Sibyl sat with downcast eyes a moment. Then she said in a low voice, "I am sorry, Mr. Leslie; but I have just spent all my spare money upon those pearls."

"The jeweller will take them back; I will arrange it for you, if you wish," said the clergyman, looking at her intently.

The color deepened painfully in Sibyl's cheeks, and the tears came into her eyes, but she did not speak. Aunt Faith saw the struggle, and came to her niece's assistance with her usual kindliness. "You must not expect young ladies to give up their pretty ornaments so easily," she said to Mr. Leslie, trying to shield Sibyl's embarrassment.

"I am not speaking to a young lady; I am speaking to a fellow Christian," said Mr. Leslie, gravely. "Miss Warrington and I have often spoken of the duty of giving. Only last evening we had a very serious conversation on that and kindred subjects. Mrs. Sheldon has said that I do not understand her niece. But I am unwilling to believe myself mistaken. I still think I understand her better even than her own aunt does,—better even than she understands herself."

Still Sibyl did not speak. Aunt Faith looked at her in surprise. Could it be that her worldliness was conquered after all? "Sibyl," she said, gently, "you must decide, dear. Shall Mr. Leslie take back the pearls?"

"No," replied Sibyl, rising and struggling to regain her composure, "I wish the pearls, and there is no justice in asking me to give them up. I shall keep them, and as I have to write to Mrs. Leighton that I will meet her next week as she desired, my time is more than occupied, and I will ask Mr. Leslie to excuse me."

She left the room, taking the pearls with her, and not a word more did Mr. Leslie say in allusion to her. He turned the conversation back to Margaret Brown, discussed the various arrangements for removing the family into the country, and then took his departure.

"I was very sorry about the money, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, after he had gone, standing at the sitting-room window and watching the tall figure disappearing in the distance.

"Sincerity first of all, my dear," replied Aunt Faith.

"How will he get the money, aunt?"

"He is going to apply to Mrs. Chase, I believe. Although she has never attended the chapel-services, he knows her to be generous and kind-hearted."

"Rich, too, Aunt Faith. It is very easy to be generous when one is rich," said Sibyl, with a shade of bitterness in her tone.

"Riches are comparative, Sibyl. Mrs. Chase is rich, but she has very many depending upon her assistance."

"Mr. Leslie had no right to make such a demand of me," said Sibyl, after a pause.

"Perhaps he thought you had given him the right to guide you," said Aunt Faith.

"I have never given him any right," said Sibyl, hastily. "I presume he thinks I am a selfish, hard-hearted creature," she added in another tone.

"He thinks more highly of you than your own aunt did, Sibyl; he said so himself. He believes, or has believed, firmly in the purity of your religious faith and firm principle. I have several times been surprised to see how sure he was of you."

"He asked too much," said Sibyl; "he is too severe with me."

"Not more severe than he is with himself, my dear. He has taken all his little savings for Margaret Brown, and I presume those savings represent comforts, not luxuries like pearls."

"Mr. Leslie should not try me by the same test he uses for himself; I cannot stand it."

"That is where he made his mistake, my dear. He thought you could."

Sibyl colored angrily. "Mr. Leslie is an enthusiast," she said; "he expects people to throw down all their treasures at his feet."

"Not at his feet; at the foot of the cross, dear."

"Aunt Faith, do you really believe people can be happy in such a life?" said Sibyl vehemently.

"Mr. Leslie is happy, my child."

"He is a single man with few cares. I am alluding to married people, burdened with responsibility and anxiety."

"If they are so burdened, my dear, so much the more reason why they should seek help from Him who said 'come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"But in every-day life there are so many petty annoyances, aunt."

"Will they be any the less annoying without His aid, dear?"

"They will be less annoying if people are rich, Aunt Faith."

"Some of the most unhappy women I have ever known, have been rich, Sibyl."

"But I would not be one of those, aunt. I would be rich and happy at the same time."

"If you could, my dear. But wealth brings with it its own troubles; sometimes in the shape of the donor; I trust you would not marry for money?"

"Not for money alone, aunt. But I see no reason why a rich man might not be loved for himself as well as a poor man. It does not follow that because a man is rich he must therefore be selfish or ill-tempered."

"Certainly not, my dear; but we will not discuss it any longer, at present. You are young, and I wish you to understand yourself thoroughly. Take no rash steps, and remember that wealth is as nothing compared to a true heart, and that this world's best treasures are perishable, while religious faith abides with us through life and death into eternity."

In the afternoon Mr. Leslie came again to the old stone house, and inquired for Mrs. Sheldon. "I have come to ask for your horses," he said, as Aunt Faith entered the parlor; I have secured a large carriage that will take all the family, and now, if you will send Jonas down with the horses, we can hope to have Margaret safely established at Mr. Green's before night."

"Certainly, Mr. Leslie. Is there nothing more I can do?"

"Not to-day, thank you. I shall go out with them myself."

"How are the children?"

"Worse, I fear; but I have large faith in country air."

"I shall be anxious to know how they bear the ride."

"I will stop on my way home as I must come back with the carriage," said the young clergyman as he went away.

"Was not that Mr. Leslie?" asked Hugh, coming in from the dining-room a few moments afterward.

"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "he came to see me on business."

"Didn't he ask for Sibyl?" said Hugh.

"No," replied Aunt Faith, with a warning look at her nephew, as Sibyl came in. But Hugh was not to be warned. "Sibyl," he said, "Mr. Leslie has been here and did not ask for you."

"Is that so very surprising?" said his sister coldly; she had regained all her composure and her face was calm and quiet.

"Of course it is surprising," said Hugh bluntly. "He has been in the habit of coming here to see you for months, and, let me tell you, Sibyl, he is one in a thousand; he is a hero, every inch, and I heartily respect and like him."

"I have said nothing to the contrary, Hugh."

"Don't be a hypocrite, Sibyl," said Hugh with brotherly frankness. "I am not good at splitting hairs, but there is no more comparison between Mr. Leslie and Graham Marr, than there is between an eagle and a sickly chicken."

