November was unusually beautiful and the week of Indian summer a dream for a poet. Lilian's afternoon hour out of doors was the concentration of delight. The handsome town, the picturesque houses, where late blooming flowers were a delight on many a lawn, the peaceful winding river whose shadows seemed to depict a fascinating underworld, the rising ground beyond with its magnificent trees, its tangled nooks of shrubbery with scarlet berries, so stirred Lilian's fine nature that she felt as if she must burst into poesy.

No, she would never give up the splendid, inspiriting dreams of youth. Ambitious and noble natures are often haunted by romantic ideals and glimpses of the future reaching up to unharmful standards that did seem possible. These dreams were better than the feverish, vitiating novels some of the girls poured over in private.

She was making a warm friend of Edith Trenham, who was often puzzled by her. How did she get this wonderful insight into such a beautiful world full of possible endeavor.

The simple prettiness of the Trenham home was very charming to her. This was what she would make for her mother, only there would be a little more. Portfolios of engravings, a vase from Japan, a curious Indian ornament with ages back of it. Already Barrington House was shaping her taste in many matters.

Then it was a pleasure to talk to the imaginative Claire who reveled in the Knights of Arthur's time, the tastes of Mythology which she twisted about to suit her fancy.

"I like Miss Lilian so much," she would say. "She has traveled in so many countries. She knows all about Eskimo babies and little Chinese girls who can't go anywhere because they have such crooked feet. And we play at going to see them, and they give us such curious things to eat. And there are real little Greek children, who lived in Bible times. Oh, it's just lovely!"

"You make Claire very happy," Edith would say in a fond tone.

"I like to make her happy, and I want to make my mother happy. She has had such a hard life."

"You are a dear daughter."

Was she being a dear daughter to her mother? Mrs. Boyd seemed to grow more distant, more dreary and absent. Sometimes between classes she would run in and take her mother's work, read to her evenings, but then she always fell asleep; but the girl went on. It was more company to read aloud. Just now she was deep in the making of Beautiful Florence. Oh, would she ever get to know all the famous cities of the world?

How the time sped on! There was one snow storm, not a very deep one, but enough to call out the sleighs, and what a fairyland it made of Mount Morris. Saturday all the girls chipped in and hired a big sleigh and a laughing crew of ten had what they thought the merriest time of their lives.

Just as they were getting out Louie Howe caught her skirt on something and there was a tear.

"Oh, girls! My best Sunday skirt! And we—some of us are invited to Mrs. Westlake's to dinner, and she goes away on Monday. Oh, I wonder if Mrs. Boyd can mend it fit to be seen! I can't take it to the tailors now."

"She darns beautifully."

"Well, that's what she's here for; mender in general."

"But it seems dreadful to ask her to do it in the evening, and the daylight is almost gone."

Louie hated to give up whatever her mind was set upon. She hurriedly changed her frock and put on a light evening dress. With her skirt in hand she crossed the hall. The door stood open. The house was always warm. Mrs. Boyd sat in an easy chair. Helen on one of the fancy stools under the gas burner with a book in her hand. Louie swept past her.

"Oh, Mrs. Boyd. I want you to mend my skirt. I've given it a dreadful tear. I can't take it to the tailors and four of us are invited out to dinner after church, so I must have it."

Mrs. Boyd rose and examined it. "It is a bad tear, but if you must have it—"

"Yes, I surely must. O, I think you can do it. There's the whole evening."

Then she turned away. Lilian's temper flared up at white heat.

"Oh, mother, why didn't you tell her you could not? She has other dresses to wear. Let me take it back to her—"

"No, dear, I'll do it. Light the lamp for me. Why you know that's part of my business," and Mrs. Boyd gave a tremulous little laugh.

"I think Mrs. Barrington would not have such a thing done on Saturday night," was her resolute reply, but she lighted the lamp and brought her mother's work table with its handy cabinet.

"You see a good part of it will go under this plait. Oh Lilian, do not mind such little things."

The insolent manner had hurt the girl keenly. Louie was on the promotion list and would graduate in June. She held her head very high. Her father had promised her a handsome watch with a beautiful neck chain that could be detached when required and she felt sure of it now.

Mrs. Boyd basted the tear on a piece of cloth and began her work.

"Lilian," she said, "will you go and see if there is an iron on the range, and ask cook if I can come down by and by."

Then she began her work. The underneath part at first, but somehow her hand trembled. Lilian watched with an indignant, aching heart. After awhile her mother leaned back with a sigh.

"I believe I shall have to get glasses," she said wearily. "I cannot do fine work in the evening. I am afraid I shall spoil it, and I've always been such a neat worker."

"Let me finish," said the girl. Every inch of her protested, but it was for her mother's sake. Lately she had done several things to ease her.

"Yes, let me," she went on, taking the work from her mother's hands. "You know I can darn nicely."

Lilian took infinite pains. It was slow work, but at last it was accomplished.

"You are such a dear, good daughter, and it is said booky people are never anything with a needle, but you could get your living with it."

Then she took her work down stairs and came back flushed and smiling.

"Look, Lilian," in a tone of pride, "it hardly shows! Cook said she never saw more beautiful darning and that in a big city I could make a fortune at lace mending. Will you take it to Miss Howe?"

"No, mother," and Lilian spoke in a dignified but not unkindly manner. "We are not here to run and wait on the girl. Let Miss Howe come for it."

Mrs. Boyd felt disappointed. She wanted some one beside cook to praise her handiwork.

Louie fidgeted about her skirt. She and Zay were in Phil's room talking over the coming Christmas and Mrs. Crawford's return.

"I wonder why that girl doesn't bring my skirt. Maybe they've spoiled it."

"Have you sent a maid?"

"Why no. I meant Miss Boyd. She oughtn't be above such things."

"Still, she isn't here to run on errands. I think Mrs. Barrington treats her quite as if she were a scholar, and she's a fine one, too."

"Some day she'll brag of having been educated here, though Mount Morris doesn't set out to furnish teachers, but the training of young ladies. Mother likes it because there was no opportunity of making undesirable acquaintances," and Louie gave her head a toss.

"Is Miss Nevins so very desirable?" asked Zay with a flash of mirth in her eye.

"Still, if you met her abroad as a rich banker's daughter or heard of her being presented to the Queen—"

"Girls, don't quarrel about either one of them. Alice Nevins is a fool and always will be. Lilian Boyd is smart and ambitious but there is the bar sinister. Her mother isn't the sort of person to come up in the world and when Miss Lilian gets there she'll ship off her old mother, put her in an Old Woman's Home. I despise that toss of her head, just as if she was up to the highest mark already; but they are not worth disputing about."

Zaidee Crawford drew a long breath. She had almost courage enough to stand up for her, then she remembered some one had said you were never sure that some disgraceful thing might come out. Who knew anything about her father? There was a good deal of pride of birth at Mount Morris as is apt to be the case where well to do people have lived for a century or so.

Louie sent a maid for her skirt and admitted that a tailor couldn't have done it better.

"Only a week" the girls said with their good night to each other.

Not that they were so tired of school, but Christmas was a joyous occasion, and going home a treat.



CHAPTER VI

AN ESCAPADE AND WHAT CAME OF IT

The closing week of school was full of girlish excitements. Friday and Saturday most of the girls would go home. Christmas came on the following Monday. The Miss Kirklands were going to remain and devote the time to study. Alice Nevins and Elma Ransome had no homes to go to at present. Mrs. Barrington generally took this for a resting-up time.

Louie rushed into Phillipa's room, breathless and eyes full of wonder. There was some fancy things strewn around. Phil and Zaidee were at some gifts.

"What now? Has there been a mistake in the calendar and is Christmas put off and are we to be aliens from the family bosom?"

Louie laughed and fanned herself vigorously.

"I've been hearing wonderful things about that Clairvoyant. Do you really know what clairvoyance is? It isn't mere fortune telling. Madge Hayne went the other day and she was told some really remarkable things. They had not heard from that brother in a year and didn't know whether he was dead or alive. She said they would hear from him and that he would return soon with a fortune, and this very morning the letter came. He's been in Alaska and British Columbia and goodness knows where all, and he's tired of rambling and hardships. So he's coming home as he has made his pile, which I suppose means a fortune. They are all just wild with joy, and there are to be two marriages this year."

"Then Madge's lover will get his promotion. That is what she is waiting for," laughed Phil. "But I have heard that the woman told some wonderful things."

"And while we were abroad in the summer Aunt Kate and I took little tours around; we were at a Fair in a small town where there were some real Romany gypsies and one insisted on reading Aunt Kate's future. She spoke of mamma's walking without crutches, which we couldn't believe and said after we came home something mysterious would happen to us, that a member of the family would come from a great distance, that the person who had her in charge would die, but Aunt Kate laughed and said we had had no mysterious marriages nor sudden disappearances, so that could hardly come true."

Phillipa had been considering. "Girls let's go," she exclaimed. "Mrs. Barrington didn't actually forbid it. She said: 'Girls I hope none of you will be foolish enough to spend your money on such nonsense. Those people are generally impostors.' I'd like to have a peep into the future. There's a young man I am interested in. Now, if he's all fair and square and means business—"

"You're always on the anxious seat of lovers," said Louie, "and you seem to have them by dozens."

"I want the very best and richest. Girls, my mother was married when she was seventeen, and I'll be nineteen in June; but she didn't go to boarding school for three years and waste her time."

"And I want a tour abroad—a winter or summer in Paris—which is most attractive, and there may be a little chance of some one leaving father a fortune. Oh, let us go—just for the fun if nothing else," and Louie glanced up in her radiant prettiness.

