Mrs. Boyd began to cry. Her mind wandered considerably now. Lilian tried to read to her but she broke in with irrelevant snatches that had been pleasures to her long ago until she dropped off to sleep again.

There was a rather joyous time in the morning. Mrs. Barrington remembered her household and the girls who had been compelled to stay.

Lilian gave thanks for two beautiful volumes of poetry. Miss Arran remembered her with a box of very nice stationery, Mrs. Dane with some handkerchiefs, Mrs. Barrington went to the dinner at Crawford House, but the girls complained of the dullness. Lilian was so used to being sufficient for herself, so fond of reading that the day passed even if it had no Christmas joys.

It was very happy at Crawford House. Vincent had arrived in the morning and added to their joy. Zay was bright and animated and the three planned many delights for the future.

"There ought to be some young people," said the mother, "but we couldn't have both and yours will come later on. I wanted these dear old friends who have been such a comfort in my hard and trying years and then I shall begin over with you and be young again."

"And I was proud enough when I found I was put on the list for a three years' cruise," declared Willard, "and now the thought quite unmans me. But we may stop at some place where you can all take a flying trip."

"It can't be next summer," said Vincent. "I have engaged them for my grand occasion. Next June I shall be a full fledged soldier and there will be the ball in which Zay will shine a star of the first magnitude."

"And set the day after," laughed the girl. "Oh, Phil Rosewald wants to come and half a dozen others, but I suppose you can't invite so many sisters and cousins."

Vincent drew his face in an amusing half frown. "Is Phil as funny as ever? Doesn't she sometimes jump over the traces? And how about the lovers? I think she had them ever since she stepped out of the cradle."

"In the multitude there is safety," said their father.

Mrs. Barrington could not keep her thoughts from the lonely girl watching beside the dying woman. Oh, how would she get to her true place in the bright happy group. For years she had been as dead to them. Would Zay, who had garnered all the love and tenderness in her own girlish heart, be willing to share it?

Dr. Kendricks drew her a little aside. "I can't stand it!" he exclaimed, "I couldn't break in upon this blessed day, but the thought of Miss Boyd has haunted me every moment. I must tell the Major tomorrow morning. Oh, how do you suppose he will take it? Mrs. Boyd is no longer reliable, her mind fails hourly. But out of the mouth of two or three witnesses everything shall be established. Hasn't Miss Boyd any curiosity?"

"Very little. She thinks her mother is dead and has built no hopes about a father and she relies upon my word. She has looked forward to caring for herself so long that I hardly see how she will give it up. At first she will not be glad. If the Major should doubt the story—"

"The likeness grows upon one. I saw it so plainly this morning. She is more like her mother than Zay and will make a fine looking woman. And I have seen it in Mrs. Crawford a dozen times today. I no longer doubt and I feel like an arch conspirator."

Mrs. Crawford was enjoying herself keenly, though the nurse insisted she must take to the sofa and let others do the talking. The children gathered about her, full of eager love. Was there in the whole wide world a happier mother? And yet—far away another darling lay in a lonesome grave. She had ceased to speak of it and her husband thought she had outlived the sorrow. In a certain way she had.

Then the guests prepared to depart. At nine Vincent was to take his train.

"But you and father can run up now and then. They will be glad to see him. They are always proud of their old graduates, especially those who have distinguished themselves. But, I'm glad you didn't have to make a present of your leg to the country."

"It did come pretty near it. Ah, we have a great many mercies to be thankful for. It seems as if there was nothing more to ask except that you boys should keep in the right way."

"As we shall try to," Willard returned and Vincent's eyes gave a similar promise as he kissed his mother good-by.

"Put on your wraps and come along with us Zay," said Willard. "You must need an airing by this time."

Zay was nothing loth. They talked of next summer, the elder brother regretting that he would be in Japan in all probability. Then they said a tender good-by, and on the homeward way Willard proposed a call on the Norton's where there were two charming girls and a few other guests who were having a little dance.

"Oh, yes," assented the young midshipman. "For you see, girls will be quite out of my line the next three years. I shall sigh for their charms and return a critical and opinionated bachelor, judging all girls by the novels I have read in my solitude."

"I think I'll make you out a list," said Eva Norton, laughingly.

"Do, and send it in a letter with your approval and disapproval of the characters so I shall know what to copy and what to avoid.

"And now you must have one dance."

Zay thought it rather late, but her brother overruled and they had a merry time, but it was midnight before they returned.

Major Crawford and his wife often had their breakfast in the dainty sitting room up stairs. Zay just glanced in to bid them good-morning as Willard was impatiently calling her down. She had not slept very well and had a headache, and she would not go out for a walk with him. She heard her father reading the paper aloud, so she went to her room and dropped on the bed again. Her throat began to feel sore and swollen. When she heard the doctor's voice in the hall she leaned over the banister and said: "Dr. Kendricks will you come up here a minute or two?"

"Yes, yes, what now? Did you feast too high yesterday?"

"I don't know. I feel sick all over. First I'm all of a shiver and then so hot and my head aches."

"Well, we must inquire into it. Yes, you are flushed and getting excited. I think it is a feverish cold and some indigestion. We'll soon fix that all right. Luckily I brought my medicine chest along," and he laughed.

"Doctor, you don't think—are there any more cases of scarlet fever?" and her voice was tremulous.

"Scarlet fever! Don't get any such nonsense in your curly pate. No, there's not another case and the little girl is recovering rapidly. Why you've not been even exposed to it and yours is just a cold. Now, alternate with these and I'll be in again this afternoon. But, I'd stay in bed and rest."

She slipped into a soft white wrapper, and Katy came in to straighten up her room.

"You were out late last night, Miss Zay and you've caught a cold."

"But, I so rarely have a cold."

"It sounds in your voice. Keep wrapped up good and warm. There's nothing like heat to drive out those pernickety colds and I wish you'd drink some hot water."

"I'll see by and by."

She turned her hot throbbing temple over on the pillow. If only she could shut out the sight and the smell of the clairvoyant's room, and that boy grasping for breath. It must have been something awful for them both to die almost together and be shut up at once in their coffins; and then a horror seized her. She had always been so well and joyous. Oh, what if she should die? It would kill her mother. Girls were more to their mothers; business called so many of the boys away.

She began to cry. The doctor and her father went down stairs. She thought her mother would come in and tried to calm the sort of hysterical mood. What were they talking about so long? Was she worse than the doctor had admitted? She heard her father's voice rise as if in a passion which his visitor seemed trying to subdue. Oh, what had happened?

Her mother entered the room very pale and with frightened eyes.

"Oh, Zay," she cried, dropping on the side of the bed, "have you any idea what your father and Doctor Kendricks are quarreling about? Your father is not easily excited—he used to be very quick in temper but he has grown so gentle and considerate. But it is something that rouses him to white heat. We have always been such dear friends since that time of the great sorrow, and it is not about the boys, I know. Oh, Zay, what is the matter? You look ill—you must have a fever, your eyes show it."

"The doctor called it a feverish cold. He is coming again this afternoon." She was half listening to the tumult in the library, and she shook as if in an ague.

"Oh, there they go again. Why—they are going out," and she went to the hall to call to her husband but the door was flung to as if in a passion. Then someone entered and ran lightly upstairs.

"Mother, Zay, what is the row about? Father looks as if he—but he never does drink and they are going to Mrs. Barrington's."

Zay buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

"Oh, mother, what is it? Has Vin met with some accident? And we were so happy yesterday! Do you remember the old story of the gods being jealous of the happiness of mortals? There was nothing to wish for."

"I do not know what it is, but it has excited your father desperately and I am afraid Zay is going to be ill."

"My dear Zay—I should not have kept you out so late last night. We called at the Norton's and had a little dance. Don't you need the doctor—"

"He was in. He is coming this afternoon. Oh, my head aches—"

"And you look fit to drop, mother. Let me call the nurse."

Freida gently impelled Mrs. Crawford to her own room and laid her on the lounge, making passes over her brow and chafing her cold hands.

"Now, lie still and get tranquil, and I will see to the young lady."

"I would like to put you in a hot bath with plenty of salt, and then give you a good rub. Why, you have gone all to pieces, as you Americans say."

Zaidee made no demur. Willard went and read aloud to his mother. The girl was bathed and rubbed and rolled in a blanket. She felt real drowsy, but the thought haunted her—what if Louie Howe had been taken ill with scarlet fever and they had sent word to Mrs. Barrington? Then Louie must have confessed and the three would be implicated. No wonder her father was angry!

She tossed around for awhile but, in spite, of her mental excitement she fell asleep. The luncheon hour passed; no one wanted to eat. Then Major Crawford let himself in with his latchkey. He was very pale now.

"Oh, is there bad news?" asked Willard.

"It depends on—how your mother takes it. Such a strange story—I can hardly credit it myself. Do not let us be interrupted unless I have to summon someone," and he passed on his way upstairs.



CHAPTER XI

STANDING UP TO THE MARK

Lilian Boyd bathed her mother's face and hands as usual and prepared her breakfast. Her eyes were brighter, her voice stronger, but the girl noticed that her face seemed a little swollen and the lines about her mouth had lost their flexibility.

"You are surely better. You have more appetite," yet the tone was not hopeful.

"Oh, my dear, it is nearer the end, and it is best. You will do better without me, and what if you should find someone—a father to be proud of you? Such things have happened, and I may have kept you out of something that was your right. Oh, will God forgive me?"

Lilian caught the thin hand and pressed it to her lips.

"Mother, you must not worry about this. Suppose my own mother was a widow like you going to a new home to earn her living. Why, I might have been put in some Children's Asylum. And I have had many comforts and a love willing to make sacrifices. I have been a dreamy girl building air castles for the future, but I would have worked hard to make them real. I see now how much is needed and I am not afraid——"

"Oh, if I could think you had lost nothing through my selfish love——"

"But it was your friend who sent us here. And you are not sorry we came?"