"I have never thought of comparing them, Hugh. I do not like comparisons, and yours is entirely unjust. But even supposing it was correct, I have no taste for standing on a mountain-peak, in the icy air of unknown heights, and gazing at the sun all day as an eagle does," said Sibyl, as she crossed the hall into the parlor. In a few moments the Spring-Song sounded forth from the piano, and under cover of the music, Hugh said to Aunt Faith, "There is nothing wrong between them I hope?"

"There is nothing between them either right or wrong," replied Aunt Faith with a sigh. "Sibyl is not suited to Mr. Leslie."

"Then it is her fault," said Hugh warmly. "There is no doubt in my mind that John Leslie is deeply interested in her, and I should be proud and glad to have him for a brother. He is the truest, most honest man I know."

"That is because he is such a sincere, earnest Christian."

"I know it, aunt. He works hard, and he thoroughly believes in his work. He really thinks there is nothing in the city so vitally important as that little chapel, and those workmen."

"He is right, Hugh. To him there should be nothing so important as their welfare."

"Yes, I suppose so; that is, if I could look at it with his eyes. But it is rare to see practice so consistent with theory in every-day life."

"It is, as you say, rare indeed; but he is a rare man, Hugh."

"He is, truly. That is the reason why I feel Sibyl's manner. Can it be possible that she really prefers Graham Marr?"

"I do not know, Hugh. Graham will be rich some day."

"That is the worst of it, aunt. Who would have thought Sibyl could be so mercenary!"

"Do not judge her harshly, dear. She has none of that impulse which you admire, but her heart has always been true,—at least so far," said Aunt Faith gently. Then, after a pause, she continued in a lower tone, "Hugh, if you like and admire Mr. Leslie so much, why are you not willing to follow his example?"

"What! Become a clergyman, Aunt Faith?"

"Not that, unless you feel an inward call towards the blessed vocation," replied Aunt Faith reverently; "but why do you delay to come forward and make your open profession of faith? Is it honest, is it manly, to hang backward?"

"Oh, Aunt Faith, I am not good enough!" said Hugh quickly.

"Goodness is not required of any of us, Hugh; only repentance, and an earnest endeavor to improve. My dear boy, I never see you come and go, without an aching desire to have you enrolled under His banner, to have you a soldier of the Cross, openly, before all men. Have you thought over our last conversation on this subject?"

"Yes, aunt, many times; but I have such a high idea of a professing Christian. It seems to me that such an one ought to be like Mr. Leslie, working with all his might for the salvation of souls."

"It is not required that all professing Christians should be ministers of the word, Hugh. There are many other spheres of action, and many qualifications, varied according to our varied temperaments and positions. The Bible makes that point very clear. You read it, I hope?"

"Yes; but I always read the same part, the Gospel of St, John. I like it best of all. There are so many beautiful verses in it which are found nowhere else, so much love and warm faith! For instance; 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' And 'I will not leave you comfortless, I will come unto you.' And, 'woman, behold thy son; behold thy mother;' to me one of the most touching incidents in the Gospel. Then there is the story of Lazarus, and the verse 'Jesus wept.' He sorrowed for the mourners, too! Oh, I cannot understand how true Christians can mourn so bitterly for their dead, when they believe that this loving Saviour cares for them."

"It is not always so much for their lost ones as for themselves, Hugh; their own loneliness, their crushed hopes, and perhaps their remorse that in the lifetime of those they mourn they did not do more for their happiness."

"You have lost many dear ones, Aunt Faith," said Hugh thoughtfully.

"Yes; my husband, my parents, and among my intimate friends, all my generation."

"Do you often think of them, aunt?"

"Yes, Hugh, very often. At first with tears and sadness, but gradually with hope, and a certain looking forward instead of backward. At first I kept all my anniversaries sacred, the many days hallowed by associations with my dear ones; but gradually I tried to break up the habit, and now I only think of their heavenly birthdays,—the days when they left the earth,—and even these have come to be pleasant. I have always been fond of autumn. There is something that charms me in the hazy air and colored foliage. It is not sadness,—it is not joy,—but a sweet peace. Then, my dead always seem near to me. If you like, I will give you something I once wrote on the subject, expressing this feeling."

"Do, aunt!" said Hugh, earnestly: for so seldom did Aunt Faith allude to her past life and its sorrows, that all the cousins held it in reverent respect, and although they often spoke of it among themselves, they never broke through the bounds of Aunt Faith's silence. In her own room hung the portrait of her husband, Lester Sheldon, a young man's face, with blue eyes, and thick golden hair, tossed carelessly back from the white forehead, while below, the firm mouth told of decision and self-control beyond his years. Once, when Bessie was a child, she sat looking at this portrait for some time in silence. Then she said, "Aunt Faith, if that is your husband, what makes him so young when you are so old?"

"He died when he was a young man, little Bessie."

"But he won't know you when you go to heaven, I'm afraid," continued the child, looking anxiously at her aunt's gray hair.

"Oh, I shall be young then, too, Bessie. Here is a picture of me when I was eighteen," said Aunt Faith, taking a box from her drawer, and drawing out a miniature. It was one of those lovely, old-fashioned ivory pictures, showing a fresh young face with dimples, and a sunny smile.

"Oh, auntie, that isn't you!" Bessie had exclaimed, and the other children having come into the room, the picture was shown to them also. Since that day they had never seen it, but Hugh retained a vivid remembrance of the picture, and, as Aunt Faith looked through her desk to find the paper, something in her face recalled it to his mind, and there came across him, like a revelation, a vision of what she was at eighteen. Faith Warrington at eighteen! Faith Warrington, who had long been Mrs. Sheldon with her gray hair and pale face. Going up to his room, Hugh seated himself by the window, and opening the paper, read the following lines:—

"Far back within the cycles of the past, A train of centuries rolls, From out whose cloudy borders came the day Of memory for all souls. How long it seems, a thousand years ago! How dark and weary, if we did not know A thousand years are but as yesterday within His sight, Seeing that it is past like one brief watch within the night!

Could they have known, those men of childlike faith, Half ignorant, half sublime, The fitness of the souls' memorial day Falling within the time Of Nature's holy calm, her blest repose,— When all the land with loving fervor glows, And from the naked woods, the empty fields, through the soft haze, Her work well done, her garners full, she offers up her praise.

