Now Lawrence considered this a very incorrect statement, but he had no wish to set the old lady right. He knew it would joy her heart, and make her more his friend than, ever if he should tell her that Miss March had accepted him, but this would be a very dangerous piece of information to put in her hands. He did not know what use she would make of it, or what damage she might unwittingly do to his prospects. And so he merely answered: "I had no idea she would leave so soon."

"Well," said the old lady, "I suppose, after all, that you needn't give it up yet. I understand that she is not going to New York before the end of the month, and you may be well enough before that to ride over to Midbranch."

"I hope so, most assuredly," said he.

Lawrence devoted that evening to his letter. It was a long one, and was written with a most earnest desire to embrace all the merits of each of the two kinds of letters, which have before been alluded to, and to avoid all their faults. When it was finished, he read it, tore it up, and threw it in the fire.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The next day opened bright and clear, and before ten o'clock, the thermometer had risen to seventy degrees. Instead of sitting in front of the fireplace, Lawrence had his chair and table brought close to his open doorway, where he could look out on the same beautiful scene which had greeted his eyes a few days before. "But what is the good," he thought, "of this green grass, this sunny air, that blue sky, those white clouds, and the distant tinted foliage, without that figure, which a few days ago stood in the foreground of the picture?" But, as the woman to whom, in his soul's sight, the whole world was but a background, was not there, he turned his eyes from the warm autumnal scene, and prepared again to write to her. He had scarcely taken up his pen, however, when he was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Annie, who came to bring him a book she had just finished reading, a late English novel which she thought might be more interesting than those she had sent him. The book was one which Lawrence had not seen and wanted to see, but in talking about it, to the young lady, he discovered that she had not read all of it.

"Don't let me deprive you of the book," said Lawrence. "If you have begun it, you ought to go on with it."

"Oh, don't trouble your mind about that," she said, with a laugh. "I have finished it, but I have not read a word of the beginning. I only looked at the end of it, to see how the story turned out. I always do that, before I read a novel."

This remark much amused Lawrence. "Do you know," said he, "that I would rather not read novels at all, than to read them in that way. I must begin at the beginning, and go regularly through, as the author wishes his readers to do."

"And perhaps, when you get to the end," said Miss Annie, "you'll find that the wrong man got her, and then you'll wish you had not read the story."

"As you appear to be satisfied with this novel," said Lawrence, "I wish you would read it to me, and then I would feel that I was not taking an uncourteous precedence of you."

"I'll read it to you," said she, "or, at least, as much as you want me to, for I feel quite sure that after you get interested in it, you will want to take it, yourself, and read straight on till it is finished, instead of waiting for some one to come and give you a chapter or two at a time. That would be the way with me, I know."

"I shall be delighted to have you read to me," said Lawrence. "When can you begin?"

"Now," she said, "if you choose. But perhaps you wish to write."

"Not at this moment," said Lawrence, turning from the table. "Unfortunately I have plenty of leisure. Where will you sit?" And he reached out his hand for a chair.

"Oh, I don't want a chair," said Annie, taking her seat on the broad door-step. "This is exactly what I like. I am devoted to sitting on steps. Don't you think there is something dreadfully stiff about always being perched up in a chair?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, "on some occasions."

And, forthwith, she began upon the first chapter; and having read five lines of this, she went back and read the title page, suddenly remembering that Mr Croft liked to begin a book at the very beginning. Miss Annie had been accustomed to read to her father, and she read aloud very well, and liked it. As she sat there, shaded by a great locust tree, which had dropped so many yellow leaves upon the grass, that, now and then, it could not help letting a little fleck of sunshine come down upon her, sometimes gilding for a moment her light-brown hair, sometimes touching the end of a crimson ribbon she wore, and again resting for a brief space on the toe of a very small boot just visible at the edge of her dress, Lawrence looked at her, and said to himself: "Is it possible that this is the rather pale young girl in black, who gave me change from behind the desk of Mr Candy's Information Shop? I don't believe it. That young person sprang up, temporarily, and is defunct. This is some one else."

She read three chapters before she considered it time to go into the house to see if it was necessary for her to do anything about dinner. When she left him, Lawrence turned again to his writing.

That afternoon, he sent Mrs Null a little note on the back of a card, asking her if she could let him have a few more sheets of paper. Lawrence found this request necessary, as he had used up that day all the paper she had sent him, and the small torn pieces of it now littered the fireplace.

"He must be writing a diary letter," said Miss Annie to herself when, she received this message, "such as we girls used to write when we were at school." And, bringing down a little the corners of her mouth, she took from her stationery box what she thought would be quite paper enough to send to a man for such a purpose.

But, although the means were thus made abundant, the letter to Miss March was not then written. Lawrence finally determined that it was simply impossible for him to write to the lady, until he knew more. What Keswick had told him had been absurdly little, and he had hurried away before there had been time to ask further questions. Instead of sending a letter to Miss March, he would write to Keswick, and would put to him a series of interrogations, the answers to which would make him understand better the position in which he stood. Then he would write to Miss March.

The next day Miss Annie could not read to him in the morning, because, as she came and told him, she was going to Howlett's, on an errand for her aunt. But there would be time to give him a chapter or two before dinner, when she came back.

"Would it be any trouble," said Lawrence, "for you to mail a letter for me?"

"Oh, no," said Miss Annie, but not precisely in the same tone in which she would have told him that it would be no trouble to read to him two or three chapters of a novel. And yet she would pass directly by the residence of Miss Harriet Corvey, the post-mistress.

As Miss Annie walked along the narrow path which ran by the roadside to Howlett's, with the blue sky above her, and the pleasant October sunshine all about her, and followed at a little distance by the boy Plez, carrying a basket, she did not seem to be taking that enjoyment in her walk which was her wont. Her brows were slightly contracted and she looked straight in front of her, without seeing anything in particular, after the manner of persons whose attention is entirely occupied in looking into their own minds, at something they do not like. "It is too much!" she said, almost loud, her brows contracting a little more as she spoke. "It was bad enough to have to furnish the paper, but for me to have to carry the letter, is entirely too much!" And, at this, she involuntarily glanced at the thick and double stamped missive, which, having no pocket, she carried in her hand. She had not looked at it before, and as her eyes fell upon the address, she stopped so suddenly that Plez, who was dozing as he walked, nearly ran into her. "What!" she exclaimed, "'Junius Keswick, five Q street, Washington, District of Columbia!' Is it possible that Mr Croft has been writing to him, all this time?" She now walked on; and although she still seemed to notice not the material objects around her, the frown disappeared from her brow, and her mental vision seemed to be fixed upon something more pleasant than that which had occupied it before. As it will be remembered, she had refused positively to have anything to do with Lawrence's suit to Miss March, and it was a relief to her to know that the letter she was carrying was not for that lady. "But why," thought she, "should he be writing, for two whole evenings, to Junius. I expected that he would write to her, to find out why she went off and left him in that way, but I did not suppose he would want to write to Junius. It seems to me they had time enough, that night they were together, to talk over everything they had to say."

And then she began to wonder what they had to say, and, gradually, the conviction grew upon her that Mr Croft was a very, very honorable man. Of course it was wrong that he should have come here to try to win a lady who, if one looked at it in the proper light, really belonged to another. But it now came into her mind that Mr Croft must, by degrees, have seen this, for himself, and that it was the subject of his long conference with Junius, and also, most probably, of this letter. The conference certainly ended amicably, and, in that case, it was scarcely possible that Junius had given up his claim. He was not that kind of a man.

If Mr Croft had become convinced that he ought to retire from this contest, and had done so, and Roberta had been informed of it, that would explain everything that had happened. Roberta's state of mind, after she had had the talk in the parlor with Junius, and her hurried departure, without taking the slightest notice of either of the gentlemen, was quite natural. What woman would like to know that she had been bargained about, and that her two lovers had agreed which of them should have her? It was quite to be expected that she would be very angry, at first, though there was no doubt she would get over it, so far as Junius was concerned.

Having thus decided, entirely to her own satisfaction, that this was the state of affairs, she thought it was a grand thing that there were two such young men in the world, as her cousin and Mr Croft, who could arrange such an affair in so kindly and honorable a manner, without feeling that they were obliged to fight—that horribly stupid way in which such things used to be settled.

This vision of masculine high-mindedness, which Miss Annie had called up, seemed very pleasant to her, and her mental satisfaction was denoted by a pretty little glow which came into her face, and by a certain increase of sprightliness in her walk. "Now then,—" she said to herself; and although she did not finish the sentence, even in her own mind, the sky increased the intensity of its beautiful blue; the sun began to shine with a more golden radiance; the little birds who had not yet gone South, chirped to each other as merrily as if it had been early summer; the yellow and purple wild flowers of autumn threw into their blossoms a richer coloring; and even the blades of grass seemed to stretch themselves upward, green, tender, and promising; and when the young lady skipped up the step of the post-office, she dropped the letter into Miss Harriet Corvey's little box, with the air of a mother-bird feeding a young one with the first ripe cherry of the year.