"Oh, my child, it was truly God's providence. Mrs. Barrington has been so good. She will help you to attain your best aims. Since we have been here I have realized the difference between us that I only felt vaguely before. You belong to these people. You have their ways and it is not all education, either. This is why I feel your people could not have been in the common walks of life."

She paused, exhausted.

"Now, you must not talk any more but try to sleep. Shall I read to you?"

"No, not now. Oh, Lilian, you will not tire of me? You will not leave me? It cannot be long——"

"No, no, and this will be my home. Let that comfort you."

Lilian took up some embroidery. Mrs. Barrington had merely looked in to inquire. How still the house seemed, and she was in a highly nervous mood. What if Major Crawford should not believe the story? Well, Lilian Boyd should never know how near she had come to being a heroine of romance, and she should achieve some of her desires.

Mrs. Boyd drowsed. Yes, it was really the providence of God that she should be removed. She would always have the things she most desired, which she, Mrs. Boyd could not have given her in the pretty home Lilian had been planning. She had been happy with her lover, then her husband. But, Lilian would shrink from the kiss of the grimy man fresh from his hard work, and after his brief ablutions, sitting down to supper in his shirt sleeves and then lighting his pipe and pushing his baby up and down the front walk, jesting and laughing with the neighbors. There were blocks of them, most of them happy women, too, except when the babies came too fast or died out of their arms. And a few games of cards in the evening, a play now and then merry enough to keep one laughing. No, it would never have done for Lilian.

And she would feel out of place in the life to which the girl aspired. She would never get quite at ease with these refined friends whose talk was of books and music and the part great men and women were playing in the world.

How many times does one have a foreshadowing of the real things that affect life! One may be heavy hearted for days groping about fearsomely and suddenly the cloud lifts without any misfortune. Then swift in the happiest hour comes the stroke that crushes one. Lilian looked straight ahead in her life. She would serve her time here and repay Mrs. Barrington for her generous kindness.

In a lovely old town like Mount Morris, the lines of caste get unconsciously drawn. Where people have lived hundreds of years and can trace back to some titled ancestor perhaps, where they have never known the hard grind of poverty, but have worked on the higher lines. There had been several noted clergymen, two bishops, scholars, senators and even an ambassador abroad. There was no especial pride in this, it was simply what was to be expected of sons growing up in this refined, upright and moral atmosphere. But they sometimes passed rather proudly by those of the next lower round who bent their energies to money making.

Lilian had soon come to understand that and her personal pride kept her aloof from any chance of snubs. But she would want a wider world presently that was not bounded by a grandfather or a fortune that had descended through generations.

There were moments when Mrs. Boyd's confession seemed a feverish dream. She did not dare build anything on it, because she had indulged in some romantic dreams and longings, because there had been wounded vanity almost to a sense of shame, she held herself to a strict account. No matter what she might gain here, she would always be considered Mrs. Boyd's daughter. She had not expected to be received with the young ladies of the school, and had taken no notice of the little rudenesses that might have had a better excuse if she had been trying to crowd in. So all the refinements of birth and education did not always conduce to the higher generosity of heart.

Miss Arran came gently in the room with an anxious glance toward the bed.

"Mrs. Barrington wishes to see you in the library, Miss Boyd. I will stay here with your mother."

Lilian laid down her work as she rose and said: "Mother is asleep now."

Then she went slowly down the wide stairway, her eyes lingering on some of the panels that had been painted in by a true artist.

"My dear child," the lady said in a voice that seemed full of emotion, "you must have felt from the beginning that I had taken an unusual interest in you. You suggested some person that I could not quite place, but came to know afterward that it was one of my early scholars, a most charming girl. She married happily and had two sons, but they both longed for a daughter. Providence listened to their prayers and sent them a double portion, two lovely girls. My friend's husband was a soldier stationed on the frontier and in an Indian raid was quite severely wounded. It was not deemed best to risk moving him and she resolved to go out to him. One of the babies, the first born was larger and stronger than the other, and she determined to take this one with a most excellent nurse she had. You heard the story Mrs. Boyd told. My friend was in the same frightful accident—the nurse was killed outright, but the baby by some miracle had not so much as a scratch. The only other baby was crushed beyond recognition."

Lilian sprang up, then the room seemed to swim round. She caught at the chair back to steady herself and gave a great gasp.

"Oh, and my mother, Mrs. Boyd, took the child, but they all thought the nurse the real mother. And, oh—she could not bear to give up the baby. Oh, you must forgive her."

"In the confusion I can see that it was very easily done. Dr. Kendricks went out at once. He found the mother gravely injured and the word was that the baby was dead. It was beyond recognition. Mrs. Boyd, who had only been stunned, had gone on her way. You have heard her side of the story, knowing the other side when Miss Arran detailed it, we sent for Dr. Kendricks and pieced it all together. You have been so occupied with your supposed mother, and I must say you have been a devoted daughter, that you have hardly noted our excitement and interest. The confession established the facts beyond a doubt in our minds, but we were not sure how the father would take it. And the place has altered immeasurably; there have been so many accidents since, that that has passed into oblivion. But no one can dispute the proof. Your mother was a noticeably handsome girl; but there is a curious resemblance, and it grows upon one."

"And I am scarcely handsome at all," the girl said, slowly.

"Have you no curiosity to know whom you belong to?" studying Lilian intently.

"Oh, I dare not ask, I hardly dare believe! It is so mysterious. She, yes, I will call her mother, though there might be a father somewhere. And was that beautiful woman they believed dying——"

Lilian clasped her hands over her eyes. Like a flash it seemed to pass before her. Zay Crawford's double, some of the girls had called her.

"Oh," she cried, "can I endure it? What if they do not want me?"

"If they had doubted the story it would have been kept from you. Can you guess—"

Lilian flung herself in Mrs. Barrington's arms, with a long, dry sob.

"Oh, do not give me up," she cried imploringly. "Let me stay with you. I will serve you faithfully for I love you, and these people are strangers——"

"Think, what it must be after her years of sorrow to clasp her child in her arms; to know that it had been well cared for, tenderly loved. Oh, she is your own mother and you will come to love her dearly. This morning Dr. Kendricks was to tell Major Crawford the story. Fifteen minutes ago word came that they would be here. Lilian, your father feels hard toward Mrs. Boyd. You know Dr. Kendricks would have recognized you if she had not taken you away, and it is only natural that he should feel indignant."

"Must I see him before she—she cannot last long. Oh, she must not hear this, and I will not leave her until the very last."

Then the child suggested her father.

"There they come," exclaimed Mrs. Barrington.

The two men entered the drawing room. Lilian clung to Mrs. Barrington, but that lady impelled her forward.

"This is your daughter, Major Crawford," she said, "and this, my dear, is your own father."

Lilian stood like a statue. It was as if she was turning to stone. Oh, he could not deny her. The clear cut features, the golden bronze hair, the proud figure that seemed to add dignity to the whole. So, her mother had stood, in girlhood.

"Oh, my child! my child! have you no word of gladness for me after these long years! The baby I never saw—my Marguerite."

Was her tongue frozen and her lips stiff? Oh, what should she say? How could she welcome this stranger?

"And that cruel woman has stolen your love from us, as she stole your beautiful body. Oh, where is she? Let me see her!"

"You were to keep calm, Major," exclaimed the doctor. "We have gone over all this, and the poor woman is dying. To upbraid her now would be nothing short of murder."

The Major glanced wildly around. "Why think of our loss and sorrow. She knew the child was not hers. And she ran off like a thief in the night. Oh, I can't forgive her."

"Oh, you must," cried the girl with the first gleam of emotion she had shown. "For she mistook the nurse for the mother. Everything must have been in confusion. She thought of me as a motherless baby, perhaps to be cast on charity——"

"But all these years! And poverty, when a lovely home awaited you; brothers and a sweet sister and such a mother! Oh, she ought to know and suffer for the crime."

"She was almost crazy with her own grief. And she was good and tender and devoted to me. She shall not suffer for it in her dying moments."

She stood there proudly, her face a-light with a sort of heroic devotion. So her mother would have taken up any wrong. Was he unduly bitter?

"Oh, my darling, have you no love for me? No want for your own sweet mother—"

Something in his pleading tone touched her and his face betrayed strong agitation. His arms seemed to hang listlessly by his side. She took a few steps toward him and then they suddenly clasped her in a vehement embrace.

The doctor glanced at Mrs. Barrington and they both left the room.

"It has been a hard fight," he said. "He was so enraged at first that I was afraid he would come and have it out with the dying woman. The fact that she knew the child was not hers and yet took it away seemed to stir all the blood in his body. Poor thing—one has to feel sorry for her; but he raged over the privations he thought his child had endured, and her being here in an equivocal position. The Crawfords were always very proud. And one could not expect a girl just in the dawn of womanhood to fly to a stranger's arms."

"Yet it took her so by surprise, and she has a proud, reticent nature."

"Let us go and see Mrs. Boyd."

Major Crawford felt the girl's heart beating against his own. He raised the face and kissed it, amid tears, deeply touched.

"You must forgive me. You do not know what it is to have some one stand between you and your child all these years. I used to dream how it would have been with twin girls running about, climbing one's knees, doing a hundred sweet and tender things. Zay has been so lovely, so loving; but all these years we never forgot you. We gave the most fervent thanks for your mother's recovery, and when you are safe in her arms—oh, it seems almost as if it was too much joy."

"It is so strange," and her voice was tremulous. "For I never could have dreamed of anything like this. I did not dream, for it seemed as if a man who had lost wife and child would want to begin over again, and in a good many ways I tried to believe I had been too visionary—longing for things quite beyond my reach. So I have been praying that God would send what was best for me and trying to make myself content. Oh, are you quite sure there is no mistake?" and there was a pitifully beseeching sound in her voice.

