actually worth?"

"I should prefer to have the question settled in that way."

Both men arose. "Good-morning, Captain Bodine," said the merchant, bowing slightly. "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton," and the captain halted quietly back to Mrs. Bodine's home of faded gentility.

Mr. Houghton sat down at his desk and leaned his head thoughtfully upon his hand. "I wouldn't have believed that I could have done this," he muttered. "If he had knuckled to me one iota I would have shown him the door; if he hadn't been so crippled—if he hadn't been so downright honest and brave—confound it! he almost made me feel both like killing him and taking him by the hand. Oh, Herbert, my poor, lost boy, I don't wonder that you and so many fine fellows had to die before such men were conquered."



CHAPTER XVII

FIRESIDE DRAMAS

Ella was so overjoyed at her prospects when all had been explained to her, that she insisted on Mara's spending the evening at the Bodines' so that her father might understand the whole arrangement.

When she returned early in the afternoon, she found him, as Mara had before, reading quietly at one of the parlor windows. He looked up with not only glad welcome in his eyes, but also with much genuine interest, for he was anxious to learn what further impression Mara had made upon his daughter. The man who had accepted patient endurance as his lot, could scarcely comprehend the profound impression made upon him by the child of his old friend. He had made no effort to analyze his feelings, not dreaming that there was any reason why he should do this. To his mind circumstances and the girl herself were sufficient to account for the deepest sympathy. Then that look with which she had regarded him on the previous evening—he could never forget that while he lived. He therefore regarded Ella's flushed, happy face, and said, "You seem to hesitate in letting your experiences be known, but I reckon, from the sparkle of your eyes, that you have had a good time."

"Oh, papa, I have had a good time, so much more than a good time. I hesitate because I don't know just how or where to begin—how to tell you all the good news. Dear papa, you have had so many more troubles than I have, and some perhaps which you think I do not share in very deeply. It was best for us both that I did not—too deeply. But you have a trouble now in which I do share more than you know, more than I wanted you to know. We were here dependent on our dear old cousin who is so unselfish that she would almost open her poor old veins for us. This was too hard for either of us to endure very long, and I had made up my mind that I would do something to relieve you—that if Mara could earn money I could."

"My dear child, I appreciate your feelings, and you have understood mine, but let me hasten to assure you that I have found a way by which I can support you and myself also."

"You have? So soon? Oh, that is glorious. Tell me all about it."

"No, indeed. Not till I have your wonderful news, and learn how you enjoyed your visit."

"No more visiting for me, or rather perpetual visiting. Oh, papa, think what bliss! I'm to help Mara, work with Mara every day, and have a share in the profits."

The captain's face grew sad and almost stern. Ella understood him instantly, and put her hand over his mouth as he was about to speak. "Now, papa, don't you perform the same little tragedy that I did. I know just how you feel and what you are going to say. Mara had it in her mind the moment she heard I was in town and—"

"Ella," interrupted her father, firmly, "I do not often cross you, but you must let me decide this question. Mara is capable of any degree of self-sacrifice, of even something like a noble deception in this case. No, this cannot be. I would protect that girl even as I would you, and you both need protection against your own generous impulses more than all else."

In vain she tried to explain, and recounted minutely all that had happened. The captain was so deeply touched that his eyes grew dim with moisture. Again he exclaimed, "Would to God Sidney Wallingford had lived, even though poor and crippled as I am, that he might have worshipped this noble-hearted, generous girl. She has indeed a rare nature. She carried out her self-sacrificing purpose well, but I understand her better than you do, my dear. With all a woman's wit, tact, and heart she deceived you and would deceive us all. She would smile in triumph as she denied herself for our sakes what she most needed. But, Ella, you know we cannot let her do this."