A day or two after this, Lawrence found himself able, by the aid of a cane and a rude crutch, which Uncle Isham had made for him and the top of which Mrs Keswick had carefully padded, to make his way from the office to the house; and, after that, he took his meals, and passed the greater part of his time in the larger edifice. Sometimes, he ransacked the old library; sometimes, Miss Annie read to him; and sometimes, he read to her. In the evening, there were games of cards, in which the old lady would occasionally take a hand, although more frequently Miss Annie and Mr Croft were obliged to content themselves with some game at which two could play. But the pleasantest hours, perhaps, were those which were spent in talking, for Lawrence had travelled a good deal, and had seen so many of the things in foreign lands which Miss Annie had always wished, that she could see. Lawrence was waiting until he should hear from Mr Keswick; so that, with some confidence in his position, he could write to Miss March. His trunk had been sent over from the Green Sulphur Springs, and he was much better satisfied to wait here than at that deserted watering-place. It was, indeed, a very agreeable spot in which to wait, and quite near enough to Midbranch for him to carry on his desired operations, when the time should arrive. He was a little annoyed that Keswick's answer should be so long in coming, but he resolved not to worry himself about it. The answer was, probably, a difficult letter to write, and one which Keswick would not be likely to dash off in a hurry. He remembered, too, that the mail was sent and received only twice a week at Howlett's.

Old Mrs Keswick was kind to him, but grave, and rather silent. Once she passed the open door of the parlor, by the window of which sat Miss Annie and Lawrence, deeply engaged, their heads together, in studying out something on a map, and as she went up-stairs she grimly grinned, and said to herself: "If that Null could look in and see them now, I reckon our young man would wish he had the use of all his arms and legs."

But if Mr Null should disapprove of his wife and that gentleman from New York spending so much of their time together, old Mrs Keswick had not the least objection in the world. She was well satisfied that Mr Croft should find it interesting enough to stay here until the time came when he should be able to go to Midbranch. When that period arrived she would not be slow to urge him to his duty, in spite of any obstacles Mr Brandon might put in his way. So, for the present, she possessed her soul in as much peace as the soul of a headstrong and very wilful old lady is capable of being possessed.



CHAPTER XXIV.

The letter which Lawrence Croft had written to Junius Keswick was not answered for more than a week, and when the answer arrived, it did not come through the Howlett's post-office, but was brought from a mail station on the railway by a special messenger. In this epistle Mr Keswick stated that he would have written much sooner but for the fact that he had been away from Washington, and having just returned, had found Mr Croft's letter waiting for him. The answer was written in a tone which Lawrence did not at all expect. It breathed the spirit of a man who was determined, and almost defiant. It told Mr Croft that the writer did not now believe that Miss March's acceptance of the said Mr Croft, should be considered of any value, whatever. It was the result of a very peculiar condition of things, in which he regretted having taken a part, and it was given in a moment of pique and indignation, which gave Miss March a right to reconsider her hasty decision, if she chose to do so. It would not be fair for either of them to accept, as conclusive, words said under the extraordinary circumstances which surrounded Miss March when she said those words. "You asked me to do you a favor," wrote Junius Keswick, "and, very much against my inclination, and against what is now my judgment, I did it. I now ask you to do me a favor, and I do not think you should refuse it. I ask you not to communicate with Miss March until I have seen her, and have obtained from her an explanation of the acceptance in question. I have a right to this explanation, and I feel confident that it will be given to me. You ask me what I truly believe Miss March meant by her message to you. I answer that I do not know, but I intend to find out what she meant, and as soon as I do so, I will write to you. I think, therefore, considering what you have asked me to do, and what you have written to me, about what I have done, that you cannot refuse to abstain from any further action in the matter, until I am enabled to answer you. I cannot leave Washington immediately, but I shall go to Midbranch in a very few days."

This letter was very far from being a categorical answer to Lawrence's questions, and it disappointed and somewhat annoyed that gentleman; but after he had read it for the second time, and carefully considered it, he put it in his pocket and said to himself, "This ends all discussion of this subject. Mr Keswick may be right in the position he takes, or he may be wrong. He may go to Midbranch; he may get his explanation; and he may send it to me. But, without any regard to what he does, or says, or writes, I shall go to Miss March as soon as I am able to use my ankle, and, whether she be at her uncle's house, or whether she has gone to New York, or to any other place, I shall see her, and, myself, obtain from her an explanation of this acceptance. This is due to me as well as to Mr Keswick, and if he thinks he ought to get it, for himself, I also think I ought to get it, for myself."

The good results of Lawrence's great care in regard to his injured ankle soon began to show themselves. The joint had slowly but steadily regained its strength and usual healthy condition; and Lawrence now found that he could walk about without the assistance of his rude crutch. He was still prudent, however, and took but very short walks, and in these he leaned upon his trusty cane. The charming autumn days, which often come to Virginia in late October and early November, were now at their best. Day after day, the sun shone brightly, but there was in the air an invigorating coolness, which made its radiance something to be sought for and not avoided.

It was just after dinner, and it was Saturday afternoon, when Miss Annie announced that she was going to see old Aunt Patsy, whom she had somewhat neglected of late.

"May I go with you?" said Lawrence.

Miss Annie shook her head doubtfully. "I should be very glad to have your company," she said, "but I am afraid it will be entirely too much of a walk for you. The days are so short that the sun will be low before we could get back, and if you should be tired, it would not do for you to sit down and rest, at that time of day."

"I believe," said Lawrence, "that my ankle is quite strong enough for me to walk to Aunt Patsy's and back, without sitting down to rest. I would be very glad to go with you, and I would like, too, to see that venerable colored woman again."

"Well," said Miss Annie, "if you really think you can walk so far, it will be very nice indeed to have you go, but you ought to feel very sure that it will not hurt you."

"Come along," said Lawrence, taking up his hat and cane.

After a man has been shut up, as Lawrence had been, a pleasant ramble like this is a most delightful change, and he did not hesitate to manifest his pleasure. This touched the very sensitive soul of his companion, and with such a sparkle of talk did she evince her gratification, that almost any one would have been able to see that she was a young lady who had an earnest sympathy with those who had undergone afflictions, but were now freed from them.

Aunt Patsy was glad to see her visitors, particularly glad, it seemed, to see Mr Croft. She was quite loquacious, considering the great length of her days, and the proverbial shortness of her tongue.

"Why, Aunt Patsy," said Miss Annie, "you seem to have grown younger since I last saw you! I do believe you are getting old backwards! What are you going to do with that dress-body?" "I's lookin' at dis h'yar," said Aunt Patsy, turning over the well-worn body of a black woollen dress which lay in her lap, instead of the crazy quilt on which she was usually occupied, "to see if it's done gib way in any ob de seams, or de elbers. 'Twas a right smart good frock once, an' I's gwine to wear it ter-morrer."

"To-morrow!" exclaimed Annie. "You don't mean to say you are going to church!"

"Dat's jus' wot I's gwine to do, Miss Annie. I's gwine to chu'ch ter-morrer mawnin'. Dar's gwine to be a big preachin'. Brudder Enick Hines is to be dar, an' dey tell me dey allus has pow'ful wakenin's when Brudder Enick preaches. I ain't ever heered Brudder Enick yit, coz he was a little boy when I use to go to chu'ch."

"Will it be in the old church, in the woods just beyond Howlett's?" asked Annie.

"Right dar," replied Aunt Patsy, with an approving glance towards the young lady. "You 'members dem ar places fus' rate, Miss Annie. Why you didn't tole me, when you fus' come h'yar, dat you was dat little Miss Annie dat I use to tote roun' afore I gin up walkin'?"

"Oh, that's too long a story," said Miss Annie, with a laugh. "You know I hadn't seen Aunt Keswick, then. I couldn't go about introducing myself to other people before I had seen her."

Aunt Patsy gave a sagacious nod of her head. "I reckon you thought she'd be right much disgruntled when she heered you was mar'ed, an' you wanted to tell her youse'f. But I's pow'ful glad dat it's all right now. You all don' know how pow'ful glad I is." And she looked at Mr Croft and Miss Annie with a glance as benignant as her time-set countenance was capable of.

"But Aunt Patsy," said Annie, quite willing to change the conversation, although she did not know the import of the old woman's last remark, "I thought you were not able to go out."

The old woman gave a little chuckle. "Dat's wot eberybody thought, an' to tell you de truf, Miss Annie, I thought so too. But ef I was strong 'nuf to go to de pos' offis,—an' I did dat, Miss Annie, an' not long ago nuther,—I reckon I's strong 'nuf to go to chu'ch, an' Uncle Isham is a comin' wid de oxcart to take me ter-morrer mawnin'. Dar'll be pow'ful wakenin's, an' I ain't seen de Jerus'lum Jump in a mighty long time."

"Are they going to have the Jerusalem Jump?" asked Miss Annie.

"Oh, yaas, Miss Annie," said the old woman, "dey's sartin shuh to hab dat, when dey gits waken'd."

"I should so like to see the Jerusalem Jump again," said Miss Annie. "I saw it once, when I was a little girl. Did you ever see it?" she said, turning to Mr Croft.

"I have not," he answered. "I never even heard of it."

"Suppose we go to-morrow, and hear Brother Enoch," she said. "I should like it very much," answered Lawrence.

"Aunt Patsy," said Miss Annie, "would there be any objection to our going to your church to-morrow?"

The old woman gave her head a little shake. "Dunno," she said. "As a gin'ral rule we don't like white folks at our preachin's. Dey's got dar chu'ches, an' dar ways, an' we's got our chu'ches, an' our ways. But den it's dif'rent wid you all. An' you all's not like white folks in gin'ral, an' 'specially strawngers. You all isn't strawngers now. I don't reckon dar'll be no 'jections to your comin', ef you set sollum, an' I know you'll do dat, Miss Annie, coz you did it when you was a little gal. An' I reckon it'll be de same wid him?" looking at Mr Croft.