"If we can believe that thief of a woman. Oh, to think she should carry away our baby and leave us her little dead child," and the only half conquered passion flamed up in his face again.

"But, you see, if I had been the nurse's child as she thought, the poor nurse who was dead, it would be a brave and tender act——"

"I have no pity for her. You must come away. Oh, Marguerite, there is your own sweet mother, who when she hears will want to clasp you to her heart at once. And Zaidee, your twin sister——"

She shrank and stiffened a little. Zaidee Crawford would not be so glad to welcome her. She felt it in her inmost heart. For she had been the pet and darling of the household all these years. All the girls had paid her a curious sort of homage. She had been invested with a halo of romance, and generous as she seemed with her equals, she had established a rigorous distance between them. Lilian fancied she was annoyed by the suggestion of a resemblance between them.

Her father was momentarily piqued by the unyielding lines of her figure and the hesitancy.

"Oh, my child you must take in the strength, the absolute reality of our claim, unless you cannot believe this woman—"

"I would stake my very life on her truth, and I can recall so many things that seemed strange to me then, especially these last two years. She so dreaded leaving me alone in the world, and I am not willing to embitter her last moments. You see she never thought of my parents being in a much higher walk in life, and the knowledge that she had kept me out of so much would be a cruel stab. No, let me wait until it is all over, and you have accepted the strange story truly. There are others beside yourself——"

Her eyes were full of tears as she raised them. It was noble to take this view, though he really grudged it.

"You mean then to stay here until—"

"I have promised sacredly, solemnly. There may be some things to certify. Mrs. Barrington spoke of one, that the confession, ought to be signed before witnesses."

"Yes, though we should never doubt. And if there was any question there might be a legal adoption;" then he paused. His wife had not heard the story yet. Yes, his anger had hurried him along with scarcely a thought of all that needed to be done. He had dreamed of the joy of bringing the mother and daughter together. Yes, she must be prepared.

"Perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. "Yet—oh, how can I leave you. It seems as if the joy would vanish."

"I do not think I shall vanish," and she half smiled through her tears.

The doctor came downstairs with a grave face.

"There has been a sudden change. The paralysis has crept upward. She is moaning for you. Go to her."

Lilian flashed out of the room.

"Are you convinced?" asked the doctor.

"Oh, positively. And what a noble girl! I hate to have her love that woman so, and yet it shows a true and generous nature. Why, I think some girls would have gone wild over the prospect."

"Mrs. Barrington is enthusiastic about her and she has had a wide experience with girls. But my dear Major, there is a good deal to be done. Your wife must hear the story, and we must consider her health, her nervous system must not have too severe a shock. And this Mrs. Boyd must attest her confession in some way. She can hardly speak intelligibly. With your permission, I'll hunt up Ledwith. It's best to have everything secure."

"Yes, yes. And, doctor, I want to apologize for my anger and unreason this morning. Why, we are half brutes after all. I believe I could have almost murdered that woman for stealing my darling baby and sneaking off without a word of inquiry. I do not yet see how Marguerite can forgive her for keeping her out off her birthright all these years; for dragging her through poverty and all kinds of menial labor; and here she was the caretaker's daughter! Think of it—my child, Zay's sister! Even now when the child pleads for her so earnestly I cannot really forgive her. Will you pardon me for my outbreak? My child is tenderer and more generous than I."

"The poor woman has come to the last stages. It is a matter of only a few days. It would be cruel to part them now."

"You are all against me," with a sad smile.

"You must go home and explain this matter to Mrs. Crawford, and to your sister. Then send the confession to Ledwith. I will see him. And, oh, I promised to drop in and see Zay. She has some nervous crochet in her head."

"Is she really ill?" the father asked in alarm.

"She has some cold and a little fever. Don't excite her."

They walked away together. The doctor found Zay's fever much higher and she was in a state of great excitement.

"Oh, what has happened," she cried. "What was papa so angry about? And you took him away——"

"A matter of business that he could not look at reasonably at first. And it may be a delightful surprise for you, so you must do your utmost to get well. Men have many bothers, my dear."

"It was not about Vincent?"

"Oh, dear, no. There was a telegram from him. He reached West Point all right, and all is going well. Now, I shall give you a composing draught and order you to sleep all the afternoon."

"And the fever?" tremulously.

"That's simply cold and nervousness. You will be about well tomorrow," and he laughed.

"Mrs. Barrington was—oh, I suppose the girls who stayed had a dull time."

"I didn't hear any complaints. I guess they are all right. Don't you worry about them or anybody."

If she could hear that Louie Howe was well; maybe Phil would write tomorrow. Oh, she couldn't be seriously ill or the doctor wouldn't be so indifferent about it. If she only could go to sleep and forget about the Clairvoyant's awful den!



CHAPTER XII

OH, WILL I BE WELCOME?

There was a late luncheon and then the Major returned to his wife's sitting room where Aunt Kate was keeping her company with some exquisite needlework for her darling, Zay, who had insisted upon being left alone.

"I have a curious story to read to you that concerns us all. I am glad to have you here, Kate, as a sort of ballast. It was what excited me so this morning and I was very unreasonable. The doctor threatened to put me in a straight jacket."

Aunt Kate laughed. Mrs. Crawford studied her husband intently.

"Oh, go on with your work. I shall feel more composed." He turned his chair a little, ostensibly for the light, but so that his wife might not watch his face.

He began with Mrs. Boyd's list of misfortunes after her few years of happiness and her resolve to go out to her brother's. At times he stumbled over the poor penmanship and halted.

"Why, it must have been the train I was on," interrupted Mrs. Crawford. "I remember there was a woman with a delicate looking child. I believe ours were the only two babies. Oh, if I had not taken my little darling! But she was so well and strong, such a fine happy baby, and nurse Jane was so good."

Mrs. Boyd had hurried briefly over the terrible collision.

"Everett," interrupted his sister with an indignant emphasis, "why recall that awful happening. It can do us no good now."

Mrs. Crawford leaned her head on her hand and balanced her elbow on the broad arm of the chair.

The Major's voice shook slightly. Mrs. Boyd had been quite graphic about her calling for the baby, her care of it from midnight to the next morning and settling her mind to what the woman had said; her resolve to keep the child when she heard the other mother had been killed. She sprang up suddenly.

"Oh, it was nurse Jane who was killed. And she took my baby, my darling. Oh, who was she? Can we ever find her?"

Then she fainted and her husband caught her in his arms.

"Oh, you have killed her!" cried Miss Crawford. "How could you recount that awful time of suffering, and that the woman should steal the baby! Oh, that was just it, there's no use mincing matters!"

It was some minutes before Mrs. Crawford regained consciousness, then she gazed imploringly in her husband's face.

"Oh, tell me—where is my darling? Is she really alive. Can we find her?"

"She has been found. She is well and in good hands. Oh, my dear wife, I felt vengeful at first, but I have come to pity the poor thing. Marguerite pleaded for her. And we must be thankful that she had the courage to confess the matter."

"Then—you have seen her?"

The voice was shaken with emotion.

"She is at Mrs. Barrington's."

"Oh, can't we go to her? My dear baby, my darling Marguerite! Why, it is almost as if she had been sent from heaven."

"My dear—" her husband caught her in his arms or she would have fallen in her eagerness. "Oh, it will all come right, but you must be patient and get stronger. There are reasons why she cannot come, or you cannot go, and you must hear the rest of the story."

"Everett," began his sister, "how do you know but that this is a scheme to extort money. How can you be sure it is your child? There are so many swindlers or blackmailers in the world."

He was arranging his wife on the couch, thankful she had borne the tidings so well. Then he seated himself beside her, bending over to kiss the pallid lips.

"There can scarcely be any chance for fraud. No one would profit by it, and now, shall I go on with the story?"

They both acquiesced.

There was something so pathetic in the fostermother's love for the child and her fear of its being cast on the world as no one seemed to know anything about the supposed mother. Then her return to her early home; her struggles against misfortune, poverty and ill health, and after a little, her dismay at finding the child so different from what she had been herself, so ambitious, so longing for refinement and showing such a distaste for common ways. The failure of her own health, the impossibility of keeping the girl at school any longer when Mrs. Barrington's proffer had seemed a perfect godsend. But it was too late to recover the health that had been so shattered by poverty and hard work.

"Well, if it is true she was a courageous woman," declared Miss Crawford. "One can't forgive her for taking the child without making a single inquiry."

"But everything was in such confusion, and you will remember that Marguerite lay unconscious for a long while, just hovering between life and death. And at that time, in the western countries there were not so many safeguards. When Dr. Kendricks reached the place, Jane and the baby had been temporarily buried. Yes, it was easy for the thing to happen when Mrs. Boyd wanted the baby so much. I can hardly forgive her, but we must admit that the confession showed an earnest desire to repair the wrong."

"Where is she?"

"At Mrs. Barrington's. Dr. Kendricks thinks she can last but a few days longer and the child is resolved to stay until the end. I tried to shake her determination but found it useless."

"I admire her for it," said Mrs. Crawford.

"I should doubt her fervent love if it could be transferred so easily from poverty to wealth. Yes, I am proud of my dear daughter whom I have not seen in fifteen years. But the whole story is marvellous."

"And yet there is nothing impossible about it. We can see how simply it all happened."

"What is she like?"

"Mrs. Barrington was quite puzzled about a resemblance to some one, and she thinks it you. She has not the radiant beauty of your girlhood, neither has she the dazzling charm of Zay. Oh, I think she is the most like Willard; rather too grand for a girl of sixteen, with a great deal of dignity. Oh, you should hear Mrs. Barrington talk about her. And how do you suppose she and the doctor kept the secret yesterday! They knew it would disturb our happy Christmas. And she was nursing the sick woman."

"Oh, did she know?"

"Not that she was our daughter until this morning. I felt bewildered over it all," and Major Crawford gave a deep drawn sigh.

His wife pressed his hand. Her tears were flowing silently.