The girl was staggered and in sore perplexity. Her father's view was not pleasing to her ingenuous nature; there had been a sincerity in Mara's words and manner which had been confirmed not only by circumstances, but also by Aun' Sheba's hearty approval. "I shall be sorry if what you think is true," she said, sadly. "I don't wish to be deceived, not even from such motives as you attribute to Mara, and, of course, she could have no others if you are right. But how can you be right? There was such a verity about it all. Why, papa, when at first I imagined that Mara might have thought I had been hinting in my very foolish talk that I wished what afterward took place, I was so overwhelmed with shame that I could hardly speak. If you had seen how she reassured me, and heard her earnest words, declaring she needed me—oh, if that was all deception, even from the kindest and noblest motive, I should be wounded to the heart, I could never be sure of Mara again and scarcely of any one else. I can't think as you do. Let us ask Cousin and see what she thinks."

The captain was now in perplexity himself, yet he held to his first impression. "I admit," he said, hesitatingly, "that it was not the wisest course on Mara's part, yet often the best people, especially when young, ardent, and a little morbid, are led by the noblest motives to do what is unwise and scarcely right. Mara is not an ordinary girl, and cannot be judged by common standards. Be assured, she would die rather than deceive you to your harm, but a purpose to do you good might confuse both her judgment and conscience, especially if it involved self-sacrifice on her part. You must not blame me if I wish to be more thoroughly convinced. Yes, you can ask Cousin Sophy's opinion if you wish."

"Then come with me, papa, and state your case as strongly as you can. I'd rather go hungry than go forward another step if you are right."

The wise old lady, who could talk by the hour on most occasions, listened to both sides of the question and then remarked with sphinx-like ambiguity. "Your father, Ella, has obtained a remarkably correct idea of Mara's character. You know I told her in your hearing that she had a passion for self-sacrifice, and was prone to take a morbid sense of duty. At the same time, I do not by any means say he is right in this particular instance. Mara is coming this evening—let her satisfy you both in her own way. I have my opinion, but would rather she would make the matter plain to you."

The shrewd old lady, to whom the wheels of time often seemed to move slowly, was bent on a bit of drama at her own fireside, at the same time believing that a word, a tone, or even a glance from the young girl herself would have more power to banish the captain's doubts than anything she could say. "And yet," thought Mrs. Bodine, "Mara is capable of just this very kind of dissimulation."

Evening in the South differs slightly from our late afternoon, and the sun was scarcely below the horizon when Mara arrived under the escort of Mrs. Hunter, who had also been invited. Therefore Ella in her feverish impatience had not long to wait.

Mrs. Bodine's simple meal was over, and after having had a fire lighted on the parlor hearth, she had ensconced herself in a low rocking-chair in readiness to receive her guests. There was a sort of stately cordiality in the meeting between her and Mrs. Hunter, quiet courtesy on the part of Captain Bodine toward all, while honest Ella could not banish a slight constraint from her manner. Mara gradually became conscious of this and wondered at it. She also soon observed that no reference was made to the compact of the morning, and this perplexed her still more.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bodine, having all the dramatis personae about her, was complacency embodied, and not averse to taking a part in the little play herself. She managed at first that the conversation should be general. She serenely indulged in reminiscences which waked others from Mrs. Hunter, and even the captain was beguiled into half-humorous old-time anecdotes about some one they all knew.

"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, sighing, "that—oh, good gracious! what was I going to say? Cousin Hugh, you can remember that my most excellent husband accustomed me to rather strong adjectives. Well, that hardhearted old wretch, Mr. Houghton, eventually got all the property of the poor man we were talking about."

"Did he?" said the captain, quietly. "Well, I reckon I'll get some of it back again."

"You? I'd like to know how. He'd take your head off at one bite if he could."

"I reckon he would; he looked so inclined this morning. I spent half an hour alone with him this morning, and am going to work for him to-morrow."

The general exclamations amounted to a chorus, and Mrs. Hunter, bridling, began formally and almost severely, "Pardon me, Captain Bodine, I do not wish to be presuming or officious, but I fear you have been absent from the city so long that you are not aware of the general estimation in which this Northern carpet-bagger is held."

"I certainly have had a chance to form my own opinion of him, Mrs. Hunter, and I reckon that he and I will not be any better friends than he and you would be."