There is something tempting to the young in a peep in the wide mysterious future. Joys and the so-called good luck are delights to hope for and it is seldom that any dark pages are unfolded to youth. So the girls talked and agreed to go the next afternoon.

Examinations were in the morning and the girls had the afternoon to themselves. Four were going to a musicale, half a dozen to do some last shopping.

"We'll put on something out of the ordinary line," said Phil. "Hoods and veils and I'll wear my old gray coat. Mother would make me bring it and I've not had it on once. We'll trot across the park, shortest route, and hold our heads down."

"And then run round to Crawford House and have some hot chocolate," said Zay.

It was a winter when Tam o' Shanters were all the rage. Zay had a white one with two fluffy rose-colored rosettes. As she passed through the hall she saw Clara Arnold's blue one lying on the bed. She had always tabooed blue. Now with a sudden impulse she put it on. Clara had gone to the musicale and would not be home until late. Then she gathered up her curls and stuffed them in the crown. Yes, she did suggest the Boyd girl. The resemblance teased her, and the girls had found that out. She wound a veil around her head and they stole through the hall when it was deserted and went scuddering through the Park.

It was a cloudy afternoon, not one to go out for pleasure, and then everybody had wanted to go down town. Mrs. Trenham lived in the corner house. There was a garden space between, then a high fence. Phillipa rang the bell.

A rather unkempt, middle-aged woman answered it.

"Could we see the Clairvoyant?"

"Well," hesitatingly. "All of you? I'm rather—yes, walk in."

The room was untidy, the books on the table dusty, and some clothing thrown over several chairs.

"Young girls always want a peep in the future," and she gave an abrupt laugh. "You don't any of you look as if you needed medical advice. My, I seldom see such rosy, good looking girls. Now, I'll tell you—it's a dollar if I go into a trance and see you inside, up and down and I can tell to a T whether there's anything the matter. But I don't believe you want that. S'pose I just run over the cards and see what kind of a Christmas you're going to have and how many lovers and who's going to wear a diamond. That's fifty cents."

"That's enough to spend on such foolery," laughed Phillipa.

She pushed out some chairs and took up a pack of cards, threw them aside and took a clean pack off of the mantlepiece. "Now you try first," motioning to Phillipa. "Why I can see by your face there's lots of fortune coming to you. You're the kind of girl men quarrel over."

She had become a very astute reader of faces and could tell by the brightening of an eye or the movement of a feature whether she was on the right tack.

"Your home isn't here and you are going to it in a few days. You see—here's the house and there's a distance between," pointing out the cards. "They are making a big time and lots of company, a great Christmas dinner, and a dance in the evening, and you'll get kissed under the mistletoe—but you won't marry that man. There's two of them—three of them and two offers of marriage. Some one you haven't seen much of, and there'll be talk of a diamond."

She shuffled the cards and ran over them again, enlarging upon the lovers and jealous girls as well as men, presents and fun. "But you're going to turn your back on it all and you don't want to a bit, and you're going to have some trouble, and a journey with a trunk, and—why you'll be in school and you'll be most crazy to hear from the young man with the diamond, but you just keep your faith, he'll be all right and there'll be a wedding before the leaves fall. Oh, you'll be as happy as a queen."

Phillipa laughed and nodded.

"Now, you next," to Zaidee.

Zay hesitated, but took the chair Phillipa vacated.

At first she seemed a puzzle to the fortune teller. "She had traveled a good deal. Some one was coming across water that she would be glad to see—three people, a fair lady who had had a great deal of trouble, sickness, but was well now. Why they would soon be here and all have Christmas dinner together. There would be a great surprise with a fair young man who cared a great deal for her, and there were wonderful surprises that wouldn't make her happy at first. Here was a strange girl—but she doesn't want to come. Gifts and friends, and this stout man—your father," and she knew by Zay's face she had guessed right. "He is very fond of you—oh, you needn't ever be afraid any one will crowd you out. Plenty of lovers, too, when it comes your time; a happy marriage and children, and prosperity. A little sickness, but nothing to be alarmed about."

Louie's fortune did not seem so serene. "She was at school and would go home to keep Christmas. This was elaborated in very agreeable styles. Then she would come back, but she would be troubled about a prize, be disappointed in a girl friend who would try to injure her and who would say mean things, but she must not mind them. Then there were journeys and pleasures and lovers, but she would not marry very young and would be engaged twice, and oddly enough be married the second time."

Then they rose, gathered up their wraps and the fortune teller her money, with profuse wishes for their happiness and a merry Christmas, and shut the door. Zay was leading and opened the hall door, stepping out on the stoop.

"Oh, my goodness! There's the Dane across the way! Let us run out back and across lots" and they started in a huddle, opening the door that led to another room.

"You can't come in here," declared a voice but they pushed through to the outer door, flew down the path and across a space over to the next street, but did not stop until they had reached the side gate to Crawford House.

"It's only three of us girls," exclaimed Zay. "We are going to my room."

Then they stood in breathless terror, looking in each other's faces. Phillipa gave a half hysterical laugh, dropped into a chair and went on laughing.

"I don't see anything funny," said Louie. "And to come so near being caught! Do you suppose the Dane was watching out—suspecting? And that horrid smell in the room, and the girl holding up one of those boys who was struggling for breath—"

"You had a good view, Louie," sarcastically.

"Well, I was behind. Oh, what if it was small pox?" and Louie was white as a ghost.

"Small pox! Louie don't be an idiot! See here, we'd heard a thing like that quick enough. Now I'll tell you—Zay have you any aromatic ammonia? Let's all take a dose to quiet our nerves and ward off whatever it may be, and get a lump of gum camphor to take to bed with us tonight, and Louie if you dare to act suspicious I'll murder you."

"I don't think it was just the thing for her to let us in if there was any sickness."

"I wanted a real Clairvoyant. They do tell you wonderful things, but she hit a good deal about you, Zay. I wonder who is coming to try to oust you out? Oh, maybe your brother will bring home a wife."

"I shouldn't like that," the girl said frankly. "And maybe he will be sent on a three years' cruise and leave her with us!"

"Nonsense! Don't bother your pretty curly head. Here let us all take our composing draught and then wend our way to school with a bold front. Only we must have some other hats."

"I'll wear my Gainsborough, and you, Phil, shall have my brown turban with the bunch of plumes. Louie—"

"Let me wear the black straw with those yellow daisies. I almost grudge that to you."

"Then take it as a Christmas gift."

The cook stopped them in the hall and said they must have a cup of hot chocolate. The wind was blowing up cold.

Then they started home in very good spirits. It was well they had changed their headgear. Mrs. Dane sat in the hall looking over some mail. She glanced up and nodded, but she had some suspicions and she meant to see who came home wearing a light blue Tam.

Zay flung her borrowed article on Miss Arnold's bed. She had not come home from the musicale yet.

Lilian Boyd had gone out for her usual walk. She wanted to see some pretty things Claire was making for Christmas, but before she reached the corner she saw Edith Trenham coming rapidly from her mother's, so she halted.

"Oh, Lilian—don't go. You can't see Claire—"

"Is she ill?" in affright.

"No, no, only—come with me to the druggist; I can't tell you just now—oh, I'll write you a note. You cannot go there this week. Mother has a friend staying with her and I have gone to Mrs. Lane's to board for a week, there is so much school work just now."

"How very mysterious you are," studying her while she colored under the scrutiny.

"Well, it threatens snow and it would be easier for me there. Don't worry about us—I'll write this evening and tell you the 'whys;' and now dear, don't feel vexed if I leave you. I have a number of errands to do, and I'll surely see you on Sunday."

She had taken a few steps, then she turned and said: "Lilian, do not mention meeting me today; I ask it as a favor. I will explain it all to you. Trust me."

What did it mean? Was Claire ill? She had never seen Miss Trenham so confused. Evidently she could not have her come to the house. Lilian felt curiously dismal. There were the shops in holiday attire, but she said she did not feel joyous, Christmasy. She rambled about a little. There was the Clairvoyant's sign. Could any one tell about the future, even another's health? For, somehow it seemed as if her mother had been curiously distraught of late. If she could know about the future! Oh, her mother must live the year out, and she was learning a great many things. She would do for an under teacher then, and by the time she was twenty—

It was cloudy and raw and she hurried up a little. A merry group of girls passed her laughing and chatting. Why, she had never felt so alone, not even back in Laconia. Last Christmas had been gay and pleasant with girls in Sunday and everyday school.

She went in at the side entrance. She could have taken the other but this was nearer. She had the right to a good many privileges that under some circumstances she would have claimed, but the supercillious nod or the lifting of the brows cut like a knife. Her place was on her mother's side.

Mrs. Dane opened her door on the landing and crossed the hall.

"Oh, you have returned. Did you see your friend, Miss Trenham?" There was something curious in the tone.

"I did not go to the house." Yet she colored as if it was a prevarication.

"No?" was all the comment in the same tone.

But her mother was not so easily put off.

"Did you see your pretty invalid friend and her Christmas work?"

"No, I did not go in."

"That's queer. I thought you were going there. Where, then, did you go?"

"Oh, I only walked around and said over French verbs. It's grown very chilly."

"Yes. Miss Arran came in and opened a window. I felt so cold—I wish people would let you have your room as you want it. They can swing their's wide open if they want to."

She was lying on the bed. She looked old and gray and wrinkled.

"Do you feel poorly, mother?"

"No, not when I am good and warm."

"Shall we have tea together here?"

"I don't want any, I'm very comfortable now. You go and get yours."

But Lilian sent for it, yet she could not persuade her mother to taste the toast or the bit of broiled steak. She was hungry.