"Well—it will be very strange to have her here," remarked Miss Crawford. "But I warn you, Zay will always be the dearest to me."

Twilight was falling around them. Mrs. Crawford would never have her own lights early. This was her favorite hour with her husband. Aunt Kate stole softly to Zay's room and found her sleeping tranquilly, the fever mostly gone.

"Oh, I wonder how you will take it," she mused. "You have been the darling of the household so long."

For somehow, she was not in a mood to welcome this newcomer. True, there must be the strongest proof or Major Crawford would not have been convinced or allowed himself to get in such a passion with this Mrs. Boyd. But a girl reared amid the commonest surroundings, enduring the straits of poverty, lack of education, no accomplishments, how could she take her place in the front rank of Mount Morris society? And the boys—how would they accept this rusticity and probably self conceit?

Major Crawford and his wife often fell into tender and mysterious confidences at this hour, that were never shared with others. They were very happy in her recovery though the last two years she had suffered very little. But she did not want to depute the care of her daughter growing into womanhood entirely to Aunt Kate who had many worldly aims and prejudices, and who was very proud of her niece's beauty. And now such a load was lifted from her soul that had never quite forgiven itself for taking her finest baby on the unfortunate journey.

"Oh, I must see her," she cried in a whisper.

"But she will not come here until all is over with that poor woman. I do not see how she can care so much for her."

"My dear, it shows a true and strong regard. Remember it is the only mother she has ever known. To turn at once would show a volatile disposition. I have been afraid of that in Zaidee, who is easily taken with new friends, though I will admit that she does not discard the old ones. But I wish sometimes other people were not so easily attracted by her."

"But she is charming," said the admiring father.

"I hope they will love each other. We must expect a little jealousy at first. And you think she is not—that her narrow life has not dwarfed her."

"Oh, you should listen to Mrs. Barrington's enthusiasm. You see, it was not an easy place to fill, after all. She was in some of the classes, but she held herself aloof. Then she taught a little among the younger day scholars, and kept a certain supervision in the evening study hour. Her mother's position was a sort of handicap, she was so very meek and retiring. All women cannot add dignity to an inferior position, and young people are very apt to take them according to the position. Mrs. Barrington was planning some changes for the new term that would be brought about by the passing away of the poor woman. I think she meant, in a way, to adopt her."

"Oh, she must be worthy, to have made such a friend."

And the mother was wondering, but dared not ask what Marguerite had grown into. She was not like Zay, all the coloring was darker. Willard was fine looking for a young man, but would it not be rather masculine for a girl? She had a fancy for the soft attractiveness in a woman.

Then the light came and dinner. Mrs. Crawford went to Zay's room afterward and found her comfortable and better, with no recurrence of fever, and they had a pleasant little chat.

The next morning a letter came from Phillipa, full of merry nonsense about gifts and gayety and lovers. She was very well, with the very underscored, and two engagements for every evening. She had not heard from Louie, "but I should have if her little finger had ached; she would have been afraid of some distemper. And I hope you are all having a splendid time."

Afterward Dr. Kendricks came in. Yes, she was better, the throat was all right; there was a slight remnant of the cold, and it would be best to be careful for a few days. Oh, yes, she could dress herself and go about the house, but not out driving.

"You danced a little too much Christmas night, though for the life of me I don't see what you were so nervous about."

She flushed and laughed and felt that she had escaped a great danger.

Then he and the Major set out together, meeting Mr. Ledwith at the school. The doctor went upstairs. Lilian met him with anxious eyes.

"Yes, there has been a great change. She has gone more rapidly than I thought. Can she speak?"

"Hardly. Now and then a word. Yet she understands all that I say to her," Lilian returned, gravely. "But she was quite restless during the night."

He nodded. "You see, my dear Miss Boyd—you will be that until you take your new name, the confession has no signature. It might never be called in question but sometimes, years afterward, in the various changes of property, it might be necessary to establish a legal identity. Can you make her understand this? And you can attest most of her story. I will call up Mr. Ledwith. And your father is most desirous of being present. He will make no trouble."

She went out in the hall to meet him.

"My dear," he said, "I am more reasonable than I was yesterday. Your lovely mother has placed some views in a different light, and she is most glad that you have never lacked for a fervent love and care. And we both forgive her."

"Oh, thank you for that. Though Mrs. Barrington advises that she had better not be told of the discovery. You see she is so tranquil now, knowing that I am provided for."

Then they entered the room. Mrs. Boyd scarcely noticed them, but her eyes questioned Lilian, who began to explain, holding the poor hand in hers. Mrs. Boyd seemed confused at first, then she said with some difficulty—"Yes, yes."

Lilian and Miss Arran pillowed her up in a sitting posture and placed the material on a portable desk.

"It is just to sign your name."

She seemed to listen as Mr. Ledwith read the affadavit, and nodded, with her eyes on Lilian, who put the pen in her hand, but she could not clasp it.

"I think you will have to guide it. She does not understand."

Lilian took the poor shaking hand in hers, and the sick woman looked up into her face and smiled.

It was written, but even Lilian's hand shook a little. "Emma Eliza Boyd."

"That is all, dear," said the girl.

She made a great effort to articulate, and her eyes had a frightened look in them. "You—will not—go?"

"Oh, no, no," returned Lilian, with a kiss.

"Tired—tired," she gasped.

They laid her down and gave her a spoonful of stimulant but she only swallowed a little of it.

The others left the room. Dr. Kendricks shook his head slowly. Mr. Ledwith gave the last page of the confession to Major Crawford. Lilian sat on the side of the bed, chafing the cool hands that had grown more helpless since yesterday, and presently Mrs. Boyd slept, but one could hardly note the breathing.

Mrs. Barrington looked in and beckoned to Lilian.

"Your own mother is here," she said softly. "And I feel like putting in another claim, but I cannot displace the rightful one. You will find her in the library."

Lilian went slowly down. The beautiful woman she had seen in church, the woman who had lain like dead when Mrs. Boyd glanced upon her, the mother who had missed her all these years! The tall figure rose with the softness of a cloud longing to embrace the moon, with arms outstretched, and the child went to them in the caress of divine satisfaction. For this was the mother of her dreams and ideals, and their souls were as one.

They kissed away each other's tears.

"I felt that I must come, that I must see you. But I am not going to take you away, much as I long for you, since you have a sacred duty here. When that is finished we will begin our lives together. At first, your father was mad with jealousy that she should have dared to love you so much, but now he is glad as I am that you did not suffer from coldness or indifference. That would have broken my heart."

"And I am afraid I did not always return love for love. I was always dreaming, desiring something I had not. She worked for me all those early years. I had resolved as soon as was possible to be her caretaker, to put in her life the things she desired, whether they pleased me or not. It did not take much to make her happy."

"And no man can understand the longing of a woman's soul when her child has been torn from her arms. Poor empty arms, that no prayer can fill. And this was why she snatched at the baby, believing it was motherless. Yes, I forgave her and so did he when he came to look at it in the true light. Some women, when times pressed hard in work and poverty, would have placed you in an institution——"

"Oh, I think she would have starved first!" interrupted the girl, vehemently.

"And now, if God grants it, we may have a long, satisfying life together. For He has given me back my health like a miracle, as we had thought it could never be, and were quite resigned. And now He has restored all that we missed, given us the oil of joy for mourning. Oh, child, let me look at you. As a baby you were so different from Zaidee, it hardly seemed as if you could be twins; and you are taller, yes, you are more like Willard. But you have my eyes, and I never was fairy-like. Oh, I hope you girls will love each other, and I want you to love me with all your heart to make up for those years that have fallen out of our lives."

The exquisitely soft, silvery laugh was music to the girl's heart. Yes, this was the ideal mother. Was there some secret quality in heredity, after all?

They talked on and on. She wanted to hear more particulars of her daughter's life, but Lilian softened some of the roughest places, the fights she had had with herself, when she felt she must give up her cherished school, the pleasure of coming to an atmosphere like this, the warm interest of Mrs. Barrington.

"And now I must leave you," said the mother, "but I take with me a delightful hope. When your duty is done here, and I appreciate your doing it, you will find your true home in my heart and my home. Oh, I think you will never be able to understand all my joy."

She rose and wiped away her tears. Yes, she was beautiful enough to adore. Her own mother! It thrilled every pulse.

"Oh, my dear, let us both thank God for this restoration. It is like a heavenly dream. I must have time to get used to it."

Lilian watched her as she stepped into the phaeton, with its handsome bays and the silver mountings. And Zaidee could have every wish gratified; friends, music, travel. It was there for her, also. She had never dreamed of that.



CHAPTER XIII

A MOTHER'S LOVE

Mrs. Boyd had not stirred. Lilian bent over her and found the breathing very faint. Miss Arran sat by the window and merely glanced up. The girl buried her face in the pillow and heard again the soft, finely modulated voice, the clasp of the hand that meant so much, the promise for tomorrow.

"If they were not so rich," her musings ran, "If I could do something for her. Oh, it seems too much. If we could go away—but to face all the girls, to hear the comments."

"Miss Boyd, can you spare me a few moments," said Mrs. Dane. "Mrs. Arran will watch."

Lilian followed to Mrs. Dane's room.

"Miss Boyd, I have an apology to make to you, and I am honest enough to confess it. I can't just tell why, but I did take a dislike to you and your mother. She seemed very weak and as if she was afraid a baleful secret might come to light, and you were the master mind holding some curious power over her."

"Oh, it was not that," cried Lilian, eagerly. "It was because in her simple life she had not been accustomed to the usages that obtained in the larger world. Often I did guide her a little. She was very timid."

"And it seemed to me—of course I understand it now, that you held your head quite too high for your mother's daughter. I was brought up to do my duty in that station of life to which it should please God to call me, and not try to get out of it. You seemed above it—somehow——"

"Oh, did I act that way? I was only trying to do my duty to the classes and to Mrs. Barrington. I did not mean to seem above my station," and there was sob in her voice.