"Friends," ejaculated the old lady, "I could annihilate him. Oh, Captain Bodine, believe me, you have made a mistake. What will be left of our past if the best and bravest of our number strike hands with these vampires of the North?"

"I have not struck hands with him, nor do I ever expect to."

"Hugh, Cousin Hugh," protested Mrs. Bodine, "I don't understand this move at all."

"Papa," cried Ella, with her arms about his neck, "you have done this for my sake, so do please give it up for my sake. Some other way will be provided for us."

"Mara, are you, too, down on me?"

"No, sir, never; but I'll share my last crust with you if you will have nothing to do with that man."

"I thought so, you brave, generous girl. That was like your father, and reminds me of a bit of experience. We were on a forced march, and the provision train had not kept up. It was night, and we were too weary to hunt around for a morsel. Wallingford (he was major then) came to me and said, 'Bodine, I've a hard tack and one cup of coffee. We'll go halves,' and so we did. He was so impolite as to take his half first. Do you know why?"

"I can guess," she replied with downcast brimming eyes.

"I reckon you can—you of all others; but he didn't succeed. I turned on him in mock severity and remarked, 'Major Wallingford, I never thought you would try to overreach an old friend. See, you have scarcely taken over a third of the coffee and hard tack.' He slapped me on the back and declared he would have me arrested for insubordinate and disrespectful language. Considering what sleepy, jaded men we were, we had a lot of fun over that meagre banquet, but he had to yield even if he were my superior. I fear you are inclined to go halves just like your father."

"Well, Hugh," cried Mrs. Bodine impatiently, "even that is better than your taking whatever this—this—I want an adjective that is not too wicked."

"No matter, Cousin Sophy, we'll each supply one according to our own degree of wickedness. A Yankee would say 'darned' though, confound the fellows, they seem to learn to fight and swear in equal degrees."

"I won't say 'darned,'" said the old lady, almost trembling in her irritation and excitement, for she was being treated to more of a drama than she had bargained for. "It is a word I never heard my husband use. Bah! all words are inadequate. I say anything is better than that you should go to this old Houghton for what little he may choose to give you."

"Now, I appeal to you, Mara—is this fair, four against one?"

"But, dear Captain Bodine, you don't know how deeply we feel about this."

"Ah, that is the charge our enemies bring against us. We feel, but don't reason, they say. We have much reason to retort, 'You reason, but have no feeling and little comprehension for those that have.' Come, I will be serious now," and his expression became grave and firm. "Cousin Sophy, Mr. Houghton will never give me a penny, nor would I take a gift from him even if starving, yet I have a genuine respect for the man. Let me, as a soldier, illustrate my course, and then I will explain more fully. Suppose I was on a march and was hungry. On one hand were ample provisions in the camp of the enemy; on the other a small farmhouse occupied by friends who had already been robbed of nearly all they had. If I went to these friends they would, as Mara has said, share their last crust. Do you not think it would be more in accordance with the feelings of a man to make a dash at the enemy's overflowing larder, and not only get what I needed but also bring away something for my impoverished friends? I reckon it would. I much prefer spoiling the Egyptians, cost me what it may. My dear child," turning to Mara, "do you think I would take half your crust when I know you need the whole of it? No, indeed. Then you must remember that we got in the habit of living off the enemy during the war. To drop all this figurative talk, let me put the matter in plain English, as I did to Mr. Houghton this morning. We had a pretty hot action, I can tell you. There was no compromise in word or manner on either side, but he listened to reason, and so will you. Pick out your most blue-blooded, stanchest South Carolinians, in the city, and they deal with Mr. Houghton. They sell to him; they buy of him, and there it all ends. I have no cotton to sell, but I told him to regard my labor as a bale of cotton and to buy it, if he so wished, at what it was worth. I also told him that apart from our business relations we would be strangers, so you see I am neither better nor worse, practically, no different from other Charlestonians."

Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair, and laughed till the tears came into her eyes. "I do declare," she gasped: "God made men different from women, and I reckon He knew what He was about. I surrender, Cousin Hugh. Your argument has blown me out of the water. Spoil this old Egyptian to your heart's content, only remember when there are no Egyptians to spoil, if you don't come to your friends you will have one savage old woman to deal with."