A stillness fills the consecrated air,— The blustering winds that swept The red and yellow leaves in giddy rounds, By mighty hands are kept In their four corners, while the liquid gold And purple tints over the earth unrolled, And full of mystery and heavenly peace, as though the skies Had opened, and let out the atmosphere of Paradise.

Departed souls! Their memory may come With grief in Spring's soft hours,— With weary, lonely sadness when our hands Are gathering summer flowers,— With wild despair in winter: when the graves Are white with drifted snow, and wildly raves The wind among the stones and monuments, in accents dread, Calling in vain the sculptured names of our beloved dead.

But in this golden dream-time of the year, Our bitter murmurs cease;— We seem to feel the presence of the dead, Their shadowy touch of peace; We seem to see their faces as we gaze Longingly forth into the purple haze, And hear the distant chorus of the happy souls at rest,— And catch the well-known accents of the voice we loved the best."

All Souls' Day, November 2nd.

In the evening, as Aunt Faith was sitting on the piazza with Bessie, Mr. Leslie came up the walk; Sibyl was in the parlor playing soft chords on the piano, but she could hear his words as he spoke. Mr. Leslie's voice was deep, but clear, and his pronunciation perfectly distinct without any apparent effort. He did not obtrude the alphabet unpleasantly upon his hearers; he was not so anxious to show his correct pronunciation of "Been" as to force it to rhyme with "Seen;" he was not so much concerned with "Institute," as to te-u-ute the last syllable into undue importance; neither did he bombard his hearers with the arrogance of rolling rr's. Although his voice was not loud, any one occupying even the last seat in the chapel could not only hear him, but was absolutely invited to listen by the pleasant distinctness of the words.

"I am pleased to be able to tell you that Margaret and the children are safe in the farm-house, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, taking a seat on the piazza. "Poor girl, how glad she was to get there! She sent her grateful thanks to you."

"How did the children bear the ride?" asked Aunt Faith.

"Better than I expected. Indeed, the novelty, and perhaps the pleasant country air, seemed to revive them, and lessen the fever. They even walked about the garden when we arrived there, and began to make bouquets of flowers, but before I left, the reaction had come and they looked very tired."

"You look tired, also, Mr. Leslie," said Aunt Faith; the light from the hall-lamp shone on the young clergyman's face and showed its pale weariness.

"I am tired," he replied, "but a night's rest is all I need." Then he leaned back in his chair and sat talking pleasantly with Bessie and Aunt Faith. "This is a charming old house," he said, "it must have been built a long time ago."

"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "for a western town it is quite venerable. The main portion was built in 1822, and the wings were added as the family increased, without much regard for architectural regularity. The stairs were originally out-doors on the back piazza, but father finally had them enclosed. You may have noticed that the west side has only two windows, and that those are singularly placed. It is amusing to think that so implicit was grandfather's belief in the growth of Westerton, then hardly more than a pioneer village, that he built up that side without any windows so as not to interfere with the blocks of dwellings which he was sure would press up against this house as the town grew into a city. It was only after many years that father was allowed to pierce the thick wall and with great difficulty insert those two windows."

"That is something like my old home, a little village in the interior of New York," said Mr. Leslie. "One old man was so impressed by the growth of the town, that meeting my father he shook him by the hand and exclaimed, 'how it do grow, Judge! Please heaven, we'll make a seaport of it yet!'"

They all laughed at this story. Then Aunt Faith said, "I should like to think that some of the children would occupy this old house after I am gone. But in America, and especially in the Western States that is hardly possible."

"I will live here, if I can, Aunt Faith," said Bessie warmly. "I love every stone in the old house, and every old flower in the old garden."

"Are flowers ever old, Miss Darrell?" said Mr. Leslie, smiling.

"Oh, yes. Flowers grow old-fashioned and out of date just like people. We have a genuine old-fashioned garden here, and all the neighbors laugh at it in comparison with their smooth lawns and choice plants. We have bachelor's-buttons, lady-slippers, tiger-lilies, flower-de-luce, hollyhocks, and pinks, besides bushes of lilac and matrimony; then we have old cedars clipped into shape, and ever so many little paths and garden-beds edged with box. Oh, we are entirely behind the times! But for all that, I love the old garden better than the smoothest trimmed lawn, and I can pick you a bunch of violets which you cannot match in Westerton; real violets, too, not flaring pansies."

"I too am fond of old-fashioned gardens, Miss Darrell," said Mr. Leslie. "My mother had one, not so large as this, but resembling it in general arrangement. I remember we had a little patch of trailing arbutus; it grew wild, and I can distinctly recall its perfume as the snow melted. I have never seen it in the West."

"No, it does not grow here," replied Aunt Faith; "our climate is too warm for it."

"There is a great difference between the climate of the lake country and that of New England," said Mr. Leslie; "there is so little snow here."

"Snow!" exclaimed Bessie. "I scarcely know what snow is; and as for stories of drifts over the fences, and tunnels cut through them, I can scarcely believe anything of the kind. They are as much like legends to me as the fairy tale of little Kay and the Robber Maiden. Once at Featherton Hall the eastern girls were talking about sleigh-riding, and I told them that snow was so scarce in Westerton that when a few snow-flakes actually fell, they were immediately fenced in and guarded by the police, and then the whole population assembled in sleighs, cutters, and pungs, to ride over them in alphabetical order. Of course, as aunt's name began with S, there was not much left of the snow-flakes when our turn came."

"You ridiculous child!" said Aunt Faith, laughing, "how can you invent such exaggerations?"

"Oh, Bessie can invent anything!" said Hugh, coming out from the sitting-room; "if she had charge of even the Patent-Office Reports, she would gild them into veritable romances."

Later in the evening, Graham Marr came up the garden walk. "Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon!" he said; "is Miss Warrington at home?"

"Yes; she is in the parlor," said Aunt Faith. "Will you go in, Mr. Marr?"

"Thank you, yes. I came especially to see her," replied Graham, taking off his straw hat, and passing through the group on the piazza.

"Excuse me, Miss Darrell. Is that you, Hugh? Ah!—Mr. Leslie, I believe. I did not observe you in the darkness. I hope you experienced no ill feeling after your exposure yesterday?"

"None at all, Mr. Marr. And you?"

"I took cold, as I expected; but, so far, my head has given me no severe pain," said Graham, passing on into the parlor.