"My dear, don't cry. My apology would not be worth half so much if I held back part of the price. I think I was a little jealous of Mrs. Barrington's favor for you, as I had a curious suspicion that something not quite orthodox might come out about you, that you really were not her child. You see I was not so far out of the way after all, and that evening I accused you of having gone to the Clairvoyants—we had just heard the death was from malignant scarlet fever. It would have ruined the school for a long while to have it break out here, you know. If the person had come out in the open so that I could have seen, but her darting back, and I think there was more than one. It seems even now as if it did look like you, but it might have been because it was like the Tam you wore. And you appeared so embarrassed over it."

"Oh, could you believe that I would have told such a falsehood?" she cried, hurt to the very quick.

"We thought it best to take precautions. Then Mrs. Boyd had her stroke and then came her confession and all that has happened since. Your devotion to that poor woman was enough to stamp the nobleness of your character, and it is not because you are Major Crawford's daughter that I say this—that I am ashamed of my prejudices and beg you to forgive me. Mrs. Barrington was right from the beginning and you are worthy of the best of fortune."

"Oh, Mrs. Dane—" and her voice broke.

"I should have felt myself contemptible if I had not made this amends, and now if you will shake hands with me——"

"Gladly. And I thank you for the kindliness towards my—yes, she was my mother all these years and the sympathy you showed me even before it was proved who my real father was."

"And I wish you much joy and happiness, which you will surely have. And you will be fitted to grace any position. You will have one of the loveliest of women for a mother, and two brothers who, so far, have been most exemplary. And that darling, Zay—the whole town loves her."

Lilian wiped her eyes, and pressed Mrs. Dane's hand fervently. Would Zay proffer her a sister's love?

She went back to Mrs. Boyd, who suddenly opened her eyes and smiled, then the thin lids fell. How she had wasted away! She tried to recount to herself all the kindnesses, the sacrifices Mrs. Boyd had made. And though the boarding house had been of the commonest sort there had never seemed any real pinches. She had even saved up money. It was the long illness and the changes incident to it that had not only reduced their little store, but broken her health and made her fearful of the future. She had taken up the sewing then. Four years there had been of that. Lilian remembered how proud she had been to enter the High School among the best scholars.

And some day she would teach. It was such a delightful vision. She studied other things beside the ordinary lessons. She loved to play and at times when she had turned her brain almost upside down she ran out and had a game of tag with the girls.

There were other evenings when she overcast long seams and pulled bastings, and the last year she had learned to sew on the machine. With scanty living and steady work, her mother had dropped down and down. But she was glad she had offered to go in the shop. When matters were a little easier she might try night school she had thought.

And this beautiful school was like an entrance into a land of romance. The luxurious living, at least it seemed so to her, would soon restore her mother's health. The duties were light. She had time for reading and oh, the lovely things! She did at times wish there had been some other position for her mother, like that of Miss Arran's. But she understood that Mrs. Boyd could not fill that. She lacked something, she had no real dignity, no self-assertion. She allowed the girls to order her, and Lilian wondered how these rich girls, who in some respects had polished manners, could be so ill bred. For somehow she understood the difference.

There were several with whom she might have been good friends, but she was too proud to step outside of what she considered her real station.

And now this wonderful event had come to her and she seemed to understand the thoughts and feelings that had been such a mystery. When she had been clasped to her true mother's heart, it appeared to her as if a veil had been drawn aside, and she had stepped into a larger room, replete with all she had vaguely dreamed about. That Crawford House was one of the fine old places, she knew, but she never thought of that luxurious living where all the tomorrows had been provided for. She would have gone to the simplest cottage for that mother's love.

Would Zaidee Crawford give her a sister's warm welcome? She would never grudge her anything money could buy; but she, Lilian, must seem like an interloper to them. And to share her mother's love with a stranger!

Miss Arran entered the room.

"You ought to go to bed, Miss Boyd. I will sit here and watch. Your mother seems asleep."

Lilian changed her dress for a comfortable wrapper, kissed her mother's forehead and pressed the cold hands. She did not stir; but then she had lain this way for hours at a time. The girl drew up her cot to the side of her mother's bed and laid down. The clocks all about were striking midnight.

It had not been so tranquil at Crawford House. Dinner had been rather quiet; no one seemingly to want to talk at any length. Afterward, Major Crawford had said—

"Let us all go up to mother's room. I have a singular explanation to make to you two children. Aunt Kate has known it these two days."

"There has seemed something mysterious in the air," exclaimed Willard, "only I am sure nothing worse has happened to mother. She looks so extraordinarily happy, and Zay is about again."

"We must go back to the time of the accident," began the Major. "We thought we had overlived the sorrow and we had never expected any joy for the outcome."

He paused to steady his voice, then began the story of the other woman, the only passenger who carried an infant, her hours of unconsciousness, her hearing the cry of the child and claiming it and then learning that the woman she believed its mother had been killed and full of pity for it, since her own had been mangled and carried away, resolved to take it and care for it. She left the next day—

"Oh, you don't mean she took our baby," cried Willard passionately, his eyes aflame.

"She took our baby. She has cared for it all these years through poverty and failing health and now that she is dying, she thought the child ought to know. They have been at Mrs. Barrington's since some time in August."

Zaidee sprang up, but her face was ghostly pale and there was a tremulous protest in her voice.

"Oh, it is that Mrs. Boyd, the caretaker and her daughter!" she exclaimed, drawing a long strangling breath full of protest.

"Our daughter," said her father with emphasis. Then he went on to relate how the matter had been brought to his notice and his unreasonable anger at first as he could not doubt the story vouched for by Doctor Kendricks, his interview with the child and Mrs. Barrington, Mrs. Crawford's visit to her yesterday.

"What a wonderful story!" Willard sprang up and began to pace the floor. "I suppose it is true. That baby couldn't have died and she adopted another one."

"How do we know that she did not?" said Miss Crawford, protestingly.

"She was anxious that the girl in some manner might find her father's people. You see, she was sure the mother was dead. Oh, there is enough to convince you all. Dr. Kendricks and Mr. Ledwith have no doubt of the truth of her story. There is no scheme in it. And it was thought best, in her weakened state, not to try any explanations."

"It was nurse Jane who died, and the dead baby was buried with her. Ah, one glance at the girl would convince you," said the mother in the tenderest voice.

"But—why didn't she come here at once?"

"She was very noble about it. And this is another factor in the story. She would not leave the mother who had worked and toiled for her; so you see she was not tempted by the thought of advancement. She was afraid to believe the outcome of the story at first. Oh, I am proud of her, though at first I was really cruel. I wanted the woman punished."

"After all," said Willard, "if the baby had been friendless and an orphan it would have been very noble in her."

"You shall read her confession some day. It is pathetic. She thought she had lost her all and clung to the baby. Oh, we must all forgive her."

"And what do you mean to do?" asked Miss Crawford. "It is going to make a great stir for it cannot be kept a secret, and I hate gossip about families."

"Yes, the thing must be explained. I have given what of the story I want known to a reporter this afternoon. After the poor woman has gone, Marguerite will come here to her true home and life."

"Why, Zay, you must have known her at the school," said Willard. "It seems she was studying——"

"Oh, they are all on the other side away from the boarders. She was in the study room an hour in the evening, with the smaller girls. We were all at a different table that we had to ourselves. And—somehow, I never saw much of her. I didn't have to go to Mrs. Boyd for my mending."

Aunt Kate had put her arm about Zay at the beginning of the story. The mother noted with a pang that there was no real welcome in this daughter's face. Was it jealousy?

Willard stood between his parents and laid a hand on the shoulder of each.

"Oh," in a voice freighted with emotion. "I can't tell you how glad and thankful I am that this sorrow of years is to be turned into such a great all-pervading joy. We will be a perfect family again. Why, it will be the romance of our lives! It almost makes me wish I were not going away. And since you have seen her and are satisfied—mother——"

He stooped to kiss her.

"Oh," she returned, brokenly, "I want you all to love her, and be patient with Zay. She has always been first so long."

"I think if I was a girl I'd be wild to have a sister to tell things to—the little things a fellow tells his sweetheart, I suppose, when he has one," laughing. "Vin and I discuss our gettings along and our hopes and some funny scrapes that boys get into. But girls look at the romantic side. And you can't think—but I'm proud of this romance. Why, it will be something to tell over to our children, and father's been a trump, but I think it's a good deal owing to you. Oh, I hope she is like you."

The mother smiled as she kissed him.

Zay came to say good-night. Her face had grave lines that were not wont to be there.

"Oh, my darling," the mother said, "this is one of the things that cannot make any difference in our love for you. And if you could only understand the burthen it had lifted off my soul. A hundred times I have said: 'Oh, why did I take baby Marguerite on that journey?' She was so strong and well and I was so proud of her, I wanted your father to see her."

"And you will be proud of her again. She is going to be a fine scholar, and I'm just pretty to look at, that's all! I can't make myself love anyone all in a moment," and she gave a little sob.

"My child, the love will come if you do not steel your heart against it. Think, Zay, a twin sister——"

"But she is larger, different and a sort of story heroine. Everyone will be interested in her and I shall be pushed quite to the wall."

"Oh, Zay, you are a foolish little girl. But you have had all the admiration and love, and we must wait patiently until you understand that love can never be impoverished by giving. Think of this, pray for a generous heart, and let her love you."

Aunt Kate was waiting in her room. And Zay's overcharged heart gave way to a passion of weeping on the friendly bosom.