Mrs. Hunter shook her head dubiously. "I don't know what to think of all this," she said. "It appears to me that it tends to break down the partition wall between us and those from whom we have received wrongs which should never be forgiven."

"My dear Mrs. Hunter," replied the captain, urbanely, "the more the partition wall is broken down in one sense, the better. Isn't it wiser for me to get money out of Mr. Houghton than to sulk and starve? I had to break through the wall to get bread. Of course," he added quietly, "we all understand one another. My military figures of speech must not be pressed too far. I do not propose to knock Mr. Houghton on the head, or even take the smallest possible advantage of him. On the contrary, because we are hostile, I shall be over-scrupulous, if possible, to do his work well. From him, as I told him, I expect not the slightest allowance, consideration, or kindness."

"Oh," thought Mara, "how clearly he has put my own thought and wish. Why could not Owen Clancy have earned his own bread and mine by taking the course of this brave Southern man? I have been shown to-night how noble, how dignified and how easy it was. Why should he talk of love when he will not see what is so reasonable in the action of another?"

"Cousin Hugh, you said one thing which needs explanation. You said you had a respect for this man floughton, who we all know has not a particle of good-will toward us."

"Chiefly because he is such an honest enemy," Bodine replied. "He makes hard bargains with our people when he can, but have you ever heard of his cheating or doing anything underhand? I learned a good deal about his business character while in Georgia, and his course to-day corresponded with what I had been told. Moreover, his feelings got the better of him, and he revealed in one passionate sentence that his eldest son was killed, and, as he says, lies at the bottom of our harbor here. This fact enabled me to stand better what I had to take from him," and in answer to his cousin's questions he revealed the substance of the interview. "I do this," he concluded, "that you and other friends may better understand my course. To-morrow Mr. Houghton becomes my employer, and I shall owe a certain kind of loyalty. The more seldom we mention his name thereafter, the better; and I shall never speak of him except in terms of cold respect."

"Since you have told me about his son," said Mrs. Bodine, "I won't avail myself of the privilege of freeing my mind to-night, even if it will be my last chance, that is when you are present. After all, why should I berate him? In one aspect he is to me a sort of ogre representing all that is harsh, intolerant and cruel, rejoicing in his power to drain the life-blood of a conquered and impoverished people; yet he rose before me as you spoke as a heartbroken father, warped and made unnatural by pain, haunted by the ghost of his son whom his arms cannot embrace. Sometimes when thinking alone, the people of the world seem like a lot of squabbling children, with only degrees of badness and goodness between them. Children make no allowances for each other. It is like or dislike, quick and manifested. It is well there is a Heavenly Father over all who may lead one and all of us 'to make up' some day. I tell you what it is, Hugh, we may all have to shake hands in Heaven."

"Like enough, Cousin Sophy. In matters pertaining to Heaven you are a better authority than I am."

"For very good reason. Heaven is nearest those who feel its need most. You may think I am a queer Christian, and I sometimes think so myself—hating some people as near as I dare, and calling old Houghton a wretch. Don't I know about his heartache? Who better than I? God knows I would give his son back to him if I could. God knows I can almost swear at him; He knows also that if he were brought into this house wounded I'd nurse him with my feeble hand as I would you, Cousin Hugh, but I would be apt to say when he got well (and here came in her little chirping laugh), 'Good sir, I have not the slightest objection to your going back to Massachusetts, bag and baggage.' By the way, he has another son who has not been much in Charleston—being educated at the North, they say. He must be a grown man now. I was told that when here last he resented the fact bitterly that there was some society in town which he could not enter."

"I reckon not," remarked Mrs. Hunter, grimly, and then followed some desultory conversation between the two elder ladies.

As was frequently his custom—in common with men whose past is more than their future promises to be—the captain had lapsed into a train of thought which took him far away from present surroundings. He was roused by Mrs. Hunter's preparations for departure, and looking suddenly at Mara, saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He was at her side instantly, and, taking her hand, asked gently, "What troubles you, my child?"