"Is Mr. Marr subject to pain in his head?" inquired Mr. Leslie, as Graham disappeared.

"Chronic inflammation of the brain, produced by intense study and seething, poetical thoughts," said Hugh, in a dramatic whisper.

Soon afterwards, Mr. Leslie rose to take leave. "I feel very tired, so I will say good-night," he said. "I will let you know the condition of the children some time to-morrow, Mrs. Sheldon."

"Thank you. If it is quite convenient I shall be glad to know," replied Aunt Faith.

Graham Marr stayed until a late hour, so late that Bessie and Hugh had gone upstairs when he took leave, and Sibyl, coming in to the sitting-room, found Aunt Faith alone.

"You look tired, my dear," said the elder lady kindly.

"I am tired, aunt. Graham talked a long time. He had something to tell me. His uncle is dead, and he has come into the fortune."

"Ah!—" said Aunt Faith. She made no other comment, but waited for her niece to speak.

"Graham is going to Saratoga next week," continued Sibyl slowly. "He thinks of removing to New York for a permanent home; he likes city life, you know."

"Yes," said Aunt Faith again; but she said no more.

Sibyl closed the windows, replaced the chairs, and fastened the front-door; then, as she carelessly turned the leaves of a book on the table, she said at last, "Mr. Leslie was here, I believe?"

"Yes: he came to tell me that Margaret Brown and the children were safely established in the farm-house."

"Did he ask for me?" said Sibyl, as she extinguished the hall lamps.

"No, my dear," answered Aunt Faith, and Sibyl went to her room without another word.

Two days came and went, and Mr. Leslie did not appear.

"I say, you people!" said Tom, bursting into the dining-room at tea-time. "Did you know that Mr. Leslie was sick? Dangerously sick, Jim Morse says; not expected to live, I believe."

"Thomas!" said Aunt Faith with unusual severity, "what do you mean? Tell the truth."

"Well, he's sick, any way; and Jim heard his mother say it was a dangerous fever. Hallo, Sibyl! what's the matter? How pale you are!"

"No more pale than the rest of us," interrupted Bessie, with a quick glance at Sibyl; "we all like Mr. Leslie, don't we?"

"Of course we do. He's the best man in the world," said Gem fervently.

"I shall go and see him immediately," said Hugh, rising.

"Oh, Hugh, it is probably the same fever the Brown children have!" said Aunt Faith anxiously. "You must not expose yourself needlessly."

"In this call I consider it necessary, Aunt Faith," said Hugh. "Mr. Leslie has no near relatives, and although he is loved by his congregation, dread of the fever will keep most of them away; besides, they cannot leave their work. He will be left to hired nurses and you know what Westerton nurses are!"

"Go, then, my boy, and may God be with you," said Aunt Faith, with tears in her eyes.

The tea-table was soon deserted. Sibyl went to her room, Tom and Gem took refuge in the back garden with the three dogs to bear them company, but Aunt Faith and Bessie sat on the piazza waiting for Hugh's return.

"After all," said Bessie, "we need not feel so anxious. The report has passed through several mouths; no doubt it is exaggerated."

"I hope so," replied Aunt Faith; "and still I have a strong presentiment that Mr. Leslie is very ill. His face looked strangely worn and pallid as he sat there that last evening, and when fever attacks a man as strong and full of life as he is, the contest is far more severe than with a more feeble patient."

Eight o'clock struck, but still Hugh did not return. A step sounded up the walk in the dusky twilight, but it was not his; Graham Marr appeared, and again asked for Miss Warrington.

"Go and tell Sibyl, my dear," said Aunt Faith to Bessie with an inward sigh. Then, as Bessie went into the house, she said, "Have you heard of Mr. Leslie's illness, Mr. Marr?"

"No," replied Graham, as he stood in the doorway carelessly twirling his hat in his hand; "is he very ill?"

"We do not know; we have heard only a rumor. Hugh has gone to find out the exact truth."

"Ah—yes. If it is fever, no doubt he caught it in that unpleasant locality where his chapel stands," said Graham. "I have often wondered how he could endure the life he leads, but I suppose he is not fastidious. His nature is not so finely wrought, or his nerves so delicately strung as those of some other organizations."

"His nature is strong and manly," replied Aunt Faith, with a shade of indignation in her voice.

"Ah, yes, exactly. A man in his position has need of strength," said Graham loftily. Then, after a pause, "You have heard of my good fortune, Mrs. Sheldon?"

"I have heard that your uncle was dead, Mr. Marr."

"Ah—yes. Poor old gentleman! I never knew him well; we were not at all sympathetic. My grandfather's singular will has now been fulfilled, and the estate, which has rolled up to double its original value, will now be divided between my two Southern cousins and myself."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Marr."

"Thank you. I think I shall not discredit my fortune; I have long endeavored to cultivate the tastes which belong to wealth," said Graham with languid pride.

At this moment Bessie returned. "Sibyl is in the parlor, Mr. Marr," she said; "will you walk in?"

"Thanks, kind messenger," said Graham, bowing gracefully as he passed her; "Hebe could not be fairer!"

"How ridiculous he is, Aunt Faith," she said, as the young man disappeared. "How can Sibyl like him? I do not really think she does like him, but I cannot make her out. When I went to her room she was as pale as a ghost, but while she was smoothing her hair, the color rose, and she began to laugh and talk as gayly as possible. Listen, now; hear her laugh. How can she be so heartless!"

"Do not be too severe, Bessie. I suspect Sibyl is putting a great strain on herself to-night. She has so many good traits," said Aunt Faith with a sigh. "She has so much energy! She only needs to have the right direction given to it and she will accomplish a wonderful amount of good work if her life is spared."

"But that right direction, Aunt Faith; is Graham Marr to give it?" asked Bessie with a tinge of scorn in her voice.

"I do not know, dear. But Sibyl has a true heart at bottom."

"I do believe you are made of charity, aunt. Your name ought to be Faith, Hope, and Charity, instead of Faith alone," said Bessie warmly.

"I have learned one lesson by the experience of a long life," replied Aunt Faith, smiling; "the lesson of patience."

"How else could you have brought up such a troublesome set of nephews and nieces?" exclaimed Bessie. "We must have tried your patience severely, Aunt Faith. But we do love you dearly, every one of us." And the impulsive girl threw her arms around her aunt and kissed her affectionately.