Miss Annie assured her that she and her companion would be certain to "sit solemn," and that they would not think of such a thing as going to church and behaving indecorously.

"Dar is white folks," said Aunt Patsy, "wot comes to a culled chu'ch fur nothin' else but to larf. De debbil gits dem folks, but dat don' do us no good, Miss Annie, an' we'd rudder dey stay away. But you all's not dat kine. I knows dat, sartin shuh."

When the two had taken leave of the old woman, and Miss Annie had gone out of the door, Aunt Patsy leaned very far forward, and stretching out her long arm, seized Mr Croft by the skirt of his coat. He stepped back, quite surprised, and then she said to him, in a low but very earnest voice: "I reckon dat dat ar sprain ankle was nuffin but a acciden'; but you look out, sah, you look out! Hab you got dem little shoes handy?"

"Oh, yes," said Lawrence. "I have them in my trunk."

"Keep 'em whar you kin put your han' on 'em," said Aunt Patsy, impressively. "You may want 'em yit. You min' my wuds."

"I shall be sure to remember," said Lawrence, as he hastened out to rejoin Annie.

"What in the world had Aunt Patsy to say to you?" asked that somewhat surprised young lady.

Then Lawrence told her how some time before Aunt Patsy had given him a pair of blue shoes, which she said would act as a preventive charm, in case Mrs Keswick should ever wish to do him harm, and that she had now called him back to remind him not to neglect this means of personal protection. "I can't imagine," said Lawrence, "that your aunt would ever think of such a thing as doing me a harm, or how those little shoes would prevent her, if she wanted to, but I suppose Aunt Patsy is crack-brained on some subjects, and so I thought it best to humor her, and took the shoes."

"Do you know," said Miss Annie, after walking a little distance in silence, "that I am afraid Aunt Patsy has done a dreadful thing, and one I never should have suspected her of. Aunt Keswick had a little baby once, and it died very young. She keeps its clothes in a box, and I remember when I was a little girl that she once showed them to me, and told me I was to take the place of that little girl, and that frightened me dreadfully, because I thought that I would have to die, and have my clothes put in a box. I recollect perfectly that there was a pair of little blue shoes among these clothes, and Aunt Patsy must have stolen them."

"That surprises me," said Lawrence. "I supposed, from what I had heard of the old woman, that she was perfectly honest."

"So she is," said Annie. "She has been a trusted servant in our family nearly all her life. But some negroes have very queer ideas about taking certain things, and I suppose Aunt Patsy had some particular reason for taking those shoes, for, of course, they could be of no value to her."

"I am very sorry," said Lawrence, "that such sacred relics should have come into my possession, but I must admit that I would not like to give them back to your aunt."

"Oh, no," said Annie, "that would never do; and I wouldn't dare to try to find her box, and put them in it. It would seem like a desecration for any hand but her own to touch those things."

"That is true," said Lawrence, "and you might get yourself into a lot of trouble by endeavoring to repair the mischief. Before I leave here, we may think of some plan of disposing of the little trotters. It might be well to give them back to Aunt Patsy and tell her to restore them."

"I don't know," said Miss Annie, with a slowness of reply, and an irrelevance of demeanor, which indicated she was not thinking of the words she was speaking.

The sun was now very near the horizon, and that evening coolness which, in the autumn, comes on so quickly after the sunshine fades out of the air, made Lawrence give a little shrug with his shoulders. He proposed that they should quicken their pace, and as his companion made no objection, they soon reached the house.

The next day being Sunday, breakfast was rather later than usual, and as Lawrence looked out on the bright morning, with the mists just disengaging themselves from the many-hued foliage which crowned the tops of the surrounding hills; and on the recently risen sun, hanging in an atmosphere of grey and lilac, with the smile of Indian summer on its face; he thought he would like to take a stroll, before that meal; but either the length of his walk on the previous day, or the rapidity of the latter portion of it, had been rather too much for the newly-recovered strength of his ankle, which now felt somewhat stiff and sore. When he mentioned this at the breakfast table, he received a good deal of condolence from the two ladies, especially Mrs Keswick. And, at first, it was thought that it might be well for him to give up his proposed attendance at the negro church. But to this Lawrence strongly objected, for he very much desired to see some of the peculiar religious services of the negroes. He had been talking on the subject the evening before with Mrs Keswick, who had told him that in this part of the country, which lay in the "black belt" of Virginia, where the negro population had always been thickest, these ceremonies were more characteristic of the religious disposition of the African, than in those sections of the State where the white race exerted a greater influence upon the manners and customs of the colored people.

"But it will not be necessary to walk much," said Miss Annie. "We can take the spring-wagon, and you can go with us, aunt."

The old lady permitted herself a little grin. "When I go to church," she said, "I go to a white folks' church, and try to see what I can of white folks' Christianity, though I must say that Christianity of the other color is often just as good, as far as works go. But it is natural that a stranger should want to see what kind of services the colored people have, so you two might as well get into the spring-wagon and go along."

"But shall we not deprive you of the vehicle?" said Lawrence.

"I never go to church in the spring-wagon," said the old lady, "so long as I am able to walk. And, besides, this is not our Sunday for preaching."

It seemed to Lawrence that an elderly person who went about in a purple calico sun-bonnet, and with an umbrella of the same material, might go to church in a wheelbarrow, so far as appearances were concerned, but he had long ceased to wonder at Mrs Keswick's idiosyncrasies. "I remember very well," said Miss Annie, after the old lady had left the table, which she always did as soon as she had finished a meal, "when Aunt Keswick used to go to church in a big family carriage, which is now sleeping itself to pieces out there in the barn. But then she had a pair of big gray horses, one of them named Doctor and the other Colonel. But now she has only one horse, and I am going to tell Uncle Isham to harness that one up before he goes to church himself. You know he is to take Aunt Patsy in the ox-cart, so he will have to go early."

They went to the negro church in the spring-wagon, Lawrence driving the jogging sorrel, and Miss Annie on the seat beside him. When they reached the old frame edifice in the woods beyond Howlett's, they found gathered there quite a large assemblage, for this was one of those very attractive occasions called a "big preaching." Horses and mules, and wagons of various kinds, many of the latter containing baskets of refreshments, were standing about under the trees; and Mrs Keswick's cart and oxen, tethered to a little pine tree, gave proof that Aunt Patsy had arrived. The inside of the church was nearly full, and outside, around the door, stood a large number of men and boys. The white visitors were looked upon with some surprise, but way was made for them to approach the door, and as soon as they entered the building two of the officers of the church came forward to show them to one of the uppermost seats; but this honor Miss Annie strenuously declined. She preferred a seat near the open door, and therefore she and Mr Croft were given a bench in that vicinity, of which they had sole possession.

To Lawrence, who had never seen anything of the sort, the services which now began were exceedingly interesting; and as Annie had not been to a negro church since she was a little girl, and very seldom then, she gave very earnest and animated attention to what was going on. The singing, as it always is among the negroes, was powerful and melodious, and the long prayer of Brother Enoch Hines was one of those spirited and emotional statements of personal condition, and wild and ardent supplication, which generally pave the way for a most powerful awakening in an assemblage of this kind. Another hymn, sung in more vigorous tones than the first one, warmed up the congregation to such a degree that when Brother Hines opened the Bible, and made preparations for his discourse, he looked out upon an audience as anxious to be moved and stirred as he was to move and stir it. The sermon was intended to be a long one, for, had it been otherwise, Brother Hines had lost his reputation; and, therefore, the preacher, after a few prefatory statements, delivered in a grave and solemn manner, plunged boldly into the midst of his exhortations, knowing that he could go either backward or forward, presenting, with equal acceptance, fresh subject matter, or that already used, so long as his strength held out. He had not preached half an hour before his hearers were so stirred and moved, that a majority of them found it utterly impossible to merely sit still and listen. In different ways their awakening was manifested; some began to sing in a low voice; others gently rocked their bodies; while fervent ejaculations of various kinds were heard from all parts of the church. From this beginning, arose gradually a scene of religious activity, such as Lawrence had never imagined. Each individual allowed his or her fervor to express itself according to the method which best pleased the worshipper. Some kept to their seats, and listened to the words of the preacher, interrupting him occasionally by fervent ejaculations; others sang and shouted, sometimes standing up, clapping their hands and stamping their feet; while a large proportion of the able-bodied members left their seats, and pushed their way forward to the wide, open space which surrounded the preacher's desk, and prepared to engage in the exhilarating ceremony of the "Jerusalem Jump."

Two concentric rings were formed around the preacher, the inner one composed of women, the outer one of men, the faces of those forming the inner ring being turned towards those in the outer. As soon as all were in place, each brother reached forth his hand, and took the hand of the sister opposite to him, and then each couple began to jump up and down violently, shaking hands and singing at the top of their voices. After about a minute of this, the two circles moved, one, one way and one another, so that each brother found himself opposite a different sister. Hands were again immediately seized, and the jumping, hand-shaking, and singing went on. Minute by minute the excitement increased; faster the worshippers jumped, and louder they sang. Through it all Brother Enoch Hines kept on with his sermon. It was very difficult now to make himself heard, and the time for explanation or elucidation had long since passed; all he could do was to shout forth certain important and moving facts, and this he did over and over again, holding his hand at the side of his mouth, as if he were hailing a vessel in the wind. Much of what he said was lost in the din of the jumpers, but ever and anon could be heard ringing through the church the announcement: "De wheel ob time is a turnin' roun'!"

