This question was at last decided in the affirmative, and towards the close of the afternoon, she started for Mr. Selden's, on her way meeting with Henry, who asked "where she was going?"

"To see that beautiful young lady," returned Ella, rather pettishly; whereupon Henry laughed aloud, and asked "if it were not a little the richest joke he had ever put upon her."

Ella saw no joke at all, but as Henry had turned about, and was walking back with her, she could not feel angry, and prattled on, drinking in his words of flattery, as he told her how charmingly she looked at the concert, and how jealous he felt when he saw so many admiring eyes gazing upon what he considered his own exclusive property! The very expressive look which accompanied this remark made Ella's heart beat rapidly, for Henry had never before said any thing quite so pointed, and the cloud, which for a time had rested on her brow, disappeared.

When they reached Mr. Selden's house, Henry announced his intention of calling also to inquire after Mary whom he respected on her sister's account! "But," said he, "I am in something of a hurry, and as you girls have a thousand things to talk about, I hardly think I can wait for you."

"Oh, pray, don't wait," returned Ella, hoping in her heart that he would.

Upon asking for Mary, she was taken immediately to her room, where she found her reclining upon a sofa, attired in a tasteful crimson morning gown, which gave a delicate tint to her cheeks. She was paler than usual, and her thick shining hair was combed up from her forehead in a manner highly becoming to her style of beauty. Until that day Ella had never heard her sister called handsome—never even thought such a thing possible; but now, as she looked upon her, she acknowledged to herself that Henry was more than half right, and she felt a pang of jealousy,—a fear that Mary might prove her rival. Still she tried to be agreeable, telling her how fortunate she was in being at Mr. Selden's, "for," said she, "I dare say some of our first people will notice you just because you are here!"

Ida hastily walked to the window, standing with her back towards Ella, who continued. "I think it's so funny. I've inquired and inquired about Mr. Stuart, but no one knows him, and I've come to the conclusion he was an impostor,—or a country schoolmaster, one or the other."

There was a suppressed laugh behind the lace curtain where Ida stood, and when Mary began to defend Mr. Stuart, she came out, and with great apparent interest asked who he was, and where they had seen him. Afterwards Mary remembered the mischief which shone in Ida's eyes as they described Mr. Stuart, but she thought nothing of it then.

After asking Mary who paid for her music lessons,—how many new dresses she'd got, and who cut them, Ella started to go, carelessly saying as she left the room, that when Mary was able she should expect to see her at Mrs. Campbell's.

In the mean time Henry had become so much engaged in a conversation with Mr. Selden, that he forgot the lapse of time until he heard Ella coming down the stairs. Then impelled by a mean curiosity to see what she would do, he sat still, affecting not to notice her. She heard his voice, and knew that he was still in the parlor. So for a long time she lingered at the outer door, talking very loudly to Ida, and finally, when there was no longer any excuse for tarrying, she suddenly turned back, and shaking out her cloak and tippet, exclaimed, "Why, where can my other glove be? I must have dropped it in the parlor, for I do not remember of having had it up stairs!"

The parlor was of course entered and searched, and though no missing glove was found, the company of Henry Lincoln was thus secured. Have my readers never seen a Henry Lincoln, or an Ella Campbell?



CHAPTER XXIV.

A CHANGE OF OPINION.

"Oh, mother won't you take this pillow from my head, and put another blanket on my feet, and fix the fire, and give me some water, or something? Oh, dear, dear!—" groaned poor Rose Lincoln, as with aching head and lungs, she did penance for her imprudence in crossing the wet, slippery street in thin slippers and silken hose.

Mrs. Lincoln, who knew nothing of this exposure, loudly lamented the extreme delicacy of her daughter's constitution, imputing it wholly to Mount Holyoke discipline, and wishing, as she had often done before, that "she'd been wise and kept her at home." Jenny would have wished so, too, if by this means Rose's illness could have been avoided, for it was not a very agreeable task to stay in that close sick room, listening to the complaints of her fault-finding sister, who tossed and turned and fretted, from morning until night, sometimes wishing herself dead, and then crying because she "wanted something, and didn't know what."

"Oh, dear," said she, one evening several days after the commencement of her illness, "how provoking to be obliged to lie here moping with the dullest of all dull company, when there's Mrs. Russell's party next week, and I've such a lovely dress to wear. Why ain't I as strong and healthy as you? though I wouldn't be so fat for any thing."

Jenny knew that whatever answer she could make would not be the right one, so she said nothing, and after a moment Rose again, spoke.

"I'll go to that party sick or well. I wouldn't miss of it for any thing."

This time Jenny looked up in surprise, asking why her sister was so particularly anxious to attend the party.

"Because," returned Rose, "Mary Howard will be there, and you know as well as I how awkward she'll appear,—never was in any kind of society in her life."

"I don't see what inducement that can be for you to expose your health," said Jenny, and Rose continued: "I want to see Ida mortified once, for she might know better than to bring a green, country girl here, setting her up as something wonderful, and expecting every body to believe it just because Miss Selden said so. Didn't you tell me there was some one continually going to inquire after Mary?"

"Yes," answered Jenny; whereupon Rose got very angry, complaining that no one called upon her except that little simpleton Ella, who only came, when she thought there was a chance of seeing Henry!

"Seems to me you've changed your mind with regard to Ella," said Jenny.

"No I hain't either," answered Rose, "I always thought her silly, and now she hangs round Henry so much I'm thoroughly disgusted. But see,—there's Henry now, at Mr. Selden's gate,—with another gentleman."

The moon was shining brightly, and looking out, Jenny saw Billy Bender and her brother mounting the steps which led to Mr. Selden's door.

"It's funny that they should be together," thought she, while Rose continued, "Nothing will surprise me now, if Henry has got to running after her. I am glad George Moreland is away, though I fancy he's too much good sense to swallow a person, just because Ida and his old maid aunt say he must."

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Lincoln, who came as usual to see his daughter. In the mean time the two young men, who accidentally met at the gate, had entered Mr. Selden's parlor, and inquired for the young ladies.

"Come, you must go down," said Ida to Mary, when the message was delivered. This is the third time Mr. Bender has called, and you have no excuse for not now seeing him. "By the way," she continued, as Mary said something about 'Billy,' "don't call him Billy; we know him as Mr. Bender and Billy is so,—so,—"

"So countrified," suggested Mary.

"Yes, countrified if you please," returned Ida. "So after this he is William. Haven't you noticed that Jenny calls him so? But come," she added mischievously, "never mind brushing your hair. Mr. Stuart isn't down there!"

With the exception of the time when she was hurt, Mary had not seen William for more than two years and a half and now when she met him, she was so much embarrassed that she greeted him with a reserve, amounting almost to coldness. He on the contrary, was perfectly self-possessed, but after a few commonplace remarks, he seated himself on the opposite side of the room, and entered into conversation with Mrs. Mason concerning Chicopee and its inhabitants. Frequently Mary's eyes rested upon him, and she felt a thrill of pride when she saw how much his residence in Boston had improved him, and how handsome he really was. But any attempt to converse with him was rendered impossible by Henry Lincoln, who, toady as he was, thought proper to be exceedingly polite to Mary, now that the Seldens noticed her so much. Seating himself by her side with all the familiarity of an old friend, and laying his arm across the back of the sofa, so that to William it looked as if thrown around her shoulders, he commenced a tirade of nonsense as meaningless as it was disagreeable. More than once, too, he managed to let fall a very pointed compliment, feeling greatly surprised to see with what indifference it was received.

"Confound the girl!" thought he, beginning to feel piqued at her coldness. "Is she made of ice, or what?"

And then he redoubled his efforts at flattery, until Mary, quite disgusted, begged leave to change her seat, saying by way of apology that she was getting too warm. In the course of the evening George Moreland was mentioned. Involuntarily Mary blushed, and Henry, who was watching her proposed that she resume her former seat, "for," said he, "you look quite as warm and red where you are."

"The nearest I ever knew him come to any thing witty," whispered Ida, from behind a fire screen. "I do believe you've rubbed up his ideas, and I predict that you win him instead of Ella."

Mary did not even smile, for to her there was something revolting in the idea of being even teased about Henry, who was conceited enough to attribute her reserve to the awe which he fancied his "elegant presence" inspired! If Ella with all her wealth and beauty placed an invaluable estimate upon his attentions, why should not her unpretending sister be equally in love with him? And the young dandy stroked his mustache with his white fingers, and wondered what Ella Campbell would say if she knew how much her sister admired him, and how very nearly his admiration was returned!

At length William arose to go, and advancing towards Mary, he took her hand, saying in a low tone with marked emphasis on the word sister, "I find my sister greatly changed and improved since I last saw her."

"And you too are changed," returned Mary, her eyes filling with tears, for William's manner was not as of old.

"Yes, in more respects than one," said he, "but I shall see you again. Do you attend Mrs. Russell's party?"

Mary replied in the affirmative, and the next moment he was gone. Half an hour after, Henry, too, departed, saying to Mary as he went out, "You musn't fail to be at Mrs. Russell's, for I shall only go for the sake of seeing you.—Truth, upon my honor, what little I have," he continued, as Mary's eyes flashed forth her entire disbelief of what he said. "I am in earnest now, if I never was before."

Ida laughed aloud at the mystified picture which Mary's face presented as the door closed upon Henry. "You are too much of a novice to see through every thing, but you'll learn in time that opinions frequently change with circumstances," said she.