With bowed head she replied: "I understand you, Captain Bodine; your words have made everything clear to me."

He still held her hand and thought a moment. "About Ella's coming to you?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm not one of the Egyptians, but I'd so set my heart on it."

"Because of your need, not Ella's?" again the captain queried, while his grasp on her hand tightened.

"Oh, Captain Bodine, do you think I could deceive you or a girl like Ella under any circumstances? If she did not come after to-day I feel that I should give up in despair very soon. I do need help, and just such help to body and mind as she can give me."

"Forgive me, Mara. The little story I told about your father explains why I feared. But we will say no more about it. I would rather have Ella with you than with any one else in the world."

"There," cried that buoyant young woman, "I knew I was right. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings you old people are destined to learn wisdom."

"Well," said Mrs. Bodine, "I've had more drama tonight than I reckoned on, and I haven't been leading lady either. Will the chief baker escort me to the dining-room?"

After cake and cream, the captain escorted Mrs. Hunter and Mara home. He detained the latter at the door a moment, and said gently, "Mara, shun the chief danger of your life. Never be unfair to yourself."



CHAPTER XVIII

A FAIR DUELLIST

The great hand of time which turns the kaleidoscope of human affairs appeared to move slowly for a few weeks, as far as the characters of my story are concerned. The two little bakers worked together daily, one abounding in mirth and drollery, and the other cheered, or rather beguiled from melancholy in spite of herself. Business grew apace, not only because two girls who evoked general sympathy were the principals of the firm, but also for the reason that they put something of their own dainty natures into their wares. Aun' Sheba trudged and perspired in moderation, for the fleet-footed Vilet seemed to outrun Mercury. Moreover, the "head-pahners," as Aun' Sheba called them, insisted that their commercial travellers should take the street-cars when long distances were involved.

Captain Bodine and Mr. Houghton maintained their business relation in the characteristic manner indicated by their first interview. The ex-Confederate was given some routine work which kept him at a remote desk a certain number of hours a day, and employer and employee rarely met, and scarcely ever spoke to each other. The captain, however, had no reason to complain of his salary, which was paid weekly, and sufficed for his modest needs. So far from being dependent on his large-hearted cousin, he and Ella were enabled to contribute much to her material comfort, and immeasurably to her daily enjoyment. She and Ella were in the sunshine again, and it was hard to say which of the two talked the most genial nonsense. The old lady had what is termed "a sweet tooth," and loved dainties. The two girls, therefore, vied with each other in evolving rare and harmless delicacies.

"Two Ariels are ministering to me," she said, "and sometimes I feel so jolly that I would like to share with that old—I mean Mr. Houghton."

The girls never forgot, however, the depths beneath the ripple and sparkle of the old lady's manner.

As spring verged into summer, Uncle Sheba yielded more and more to the lassitude of the season. His "bobscure 'fliction" seemed to grow upon him, if it were possible to note degrees in his malady, but Aun' Sheba said, "'Long as he is roun' like a log an' don' bodder me I is use' ter it." He even began to neglect the "prar-meetin'," and old Tobe told him to his face, "You'se back-slidin' fur as you kin slide, inch or so." His son-in-law, Kern Watson, had won such a good reputation for steadiness that he was taken into the fire department. When off duty he was always with "Sissy an' de chilen."

Outwardly there was but slight change in Owen Clancy. He had never been inclined to make many intimate acquaintances, and those who knew him best only noted that he seemed more reserved about himself if possible, and that he was unusually devoted to business. Yet he was much spoken of in business circles, for it was known that he was the chief correspondent of the wealthy Mr. Ainsley of New York, who was making large investments in the South. Among the progressive men of the city, no matter what might be their political faith and association, the young man was winning golden opinions, for it was clearly recognized that he ever had the interest of his section at heart, that in a straightforward, honorable manner he was making every effort to enlist Northern capital in Southern enterprises. He had withdrawn almost wholly from social life, and ladies saw him but seldom in their drawing-rooms. When among men, however, he talked earnestly and sagaciously on the business topics of the hour. The evening usually found him with book in hand in his bachelor apartment.