About half-past nine they heard the sound of the gate, and recognized Hugh's step on the gravel walk.

"How is he, Hugh?" said Bessie, before he came in sight.

"He is a very sick man," replied Hugh gravely, as he came up the steps. "The doctors are perplexed, for the case is not like ordinary fever. They think he will either be much better or much worse before morning."

"Oh, Hugh; you do not mean that he is in any danger?"

"Yes; so the doctors say. There is trouble with the brain, threatenings of congestion, I believe. As I said before, he will probably be out of danger before morning, or,—or, gone where he is fully prepared to go," said Hugh with emotion.

"Then I shall go to see him now,—directly," said a strange, muffled voice behind them.

"Sibyl!" exclaimed Aunt Faith.

"Yes, aunt," said Sibyl, stepping forward and speaking in the same muffled voice. "I heard what Hugh said, and I wish to go directly to see Mr. Leslie; you must go with me."

They all looked at her as she stood in the lighted hall; her face was deadly pale, and her eyes had a far-off look as though she saw something terrible in the distance. Behind her was Graham Marr looking perplexed and angry; he did not know what to do or say, and his usual graceful manner had given place to confused irritation. As Sibyl spoke he made an effort to regain his composure.

"Ah!" he said, with studied carelessness, "so Leslie is sick, is he? I must really send a nurse to take care of him. I will do what I can for him, poor fellow!"

"I shall be his nurse," said Sibyl, in the same strange, still voice.

"You are joking, Miss Warrington. Of course you would not expose yourself so foolishly," said Graham angrily.

"I shall be his nurse. I shall go to-night," repeated Sibyl, without changing her attitude.

Graham looked at her a moment as if about to continue the argument, but something in the set expression of her face convinced him of the hopelessness of the attempt. Curbing his annoyance under an appearance of amusement, he smiled and turned to Aunt Faith. "There is no use in combating a young lady, I suppose, Mrs. Sheldon. Really,—I had no idea it was so late. I must go. I will bid you good-night, ladies, and at the same time good-bye, as I shall soon leave Westerton for the summer." Then he turned again to Sibyl; "I shall meet you in Saratoga next week, I trust, Miss Warrington?"

"No," said Sibyl, with the same far-off look in her eyes. "Aunt Faith, are you ready to go with me?"

"Ah!" said Graham lightly; "you ladies change your minds so rapidly that it is difficult to follow you. But it is your privilege, I know, Farewell, then, Miss Warrington. Life is long,—we may meet again."

"Good-bye, Mr. Marr," said Sibyl, hardly noticing his departure.

As the young man disappeared, Aunt Faith spoke; "Are you in earnest, Sibyl? Do you really wish to visit Mr. Leslie to-night?"

"I am in earnest, and I must go, Aunt Faith. Do not try to prevent it."

"But there may be danger for you, dear."

"Hugh has seen him, and am I to be kept back?" cried Sibyl passionately. "I must go! I will go! Aunt Faith, do not desert me now!"

"I am not deserting you, poor child," said Aunt Faith, rising and putting her arms around her niece with motherly affection. "If you wish to see Mr. Leslie to-night, I will go with you. You approve of your sister's wish, Hugh?"

"Yes," said Hugh decidedly. "Sibyl, you are right at last."

They found Mr. Leslie unconscious and breathing heavily; two physicians were in attendance, and a nurse sat by the bedside.

"He does not know me," whispered Sibyl, clinging convulsively to Aunt Faith, as the sufferer opened his eyes and looked blankly at them.

"No, dear, he is unconscious," replied Aunt Faith, herself much moved at the sight of one whom she had so lately seen full of young life, stricken down almost to death.

The doctors were watching their patient closely; they expected a crisis before morning.

"I shall stay," said Sibyl, quietly taking off her hat and sitting down on the sofa.

Aunt Faith spoke a few words of objection, but the mute appeal of Sibyl's eyes silenced her; she said no more, but sitting down by her niece, took her cold hand and held it in both her own. She had felt sorrow herself, and she could feel for others; she knew that in Sibyl's heart the depths were broken up.

Hugh went back to the old stone house and returned about midnight; from that time on, there was silence in the sick-chamber, and anxious eyes watched the unconscious face with painful interest. The night seemed endless; only those who have watched by a sick bed can know how minutes can lengthen themselves! As the gray twilight of dawn came into the room the sick man moved restlessly upon his pillow and moaned. Sibyl's heart throbbed; any change seemed for the better. But one of the physicians after bending over the patient, shook his head gravely.

"Let us pray," said Aunt Faith in a low tone, and, falling upon her knees, she bowed her head in silent prayer. Sibyl knelt beside her, and, after a moment, Hugh too joined them, and throwing his arm around his sister, drew her to his side.

"Oh, Hugh, I cannot bear it!" she murmured; "he will die,—he will never know,—and I—" here her voice was broken by stifled sobs and low moans of anguish, strangely touching in the proud, self-reliant Sibyl.

Hugh held his sister in his arms, and soothed her as one would soothe a child. From that hour Sibyl's coldness left her never to return.

As the first sunbeams brightened the sky, Mr. Leslie again opened his eyes, the doctors bent over him, and it seemed to Aunt Faith as if she could hear all the hearts in the room throbbing aloud in the intense anxiety of the moment.

"The worst is over," whispered Doctor Gregory, stepping back and shaking hands with Aunt Faith; "we shall bring him through, now, I think."

Sibyl sat with her head hidden on Hugh's shoulder; she heard the doctor's words, but a sudden timidity had come over her. "Let us go," she whispered, turning towards the door.

But Hugh had been watching the sick man.

"He is conscious; he knows us!" he said suddenly, and leading his sister forward, he left her at the bedside, pale and trembling with joyful emotion.

"Sibyl," said Mr. Leslie in a faint voice, "is it you? Have you come to me at last, dear?"

"Yes, John," said Sibyl, bending over him with tears in her eyes. "I have brought myself and my life to you,—if you care for them."

"If?" said Mr. Leslie, with the ghost of a smile on his pale face; "as if there was any doubt—" but here the doctors interfered, and the rest of the sentence was postponed.