That night in his chamber, with his heels upon the marble mantel, and his box of cigars and bottle of brandy at his side, the man of fashion soliloquized as follows: "Zounds! How that girl has improved. Never saw the like in my life.—Talk about family and rank, and all that stuff. Why, there isn't a lady in Boston that begins to have the air distingue which Mary Howard has. Of course she'll be all the go. Every thing the Seldens take up is. Ain't I glad Moreland is in New Orleans; for with his notions he wouldn't hesitate to marry her if he liked her, poor as she is. Now if she only had the chink, I'd walk up to her quick. I don't see why the deuce the old man need to have got so involved just now, as to make it necessary for me either to work or have a rich wife. Such eyes too, as Mary's got! Black and fiery one minute, blue and soft the next. Well, any way I'll have a good time flirting with her, just for the sake of seeing Ella wince and whimper, if nothing more. Bah! What a simpleton she is, compared with Mary. I wonder how much Mrs. Campbell is worth, and if Ella will have it all."

And the young man retired to dream of debts liquidated by the gold which a marriage with Ella Campbell would bring him.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE PARTY.

"Bring me my new dress, Jenny; I want to see if the Honiton lace on the caps is as wide as Ida Selden's."

"What do you mean?" asked Jenny, turning quickly towards her sister, whose white, wasted face looked fitter for a shroud than a gay party dress.

"I mean what I say," returned Rose; "I'm not going to be cooped up here any longer. I'm going to the party to-morrow night, if I never go again!"

"Why, Rose Lincoln, are you crazy?" asked Jenny. "You haven't been in the street yet, and how do you expect to go to-morrow night? Mother wouldn't let you, if she were here."

"Well, thank fortune, she and father both are in Southbridge; and besides that, I'm a great deal better; so hand me my dress."

Jenny complied, and reclining on pillows scarcely whiter than herself, Rose Lincoln examined and found fault with a thin gossamer fabric, none suited for any one to wear in a cold wintry night, and much less for her.

"There, I knew it wasn't as wide as Ida's into an eighth of an inch," said she, measuring with her finger the expensive lace. "I'll have some new. Come, Jenny, suppose you go down street and get it, for I'm bent upon going;" and the thoughtless girl sprang lightly upon the floor, and chassed half way across the room to show how well and strong she was.

Jenny knew that further expostulation from her was useless, but she refused to go for the lace, and Sarah, the servant girl, was sent with a note from Rose saying she wanted a nice article, 8 or 10 dollars per yard.

"I don't believe father would like to have you make such a bill," said Jenny when Sarah was gone. "Mother didn't dare tell him about your new dress, for he told her she mustn't get any thing charged, and he said, too, something about hard times. Perhaps he's going to fail. Wouldn't it be dreadful?"

If Rose heard the last part of this sentence she did not need it, for to her the idea of her father's failing was preposterous. When the dinner bell rang she threw on a heavy shawl, and descending to the dining parlor, remained below stairs all the afternoon, forcing back her cough, and chatting merrily with a group of young girls who had called to see her, and congratulated her upon her improved health, for excitement lent a deep glow to her cheek, which would easily deceive the inexperienced. The next day, owing to overexertion, Rose's temples were throbbing with pain, and more than once, she half determined not to go; but her passion for society was strong, and Mrs. Russell's party had so long been anticipated and talked about that she felt she would not miss it for the world, and as she had confessed to Jenny, there was also a mean curiosity to see how Mary Howard would appear at a fashionable party.

"Saturate my handkerchief with cologne, and put the vinaigrette where I can reach it while you arrange my hair," said she to Sarah, who at the usual hour came up to dress her young mistress for the evening. "There, be careful and not brush so hard, for that ugly pain isn't quite gone—now bring me the glass and let me see if I do look like a ghost."

"Pale, delicate folks is always more interesting than red, hearty ones," said the flattering servant, as she obeyed.

"Mercy, how white I am!" exclaimed Rose, glancing at the ashen face reflected by the mirror. "Rub my cheeks with cologne, Sarah, and see if that won't bring some color into them. There, that'll do. Now hand me my dress. Oh, isn't it beautiful?" she continued, as she threw aside the thickly wadded double gown, and assumed a light, thin dress, which fell in soft, fleecy folds around her slight figure.

"Faith, an ye looks sweet, God bless you," said Sarah as she clasped the diamond bracelet around the snowy arms and fastened the costly ornaments in the delicate ears.

When her toilet was completed, Rose stood up before the long mirror, and a glow of pride came to her cheeks, as she saw how lovely she really was.

"You's enough sight handsomer than Miss Jenny," whispered Sarah, as the door opened and Jenny appeared, more simply arrayed than her sister, but looking as fresh and blooming as a rose-bud.

"How beautiful you are, Rosa," said she, "only it makes me shiver to look at your neck and arms. You'll wear your woollen sack, besides your shawl and cloak, won't you?"

"Nonsense, I'm not going to be bundled up this way, for don't you see it musses the lace," said Rose, refusing the warm sack which Jenny brought her.

A rap at the door and a call from Henry that the carriage was waiting, ended the conversation, and throwing on their cloaks and hoods, the girls descended to the hall, where with unusual tenderness Henry caught up his invalid sister, and drawing her veil closely over her face, carried her to the covered sleigh, so that her feet might not touch the icy walk.

"What! Rose Lincoln here!" exclaimed half a dozen voices as Rose bounded into the dressing-room.

"Yes, Rose Lincoln is here," she replied, gayly divesting herself of her wrapping. "I'm not going to die just yet, I guess, neither am I going to be housed up all winter. The fresh air has done me good already,—see," and she pointed to a bright round spot which burnt upon her cheeks.

A young girl, whose family had one by one fallen victims to the great New England plague, consumption, shuddered and turned way, for to her eye the glow which Rose called health was but the hectic bloom of death.

"How beautiful she is!" said more than one, as with her accustomed grace Rose entered the brilliant drawing-room. And truly Rose was beautiful that night, but like the gorgeous foliage of the fading autumn 'twas the beauty of decay, for death was written on her blue-veined brow, and lurked amid the roses on her cheek. But little thought she of that, as with smiling lip and beaming eye she received the homage of the admiring throng.

"Upon my word, you do look very well," said Henry, coming for a moment to his sister's side. "Why, you'd be the star of the evening, were it not for ma belle Ella. See, there she comes," and he pointed to a group just entering the room.

An expression of contempt curled Rose's lip, as she glanced at Ella, and thought of being outshone by her dollish figure and face. "I'm in no danger, unless a more formidable rival than that silly thing appears," thought she; and she drew up her slender form with a more queenly grace, and bowed somewhat haughtily to Ella, who came up to greet her. There was a world of affection in Ella's soft hazel ayes, as they looked eagerly up to Henry, who for the sake of torturing the young girl feigned not to see her until she had stood near him some minutes. Then offering her his hand he said, with the utmost nonchalance, "Why, Ella, are you here? I was watching so anxiously for your sister that I did not notice your entrance."

Ella had dressed herself for the party with more than usual care, and as she smoothed down the folds of her delicate pink silk, and shook back her long glossy curls, she thought, "He cannot think Mary handsomer than I am to-night;" and now when the first remark he addressed to her was concerning her sister, she replied rather pettishly, "I believe you are always thinking about Mary."

"Now, don't be jealous," returned Henry, "I only wish to see the contrast between you."

Ella fancied that the preference would of course be in her favor, and casting aside all unpleasant feelings, she exerted herself to the utmost to keep Henry at her side, asking him numberless questions, and suddenly recollecting something which she wished to tell him, if he made a movement towards leaving her.

"Confound it. How tight she sticks to a fellow," thought he, "but I'll get away from her yet."

Just then Ida and Mary were announced. Both Aunt Martha and Ida had taken great pains to have their young friend becomingly dressed, and she looked unusually well in the embroidered muslin skirt, satin waist, and blonde bertha which Aunt Martha had insisted upon her accepting as a present. The rich silken braids of her luxuriant hair were confined at the back of her finely formed head with a golden arrow, which, with the exception of a plain band of gold on each wrist, was the only ornament she wore. This was her first introduction to the gay world, but so keen was her perception of what was polite and proper, that none would ever have suspected it and yet there was about her something so fresh and unstudied, that she had hardly entered the room ere many were struck with her easy, unaffected manners, so different from the practised airs of the city belles.

Ella watched her narrowly, whispering aside to Henry how sorry she felt for poor Mary, she was so verdant, and really hoping she wouldn't do any thing very awkward, for 'twould mortify her to death! "but, look," she added, "and see how many people Ida is introducing her to."

"Of course, why shouldn't she?" asked Henry; and Ella replied, "I don't know,—it seems so funny to see Mary here, don't it?"

Before Henry could answer, a young man of his acquaintance touched his shoulder, saying, "Lincoln, who is that splendid-looking girl with Miss Selden? I haven't seen a finer face in Boston, for many a day."

"That? Oh, that's Miss Howard, from Chicopee. An intimate friend of our family. Allow me the pleasure of introducing you," and Henry walked away, leaving Ella to the tender mercies of Rose, who, as one after another quitted her side, and went over to the "enemy," grew very angry, wondering if folks were bewitched, and hoping Ida Selden "felt better, now that she'd made so many notice her protegee."

Later in the evening, William Bender came, and immediately Jenny began to talk to him of Mary, and the impression she was making. Placing her hand familiarly upon his arm, as though that were its natural resting place, she led him towards a group, of which Mary seemed the centre of attraction. Near her stood Henry Lincoln, bending so low as to threaten serious injury to his fashionable pants, and redoubling his flattering compliments, in proportion as Mary grew colder, and more reserved in her manner towards him. Silly and conceited as he was, he could not help noticing how differently she received William Bender from what she had himself. But all in good time, thought he, glancing at Ella, to see how she was affected by his desertion of her, and his flirtation with her sister. She was standing a little apart from any one, and with her elbow resting upon a marble stand, her cheeks flushed, and her eyelashes moist with the tears she dared not shed, she was watching him with feelings in which more of real pain than jealousy was mingled; for Ella was weak and simple-hearted, and loved Henry Lincoln far better than such as he deserved to be loved.