In a group by themselves, in an upper corner of the congregation, were four or five very old women, who were able to manifest their pious enthusiasm in no other way than by rocking their bodies backwards and forwards, and singing with their cracked voices a gruesome and monotonous chant. This rude song had something of a wild and uncivilized nature, as if it had come down to these old people from the savage rites of their African ancestors. They did not sing in unison, but each squeaked or piped out her, "Yi, wiho, yi, hoo!" according to the strength of her lungs, and the degree of her exaltation. Prominent among these was old Aunt Patsy; her little black eyes sparkling through her great iron-bound spectacles; her head and body moving in unison with the wild air of the unintelligible chant she sang; her long, skinny hands clapping up and down upon her knees; while her feet, encased in their great green baize slippers, unceasingly beat time upon the floor.

So many persons being absent from their seats, the group of old women was clearly visible to Annie and Lawrence, and Aunt Patsy also could easily see them. Whenever her head, in its ceaseless moving from side to side, allowed her eyes to fall upon the two white visitors, her ardor and fervency increased, and she seemed to be expressing a pious gratitude that Miss Annie and he, whom she supposed to be her husband, were still together in peace and safety.

Annie was much affected by all she saw and heard. Her face was slightly pale, and occasionally she was moved by a little nervous tremor. Mr Croft, too, was very attentive. His soul was not moved to enthusiasm, and he did not feel, as his companion did, now and then, that he would like to jump up and join in the dancing and the shouting; but the scene made a very strong impression upon him.

Around and around went the two rings of men and women, jumping, singing, and hand-shaking. Out from the centre of them came the stentorian shout: "De wheel ob time is a turnin' roun'!" From all parts of the church rose snatches of hymns, exultant shouts, groans, and prayers; and, in the corner, the shrill chants of the old women were fitfully heard through the storm of discordant worship.

In the midst of all the wild din and hubbub, the soul of Aunt Patsy looked out from the habitation where it had dwelt so long, and, without giving the slightest notice to any one, or attracting the least attention by its movements, it silently slipped away.

The old habitation of the soul still sat in its chair, but no one noticed that it no longer sang, or beat time with its hands and feet.

Not long after this, Lawrence looked round at his companion, and noticed that she was slightly trembling. "Don't you think we have had enough of this?" he whispered.

"Yes," she answered. And they rose and went out. They thought they were the first who had left.



CHAPTER XXV.

When Mr Croft and Miss Annie got into the spring-wagon, and the head of the sorrel was turned away from the church, Lawrence looked at his watch, and remarked that, as it was still quite early, there might be time for a little drive before going back to the house for dinner. The face of the young lady beside him was still slightly pale, and the thought came to him that it would be very well for her if her mind could be diverted from the abnormally inspiriting scene she had just witnessed.

"Dinner will be late to-day," she said, "for I saw Letty doing her best among the Jerusalem Jumpers."

"Very well," said he, "we will drive. And now, where shall we go?"

"If we take the cross-road at the store," said Miss Annie, "and go on for about half a mile, we can turn into the woods, and then there is a beautiful road through the trees, which will bring us out on the other side of Aunt Keswick's house. Junius took me that way not long ago."

So they turned at the store, much to the disgust of the plodding sorrel, who thought he was going directly home, and they soon reached the road that led through the woods. This was hard and sandy, as are many of the roads through the forests in that part of the country, and it would have been a very good driving road, had it not been for the occasional protrusion of tree roots, which gave the wheels a little bump, and for the branches which, now and then, hung down somewhat too low for the comfort of a lady and gentleman, riding in a rather high spring-wagon without a cover. But Lawrence drove slowly, and so the root bumps were not noticed; and when the low-hanging boughs were on his side, he lifted them so that his companion's head could pass under and, when they happened to be on her side, Annie ducked her head, and her hat was never brushed off. But, at times, they drove quite a distance without overhanging boughs, and the pine trees, surrounded by their smooth carpet of brown spines, gave forth a spicy fragrance in the warm, but sparkling air; the oak trees stood up still dark and green; while the chestnuts were all dressed in rich yellow, with the chinquepin bushes by the roadside imitating them in color, as they tried to do in fruit. Sometimes a spray of purple flowers could be seen among the trees, and great patches of sunlight which, here and there, came through the thinning foliage, fell, now upon the brilliantly scarlet leaves of a sweet-gum, and now upon the polished and brown-red dress of a neighboring black-gum.

The woods were very quiet. There was no sound of bird or insect, and the occasional hare, or "Molly Cotton-tail," as Annie delightedly called it, who hopped across the road, made no noise at all. A gentle wind among the tops of the taller trees made a sound as of a distant sea; but, besides this, little was heard but the low, crunching noise of the wheels, and the voices of Lawrence and Miss Annie.

Reaching a place where the road branched, Lawrence stopped the horse, and looked up each leafy lane. They were completely deserted. White people seldom walked abroad at this hour on Sunday, and the negroes of the neighborhood were at church. "Is not this a frightfully lonely place?" he said. "One might imagine himself in a desert."

"I like it," replied Annie. "It is so different from the wild, exciting tumult of that church. I am glad you took me away. At first I would not have missed it for the world, but there seemed to come into the stormy scene something oppressive, and almost terrifying."

"I am glad I took you away," said Lawrence, "but it seems to me that your impression was not altogether natural. I thought that, amid all that mad enthusiasm, you were over-excited, not depressed. A solemn solitude like this would, to my thinking, be much more likely to lower your spirits. I don't like solitude, myself, and therefore, I suppose it is that I thought an impressible nature, like yours, would find something sad in the loneliness of these silent woods."

Annie turned, and fixed on him her large blue eyes. "But I am not alone," she said.

As Lawrence looked into her eyes he saw that they were as clear as the purest crystal, and that he could look through them straight into her soul, and there he saw that this woman loved him. The vision was as sudden as if it had been a night scene lighted up by a flash of lightning, but it was as clear and plain as if it had been that same scene under the noonday sun.

There are times in the life of a man, when the goddess of Reasonable Impulse raises her arms above her head, and allows herself a little yawn. Then she takes off her crown and hangs it on the back of her throne; after which she rests her sceptre on the floor, and, rising, stretches herself to her full height, and goes forth to take a long, refreshing walk by the waters of Unreflection. Then her minister, Prudence, stretches himself upon a bench, and, with his handkerchief over his eyes, composes himself for a nap. Discretion, Worldly Wisdom, and other trusted officers of her court, and even, sometimes, that agile page called Memory, no sooner see their royal mistress depart than, by various doors, they leave the palace and wander far away. Then, silently, with sparkling eyes, and parted lips, comes that fair being, Unthinking Love. She puts one foot upon the lower step of the throne; she looks about her; and, with a quick bound, she seats herself. Upon her tumbled curls she hastily puts the crown; with her small white hand she grasps the sceptre; and then, rising, waves it, and issues her commands. The crowd of emotions which serve as her satellites, seize the great seal from the sleeping Prudence, and the new Queen reigns!

All this now happened to Lawrence. Never before had he looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him; and, leaning over towards this one, he put his arm around her and drew her towards him. "And never shall you be alone," he said.

She looked up at him with tears starting to her eyes, and then she put her head against his breast. She was too happy to say anything, and she did not try.

It was about a minute after this, that the sober sorrel, who took no interest in what had occurred behind him, and a great deal of interest in his stable at home, started in an uncertain and hesitating way; and, finding that he was not checked, began to move onward. Lawrence looked up from the little head upon his breast, and called out, "Whoa!" To this, however, the sorrel paid no attention. Lawrence then put forth his right hand to grasp the reins, but having lately forgotten all about them, they had fallen out of the spring-wagon, and were now dragging upon the ground. It was impossible for him to reach them, and so, seizing the whip, he endeavored with its aid to hook them up. Failing in this, he was about to jump out and run to the horse's head; but, perceiving his intention, Annie seized his arm. "Don't you do it!" she exclaimed. "You'll ruin your ankle!"

Lawrence could not but admit to himself that he was not in condition to execute any feats of agility, and he also felt that Annie had a very charming way of holding fast to his arm, as if she had a right to keep him out of danger. And now the sorrel broke into the jog-trot which was his usual pace. "It is very provoking," said Lawrence, "I don't think I ever allowed myself to drop the reins before."

"It doesn't make the slightest difference," said Annie, comfortingly. "This old horse knows the road perfectly well, and he doesn't need a bit of driving. He will take us home just as safely as if you held the reins, and now don't you try to get them, for you will only hurt yourself."

"Very well," said Lawrence, putting his arm around her again, "I am resigned. But I think you are very brave to sit so quiet and composed, under the circumstances."

She looked at him with a smile. "Such a little circumstance don't count, just now," she said. "You must stop that," she added, presently, "when we get to the edge of the woods."

Before long, they came out into the open country and found themselves in a lane which led by a wide circuit to the road passing Mrs Keswick's house. The old sorrel certainly behaved admirably; he held back when he descended a declivity; he walked over the rough places; and he trotted steadily where the road was smooth.

"It seems like our Fate," said Annie, who now sat up without an arm around her, the protecting woods having been left behind, "he just takes us along without our having anything to do with it."

"He is not much of a horse," said Lawrence, clasping, in an unobservable way, the little hand which lay by his side, "but the Fate is charming."