Afterward she took up her book to study as she was not due down stairs. Then there was a tap at the door.

"Mrs. Barrington would like to see you in her room," was the message.

She walked thither. Mrs. Dane sat there in her austerest fashion.

"Miss Boyd," she said, "were you at your friend's, Mrs. Trenham's, this afternoon?"

Lilian flushed at the repeated question.

"I was not," she said rather hesitatingly. "I meant to go, but"—then she paused. She must not say she met Edith.

Mrs. Barrington's penetrating eyes were fixed on her face and brought a vivid color to it.

"Were you at any other person's house?"

"No, I was not," she answered quietly. Oh, what does it all mean?

"Do you mean to deny that you were at the Clairvoyant's from half past four to about five?" Mrs. Dane said in her most judicial manner.

Lilian flushed indignantly but her voice was unsteady as she said—"I was not there, if you"—then she paused.

"Think again. I saw you walking about nearly at the corner. I went to make a call on a friend who is ill. When I came out I walked a few doors, when I saw the Clairvoyant's door open and a girl stepped out on the stoop. I think there was some one behind her. She saw me and bolted back in the hall. There are just two girls in the school who have light blue Tams. Miss Arnold went to a musicale and found hers lying on the bed just where she left it. I watched, but you did not come out again. Then I walked around to the rear but saw no one. I had a fair glance at your face, I think I cannot be mistaken."

Lilian was speechless with amazement.

"I met Miss Trenham at the side of the park and we walked together a short distance. Believe it or not, I went to no one's house."

"It is important for us to know the truth on account of the terrible ending," said Mrs. Barrington gravely. "Two boys have been ill with what their mother thought was measles. The doctor was not sent for until noon, and did not get there until nearly six. He found one boy dead of malignant scarlet fever, the other dying and one girl seriously ill. So you see we cannot afford to have contagion brought in the house!"

"Oh, what a horrible thing!" Lilian cried. Then she faced Mrs. Dane. "Oh, you are mistaken, as God hears me, I was not in that house nor on that side of the street," and she almost gasped for breath.

"You may go to your room. You will be excused from study hour tonight. We must consider. I am glad it is so near closing time."

Lilian felt like one dazed. Yet she was passionately indignant when she had reached her room. There might be other blue Tams in the town but she did not remember to have seen many in light blue except Miss Arnold's. Somehow, Mrs. Dane had never taken to her cordially like Miss Arran and the teachers.

Mrs. Barrington was much distressed. She had become warmly interested in Lilian. She had smiled a little over Mrs. Dane's strictures.

"There's something about her, a sort of loftiness that doesn't belong to her life, though she takes things with outward calmness, but I have a feeling that some day she will break out in an awful tempest, and I doubt her being that woman's daughter. Mrs. Boyd never talks frankly about her," Mrs. Dane said, severely.

"But she is devoted to the poor mother."

"Well, it seems so," rather reluctantly.

After dinner Mrs. Barrington summoned Miss Arran and laid the matter before her. She listened with a kind of terrified interest.

"I can't believe Miss Boyd would tell such a dreadful falsehood, when she saw the necessity of the truth. Mrs. Dane has very strong prejudices. That Nevins girl is about her size and has a long braid of fair hair."

"Oh, she was in disgrace in her room, but what a horrible thing that it should have gone on without even a physician, or any care to prevent the spread of contagion. Well—I suppose tomorrow it will be all over town. I gave Matthew strict orders to say nothing about it tonight."

Presently Mrs. Barrington knocked at Mrs. Boyd's door. Lilian opened it. She had been crying. Now she stretched out her hands imploringly.

"Oh, Mrs. Barrington you cannot believe I would tell you such a cruel, willful falsehood! I was not even very near that house. After all your kindness to me—"

"There, dear, I believe you. I know there has been some mistake. Mrs. Dane has always been so anxious, one might say jealous for my welfare, and you see this would mean a great deal to me. You must pardon her until the truth comes out."

"Oh, thank you a thousand times," cried Lilian in broken tones, her eyes suffused with tears.

"You need not come down to the study this evening. How is your mother?"

"She is having a lovely sleep."

"Do not say anything to her, and the girls will be going away before there is any real fright. I do not anticipate any danger with us. Be comforted. We shall hear all tomorrow."

Lilian was almost happy. She had not lost her dear friend. Under any other circumstances Lilian would have given Mrs. Barrington an unreasoning adoration. She could not define it to herself. She liked Miss Arran, but this was beyond a mere kindly liking.

"She believes in me, she believes in me," and the girl poured the fragrant balm on her wounded heart. But there seemed an awful undefined fear.



CHAPTER VII

A SUPREME MOMENT

The girls in the study were looking furtively at one another. Was this a sort of surprise to be sprung upon them?

"Oh, Miss Marsh, do you know what this means? I can't make beginning or middle out of it. Why doesn't Miss Boyd come?"

"Yes, where is airy fairy Lilian? I think some other life she must have been a soundless ghost. You look up and she is there. Then she disappears."

"I'm glad some of the girls will have to stay through vacation," said Alice Nevins. "It will be awful poky, I wish I could go to New York and the theatre every night."

"Every other night would do for me," said Phillipa, "and here I've two French exercises to go over. One has five errors—blunders, and the other three. Madame Eustice wants to go at twelve tomorrow. Miss Vincent do take pity on me when you go to Paris. I've heard it said you can't talk it until you've studied it all over again. Oh, what's the use of so much weariness of heart and brain!"

No one came. Then in girl fashion they stirred up a sort of gale, saying funny things and making droll misquotations, or putting the wrong name to others and wondering what would be in the Christmas stockings.

"I must leave a pack behind to be darned up. I hope I'll get two boxes of new ones. Girls, you wouldn't dare offer your old ones to Miss Boyd, would you? I have some pretty ones and those plaited silk. They wear better than real silk. Mother thinks they're good enough for school."

"I don't suppose Miss Boyd has any relatives. It would be rather tough not to have any gifts. Girls, oughtn't we chip in—"

"No, we ought not," replied Phil, decisively. "The maid and the laundress are the only ones I remember at Christmas. Mrs. Barrington has sensibly forbidden the giving of tips, and since we don't pretend to be friends it would be a bad precedent."

"Miss Boyd is an excellent scholar," said Miss Vincent.

"If she couldn't learn something higher she might as well stay on the lower rounds," sneered some one. "They relegate these things better in England. A housemaid's daughter is generally a housemaid."

"I think I have heard of people coming up from the ranks in favored England," was the dry rejoinder.

"Oh, let's let her alone. She'll make her way with that high head of hers. Perhaps she will be President of some college yet."

Then they went back to fun. At nine Miss Arran came in and dismissed them.

Zay was thinking how solitary the girl must be. Oh, if her mother were not the general mender! Even if she were a sort of charity scholar! And she was going to have such a splendid Christmas. Her dear, beloved mother able to get about by herself, and all the rest of their lives to be such friends, to go abroad together, to visit picture galleries, points of interest and compare notes. For Mrs. Crawford had been finely educated and even the prospect of being an invalid for life had not made her relax her hold on intellectuality. She had been a delightful friend to her boys and they were proud enough of her, but Zay would always be her supreme darling.

* * * * *

Some of the last exercises and conditions were marked off the next day. Madame Eustice and two of the girls went home. A box came for Miss Nevins and the girls thronged around at her invitation while Nat drew out the nails that had fastened it securely, and lifted out a lighter box.

"That's from Madame I know, and I have frocks enough here for winter. Oh, that's a splendid fruit cake, and nuts and that's candied orange and a box of fruit, and this is some sort of jewelry."

She tore off the wrapping eagerly. A long lapis lazuli chain with a beautiful pendant and links of exquisite color, and a pair of bracelets to match.

"It's elegant," pronounced Phillipa. "I never go crazy over it myself and it seems too old for a girl; the sort of thing for a dowager to wear on state occasions. Now, let us see the frock."

A beautiful, fine albatross cloth in itself appropriate, but betrimmed with pipings of satin and lace.

"Why it looks like a wedding gown. You'll have to save it for there will be no occasion to wear it here. Not even graduation and the lawn fete, for then we all wear simple white muslin. That is Mrs. Barrington's law."

"Oh, dear, and it is so beautiful!" on a half cry. "You see, mamma thought being a high-up school there would be parties and all that. Last winter in New York I went to three and oh, you should have seen the dresses! I had one of blue gauze over thin satin and it was just lovely, and the dancing was simply great, and here you never go any where."

"We come here to improve our minds," said some one sententiously

"I'd like some real fun and gayety, and think that I must stay all alone here."

"There will be five girls to keep you company."

"But there's no fun or parties or anything. Oh, let's cut the cake. I shan't enjoy it when I am alone."

It was a real treat, and the nuts and sweets were a feast. They had not much appetite for luncheon.

"But did you ever see anything so idiotic as that lovely frock for such a girl and a place like this where you do not go to high-up parties," said one of the girls in a group, afterward. "And what it must have cost! It really ought to be returned as very unsuitable."

"What can the mother be like, and isn't the father a politician or a contractor?" with a laugh.

"No," returned Phillipa. "I asked father to find out about them. Mr. Nevins is a reputable banker, a very good judge of loans and is rated quite highly in London. Then he buys curios and pictures, so he must have some taste. Think what that silly girl will have, enough to make any three girls of us fancy ourselves heroines of the Arabian Nights; but the mother can't have any sense."

"I think the modistes are largely to blame. No doubt the mother ordered a handsome evening dress, and the woman made it handsome and expensive and quite useless. You don't see Zay Crawford with any such things!"

"Zay is beauty unadorned."