"Of what are you thinking, Ella?" asked Rose, who finding herself nearly alone, felt willing to converse with almost any one.

At the sound of her voice Ella looked up, and coming quickly to her side, said, "It's so dull and lonesome here, I wish I'd staid at home."

In her heart Rose wished so too, but she was too proud to acknowledge it, and feeling unusually kind towards Ella, whose uneasiness she readily understood, she replied, "Oh, I see you are jealous of Henry, but he's only trying to teaze you, for he can't be interested in that awkward thing."

"But he is. I 'most know he is," returned Ella, with a trembling of the voice she tried in vain to subdue; and then, fearing she could not longer restrain her emotion, she suddenly broke away from Rose, and ran hastily up to the dressing-room.

Nothing of all this escaped Henry's quick eye, and as sundry unpaid bills for wine, brandy, oyster suppers, and livery, came looming up before his mind, he thought proper to make some amends for his neglect. Accordingly when Ella returned to the drawing-room, he offered her his arm, asking "what made her eyes so red," and slyly pressing her hand, when she averted her face saying, "Nothing,—they weren't red."

Meantime William Bender, having managed to drop Jenny from his arm, had asked Mary to accompany him to a small conservatory, which was separated from the reception rooms by a long and brilliantly lighted gallery. As they stood together, admiring a rare exotic, William's manner suddenly changed, and drawing Mary closer to his side, he said distinctly, though hurriedly, "I notice, Mary, that you seem embarrassed in my presence, and I have, therefore, sought this opportunity to assure you that I shall not again distress you by a declaration of love, which, if returned, would now give me more pain than pleasure, for as I told you at Mr. Selden's, I am changed in more respects than one. It cost me a bitter struggle to give you up, but reason and judgment finally conquered, and now I can calmly think of you, as some time belonging to another, and with all a brother's confidence, can tell you that I, too, love another,—not as once I loved you, for that would be impossible but with a calmer, more rational love."

All this time Mary had not spoken, though the hand which William had taken in his trembled like an imprisoned bird; but when he came to speak of loving another, she involuntarily raised his hand to her lips, exclaiming, "It's Jenny, it's Jenny."

"You have guessed rightly," returned William, smiling at the earnestness of her manner. "It is Jenny, though how such a state of things ever came about, is more than I can tell."

Mary thought of the old saying, "Love begets love," but she said nothing, for just then Jenny herself joined them. Looking first at William, then at Mary, and finally passing her arm around the latter, she whispered, "I know he's told you, and I'm glad, for somehow I couldn't tell you myself."

Wisely thinking that his company could be dispensed with, William walked away, leaving the two girls alone. In her usual frank way, Jenny rattled on, telling Mary how happy she was, and how funny it seemed to be engaged, and how frightened she was when William asked her to marry him.

Fearing that they might be missed, they at last returned to the parlor, where they found Ella seated at the piano, and playing a very spirited polka. Henry, who boasted that he "could wind her around his little finger," had succeeded in coaxing her into good humor, but not at all desiring her company for the rest of the evening, he asked her to play, as the easiest way to be rid of her. She played unusually well, but when, at the close of the piece, she looked around for commendation, from the one for whose ear alone she had played, she saw him across the room, so wholly engrossed with her sister that he probably did not even know when the sound of the piano ceased.

Poor Ella; it was with the saddest heartache she had ever known that she returned from a party which had promised her so much pleasure, and which had given her so much pain. Rose, too, was bitterly disappointed. One by one her old admirers had left her for the society of the "pauper," as she secretly styled Mary, and more than once during the evening had she heard the "beauty" and "grace" of her rival extolled by those for whose opinion she cared the most; and when, at one o'clock in the morning, she threw herself exhausted upon the sofa, she declared "'twas the last party she'd ever attend."

Alas, for thee, Rosa, that declaration proved too true!



CHAPTER XXVI.

MAKING UP HIS MIND.

For more than an hour there had been unbroken silence in the dingy old law office of Mr. Worthington, where Henry Lincoln and William Bender still remained, the one as a practising lawyer and junior partner of the firm, and the other as a student still, for he had not yet dared to offer himself for examination. Study was something which Henry particularly disliked; and as his mother had trained him with the idea, that labor for him was wholly unnecessary, he had never bestowed a thought on the future, or made an exertion of any kind.

Now, however, a different phase of affairs was appearing. His father's fortune was threatened with ruin; and as, on a morning several weeks subsequent to Mrs. Russell's party, he sat in the office with his heels upon the window sill, and his arms folded over his head, he debated the all-important question, whether it were better to marry Ella Campbell, for the money which would save him from poverty, or to rouse himself to action for the sake of Mary Howard, whom he really fancied he loved!

Frequently since the party had he met her, each time becoming more and more convinced of her superiority over the other young ladies of his acquaintance. He was undoubtedly greatly assisted in this decision by the manner with which she was received by the fashionables of Boston, but aside from that, as far as he was capable of doing so, he liked her, and was now making up his mind whether to tell her so or not.

At last, breaking the silence, he exclaimed, "Hang me if I don't believe she's bewitched me, or else I'm in love.—Bender, how does a chap feel when he's in love?"

"Very foolish, judging from yourself," returned William; and Henry replied, "I hope you mean nothing personal, for I'm bound to avenge my honor, and t'would be a deuced scrape for you and me to fight about 'your sister,' as you call her, for 'tis she who has inspired me, or made a fool of me, one or the other."

"You've changed your mind, haven't you?" asked William, a little sarcastically.

"Hanged if I have," said Henry. "I was interested in her years ago, when she was the ugliest little vixen a man ever looked upon, and that's why I teazed her so,—I don't believe she's handsome now, but she's something, and that something has raised the mischief with me. Come, Bender, you are better acquainted with her than I am, so tell me honestly if you think I'd better marry her."

The expression of William's face was a sufficient answer, and with something of his old insolence, Henry continued, "You needn't feel jealous, for I tell you Mary Howard looks higher than you. Why, she'd wear the crown of England, as a matter of course, any day."

With a haughty frown, William replied, "You have my permission, sir, to propose as soon as you please. I rather wish you would," then taking his hat, he left the office, while Henry continued his soliloquy, as follows:—"I wonder what the old folks would say to a penniless bride. Wouldn't mother and Rose raise a row? I'd soon quiet the old woman, though, by threatening to tell that she was once a factory girl,—yes, a factory girl. But if dad smashes up I'll have to work, for I haven't brains enough to earn my living by my wit. I guess on the whole, I'll go and call on Ella, she's handsome, and besides that, has the rhino too, but, Lord, how shallow!" and the young man broke the blade of his knife as he struck it into the hard wood table, by way of emphasizing his last words.

Ella chanced to be out, and as Henry was returning, he overtook Ida Selden and Mary Howard, who were taking their accustomed walk. Since her conversation with William a weight seemed lifted from Mary's spirits, and she now was happier far than she ever remembered of having been before. She was a general favorite in Boston, where all of her acquaintances vied with each other in making her stay among them as agreeable as possible. Her facilities for improvement, too, were great, and what was better than all the rest, George Moreland was to return much sooner than he at first intended. While she was so happy herself, Mary could not find it in her heart to be uncourteous to Henry, and her manner towards him that morning was so kind and affable that it completely upset him; and when he parted with her at Mr. Selden's gate, his mind was quite made up to offer her his heart and hand.

"I shall have to work," thought he, as he entered his room to decide upon the best means by which to make his intentions known. "I shall have to work, I know, but for her sake I'd do any thing."

There was a bottle of Madeira standing upon the table and as he announced his determination of "doing any thing for the sake of Mary Howard," his eye fell upon his favorite beverage. A deep blush mounted to his brow, and a fierce struggle between his love for Mary and his love for the wine-cup ensued. The former conquered, and seizing the bottle he hurled it against the marble fire jamb, exclaiming, "I'll be a man, a sober man, and never shall the light of Mary's eyes grow dim with tears wept for a drunken husband!"

Henry was growing eloquent, and lest the inspiration should leave him, he sat down and wrote to Mary, on paper what he could not tell her face to face. Had there been a lingering doubt of her acceptance, he would undoubtedly have wasted at least a dozen sheets of the tiny gilt-edged paper, but as it was, one would suffice, for she would not scrutinize his handwriting,—she would not count the blots, or mark the omission of punctuating pauses. She would almost say yes before she read it. So the letter, which contained a sincere apology for his uncivil treatment of her in former years, and an ardent declaration of love for her now, was written sealed, and directed, and then there was a gentle rap upon the door. Jenny wished to come in for a book which was lying upon the table.

Henry had resolved to keep his family ignorant of his intentions, but at the sight of Jenny he changed his mind,—Jenny loved Mary, too. Jenny would be delighted at the prospect of having her for a sister, and would help him brave the storm of his mother's displeasure.

"Jenny," said he, grasping at her dress, as she passed him on her way from the room, "Jenny, sit down here. I want to tell you something." Jenny glanced at the fragments of the wine bottle, then at her brother's flushed face, and instantly conjecturing that he had been drinking, said reproachfully, as she laid her soft, white hand on his brow "Oh, brother, brother!"