Beneath all this ordinary ebb and flow of daily life, changes were taking place, old forces working silently, and new ones entering in to complicate the problems of the future. As unobtrusively as possible, Clancy kept himself informed about Mara and all that related to her welfare. By some malign fate, as she deemed it, she would unexpectedly hear of him, encounter him on the street, also, yet rarely now, meet him at some small evening company. He would permit no open estrangement, and always compelled her to recognize him. One evening, to her astonishment and momentary confusion he quietly took a seat by her side and entered into conversation, as he might have done with other ladies present. By neither tone nor glance did he recognize any cause for estrangement between them, and he talked so intelligently and agreeably as to compel her admiration. His mask was perfect, and after an instant hers was equally so, yet all the time she was as conscious of his love as of her own.

He recognized the new element which the Bodines had brought into her life, and with a lover's keen instinct began to surmise what the captain might become to her. He was not long in discovering the former relations of the veteran to Colonel Wallingford, and he justly believed that, as yet, Mara's regard was largely the result of that old friendship and an entire accordance in views. But he was not so sure about Bodine, whom he knew but slightly and with whom he had no sympathy. He had learned substantially the ground on which the captain had taken employment from Mr. Houghton, and as we know, he was bitterly hostile to that whole line of policy. "It would eventually turn every Southern man into a clerk," he muttered, "when it is our patriotic duty to lead in business as in everything else that pertains to our section." Yet he knew, or at least believed, that if he had taken the same course Mara might now be his wife.

Sometimes, when reading, apparently, he would throw down his book and say aloud in his solitude, "Bah, I'm more loyal to the South than this sombre-faced veteran. He would keep his State forever in his own crippled condition. No crutches for the South, I say; no general clerkship to the North, but an equal onward march, side by side, to one national destiny. He thinks he is a martyr and may very complacently let Mara think so too. Who has given up the more? He a leg, and I my heart's love!"

It has already been shown that Clancy touched the extremes of political and social life in the city. Some, of whom Mrs. Hunter was an exasperated exponent, could be cold toward him, but they could neither ignore nor despise him. Those beginning to cast off the fetters of enmity and prejudice, secretly admired him and were friendly. While cordial in his relations, therefore, with Northern people and Northern enterprises of the right stamp, he had not so lost his hold on Mara's exclusive circle as to remain in ignorance of what was transpiring within it, and he secretly resolved that if Bodine sought to take the girl of his heart from him, and, as he truly believed, from all chance of true happiness herself, he would give as earnest a warning as ever one soul gave to another.

In June he received a strong diversion to his thoughts. Mr. Ainsley wrote him from New York, in effect, that he with his daughter would soon be in Charleston—that his interests in the South had become so large as to require personal attention; also that he had new enterprises in view. The young man's interest and ambition were naturally kindled. As Mara had taken the Bodines and their affairs as an antidote for her trouble, he sought relief in the preoccupation which the Ainsleys might bring to his mind. Accordingly he met father and daughter at the station and escorted them to the hotel with some degree of pleasurable excitement.

Miss Ainsley made the same impression of remarkable beauty and cosmopolitan culture as at first. There was a refined, easy poise in her bearing. Indeed he almost fancied that, to her mind, coming to Charleston was a sort of condescension, she had visited so many famous cities in the world. She greeted him cordially, and to a vain man her brilliant eyes would have expressed more than the mere pleasure of seeing an old acquaintance again.