"And Miss Nevins is ugliness intensified. I am really sorry for her, though she has improved a very little. But when you think of the place she might take in society—"

"And the journeys!"

"Still, I wouldn't want such a mother."

Phillipa went to her room to finish her Latin verses.

"Though why you should be compelled to write Latin verses when you can't make decent English rhymes I don't see," she grumbled.

She was almost through when the door flew open and shut again with a bang and Louie Howe threw herself on the floor clasping Phillipa's knees, her eyes distraught with terror.

"Oh, isn't it horrible!" she almost shrieked. "Those boys had malignant scarlet fever! That one was dying the girl held up, he was choking awfully, and at nine o'clock the other one died. It's all in the morning's paper. I think they hid it away. Miss Vincent picked it up in the library. Oh, what can we do?"

"You can stop screaming and get up." Phillipa fairly dragged her up and shook her violently. "Hush! hush!" she commanded. "You'll have the whole faculty in here, and we'll be bundled out bag and baggage. Have a little regard for Zay and me if you have none for yourself."

Phillipa drew up the willow rocker and pushed Louie in it. "Don't have hysterics if that is what you're aiming at or I'll douse you with cold water until you're half drowned."

Louie was sobbing now. "I can't help it, and think of the dreadful risk we ran! That woman ought to be sent to prison."

"That woman was going on with her business, earning her living. We were the fools! How did they know it was scarlet fever?"

"Well, she thought it was measles and was doctoring them, but one of them grew so much worse she sent for Dr. Lewis and he was so busy he didn't get there until five, just as the boy died, and the other one hadn't seemed so bad, but he died at nine, and the youngest girl has the fever. Dr. Lewis sent for the undertaker right away and they put something on the bodies and sealed up the coffin and they were to be buried this morning and the clothes to be burned and the house fumigated. Oh, isn't it horrible! The woman ought to go to prison."

"After losing her two children?"

"Well, to give us all scarlet fever, malignant scarlet fever?" with emphasis.

Phillipa was quivering in every nerve. But she must control Louie.

"Well, we shouldn't have gone there. I think she ought not have let us in but just said she couldn't admit customers. Now, what are you going to do?"

"I—I—what can I do? I s'pose I'll have scarlet fever—"

"You can give the thing away and be sent home in disgrace. You'll lose your watch and perhaps not get in another school. You can spoil Zay Crawford's life for the present, just when it has reached the loveliest point of all—"

"And you?"

Louie stopped sobbing and studied her companion in wonder.

"I'm not going to have scarlet fever. Those children haven't been sick a week. Scarlet fever is taken from the little flakes that peel off when the skin begins to dry up. We surely didn't get any of those. We went right out in the fresh air and I breathed in a big supply, the room had been so close. Two of mother's children had scarlet fever and she took care of them. None of the others had it. It's half fright; just pull yourself together and don't be an idiot and you'll come through all right."

"Oh, Phil! I wish I had your courage."

"You have courage enough only you won't use it. Just feel certain nothing is going to happen and you'll come out all right. We're going home so soon that for our sakes you might summon a little courage. If you go on this way Louie you'll be—what is it they call hysterical people? Neurasthenics, I believe. I mean to have a jolly good time with plenty of lovers and dances and fun and get married. I'm not going to be a sighing, whimsical old maid, borrowing trouble."

"Oh, dear!" and she fell to sobbing again.

"Now, Louie, let me give you some ammonia and you lie here on my bed while I finish this exercise. Get asleep if you can."

"Oh, how good you are in real trouble, Phil."

"Humph! You don't know what real trouble is. To be smashed up in a railroad accident or run over by a trolley or bitten by a mad dog, such things might make your hair turn white. There now, don't let me hear another word out of you."

She settled Louie on her bed and covered her over with a shawl, listening every few moments. The sighing breath became more regular, there were two or three gentle snores. Phillipa rose presently, went cautiously to the door and placed the key on the outside, then locked it softly. Louie might sleep half an hour.

Just as she turned Zay ran into her arms. "Oh Phil—we've just had word. The steamer will be in this evening. Aunt Kate has sent over and I am to be dismissed. We go to New York tomorrow morning. Oh, it seems too blessed to be true, but mother hasn't lost any ground. What a lovely Christmas we shall have!"

"And I'm glad enough for your sake, Zay. I've teased you about looking like that Boyd girl, and I dragged you off into danger, but if anything should happen to you I never could forgive myself."

"I don't believe we were in any great danger. I hunted up father's big medico-something and read about scarlet fever. You don't take it very easily, but oh, wasn't it dreadful for the poor woman! Only I think she oughtn't have let us in. The town authorities are going to send them away as soon as they can. Oh, good-by—but I'll see you when we come back."

"I'll keep tab on Louie. We must just hold together. It won't do for the thing to leak out. I was a ninny to propose such a thing." They kissed each other and walked down stairs together. Most of the girls were in the school room discussing the newspaper account. The town was clean and in excellent shape, there were no fears of an epidemic and even now Dr. Lewis was not quite sure but it's origin was measles, since the little girl had a decided case. The strictest watch would be kept. The clothes and some rubbish had been burned. The clairvoyant's knowledge of the future was held up to withering ridicule.

Louie Howe had a long, refreshing nap and woke up in much better heart. The short day ended by a little gymnasium practice but all the girls were rather nervous over the affair.

"Why, I had the scarlet fever once," announced Miss Nevins, "and mamma would have three doctors!"

"And you lived through all that?" laughed some one. "Then scarlet fever can't be dangerous."

"I don't remember being very sick, and then father sent us to Bermuda. It was when the lilies were in bloom. It's such a lovely place!"

"Young ladies," began Mrs. Barrington as they rose from the table, "as our work is about done I have decided to dismiss school. Some of your parents may see this sensational account, and everything does get so exaggerated. There is not the slightest fear of an epidemic, but you will all be glad of a little longer holiday. I hope you will all return in good health and the resolve to do your best towards finishing your year in the best possible manner."

"You believe there isn't real danger?" asked Miss Kingsland.

"There have been no cases about the town to indicate an epidemic. The little girl's case seems to be not very serious as her fever is abating. Oh, I think we at least need not feel the slightest alarm. We have no slums to foster contagion."

Still, the two sudden deaths had created a frightened sort of impression. The girls kept discussing them until Phillipa protested.

"Who is going home tomorrow?" she asked. "After all it is only a day sooner, and who has their Christmas gifts done up? Must we save our jolliness until we get home? We are all coming back in a fortnight, and spring comes so soon after the holidays, and there's pegging away at everything and finally graduation."

Some began to hunt up trains, others went to packing. Phillipa kept Louie near her and made funny unsentimental speeches until the old feeling seemed quite restored. Some gifts were exchanged, some guesses as to what home presents would be and they said good-night in the best of spirits.

"Now, Louie," began Phil, escorting her to her door, "if you get a granny fit in the night and see horrible things, you just come to my room and hop into bed with me, and think what a gay time you'll be having tomorrow night this time, much gayer than Miss Nevins with all her money and her three party frocks with no place to display them."

Louie laughed. "Oh, Phil, you're such a comfort," she said with an extravagant hug, "but aren't you going home tomorrow?"

"No, not until Friday. I want to see Zay before I go, and I'm not afraid of unlucky Friday either," laughing.

Louie slept soundly and was in very good spirits. The girls were all eager for the morning paper. The scare was pretty well over. The boys had been buried, the little girl was no worse and if fever did not develop it would simply be a case of measles.

Then most of the girls said good-by, wishing each other a merry Christmas. The others huddled together and bewailed their hard lot, missing Miss Boyd very much. Her mother was quite poorly, which was given as her excuse. Mrs. Dane insisted upon a rigorous exclusion until all danger of contagion was over.

Quite late in the afternoon Phillipa walked over to Crawford House and sent up her card to Zaidee with a penciled message. The girl came flying through the hall, more beautiful than ever Phil thought, in her soft red cashmere with white lace garnishings.

"Oh, Phil dear, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid you would go home before I had a glimpse of you. We've been so busy and so full of joy! Oh, you can't think what it is to see mother walking around with no crutches and the wheel chair set aside, and she's in such splendid spirits. Vincent will be allowed to come home as a special favor to papa, getting here early Monday morning and returning that night. We're just going to have a family dinner with a very few dear friends, but New Year's night I am to have a party. Oh, can't you come back a little sooner. I'd like so to have you."

"I don't believe I can, and you know there are the lovers and the diamond ring"—laughing.

"Oh, dear! Can you believe any of it? And the surprise that I'm not going to be pleased with. It isn't that Willard has fallen in love, he is going to have his three years' cruise first. Oh, were you much frightened, Phil? It was dreadful, and no one can tell where the boys took the disease. I can't help feeling sorry for the poor mother if she is a humbug, it is such a sad Christmas for her, and was Louie much frightened?"

"Oh, she almost went into hysterics and I was afraid she'd give us all away, but I did manage to get her off safely, and bound her by the most solemn promises not to mention the escapade at home. It wasn't the right thing for us to do of course, but mischief always looks so tempting to you and if we keep silence no harm will be done. It wasn't as bad as they thought."

A shudder went over Zay's slight figure.

"And I am so glad you didn't worry yourself ill," Phillipa rejoined with real feeling.

"Phil, can't you stay to dinner and see mother? She's lying down now—there have been so many calls. Father brought home the German nurse, who measures off her time in a very funny manner, and he escorts mother down stairs and up again as if he was a young lover."

"No, dear, thank you. When I come back the rush will be over and we will have a good time. I've twenty things to do and start at nine tomorrow. Good-by and have just the most splendid time, as I shall have. So good luck for a fortnight," and they kissed each other warmly.