He understood her meaning, and drawing her so closely to him that his warm breath floated over her cheek, replied, "I'm not drunk, for see, there is no scent of alcohol in my breath, for I have sworn to reform,—sworn that no drop of ardent spirits shall ever again pass my lips."

The sudden exclamation of joy, the arms thrown so affectionately around his neck, the hot tears upon his cheek, and the kisses that warm-hearted sister imprinted upon his lips should have helped him to ratify that vow. But not for her sake had it been made, and shaking her off, he said, "Don't make a fool of yourself, Jenny, I wasn't in any danger of disgracing you, for I was only a moderate drinker. But really, I do want to talk with you on a very important subject. I want to ask who of all your acquaintances you would prefer to have for a sister, for I am going to be married."

"To Ella?" asked Jenny, and Henry replied scornfully, "No, ma'am! my wife must have a soul, a heart, and a mind, to make up for my deficiency on those points. To be plain, how would you like to have me marry Mary Howard?"

"Not at all—Not at all," was Jenny's quick reply, while her brother said angrily, "And why not? Are you, too, proud as Lucifer, like the rest of us? I could tell you something, Miss, that would bring your pride down a peg or two. But answer me, why are you unwilling for me to marry Mary?"

Jenny's spirit was roused too, and looking her brother fully in his face, she unhesitatingly replied, "You are not worthy of her; neither would she have you."

"And this from my own sister?" said Henry, hardly able to control his wrath. "Leave the room, instantly,—But stay," he added, "and let me hear the reasons for what you have asserted."

"You know as well as I," answered Jenny, "that one as pure and gentle as Mary Howard, should never be associated with you, who would trample upon a woman's better nature and feelings, for the sake of gratifying your own wishes. Whenever it suits your purpose, you flatter and caress Ella Campbell, to whom your slightest wish is a law, and then when your mood changes, you treat her with neglect; and think you, that knowing all this, Mary Howard would look favorably upon you, even if there were no stronger reason why she should refuse you?"

"If you mean the brandy bottle," said Henry, growing more and more excited, "have I not sworn to quit it, and is it for you to goad me on to madness, until I break that vow?"

"Forgive me if I have been too harsh," said Jenny, taking Henry's hand. "You are my brother, and Mary my dearest friend, and when I say I would not see her wedded to you, 'tis not because I love you less, but her the more. You are wholly unlike, and would not be happy together. But oh, if her love would win you back to virtue, I would almost beg her, on my bended knees, not to turn away from you."

"And I tell you her love can win me back, when nothing else in the kingdom will," said Henry, snatching up the note and hurrying away.

For a time after he left the room, Jenny sat in a kind of stupefied maze. That Mary would refuse her brother, she was certain, and she trembled for the effect that refusal would produce upon him. Other thoughts, too, crowded upon the young girl's mind, and made her tears flow fast. Henry had hinted of something which he could tell her if he would, and her heart too well foreboded what that something was. The heavy sound of her father's footsteps, which sometimes kept her awake the livelong night, his pale haggard face in the morning, and her mother's nervous, anxious manner, told her that ruin was hanging over them.

In the midst of her reverie, Henry returned. He had delivered the letter, and now, restless and unquiet, he sat down to await its answer. It came at last,—his rejection, yet couched in language so kind and conciliatory, that he could not feel angry. Twice,—three times he read it over, hoping to find some intimation that possibly she might relent; but no, it was firm and decided, and while she thanked him for the honor he conferred upon her, she respectfully declined accepting it, assuring him that his secret should be kept inviolate.

"There's some comfort in that," thought he, "for I wouldn't like to have it known that I had been refused by a poor unknown girl," and then, as the conviction came over him that she would never he his, he laid his head upon the table, and wept such tears as a spoiled child might weep when refused a toy, too costly and delicate to be trusted in its rude grasp.

Erelong, there was another knock at the door, and, hastily wiping away all traces of his emotion, Henry admitted his father, who had come to talk of their future prospects, which were even worse than he had feared. But he did not reproach his wayward son, nor hint that his reckless extravagance had hastened the calamity which otherwise might possibly have been avoided. Calmly he stated the extent to which they were involved, adding that though an entire failure might be prevented a short time, it would come at last; and that an honorable payment of his debts would leave them beggars.

"For myself I do not care," said the wretched man, pressing hard his aching temples, where the gray hairs had thickened within a few short weeks. "For myself I do not care but for my wife and children,—for Rose, and that she must miss her accustomed comforts, is the keenest pang of all."

All this time, Henry had not spoken, but thought was busily at work. He could not bestir himself; he had no energy for that now; but he could marry Ella Campbell, whose wealth would keep him in the position he now occupied, besides supplying many of Rose's wants.

Cursing the fate which had reduced him to such an extremity, towards the dusk of evening, Henry started again for Mrs. Campbell's. Lights were burning in the parlor and as the curtains were drawn back, he could see through the partially opened shutter, that Ella was alone. Reclining in a large sofa chair, she sat, leaning upon her elbow, the soft curls of her brown hair falling over her white arm, which the full blue cashmere sleeve exposed to view. She seemed deeply engaged in thought, and never before had she looked so lovely to Henry, who, as he gazed upon her, felt a glow of pride, in thinking that fair young girl could be his for the asking.

"I wish she was not so confounded flat," thought he, hastily ringing the door-bell.

Instantly divining who it was, Ella sprang up, and when Henry entered the parlor, he found her standing in the centre of the room, where the full blaze of the chandelier fell upon her childish features, lighting them up with radiant beauty.

"And so my little pet is alone," said he, coming forward, and raising to his lips the dainty fingers which Ella extended towards him. "I hope the old aunty is out," he continued, "for I want to see you on special business."

Ella noticed how excited he appeared, and always on the alert for something when he was with her, she began to tremble, and without knowing what she said, asked him "what he wanted of her?"

"Zounds!" thought Henry, "she meets me more than half-way;" and then, lest his resolution should fail, he reseated her in the chair she had left, and drawing an ottoman to her side, hastily told her of his love, ending his declaration, by saying that from the first time he ever saw her, he had determined that she should be his wife! And Ella, wholly deceived, allowed her head to droop upon his shoulder, while she whispered to him her answer. Thus they were betrothed,—Henry Lincoln and Ella Campbell.

"Glad am I to be out of that atmosphere," thought the newly engaged young man, as he reached the open air, and began to breathe more freely. "Goodness me, won't I lead a glorious life, with that jar of tomato sweetmeats! Now, if she'd only hung back a little,—but no, she said yes before I fairly got the words out; but money covereth a multitude of sins,—I beg your pardon, ma'am," said he quickly, as he became conscious of having rudely jostled a young lady, who was turning the corner.

Looking up, he met Mary Howard's large, dark eyes fixed rather inquiringly upon him. She was accompanied by one of Mr. Selden's servants, and he felt sure she was going to visit her sister. Of course, Ella would tell her all, and what must Mary think of one who could so soon repeat his vows of love to another? In all the world there was not an individual for whose good opinion Henry Lincoln cared one half so much as for Mary Howard's; and the thought that he should now surely lose it maddened him. The resolution of the morning was forgotten, and that night a fond father watched and wept over his inebriate son, for never before had Henry Lincoln been so beastly intoxicated.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SHADOWS DEEPEN.

From one of the luxuriously furnished chambers of her father's elegant mansion, Jenny Lincoln looked mournfully out upon the thick angry clouds, which, the livelong day, had obscured the winter sky. Dreamily for a while she listened to the patter of the rain as it fell upon the deserted pavement below, and then, with a long, deep sigh, she turned away and wept. Poor Jenny!—the day was rainy, and dark, and dreary, but darker far were the shadows stealing over her pathway. Turn which way she would, there was not one ray of sunshine, which even her buoyant spirits could gather from the surrounding gloom. Her only sister was slowly, but surely dying, and when Jenny thought of this she felt that if Rose could only live, she'd try and bear the rest; try to forget how much she loved William Bender, who that morning had honorably and manfully asked her of her parents, and been spurned with contempt,—not by her father, for could he have followed the dictates of his better judgment, he would willingly have given his daughter to the care of one who he knew would carefully shield her from the storms of life. It was not he, but the cold, proud mother, who so haughtily refused William's request, accusing him of taking underhanded means to win her daughter's affections.

"I had rather see you dead!" said the stony-hearted woman, when Jenny knelt at her feet, and pleaded for her to take back the words she had spoken—"I had rather see you dead, than married to such as he. I mean what I have said, and you will never be his."

Jenny knew William too well to think he would ever sanction an act of disobedience to her mother, and her heart grew faint, and her eyes dim with tears, as she thought of conquering the love which had grown with her growth, and strengthened with her strength. There was another reason, too, why Jenny should weep as she sat there alone in her room. From her father she had heard of all that was to happen. The luxuries to which all her life she had been accustomed, were to be hers no longer. The pleasant country house in Chicopee, dearer far than her city home, must be sold, and nowhere in the wide world, was there a place for them to rest.

It was of all this that Jenny was thinking that dreary afternoon; and when at last she turned away from the window, her thoughts went back again to her sister, and she murmured, "If she could only live."

But it could not be;—the fiat had gone forth, and Rose, like the fair summer flower whose name she bore, must fade and pass away. For several days after Mrs. Russell's party she tried to keep up, but the laws of nature had been outraged, and now she lay all day in a darkened room, moaning with pain, and wondering why the faces of those around her were so sad and mournful.

"Jenny," said she one day when the physician, as usual, had left the room without a word of encouragement—"Jenny, what does make you look so blue and forlorn. I hope you don't fancy I'm going to die? Of course I'm not."

