On a chair to the right, and most convenient to

Miss Harriet, sat old Madison Chalkley, the biggest and most venerable citizen of the neighborhood. Mr Chalkley never, by any chance, got a letter, the only mail matter he received being, "The Southern Baptist Recorder," which came on Saturdays, but, like most of the people present, he was at the post-office every mail day to see who got anything. Next to him sat Colonel Iston, a tall, lean, quiet old gentleman, who had, for a long series of years, occupied the position of a last apple on a tree. He had no relatives, no friends with whom he corresponded, no business that was not conducted by word of mouth. In the last fifteen years he had received but one letter, and that had so surprised him that he carried it about with him three days before he opened it, and then he found that it was really intended for a gentleman of the same name in another county. And yet everybody knew that if Colonel Iston failed to appear in his place on mail day, it would be because he was dead or prostrated by sickness.

With the mail bag on the floor at her left, Miss Harriet, totally oblivious of any law forbidding the opening of the mails in public, would put her hand into its open mouth, draw forth a letter or a paper, hold it up in front of her spectacles, and call out the name of its owner. Most of the letters went to the black boys with the mail bags who came from country houses in the neighborhood, but whoever received letter, journal, or agricultural circular, received also at the same time the earnest gaze of everybody else in the room. Sometimes there was a letter for which there was no applicant present and then Miss Harriet would say: "Is anybody going past Mrs Willis Summerses?" And if anybody was, he would take the letter, and it is to be hoped he remembered to deliver it in the course of a week.

In spite of the precautions of the postmistress uncalled for letters would gradually accumulate, and there was a little bundle of these in one of the few pigeon holes in a small desk in the corner of the room, in the drawer of which the postage stamps were kept. Now and then a registered letter would arrive, and this always created considerable sensation in the room, and if the legal recipient did not happen to be present, Miss Harriet never breathed a quiet breath until he or she had been sent for, had taken the letter, and given her a receipt. Sometimes she sat up as late as eleven o'clock at night on mail days, hoping that some one who had been sent for would arrive to relieve her of a registered letter.

All the mail matter had been distributed, everybody but Mr Madison Chalkley had left the room; and when the old gentleman, as was his wont on the first day of the month, had gone up to the desk, untied the bundle of uncalled-for letters, the outer ones permanently rounded by the tightness of the cord, and after carefully looking over them, one by one, had made his usual remark about the folly of people who wouldn't stay in a place until their letters could get to them, had tied up the bundle and taken his departure; then Miss Harriet put the empty mail bag under the desk, and went up-stairs where an old lady sat by the window, sewing in the fading light.

"No letters for you to-day, Mrs Keswick," said she.

"Of course not," was the answer, "I didn't expect any."

"Don't you think," said Miss Harriet, taking a seat opposite the old lady, "that it is about time for you to go home and attend to your affairs?"

"Well, upon my word!" said Mrs Keswick, letting her hands and her work fall in her lap, "that's truly hospitable. I didn't expect it of you, Harriet Corvey."

"I wouldn't have said it," returned the postmistress, "if I hadn't felt dead certain that you knew you were always welcome here. But Tony Miles told me, just before the mail came in, that the lady who's at your place is running it herself, and that she's going to use pickle brine for a fertilizer."

"Very likely," said Mrs Keswick, her face totally unmoved by this intelligence—"very likely. That's the way they used to do in ancient times, or something of the same kind. They used to sow salt over their enemy's land so that nothing would ever grow there. That woman's family has sowed salt over the lands of me and mine for three generations, and it's quite natural she should come here to finish up."

There was a little silence after this, and then Miss

Harriet remarked: "Your people must know where you are. Why don't they come and tell you about these things?"

"They know better," answered Mrs Keswick, with a grim smile. "I went away once before, and Uncle Isham hunted me up, and he got a lesson that he'll never forget. When I want them to know where I am, I'll tell them."

"But really and truly"—said Miss Harriet "and you know I only speak to you for your own good, for you pay your board here, and if you didn't you'd be just as welcome—do you intend to keep away from your own house as long as that lady chooses to stay there?"

"Exactly so long," answered the old lady. "I shall not keep them out of my house if they choose to come to it. No member of my family ever did that. There is the house, and they are free to enter it, but they shall not find me there. If there was any reason to believe that everything was dropped and done with, I would be as glad to see him as anybody could be, but I knew from his letter just what he was going to say when he came, and as things have turned out, I see that it was all worse than I expected. He and Roberta March were both coming, and they thought that together they could talk me down, and make me forgive and be happy, and all that stuff. But as I wasn't there, of course he wouldn't stay, and so there she is now by herself. She thinks I must come home after a while, and the minute I do that, back he'll come, and then they'll have just what they wanted. But I reckon she'll find that I can stick it out just as long as she can. If Roberta March turns things upside down there, it'll be because she can't keep her hands out of mischief, and that proves that she belongs to her own family. If there's any harm done, it don't matter so much to me, and it will be worse for him in the end. And now, Harriet Corvey, if you've got to make up the mail to go away early in the morning, you'd better have supper over and get about it."

Meanwhile, at Mrs Keswick's house Mrs Null was acting just as conscientiously as she knew how. She had had some conversations with Freddy on the subject, and she had assured him, and at the same time herself, that what she was doing was the only thing that could be done. "It was dreadfully hard for me to get the money to come down here," she said to him,—"you not helping me a bit, as ordinary husbands do—and I can't afford to go back until I have accomplished something. It's very strange that she stays away so long, without telling anybody where she has gone to, but I know she is queer, and I suppose she has her own reasons for what she does. She can't be staying away on my account, for she doesn't know who I am, and wouldn't have any objections to me if she did know. I suspect it is something about Junius which keeps her away, and I suppose she thinks he is still here. But one of them must soon come back, and if I can see him, or find out from her where he is, it will be all right. It seems to me, Freddy, that if I could have a good talk with Junius things would begin to look better for you and me. And then I want to put him on his guard about this gentleman who is looking for him. By the way, I suppose I ought to write a letter to Mr Croft, or he'll think I have given up the job, and will set somebody else on the track, and that is what I don't want him to do. I can't say that I have positively anything to report, but I can say that I have strong hopes of success, considering where I am. As soon as I found that Junius had really left the North, I concluded that this would be the best place to come to for him. And now, Freddy, there's nothing for us to do but to wait, and if we can make ourselves useful here I'm sure we will be glad to do it. We both hate being lazy, and a little housekeeping and farm managing will be good practice for us during our honeymoon."

Putting on her hat, she went down into the garden where uncle Isham was at work. She could find little to do there, for he was merely pulling turnips, and she could see nothing to suggest in regard to his method of work. She had found, too, that the old negro had not much respect for her agricultural opinions. He attended to his work as if his mistress had been at home, and although, in regard to the ploughing, he had carried out the orders of Mrs Null, he had done it because it ought to be done, and because he was very glad for some one else to take the responsibility.

"Uncle Isham," said she, after she had watched the process of turnip pulling for a few minutes, "if you haven't anything else to do when you get through with this, you might come up to the house, and I will talk to you about the flower beds, I suppose they ought to be made ready for the winter."

"Miss Null," said the old man, slowly unbending his back, and getting himself upright, "dar's allus sumfin' else to do. Eber sence I was fus' bawn dar was sumfin else to do, an' I spec's it'll keep on dat ar way till de day I dies."

"Of course there will be nothing else to do then but to die," observed Mrs Null; "but I hope that day is far off, Uncle Isham."

"Dunno 'bout dat, Miss Null," said he. "But den some people do lib dreffle long. Look at ole Aun' Patsy. Ise got to live a long time afore I's as ole as Aun' Patsy is now."

"You don't mean to say," exclaimed Mrs Null, "that Aunt Patsy is alive yet!"

"Ob course she is. Miss Null," said Uncle Isham. "If she'd died sence you've been here we'd a tole you, sartin. She was gwine to die las' week, but two or free days don' make much dif'rence to Aun' Patsy, she done lib so long anyhow."

"Aunt Patsy alive!" exclaimed Mrs Null again. "I'm going straight off to see her."

When she had reached the house, and had informed Letty where she was going, the rotund maid expressed high approbation of the visit, and offered to send Plez to show Miss Null the way.

"I don't need any one to go with me," said that lady, and away she started.

"She don' neber want nobody to show her nowhar," said Plez, returning with looks of much disapprobation to his business of peeling potatoes for dinner.

When Mrs Null reached the cabin of Aunt Patsy, after about fifteen minutes' walk, she entered without ceremony, and found the old woman sitting on a very low chair by the window, with the much-talked-of, many-colored quilt in her lap. Her white woolly head was partially covered with a red and yellow handkerchief, and an immense pair of iron-bound spectacles obstructed the view of her small black face, lined and seamed in such a way that it appeared to have shrunk to half its former size. In her long, bony fingers, rusty black on the outside, and a very pale tan on the inside, she held a coarse needle and thread and a corner of the quilt. Near by, in front of a brick-paved fireplace, was one of her great-granddaughters, a girl about eighteen years old, who was down upon her hands and knees, engaged with lungs, more powerful than ordinary bellows, in blowing into flame a coal upon the hearth.