CHAPTER VIII

A STRANGE CONFESSION

The girl who had been wrongfully accused was not so light hearted. Mrs. Dane still preserved her suspicious aspect, and of course the whole school was eager for every bit of news. Lilian said nothing to her mother about the talk, she seemed rather fretful and uneasy, as if she was annoyed by the girl's presence.

So on Thursday afternoon she went out for a walk. Just beyond the gate she saw Edith Trenham coming toward her.

"Oh, were you going out? Let us walk together, then. I have so much to say to you? Did you think it queer?"

"I know now," said Lilian. "It was dreadful!"

"I had to go home for some important school papers, and just slipped in and out again when you saw me. Of course I did not want it spoken of. Mother has been very careful keeping the windows on that side of the house closed. Claire has never had any of the infantile diseases. The woman thought it measles at first, but they are so particular in the schools, now. We closed today. Mother is going to shut up the house for awhile and board at Mrs. Lane's while they fumigate and burn up. The authorities have ordered the old house torn down. I think not a great many people visited her, though they did at first. I only hope the little girl will not die. Mother spoke to the oldest one that morning and she said her brothers were very ill and that her mother thought she would have a doctor, but it was too late when he came. Oh, I hope there will not be any more cases."

"It would be terrible if they died like that. Our classes are dismissed as well, I believe there was a great fright among the girls, and just at Christmas time, too."

"Will you go down with me tomorrow and have a look at the stores? This has upset our plans. I wanted you and your mother to come and take Christmas dinner with us."

"Mother doesn't seem at all well. I doubt if she could go out, and I couldn't leave her for pleasure."

"Well, some other time; and how are you getting along? I suppose you have vacation as well?"

"Oh yes. Madame thinks I shall acquire French easily. She reads French verses so splendidly, and I am doing well in Latin, but oh, there are such stores of reading! It is a hardship to tear myself away, and poetry just enchants me—well, when it is high and fine. I have begun 'The Idylls of the King.' Oh it must be just glorious to write such poetry!"

"It is a rare gift, and it is something to be able to read and appreciate."

"I sometimes envy the girls who have so much leisure, yet they seem not to improve it. But then—oh, you don't know how lovely it is here, how much there is to interest and satisfy. Of course I'm not quite satisfied at present," and Lilian gave a light laugh, "but the town is so truly beautiful and the house—I wonder if it is silly but I walk about at times and do enjoy the soft rugs, the handsome furniture, the pictures, the beautiful bits of art scattered around, and oh, the books! There never was anything like it in my life before, and if I go back to comparative poverty, which I suppose I shall some day, for I never can earn any thing like this, it will linger in my mind as a journey to some enchanting place. There is so much to learn all the time. Not merely out of books but the sweet and gracious things one can do; Mrs. Barrington is so lovely. Am I tiring you with these visionary things?"

"No, my dear girl, I am glad you can enjoy them and treasure them up without a feeling of envy. We cannot all of us abound in this world's goods, but we can be glad someone has them and is willing to share them with us, at least, allow us to look on."

"I'm going to study every day and get on as fast as possible. I'm longing for the time when I can earn money and have a little home of our own. I wish"—then she paused and recovering herself after a moment, resumed—"I wish to make some nice friends in my own walk in life, among those who really love to work and bring about results."

"And I am sure you will do it. And loving whatever is fine and true and gracious shapes one's character. God has given us the sense of enjoyment and he means us to make the best use of it that we can. Oh, we must turn about. See how far we have walked, and there is a baby crescent moon."

The dun white of the sky was thinning into blue and here and there a star pricked through. It was clear and crisp yet the air had a fragrance of the cedars and spruces. They hurried along, and Lilian promised to meet her friend tomorrow for another walk. She had never been an effusive girl, but she could talk so easily to Edith and in the interchange she could throw off the things that annoyed or depressed her.

So they said good-night and she entered the pretty vestibule where she had first seen Mrs. Barrington. Her heart gave a quick bound as she thought of that lady's confidence in her truth. Mrs. Dane must sometime be convinced of her injustice.

She ran lightly up the stairs, wondering a little that her mother's room should be in darkness. Crossing over to the match safe she stumbled over something on the floor and struck a light in half terror.

"Oh mother! mother!" she cried to the prostrate figure. Then in sudden fear she called in the hall—"Oh, will some one come! I cannot tell what has happened to mother."

Miss Arran answered. The face was deadly white and cold, the eyes half open, staring.

"Oh, she is dead! I went out to walk and staid too long." Lilian's voice was full of remorseful pathos.

"No," said Miss Arran. "I think she has only fainted. Her heart beats a little; Let us lay her on the bed and I'll get some restoratives. Is she accustomed to fainting?"

"Not like this. Oh poor mother!"

They laid her on the bed, chafed her hands and bathed her face, using the lavender salts. After a little there was a faint respiration. Then she opened her eyes and murmured something.

"Mother, dear, what happened? And I was away." "It will be better when—when I'm gone." The vague glance seemed to study the girl with poignant anguish. "Oh, yes!—better—"

"You must not say that. You must live to let me repay you for all you have done for me, and we will be happy—"

She moved her head from side to side in dissent. "Oh, you do not know, but I did it for love's sake. I could not live without my child."

"Suppose we get her undressed, she will feel more comfortable. She has not looked well for the last week or two. Mrs. Barrington was speaking about it, but she is such a quiet body."

Lilian opened the bed. She was girlishly glad her mother's night dress was neat and lace trimmed, fit to go to her new home. So they soon had her easier and restful.

"I should like a cup of tea," she said, weakly.

"I'll get it," and Miss Arran left the room.

"Dear mother," and Lilian patted the hands that were thin and cold.

"Oh, love me a little to the end, I've loved you so much. Whatever comes you will know I did it for love's sake, and you must forgive."

"There can be nothing to forgive. You have worked for me early and late. You must live and let me repay you, make you happy. If I have failed in the past I will try with all my soul and strength in the future. Think, every year brings us nearer the home I shall make for you. Oh, do not talk of dying!"

"You don't know. I did not think of the wrong then. You were a motherless babe, then, and I was a childless mother. For you must know, you must have felt in your inmost soul that I was not your true mother."

Lilian raised her head in the wildest dismay, and though she stared at Miss Arran she did not seem to see her. Many a time like a lightning flash the thought had swept over her, but it seemed awful to have it put in words, to have the certainty pierce through her like a sharp sword.

"Oh, mother, you do not know what you are saying. It is some wretched, horrid dream! You have been too much alone. You have brooded over this thought of our differences. Children and parents are often unlike. At all events I have never known any other mother. You must live and let me prove a true daughter."

"I did not think there could be any wrong then. If you were cast on the world friendless, why should I not fill my aching heart with baby love. Yes, you did love me then, you clung to me. I never thought of there being someone else—a father, perhaps—oh, heaven help us both!"

She had raised herself soon after she began to talk; now she fell back on the pillow fainting. Lilian was sobbing. Miss Arran came to her relief.

"I think we must have a physician. I will see Mrs. Barrington."

The faint was of short duration. Miss Arran was strangely mystified. Was Mrs. Boyd's talk an hallucination or some secret kept for years that must needs make its way out at last? Had she any right to repeat it on mere suspicion?

Mrs. Barrington sent for Dr. Kendricks at once. Then she went to Mrs. Boyd's room. How very frail she looked.

"My poor child," the lady said, "this is very hard for you, and I think you did not come in to dinner. Suppose you go down stairs for awhile?"

"Oh, no, I must stay here. Poor mother—"

"Lilian," murmured the feeble voice and the thin hand wandered out as if for a clasp.

She took it, pressed it to her lips, her firm, warm cheek. Should she pray for life? Would not God send what was best? Oh, that she might have strength to accept it. She raised her eyes to Mrs. Barrington in entreaty. Oh, who was she so like at that moment?

The doctor was announced. Miss Arran sat by the bedside. There was a lamp on the table and he asked that it might be lighted, making a close survey of the patient.

"Was there any shock? Her vitality is at a very low ebb. When was the first unconscious spell?"

"I was out," began Lilian, tremulously. "She insisted that I should go and seemed to want to be alone. I staid longer than I meant, and found her fallen to the floor—"

Mrs. Boyd raised to a partly sitting posture and looked up with feverish eagerness.

"I went to put something in the chiffonier—you will find it, Lilian, in a box and the key is—oh, what did I do with it?"

"Never mind, dear," in a soft tone.

"But you must mind, and then I turned—it was my leg. It is heavy and I can't raise it, but the ache is all gone."

Dr. Kendricks turned down the blanket and examined the limb, nodding as if convinced.

"Oh," she cried, "is it paralysis? Then it will not be long. My mother had two strokes a week apart, her mother never rallied from the first. I'm tired—worn out, and Lilian will be better off without me. She may find—I have written it all out—it's there in the drawer—"

"Oh mother!" Lilian kissed her and put her back on the pillow where she gave a gasping sigh.

Dr. Kendricks beckoned Mrs. Barrington out of the room.

"She is in a very low condition and I doubt if she survives more than a few days. What about the girl—is it her daughter?"

"Why, yes—though they are very dissimilar; but she is a devoted daughter. The mother is caretaker, the daughter a student."

"She seems to have exhausted nature. The fainting spells may be a method of rest. Let her sleep all she can. Very little can be done for her. I will leave some drops to be given if she is very restless and will look in in the morning. It is rather unfortunate this should happen to you, just now."

"Oh, school has closed and there is plenty of help. I want everything done for her."

Then Mrs. Barrington returned to the room. Miss Arran sat by the foot of the bed, Lilian was bathing her mother's face.