Here a coughing fit ensued, and after it was over, she continued, "Isn't George Moreland expected soon?"

Jenny nodded, and Rose proceeded, "I must, and will be well before he comes, for 'twill never do to yield the field to that Howard girl, who they say is contriving every way to get him,—coaxing round old Aunt Martha, and all that. But how ridiculous! George Moreland, with his fastidious, taste, marry a pauper!" and the sick girl's fading cheek glowed, and her eyes grew brighter at the absurd idea!

Just then Mr. Lincoln entered the room. He had been consulting with his wife the propriety of taking Rose to her grandmother's in the country. She would thus be saved the knowledge of his failure, which could not much longer be kept a secret; and besides that, they all, sooner or later, must leave the house in which they were living; and he judged it best to remove his daughter while she was able to endure the journey. At first Mrs. Lincoln wept bitterly for if Rose went to Glenwood, she, too, must of course go and the old brown house, with its oaken floor and wainscoted ceiling, had now no charms for the gay woman of fashion who turned with disdain from the humble roof which had sheltered her childhood.

Lifting her tearful eyes to her husband's face, she said "Oh, I can't go there. Why not engage rooms at the hotel in Glenwood village. Mother is so odd and peculiar in her ways of living, that I never can endure it," and again Mrs. Lincoln buried her face in the folds of her fine linen cambric, thinking there was never in the world a woman as wretched as herself.

"Don't, Hatty, don't; it distresses me to see you feel thus. Rooms and board at the hotel would cost far more than I can afford to pay, and then, too,—" here he paused, as if to gather courage for what he was next to say; "and then, too, your mother will care for Rose's soul as well as body."

Mrs. Lincoln looked up quickly, and her husband continued, "Yes, Hatty, we need not deceive ourselves longer. Rose must die, and you know as well as I whether our training has been such as will best fit her for another world."

For a time Mrs. Lincoln was silent, and then in a more subdued tone, she said, "Do as you like, only you must tell Rose. I never can."

Half an hour after, Mr. Lincoln entered his daughter's room, and bending affectionately over her pillow, said, "How is my darling to-day?"

"Better, better,—almost well," returned Rose, raising herself in bed to prove what she had said. "I shall be out in a few days, and then you'll buy me one of those elegant plaid silks, won't you? All the girls are wearing them, and I haven't had a new dress this winter, and here 'tis almost March."

Oh, how the father longed to tell his dying child that her next dress would be a shroud. But he could not. He was too much a man of the world to speak to her of death,—he would leave that for her grandmother; so without answering her question, he said, "Rose, do you think you are able to be moved into the country?"

"What, to Chicopee? that horrid dull place! I thought we were not going there this summer."

"No, not to Chicopee, but to your grandma Howland's, in Glenwood. The physician thinks you will be more quiet there, and the pure air will do you good."

Rose looked earnestly in her father's face to see if he meant what he said, and then replied, "I'd rather go any where in the world than to Glenwood. You've no idea how, I hate to stay there. Grandma is so queer, and the things in the house so fussy and countrified,—and cooks by a fireplace, and washes in a tin basin, and wipes on a crash towel that hangs on a roller!"

Mr. Lincoln could hardly repress a smile at Rose's reasoning, but perceiving that he must be decided, he said, "We think it best for you to go, and shall accordingly make arrangements to take you in the course of a week or two. Your mother will stay with you, and Jenny, too, will be there a part of the time;" then, not wishing to witness the effect of his words, he hastily left the room, pausing in the hall to wipe away the tears which involuntarily came to his eyes, as he overheard Rose angrily wonder, "why she should be turned out of doors when she wasn't able to sit up!"

"I never can bear the scent of those great tallow candles, never," said she; "and then to think of the coarse sheets and patchwork bedquilts—oh, it's dreadful!"

Jenny's heart, too, was well-nigh bursting, but she forced down her own sorrow, while she strove to comfort her sister, telling her how strong and well the bracing air of the country would make her, and how refreshing when her fever was on would be the clear, cold water which gushed from the spring near the thorn-apple tree, where in childhood they so oft had played. Then she spoke of the miniature waterfall, which not far from their grandmother's door, made "fairy-like music;" all the day long, and at last, as if soothed by the sound of that far-off falling water, Rose forgot her trouble, and sank into a sweet, refreshing slumber, in which she dreamed that the joyous summer-time had come, and that she, well and strong as Jenny had predicted, was the happy bride of George Moreland, who led her to a grass-grown grave,—the grave of Mary Howard, who had died of consumption and been buried in Glenwood!

While Rose was sleeping, Jenny stole softly down the stairs, and throwing on her shawl and bonnet, went across the street, to confide her troubles with Mary Howard; who, while she sympathized deeply with her young friend, was not surprised, for, from her slight acquaintance with Mrs Lincoln, she could readily believe that one so ambitious and haughty, would seek for her daughter a wealthier alliance than a poor lawyer. All that she could say to comfort Jenny she did, bidding her to wait patiently, and hope for the best.

"You are blue and dispirited," said she, "and a little fresh air will do you good. Suppose we walk round a square or two; for see, the rain is over now."

Jenny consented, and they had hardly gone half the length of a street when William himself joined them. Rightly guessing that her absence would not be noticed, Mary turned suddenly into a side street, leaving William and Jenny to themselves. From that walk Jenny returned to her home much happier than she left it. She had seen William,—had talked with him of the past, present, and future,—had caught from his hopeful spirit the belief that all would be well in time, and in a far more cheerful frame of mind, she re-entered her sister's room; and when Rose, who was awake, and noticed the change in her appearance, asked what had happened, she could not forbear telling her.

Rose heard her through, and then very kindly informed her that "she was a fool to care for such a rough-scuff."

In a few days, preparations were commenced for moving Rose to Glenwood, and in the excitement of getting ready, she in a measure forgot the tallow candles and patchwork bedquilt, the thoughts of which had so much shocked her at first.

"Put in my embroidered merino morning gown," said she to Jenny, who was packing her trunk, "and the blue cashmere one faced with white satin; and don't forget my best cambric skirt, the one with so much work on it, for when George Moreland comes to Glenwood I shall want to look as well as possible; and then, too, I like to see the country folks open their mouths, and stare at city fashions.'

"What makes you think George will come to Glenwood?" asked Jenny, as she packed away dresses her sister would never wear.

"I know, and that's enough," answered Rose; "and now, before you forget it, put in my leghorn flat, for if I stay long, I shall want it; and see how nicely you can fold the dress I wore at Mrs. Russell's party!"

"Why, Rose, what can you possibly want of that?" asked Jenny, and Rose replied, "Oh, I want to show it to grandma, just to hear her groan over our extravagance, and predict that we'll yet come to ruin!"

Jenny thought that if Rose could have seen her father that morning, when the bill for the dress and its costly trimmings was presented, she would have wished it removed for ever from her sight. Early in the winter Mr. Lincoln had seen that all such matters were settled, and of this bill, more recently made, he knew nothing.

"I can't pay it now," said he promptly to the boy who brought it. "Tell Mr. Holton I will see him in a day or two."

The boy took the paper with an insolent grin, for he had heard the fast circulating rumor, "that one of the big bugs was about to smash up;" and now, eager to confirm the report, he ran swiftly back to his employer, who muttered, "Just as I expected. I'll draw on him for what I lent him, and that'll tell the story. My daughters can't afford to wear such things, and I'm not going to furnish money for his."

Of all this Rose did not dream, for in her estimation there was no end to her father's wealth, and the possibility of his failing had never entered her mind. Henry indeed had once hinted it to her on the occasion of her asking him "how he could fancy Ella Campbell enough to marry her."

"I'm not marrying her, but her money" was his prompt answer; "and I assure you, young lady, we are more in need of that article than you imagine."

Rose paid no attention to this speech, and when she found that her favorite Sarah was not to accompany her, she almost wept herself into convulsions, declaring that her father, to whom the mother imputed the blame, was cruel and hard-hearted, and that if it was Jenny instead of herself who was sick, she guessed "she'd have forty waiting-maids if she wanted them."

"I should like to know who is to take care of me?" said she. "Jenny isn't going, and grandma would think it an unpardonable extravagance to hire a servant. I will not go, and that ends it! If you want to be rid of me, I can die fast enough here."

Mrs. Lincoln had nothing to say, for she well knew she had trained her daughter to despise every thing pertaining to the old brown house, once her childhood home, and where even now the kind-hearted grandmother was busy in preparing for the reception of the invalid. From morning until night did the little active form of Grandma Howland flit from room to room, washing windows which needed no washing, dusting tables on which no dust was lying, and doing a thousand things which she thought would add to the comfort of Rose. On one room in particular did the good old lady bestow more than usual care. 'Twas the "spare chamber," at whose windows Rose, when a little girl, had stood for hours, watching the thin, blue mist and fleecy clouds, as they floated around the tall green mountains, which at no great distance seemed to tower upward, and upward, until their tops were lost in the sky above. At the foot of the mountain and nearer Glenwood, was a small sheet of water which now in the spring time was plainly discernible from the windows of Rose's chamber, and with careful forethought Mrs. Howland arranged the bed so that the sick girl could look out upon the tiny lake and the mountains beyond. Snowy white, and fragrant with the leaves of rose and geranium which had been pressed within their folds, were the sheets which covered the bed, the last Rose Lincoln would ever rest upon. Soft and downy were the pillows, and the patchwork quilt, Rose's particular aversion, was removed, and its place supplied by one of more modern make.