CHAPTER IX.

THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER

Mr. Leslie improved slowly; when he was able to leave his room most of his days of enforced idleness were spent in the shaded parlor of the old stone house, or riding through the narrow country lanes, sometimes with all the cousins, sometimes with Sibyl alone. A friend had come from the interior of the State to take charge of the chapel during July and August, for the physicians had forbidden any active work during that time; but, although Mr. Vinton preached and attended to the duties of the position, Mr. Leslie retained all his interest in the congregation, and his people felt, that he was with them in spirit, hour by hour, and day by day. They came to him also,—came in greater numbers and with more open affection than ever before; they showed their interest in many different ways,—and the young pastor's heart was filled with joy at these evidences of love from the flock for which he had labored.

"It takes sickness or affliction to bring hidden love and sympathy to the surface," he said, one afternoon, as he sat in the parlor with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Bessie, and Sibyl. "We do not see the rainbow until the storm comes; and so people may live on for years in prosperity, and never know, save by intuition, the deep affection in each other's hearts. But when sorrow strikes them, then love comes to the surface, doubly precious and comforting in the hour of trial."

"But, Mr. Leslie," said Hugh, "would it not be far better for the world if people were taught to express their love and sympathy at other times as well as in the house of affliction and sickness? Is there any reason why we should all go on through life in cold silence, living in the same house with those we love the best, and taking everything 'for granted,' and leaving it 'for granted' also? Why! people may live and die without ever knowing the great joy of expressing how much they love, or of hearing in return how much they are loved, so hard is it to break down these barriers of reserve."

"We are tongue-tied, here, Hugh. We do not know how to speak the language of the heavenly country, and our best efforts are but stammering, half-expressed utterances. It is a great mercy, however, that the touch of sickness, or affliction, seems for the moment to loosen the bonds, and allow us a few sentences of the heavenly love."

"It is indeed," said Aunt Faith. "I remember in the darkest hours of my affliction, people with whom I had but slight acquaintance came to me with tender sympathy, and kind messages were sent from many whom I had always thought cold, and even disagreeable."

"Still," said Hugh, "I think it would be better if people tried to express their love more freely, without waiting until the household is clouded with grief."

"It would certainly be better, but it may not be possible," said Mr. Leslie; the world has gone on in the same old way for many centuries, and I am inclined to think, Hugh, that this free expression of love will only be given to us in another life. It will form one of the blessings of heaven."

"What is heaven?" said Hugh abruptly.

"It is perfect peace," said Aunt Faith.

"It is wonderful new life and hope," said Bessie.

"It is love," said Sibyl.

"It is all this and more," said Mr. Leslie reverently. "Speculations are useless, and our time should be too full of earnest labor to allow us to indulge in them. We should be content to leave it to our Maker, who has made even this world so beautiful, and this life, rightly used, so glorious."

July gave place to August, and the family of cousins, into whose circle Mr. Leslie had been received, lived a happy life in the old stone house. The heat of the dog-days was tempered by the lake breeze. At ten in the morning it came sweeping over the water from Canada, and men walking through the hot streets, felt its gentle coolness on their foreheads, and took off their straw hats with a sigh of relief. In the evening it came again, rustling through the trees with a refreshing sound as though the leaves were reviving from their parched stillness; people came out to meet it, the piazzas and door-steps were crowded, and all the closed blinds were thrown wide open to catch the blessed coolness which promised refreshing sleep.

"You dwellers by the lake-shore know nothing of the real August heat in the lowlands," said Mr. Vinton, one evening as he sat among a group of visitors on the piazza of the old stone house. "Here the lake breeze is invariable, but a hundred miles south, days and nights pass with alternate blazing heat and close, lifeless darkness, the latter even more trying than the former. The country where I live is the richest agricultural land in the State; it is a valley with a broad, slow river rolling through it, the very water dark and sluggish with the fertility of the soil. As long as the grain is growing, there is some vitality in the air in spite of the heat, but when the harvest comes, and field after field is shorn, it seems as though the superfluous richness rose from the earth into the air, and filled it with heavy rankness. The sun shines through a haze in the daytime, and the moon through a mist at night; everybody and everything is languid. One goes to bed oppressed with fatigue, sleeps heavily, and rises without refreshment; there is no fresh morning air, nothing but a weary looking forward to the next twelve hours of heat."

"What a forlorn description!" said Mr. Gay, laughing. "Is this all you can say for the great, rich state of Ohio?"

"It's very richness brings about what I am describing," said Mr. Vinton. "But perhaps some of your eastern farmers would endure the Ohio dog-days for the sake of the miles of level grain-fields without a stone, without a break of any kind, which extend through the midland counties. When I first came West, I was overpowered with homesickness for the hills of New England; the endless plains were hateful to me, and I fairly pined to see a rock, or a narrow, winding road. While in this mood, I happened to be riding in a stage-coach through one of the midland counties in company with two New England farmers. They had never been West before, and they were lost in astonishment and admiration at the sight of the level fields on either side of the broad, straight road, stretching away to the right and the left, unbroken by the slightest elevation. 'This country is worth farming in,' said number one; 'Ethan would admire to see it, but he'd hardly believe it, I guess, without seeing.'

"'Not a stone nor a rock nowhere; none of them plaguey hills neither,' said number two. 'Well, now! this is what I call a be-a-utiful country! Western farmers must have an easy life of it.' You can imagine with what feelings I listened to these men. There I was, longing for the sight of a hill with the longing of a homesick child for its mother."

"I am afraid you are prejudiced, George," said Mr. Leslie, with a smile. "You dwell upon the heat of August in Ohio, but you say nothing about the other eleven months of the year."

"The other eleven months are beautiful, I must acknowledge," replied Mr. Vinton. "As soon as the frosts come, nothing can surpass the climate; colored October, hazy November, and bright, open December are all perfect. Any New Englander,—even you, Mr. Gay,—would be obliged to yield the palm to the West in respect of winter climate."

"No sir," replied the Boston bachelor emphatically; "I would yield no palm under any circumstances. I even prefer a Boston east wind to the mildest western zephyr."

"Oh, you are prejudiced!" said Bessie, laughing.