Fortunately there was no one upon the road to notice the reinless plight in which these two young people found themselves, and they were quite as well satisfied as if they had been doing their own driving. After a little period of thought, Annie turned an earnest face to Lawrence, and she said: "Do you know that I never believed that you were really in love with Roberta March."

Lawrence squeezed her hand, but did not reply. He knew very well that he had loved Roberta March, and he was not going to lie about it.

"I thought so," she continued, "because I did not believe that any one, who was truly in love, would want to send other people about, to propose for him, as you did."

"That is not exactly the state of the case," he said, "but we must not talk of those things now. That is all passed and gone."

"But if there ever was any love," she persisted, "are you sure that it is all gone?"

"Gone," he answered, earnestly, "as utterly and completely as the days of last summer."

And now the sorrel, of his own accord, stopped at Mrs Keswick's outer gate; and Lawrence, getting down, took up the reins, opened the gate, and drove to the house in quite a proper way.

When Mr Croft helped Annie to descend from the spring-wagon, he did not squeeze her hand, nor exchange with her any tender glances, for old Mrs Keswick was standing at the top of the steps. "Have you seen Letty?" she asked.

"Letty?" said Miss Annie. "Oh, yes," she added, as if she suddenly remembered that such a person existed, "Letty was at church, and she was very active."

"Well," said the old lady, "she must have taken more interest in the exercises than you did, for it is long past the time when I told her she must be home."

"I do not believe, madam," said Lawrence, "that any one could have taken more interest in the exercises of this morning, than we have."

At this, Annie could not help giving him a little look which would have provoked reflection in the mind of the old lady, had she not been very earnestly engaged in gazing out into the road, in the hope of seeing Letty.

When Lawrence had gone into the office, and had closed the door behind him, he stood in a meditative mood before the empty fireplace. He was making inquiries of himself in regard to what he had just done. He was not accusing himself, nor indulging in regrets; he was simply investigating the matter. Here he stood, a man accepted by two women. If he had ever heard of any other man in a like condition, he would have called that man a scoundrel, and yet he did not deem himself a scoundrel.

The facts in the case were easy enough to understand. For the first time in his life he had looked into the eyes of a woman who loved him, and he had discovered to his utter surprise that he loved her. There had been no plan; no prudent outlook into her nature and feelings; no cautious insight into his own. He had taken part in a most unpremeditated act of pure and simple love; and that it was real and pure love on each side, he no more doubted than he doubted that he lived. And yet, had he been an impostor when, on that hill over there, he told Roberta March he loved her? No, he had been honest, he had loved her; and, since the time that he had been roused to action by the discovery of Junius Keswick's intentions to renew his suit, it had been a love full of a rare and alluring beauty. But its charm, its fascination, its very existence, had disappeared in the first flash of his knowledge that Annie Peyton loved him. Had his love for Roberta been a perfect one, had he been sure that she returned it, then it could not have been overthrown; but it had gone, and a love, complete and perfect, stood in its place. He had seen that he was loved, and he loved. That was all, but it would stand forever.

This was the state of the case, and now Lawrence set himself to discover if, in all ways, he had acted truly and honestly. He had been accepted by Miss March, but what sort of acceptance was it? Should he, as a man true to himself, accept such an acceptance? What was he to think of a woman who, very angry as he had been informed, had sent him a message, which meant everything in the world to him, if it meant anything, and had then dashed away without allowing him a chance to speak to her, or even giving him a nod of farewell. The last thing she had really said to him in this connection were those cruel words on Pine Top Hill, with which she had asked him to choose a spot in which to be rejected. Could he consider himself engaged? Would a woman who cared for him act towards him in such a manner? After all, was that acceptance anything more than the result of pique? And could he not, quite as justly, accept the rejection which she had professed herself anxious to give him.

A short time before, Lawrence had done his best to explain to his advantage these peculiarities of his status in regard to Miss March. He had said to himself that she had threatened to reject him because she wished to punish him, and he had intended to implore her pardon, and expected to receive it. Over and over again, had he argued with himself in this strain, and yet, in spite of it all, he had not been able to bring himself into a state of mind in which he could sit down and write to her a letter, which, in his estimation, would be certain to seal and complete the engagement. "How very glad I am," he now said to himself, "that I never wrote that letter!" And this was the only decision at which he had arrived, when he heard Mrs Keswick calling to him from the yard.

He immediately went to the door, when the old lady informed him, that as Letty had not come back, and did not appear to be intending to come back, and that as none of the other servants on the place had made their appearance, he might as well come into the house, and try to satisfy his hunger on what cold food she and Mrs Null had managed to collect.

The most biting and spicy condiments of the little meal, to which the three sat down, were supplied by Mrs Keswick, who reviled without stint those utterly thoughtless and heedless colored people, who, once in the midst of their crazy religious exercises, totally forgot that they owed any duty whatever to those who employed them. Lawrence and Annie did not say much, but there was something peculiarly piquant in the way in which Annie brought and poured out the tea she had made, and which, with the exception of the old lady's remarks, was the only warm part of the repast; and there was an element of buoyancy in the manner of Mr Croft, as he took his cup to drink the tea. Although he said little at this meal, he thought a great deal, listening not at all to Mrs Keswick's tirades. "What a charmingly inconsiderate affair this has been!" he said to himself. "Nothing planned, nothing provided for, or against; all spontaneous, and from our very hearts. I never thought to tell her that she must say nothing to her aunt, until we had agreed how everything should, be explained, and I don't believe the idea that it is necessary to say anything to anybody, has entered her mind. But I must keep my eyes away from her if I don't want to bring on a premature explosion."

Whatever might be the result of the reasoning which this young man had to do with himself, it was quite plain that he was abundantly satisfied with things as they were.

It was beginning to be dark, when Letty and Uncle Isham returned and explained why they had been so late in returning.

Old Aunt Patsy had died in church.



CHAPTER XXVI.

"Lawrence," said Annie, on the forenoon of the next day, as they were sitting together in the parlor with the house to themselves, Mrs Keswick having gone to Aunt Patsy's cabin to supervise proceedings there, "Lawrence, don't you feel glad that we did not have a chance to speak to dear old Aunt Patsy about those little shoes? Perhaps she had forgotten that she had stolen them, and so went to heaven without that sin on her soul."

"That is a very comfortable way of looking at it," said Lawrence, "but wouldn't it be better to assume that she did not steal them?"

"I am very sorry," said Annie, "but that is not easy to do. But don't let us think anything more about that. And, don't you feel very glad that the poor old creature, who looked so happy as she sat singing and clapping her hands on her knees, didn't die until after we had left the church? If it had happened while we were there, I don't believe—"

"Don't believe what?" asked Lawrence.

"Well, that you now would be sitting with your arm on the back of my chair."

Lawrence was quite sure, from what had been told him, that Aunt Patsy's demise had taken place before they left the church, but he did not say so to Annie. He merely took his arm from the back of her chair, and placed it around her.

"And do you know," said she, "that Letty told me something, this morning, that is so funny and yet in a certain way so pathetic, that it made me laugh and cry both. She said that Aunt Patsy always thought that you were Mr Null."

At this, Lawrence burst out laughing, but Annie checked him and went on; "And she told Letty in church, when she saw us two come in, that she believed she could die happy now, since she had seen Miss Annie married to such a peart gentleman, and that it looked as if old miss had got over her grudge against him."

"And didn't Letty undeceive her?" asked Lawrence.

"No, she said it would be a pity to upset the mind of such an old woman, and she didn't do it."

"Then the good Aunt Patsy died," said Lawrence, "thinking I was that wretched tramp of a bone-dust pedler, which the fancy of your aunt has conjured up. That explains the interest the venerable colored woman took in me. It is now quite easy to understand; for, if your aunt abused your mythical husband to everybody, as she did to me, I don't wonder Aunt Patsy thought I was in danger."

"Poor old woman," said Annie, looking down at the floor, "I am so glad that we helped her to die happy."

"As she was obliged to anticipate the truth," said Lawrence, "in order to derive any comfort from it, I am glad she did it. But although I am delighted, more than my words can tell you, to take the place of your Mr Null, you must not expect me to have any of his attributes."

"Now just listen to me, sir," said Annie. "I don't want you to say one word against Mr Null. If it had not been for that good Freddy, things would have been very different from what they are now. If you care for me at all, you owe me entirely to Freddy Null."

"Entirely?" asked Lawrence.

"Of course I mean in regard to opportunities of finding out things and saying them. If Aunt Keswick had supposed I was only Annie Peyton, she would not have allowed Mr Croft to interfere with her plans for Junius and me. I expected Mr Null to be of service to me, but no one could have imagined that he would have brought about anything like this."

"Blessed be Null!" exclaimed Lawrence.

Annie asked him to please to be more careful, for how did he know that one of the servants might not be sweeping the front porch, and of course, they would look in at the windows.

"But, my dear child," said Lawrence, pushing back his chair to a prudent distance, "we must seriously consider this Null business. We shall have to inform your aunt of the present state of affairs, and before we do that, we must explain what sort of person Frederick Null, Esquire, really was—I am not willing to admit that he exists, even as a myth."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" exclaimed Annie. "We shall have a dreadful time! When Aunt Keswick knows that there never was any Mr Null, and then hears that you and I are engaged, it will throw her into the most dreadful state of mind that she has ever been in, in her life; and father has told me of some of the awful family earthquakes that Aunt Keswick has brought about, when things went wrong with her."