Once Mrs. Howland thought to shade the windows with the Venetian blinds which hung in the parlor below; but they shut out so much sunlight, and made the room so gloomy, that she carried them back, substituting in their place plain white muslin curtains. The best rocking chair, and the old-fashioned carved mirror, were brought up from the parlor; and then when all was done, Mrs. Howland gave a sigh of satisfaction that it was so well done, and closed the room until Rose should arrive.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

GLENWOOD.

Through the rich crimson curtains which shaded Rose Lincoln's sleeping room, the golden beams of a warm March sun wore stealing, lighting up the thin features of the sick girl with a glow so nearly resembling health, that Jenny, when she came to wish her sister good morning, started with surprise at seeing her look so well.

"Why, Rose, you are better," said she, kissing the fair cheek on which the ray of sunlight was resting.

Rose had just awoke from her deep morning slumber, and now remembering that this was the day appointed for her dreaded journey to Glenwood, she burst into tears, wondering "why they would persist in dragging her from home."

"It's only a pretence to get me away, I know," said she, "and you may as well confess it at once. You are tired of waiting upon me."

Mr. Lincoln now came in to see his daughter, but all his attempts to soothe her were in vain. She only replied, "Let me stay at home, here in this room, my own room;" adding more in anger than sorrow, "I'll try to die as soon as I can; and be out of the way, if that's what you want!"

"Oh, Rose, Rose! poor father don't deserve that," said Jenny, raising her hand as if to stay her sister's thoughtless words while Mr Lincoln, laying his face upon the pillow so that his silvered locks mingled with the dark tresses of his child, wept bitterly,—bitterly.

And still he could not tell her why she must leave her home. He would rather bear her unjust reproaches, than have her know that they were beggars; for a sudden shock the physician said, might at any time end her life. Thoroughly selfish as she was, Rose still loved her father dearly, and when she saw him thus moved, and knew that she was the cause, she repented of her hasty words, and laying her long white arm across his neck, asked forgiveness for what she had said.

"I will go to Glenwood," said she; "but must I stay there long?"

"Not long, not long, my child," was the father's reply, and Jenny brushed away a tear as she too thought, "not long."

And so, with the belief that her stay was to be short, Rose passively suffered them to dress her for the journey, which was to be performed partly by railway and partly in a carriage. For the first time since the night of his engagement with Ella Campbell, Henry was this morning free from intoxicating drinks. He had heard them say that Rose must die, but it had seemed to him like an unpleasant dream, from which he now awoke to find it a reality. They had brought her down from her chamber, and laid her upon the sofa in the parlor, where Henry came unexpectedly upon her. He had not seen her for several days, and when he found her lying there so pale and still, her long eyelashes resting heavily upon her colorless cheek, and her small white hands hanging listlessly by her side, he softly approached her thinking her asleep, kissed her brow, cheek and lips, whispering as he did so, "Poor girl! poor Rosa! so young and beautiful."

Rose started, and wiping from her forehead the tear her brother had left there, she looked anxiously around. Henry was gone, but his words had awakened in her mind a new and startling idea. Was she going to die? Did they think so, and was this the reason of Henry's unwonted tenderness? and sinking back upon her pillows, she wept as only those weep to whom, in the full flush of youth and beauty, death comes a dreaded and unwelcome guest.

"I cannot die,—I will not die," said she at last, rousing herself with sudden energy; "I feel that within me which says I shall not die. The air of Glenwood will do me good, and grandma's skill in nursing is wonderful."

Consoled by these reflections, she became more calm, and had her father now given his consent for her to remain in Boston, she would of her own accord have gone to Glenwood.

* * * * *

The morning train bound for Albany stood in the depot, waiting the signal to start; and just before the final "all aboard" was sounded, a handsome equipage drove slowly up, and from it alighted Mr. Lincoln, bearing in his arms his daughter, whose head rested wearily upon his shoulder. Accompanying him were his wife, Jenny, and a gray-haired man, the family physician. Together they entered the rear car, and instantly there was a hasty turning of heads, a shaking of curls, and low whispers, as each noticed and commented upon the unearthly beauty of Rose, who in her father's arms, lay as if wholly exhausted with the effort she had made.

The sight of her, so young, so fair, and apparently so low, hushed all selfish feelings, and a gay bridal party who had taken possession of the ladies' saloon, immediately came forward, offering it to Mr. Lincoln, who readily accepted it, and laying Rose upon the long settee, he made her as comfortable as possible with the numerous pillows and cushions he had brought with him. As the creaking engine moved slowly out of Boston, Rose asked that the window might be raised, and leaning upon her elbow, she looked out upon her native city, which she was leaving for ever. Some such idea came to her mind; but quickly repressing it, she turned towards her father, saying with a smile, "I shall be better when I see Boston again."

Mr. Lincoln turned away to hide a tear, for he had no hope that she would ever return. Towards nightfall of the next day they reached Glenwood, and Rose, more fatigued than she was willing to acknowledge, now that she was so determined to get well, was lifted from the carriage and carried into the house. Mrs. Howland hastened forward to receive her, and for once Rose forgot to notice whether the cut of her cap was of this year's fashion or last.

"I am weary," she said. "Lay me where I can rest." And with the grandmother leading the way, the father carried his child to the chamber prepared for her with so much care.

"It's worse than I thought 'twas," said Mrs. Howland, returning to the parlor below, where her daughter, after looking in vain for the big rocking-chair, had thrown herself with a sigh upon the chintz-covered lounge. "It's a deal worse than I thought 'twas. Hasn't she catched cold, or been exposed some way?"

"Not in the least," returned Mrs. Lincoln, twirling the golden stopper of her smelling bottle. "The foundation of her sickness was laid at Mount Holyoke, and the whole faculty ought to be indicted for manslaughter."

Jenny's clear, truthful eyes turned towards her mother, who frowned darkly, and continued: "She was as well as any one until she went there, and I consider it my duty to warn all parents against sending their daughters to a place where neither health, manners, nor any thing else is attended to, except religion and housework."

Jenny had not quite got over her childish habit of occasionally setting her mother right on some points, and she could not forbear saying that Dr. Kleber thought Rose injured herself by attending Mrs. Russell's party.

"Dr. Kleber doesn't know any more about it than I do," returned her mother. "He's always minding other folks' business, and so are you. I guess you'd better go up stairs, and see if Rose doesn't want something."

Jenny obeyed, and as she entered her sister's chamber, Rose lifted her head languidly from her pillow, and pointing to a window, which had been opened that she might breathe more freely, said, "Just listen; don't you hear that horrid croaking?"

Jenny laughed aloud, for she knew Rose had heard "that horrid croaking" move than a hundred times in Chicopee, but in Glenwood every thing must necessarily assume a goblin form and sound. Seating herself upon the foot of the bed, she said, "Why, that's the frogs. I love to hear them dearly. It makes me feel both sad and happy, just as the crickets do that sing under the hearth in our old home at Chicopee."

Jenny's whole heart was in the country, and she could not so well sympathize with her nervous, sensitive sister, who shrank from country sights and country sounds. Accidentally spying some tall locust branches swinging in the evening breeze before the east window, she again spoke to Jenny, telling her to look and see if the tree leaned against the house, "for if it does," said she, "and creaks I shan't sleep a wink to-night."

After assuring her that the tree was all right, Jenny added, "I love to hear the wind howl through these old trees, and were it not for you, I should wish it might blow so that I could lie awake and hear it."

When it grew darker, and the stars began to come out. Jenny was told "to close the shutters."

"Now, Rose," said she, "you are making half of this, for you know as well as I, that grandma's house hasn't got any shutters."

"Oh, mercy, no more it hasn't. What shall I do?" said Rose, half crying with vexation. "That coarse muslin stuff is worse than nothing, and everybody'll be looking in to see me."

"They'll have to climb to the top of the trees, then," said Jenny, "for the ground descends in every direction, and the road, too, is so far away. Besides that, who is there that wants to see you?"

Rose didn't know. She was sure there was somebody, and when Mrs. Howland came up with one of the nicest little suppers on a small tea-tray, how was she shocked to find the window covered with her best blankets, which were safely packed away in the closet adjoining.

"Rose was afraid somebody would look in and see her," said Jenny, as she read her grandmother's astonishment in her face.

"Look in and see her!" repeated Mrs. Howland. "I've undressed without curtains there forty years, and I'll be bound nobody ever peeked at me. But come," she added, "set up, and see if you can't eat a mouthful or so. Here's some broiled chicken, a slice of toast, some currant jelly that I made myself, and the swimminest cup of black tea you ever see. It'll eenamost bear up an egg."

"Sweetened with brown sugar, ain't it?" said Rose sipping a little of the tea.

In great distress the good old lady replied that she was out of white sugar, but some folks loved brown just as well.

"Ugh! Take it away," said Rose. "It makes me sick and I don't believe I can eat another mite," but in spite of her belief the food rapidly disappeared, while she alternately made fun of the little silver spoons, her grandmother's bridal gift, and found fault because the jelly was not put up in porcelain jars, instead of the old blue earthen tea-cup, tied over with a piece of paper!

Until a late hour that night, did Rose keep the whole household (her mother excepted) on the alert, doing the thousand useless things which her nervous fancy prompted. First the front door, usually secured with a bit of whittled shingle, must be nailed, "or somebody would break in." Next, the windows, which in the rising wind began to rattle, must be made fast with divers knives, scissors, combs and keys; and lastly, the old clock must be stopped, for Rose was not accustomed to its striking, and it would keep her awake.

"Dear me!" said the tired old grandmother, when, at about midnight, she repaired to her own cosy little bedroom, "how fidgety she is. I should of s'posed that livin' in the city so, she'd got used to noises."