"Of course I am, Miss Darrell. It is a characteristic of Massachusetts Bay. We do not deny it,—on the contrary we are rather proud of it."

Thus, in many conversations, the dog-days passed along.

"It seems to me we do nothing but talk," said Bessie, after a long evening on the piazza with several visitors.

"The dog-days were intended for conversation," said Hugh. "Our hands and our brains are busily employed all the rest of the year, but when the thermometer gets up into the nineties, the tongue talks its share and gives the other members a rest."

"I hope you don't mean to insinuate that our brains are not employed in our conversation," said Bessie.

"Not much brain in dog-day conversation," said Hugh, laughing. "I know that I have been talking nonsense this evening, and from what I have overheard, I suspect the others have not done much better."

"Oh, you slanderer!" cried Bessie.

"But nonsense is appropriate to the season, Queen Bess. We don't eat much solid food now; then how can we hear much solid talk! Aunt Faith's 'trifle' is the chief of our diet, and the result is, naturally, trifling conversation."

August was a happy month to Aunt Faith. She rejoiced in Sibyl's happiness, and she rejoiced in the triumph of unselfish love and Christian humility over the worldliness and ambition which had sullied her niece's good qualities. Sibyl was not impulsive; it was not an impulse which had led her to renounce a life of fashionable gayety and wealth for Mr. Leslie. It was a sudden realization of the truth, a sudden conviction of the strength of her own feelings, a sudden horror of the wickedness of falsifying them, and a sudden appreciation of the hollowness of worldly ambition when brought face to face with death. There was no hesitating vacillation in Sibyl's character. She had been self-deceived, but, as soon as she felt the truth, she threw aside errors with all her might, and gave herself up boldly, wholly and heartily to her new life. Aunt Faith understood her niece thoroughly, and she knew there would be no danger of a relapse into the mistakes of the past; other faults, other temptations would assail her, but these were harmless. Having once seen and realized the falsity of worldliness when compared with religion, the worthlessness of mere money, when compared with true affection, Sibyl could never forget the lesson, for firm reason and resolve were parts of her nature.

Aunt Faith saw, also, that Sibyl was very happy. She was calm as usual, but there was a new light in her eyes, and a new glow on her cheeks. She found a new pleasure in instructing the children of the Chapel Sunday School, and her scholars loved her dearly; she went about among the poor, and devoted much of her time and means to their service. She assisted in the household work; not the light graceful labors which generally fall to the daughters, but the real burden of the day, lifting it from Aunt Faith's patient shoulders with cordial good will; and in all she did there was a new charm,—the charm of a rare humility, the most difficult of all Christian graces to a proud, self-reliant spirit.

One afternoon, towards the end of August, Aunt Faith found Sibyl resting on the lounge in the sitting-room. The house was still, the children were in the garden, and Bessie and Hugh had gone up to the studio; Sibyl had been out visiting the sick all the morning, and, wearied with the walk, she had thrown herself down on the lounge for a rest before tea-time.

"Do I disturb you, dear?" said Aunt Faith, as she entered.

"Oh, no, aunt. I am not sleeping, only resting."

"I fear you are doing too much, Sibyl."

"I think not, aunt. I know how much I can bear, and I would not be so foolish as to overwork myself. It would be a poor preparation for the life to which I look forward with so much hope."

"It will be a pleasant life, I hope, my dear child."

"Oh aunt! pleasant seems too cold a word to express it! I never knew what life was before; I was blind and deaf to real beauty and real happiness. I thought of nothing but money, ease and social fame. I shudder to think how near I came to bartering my life for what I supposed would give me the most happiness; whereas, now I know how great would have been my misery, and how surely and quickly I should have discovered it. I was entirely blinded, but now I see plainly; it is as though a great ray of light had come into my heart to show me life as it really is, and myself as I really am."

"God be thanked for this—mercy, my child."

"I thank Him daily and hourly, Aunt Faith. It was a narrow escape, and no one can appreciate how great was the danger but myself. If I had gone astray I might, indeed, have come back to Him at last, but through what trials, what bitter suffering! Now, I feel that my feet are upon a firm rock, and although trouble and temptation will of course come to me, I know that if I cry for help, it will not be refused." Sibyl's face glowed as she spoke, and Aunt Faith offered up a silent thanksgiving that one of her little band had found the safe abiding place, that one of the souls given into her charge had entered the only safe pathway in the many roads leading across this troubled earth.

"How is Margaret Brown to-day, Sibyl?" she asked, after a pause.

"Much better, aunt. I sat with her for an hour or two, and she asked me to read to her."

"The children are well now, I believe?"

"Yes; we are going to keep them in the country until cold weather; Margaret must not be allowed to work at present."

"Mr. Leslie has not asked for the remainder of the sum I promised to give him," said Aunt Faith; "I suppose Mrs. Chase must have given more than he expected."

Sibyl blushed deeply. "No, aunt," she said in a low tone, "I gave him my pearls as a thank-offering, perhaps I ought to say a sin-offering."

Aunt Faith bent over and kissed the suffused cheek; then the two had a long conversation about the future, and gradually and surely a more joyous tone crept into their words, as is apt to be the case when the talkers hear in the distance the sound of future wedding-bells. The marriage was to take place before December, and Mr. Leslie had already selected the little house which was to be their home; Aunt Faith, with true housewifely interest, was already making plans for the furniture and stores of fair linen, which her old-fashioned ideas deemed a necessary part of the household outfit, and even Bessie had set her unskilful fingers to the work of manufacturing various little ornaments to brighten the simple rooms. But her chief present was to be a picture representing the piazza of the old stone house with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Tom, and herself sitting or standing in their accustomed attitudes, while Sibyl going down the garden-walk with Mr. Leslie, turned her head for a farewell smile, and Gem threw a bunch of roses after her. Bessie prided herself upon this picture; the likenesses were all completed save Hugh's, for the first object was to finish his portrait before he went East, and from that she could fill in the other face at her leisure.

"You are all so kind to me, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, as the long conversation came to a close; "I am so happy in your love, and so happy in the future opening before me; it is almost too much happiness."

Aunt Faith possessed a fund of native humor which neither age nor care had been able to subdue. As her niece rose to go to her room, she said with a merry glance, "By the way, Sibyl, how about the smell of the flannels from the kitchen on washing-days?"