"We must be very cautious," said Lawrence, "and neither of us must say a word, or do anything that may arouse her suspicions, until we have settled upon the best possible method of making the facts known to her. The case is indeed a complicated one."

"And what makes it more so," said Annie, "is Aunt Keswick's belief that you are in love with Miss March, and that you want to get a chance to propose to her. She does think that, doesn't she?"

"Yes," said Lawrence, "I must admit that she does."

"And she must be made to understand that that is entirely at an end," continued Annie. "All this will be a very difficult task, Lawrence, and I don't see how it is to be done."

"But we shall do it," he answered, "and we must not forget to be very prudent, until it is fully settled how we shall do it."

When Lawrence retired to his room, and sat down to hold that peculiar court in which he was judge, jury, lawyers, and witnesses, as well as the prisoner at the bar, he had to do with a case, a great deal more complicated and difficult than that which perplexed the mind of Miss Annie Peyton. He began by the very unjudicial act of pledging himself, to himself, that nothing should interfere with this new, this true love. In spite of all that might be said, done, or thought, Annie Peyton should be his wife. There was no indecision, whatever, in regard to the new love; the only question was: "What is to be done about the old one?"

Lawrence could not admit, for a moment, that he could have spoken to Roberta March as he had spoken, if he had not loved her; but he could now perceive that that love had been in no small degree impaired and weakened by the manner of its acceptance. The action of Miss March on her last day here had much more chilled his ardor than her words on Pine Top Hill. He had not, before, examined thoroughly into the condition of that ardor after the departure of the lady, but it was plain enough now.

There was, therefore, no doubt whatever in regard to his love for Miss March; he was quite ready and able to lay that aside. But what about her acceptance of it? How could he lay that aside?

This was the real case before the court. The witnesses could give no available testimony, the lawyers argued feebly, the jury disagreed, and Lawrence, in his capacity of judge, dismissed the case. In his efforts to conduct his mind through the channels of law and equity, Lawrence had not satisfied himself, and his thoughts began to be moved by what might be termed his military impulses. "I made a charge into the camp," he said with a little downward drawing of the corners of his mouth, "and I did not capture the commander-in-chief. And now I intend to charge out again."

He sat down to his table, and wrote the following note:

"My Dear Miss March:

"I have been waiting for a good many days, hoping to receive, either from you or Mr Keswick, an explanation of the message you sent to me by him. I now believe that it will be impossible to give a satisfactory explanation of that message. I therefore recur to our last private interview, and wish to say to you that I am ready, at any time, to meet you under either a sycamore or a cherry tree."

And then he signed it, and addressed it to Miss March at Midbranch. This being done, he put on his hat, and stepped out to see if a messenger could be found to carry the letter to its destination, for he did not wish to wait for the semi-weekly mail. Near the house he met Annie.

"What have you been doing all this time?" she asked.

"I have been writing a letter," he said, "and am now looking for some colored boy who will carry it for me."

"Who is it to?" she asked.

"Miss March," was his answer.

"Let me see it," said Annie.

At this, Lawrence looked at her with wide-open eyes, and then he laughed. Never, since he had been a child, had there been any one who would have thought of such a thing as asking to see a private letter which he had written to some one else; and that this young girl should stand up before him with her straightforward expectant gaze and make such a request of him, in the first instance, amused him.

"You don't mean to say," she added, "that you would write anything to Miss March which you would not let me see."

"This letter," said Lawrence, "was written for Miss March, and no one else. It is simply the winding up of that old affair."

"Give it to me," said Annie, "and let me see how you wound it up."

Lawrence smiled, looked at her in silence for a moment, and then handed her the letter.

"I don't want you to think," she said, as she took it, "that I am going to ask you to show me all the letters you write. But when you write one to a lady like Miss March, I want to know what you say to her." And then she read the letter. When she had finished, she turned to Lawrence, and with her countenance full of amazement, exclaimed: "I haven't the least idea in the world what all this means! What message did she send you? And why should you meet her under a tree?"

These questions went so straight to the core of the affair, and were so peculiarly difficult to answer, that Lawrence, for the moment, found himself in the very unusual position of not knowing what to say, but he presently remarked: "Do you think it is of any advantage to either of us to talk over this affair, which is now past and gone?"

"I don't want to talk over any of it," said Annie, very promptly, "except the part of it which is referred to in this letter; but I want to know about that."

"That covers the most important part of it," said Lawrence.

"Very good," she answered, "and so you can tell it to me. And now, that I think of it, you can tell me, at the same time, why you wanted to find my cousin Junius. You refused once to tell me that, you know."

"I remember," said Lawrence. "And if you have the least feeling about it I will relate the whole affair, from beginning to end."

"That, perhaps, will be the best thing to do, after all," said Annie. "And suppose we take a walk over the fields, and then you can tell it without being interrupted."

But Lawrence did not feel that his ankle would allow him to accept this invitation, for it had hurt him a good deal since his walk to Aunt Patsy's cabin. He said so to Annie, and excited in her the deepest feelings of commiseration.

"You must take no more walks of any length," she exclaimed, "until you are quite, quite well! It was my fault that you took that tramp to Aunt Patsy's. I ought to have known better. But then," she said, looking up at him, "you were not under my charge. I shall take very good care of you now."

"For my part," he said, "I am glad I have this little relapse, for now I can stay here longer."

"I am very, very sorry for the relapse," said she, "but awfully glad for the stay. And you mustn't stand another minute. Let us go and sit in the arbor. The sun is shining straight into it, and that will make it all the more comfortable, while you are telling me about those things."

They sat down in the arbor, and Lawrence told Annie the whole history of his affair with Miss March, from the beginning to the end; that is if the end had been reached; although he intimated to her no doubt upon this point. This avowal he had never expected to make. In fact he had never contemplated its possibility. But now he felt a certain satisfaction in telling it. Every item, as it was related, seemed thrown aside forever. "And now then, my dear Annie," he said, when he had finished, "what do you think of all that?"

"Well," she said, "in the first place, I am still more of the opinion than I was before, that you never were really in love with her. You did entirely too much planning, and investigating, and calculating; and when, at last, you did come to the conclusion to propose to her, you did not do it so much of your own accord, as because you found that another man would be likely to get her, if you did not make a pretty quick move yourself. And as to that acceptance, I don't think anything of it at all. I believe she was very angry at Junius because he consented to bring your messages, when he ought to have been his own messenger, and that she gave him that answer just to rack his soul with agony. I don't believe she ever dreamed that he would take it to you. And, to tell the simple truth, I believe, from what I saw of her that morning, that she was thinking very little of you, and a great deal of him. To be sure, she was fiery angry with him, but it is better to be that way with a lover, than to pay no attention to him at all."

This was a view of the case which had never struck Lawrence before, and although it was not very flattering to him, it was very comforting. He felt that it was extremely likely that this young woman had been able to truthfully divine, in a case in which he had failed, the motives of another young woman. Here was a further reason for congratulating himself that he had not written to Miss March.

"And as to the last part of the letter," said Annie, "you are not going under any cherry tree, or sycamore either, to be refused by her. What she said to you was quite enough for a final answer, without any signing or sealing under trees, or anywhere else. I think the best thing that can be done with this precious epistle is to tear it up."

Lawrence was amused by the piquant earnestness of this decision. "But what am I to do," he asked, "I can't let the matter rest in this unfinished and unsatisfactory condition."

"You might write to her," said Annie, "and tell her that you have accepted what she said to you on Pine Top Hill as a conclusive answer, and that you now take back everything you ever said on the subject you talked of that day. And do you think it would be well to put in anything about your being otherwise engaged?"

At this Lawrence laughed. "I think that expression would hardly answer," he said, "but I will write another note, and we shall see how you like it."

"That will be very well," said the happy Annie, "and if I were you I'd make it as gentle as I could. It's of no use to hurt her feelings."

"Oh, I don't want to do that," said Lawrence, "and now that we have the opportunity, let us consider the question of informing your aunt of our engagement."

"Oh dear, dear, dear!" said Annie, "that is a great deal worse than informing Miss March that you don't want to be engaged to her."

"That is true," said Lawrence. "It is not by any means an easy piece of business. But we might as well look it square in the face, and determine what is to be done about it."

"It is simple enough, just as we look at it," said Annie. "All we have to do, is to say that, knowing that Aunt Keswick had written to my father that she was determined to make a match between cousin Junius and me, I was afraid to come down here without putting up some insurmountable obstacle between me and a man that I had not seen since I was a little girl. Of course I would say, very decidedly, that I wouldn't have married him if I hadn't wanted to; but then, considering Aunt Keswick's very open way of carrying out her plans, it would have been very unpleasant, and indeed impossible for me to be in the house with him unless she saw that there was no hope of a marriage between us; and for this reason I took the name of Mrs Null, or Mrs Nothing; and came down here, secure under the protection of a husband who never existed. And then, we could say that you and I were a good deal together, and that, although you had supposed, when you came here, that you were in love with Miss March, you had discovered that this was a mistake, and that afterwards we fell in love with each other, and are now engaged. That would be a straightforward statement of everything, just as it happened; but the great trouble is: How are we going to tell it to Aunt Keswick?"

"You are right," said Lawrence. "How are we going to tell it?"