In a day or two Mr. Lincoln and Jenny went back to Boston, bearing with them a long list of articles which Rose must and would have. As they were leaving the house Mrs Howland brought out her black leathern wallet, and forcing two ten dollar bills into Jenny's hand, whispered, "Take it to pay for them things. Your pa has need enough for his money, and this is some I've earned along, knitting, and selling butter. At first I thought I would get a new chamber carpet, but the old one answers my turn very well, so take it and buy Rose every thing she wants."

And all this time the thankless girl up stairs was fretting and muttering about her grandmother's stinginess, in not having a better carpet "than the old faded thing which looked as if manufactured before the flood!"



CHAPTER XXIX.

A NEW DISCOVERY.

On the same day when Rose Lincoln left Boston for Glenwood, Mrs. Campbell sat in her own room, gloomy and depressed. For several days she had not been well, and besides that, Ella's engagement with Henry Lincoln filled her heart with dark forebodings, for rumor said that he was unprincipled, and dissipated, and before giving her consent Mrs. Campbell had labored long with Ella, who insisted "that he was no worse than other young men,—most of them drank occasionally, and Henry did nothing more!"

On this afternoon she had again conversed with Ella, who angrily declared, that she would marry him even if she knew he'd be a drunkard, adding, "But he won't be. He loves me better than all the world, and I shall help him to reform."

"I don't believe your sister would marry him," continued Mrs. Campbell, who was becoming much attached to Mary.

"I don't believe she would, either, and for a very good reason, too," returned Ella, pettishly jerking her long curls. "But I can't see why you should bring her up, for he has never been more than polite to her, and that he assured me was wholly on my account."

"She isn't pleased with your engagement!" said Mrs. Campbell; and Ella replied, "Well, what of that? It's nothing to her, and I didn't mean she should know it; but Jenny, like a little tattler, must needs tell her, and so she has read me a two hours' sermon on the subject. She acted so queer, too, I didn't know what to think of her, and when she and Henry are together, they look so funny, that I almost believe she wants him herself, but she can't have him,—no, she can't have him,"—and secure in the belief that she was the first and only object of Henry's affection, Ella danced out of the room to attend to the seamstress who was doing her plain sewing.

After she was gone, Mrs. Campbell fell asleep, and for the first time in many a long year dreamed of her old home in England. She did not remember it herself, but she had so often heard it described by the aunt who adopted her, that now it came up vividly before her mind, with its dark stone walls, its spacious grounds, terraced gardens, running vines and creeping roses. Something about it, too, reminded her of what Ella had once said of her mother's early home, and when she awoke, she wondered that she had never questioned the child more concerning her parents. She was just lying back again upon her pillow, when there was a gentle rap at the door, and Mary Howard's soft voice asked permission to come in.

"Yes, do," said Mrs. Campbell. "Perhaps you can charm away my headache, which is dreadful."

"I'll try," answered Mary. "Shall I read to you?"

"If you please; but first give me my salts. You'll find them there in that drawer."

Mary obeyed, but started as she opened the drawer, for there, on the top, lay a small, old-fashioned miniature, of a fair young child, so nearly resembling Franky, that the tears instantly came to her eyes.

"What is it?" asked Mrs Campbell, and Mary replied, "This picture,—so much like brother Franky. May I look at it?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Campbell. "That is a picture of my sister."

For a long time Mary gazed at the sweet childish face, which, with its clustering curls, and soft brown eyes, looked to her so much like Franky. At last, turning to Mrs. Campbell, she said, "You must have loved her very much. What was her name?"

"Ella Temple," was Mrs. Campbell's reply, and Mary instantly exclaimed, "Why, that was my mother's name!"

"Your mother, Mary!—your mother!" said Mrs. Campbell, starting up from her pillow. "But no; it cannot be. Your mother is lying in Chicopee, and Ella, my sister, died in England."

Every particle of color had left Mary's face, and her eyes, now black as midnight, stared wildly at Mrs. Campbell. The sad story, which her mother had once told her, came back to her mind, bringing with it the thought, which had so agitated her companion.

"Yes," she continued, without noticing what Mrs. Campbell had said, "my mother was Ella Temple, and she had two sisters, one her own, and the other, a half sister,—Sarah Fletcher and Jane Temple,—both of whom came to America many years ago."

"Tell me more,—tell me all you know!" whispered Mrs. Campbell, grasping Mary's hand; "and how it came bout that I thought she was dead,—my sister."

Upon this point Mary could throw no light, but of all that she had heard from her mother she told, and then Mrs Campbell, pointing to her writing desk, said, "Bring it to me. I must read that letter again."

Mary obeyed, and taking out a much soiled, blotted letter, Mrs. Campbell asked her to read it aloud. It was as follows—"Daughter Jane,—I now take this opportunity of informing you, that I've lost your sister Ella, and have now no child saving yourself, who, if you behave well, will be my only heir. Sometimes I wish you were here, for it's lonesome living alone, but, I suppose you're better off where you are. Do you know any thing of that girl Sarah? Her cross-grained uncle has never written me a word since he left England. If I live three years longer I shall come to America, and until that time, adieu. Your father,—Henry Temple Esq. M.P."

"How short and cold!" was Mary's first exclamation, for her impressions of her grandfather were not very agreeable.

"It is like all his letters," answered Mrs. Campbell "But it was cruel to make me think Ella was dead, for how else could I suppose he had lost her? and when I asked the particulars of her death, he sent me no answer; but at this I did not so much wonder, for he never wrote oftener than once in two or three years, and the next that I heard, he was dead, and I was heiress of all his wealth."

Then, as the conviction came over her that Mary was indeed the child of her own sister, she wound her arms about her neck, and kissing her lips, murmured, "My child,—my Mary. Oh, had I known this sooner, you should not have been so cruelly deserted, and little Allie should never have died in the alms-house. But you'll never leave me now, for all that I have is yours—yours and Ella's."

The thought of Ella touched a new chord, and Mrs Campbell's tears were rendered less bitter, by the knowledge that she had cared for, and been a mother, to one of her sister's orphan children.

"I know now," said she, "why, from the first, I felt so drawn towards Ella, and why her clear, large eyes, are so much like my own lost darling's, and even you, Mary—"

Here Mrs. Campbell paused, for proud as she now was of Mary, there had been a time when the haughty lady turned away from the sober, homely little child, who begged so piteously "to go with Ella" where there was room and to spare. All this came up in sad review, before Mrs. Campbell, and as she recalled the incidents of her sister's death, and thought of the noble little Frank, who often went hungry and cold that his mother and sisters might be warmed and fed, she felt that her heart would burst with its weight of sorrow.

"Oh, my God!" said she, "to die so near me,—my only sister, and I never know it,—never go near her. I with all my wealth, as much hers as mine,—and she dying of starvation."

Wiping the hot tears from her own eyes, Mary strove to comfort her aunt by telling her how affectionately her mother had always remembered her. "And even on the night of her death," said she, "she spoke of you, and bade me, if I ever found you, love you for her sake."

"Will you, do you love me?" asked Mrs. Campbell.

Mary's warm kiss upon her cheek, and the loving clasp of her arms around her aunt's neck, was a sufficient answer.

"Do you know aught of my Aunt Sarah?" Mary asked at last; and Mrs. Campbell replied, "Nothing definite. From father we first heard that she was in New York, and then Aunt Morris wrote to her uncle, making inquiries concerning her. I think the Fletchers were rather peculiar in their dispositions, and were probably jealous of our family for the letter was long unanswered, and when at last Sarah's uncle wrote, he said, that 'independent of old Temple's aid she had received a good education;' adding further, that she had married and gone west, and that he was intending soon to follow her. He neither gave the name of her husband, or the place to which they were going, and as all our subsequent letters were unanswered, I know not whether she is dead or alive; but often when I think how alone I am, without a relative in the world, I have prayed and wept that she might come back; for though I never knew her,—never saw her that I remember, she was my mother's child, and I should love her for that."

Just then Ella came singing into the room, but started when she saw how excited Mrs. Campbell appeared, and how swollen her eyelids were.

"Why, what's the matter?" said she. "I never saw you cry before, excepting that time when I told you I was going to marry Henry," and Ella laughed a little spiteful laugh, for she had not yet recovered from her anger at what Mrs. Campbell had said when she was in there before.

"Hush—sh," said Mary softly; and Mrs. Campbell, drawing Ella to her side, told her of the strange discovery she had made; then beckoning Mary to approach, she laid a hand upon each of the young girls' heads, and blessing them, called them "her own dear children."

It would be hard telling what Ella's emotions were. One moment she was glad, and the next she was sorry, for she was so supremely selfish, that the fact of Mary's being now in every respect her equal, gave her more pain than pleasure. Of course, Mrs. Campbell would love her best,—every body did who knew her,—every body but Henry. And when Mrs. Campbell asked why she did not speak, she replied, "Why, what shall I say? shall I go into ecstasies about it? To be sure I'm glad,—very glad that you are my aunt. Will Mary live here now?"

"Yes, always," answered Mrs. Campbell; and "No never," thought Mary.

Her sister's manner chilled her to the heart. She thoroughly understood her, and felt sure they could not be happy together, for Ella was to live at home even after her marriage. There was also another, and stronger reason, why Mary should not remain with her aunt. Mrs. Mason had the first, best claim upon her. She it was who had befriended her when a lonely, neglected orphan, taking her from the alms-house, and giving her a pleasant, happy home. She it was, too, who in sickness and health had cared for her with all a mother's love, and Mary would not leave her now. So when Mrs. Campbell began to make plans for the future, each one of which had a direct reference to herself, she modestly said she should never desert Mrs. Mason, stating her reasons with so much delicacy, and yet so firmly, that Mrs. Campbell was compelled to acknowledge she was right, while at the same time she secretly wondered whether Ella for her sake would refuse a more elegant home were it offered her.