"My child," Mrs. Barrington said, "you had better lie down and get a little rest. We will watch—"

"No, I want Lilian," entreated the mother. "You will not leave me? When I am a little rested I want to tell you how it came—"

"Yes, yes, but not now. I would rather stay here. It is my place, and now there are no other duties."

So the hours wore on. Mrs. Boyd seemed to fall into a tranquil sleep. Lilian laid down on her own bed, and slept in a disturbed sort of fashion. Then morning came, and the house was astir.

"Oh, Miss Arran have you watched all night? How good you are!"

"I had several naps. Your mother was very quiet. She seems better. Mrs. Dane is coming in and you must get some breakfast. Then if we need a nurse—"

"Oh, no, do not have one. My place is here. Oh, Miss Arran," and Lilian turned deadly pale, "you heard what she said last evening. It can't be true. Would any one ever work and make sacrifices for a child not her own? She is my mother."

Miss Arran nodded. "Unless she is much worse I do not think we will need a nurse. There will be so little to do in the house that I shall be quite at liberty."

"Yes, Mrs. Boyd was much stronger," the doctor admitted, though the case was not much more hopeful. A second stroke might end it all. "But she seems to have something on her mind. Is it anxiety about her daughter?"

"I have assured her that Lilian will be my charge. She has the making of an unusually fine scholar, and she is a high minded, honorable girl, sincere and ambitious."

"The daughter has taken from somewhere a much stronger physical and mental equipment. What of the father?"

"Oh, he died when she was a mere infant."

The embargo had been removed from Lilian and Mrs. Dane treated her with a sort of tolerant sympathy. She roamed about the deserted library and chose some books, a few girls waylaid her in the school room. Miss Nevins made an importunate appeal, quite forgetting her past disdain.

"Oh, why can't you stay down here?" she cried. "It's awful dull, and there's no fun going on. Miss Graniss is going to take us down town when the stores are lighted up, but it's so long to wait until evening."

"Mother is ill and I want to stay with her," Lilian returned coldly, provoked at the selfishness. She read awhile, then took up some embroidery. Miss Trenham came in with the gift of a beautiful volume of poems. Claire sent a little reminder in a most exquisite book mark. She was quite delighted in the change to another home, where there were two girls. "Could Edith do anything for them?"

"They are all so good here, and mother doesn't need much, she seems to sleep a good deal."

The sick girl at the Clairvoyant's was improving. Not even a case of measles had been reported in town.

So the winter day drew to a close. Lilian watched the little procession starting out under the convoy of Miss Graniss. Yes, she had run out that way at Laconia—how long ago it seemed. Oh, she ought to have sent a few gifts to old girl friends. She had really no heart for gladness.

Lilian sat over by the gas burner reading that most beautiful Christmas part of "In Memoriam." She almost heard the "happy bells ring across the snow," so rapt was she in the poets charm. Then something stirred. Her mother was trying to raise herself.

"Oh mother—"

"Put the pillows around me, so, I want to sit up. I want to talk. I have been living it over. And I am surely going to that other country. I shall have my own two babies in my arms, and their father will come to meet me. I want to tell you how it was. It has come back so distinctly, much plainer than when I wrote it."

Miss Arran had started to come in but paused at the door. Lilian's back was towards her. Mrs. Dane going through the hall paused as Miss Arran held up her finger.

"Oh, mother, not tonight."

"Yes, now. I feel so strong. After husband died my brother sent for me and wanted me to take up some land adjoining his. Mr. Holland, who was holding the life insurance—all I had, was not willing until I had seen what the place was like and he thought that kind of life very hard on women, but my brother was the only relative I had, though I had not seen him for years. After I had started I was frightened about the journey and the strange people. There was one woman with a baby, a bright, beautiful child with rosy cheeks and brilliant eyes. I supposed her the mother, for I saw her nurse the infant, and there was with them such a beautiful woman. She came to me in the night, and when I looked at her the last time she was dead," and she sighed.

"We were most of us asleep when there was an awful crash. Then horrible shrieks and cries and being thrown about—"

"Oh, mother, don't, don't!" Lilian implored. "Your mind is wandering—"

"No, it is true, horribly true. It was one of the awful accidents of that time, more than fifteen years ago, but I suppose I became unconscious. My babe flew out of my arms; my little baby," in a lingering tone as if the words were sweet to say.

"When I came to myself it was in a room where several were lying around on cots, and two women sat close together trying to hush the crying child."

"Give me my baby, I almost shrieked. Bring me my baby."

"They brought it and I hugged it to my breast, gave it nourishment, cuddled it in my arms and I fell asleep full of joy. We both slept a long while. When I woke the woman brought me a cup of tea and some bread. I was ravenously hungry. Then I asked what had happened. It had been twenty-four hours."

"It was a horrible accident at a place where tracks crossed. All day they had been clearing away the wreck and sending bodies into the nearest towns for this place was small. A number had been killed outright. Will you give me some of that tea in the tumbler?"

"Oh, mother, do not tell any more," the girl pleaded, shuddering.

"Yes, I must, I must! When morning came the woman helped me up and I had some breakfast. I had been stunned and bruised, but no bones were broken."

"We are so glad the baby was yours," one of the women said. "The other poor baby and its mother was killed."

"I went to the bed presently and turned down the blanket. There lay the lovely child warm and rosy, the picture of health. I devoured it with kisses. Yes, it was mine. God had saved it and sent it to me. It had no mother, so it was mine. I called it by my baby's name, and I couldn't have cared more for my own flesh and blood. You were so beautiful and bright—so fond and loving. On the other side of the room lay the lovely woman who had interested me so much. They thought her dying, she looked as if she were dead, I never saw anything more perfect. She was like sculptured marble. They were trying to get every one away and the next day an official questioned me and offered to make good any loss. I had my ticket pinned to the lining of my dress, and what money I had taken with me sewed up in a little bag. There had been a fire as well, and much of the baggage was burned. I had lost my trunk but they paid me its full value and more, and sent me on my journey."

"I have told you what a dismal place my brother had in Wisconsin. There were five big, rough children. I was not fitted for farm work. I missed my old friends and so I went back to Laconia, but my whole life was wrapped up in you."

"And many a time I must have seemed ungrateful. Oh, mother, when you did so much for me!" sobbed Lilian.

"Oh, dear, I have thought it all out. You were not of my kind. It fretted me at first. You were always a little lady, doing things in a nicer way than most girls, and you were forever reading and studying. If we could have kept the boarding house," in tones of regret, "but there was my long illness and the house was sold torn down for a great factory. Then I took up the sewing. It was easier in some ways. I liked Sally Marks and her mother so much. The gay jolliness and the merry chat. They were like two girls together. But your heart was set on the High School. Oh, Lilian, do believe I would have kept you there if I could. Then I began to wonder what your own mother and father had been like, and if your father was alive. Perhaps he could have done much better for you. The thought wore on me, and I was not well; I knew that. You see I should have had a girl who did not mind working in a shop and enjoying good times with other girls, going to parties and picnics and having lovers and marrying as I did, and having babies. I loved babies so. To be a grandmother to a little flock seemed very heaven to me."

"Oh, mother, don't! You will break my heart," sobbed Lilian.

"No, child, you were not to blame. God gave you all these high thoughts and ambitions; I never had any of them, and after we came here I understood it still better. You belonged to these kind of people, your ways were theirs, your ambition was right, and I was very thankful that such a refuge opened for us. You have been a good, devoted child. Tomorrow we will talk it over again. Now will you send for some toast and eat. Oh, Lilian, child, don't cry. God will bring you out right and forgive me for what I did out of longing love."

Lilian turned, Miss Arran took a step forward. "I will bring it to you," she said, and she motioned to Mrs. Dane who stood like a statue.

"Let us go to Mrs. Barrington. She must know this," she whispered.

Lilian bathed her face and readjusted her mother's pillows. The whole world seemed in a daze about her. Yet she was not so much surprised either, but stunned, incapable now of judging whether there had been any right or wrong. If no one belonging to her had been found—and her own mother was among the killed, she might have been turned over to some foundling asylum.

"I feel much better," exclaimed Mrs. Boyd. "But, oh, Lilian, don't pray for me to live, for I should be a helpless burden on you, and I'll have my two own babies in heaven. I meant to do it for the best when I claimed you, and I think God will understand. It's been a poor, broken sort of life but I've tried to do up to the lights I had, and yours will be better, higher. Mrs. Barrington appreciated you and will help you. God surely opened this way for us."

Was it truly of God's providence? She had longed so ardently for the refinements of life, the possibilities of education. Some times it seemed as if He answered petitions in the suppliant's way and freighted them with another burden.

But if this should be laid upon her she would pray for strength to do her whole duty. It was hardly likely she would ever find any one belonging to her, that was too wild a thought. She would keep this generous foster mother as long as she needed love and care.



CHAPTER IX

WHOSE CHILD AM I?

Miss Arran tapped lightly at the half-open door and Mrs. Barrington bade both ladies enter.

"How is Mrs. Boyd?"

"Why she seems curiously better. She has been talking awhile to her daughter and her voice has a latent strength that surprises one, and we have been unwitting listeners to a most remarkable story. Did you ever suspect that she might not be the own mother of Miss Boyd?"

"The thought has crossed my mind. They are so dissimilar."

"I have never really liked Mrs. Boyd or the girl either," began Mrs. Dane. "There seemed something to conceal, some secret between them. I had a fancy Lilian was on the watch all the time lest her mother should betray it."