"How d'ye Aunt Patsy?" said Mrs Null. "I didn't expect to see you looking so well."

"Dat's Miss Null," said the girl, raising her eyes from the fire, and addressing her ancestor.

The old woman stuck her needle into the quilt, and reached out her hand to her visitor, who took it cordially.

"How d'ye, miss?" said Aunt Patsy, in a thin but quite firm voice, while the young woman got up and brought Mrs Null a chair, very short in the legs, very high in the back, and with its split-oak bottom very much sunken.

"How are you feeling to-day, Aunt Patsy?" asked Mrs Null, gazing with much interest on the aged face.

"'Bout as common," replied the old woman. "I didn't spec' to be libin' dis week, but I ain't got my quilt done yit, an' I can't go 'mong de angels wrop in a shroud wid one corner off."

"Certainly not," answered Mrs Null. "Haven't you pieces enough to finish it?"

"Oh, yaas, I got bits enough, but de trouble is to sew 'em up. I can't sew very fas' nowadays."

"It's a pity for you to have to do it yourself," said Mrs Null. "Can't this young person, your daughter, do it for you?"

"Dat's not my darter," said the old woman. "Dat's my son Tom's yaller boy Bob's chile. Bob's dead. She can't do no sewin' for me. I'm 'not gwine ter hab folks sayin', Aun' Patsy done got so ole she can't do her own sewin'."

"If you are not going to die till you get your quilt finished, Aunt Patsy," said Mrs Null, "I hope it won't be done for a long time."

"Don' do to be waitin' too long, Miss. De fus' thing you know some udder culled pusson'll be dyin' wrop up in a quilt like dis, and git dar fus'."

Mrs Null now looked about her with much interest, and asked many questions in regard to the old woman's comfort and ailments. To these the answers, though on the whole satisfactory, were quite short, Aunt Patsy, apparently, much preferring to look at her visitor than to talk to her. And a very pretty young woman she was to look at, with a face which had grown brighter and plumper during every day of her country sojourn.

When Mrs Null had gone, promising to send Aunt Patsy something nice to eat, the old woman turned to her great-grand-daughter, and said, "Did anybody come wid her?"

"Nobody comed," said the girl. "Reckon' she done git herse'f los' some o' dese days."

The old woman made no answer, but folding up the maniac coverlid, she handed it to the girl, and told her to put it away.

That night Uncle Isham, by Mrs Null's orders, carried to Aunt Patsy a basket, containing various good things considered suitable for an aged colored woman without teeth.

"Miss Annie sen' dese h'yar?" asked the old woman, taking the basket and lifting the lid.

"Miss Annie!" exclaimed Uncle Isham. "Who she?"

"Git out, Uncle Isham!" said Aunt Patsy, somewhat impatiently. "She was h'yar dis mawnin'."

"Dat was Miss Null," said Isham.

"Miss Annie all de same," said Aunt Patsy, "on'y growed up an' married. D'ye mean to stan' dar, Uncle Isham, an' tell me you don' know de little gal wot Mahs' John use ter carry in he arms ter feed de tukkies?"

"She and she mudder dead long ago," said Isham. "You is pow'ful ole, Aun' Patsy, an' you done forgit dese things."

"Done forgit nuffin," curtly replied the old woman. "Don' tell me no moh' fool stuff. Dat Miss Annie, growed up an' married."

"Did she tell you dat?" asked Isham.

"She didn't tell me nuffin'. She kep' her mouf shet 'bout dat, an' I kep' my mouf shet. Don' talk to me! Dat's Miss Annie, shuh as shootin'. Ef she hadn't fotch nuffin' 'long wid her but her eyes I'd a knowed dem; same ole eyes dey all had. An' 'sides dat, you fool Isham, ef she not Miss Annie, wot she come down h'yar fur?"

"Neber thinked o' dat!" said Uncle Isham, reflectively. "Ef you's so pow'ful shuh, Aun' Patsy, I reckon dat is Miss Annie. Couldn't 'spec me to 'member her. I wasn't much up at de house in dem times, an' she was took away 'fore I give much 'tention ter her."

"Don' ole miss know she dar?" asked Aunt Patsy.

'"She dunno nuffin' 'bout it," answered Isham. "She's stayin' away cos she think Mahs' Junius dar yit."

"Why don' you tell her, now you knows it's Miss Annie wot's dar?"

"You don' ketch me tellin her nuffin'," replied the old man shaking his head. "Wish you was spry 'nuf ter go, Aun' Patsy. She'd b'lieve you; an' she couldn't rar an' charge inter a ole pusson like you, nohow."

"Ain't dar nobody else in dis h'yar place to go tell her?" asked Aunt Patsy.

"Not a pusson," was Isham's decided answer.

"Well den I is spry 'nuf!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, with a vigorous nod of her head which sent her spectacles down to her mouth, displaying a pair of little eyes sparkling with a fire, long thought to be extinct. "Ef you'll carry me dar, to Miss Harriet Corvey's, I'll tell ole miss myse'f. I didn't 'spec to go out dat dohr till de fun'ral, but I'll go dis time. I spected dar was sumfin' crooked when Miss Annie didn't tole me who she was. Ise not 'feared to tell ole miss, an' you jes' carry me up dar, Uncle Isham."

"I'll do dat," said the old man, much delighted with the idea of doing something which he supposed would remove the clouds which overhung the household of his mistress. "I'll fotch de hoss an' de spring waggin an' dribe you ober dar."

"No, you don' do no sech thing!" exclaimed Aunt Patsy, angrily. "I ain't gwine to hab no hosses to run away, an' chuck me out on de road. Ef you kin fotch de oxen an' de cart, I go 'long wid you, but I don' want no hosses."

"Dat's fus' rate," said Isham. "I'll fotch de ox cart, an' carry you ober. When you want ter go?"

"Dunno jes' now," said Aunt Patsy, pushing away a block of wood which served for a footstool, and making elaborate preparations to rise from her chair. "I'll sen' fur you when I's ready."

The next morning was a very busy one for Aunt Patsy's son Tom's yellow boy Bob's child; and by afternoon it was necessary to send for two colored women from a neighboring cabin to assist in the preparations which Aunt Patsy was making for her projected visit. An old hair covered trunk, which had not been opened for many years, was brought out, and the contents exposed to the unaccustomed light of day; two coarse cotton petticoats were exhumed and ordered to be bleached and ironed; a yellow flannel garment of the same nature was put aside to be mended with some red pieces which were rolled up in it; out of several yarn stockings of various ages and lengths two were selected as being pretty much alike, and laid by to be darned; an old black frock with full "bishop sleeves," a good deal mended and dreadfully wrinkled, was given to one of the neighbors, expert in such matters, to be ironed; and the propriety of making use of various other ancient duds was eagerly and earnestly discussed. Aunt Patsy, whose vitality had been wonderfully aroused, now that there was some opportunity for making use of it, spent nearly two hours turning over, examining, and reflecting upon a pair of old-fashioned corsets, which, although they had been long cherished, she had never worn. She now hoped that the occasion for their use had at last arrived but the utter impossibility of getting herself into them was finally made apparent to her, and she mournfully returned them to the trunk.

Washing, starching, ironing, darning, patching, and an immense deal of talk and consultation, occupied that and a good deal of the following day, the rest of which was given up to the repairing of an immense pair of green baize shoes, without which Aunt Patsy could not be persuaded to go into the outer air. It was Saturday morning when she began to dress for the trip, and although Isham, wearing a high silk hat, and a long black coat which had once belonged to a clergyman, arrived with the ox cart about noon, the old woman was not ready to start till two or three hours afterward. Her assistants, who had increased in number, were active and assiduous. Aunt Patsy was very particular as to the manner of her garbing, and gave them a great deal of trouble. It had been fifteen years since she had set foot outside of her house, and ten more since she had ridden in any kind of vehicle. This was a great occasion, and nothing concerning it was to be considered lightly.

"'Tain't right," she said to Uncle Isham when he arrived, "fur a pow'ful ole pusson like me to set out on a jarney ob dis kin' 'thout 'ligious sarvices. 'Tain't 'spectable."

Uncle Isham rubbed his head a good deal at this remark. "Dunno wot we gwine to do 'bout dat," he said. "Brudder Jeemes lib free miles off, an' mos' like he's out ditchin'. Couldn't git him h'yar dis ebenin', nohow."

"Well den," said Aunt Patsy, "you conduc' sarvices yourse'f, Uncle Isham, an' we kin have prar meetin', anyhow."