"It need not be told!" thundered a strong voice close to their ears. And then there was a noise of breaking lattice-work and cracking vines, and through the back part of the arbor came an old woman wearing a purple sun-bonnet, and beating down all obstacles before her with a great purple umbrella. "You needn't tell it!" cried Mrs Keswick, standing in the middle of the arbor, her eyes glistening, her form trembling, and her umbrella quivering in the air. "You needn't tell it! It's told!"

Graphic and vivid descriptions have been written of those furious storms of devastating wind and deluging rain, which suddenly sweep away the beauty of some fair tropical scene; and we have read, too, of dreadful cyclones and tornadoes, which rush, in mad rage, over land and sea, burying great ships in a vast tumult of frenzied waves, or crushing to the earth forests, buildings, everything that may lie in their awful paths; but no description could be written which could give an adequate idea of the storm which now burst upon Lawrence and Annie. The old lady had seen these two standing together in the yard, conversing most earnestly. She had then seen Annie read a letter that Lawrence gave her; and then she had perceived the two, in close converse, enter the arbor, and sit down together without the slightest regard for the rights of Mr Null.

Mrs Keswick looked upon all this as somewhat more out-of-the-way than the usual proceedings of these young people, and there came into her mind a curiosity to know what they were saying to each other. So she immediately repaired to the large garden, and quietly made her way to the back of the arbor, in which advantageous position she heard the whole of Lawrence's story of his love-affair with Miss March; Annie's remarks upon the same, and the facts of this young lady's proposed confession in regard to her marriage with Mr Null, and her engagement to Mr Croft.

Then she burst in upon them; the tornado and the cyclone raged; the thunder rolled and crashed; and the white lightning of her wrath flashed upon the two, as if it would scathe and annihilate them, as they stood before her. Neither of them had ever known or imagined anything like this. It had been long since Mrs Keswick had had an opportunity of exercising that power of vituperative torment, which had driven a husband to the refuge of a reverted pistol; which had banished, for life, relatives and friends; and which, in the shape of a promissory curse, had held apart those who would have been husband and wife; and now, like the long stored up venom of a serpent, it burst out with the direful force given by concentration and retention.

At the first outburst, Annie had turned pale and shrunk back, but now she clung to the side of Lawrence, who, although his face was somewhat blanched and his form trembled a little with excitement, still stood up bravely, and endeavored, but ineffectually, to force upon the old lady's attention a denial of her bitter accusations. With face almost as purple as the bonnet she wore, or the umbrella she shook in the air, the old lady first addressed her niece. With scorn and condemnation she spoke of the deceit which the young girl had practised upon her. But this part of the exercises was soon over. She seemed to think that although nothing could be viler than Annie's conduct towards her, still the fact that Mr Null no longer existed, put Annie again within her grasp and control, and made it unnecessary to say much to her on this occasion. It was upon Lawrence that the main cataract of her fury poured. It would be wrong to say that she could not find words to express her ire towards him. She found plenty of them, and used them all. He had deceived her most abominably; he had come there, the expressed and avowed lover of Miss March; he had connived with her niece in her deceit; he had taken advantage of all the opportunities she gave him to attain the legitimate object of his visit, to inveigle into his snares this silly and absurd young woman; and he had dared to interfere with the plans, which, by day and by night, she had been maturing for years. In vain did Lawrence endeavor to answer or explain. She stopped not, nor listened to one word.

"And you need not imagine," she screamed at him, "that you are going to turn round, when you like, and marry anybody you please. You are engaged, body and soul, to Roberta March, and have no right, by laws of man or heaven, to marry anybody else. If you breathe a word of love to any other woman it makes you a vile criminal in the eyes of the law, and renders you liable to prosecution, sir. Your affianced bride knows nothing of what her double-faced snake of a lover is doing here, but she shall know speedily. That is a matter which I take into my own hands. Out of my way, both of you!"

And with these words she charged by them, and rushed out of the arbor, and into the house.



CHAPTER XXVII.

They were not a happy pair, Lawrence Croft and Annie Peyton, as they stood together in the arbor, after old Mrs Keswick had left them. They were both a good deal shaken by the storm they had passed through.

"Lawrence," said Annie, looking up to him with her large eyes full of earnestness, "there surely is no truth in what she said about your being legally bound to Miss March?"

"None in the least," said Lawrence. "No man, under the circumstances, would consider himself engaged to a woman. At any rate, there is one thing which I wish you to understand, and that is that I am not engaged to Miss March, and that I am engaged to you. No matter what is said or done, you and I belong to each other."

Annie made no answer, but she pressed his hand tightly as she looked up into his face. He kissed her as she stood, notwithstanding his belief that old Mrs Keswick was fully capable of bounding down on him, umbrella in hand, from an upper window.

"What do you think she is going to do?" Annie asked presently.

"My dear Annie," said he, "I do not believe that there is a person on earth who could divine what your Aunt Keswick is going to do. As to that, we must simply wait and see. But, for my part, I know what I must do. I must write a letter to Miss March, and inform her, plainly and definitely, that I have ceased to be a suitor for her hand. I think also that it will be well to let her know that we are engaged?"

"Yes," said Annie, "for she will be sure to hear it now. But she will think it is a very prompt proceeding."

"That's exactly what it was," said Lawrence, smiling, "prompt and determined. There was no doubt or indecision about any part of our affair, was there, little one?"

"Not a bit of it," said Annie, proudly.

At dinner that day Annie took her place at one end of the table, and Lawrence his at the other, but the old lady did not make her appearance. She was so erratic in her goings and comings, and had so often told them they must never wait for her, that Annie cut the ham, and Lawrence carved the fowl, and the meal proceeded without her. But while they were eating Mrs Keswick was heard coming down stairs from her room, the front door was opened and slammed violently, and from the dining-room windows they saw her go down the steps, across the yard, and out of the gate.

"I do hope," ejaculated Annie, "that she has not gone away to stay!"

If Annie had remembered that the boy Plez, in a clean jacket and long white apron, officiated as waiter, she would not have said this, but then she would have lost some information. "Ole miss not gone to stay," he said, with the license of an untrained retainer. "She gone to Howlettses, an' she done tole Aun' Letty she'll be back agin dis ebenin'."

"If Aunt Keswick don't come back," said Annie, when the two were in the parlor after dinner, "I shall go after her. I don't intend to drive her out of the house."

"Don't you trouble yourself about that, my dear," said Lawrence. "She is too angry not to come back."

"There is one thing," said Annie, after a while, "that we really ought to do. To-morrow Aunt Patsy is to be buried, and before she is put into the ground, those little shoes should be returned to Aunt Keswick. It seems to me that justice to poor Aunt Patsy requires that this should be done. Perhaps now she knows how wicked it was to steal them."

"Yes," said Lawrence, "I think it would be well to put them back where they belong; but how can you manage it?"

"If you will give them to me," said Annie, "I will go up to aunt's room, now that she is away, and if she keeps the box in the same place where it used to be, I'll slip them into it. I hate dreadfully to do it, but I really feel that it is a duty."

When Lawrence, with some little difficulty, walked across the yard to get the shoes from his trunk, Annie ran after him, and waited at the office door. "You must not take a step more than necessary," she said, "and so I won't make you come back to the house."

When Lawrence gave her the shoes, and her hand a little squeeze at the same time, he told her that he should sit down immediately and write his letter.

"And I," said Annie, "will go, and see what I can do with these."

With the shoes in her pocket, she went up stairs into her aunt's room, and, after looking around hastily, as if to see that the old lady had not left the ghost of herself in charge, she approached the closet in which the sacred pasteboard box had always been kept. But the closet was locked. Turning away she looked about the room. There was no other place in which there was any probability that the box would be kept. Then she became nervous; she fancied she heard the click of the yard gate; she would not for anything have her aunt catch her in that room; nor would she take the shoes away with her. Hastily placing them upon a table she slipped out, and hurried into her own room.

It was about an hour after this, that Mrs Keswick came rapidly up the steps of the front porch. She had been to Howlett's to carry a letter which she had written to Miss March, and had there made arrangements to have that letter taken to Midbranch very early the next morning. She had wished to find some one who would start immediately, but as there was no moon, and as the messenger would arrive after the family were all in bed, she had been obliged to abandon this more energetic line of action. But the letter would get there soon enough; and if it did not bring down retribution on the head of the man who lodged in her office, and who, she said to herself, had worked himself into her plans, like the rot in a field of potatoes, she would ever after admit that she did not know how to write a letter. All the way home she had conned over her method of action until Mr Brandon, or a letter, should come from Midbranch.

She had already attacked, together, the unprincipled pair who found shelter in her house, and she now determined to come upon them separately, and torment each soul by itself. Annie, of course, would come in for the lesser share of the punishment, for the fact that the wretched and depraved Null was no more, had, in a great measure, mitigated her offence. She was safe, and her aunt intended to hold her fast, and do with her as she would, when the time and Junius came. But upon Lawrence she would have no mercy. When she had delivered him into the hands of Mr Brandon, or those of Roberta's father, or the clutches of the law, she would have nothing more to do with him, but until that time she would make him bewail the day when he deceived and imposed upon her by causing her to believe that he was in love with another when he was, in reality, trying to get possession of her niece. There were a great many things which she had not thought to say to him in the arbor, but she would pour the whole hot mass upon his head that evening.