"Dear, I know how hard it is to be crowded out. Of course everyone will flock around her for a while and never having had much admiration she will be the more eager for it. And as will be perfectly natural when the first interest is worn off, the real grain will be apparent and I dare say she will show her common breeding. Why, this Mrs. Boyd had next to no education. I shouldn't want anyone to see that so-called confession, but I dare say your father will keep it close enough, for he would be ashamed to have any one see it. I'm sorry the story had to get abroad, but your father thought there would be so many surmises, and perhaps, exaggerations. It's a horrid thing to live through, but your mother is so much happier. Why, she seemed ten years younger. And you will always have a staunch friend in me. No one can oust you from my heart if she had all the gifts of the nine graces. Oh, you will come back to your rightful place, never fear."

But Zay wept herself to sleep with an ache in her heart that crowded out all tender feelings.

After a long while Lilian Boyd fell asleep and there came no disturbance. Just at daylight Miss Arran leaned over the bed and touched the cold face, felt for the heart. There was not the faintest motion. There had not been a sound or a sigh, she had just lapsed into her dreamless sleep. She summoned Mrs. Dane.

"It is much better so. There will be nothing painful to remember," said that lady.

"Mother, mother!" and Lilian roused suddenly.

"My dear," said Miss Arran, "she has gone to her rest in the most peaceful manner. The doctor said it might be so, and you have done your full duty. My dear, you can go to your own mother's arms with the clearest conscience. I am glad, we are all glad that you elected to stay, though your father, in his first indignation, would have swept you away. I hardly see how you won your way. Come to Mrs. Dane's room and have a cup of coffee."

She gave one long look at the still face. Oh, how thin and worn it was, yet there was a certain peacefulness that comforted the girl. Mrs. Harrington came in and kissed her tenderly. "It is all as we would have it," she said. "And whatever mistake Mrs. Boyd might have made must be balanced by the thought that if there had been no one, as she believed, she would have taken you to her heart just as gladly, done for you with the same cheerfulness. This is what she did; you must always keep it in mind. And now—can you help make some arrangements? Whatever money is needed——"

"Oh, Mrs. Barrington, I think there will be enough. She still had some of her insurance money that she had used only in emergencies. And we have needed so little here. Oh, you have all been so kind," in her grateful, broken voice.

Then Dr. Kendricks was announced.

"I supposed it would be that way," he said.

"Shall I make arrangements for the funeral. There is no one, I suppose——"

"It is too far away from her old friends for any of them to come, and I am sure Lilian would like it as simple and quiet as possible. I should say tomorrow morning. No one will go out of curiosity."

"Then I will see about it at once. The Major is all impatience to have his daughter."

"You must come and share my room," Mrs. Barrington said to Lilian.

"Oh, she really doesn't seem any different to me," the girl returned. "She has slept so much the last few days, and it is what we have expected. God has taken her in His keeping and she will have those belonging to her. It is a blessed thought."

She sat reading by the window when the Crawford phaeton drove up. Her first feeling was that she could not meet her father. But a young man sprang out and the coachman took charge of the horses.

"It is your brother," announced Mrs. Barrington. "Oh, do try and see him. Your mother wishes it so much."

Lilian went down and was clasped to her mother's heart and held there many seconds.

"This is your brother Willard, who is soon to leave for Washington and he begged so much to see a little of you. His will be a three years' cruise, and I am doubly glad to have found another child in view of his long absence."

Lilian glanced up. It was such a frank, kindly face, too young yet for any of his father's sternness.

"Oh, my dear, I wonder if you will ever understand how precious you are going to be to us all. It is like one raised from the dead. I shall go away with a lighter heart, seeing that mother and father have you. We boys have been so much to the house with our stirring interests; now it will be you and Zaidee. I shall think of you so often. Why, I can readily believe any fairy story, and it almost breaks father's heart that you have been so near all these months and none of us known it. You will not feel hurt if he sometimes should show a little—" he paused with a flush. "For after all it might have been her child who was saved——" and she felt the shiver go over him.

"And to know that you were loved all these years," said the mother holding out her arms, and both children went to them. "And that you never really suffered for anything. Sometimes I hardly dare believe in and accept this great blessing."

"Oh, I hope I will prove a blessing," Lilian said, with a great tremble in her voice. "You are so good to take me in, to love and trust me, knowing so little about me."

For of late she had been learning how much children could be to parents.

"But I think Mrs. Barrington had opportunities of knowing," returned her mother with a warm pressure, and fond smile.

Willard had been studying her. "There's something about her like you, mother, and something that recalls Vincent. Oh, won't he be surprised! He will want to fly home again. Oh, you will not mind if Zaidee carries off the family beauty. She is such a dear! And we ought to have one star of the goodly Crawford family."

"I am glad, and I thought her lovely at the first glance. Why, the girls are quite wild about her. I shall not mind anything so long as you all love me. Oh, I will try to deserve it."

There were tears in her eyes and her mother kissed her tenderly. Then they talked about her coming home which could not be until her whole duty was performed and there was no omission to think of.

Yet they went lingeringly, loth to leave her.

"She has a great deal of character;" said Willard. "She seems more mature than Zay. I am glad they are not alike, though it seems rather out of the order for twins. Oh, mother, I can foresee that she will be a great deal to you in a womanly way. We can never thank God enough for her."

"And all these years, amid the suffering, I have always thought if I had left my darling at home. I was so proud of her I wanted your father to see her. Zaidee was not such a fine looking baby. We had both so ardently desired a daughter; indeed we had often said two boys and two girls was an ideal family."

"And I wouldn't give up Vin—boys have a delightful interest in each others' lives and doings. I suppose sisters feel the same way. That is—well, it will be a little strange at first. Zay has been our queen so long, and it can't be quite like living together from infancy."

"No. So we must make allowance for both of them until they reach the true level of birthright. Marguerite is very proud and has unusually well defined ideas of duty, while we have never put anything but love before Zay. I expect we have spoiled her."

Mount Morris was startled in the midst of its Christmas festivities by the remarkable announcement that Marguerite, the twin baby of Major and Mrs. Crawford, had been miraculously saved from the wreck, where the nurse and several others had perished. Another passenger whose baby had been killed, thinking the nurse was the true mother of the child, had taken it to her heart out of pity for the helpless little creature, and gone farther westward before real inquiries could be made as to whether there were any relatives living.

Mrs. Crawford had insisted upon softening what her husband had considered a crime on the part of Mrs. Boyd.

"Think how she must have loved the little creature she thought friendless, to burden herself with it. And I am so thankful my baby found loving care. Why, she might have perished with neglect through that dreadful time. We can do nothing for her and we will not, must not, traduce her motives, when they were prompted by an overwhelming love."

So it was represented that Mrs. Boyd had taken the position at Mrs. Barrington's that her adopted child might be better educated as her own health was failing, which after all was the truth, though Lilian's pleading had been a special factor.

The poor woman's burial had been quiet, in the early morning. Mrs. Barrington and Miss Arran had gone with Lilian whose great regret had been that there was not sufficient money to send her to Laconia to sleep beside her husband and her little son, but she gave thanks that there was no need of benevolence though Mrs. Barrington had insisted she should supply any need.

She had begged that she might be left at the school over Sunday, and Mrs. Crawford found herself so shaken by all the excitement that she assented the more readily. Zaidee was quite well again and laughed at herself for having been so easily alarmed. There had been no cases of illness in the town and the clairvoyant had taken her family to a city at some distance.

"It really would be the part of wisdom to go to the city if you felt well enough," Aunt Kate said to her sister-in-law. "Of course there will be a good deal of talk, and it is but natural that our friends should desire to see the new daughter of the house. It is a most excellent thing that Dr. Kendricks has been mixed up with it all and can vouch for the truth. And the child might get some training to fit her for her new position."

"Mrs. Barrington has had her in training for some time, and from the very first was attracted by her natural grace and dignity; and her strength of character," was the reply, "and her father found resemblances to me in the first interview!"

"But the years before would naturally leave some impress. Mrs. Boyd, it seems, had not much education, and they must have lived in the commoner streets with all kinds of people. I feel something as brother does, that I can hardly forgive her for robbing the child of her natural birthright and subjecting her to plebian surroundings."

Mrs. Crawford winced and flushed a little. Her last remembrance of the smiling, cooing baby, bright eyed and full of health and sweetness, never faded from her mind, and she fancied now she should have the same instinctive impressions that had puzzled Mrs. Barrington. Aunt Kate might be rather captious at first, but she could pardon it and understand it as well, for she had been a most devoted mother to Zaidee.

Then, too, school would begin so soon and all these little breaks would bring about the finer claims of relationship.

No one went to church on Sunday. Mrs. Crawford was not quite up to the mark, and Aunt Kate declared she could not face the curious eyes or answer a question. The Major longed to go over to Mrs. Barrington's but some feeling of delicacy restrained him.

Lilian had come home from the lonely burial like one in a strange dream. The brief illness, the excitement of the confession, the quiet passing out of existence had transpired so rapidly that she could hardly make it real. She almost expected to find Mrs. Boyd lying there on the bed when she entered the room. She felt that Mrs. Boyd had never taken root at Mount Morris; she smiled sadly thinking of Mrs. Dane's suspicions that there was some secret between them, that she, Lilian, was afraid would come to light. But she had never in her wildest moments dreamed of the truth. Mrs. Boyd had all the limitation of a commonplace nature, sweet, devoted, with no lofty aspirations. The refinements of Barrington House wore upon her. She did try, for Lilian's sake, to adapt herself to some of them but the effort was plainly visible to practiced eyes. If she had lived—but then the confession would hardly have been made. For, with all the unlikeness, Lilian had never suspected the truth.

Oh, why had not God given this poor starved life its rightful surroundings? If Mrs. Boyd had lived! If there had been a number of merry, satisfied children going cheerfully to work in shops and factories when school days were over, having lovers, marrying and repeating their mother's life! For the world was full of ordinary happy people with no high ideals. Was there something in heredity?

No, she could not have been content with that destiny. She must have worked and striven for a higher round, for some intellectual advancement. Yet, how many of these girls at school really cared for it with all their advantages? It was not mere money that inspired one, and she almost wished she were not going in that upper atmosphere.