Uncle Isham having consented to this, he put his oxen under the care of a small boy, and collecting in Aunt Patsy's room the five colored women and girls who were in attendance upon her, he conducted "prars," making an extemporaneous petition which comprehended all the probable contingencies of the journey, even to the accident of the right wheel of the cart coming off, which the old man very reverently asserted that he would have lynched with a regular pin instead of a broken poker handle, if he could have found one. After the prayer, with which Aunt Patsy signified her entire satisfaction by frequent Amens, the company joined in the vigorous singing of a hymn, in which they stated that they were "gwine down to Jurdun, an' tho' the road is rough, when once we shuh we git dar, we all be glad enough; de rocks an' de stones, an' de jolts to de bones will be nuffin' to de glory an' de jiy."

The hymn over, Uncle Isham clapped on his hat, and hurried menacingly after the small boy, who had let the oxen wander along the roadside until one wheel of the cart was nearly in the ditch. Aunt Patsy now partook of a collation, consisting of a piece of hoe-cake dipped in pork fat, and a cup of coffee, which having finished, she declared herself ready to start. A chair was put into the cart, and secured by ropes to keep it from slipping; and then, with two women on one side and Uncle Isham on the other, while another woman stood in the cart to receive and adjust her, she was placed in position.

Once properly disposed she presented a figure which elicited the lively admiration of her friends, whose number was now increased by the arrival of a couple of negro boys on mules, who were going to the post-office, it being Saturday, and mail day. Around Aunt Patsy's shoulders was a bright blue worsted shawl, and upon her head a voluminous turban of vivid red and yellow. Since their emancipation, the negroes in that part of the country had discarded the positive and gaudy colors that were their delight when they were slaves, and had transferred their fancy to delicate pinks, pale blues, and similar shades. But Aunt Patsy's ideas about dress were those of by-gone days, and she was too old now to change them, and her brightest handkerchief had been selected for her head on this important day. Above her she held a parasol, which had been graciously loaned by her descendant of the fourth generation. It was white, and lined with pink, and on the edges still lingered some fragments of cotton lace.

Uncle Isham now took his position by the side of his oxen, and started them; and slowly creaking, Aunt Patsy's vehicle moved off, followed by the two boys on mules, three colored women and two girls on foot, and by two little black urchins who were sometimes on foot, but invariably on the tail of the cart when they could manage to evade the backward turn of Uncle Isham's eye.

"Ef I should go to glory on de road, Uncle Isham," said Aunt Patsy, as the right wheel of the cart emerged from a rather awkward rut, "I don' want no fuss made 'bout me. You kin jes' bury me in de clothes. I got on, 'cep'n de pararsol, ob course, which is Liza's. Jes' wrop de quilt all roun' me, an' hab a extry size coffin. You needn't do nuffin' more'n dat."

"Oh, you's not gwine to glory dis time, Aun' Patsy," replied Uncle Isham, who did not want to encourage the idea of the old woman's departure from life while in his ox cart. But after this remark of the old woman he was extraordinarily careful in regard to jolts and bumps.

When the procession reached the domain of Miss Harriet Corvey, there was gathered inside the yard quite a number of the usual attendants on mail days, awaiting the arrival of Wesley Green with his waddling horse and leather bag. But all interest in the coming of the mail was lost in the surprise and admiration excited by the astounding apparition of old Aunt Patsy in the ox cart, attended by her retinue. As the oxen, skilfully guided by Uncle Isham's long prod, turned into the yard, everybody came forward to find out the reason of this unlooked-for occurrence. Even old Madison Chalkley, his stout legs swaddled in home-made overalls, dismounted from his horse, and Colonel Iston raised his tall form from the porch step where he had been sitting, and approached the cart.

"Upon my word," said a young fellow, with high boots, slouched hat, and a riding whip, "if here ain't old Aunt Patsy come after a letter! Where do you expect a letter from, Aunt Patsy?"

The old woman fixed her spectacles on him for an instant, and then said in a clear voice which could be heard by all the little crowd: "'Tain't from nobody dat I owes any money to, nohow, Mahs' Bill Trimble."

A general laugh followed this rejoinder, and Uncle Isham grinned with gratified pride in the enduring powers of his charge. The old woman now put down her parasol, and made as if she would descend from the cart.

"You needn't git out, Aun' Patsy," said several negro boys at once. "We'll fotch your letters to you."

"Git 'long wid you!" said the old woman angrily. "I didn't come here fur no letters. Ef I wanted letters I'd sen' 'Liza fur 'em. Git out de way."

A chair was now brought, and placed near the cart; a woman mounted into the vehicle to assist her; Uncle Isham and another colored man stood ready to receive her, and Aunt Patsy began her descent. This, to her mind, was a much more difficult and dangerous proceeding than getting into the cart, and she was very slow and cautious about it. First, one of her great green baize feet was put over the tail of the cart, and resting her weight upon the two men, Aunt Patsy allowed it to descend to the chair, where it was gradually followed by the other foot. Having safely accomplished this much, the old woman ejaculated: "Bress de Lor'!" When, in the same prudent manner, she had reached the ground, she heaved a sigh of relief, and fervently exclaimed: "De Lor' be bressed!"

Supported by Uncle Isham, and the other man, Aunt Patsy now approached the steps. She was so old, so little, so bowed, and so apparently feeble, that several persons remonstrated with her for attempting to go into the house when anything she wanted would be gladly done for her. "Much 'bliged," said the old woman, "but I don' want no letters nor nuffin'. I's come to make a call on de white folks, an' I's gwine in."

This announcement was received with a laugh, and she was allowed to proceed without further hindrance. She got up the porch steps without much difficulty, her supporters taking upon themselves most of the necessary exertion; but when she reached the top, she dispensed with their assistance. Shuffling to the front door, she there met Miss Harriet Corvey, who greeted the old woman with much surprise, but shook hands with her very cordially.

"Ebenin', Miss Har'et," said Aunt Patsy. And then, lowering her voice she asked: "Is ole miss h'yar?"

Miss Harriet hesitated a moment, and then she answered: "Yes, she is, but I don't believe she'll come down to see you."

"Oh, I'll go up-stars," said Aunt Patsy. "Whar she?"

"She's in the spare chamber," said Miss Harriet; and Aunt Patsy, with a nod of the head signifying that she knew all about that room, crossed the hall, and began, slowly but steadily, to ascend the stairs. Miss Harriet gazed upon her with amazement, for Aunt Patsy had been considered chair-ridden when the postmistress was a young woman. Arrived at the end of her toilsome ascent, Aunt Patsy knocked at the door of the spare chamber, and as the voice of her old mistress said, "Come in!" she went in.



CHAPTER VII.

When Lawrence Croft reached the Green Sulphur Springs, after his interview with Miss March, his soul was still bubbling and boiling with emotion, and it continued in that condition all night, at least during that great part of the night of which he was conscious. The sight of the lady he loved, under the new circumstances in which he found her, had determined him to throw prudence and precaution to the winds, and to ask her at once to be his wife.

But the next morning Lawrence arose very late. His coffee had evidently been warmed over, and his bacon had been cooked for a long, long time. The world did not appear to him in a favorable light, and he was obliged to smoke two cigars before he was at all satisfied with it. While he was smoking he did a good deal of thinking, and it was then that he came to the conclusion that he would not go over to Midbranch and propose to Roberta March. Such precipitate action would be unjust to himself and unjust to her. In her eyes it would probably appear to be the act of a man who had been suddenly spurred to action by the sight of a rival, and this, if Roberta was the woman he believed her to be, would prejudice her against him. And yet he knew very well that these reasons would avail nothing if he should see her as he intended. He had found that he was much more in love with her than he had supposed, and he felt positively certain that the next time he was alone with her he would declare his passion.

Another thing that he felt he should consider was that the presence of Keswick, if looked upon with a philosophic eye, was not a reason for immediate action. If the old engagement had positively been broken off, he was at the house merely as a family friend; while, on the other hand, if the rupture had not been absolute, and if Roberta really loved this tall Southerner and wished to marry him, there was a feeling of honor about Lawrence which forbade him to interfere at this moment. When she came to New York he would find out how matters really stood, and then he would determine on his own action.

And yet he would have proposed to Roberta that moment if he had had the opportunity. Her personal presence would have banished philosophy, and even honor.

Lawrence was a long time in coming to these conclusions, and it was late in the afternoon when he despatched his note. Having now given up his North Carolina trip—one object of which had been still another visit to Midbranch on his return—he was obliged to wait until the next day for a train to the North; and, consequently, he had another evening to devote to reflections. These, after a time, became unsatisfactory. He had told the exact truth in his note to Roberta, for he felt that it was necessary for him to leave that part of the country in order to make impossible an interview for which he believed the proper time had not arrived. He was consulting his best interests, and also, no doubt, those of the lady. And yet, in spite of this reasoning, he was not satisfied with himself. He felt that his note was not entirely honest and true. There was subterfuge about it, and something of duplicity. This he believed was foreign to his nature, and he did not like it.