"Oh, did you think that? It appeared to me the anxiety of a girl of good breeding lest her mother should fall into habits of a different kind that were rather annoying. Yet they had always been together—"

"It seemed to me aping a style really above what she had been used, a certain pretentiousness, that did not appear suitable to her position, but she has proved a devoted nurse and daughter, and I will confess my prejudice has received a great shock, and I admit frankly that I may have been mistaken when I accused her of being at the Clairvoyant's. Miss Arran will you tell the story—it seems a deathbed confession."

Miss Arran began. She had started to go in Mrs. Boyd's room to see if anything was needed when the words arrested her, and she detailed the journey Mrs. Boyd had undertaken with her infant child, the dreadful midnight disaster, the unconsciousness of the poor woman until the next day, her hearing the child cry and claiming it unwittingly, and then learning the child's mother had been killed as well as her own baby and her resolve to keep it; her taking it on her farther journey, and caring for it as her own, her latent remorse lest she should have defrauded the girl out of a better birthright—

Mrs. Barrington rose suddenly and paced the room in strange agitation.

"Somewhere I have heard a story that might be the other side of this. It is very strange," clasping her hands. "One would not want to make a mistake."

"I wish you might hear the story, and one point of importance is whether it would be wisdom to help the girl in any search for her parentage. Sometimes unfortunate facts come to light. You, perhaps, can tell what will be the best course to pursue."

"Yes, I am glad you came to me. I had resolved to keep Miss Boyd here after her mother was gone. I must give the matter some thought. We will not be hasty. Yes, I should like to hear the confession and ask her some questions. Lilian must not stay alone tonight."

"I will gladly offer my services if they would be acceptable," said Mrs. Dane.

"I think I will take the first part of the night, and then you may be watcher. I thank you very much for your kindness."

Mrs. Barrington went to the quiet apartment. Lilian had fallen asleep with her head on her mother's pillow. She had exhausted herself with a soft, pitiful crying. With the quick unreason of youth she upbraided herself for the many times she had been secretly mortified at her mother's lack of the qualities she liked best. She had spent hours in dreaming of a phantom mother sweet, graceful and refined, who loved all delightful things, who was stirred by music and poetry, who could receive guests with a gracious hospitality in the pretty home which should be simple as befitted moderate means. The sympathy between them would be perfect. They would linger over well-loved poets, they would discuss their brave heroes and favorite heroines. How many times she had fallen asleep with this dear mother's hand clasped in hers!

But here had been the hard working mother instead. Yes, she had tried to help. Nearly all the summer vacation she had sewed steadily, but she had never given the real love. It was as if neither truly understood the other's language.

"All the rest of her life I will try," was her last conscious thought.

Mrs. Barrington found them both asleep. She studied the girl's face, the finely cut features, the wide eyelids with their bronze fringe, the beautifully curved lips. It was an aristocratic face. She hardly dared think there was a resemblance, and yet it explained what had puzzled her at times. "Lilian," she said softly. "Lilian, child, it is time you were in bed."

The girl roused suddenly with a startled look. Then she caught the hand and pressed a fervent kiss upon it.

"You are all so kind," she murmured. "I can never repay you sufficiently."

"Do not think of that, I am going to sit here awhile with your mother and you must try and get some sleep."

"Mother is better I think," hesitatingly. "She is stronger, and now she is sleeping peacefully."

She slept on with only a rather heavy breathing. At one Mrs. Dane came to relieve her. Lilian was on the alert quite early and her mother asked for some breakfast.

At ten the doctor came. "I feel so much stronger," the invalid said, "but I can't move my limbs. There doesn't seem any life in them."

"It was quite a severe stroke."

"And if I should have another?"

"We won't think of that just now. You must eat what you can of nourishing food."

Mrs. Boyd glanced up at the doctor with beseeching eyes—

"It is best that I shouldn't live—"

"For your daughter's sake." Dr. Kendricks felt almost ashamed of the platitude. A helpless burden on a young girl, a poor, weak woman.

"It is for her sake. She has found a good friend in Mrs. Barrington, and I can do no more. I did what I thought best then, but I did it for the sake of my aching, lonely heart. But for the child I believe I must have died then. Doesn't God forgive when you do what seems best?"

There was anguish in every line of the wasted face.

"God knows the motive of every deed, and if it is done in single mindedness, in love and charity he will accept."

"It was done in love. You see, her mother was dead. There was no one to claim her. Oh, what am I saying! Go away, you can do nothing for me," and she turned her face over to the wall.

He stood some seconds by her. She was crying softly, and again motioned him away with her hand.

He went out of the room and looked around. Yes, there was Mrs. Barrington.

"What is the matter between that mother and daughter?" he inquired brusquely. "She seems—well is the girl her own child? Has she done—something—"

"Oh, doctor can you spare a little time? I am troubled and puzzled. She made a strange confession last night and it seemed almost as if I knew the connecting link. Let me call Mrs. Dane and Miss Arran."

They came and at Mrs. Barrington's invitation were seated. The doctor studied them a moment with drawn brows.

"Doctor, I want you to relate your experience of more than fifteen years ago when you went out to the scene of that frightful accident from which Mrs. Crawford has suffered so long and when her twin daughter was lost."

"What has that to do with it?"

"You will see. I believe Major Crawford left his wife and daughter in your charge when he was ordered to the west with his regiment."

"Yes." He seemed to study a few moments. "Then came the word of the skirmish with the Indians when he was wounded in the leg which proved so much worse than he first thought and she decided to go out to him and take one of the babies. He had gone fairly wild over the birth of the little girls; they had so longed for a daughter. Marguerite, if you remember, was a strong, robust baby, laughing if you so much as smiled at her. A beautiful baby, I thought, looking much like her mother. Zaidee was smaller and more delicate, though never ill that I can recall. She decided to take Marguerite and the wet nurse who was very proud of her charge and fond of Mrs. Crawford. When we heard of the frightful disaster you may remember that I went out at once. It was a most dreary place, just a sort of freight station where the tracks crossed the through road. It could not be called a town, though now it is a thriving city and the freighting road runs miles below. When I reached the place most of the wreckage had been cleared away, the dead buried, the wounded sent to friends or hospitals at a distance. I found about half a dozen remaining, four of them almost well enough to resume their journey. Two were thought hopeless, one of them being Mrs. Crawford. Fifteen years ago there were not so many conveniences as there are now, and as the fire broke out afterward the baggage was mostly lost and it was quite difficult to find the names of the passengers at first. The nurse and the baby had been killed outright. There was one other baby on the train and that had been taken farther West with its mother."

Miss Arran and the housekeeper exchanged glances.

"Mrs. Crawford had sustained some injury to the brain and for the first few days they had thought her dead half a dozen times. The people where she had been taken were very kind. She was in a comatose state most of the time, and when she roused seemed quite ignorant of what had happened. There was some injury to the back that rendered her limbs useless. As soon as I could make arrangements I had her removed to Indianapolis to a fine hospital where we found, on an exhaustive examination, the spine had been injured, the ligatures strained and muscles actually torn apart. When the Major was well enough to travel—and he came very near losing his leg, it seemed, he joined us, and we journeyed on to New York. Meanwhile the Major's brother had died, a queer, penurious old fellow who had never given up his rights in the estate and now it all came to the Major, besides a large amount of money. He resigned from the army and they came home. Mrs. Crawford had kept her mind through all this and had been most brave, recovering very slowly as you know and when she could manage to get about on crutches it appeared as if the last stage of recovery had been attained; but now it seems nothing short of a miracle. And there was the beautiful little golden haired fairy to gladden their hearts—"

"But the nurse and the child?" interrupted Miss Arran.

"The child was crushed beyond recognition. They placed it in the coffin with the nurse and buried it temporarily. The Major meant to have it brought home, but it was so long before they could get about it, and it seemed like living the heart-breaking episode over, so he concluded to have it permanently interred in a burying ground a few miles distant, which is now a really beautiful spot. Mrs. Crawford was ill so long that it seems like a dream to her."

"And did no one ever hear of the other child?"

"What was there to hear? The mother claimed it."

"The woman dying in yonder room claimed the child first, ignorantly, then believing the mother dead, took it in the place of her poor murdered child."

"No!" The doctor sprang up and began to pace the floor. "Why, then, that young girl—"

"Miss Arran will you tell the other side of the story. Why it seems to me there can be no mistake," said Mrs. Barrington.

"Well—this is most marvelous. Does the girl know—"

"Oh, she protests. I think she has no idea. But the mother fancies we may find some relative, a father perhaps, for she truly believes the mother dead."

"But this confession—would she repeat it again?"

"I think she spoke of having it written out somewhere."

"It must be well authenticated, you know. And—what steps have you considered?"

"None. Tomorrow will be Sunday—they will all go to church to give thanks; then on Christmas day they are to have a small family dinner. You and Mrs. Kendricks and myself, two or three dear old friends, and it would be hardly wise to mar the sacredness of the occasion. We may see our way more clearly, I would not like to have Miss Boyd disturbed on uncertainties."

"I will take a further look at her," said the doctor. "I have known cases like hers to last weeks, even when strength seemed to be almost gone."

He wanted also to see Miss Boyd again. He had not noticed her critically. Mrs. Barrington had spoken of the likeness that had puzzled her in the beginning, the elusive resemblance to Mrs. Crawford in her girlhood, as for two years she had been at school. He paused at the door. She was standing by the window her profile distinctly outlined. It was classic, from the broad, shapely forehead, the down-dropped eyelids with their dark fringe, the straight nose with the fine, flexible nostrils, the rounded chin, the lips that seemed to shut in sadness and longing, but it was the poise of the head, the arching neck, the shoulders proud enough for a statue. It needed more real youthfulness for sixteen, but one could trace resemblances.