Stamping up the stairs, and thumping her umbrella upon every step as she went, hot vengeance breathing from between her parted lips, and her eyes flashing with the delight of prospective fury, she entered her room. The light of the afternoon had but just begun to wane, and she had not made three steps into the apartment, before her eyes fell upon a pair of faded, light blue shoes, which stood side by side upon a table. She stopped suddenly, and stood, pale and rigid. Her grasp upon her umbrella loosened, and, unnoticed, it fell upon the floor. Then, her eyes still fixed upon the shoes, she moved slowly sidewise towards the closet. She tried the door, and found it still locked; then she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key, looked at it, and dropped it. With faltering steps she drew near the table, and stood supporting herself by the back of a chair. Any one else would have seen upon that table merely a pair of baby's shoes; but she saw more. She saw the tops of the little socks which she had folded away for the last time so many years before; she saw the first short dress her child had ever worn; it was tied up with pink ribbons at the shoulders, from which hung two white, plump, little arms. There was a little neck, around which was a double string of coral fastened by a small gold clasp. Above this was a face, a baby face, with soft, pale eyes, and its head covered with curls of the lightest yellow, not arranged in artistic negligence, but smooth, even, and regular, as she so often had turned, twisted, and set them. It was indeed her baby girl who had come to her as clear and vivid in every feature, limb, and garment, as were the real shoes upon the table. For many minutes she stood, her eyes fixed upon the little apparition, then, slowly, she sank upon her knees by the chair, her sun-bonnet, which she had not removed, was bowed, so the pale eyes of the little one could not see her face, and from her own eyes came the first tears that that old woman had shed since her baby's clothes had been put away in the box.

* * * * *

Lawrence's letter to Miss March was a definitely expressed document, intended to cover all the ground necessary, and no more; but it could not be said that it was entirely satisfactory to himself. His case, to say the least of it, was a difficult one to defend. He was aware that his course might be looked upon by others as dishonorable, although he assured himself that he had acted justly. It might have been better to wait for a positive declaration from Miss March, that she had not truly accepted him, before engaging himself to another lady. But then, he said to himself, true love never waits for anything. At all events, he could write no better letter than the one he had produced, and he hoped he should have an opportunity to show it to Annie before he sent it.

He need not have troubled himself in this regard, for he and Annie were not disturbed during the rest of that day by the appearance of Mrs Keswick; but after the letter had been duly considered and approved, he found it difficult to obtain a messenger. There was no one on the place who would undertake to walk to Midbranch, and he could not take the liberty of using Mrs Keswick's horse for the trip, so it was found necessary to wait until the morrow, when the letter could be taken to Howlett's, where, if no one could be found to carry it immediately, it would have to be entrusted to the mail which went out the next day. Lawrence, of course, knew nothing of Mrs Keswick's message to Midbranch, or he would have been still more desirous that his letter should be promptly dispatched.

The evening was not a very pleasant one; the lovers did not know at what moment the old lady might descend upon them, and the element of unpleasant expectancy which pervaded the atmosphere of the house was somewhat depressing. They talked a good deal of the probabilities of Mrs Keswick's action. Lawrence expected that she would order him away, although Annie had stoutly maintained that her aunt would have no right to do this, as he was not in a condition to travel. This argument, however, made little impression upon Lawrence, who was not the man to stay in any house where he was not wanted; besides, he knew very well that for any one to stay in Mrs Keswick's house when she did not want him, would be an impossibility. But he did not intend to slip away in any cowardly manner, and leave Annie to bear alone the brunt of the second storm. He felt sure that such a storm was impending, and he was also quite certain that its greatest violence would break upon him. He would stay, therefore, and meet the old lady when she next descended upon them, and, before he went away, he would endeavor to utter some words in defence of himself and Annie.

They separated early, and a good deal of thinking was done by them before they went to sleep.

The next morning they had only each other for company at breakfast, but they had just risen from that meal when they were startled by the entrance of Mrs Keswick. Having expected her appearance during the whole of the time they were eating, they had no reason to be startled by her coming now, but for their subsequent amazement at her appearance and demeanor, they had every reason in the world. Her face was pale and grave, with an air of rigidity about it, which was not common to her, for, in general, she possessed a very mobile countenance. Without speaking a word, she advanced towards Lawrence, and extended her hand to him. He was so much surprised that while he took her hand in his he could only murmur some unintelligible form of morning salutation. Then Mrs Keswick turned to Annie, and shook hands with her. The young girl grew pale, but said not a word, but some tears came into her eyes, although why this happened she could not have explained to herself. Having finished this little performance, the old lady walked to the back window, and looked out into the flower garden, although there was really nothing there to see. Now Annie found voice to ask her aunt if she would not have some breakfast.

"No," said Mrs Keswick, "my breakfast was brought up-stairs to me." And with that she turned and went out of the room. She closed the door behind her, but scarcely had she done so, when she opened it again and looked in. It was quite plain, to the two silent and astonished observers of her actions, that she was engaged in the occupation, very unusual with her, of controlling an excited condition of mind. She looked first at one, and then at the other, and then she said, in a voice which seemed to meet with occasional obstructions in its course: "I have nothing more to say about anything. Do just what you please, only don't talk to me about it." And she closed the door.

"What is the meaning of all this?" said Lawrence, advancing towards Annie. "What has come over her?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Annie, and with this she burst into tears, and cried as she would have scorned to cry, during the terrible storm of the day before.

That morning, Lawrence Croft was a very much puzzled man. What had happened to Mrs Keswick he could not divine, and at times he imagined that her changed demeanor was perhaps nothing but an artful cover to some new and more ruthless attack.

Annie took occasion to be with her aunt a good deal during the morning, but she reported to Lawrence that the old lady had said very little, and that little related entirely to household affairs.

Mrs Keswick ate dinner with them. Her manner was grave, and even stern; but she made a few remarks in regard to the weather and some neighborhood matters; and before the end of the meal both Lawrence and Annie fancied that they could see some little signs of a return to her usual humor, which was pleasant enough when nothing happened to make it otherwise. But expectations of an early return to her ordinary manner of life were fallacious; she did not appear at supper; and she spent the evening in her own room. Lawrence and Annie had thus ample opportunity to discuss this novel and most unexpected state of affairs. They did not understand it, but it could not fail to cheer and encourage them. Only one thing they decided upon, and that was that Lawrence could not go away until he had had an opportunity of fully comprehending the position, in relation to Mrs Keswick, in which he and Annie stood.

About the middle of the evening, as Lawrence was thinking that it was time for him to retire to his room in the little house in the yard, Letty came in with a letter which she said had been brought from Midbranch by a colored man on a horse; the man had said there was no answer, and had gone back to Howlett's, where he belonged.

The letter was for Mr Croft and from Miss March. Very much surprised at receiving such a missive, Lawrence opened the envelope. His letter to Miss March had not yet been sent, for the new state of affairs had not only very much occupied his mind, but it also seemed to render unnecessary any haste in the matter, and he had concluded to mail the letter the next day. This, therefore, was not in answer to anything from him; and why should she have written?

It was with a decidedly uneasy sensation that Lawrence began to read the letter, Annie watching him anxiously as he did so. The letter was a somewhat long one, and the purport of it was as follows: The writer stated that, having received a most extraordinary and astounding epistle from old Mrs Keswick, which had been sent by a special messenger, she had thought it her duty to write immediately on the subject to Mr Croft, and had detained the man that she might send this letter by him. She did not pretend to understand the full purport of what Mrs Keswick had written, but it was evident that the old lady believed that an engagement of marriage existed between herself (Miss March) and Mr Croft. That that gentleman had given such information to Mrs Keswick she could hardly suppose, but, if he had, it must have been in consequence of a message which, very much to her surprise and grief, had been delivered to Mr Croft by Mr Keswick. In order that this message might be understood, Miss March had determined to make a full explanation of her line of conduct towards Mr Croft.

During the latter part of their pleasant intercourse at Midbranch during the past summer, she had reason to believe that Mr Croft's intentions in regard to her were becoming serious, but she had also perceived that his impulses, however earnest they might have been, were controlled by an extraordinary caution and prudence, which, although it sometimes amused her, was not in the least degree complimentary to her. She could not prevent herself from resenting this somewhat peculiar action of Mr Croft, and this resentment grew into a desire, which gradually became a very strong one, that she might have an opportunity of declining a proposal from him. That opportunity came while they were both at Mrs Keswick's, and she had intended that what she said at her last interview with Mr Croft should be considered a definite refusal of his suit, but the interview had terminated before she had stated her mind quite as plainly as she had purposed doing. She had not, however, wished to renew the conversation on the subject, and had concluded to content herself with what she had already said; feeling quite sure that her words had been sufficient to satisfy Mr Croft that it would be useless to make any further proposals.

When, on the eve of her departure from the house, Mr Keswick had brought her Mr Croft's message, she was not only amazed, but indignant; not so much at Mr Croft for sending it, as at Mr Keswick for bringing it. Miss March was not ashamed to confess that she was irritated and incensed to a high degree that a gentleman who had held the position towards her that Mr Keswick had held, should bring her such a message from another man. She was, therefore, seized with a sudden impulse to punish him, and, without in the least expecting that he would carry such an answer, she had given him the one which he had taken to Mr Croft. Having, until the day on which she was writing, heard nothing further on the subject, she had supposed that her expectations had been realized. But on this day the astonishing letter from Mrs Keswick had arrived, and it made her understand that not only had her impulsive answer been delivered, but that Mr Croft had informed other persons that he had been accepted. She wished, therefore, to lose no time in stating to Mr Croft that what she had said to him, with her own lips, was to be received as her final resolve; and that the answer given to Mr Keswick was not intended for Mr Croft's ears.