Lawrence had scarcely finished his breakfast the next morning when Mr Junius Keswick arrived at the door of his cottage. This gentleman had walked over from Midbranch and was a little dusty about his boots and the lower part of his trousers. Lawrence greeted him politely, but was unable to restrain a slight indication of surprise. It being more pleasant on the porch than in the house, Mr Croft invited his visitor to take a seat there, and the latter very kindly accepted the cigar which was offered him, although he would have preferred the pipe he had in his pocket.

"I thought it possible," said Keswick, as soon as the two had fairly begun to smoke, "that you might not yet have left here, and so came over in the hope of seeing you."

"Very kind," said Lawrence.

Keswick smiled. "I must admit," said he, "that it was not solely for the pleasure of meeting you again that I came, although I am very glad to have an opportunity for renewing our acquaintance. I came because I am quite convinced that Miss March wished very much to see you at the time arranged between you, and that she was annoyed and discomposed by your failure to keep your engagement. Considering that you did not, and probably could not, know this, I deemed I would do you a service by informing you of the fact."

"Did Miss March send you to tell me this?" exclaimed Lawrence.

"Miss March knows nothing whatever of my coming," was the answer.

"Then I must say, sir," exclaimed Lawrence, "that you have taken a great deal upon yourself."

Keswick leaned forward, and after knocking off the ashes of his cigar on the outside of the railing, he replied in a tone quite unmoved by the reproach of his companion: "It may appear so on the face of it, but, in fact I am actuated only by a desire to serve Miss March, for whom I would do any service that I thought she desired. And, looking at it from your side, I am sure that I would be very much obliged to any one who would inform me, if I did not know it, that a lady greatly wished to see me."

"Why does she want to see me?" asked Croft. "What has she to say to me?"

"I do not know," said Keswick. "I only know that she was very much disappointed in not seeing you yesterday."

"If that is the case, she might have written to me," said Lawrence.

"I do not think you quite understand the situation," observed his companion. "Miss March is not a lady who would even intimate to a gentleman that she wished him to come to her when it was obvious that such was not his desire. But it seemed to me that if the gentleman should become aware of the lady's wishes through the medium of a third party, the matter would arrange itself without difficulty."

"By the gentleman going to her, I suppose," remarked Croft.

"Of course," said Keswick.

"There is no 'of course' about it," was Lawrence's rather quick reply.

At that moment some letters were brought to him from a little post-office near by, to which he had ordered his mail to be forwarded. As the address on one of these letters caught his eye, the somewhat stern expression on his face gave place to a smile, and begging his visitor to excuse him, he put his other letters into his pocket, and opened this one. It was very short, and was from Mr Candy's cashier. It was written from Howlett's, Virginia, a place unknown to him, and stated that the writer expected in a very short time to give him some accurate information in regard to Mr Keswick, and expressed the hope that he would allow the affair to remain entirely in her hands until she should write again. It was quite natural that, under the circumstances, Lawrence should smile broadly as he folded up this note. The man in question was sitting beside him, and, in a measure, was turning the tables upon him. Lawrence had been very anxious to find out what sort of a man was Keswick, and the latter now seemed in the way of making some discoveries in the same line in regard to Lawrence. One thing he must certainly do; he must write as soon as possible to his enterprising agent, and tell her that her services were no longer needed. She must have pushed the matter with a great deal of energy to have brought her down to Virginia, and he could not help hoping that her discretion was equal to her investigative capacity.

When, after this little interruption, Lawrence again addressed Junius Keswick his manner was so much more affable that the other could not fail but notice it.

"Mr Keswick," he said, "as our conversation seems to be based upon personalities, perhaps you will excuse me if I ask you if I am mistaken in believing that you were once engaged to be married to Miss March?"

"You are entirely correct," said Junius. "I was engaged to her, and I hope to be engaged to her again."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Croft, turning in his chair with a start.

"Yes," continued Keswick, "our engagement was dissolved in consequence of a certain family complication, and as I said before, I hope in time to be able to renew it."

Lawrence threw away his cigar, and sat for a few moments in thought. The engagement, then, did not exist. Roberta was free. Recollections came to him of his own intercourse with her during the past summer, and his heart gave a bound. "Mr Keswick," said he, "upon consideration of the matter I think I will call upon Miss March this morning."

If Keswick had expressed himself entirely satisfied with this decision he would have done injustice to his feelings. The service he had taken upon himself to perform for Miss March he had considered a duty, but if his mission had failed he would have been better pleased than with its success. He made, however, a courteous reply to Croft's remark, and rose to depart. But this the other would not allow.

"You told me," said Croft, "that you walked over here; but it is much warmer now, and you must not think of such a thing as walking back. The man here has a horse and buggy. I will get him to harness up, and I will drive you over to Midbranch."

As there was no good reason why he should decline this offer, Junius accepted it, and in half an hour the two were on their way.



CHAPTER VIII.

Old Mr Brandon of Midbranch was not in a very happy frame of mind, and he had good reasons for dissatisfaction. He was an ardent supporter of a marriage between his niece and Junius Keswick; and when the engagement had been broken off he had considered that both these young people had acted in a manner very foolish and contrary to their best interests. There was no opposition to the match except from old Mrs Keswick, who was the aunt of Junius, but who considered herself as occupying the position of a mother. Junius was the son of a sister who had also married into the Keswick family, and his parents having died while he was a boy, his aunt had taken him under her charge, and her house had then became his home; although of late years some of his absences had been long ones. Mrs Keswick had no personal objections to Roberta, never having seen that lady, and knowing little of her; but an alliance between her Junius and any member of that branch of the Brandons, "which," to use the old lady's own words, "had for four generations cheated, stripped, and scornfully used my people, scattering their atoms over the face of three counties," was monstrous. Nothing could make her consent to such an enormity, and she had informed Junius that if he married that March girl three of them should live together—himself, his wife, and her undying curse. In order that Miss March might not fail to hear of this post-connubial arrangement, she had been informed of it by letter. Of course this had broken off the engagement, for Roberta would not live under a curse, nor would she tear a man from the only near relative he had in the world. Keswick himself, like most men, would have been willing to have this tearing take place for the sake of uniting himself to such a charming creature as Roberta March. But the lady on one side was as inflexible as the lady on the other, and the engagement was definitely and absolutely ended.

Mr Brandon considered all this as stuff and nonsense. He could not deny that his branch of the Brandons had certainly got a good deal out of Mrs Keswick's family. But here was a chance to make everything all right again, and he would be delighted to see Junius, a relative, although a distant one, come into possession of Midbranch. As for the old lady's opposition, that should not be considered at all, he thought. It was his opinion that her mind had been twisted by her bad temper, and nothing she could say could hurt anybody.

Of late Mr Brandon had been much encouraged by the fact that Junius had begun to resume his position as a friend of the family. This was all very well. If the young people, by occasional meetings, could keep alive their sentiments toward each other, the time would come when all opposition would cease, and the marriage would become an assured fact. He did not believe either of the young people would care enough for a post-mortem curse, if there should be one, to keep themselves separated from each other on its account for the rest of their lives.

But the recent quite unexpected return of Lawrence Croft to Midbranch, combined with the evident discomposure into which Roberta had been thrown by his failure to come the next day, had given the old gentleman some unpleasant ideas. His niece had mentioned that she expected Mr Croft that day, and although she said nothing in regard to her subsequent disappointment and vexation, his mind was quite acute enough to perceive it. Exactly what it all meant he knew not, but it augured danger. For the first time he began to look upon Mr Croft in the light of a suitor for Roberta. If a jealous feeling at finding another person on the ground was the cause of his not coming again, it showed that he was in earnest, and this, added to the evident disturbance of mind of both Roberta and Junius, was enough to give Mr Brandon most serious fears that an obstacle to his cherished plan was arising. Roberta was fond of city life, of society, of travel, and if she had really made up her mind that her union with Junius was no longer to be thought of, the advent of a man like Croft, who had been making her acquaintance all summer, and who had now returned to Virginia, no doubt for the sole purpose of seeing her again was, to say the least, exceedingly ominous. One thing only could correct this deplorable state of affairs. The absurd bar to the union of Junius and Roberta should be removed, and they should be allowed to enter upon the happiness that was their right.

Above all, the estate of Midbranch should not be suffered to go into the possession of an outsider, who might be good enough, but who was of no earthly moment or interest to the Brandons. He would go himself, and see the widow Keswick, and talk her out of her nonsense. It was a long time since he had met the old wild cat, as he termed her, and his recollection of the last interview was not pleasant, but he was not afraid of her, and he hoped that the common sense of what he would say would bring her to reason.

Mr Brandon made up his mind during the night; and when he came down to breakfast he was very glad to find that Junius had already gone out for a walk. The distance to the widow Keswick's house was about fifteen miles, a pleasant day's ride for the old gentleman, and as he did not expect to return until the next day, he felt obliged to inform Roberta of his destination, although, of course, he said nothing about the object of his visit. He told his niece that he was obliged to see the widow Keswick on business, to which remark she listened without reply.