All that afternoon the contrast between the two girls grew upon her so painfully, that she would almost gladly have exchanged her selfish, spoilt Ella, for the once despised and neglected orphan; and when at evening Mary came to say "Good night," she embraced her with a fervency which seemed to say she could not give her up.

Scarcely had the door closed upon Mary, ere there was a violent bell ring, and Henry Lincoln was ushered into the parlor, where Ella, radiant with smiles, sat awaiting him. They were invited that evening to a little sociable, and Ella had bestowed more than usual time and attention upon her toilet, for Henry was very observant of ladies' dresses, and now that "he had a right," was constantly dictating, as to what she should wear, and what she should not. On this evening every thing seemed fated to go wrong. Ella had heard Henry say that he was partial to mazarine blue, and not suspecting that his preference arose from the fact of his having frequently seen her sister in a neatly fitting blue merino she determined to surprise him with his favorite color. Accordingly, when Henry entered the parlor, he found her arrayed in a rich blue silk, made low in the neck with loose, full sleeves, and flounced to the waist. The young man had just met Mary at the gate, and as usual after seeing her was in the worst of humors.

His first salutation to Ella was "Well, Mother Bunch, you look pretty, don't you?"

"I don't know. Do I?" said Ella, taking him literally.

"Do you?" he repeated, with an impatient toss of his head. "All but the pretty. I advise you to take off that thing" (pointing to the dress), "I never saw you look worse."

Since Ella's engagement she had cried half the time, and now, as usual, the tears came to her eyes, provoking Henry still more.

"Now make your eyes red," said he. "I declare, I wonder if there's any thing of you but tears."

"Please don't talk so," said Ella, laying her hand on his arm. "I had this dress made on purpose to please you, for you once said you liked dark blue."

"And so I do on your sister, but your complexion is different from hers, and then those ruffles and bag sleeves make you look like a little barrel!"

"You told me you admired flounces, and these sleeves are all the fashion," said Ella, the tears again flowing in spite of herself.

"Well, I do think Mary looks well in flounces," returned Henry, "but she is almost a head taller than you, and better proportioned every way."

Ella longed to remind him of a time when he called her sister "a hay pole," while he likened herself to "a little sylph, fairy;" &c., but she dared not; and Henry, bent on finding fault, touched her white bare shoulder, saying "I wish you wouldn't wear such dresses. Mary don't except at parties, and I heard a gentleman say that she displayed better taste than any young lady of his acquaintance."

Ella was thoroughly angry, and amid a fresh shower of tears exclaimed, "Mary,—Mary,—I'm sick of the name. It's nothing but Mary,—Mary all day long with Mrs. Campbell, and now you must thrust her in my face. If you think her so perfect, why don't you marry her, instead of me?"

"Simply because she won't have me," returned Henry, and then not wishing to provoke Ella too far, he playfully threw his arm around her waist, adding "But come, my little beauty, don't let's quarrel any more about her. I ought to like my sister, and you shouldn't be jealous. So throw on your cloak, and let's be off."

"Oh, no, not yet. It's too early" answered Ella, nothing loth to have an hour alone with him.

So they sat down together upon the sofa, and after asking about Rose, and how long Jenny was to remain in Glenwood, Ella, chancing to think of the strange discovery that day made with regard to herself and Mary, mentioned it to Henry, who seemed much more excited about it than she had been.

"Mrs. Campbell, your mother's sister!" said he. "And Mary's aunt too? Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I didn't think of it," returned Ella. "And it's nothing so very marvellous either, or at least it does not affect me in the least." Henry did not reply, but there was that passing through his mind which might affect Ella not a little. As the reader knows, he was marrying her for her money; and now if that money was to be shared with another, the bride lost half her value! But such thoughts must not be expressed, and when Henry next spoke, he said very calmly, "Well, I'm glad on Mary's account, for your aunt will undoubtedly share her fortune with her;" and Henry's eyes turned upon Ella with a deeper meaning than she could divine.

It was so long since Ella had felt the need of money that she had almost ceased to know its value, and besides this, she had no suspicion of Henry's motive in questioning her; so she carelessly replied that nothing had been said on the subject, though she presumed her aunt would make Mary heiress with herself, as she had recently taken a violent fancy to her. Here the conversation flagged, and Henry fell into a musing mood, from which Ella was forced to rouse him when it was time to go. As if their thoughts were flowing in the same channel, Mrs. Campbell that evening was thinking of Mary, and trying to devise some means by which to atone for neglecting her so long. Suddenly a new idea occurred to her, upon which she determined immediately to act, and the next morning Mr. Worthington was sent for, to draw up a new will, in which Mary Howard was to share equally with her sister.

"Half of all I own is theirs by right," said she, "and what I want is, that on their 21st birth-day they shall come into possession of the portion which ought to have been their mother's, while at my death the remainder shall be equally divided between them."

The will was accordingly drawn up, signed and sealed, Mr. Worthington keeping a rough draft of it, which was thrown among some loose papers in his office. A few afterwards Henry coming accidentally upon it, read it without any hesitation.

"That settles it at once," said he, "and I can't say I'm sorry, for I was getting horribly sick of her. Now I'd willingly marry Mary without a penny, but Ella, with only one quarter as much as I expected, and that not until she's twenty-one, is a different matter entirely. But what am I to do? I wish Moreland was here, for though he don't like me (and I wonder who does), he wouldn't mind lending me a few thousand. Well, there's no help for it; and the sooner the old man breaks now, the better. It'll help me out of a deuced mean scrape, for of course I shall be magnanimous, and release Ella at once from her engagement with a ruined man."

The news that Mary was Mrs. Campbell's niece spread rapidly, and among those who came to congratulate her, none was more sincere than William Bender. Mary was very dear to him, and whatever conduced to her happiness added also to his. Together with her he had heard the rumor of Mr. Lincoln's downfall, and while he felt sorry for the family, he could not help hoping that it would bring Jenny nearer to him. Of this he told Mary, who hardly dared trust herself to reply, lest she should divulge a darling secret, which she had cherished ever since Mrs. Campbell had told her that, in little more than a year, she was to be the rightful owner of a sum of money much larger than she had ever dreamed it possible for her to possess. Wholly unselfish, her thoughts instantly turned towards her adopted brother. A part of that sum should be his, and with that for a stepping stone to future wealth, Mrs. Lincoln, when poor and destitute, could no longer refuse him her daughter Mrs Campbell, to whom alone she confided her wishes, gave her consent, though she could not understand the self-denying love which prompted this act of generosity to a stranger.

And now Mary was very happy in thinking how much good she could do. Mrs. Mason, her benefactress, should never want again. Sally Furbush, the kind-hearted old crazy woman who had stood by her so long and so faithfully, should share her home wherever that home might be; while better than all the rest, William Bender, the truest, best friend she ever had, should be repaid for his kindness to her when a little, unknown pauper. And still the world, knowing nothing of the hidden causes which made Mary's laugh so merry and her manner so gay, said that "the prospect of being an heiress had turned her head, just as it always did those who were suddenly elevated to wealth."



CHAPTER XXX.

THE CRISIS.

Mr. Lincoln had failed. At the corners of the streets, groups of men stood together, talking over the matter, and ascribing it, some to his carelessness, some to his extreme good nature in indorsing for any one who asked, and others, the knowing ones, winking slyly as they said "they guessed he knew what he was about,—they'd known before of such things as failing rich;" but the mouths of these last were stopped when they heard that the household furniture, every thing, was given up for the benefit of his creditors, and was to be sold at auction during the coming week.

In their parlors at home wives and daughters also discussed the matter, always ending by accusing Mrs. Lincoln of unwarrantable extravagance, and wondering how the proud Rose would bear it, and suggesting that "she could work in the factory just as her mother did!". It was strange how suddenly Mrs. Lincoln's most intimate friends discovered that she had once been a poor factory girl, remembering too that they had often noticed an air of vulgarity about her! Even Mrs. Campbell was astonished that she should have been so deceived, though she pitied the daughters, "who were really refined and lady-like, considering—" and then she thought of Henry, hoping that Ella would be now willing to give him up.

But with a devotion worthy of a better object, Ella replied, that he was dearer to her than ever. "I have not loved him for his wealth," said she, "and I shall not forsake him now" And then she wondered why he staid so long away, as day after day went by, and still he came not. It was in vain that Mary, who visited the house frequently, told her of many things which might detain him. Ella saw but one. He fancied she, too, would desert him, like the cold unfeeling world. And then she begged so imploringly of her sister to go to him, and ask him to come, that Mary, loth as she was to do so, finally complied. She found him in his office, and fortunately alone. He was looking very pale and haggard, the result of last night's debauch, but Mary did not know of this. She only saw grief for his misfortune, and her voice and manner were far more cordial than usual as she bade him good afternoon.

"It is kind in you, Miss Howard, to come here," said he, nervously pressing the hand she offered. "I knew you would not forsake me, and I'd rather have your sympathy than that of the whole world."

Wishing to end such conversation, Mary replied, "I came here, Mr. Lincoln, at Ella's request. Ever since your father's failure she has waited anxiously for you—"

She was prevented from saying more by Henry, who, with a feigned bitterness of manner, exclaimed, "Ella need not feel troubled, for I am too honorable to insist upon her keeping an engagement, which I would to Heaven had never been made. Tell her she is free to do as she pleases."