But few days elapsed before Mr. Ainsley was on the wing, here and there where his interests called him, meantime making the Charleston hotel his headquarters. Miss Ainsley's friend, Mrs. Willoughby, carried off the daughter to her pretty home on the Battery, where sea-breezes tempered the Southern sun. Clancy aided the father satisfactorily in business ways, and the daughter found him so agreeable socially as to manifest a wish to see him often. She interested him as a "rara avis" which he felt that he would like to understand better, and he would have been less than a man if not fascinated by her beauty, accomplishments and intelligence. Miss Ainsley could not fail to charm the eyes of sense as well, and she was not chary of the secret that she had been fashioned in one of Nature's finest molds. The soft, warm languor of the summer evenings was, to her, ample excuse for revealing the glowing marble of her neck and bosom to dark Southern eyes, and admirers began to gather like bees to honey ready made.

Clancy had wished to see her deportment toward other young men, and now had the opportunity. The result flattered him in spite of himself. To others she was courteous, affable and sublimely indifferent. When he approached it seemed almost as if a film passed from her eyes, that she awakened into a fuller life and became an enchantress in her versatile powers. He responded with as fine a courtesy as her own, although quite different, but there was a cool, steady self-restraint in eyes and manner which piqued and charmed her.

Clancy would be long in learning to understand Miss Ainsley. He might never reach the secret of her life, and certainly would not unless he bluntly asked her to marry him—asked her so bluntly and persistently that all the wiles of which woman is capable opened no avenue of escape. She was an epicure of the finest type. If she had been asked to a banquet on Mount Olympus, she would have preferred to dine from the one delicious dish of ambrosia most to her taste and to sip only the choicest brand of nectar. Profusion, even at a feast of the gods, would have no charms for her. She had begun to see the world so early and had seen so much of it that she had learned the art of elimination to perfection. Sensuous to the last degree, but not sensual, she had a cool self-control and a fineness of taste which led her to choose but a few refined pleasures at a time and then to enjoy them deliberately and until satiety pointed to a new choice. Keen of intellect, she had studied society and with almost the skill of a naturalist had recognized the various types of men and women. This cool observation had taught her much worldly wisdom. She saw all about her, mere girls jaded with life already, faded young women keeping up with the fashionable procession as fagged out soldiers drag themselves along in the rear of a column. She had seen fresh young debutantes rush into the giddy whirl to become pallid from the excess of one season. At one time, she and other friends of hers had been exultant, excited and distracted by their many admirers and suitors. She soon wearied, however, of this indiscriminate slaughter, and the devoted eager attentions, the manifest desires and hopes of commonplace men, so far from kindling a sense of triumph and power, almost made her ill. She became like a knight of the olden time who had hewn down inferiors until he was sick of gore.

And so she gradually withdrew from the fashionable rout, took time for reading and study and the perfection of her accomplishments. She accepted merely such invitations as were agreeable to her, smiling contemptuously at the idea that in order to maintain position in society one must wear herself out by rushing around to everything; and society respected her all the more. It became a triumph to secure her presence; but she only went where everything would accord with her taste and inclination. This was true of her life abroad as well as at home. Conscious of her father's wealth, and that, apart from an unexacting companionship to him, she could do as she pleased, she proposed to make the most of life as she estimated it. She would have all the variety she wished, but she would take it leisurely. She would not perpetrate the folly of gulping pleasures, still less would she permit herself to fall tumultuously in love with some ordinary man only to waken from a romantic dream to discover how ordinary he was.

She was also too shrewd, indeed one may almost say too wise, to think of an ambitious marriage. The man of millions or the man of rank or fame could never buy her unless personally agreeable to her. Yet she was rarely without a suitor, whom to a certain point she encouraged. Unless a man possessed some real or fancied superiority which pleased or interested her, she was practically inaccessible to him. She would be courtesy itself, yet by her strong will and tact would speedily make a gentleman understand, "You have no claim upon me; your wishes are nothing to me." If he interested her, however, if she admired him even slightly, she would give him what she might term a chance. Then to her mind their relations became much like a duel; she at least would conquer him; he might subdue her if he could; she would give him the opportunity, and if he could find a weak place in her polished armor and pierce her heart she would yield. The question was whether she had a heart, and she was not altogether sure of this herself. On one thing, however, she was resolved—she would not give up her liberty, ease and epicurean life for the duties, obligations and probable sorrows of wifehood, unless she met a man who had the power to make this course preferable.