Soon after breakfast he mounted his good horse, Albemarle, and early in the afternoon he arrived at the widow Keswick's gate. He had looked for a stormy reception, in which the thunder-bolts of rage should burst around him, and he was surprised, therefore, to be received with the frigidity of the North Pole.

"I never expected," she said, without any previous courtesy, "to see one of your people under my roof, and it is not very long ago since I would have gone away from it the moment any one of you came near it."

"I am happy, madam," said Mr Brandon, in his most courteous manner, "that that day is past."

"My staying won't do you any good," said the old lady, whose purple sun-bonnet seemed to heave with the uprisal of her hair, "except, perhaps, to get you a better meal than the servants would have given you. But I want a lawyer, and I can't afford to pay for one either, and when I saw you coming I just made up my mind to get something out of you, and if I do it, it'll be the first red mark for my side of the family."

Mr Brandon assured her that nothing would give him more pleasure than to assist her in any way in his power.

"Very well, then," said Mrs Keswick, "just sit down on that bench, and, when we have got through, your horse can be taken, and you can rest a while, though it seems a very curious thing that you should want to stop here to rest."

"Well, madam," said Mr Brandon, seating himself as comfortably as possible on a wooden bench, "I shall be happy to hear anything you have to say."

The old lady did not sit down, but stood up in front of him, leaning on her umbrella, with which faithful companion she had been about to set out on her walk. "When my son Junius came home a while ago—" she began.

"Do you still call him your son?" interrupted Mr Brandon.

"Indeed I do!" was the very prompt answer. "That's just what he is. And, as I was going to say, when he wrote me a short time ago that he was coming here, I believed, from his letter, that he had some scheme on hand in regard to your niece, and I made up my mind I wouldn't stay in the house to hear anything more said on that subject. I had told him that I never wanted him to say another word about it; and it made my blood boil, sir, to think that he had come again to try to cozen me into the vile compact."

"Madam!" exclaimed Mr Brandon.

"The next day," continued Mrs Keswick, "a lady arrived; and as soon as I saw her drive into the gate I felt sure it was Roberta March, and that the two had hatched up a plot to come and work on my feelings, and so I wouldn't come near the house."

"Madam!" exclaimed Mr Brandon, "how could you dream such a thing of my niece? You don't know her, madam."

"No," said the old lady, "I don't know her, but I knew she belonged to your family, and so I was not to be surprised at anything she did. But I found out I was mistaken. An old negro woman recognized this young person as the daughter of my younger sister you know there were three of us. The child was born and raised here, but I have not seen and have scarcely heard of her since she was eight years old."

"That's very extraordinary, madam," said Mr Brandon.

"No, it isn't, when you consider the stubbornness, the obstinacy, and the wickedness of some people. My sister sickened when the child was about six years old, and her husband, Harvey Peyton—"

"I have frequently heard of him, madam," said Mr Brandon.

"And I wish I never had," said she. "Well, he was travelling most of the time, a thing my sister couldn't do; but he came here then and stayed, off and on, till she died. And not long afterward, just because I told him that I intended to consider the child as my child, and that she should have the name of Keswick instead of his name, and should know me as her mother, and live with me always, he got angry and flared up, and actually took the child away. I gave it to him hot, I can tell you, before he left, and I never saw him again. He was so eaten up with rage because I wanted to take the little Annie for my own, that he filled her mind with such prejudices against me that when he died a year or two ago, she actually went to work to get her own living instead of applying to me for help. But now she has come down here, and I was really filled with joy to have her again and carry out the plan on which my heart had long been set—that is to marry her to her cousin Junius, and let them have this farm when I am gone,——?"

At this Mr Brandon raised his eyebrows, and lowered the corners of his mouth.

"But I suddenly discover," continued the old, lady, "that the little wretch is married—actually married."

At this Mr Brandon lowered his eyebrows and raised the corners of his mouth. "Did her husband come with her?" he asked, pleasantly. And he gave a few long, free breaths as if he had just passed in safety a very dangerous and unsuspected rock.

"No, he didn't," replied the old lady. "I don't know where he is, and, from what I can make out, he is an utterly good-for-nothing fellow, allowing his wife to go where she pleases, and take care of herself. Now this abominable marriage stands square in the way of the plan which again rose up in my mind the moment I heard that the girl was in my house. If Junius and she should marry, there would be no more dangers for me to look out for."

"But the existence of a husband," said Mr Brandon blandly, "puts an end to all thoughts of such an alliance."

"No it don't," said the old lady, bringing her umbrella down with force on the porch. "Not a bit of it. Such an outrageous marriage should not be suffered to exist. They should be divorced. He does nothing for her, and neglects and deserts her absolutely. There's every ground for a divorce, or enough grounds, at any rate. All that's necessary is for a lawyer to take it up. I don't know any lawyers, and when I saw you riding up from the road gate I said to myself: 'Here's the very man I want,—and it's full time I should get something from people who have taken nearly everything from me.'"

Mr Brandon bowed.

"And now," continued the old lady, "I am going to put the case into your hands. The man is, evidently, a good-for-nothing scoundrel, and has probably spent the little money that her miserable father left her. It's a clear case of desertion, and there should be no trouble at all in getting the divorce."

Mr Brandon looked down upon the floor of the porch, and smiled. This was a pretty case, he thought, to put into his hands. Here was a marriage which was the strongest protection in the promotion of his own plan, and he was asked to annul it. "Very good," thought Mr Brandon, "very good." And he smiled again. But he was an old-fashioned gentleman, and not used to refuse requests made to him by ladies. "I will look into it, madam," said he. "I will look into it, and see what can be done."

"Something must be done," said the old lady; "and the right thing too. How long do you intend to stay here?"

"I thought of spending the night, madam, as my horse and myself are scarcely in condition to continue our journey to-day."

"Stay as long as you like," said Mrs Keswick. "I turn nobody from my doors, even if they belong to the Brandon family. I want you to talk to my niece, and get all you can out of her about this thing, and then you can go to work and blot out this contemptible marriage as soon as possible."

"The first thing," said Mr Brandon, "will be to talk to the lady."

This reply being satisfactory to Mrs Keswick, Uncle Isham was called to take the horse and attend to him, while the master was invited into the house.

Mr Brandon first met Mrs Null at supper time, and her appearance very much pleased him. "It is not likely," he said to himself, "that the man lives who would willingly give up such a charming young creature as this." They were obliged to introduce themselves to each other, as the lady of the house had not yet appeared. After a while Letty, who was in attendance, advised them to sit down as "de light bread an' de batter-bread was gittin' cole."

"We could not think of such a thing as sitting at table before Mrs Keswick arrives," said Mr Brandon.

"Oh, dar's no knowin' when she'll come," said the blooming Letty. "She may be h'yar by breakfus time, but dar ain't nobuddy in dis yere worl' kin tell. She's down at de bahn now, blowin' up Plez fur gwine to sleep when he was a shellin' de cohnfiel' peas. An' when she's got froo wid him she's got a bone to pick wid Uncle Isham 'bout de gyardin'. 'Tain't no use waitin' fur ole miss. She nebber do come when de bell rings. She come when she git ready, an' not afore."

Mr Brandon now felt quite sure that it was the intention of his hostess not to break bread with one of his family, and so he seated himself, Mrs Null taking the head of the table and pouring out the tea and coffee.

"It has been a long time, madam, since you were in this part of the country," said the old gentleman, as he drew the smoking batter-bread toward him and began to cut it.

"Yes," said Mrs Null, "not since I was a little girl. I suppose you have heard, sir, that Aunt Keswick and my father were on very bad terms, and would not have anything to do with each other?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr Brandon, "I have heard that."

"But my father is not living now, and I am down here again."

"And your husband? He did not accompany you?" said Mr Brandon.

"No," replied Mrs Null, very quickly. "We were both very sorry that it was not possible for him to come with me."

Mr Brandon's spirits began to rise. This did not look quite like desertion. "I have no doubt you have a very good husband. I am sure you deserve such a one," he said with the air of a father, and the purpose of a lawyer.

"Good!" exclaimed Mrs Null, her eyes sparkling.

"He couldn't be better if he tried! Will you have sweet milk, or buttermilk?"

"Buttermilk, if you please," said Mr Brandon. "Of course your aunt was delighted to have you with her again."

"Oh," said Mrs Null, with a laugh, "she was not at home when I arrived, but when she returned nothing could be too good for me. Why, she had been here scarcely half an hour, and hadn't taken off her sun-bonnet, before she told me I was to marry Junius and we two were to have this farm."

"A very pleasant plan, truly," said Mr Brandon.

"But then, you see," continued the young girl, "Mr Null stood dreadfully in the way of such an arrangement; and when Aunt Keswick heard about him you can't imagine what a change came over her."