CHAPTER XIV

GOING OUT OF THE OLD LIFE

Lilian had seen very little of her friend, Miss Trenham, through the week, though every day she had been the recipient of a note of sympathy and affection. She came in on Saturday afternoon.

"My dear girl," she began, "so many unusual events have happened to you that one must needs use both congratulations and condolences. I saw the newspaper account and it seems like the finger of Providence that you should have been directed hither and to the arms of your real parents. Mrs. Boyd looked very poorly the last time I saw her, a month or so ago. I suppose there is a great deal back of the account——"

"I have wanted to see you so," returned Lilian. "I thought I would come to the Chapel tomorrow morning. You are the only friend I have made outside of the school, but Mrs. Barrington has been so sweet and generous. She had planned to keep me here after mother was gone and educate me."

The tears stood in Lilian's eyes and her voice broke with emotion.

"There is so much to talk over, and we have gone to our own home now. Mother and I have been very busy the last four days cleaning and putting things in order. We spent our Christmas at Mrs. Lane's and had a really delightful time. We had planned some time ago to have you share it with us, and now can you not spare us Sunday, if you are not going——"

"The change is to be made on Monday. Oh, Miss Trenham—I can hardly describe my feelings. I dread it and yet my own mother is an ideal mother. I hardly dare think of the happiness in store for me, but I shall go on here at school. I am glad of that. I could not give up my dear Mrs. Barrington."

"We want to hear all the story—your side," smiling gravely. "So if you can come and dine with us on Sunday. Oh, there are so many explanations."

"I will see. Excuse me a few moments." Lilian came back with a heartsome expression.

"Yes, I can come. I wanted to go to the Chapel in the morning. I suppose some of my life, at least, will be changed——"

"Yes, but it will be—yes, lovely and advantageous. I never thought Mrs. Boyd quite the right mother for you, if you will allow me to say it."

Lilian flushed. "But she loved me with her whole soul. She would have made any sacrifice to advance me. All these years she has cared for me, worked for me and I should be an ingrate to forget it. If she had lived and this had not come, I was planning to work for her——"

"I think you would, without a demur. You would have had an excellent friend in Mrs. Barrington, but it will be a much wider life, I am very glad for you. There are people for whom prosperity does very little. You will not be one of that kind. In spite of her misfortune your mother has always had a wide and lovely influence, and the home is said to be very attractive. I think all of Mount Morris rejoiced truly in her restoration to health, and you will have some of the best of her life. You will soon learn the sweet lesson of loving her."

"My heart went out to her the Sunday I saw her in church. She looked to me like a saint, and I did not know then, but I have felt bewildered since. And I have been so used to planning to do something for—for the one who has gone, that I feel kind of helpless, knowing I can do nothing for her."

"Oh, yes, you can give her a daughter's choicest love. I am quite sure you two will grow into finest accord, and two manly brothers and that lovely Zaidee! Oh, it will be a most absorbing life. You will be in the sphere just fitted for you. Perhaps God let it all happen that your character should be the more fully shaped by the experience. We will talk it over more, at length, tomorrow."

Miss Trenham rose and kissed the young girl tenderly, knowing that tears were very near the surface. After she had gone Lilian gave way to them. She had not the easily adaptive nature to go in her new home and take the best at once, though it had been held out with such winning tenderness. The beautiful face of Zaidee instead of adding a radiance seemed to shadow the path. She could not explain it to herself; she would not think her sister would grudge her anything, but she felt in her inmost heart it would not be given generously. She must win it by large patience.

Sunday was a perfect winter day with a gorgeous sunshine and a crisp air that seemed to bring refreshment in every waft. The leafless trees were penciled against the blue sky like the lines of a fine engraving. The church bells rang out their reverent inspiration, they were harmoniously toned and there was no jangling. Lilian wondered a little—were her parents and the two children at home kneeling in the old church where the Crawfords had worshiped for a hundred years or more? Did they offer a little prayer for her?

The father and mother said it at home. He was all impatience for the day to pass.

Oh, how delightful Mrs. Trenham's warm welcome was, and little Claire clasped both slim arms about Lilian's neck and kissed the cool rosy cheek over and over again. If her sister was little and fond like that!

"It's been such a long, long while since you were here. Of course you couldn't come while we were away. It was very nice at Mrs. Lane's; there were so many people to make merry. You can't be truly merry alone by yourself, can you? It's like bells ringing. You can be happy thinking of many things, but not merry."

Lilian smiled. Yes, the conceit was true.

Then she must inspect Claire's Christmas gifts. Her own had been a pretty booklet that one of the girls had given her in a perfunctory fashion that carried no real regard with it. She had been too full of anxiety to look up anything.

"And that lady that came here once who wasn't your real mother went away, didn't she? And Edith said you had a real mother now and you were going to live with her and not stay at school all the time. I wish I could go to school. Edith said sometime she might have a school in our own house, and I might come and say lessons with other little girls. That will be so nice. I think that will be merry."

Then they were summoned to dinner, and the elders took the lead in the conversation, expressing their surprise at the strange event they had seen in the paper, and as they lingered over the dessert Lilian told her own story that she had believed in devoutly until Mrs. Boyd had explained her adoption, hoping thereby Lilian might trace her parentage—though Mrs. Boyd supposed only her father could be found. Mrs. Barrington had supplied the other side.

"I suppose there is a certain kind of gratification in belonging to an old and respected family. Major Crawford's family could go back even of their first settling in America, and the madam was a proud old Virginian with a fortune, but she wanted only one son, and she had three and one daughter. All her love and pride was in her first born who was indulged in every thing and led a gay life. The youngest died, Everard went to West Point and entered the regular army. Reginald took the best of life and became a capricious invalid, as penurious as he had been wasteful before, and died about the time of the accident. The madam had been dead some years. So all of Crawford House and its belongings came to the Major, who had married one of the loveliest of girls. You have heard that part of the story from Mrs. Barrington, doubtless. She was one of the earlier scholars."

"Yes," replied Lilian. "She admires her, beside loving her for the bravery with which, she bore the dreadful accident."

"I think when the word came, if prayers could have availed for the safety of the child, the whole town would have prayed, and to think that God should have saved you and restored you in this strange manner."

Edith glanced across the table. Lilian's eyes were suffused with tears.

"Miss Crawford had looked after the house, as the mother spent much of the time in the city with Reginald. She was very fond of gayeties, and her sudden death was a great surprise for she seemed vigorous enough to round out the century. Miss Kate took charge of little Zay while her mother was on the journey and through those years spent in hospitals and sanitoriums. She has been most devoted, refusing several good offers of marriage, but I suppose Mrs. Barrington has told you most of the family history."

"She is very fond of my mother and her girl life, her early married life as well, and she fancied at the very first that I resembled some one she had known."

"There is something in the poise of the head and the shape of your chest and shoulders, that is like her, and it won't hurt you if I say she was an extremely handsome girl. Even Reginald admitted that."

"And I am not handsome," Lilian said bravely, though with a little pang. It had never mattered to her before. Then she turned scarlet and added with an embarrassed laugh: "That sounds like what the girls call fishing for compliments. Zaidee will be the family beauty."

"And you have a voice, that with the proper training, may be very fine, indeed. I noticed it this morning in the hymn."

"Oh, do you think so? I love to sing," and her face was a-light with pleasure. "But it seems to me that it isn't, well—neither alto nor soprano; I can't keep it to a true sound."

"It is a contralto and has some most expressive notes in it. Of course, you will be trained in music."

"Mrs. Barrington spoke of it in the next term. Some of the girls sing beautifully. I was to take up several new studies. Oh, there are so many splendid things to learn."

Her face was aglow with enthusiasm and gave promise of something finer than mere beauty. There had been a good deal of repression in her life since she had come to understand, in a measure, her own desires. She had held them back because she did not want to make Mrs. Boyd unhappy with the difference between them, when she saw that the elder woman was making any effort to indulge her fancies, and during these months at school had settled to a grave deportment, that she might better sustain her authority. The lack of spontaneity had puzzled Mrs. Barrington, when in some moments she caught the ardor and glow of an inward possibility.

"I think you will be in the right place now," remarked Edith with a smile. "One with a strong individuality at times surmounts adverse circumstances, but when there are so many events to hamper, one does lose courage and begins to question whether the effort and sacrifice will pay for the late reward."

"Oh, let me have Miss Lilian awhile," besought Claire. "I want her to inspect my playhouse, while you and mother put away the dishes and things."

The playhouse was an old time cabinet with the doors taken off. One shelf, the highest, was full of curiosities, the next of books, the third left out and the dolls had it to themselves. There was a parlor in one end, a sleeping room in the other and three pretty dolls were in their chairs, ranged round a table, inspecting their Christmas gifts.

"I wouldn't have any new dolls this time," she began, with a touch of weariness in her voice. "For after all you can't make them real. I play school with them. I read them stories. I dress them and take them out riding, but I have to do the talking for them and sometimes it gets so dull. There's too much make-believe. I shall be glad when summer comes and there won't be any bad boys next door. What do you suppose God did with them? They couldn't like heaven, you know, for there they have to be good all the time. And there are so many beautiful things in summer. The birds and the flowers and the trees waving about and the sky so full of mysterious things. Great islands go sailing about and I wish I was on one of them. I get so tired, sometimes. I don't suppose I'll ever have any strong back and legs until I do get to heaven. But I'd like to go about in this world. I want a fairy godmother; that is it."

She gave a little laugh but there were tears in her eyes.

"And you've found a fairy godmother, haven't you? She is real, too, and lives in a beautiful big house and has a fairy child with golden curls. Oh, I wonder if she would have been glad to have you if you had been all bruised and broken and could never walk——"

"Oh, don't," cried Lilian. Would they have been glad to have her?

"Now, tell me about when you were a little girl and went to the stores to buy things for your mother and played 'Ring around a rosy,' and 'Open the gate as high as the sky.'"