Did she feel the scrutiny? She turned. The front view was more girlish.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "mother is sleeping. Is it a bad sign for her to sleep so much?"

"It gives her rest and saves the wear on her nerves. You are a watchful nurse. Where did you learn so much?"

"I think it comes to you when one has done so much for you," she answered quietly.

"Did you always live in that western country town?" he asked, just to make talk.

Lilian colored and hesitated. "When I was a baby mother went out to Wisconsin to her brother's, I don't remember anything of that. Yes, afterward we lived in Laconia until we came here; but, do you think she can—mend?" and she approached the bed.

Dr. Kendricks made a slow movement in the negative. "She has very little strength. Was she ill before she came here?"

"Long ago she had a fever, but I think now she has been weakly for a year or more. I was so anxious to keep in school. Oh, I ought to have helped more," and the tears stood in her eyes. "For we were poor."

She uttered the fact with a kind of prideful dignity. "She did everything for me and I had planned when I began to earn money that we would have a home—"

"Yes, you have been a good daughter," and all this while she might have been living in a delightful manner in her father's house, loving and beloved, the comfort of her mother! For she would have been a devoted daughter in that beautiful home. He hardened his heart against the dying woman, and walked quietly out of the room.

"The story must be true," he admitted to Mrs. Barrington. "But I cannot tell what step to take first. Would you mind if I saw Mr. Ledwith? He has been the Crawford lawyer and was the brother's executor. I am quite mystified and perhaps not capable of judging."

"Why, I think that would be an excellent plan. Yes. He can tell better what steps to take. But Lilian will not leave the poor woman. I am not sure she believes the story. She does not count on any change but is glad to stay here with me and fit herself for earning a living. She has a very loyal nature."

Mrs. Boyd roused and ate her dinner, then Lilian read her to sleep again. She begged not to be sent out to walk and Mrs. Barrington yielded.

At five Mr. Ledwith called, full of interest in the strange story and begged to see Mrs. Boyd, wondering if she would repeat it. Lilian was summoned.

"Oh, it would seem cruel to disturb her," she cried with passionate tenderness, "and she suffered so in telling it the other evening. It cannot make much difference to me, since my own mother was killed, and my father may have been dead before that. I shall always hold her in my memory as my mother."

"But the woman who was killed may not have been your mother."

Lilian started in surprise.

"There seems to be a reason why we should be certain in this. Trust me, I will not torment her needlessly."

"My dear child it is best;" said Mrs. Barrington. "Can you not trust me?"

Lilian was not convinced but she led the way.

"Oh, where have you been so long?" cried the invalid. "You said you would stay—has some one come to take you away? Oh, you will not go. You promised. It will be only a little while."

She fell into a pitiable terror. Lilian soothed. Mr. Ledwith tried to explain that they might possibly find the young girl's father who was now a prosperous man.

But Mrs. Boyd would not be persuaded. She began to talk incoherently, and suddenly raising her head and leaning on one elbow said—"send them away. It is all true as I told you. You are not my own child, but I have loved you all these years, oh, you will stay with me! I can feel that it will not be for long. It is there in the drawer—I wrote it out. It took so long and I was so tired, so tired! Give it to them and send them away. Oh, Lilian, he is not your father. Promise me you will not go with him."

Lilian opened the drawer. There lay quite a big packet, with the superscription,—"For my daughter Lilian when I am dead."

She simply handed it to Mr. Ledwith. He and Mrs. Barrington left the room. Mrs. Boyd gave way to a wild fit of weeping and Lilian had much ado to comfort her, but presently she soothed her to slumber.

"Who heard this story or confession?" he asked as they entered the library.

"Mrs. Dane and Miss Arran."

"Will they come and listen? They can tell whether the two will agree and point out any discrepancy."

It was written in a shaky hand and evidently at intervals, many words misspelled and phrases repeated, but with a passionate sincerity and an overwhelming love for the child whose mother she thought dead, and she fancied the baby might be thrown on the charity of the world, but she knew even then it was not her baby but the longing for the child was pitiful. Mrs. Barrington was reading it and now and then her voice faltered.

"Oh," said Miss Arran, "they are alike except that this seems more pathetic. There is no doubt of the truth in my mind. Of course she saw the difference as Miss Lilian grew older and she was afraid she might have defrauded her of some better fortune. Oh, I pity the poor woman profoundly. She had a hard life. Mrs. Barrington, this must have seemed a haven of rest to her. Providence must have guided you."

"It is certainly remarkable," subjoined Mr. Ledwith. "I will see Dr. Kendricks this evening, but I think we had better wait until after Christmas so as not to mar the happy reunion of that day. Then we must see how the Major will take it. It is one of the things he almost never refers to, and he was afraid of intensifying the loss by having the body brought here for burial. Truly there are many strange happenings in this world. I am requested to look up another child that was given out for adoption, and now has a fortune coming to it after twenty years."



CHAPTER X

UNRAVELING TANGLED THREADS

Sunday morning was glorious. There had been a light fall of snow and every tree and shrub was in feathery whiteness, while the sky was as blue as June. The sun came up through the long levels of yellow light more golden than ever until every branch and twig shimmered in iridescent hues.

Lilian bathed and dressed herself, now and then leaning over her mother who seemed to breathe regularly, but the face was thin and pallid, and the soft hair seemed to have whitened in these few days. She bent over and kissed the cool forehead.

Miss Arran looked in.

"Oh, is it all right? I left you at two; there really was no need of watches as I was just across the hall, but I think you confine yourself too closely. Now you must go down and take a walk on the porch. The morning air has a positive balminess in it. It really should be Christmas morning with the angels singing for very joy."

Lilian looked undecided. Yet the very thought of sunshine and fresh air was reviving.

"I will call you the moment she wakes," said Miss Arran, and the girl went.

Oh, how delightful it was! She drew in long breaths and gave a great, fervent thanksgiving. Yes, it was good to live, to be able to work, to have a purpose in life and see the way to attain it.

She went in presently. Her mother had just wakened. She bathed her face and hands with fragrant water, brushed her hair and put on a pretty dressing sacque of her own. Then she had some breakfast which she appeared to enjoy.

"I feel so drowsy," she said. "I am so comfortable and at ease."

That was much to be thankful for.

"Lilian will you do me a favor this morning," began Mrs. Barrington in her most persuasive voice. "I want you to go to church with me. The Crawford family will be there to give thanks. And we have learned that your mother was in the same fearful accident and her escape was a marvel. All these years Mrs. Crawford has been an invalid but she has borne her suffering with exemplary patience. Dr. Kendricks went out at once but there was scarcely any hope of her living then. Your mother spoke of a beautiful woman they thought dying or dead—do you remember?"

"Oh, yes. A woman with such lovely golden hair. Miss Zaidee's is exquisite, too. Yes, I will go. I should like to see her. How strange it all is! And my own mother, it seems, was among the killed."

"It was terrible. Of course your mother going away so soon did not hear all of it. Yes, I want you to go with me."

Dr. Kendricks made his visit and saw there was little change. Several of the girls were going and they started early. Mrs. Barrington kept two pews on one side of the church, which was all in Christmas attire with wreaths of holly here and there, and clusters of golden flowers dried in their natural colors. The altar was fragrant with real blossoms and to Lilian there came a deeper emotion than reverence; something she had never experienced before. She who had no joy of her very own must rejoice in that of others and search out the blessings of the spirit, find a way into the other kingdom, where the things one hungers and longs for are laid up against the time one is fitted for the pure and high enjoyment of them. The strength of the steadfast waiting, the lives that touched with near or remote sympathy and held God's promise for today, for all time. There was something kept for those who wearied not, that was bestowed when the soul had come to understand the true source of beneficent living.

She had been listening to the beautiful music and now there was a sudden hush while several of the congregation entered. There were Major and Mrs. Crawford, and certainly curious eyes might be pardoned as she walked up the aisle with a graceful step. Oh, yes, she was a lovely woman, as in sweet humility and reverence she bowed her head.

Then followed Zay and the fine looking midshipman who showed his pride in every line. What it must be to have a brother like that! Yet there was no envy in Lilian's soul, since all these joys and privileges were far beyond her. But she had a quick, responsive nature when anything really touched her, and she joyed sincerely in this other's joy.

The service was gracious and comforting even to her. Hundreds of years ago ignorant shepherds sat watching their flocks all the long starlight night, and then the song of the angels, the great promise, the new era, the blessedness for the whole world that each might take his share.

And the reverent prayer of this, Thy servant, delivered from her bodily illness who desired to return thanks in the presence of all Thy people touched her heart to tears, and she joined in it fervently.

The class did not stay for the whole service. Lilian hurried home, glad to escape the chatter of the curious. Her mother had just roused.

"It was such a sweet, comforting service. I wish you could have heard it, and—" would she understand about Mrs. Crawford—her "beautiful woman?"

"I'm afraid when you leave me. Don't go away again," and the thin lips quivered.

"But you have slept all the time, and you do feel better."

"If I could move about—" fretfully.

"Can I help?"

"Oh, no. I want to do it myself, but my limbs won't stir. Is it spring, that the sun shines so?"

"No, dear. Tomorrow will be Christmas."

"Do you remember Sally? She had a party you know and you wouldn't go—"

"But I was only a little girl, a school girl, and they were young ladies."

"Lilian do you mean never to have a lover? It is the happiest time for a girl. He takes you out and buys you pretty little things. He gave me that work box on Christmas, and a ring afterward. I don't see how God could have let him get killed—we were so happy. He wasn't your father. Both his babies died. Do you suppose he found them in heaven?"