"Oh, yes I can; yes I can," exclaimed Mr Brandon—"I can imagine it very well."

"But she didn't give up a bit," said Mrs Null. "I don't think she ever does give up."

"You are right, there," said Mr Brandon, "quite right. But what does she propose to do?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but she said I had no right to marry without the consent of my surviving relatives, and that she was going to look into it. I can't think what she means by that."

Mr Brandon made no immediate answer. He gave Mrs Null some damson preserves, and he took some himself, and then he helped himself to a great hot roll, from a plate that Letty had just brought in, and carefully opening it he buttered it on the inside, and covered one-half of it with the damson preserves. This he began slowly to eat, drinking at times from the foaming glass of buttermilk at the side of his plate, from which the coffee-cup had been removed. When he had finished the half roll he again spoke. "I think, my dear young lady, that your aunt is desirous of having your marriage set aside."

"How can she do that?" exclaimed the girl, her face flushing. "Has she been talking to you about it?"

"I cannot deny that she has spoken to me on the subject," he answered, "I being a lawyer. But I will say to you, in strict confidence, please, that if you and your husband are sincerely attached to each other there is nothing on earth she can do to separate you."

"Attached!" exclaimed Mrs Null. "It would be impossible for us to be more attached than we are. We never have had the slightest difference, even of opinion, since our wedding day. Why, I believe that we are more like one person than any married couple in the world."

"I am very glad to hear it," said Mr Brandon, finishing his buttermilk—"very glad indeed. And, feeling as you do, I am certain that nothing your aunt can say will make any impression on you in regard to seeking a divorce."

"I should think not!" said Mrs Null, sitting up very straight. "Divorce indeed!"

"I fully uphold you in the stand you have taken," said Mr Brandon. "But I beg you will not mention this conversation to your aunt. It would only annoy her. Is your cousin expected here shortly?"

"I believe so," she said. "To be sure, my aunt left the house the last time he came, but she has his address, and has written for him. I think she wants us to get acquainted as soon as possible, so that no time will be lost in marrying us after poor Mr Null is disposed of."

"Very good, very good," said Mr Brandon with a laugh. "And now, my dear young friend, I want to give you a piece of advice. Stay here as long as you can. Your aunt will soon perceive the absurdity of her ideas in regard to your husband, and will cease to annoy you. Make a friend of your cousin Junius, whom I know and respect highly; and he certainly will be of advantage to you. Above all things, endeavor to thoroughly reconcile him and Mrs Keswick, so that she will cease to oppose his wishes, and to interfere with his future fortune. If you can bring back good feeling between these two, you will be the angel of the family."

"Thank you," said Mrs Null, as they rose from the table.

The next morning, after Mr Brandon and Mrs Null had breakfasted together, the mistress of the house, having apparently finished the performance of the duties which had kept her from the breakfast-table, had some conversation with her visitor. In this he repeated very little of what he had said to the younger lady the night before, but he assured Mrs Keswick that he had discovered that it would be a very delicate thing to propose to her niece a divorce from her husband, a thing to which she was not at all inclined, as he had found.

"Of course not! of course not!" exclaimed Mrs Keswick. "She can't be expected to see what a wretched plight she has got herself into by marrying this straggler from nobody knows where."

"But, madam," said Mr Brandon, "if you worry her about it, she will leave you, and then all will be at an end. Now, let me advise you as your lawyer. Keep her here as long as you can. Do everything possible to foster friendship and good feeling between her and Junius; and to do this you must forget as far as possible all that has gone by, and be friendly with both of them yourself."

"Humph!" said the widow Keswick. "I didn't ask you for advice of that sort."

"It is all a part of the successful working of the case, madam," said Mr Brandon. "A thorough good feeling must be established before anything else can be done."

"I suppose so," said the old lady. "She must learn to like us before she begins to hate him. And how about your niece? Are you going to send her down here to help on in the good feeling?"

"I have not brought my niece into this affair," replied Mr Brandon, with dignity.

"Well, then, see that you don't," was the widow Keswick's reply. And the interview terminated.

When Mr Brandon rode away on his good horse Albemarle, he looked at the post of the road gate from which he was lifting the latch by means of the long wooden handle arranged for the convenience of riders, and said to himself: "John Keswick was a good man, but I don't wonder he came out here and shot himself. It is a great pity though that it wasn't his wife who did it, instead of him. That would have been a blessing to all of us. But," he added, contemplatively, as he closed the gate, "the people in this world who ought to blow out their brains, never do."

Soon after he had gone, Mrs Null went up Pine Top Hill, and sat down on the rock to have a "think." "Now, then, Freddy," she said, "everything depends on you. If you don't stand by me I am lost—that is to say, I must go away from here before Junius comes; and you know I don't want to do that. I want to see him on my account, and on his account too; but I don't want him crammed down my throat for a husband the moment he arrives, and that is just what will happen if you don't do your duty, Mr Null. Even if it wasn't for you, I don't want to look at him from the husband point of view, because, of course, he is a very different person from what he used to be, and is a total stranger to me.

"It is actually more than twelve years since I have seen him, and besides that, he is just as good as engaged to that niece of Mr Brandon's, who is a horrible mixture of a she-wolf and a female mule, if I am to believe Aunt Keswick, but I expect she is, truly, a very nice girl. Though, to be sure, she can't have much spirit if she consented to break off her marriage just on account of the back-handed benediction which Aunt Keswick told me she offered her as a wedding gift. If I had wanted to marry a man I would have let the old lady curse the heels off her boots before I would have paid any attention to her. Cursing don't hurt anybody but the curser.

"What I want of Junius is to make a friend of him, if he turns out to be the right kind of a person, and to tell him about this Mr Croft who is so anxious to find him. The only person I have met yet who seems like an ordinary Christian is old Mr Brandon, and he's a sly one, I'm afraid. Aunt Keswick thinks he stopped here on his way somewhere, but I don't believe a word of it. I believe he came for reasons of his own, and went right straight back again. You are almost as much to him, Freddy, as you are to me. It would have made you laugh if you could have seen how his face lighted up when he heard we were happy together, and that I would not listen to a divorce. And yet I am sure he has promised Aunt Keswick to see what he can do about getting one. He wants me to stay here and make friends of Aunt Keswick and Junius, but he wouldn't like that if it were not for you, Mr Null. You make everything safe for him.

"And now, Freddy, I tell you again, that all depends upon you. If I'm to stay here—and I want to do that, for a time any way, for although Aunt Keswick is so awfully queer, she's my own aunt, and that's more than I can say for anybody else in the world—you must stiffen up, and stand by me. It won't do to give way for a minute. If necessary you must take tonics, and have a steel rod down your back, if you can't keep yourself erect without it. You must have your legs padded, and your chest thrown out; and you must stand up very strong and sturdy, Freddy, and not let them push you an inch this way or that. And now that we have made up our minds on this subject, we'll go down, for it's getting a little cool on the top of this hill."



CHAPTER IX.

On the morning of her uncle's departure from Midbranch, Roberta came out on the porch, and took her seat in a large wooden arm-chair, putting down her key basket on the floor beside her. The day was bright and sunny, and the shadows of two or three turkey buzzards, who were circling in the air, moved over the field in front of the house. In this field also moved, not so fast, nor so gracefully as the shadows, two ploughs, one near by, and the other at quite a distance. The woods which shut out a great part of the horizon showed many a bit of color, but the scene, although bright enough in some of its tones, was not a cheering one to Roberta; and she needed cheering.

Had it not been for the delay of her father in making his winter visit to New York, she would now be in that city, but if things had gone on as she expected they would, she would have been perfectly satisfied to remain several weeks longer at Midbranch. Junius Keswick, who had not visited the house for a long time, had come to them again; and, now that the subject of love and marriage had been set aside, it was charming to have him there as a friend. They not only walked in the woods, but they took long rides over the country, Mr Brandon having waived his objections in regard to his niece riding about with gentlemen. She had even been pleased with the unexpected return of Lawrence Croft, for, for reasons of her own, she wished very much to have a talk with him. But he had not fulfilled his promise to her, and had gone away in a very unsatisfactory manner.

This morning she felt a little lonely, too, for Junius had left the place before breakfast, and she did not know where he had gone; and her uncle had actually ridden away to see that horrible widow Keswick, merely stating that his errand was a business one, and that he would be back the next day. Roberta knew that there had been a great deal of business, particularly that of an unpleasant kind, between the two families, but she did not believe that there was any ordinary affair concerning dollars and cents which would require the presence of her uncle at the house of his old enemy. She was very much afraid that he had gone there to try to smooth up matters in regard to Junius and herself. The thought of this made her indignant. She did not know what her uncle would say, and she did not want him to say anything. He could not make the horrible old creature change her mind in regard to the marriage, and if this was not done, there was no use discussing the matter at all, and she did not wish people to think she was anxious for the match.