The child's voice and manner had changed like a flash. She liked Lilian's make-believe stories in some moods; then she wanted real children and their doings, children who wiped dishes and swept floors while their mothers sewed or cared for a little baby in the cradle. And the petty disputes, the spending of a penny in candy and dividing it round.

"They couldn't all have pennies I suppose," the child commented.

"Their mothers were too poor," laughed Lilian, thinking how seldom she had the pleasure of being a spendthrift. And if she were ever so rich what could she do for Claire?

So they talked on and on until Edith came and said a young gentleman had called for Lilian—her brother.

She went through to the parlor. Yes, it was Willard, bright and smiling as if glad to see her.

"But how did you know I was here?" she asked.

"Oh, I was at Mrs. Barrington's, and we had a long talk about you. Then she directed me. It is getting towards night and our beautiful day shows symptoms of coming rain."

Yes, it did. She had been so interested in Claire she had not noted the change.

"So I think you had better allow me to escort you home, at least—oh, I wish it were to your real home. Think, what an evening we would have together, and I've only three days more. I have to start Wednesday evening and report on Thursday. Well, will you give me the pleasure?"

He rose then, and bending over, kissed her.

"I'd like you to meet my friends——"

"Well—for a moment."

Mrs. Trenham and Edith came in.

"Just say a quiet good-bye to Claire," Edith whispered. "She is curiously upset about something."

The slim arms clung to Lilian.

"Oh, will they let you come again? Edith said it would all be different and your new mother would want you, and—and—" the child ended with a sob.

"Of course I shall come again, and again, little sweetheart," kissing her.

"Oh, what a pretty name! I love you."

"And you will soon see me again."

Willard stood with his hat in his hand in a waiting attitude, tall and manly, the fine face marked by a certain pride of birth, of culture, and the inherited grace of generations. The deep, outlooking eyes spoke of strength of character with a vein of tenderness, and the smiling mouth of affability. Yet it struck her that he did not seem to belong to the plain little parlor and it almost appeared as if he dwarfed the two women, a feeling she could not help resenting inwardly.

They made their adieus in a friendly manner. Yes, the bright day had settled to the threatening of storm. The air was heavy and murky and cut with the promise of coming sleet. Willard drew the girl's hand through his arm and they caught step.

"I am glad you are going to be tall," he said. "You have all the indications, the figure and the air. It runs in mother's line as well as that of the Crawfords."

"I am taller than—than your sister," rather hesitatingly.

"Than your sister, as well. Oh, Marguerite, I hope you two will come to love each other dearly. Then there will be Vincent. We two boys have been such chums."

"It is strange to have a new name," she said slowly, yet it was more to her fancy.

"Do you like the old one better?" as if in a little doubt.

"I didn't like it very much, and I remember when I rebelled against Lily. It seemed such a sing-song king of a name. It's sweet and pretty, too, Lilian Boyd gave it more character."

"You were named for Mother, but father did not want them quite alike. Her name was Margaret, and father used to say to her—

'Oh, fair Margaret, Oh, rare Margaret, Where got you the name of strength and beauty?'"

Would she be dearer to her father on account of her name?

"And Zaidee?" she said, in a suggestive tone.

"Oh, I believe it was from a story that had been a great favorite with my mother, and it does just suit Zay. She is so light and airy and butterfly-like. Why, she seems about two years younger than you. I'm glad there isn't any puzzle about telling you apart. She's sweet and gay and loving and I suppose we've all spoiled her. Aunt Kate thinks she's the loveliest thing in the world, and she has just devoted her life to the child. Aunt Kate is as good as gold, a stickler for some things and she's always been splendid to mother. But she's great on family. She can't cry you down, because you belong to us."

"But I've been on the other side all my life, and—" yes, she would say this—"Mrs. Boyd's health was so broken that if it had not been for Mrs. Barrington's kind offer I must have given up school and gone into a factory; and began to repay her for her kindly care of me."

She felt the curious sort of shrinking that passed over him.

"But you didn't," he said, decisively. "And if she had let you alone——"

"But she was sure my mother was dead. Oh, nothing can ever make me forget her tender, devoted love. I cannot bear to have her blamed."

"But you must not dispute the matter with father. Let it all go since it has turned out so fortunately. I love you for your courage in standing by her, but there are many things you will learn—beliefs and usages of society. I don't mean simply money. We Crawfords have no vulgarity with a gold veneer; and, my dear girl, you may tell all your life with Mrs. Boyd over to mother, indeed, I think she will want to know it all; but—be careful about Aunt Kate—"

"And I was the caretaker's daughter at Mrs. Barrington's. Oh, I have seen some snobbishness among what you call well-born girls. I am not a whit better or finer than I was a month ago, when I expected to work my way up to a good salary and strive earnestly for everything I had; and Mrs. Barrington would have helped me and been really proud of my success."

"What a spirit you have!"

"I shall never be a snob," she flung out, proudly.

"I do not intend to be one myself. Oh, don't let us dispute these points. We all learn a good deal as we go along life. And, my dear, love us all as truly as you loved your foster mother. Oh, I wonder if you can ever understand your own mother's joy at having you back—"

"Which she owes largely to Mrs. Boyd. Suppose she had died without this—this explanation?"

"Even she understood that you did not belong in her walk of life. She saw the difference and that made her feel she might have deprived you of something better, that she could not give you."

That was true enough. But just now she was Lilian Boyd and angry, though she could not satisfy herself that she had a perfect right to this unreasonableness. So she made no reply.

"Oh, Marguerite, don't be vexed with me. We shall not see each other for a long while, and I want to carry away with me the knowledge that you are very happy in your new home. You will have so many pleasures, interests; you will be loved; oh, you must be loving, as well. Let the past go as a strange dream."

"It can never be a dream to me," she returned, decisively. "A thing you have lived through is stamped on your brain. I would not, if I could, dismiss it."

"Then I think that other love and care will make as deep an impression on your mind. Good-night, my dear sister, and best wishes for a happy tomorrow."

He kissed her fondly and turned away. She looked after him with a swelling heart.

When the door was opened, she flew up to her room and girl fashion, went straight to the mirror. Generally she had very little color, now her cheeks bloomed like roses and her eyes were brilliant, something more, a light she had never seen in them; and, yes, her scarlet lips were shut, with dimples in the corners. Then she laughed, half in anger, half in a mood she had never known before, it was compounded of so many varieties.

At Laconia, she had known several pretty school girls but they had golden hair and lovely blue eyes. It was odd, but she had always liked the word cerulean so much. And her eyes were almost black when anything moved her deeply. She had not thought much of beauty applied to herself.

"I am glad we don't look alike," she mused. "I am willing to be plainer, and if I had some great gift—perhaps my voice might be cultivated. But I mean never to be ashamed of that past life. Oh, what would Willard say if he knew I had carried bundles back and forth and done errands for the dressmaker! Well I must keep that part locked in my own heart. Poor mamma Boyd, I'm glad you never understood the difference. I wish I had loved you better."

She bathed her face and took off her cloth dress, putting on one of some light material Mrs. Barrington had given her awhile before. Then she went down stairs just as the summons for dinner sounded. Mrs. Barrington met her in the hall with a smile.

"Did you have a nice day? And did your brother find you?"

"Yes, I enjoyed it very much. And—we walked back together. He leaves on Wednesday night."

"And is very sorry to go. He is so interested in you. I wish he could remain longer, but he has the true sailor heart."

Lilian felt suddenly ashamed of her anger. Of course the whole family must look at it from that point of view, which was not hers. And having a brother was such a new thing to her. She had not been thrown much with boys. Her books had been her dearest companions.

They all went to the drawing room afterward and had a pleasant talk about the day and its duties. It softened Lilian's heart strangely. After that some almost divine music, it seemed to her, and her thoughts were lifted above distracting reflections.

The girls sang also. Several of them had very good voices but the best singers were away. Lilian was not afraid tonight, but let her voice swell out as she had in church this morning, and it surprised even herself.

When they said good-night to each other Mr. Barrington led her to her own pretty sitting room.

"I have hardly seen you today," she began, "and though your change will not separate us altogether and is so immeasurably to your advantage, I want you to know that I had some plans for your future revolving in my mind. I meant to have matters on a different basis when we began the new term. I did not think Mrs. Boyd would live through the winter, and as you know, I promised to care for you. You will make a fine linguist, and that is quite a gift for a woman. Then I have been interested in your voice. You sang with much power and beauty tonight. It is not the ordinary girlish voice."

"Miss Trenham said it was a contralto. I don't know the difference between that and an alto. Of course, I sang in school at Laconia, and took quite a part in the closing exercises. But no one seemed to think—and I couldn't manage it always—" pausing lest she might say too much.

"It wants cultivation, and I believe has some fine probabilities. I have spoken to Mr. Reinhart about giving you private lessons in the new term."

"Oh, how good you are! I could almost wish——" and she clasped the hand nearest her.

"No, don't wish anything beyond what has happened. In spite of all the love and tenderness lavished upon Mrs. Crawford, it was a continual regret that she should have taken you on that ill-fated journey. Charming as Zaidee is, she was always wondering what you would have been like. I think you will not disappoint her. You have been in a trying position for a girl of your ambition and temperament. I think you might have accepted some proffers without much hurt to your pride, but you know now you are on an equality with the best, and though many of these distinctions are much to be regretted, we cannot change the world. The change must be in ourselves, the grace and kindliness that shapes the character to finer and higher issues. But if you had been Mrs. Boyd's daughter, I think there would have been a very promising future before you. I know you would have tried your utmost to succeed in the two lines I have indicated; and now they will be accomplishments. Mrs. Crawford was a fine linguist and has brightened many an hour with intellectual pursuits. I am more than glad that you will be so companionable, but I cannot give up my interest in you, and I want you to feel that you will be, in part, a daughter to me."