It was plain, however, that her uncle's desire for it had experienced a strong revival; and the unexpected return of Lawrence Croft had probably had a great effect on him. He had not objected to the visits of that gentleman during the summer, but he had never shown any strong liking for him, and Roberta said to herself that she could not see, for her part, why this should be; Mr Croft was a thorough gentleman, an exceedingly well educated and agreeable man.

As to Junius, she was afraid that he had not the spirit which she used to think he possessed. There was something about him she could not understand. In former days, when Junius was in New York, she compared him with the young men there, very much to his advantage, but now Mr Croft seemed to throw him somewhat in the background. When Croft wanted to do anything he did it; even his failure to come to her when he said he would do so showed strength of will. If Junius had promised to come he would have come, even if he had not wanted to do so, and there would have been something weak about that.

While she thus sat thinking, and gazing over the landscape, she saw afar off, on a portion of the road which ran along-side the woods, a vehicle slowly making its way to the house. Roberta had large and beautiful eyes, but they were not of the kind which would enable her to discover at so great a distance what sort of vehicle this was, and who was in it. As the road led nowhere but to Midbranch she was naturally desirous to know who was coming. She stepped into the hall, and, taking a small bell, rang it vigorously, and in a moment her youthful handmaiden, Peggy, appeared upon the scene. Peggy's habit of projecting her eyes into the far away could often be turned to practical account for her vision was, in a measure, telescopic.

"What is that coming here along the road?" asked Miss Roberta, stepping upon the porch, and pointing out the distant vehicle.

Peggy stood up straight, let her arms hang close to her sides, and looked steadfastly forth. "Wot's comin', Miss Rob," said she, "is the buggy 'longin' to Mister Michaels, at de Springs, an' his ole mud-colored hoss is haulin' it. Dem dat's in it is Mahs' Junius an' Mister Crof'."

"Are you sure of that?" exclaimed Miss Roberta in astonishment. "Look again."

"Yaas'm," replied Peggy. "I's sartin shuh. But dey jes gwine behin' de trees now."

The road was not again visible for some distance, but when the buggy reappeared Peggy gave a start, and exclaimed: "Dar's on'y one pusson in it now, Miss Rob."

"Which is it?" exclaimed her mistress quickly, shading her eyes, and endeavoring to see for herself.

"It's Mister Crof'," said Peggy. "Mahs' Junius mus' done gone back."

"It is too bad!" exclaimed Miss Roberta. "I will not see him. Peggy," she said, snatching up the key basket, and stepping toward the hall door, "when that gentleman, Mr Croft, comes, you must tell him that I am up-stairs lying down, that I am not well, and cannot see him, and that your Master Robert is not at home."

"Ef Mahs' Junius come, does you want me to tell him de same thing?"

"But you said he was not in the buggy," said her mistress.

"No'm," answered Peggy, "but p'raps he done cut acrost de plough fiel', an' git h'yar fus'."

"If he comes first," said Miss Roberta, a shade of severity pervading her handsome features, "I want to see him." And with this, she went up-stairs.

Peggy, with her shoes on, possessed the stolid steadiness of a wooden grenadier, for the heaviness of the massive boots seemed to permeate her whole being, and communicated what might be considered a slow and heavy footfall to her intellect. Peggy, without shoes, was a panther on two legs, and her mind, like her body, was capable of enormous leaps. Slipping off her heavy brogans, she made a single bound, and stood upon the railing of the porch, and, throwing her arm around a post, gazed forth from this point of vantage.

"Bress my eberlastin' soul!" she exclaimed, "if Mister Crof ain't got ter de road gate, and is a waitin' dar fur somebody to come open it! Does he think anybody gwine to see him all de way from de house, and come open de gate? Reckin' he don' know dat ole mud-color hoss. He mought git out and let down de whole fence, an' dat ole hoss ud nebber move. Bress my soul moh' p'intedly! ef Mahs' Junius ain't comin' 'long ter open de gate!"

For a few moments Peggy stood and stared, her mind not capable of grasping this astounding situation. "No, he ain't nudder!" she presently exclaimed with an air of relief. "Mahs' Junius done tole him dat ef he want dat gate open he better git down and open it hese'f. Dat's right Mahs' Junius! Stick up to dat! Dar go Mahs' Junius into de woods an' Mister Crof' he git out, an' go after him. Dey's gwine to fight, sartin, shuh! Lordee! wot fur dey 'low dem bushes ter grow 'long de fence to keep folks from seein' wot's gwine on!"

There was nothing now to be seen from the railing, and Peggy jumped down on the porch. Her activity seemed to pervade her being. She ran down the front steps, crossed the lawn, and mounted the stile. Here she could catch sight of the two men who seemed to be disputing. This was too much for Peggy. If there was to be a fight she wanted to see it; and, apart from her curiosity, she had a loyal interest in the event. Down the steps, and along the road she went at the top of her speed, and soon reached the gate. Her arrival was not noticed by any one except the mud-colored horse, who gazed at her inquiringly; and looking through the bars, without opening the gate, Peggy had a good view of the gentlemen.

The situation was a more simple one than Peggy had imagined. The road, for the last half mile, had been an up-hill one, and Keswick, as much to stretch his own legs as to save those of the horse, had alighted to walk, while Lawrence, as in duty bound, had waited for him at the gate. Here a little argument had arisen. Keswick, who did not wish to be at the house, or indeed about the place while Roberta was having her conference with Mr Croft, had said that he had concluded not to go up to the house at present, but would take a walk through the woods instead. Lawrence, who thought he divined his reason, felt an honorable indisposition to accept this advantage at the hands of a man who was, most indisputably, his rival. If they went together it would not appear as if he had waited for Keswick's absence to return; and there would still be no reason why he should not have his private walk and talk with Miss March.

At all events, it seemed to him unfair to leave Keswick at the gate while he went up to the house by himself, and the notion of it did not please him at all. Keswick, however, was very resolute in his opposition. He objected even to seeing Roberta and Croft together. He thought, besides, if he and Croft came to the house at the same time it would appear very much as if he, Junius, had brought the other, and this was an appearance he wished very much to avoid. He had walked away, and Lawrence had jumped from the buggy to continue the friendly argument which was not finished when Peggy arrived. Almost immediately after this event Keswick positively insisted that he would go for a walk, and Lawrence reluctantly turned toward the vehicle.

Peggy's mind was filled with horror. Master Junius had been frightened away, and the other man was coming up to the house! She could not stand there and allow such a catastrophe. Jerking open the gate, she rushed into the road and confronted Keswick.

"Mahs' Junius," she exclaimed, "Miss Rob's orful sick wid her back an' her j'ints, an' she say she can't see no kump'ny folks, an' Mahs' Robert he done gone away to see ole Miss Keswick. I jes run down h'yar to tell you to hurry up."

Keswick started. "Where did you say your Master Robert had gone?"

"To ole Miss Keswick's. He went dis mawnin'."

Junius turned slightly pale, and addressing Mr Croft, said: "Something very strange must have happened here! Miss March is ill, and Mr Brandon has gone to a place to which I think nothing but a matter of the utmost importance could take him."

"In that case," said Mr Croft, "it will be highly improper for me to go to the house just now. I am very glad that I heard the news before I got there. I will return to the Springs, and will call to-morrow and inquire after Miss March's health. Do not let me detain you as your presence is evidently much needed at the house."

"Thank you," said Keswick, hurriedly shaking hands with him. "I am afraid something very unexpected has happened, and so beg you will excuse me. Good-morning." And passing through the gateway, he rapidly strode toward the house, while Lawrence prepared to turn his horse's head toward the Springs.

But, although Junius Keswick walked rapidly, Peggy, who had started first for the house, kept well in advance of him. Away she went, skipping, running, dancing. Once she stopped and turned, and saw that the buggy, with the mud-colored horse, was being driven away, and that Master Junius was coming along the road to the house. Then she started off, and ran steadily, the rapid show of the light-colored soles of her feet behind her suggestive of a steamer's wake. Up the broad stile she went, two steps at a time, and down the other side in a couple of jumps; a dozen skips took her across the lawn; and she bounded up to the porch as if each wooden step had been a springing board. She rushed up-stairs, and stood at the open door of Miss Roberta's room where that lady reclined upon a lounge.

"Hi', Miss Rob!" she exclaimed, involuntarily snapping her fingers as she spoke. "Mahs' Junius comin', all by hese'f, an' I done sent de udder gemman clean off, kitin'!"



CHAPTER X.

Junius Keswick was received by Miss Roberta in the parlor. Her face was colder and sterner than he had ever seen it before, and his countenance was very much troubled. Each wished to speak first, and ask questions, but the lady went immediately to the front.

"How did it happen that you and Mr Croft were coming here together? Where had you been?"

"We came from the Green Sulphur Springs, where I called on him this morning."

"I thought he was obliged to return immediately to the North. What made him change his mind?"

"Perhaps it will be better not to discuss that now," said Junius.

"I wish to discuss it," was the reply. "What induced him not to go?"

"I did," answered Junius, looking steadfastly at her. "Did you not wish to see him?"

For a moment Miss Roberta did not answer, but her face grew pale, and she threw herself back in the chair in which she was sitting. "Never in my life," she said, "have I been subjected to such mortification! Of course I wished him to come, but to come of his own accord, and not at my bidding. How do you suppose I would have felt if he had presented himself, and asked me what I wished to say to him? It is an insult you have offered me."

"It is not an insult," said Keswick quietly. "It was a service of—of affection. I saw that you were annoyed and troubled by Mr Croft's failure to keep his engagement, and what I did was simply—"

"Stop!" said Roberta peremptorily. "I do not wish to talk of it any more."

Junius stood before her a moment in silence, and then he said: "Will you tell me if my Aunt Keswick is ill or dead, and why did Mr Brandon go there?"

"She is neither;" answered Roberta, "and he went there on business." And with this she arose and left the room.

Peggy, who had been in the hall, now made a bolt down the back stairs into the basement regions, where was situated the kitchen. In this spacious apartment she found Aunt Judy, the cook, sitting before a large wood fire, and holding in her hand a long iron ladle. There was nothing near her which she could dip or stir with a ladle, and it was probably retained during her period of leisure as a symbol of her position and authority.

Peggy squatted on her heels, close to Aunt Judy's side, and thus addressed her: "Aun' Judy, ef I tell you sumfin', soul an' honor, hope o' glory, you'll neber tell?"

"Hope o' glory, neber!" said Aunt Judy, turning a look of interest on the girl.

"Well, den, look h'yar. You know Miss Rob she got two beaux; one is Mahs' Junius, an' de udder is de gemman wid de speckle trousers from de Norf."

"Yes, I know dat," said Aunt Judy. "Has dey fit?"

"Not yit, but dey wos gwine to," said Peggy, "but I seed 'em, an' I tore down de road to de gate whar dey wos gittin ready to fight, an' I jes' let dat dar Mister Crof' know wot low-down white trash Miss Rob think he wos, an' den he said ef dat war so 'twant no use fur to come in, an' he turn' roun' de buggy, an' cl'ar'd out. Den Mahs' Junius he come to de house, an' dar Miss Rob in de parlor waitin' fur him. I stood jes' outside de doh', so's to be out de way, but Mahs' Junius he kinder back agin de doh', an' shet it. But I clap'd my year ter de crack, an' I hear eberything dey said."

"Wot dey say?" asked Aunt Judy, her mouth open, her eyes dilated, and the long ladle trembling in her hand.

"Mahs' Junius he say to Miss Rob that he lub her better'n his own skin, or de clouds in de sky, or de flowers in de fiel' wot perish, an' dat de udder man he done cut an' run, an' would she be Miss Junius all de res' ob der libes foreber an' eber, amen?"

"Dat wos pow'ful movin'!" ejaculated Aunt Judy. "An' wot did Miss Rob say?"

"Miss Rob she say, 'I 'cept your kind offer, sah, wid pleasure.' An' den I hearn 'em comin', an' I cut down h'yar."

"Glory! Hallelujah!" exclaimed Aunt Judy, bringing her ladle down upon the brick hearth. "Now is I ready to die when my time comes, fur Mahs' Junius 'll have dis farm, an' de house, an' de cabins, an' dey won't go to no strahnger from de Norf."

"Amen," said Peggy. "An' Aun' Judy, dat ar piece ob pie ain't no 'count to nobuddy."

"You kin hab it, chile," said Aunt Judy, rising, and taking from a shelf a large piece of cold apple pie, "an' bressed be de foots ob dem wot fotch good tidin's."

Junius Keswick did not see Miss Roberta again that day, and early in the morning he borrowed one of the Midbranch horses, and rode away. He did not wish to be at the house when Mr Croft should come; and, besides, he was very anxious and disturbed in regard to matters at the Keswick farm. Of all places in the world why should Mr Brandon go there?

It was not a very pleasant ride that Junius Keswick took that morning. He had anxieties in regard to what he would meet with at his aunt's house, and he had even greater anxieties as to what he was leaving behind him at Midbranch. It was quite evident that Roberta was angry with him, and this was enough to sadden the soul of a man who loved her as he loved her, who would have married her at any moment, in spite of all opposition, all threats, all curses. He was not in the habit of looking at himself after the manner of Lawrence Croft, but on this occasion he could not help a little self-survey.

Was it a purely disinterested motive he asked himself, that took him over to the Springs to bring back Lawrence Croft? Did he not believe in his soul that Roberta would never have spoken so freely to him in regard to what the gentleman from the North would probably say to her if she had not intended to decline that gentleman's offer? And was there not a wish in his heart that this matter might be definitely and satisfactorily settled before Roberta and Mr Croft went to New York for the winter? He could not deny that this issue to the affair had been in his mind; and yet he felt that he could conscientiously assure himself that if he had thought things would turn out otherwise, he still would have endeavored to make the man perform the duty expected of him by Roberta, in whose service Junius always felt himself to be. But, apparently, he had not benefited himself or anybody else, except, perhaps, Croft, by this service which he had performed.

It was late in the forenoon when Junius met Mr Brandon returning to Midbranch. In answer to his expressions of surprise, Mr Brandon, who appeared in an exceptionally good humor, informed Junius of his reasons for the visit to the widow Keswick, and what he had found when he arrived there.

"Your little cousin," said he, "is a most charming young creature, and on interested motives I should oppose your going to your aunt's house, were it not for the fact that she is married, and, therefore, of no danger to you. I was very glad to find her there. Her influence over your aunt will, I think, be highly advantageous, and the first fruit of it is that the old lady will now welcome you with open arms. Would you believe it! she has already announced that she wishes to make a match between you and this little cousin; and in order to do so, has actually engaged me to endeavor to bring about a divorce between the young lady and her absent husband. The widow Keswick has as many cranks and crotchets in her head as there are seeds in a tobacco pod; but this is the queerest and the wildest of them all. The couple seem very much attached to each other, and nothing can be said against the husband except that he did not accompany his wife on her visit to her relatives; and if he knew anything about the old lady I don't blame him a bit. Now your course, my dear boy, is perfectly plain. Let your aunt talk as much as she pleases about this divorce, and your union with the little Annie. It won't hurt anybody, and she must talk herself out in time. In the mean time take advantage of the present circumstances to mollify and tone down, so to speak, the good old lady. Make her understand that we are all her friends, and that there is no one in the connection who would wish to do her the slightest harm. This would be our Christian duty at any time, but it is more particularly our duty now. I would like you to bring your cousin over to see us before Roberta goes away. I invited her to come, and told her that my niece would first call upon her were it not for the peculiar circumstances. But if the families can be in a measure brought together—and I shall make it a point to ride over there occasionally—if your aunt can be made to understand the kindly feelings we really have toward her, and can be induced to set aside, even in a slight degree, the violent prejudice she now holds against us, all may yet turn out well. Now go, my boy, and may the best of success go with you. Don't trouble yourself about sending back the horse. Keep him as long as you want him."

Mr Brandon rode on, leaving Junius to pursue his way. "It is very pleasant," thought the young man, who had said scarcely a word during the interview, "to hear Mr Brandon talk about all turning out well, but when he gets home he may discover that there is something to be done at Midbranch as well as on the Keswick place."

Mr Brandon's reflections were very different from those of Junius. It appeared to him that a reconciliation between the two families, even though it should be a partial one, was reasonably to be expected. That newly arrived cousin was an angel. She was bound to do good. A marriage between his niece and Junius Keswick was the great object of the old gentleman's heart, and he longed to see the former engagement between them re-established before Roberta went to New York, where her beauty and attractiveness would expose his cherished plan to many dangers.

The road he was on led directly north, and it was joined about a quarter of a mile above by the road which ran through the woods to the Green Sulphur Springs. On this road, at a point nearly opposite to him, he could see, through the foliage, a horseman riding toward the point of junction. Something about this person attracted his attention, and Mr Brandon took out a pair of eye-glasses and put them on. As soon as he had obtained another good view of the horseman he recognized him as Mr Croft. The old gentleman took off his glasses and returned them to his vest pocket, and his face began to flush. In his early acquaintance with Mr Croft he had not objected to him, because he wished his niece to have company, and he had a firm belief in the enduring quality of her affection for Junius. But, latterly, his ideas in regard to the New York gentleman had changed. He had thought him somewhat too assiduous, and when he had unexpectedly returned from the North, Mr Brandon had not been at all pleased, although he had been careful not to show his displeasure. This condition of things made him feel uneasy, and had prompted his visit to the widow Keswick. And now that everything looked so fair and promising, here was that man, whom he had supposed to have left this part of the country, riding toward his house.