"I will have them washed at the extreme end of the back garden," replied Sibyl, echoing Aunt Faith's laugh, as she escaped from the room.

The thirty-first of August came,—Hugh's last day at home. His departure was hastened by his wish to return to Sibyl's wedding; he hoped to get initiated into the duties of his new position, conquer the first difficulties, and gain a few days of leisure for a short visit home before the busy winter season commenced. Mr. Hastings, the second-cousin who had offered Hugh a place in his counting-room, was a New York merchant, a stern, practical man, who expected full measure of work from all his subordinates. Yet, with all his rigor, he had a kind heart in his breast, and was inclined to treat his young relative with favor: he had seen him but once, when, during school-life, Hugh had spent a vacation at his house; but the old man had been more pleased than he would acknowledge, with the boy's overflowing spirits and bright intellect. He had no sons; his daughters were married, and the next year he had written to Aunt Faith proposing to take Hugh into his business on the completion of his education, promising, if the young man stood the test well, that he would give him a small share of the profits after a certain period, and intimating that there would be no bar to his becoming a partner eventually, if he showed the proper qualifications. The business men among Aunt Faith's acquaintances told her that this was a fine opening for Hugh, that the house of J. B. Hastings & Co. stood well in New York, and that they would gladly accept such an opportunity for their sons. Hugh himself was pleased with the idea, and, when it was finally decided that he should go, he wrote a letter full of enthusiastic thanks and hopes to Mr. Hastings, and finished his remaining two years at college with many pleasant visions of his future life floating in his brain.

"'Tis the last day of summer, left blooming alone," chanted Tom, as he entered the dining-room where the rest of the family were at breakfast. "To-morrow Hugh will be gone,—to-morrow Estella Camilla Wales must pine in vain for her mistress, who will be engrossed in decimal fractions, and to-morrow I must take down from the dusty shelf that dismal old Latin Prose. I wonder who cares for Romulus and Remus? I don't!"

"Don't talk about it beforehand," said Gem; "let's pretend it's the very first day of vacation."

"Oh, what dismal faces!" said Aunt Faith, laughing. "School is not such a trial after all. I should be sorry to hear you spell deficiency, 'd-e-f-i-s-h-u-n-s-y,' as Annie Chase did, Gem."

"Or to say, 'il est la plus mauvais garcon que je sais de,' as Jennie Fish did," added Gem, laughing at the remembrance.

"Or like Ed. Willis in the Bible class, last term," said Tom. "Mr. Stone was talking about the Jews and Gentiles. 'I'm not a Gentile,' said Ed. getting real mad; 'I'm a Presbyterian.'"

Everybody laughed at this story, and Aunt Faith said "You are as liable to make mistakes as the rest, children, so do not complain about your lessons, but rather try to make them a pleasure. School-days will be soon over," and she looked at Hugh with a half sigh.

"Come along, Gem," said Tom, when he had finished his breakfast. "Let's have all the fun we can to-day; let's crowd it in, and pack it down tight. We'll get all the B. B.'s and have a regular training day in the back yard."

The children vanished, and their merry voices came back through the open windows where the others still sat at the table.

"The boat leaves at seven," said Hugh, pushing away his plate, and leaning back in his chair. "I am something like Tom; I feel like 'crowding' my last day with pleasant things, and 'packing them in tight.' I hardly know where to begin."

"I will tell you; begin with the morning and give it to me in the studio," said Bessie.

"Oh no," said Sibyl; "Hugh is going to finish that bracket for me."

"Hugh will not go away without keeping his promise to me; there is some unfinished reading for him in my room," said Aunt Faith with a smile.

"My face, my hands, and my tongue are all in demand, it seems," said Hugh, laughing. "We never know how much we are valued until it is too late to fix our price, as the Irishman said, when he lost both arms and could no longer saw wood for his family. I cannot subdivide myself, so I had better subdivide the time."

"Well then, Hugh, I spoke first. Walk right upstairs," said Bessie, leading the way.

"Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," sang Hugh, as he followed her. "I go, Bessie, from sheer compassion for my nose; you have made it Grecian, and I am sure it is Roman!"

"How gay they seem," said Sibyl, as they disappeared, "and yet Bessie will miss Hugh sadly. They have been devoted companions since childhood, and through our school-days Bessie was always looking forward to vacation, and spending her spare time in writing letters to Hugh. They have, of course, been parted for months together, but this parting is different. Hugh will be back again soon, and he may make us many visits, but still his home will now be in New York, and, absorbed in his new duties, and in the new interests and attractions of a great city, he will no longer be the same."

"Yes; I too feel this, Sibyl," said Aunt Faith; "I feel it very deeply. My child, my little boy, will go from me forever, when I say good-bye to Hugh to-night. The young man, the kind nephew, the successful merchant may all come back at different times, but the little boy, never! Hugh is very dear to me. It is hard to let him go. God grant that in the dangers of his new life, he may be preserved. We can only pray for him, Sibyl."

Two tears rolled down Aunt Faith's cheeks, but she hastily wiped them away as Sibyl kissed her affectionately. "Dear Aunt Faith," she said, "do not be down-hearted. Hugh has the seeds in his heart planted by your faithful hand, and although they have not blossomed yet, I feel sure they are growing."

"Yes, dear; I cannot help feeling as you do," replied Aunt Faith, trying to smile. But her heart was heavy.

Upstairs in the studio Bessie was painting rapidly, while Hugh in the old arm-chair sat gazing out through the open window, much as he had done on that bright June morning three months before, when Bessie had confessed the secret of the unpaid bill.

"How does the picture progress, Queen Bess?" he asked.

"Very well, excepting the eyes; I cannot get the right expression, I have tried over and over again. They are never the same two minutes at a time; I almost wish they were made of glass," said Bessie impatiently.

"Then I would be the bully boy with a glass eye," said Hugh, laughing.

"And a wax nose," said Bessie.

"And a tin ear," continued Hugh.

"And a cork leg," added Bessie.

"And a brass arm, finis," said Hugh; "the weather is too warm for further studies in anatomy."

"What does it all mean, anyway, Hugh? I have heard Tom and his friends say the whole string over and over again with the greatest apparent satisfaction; but to me they convey not a shadow of an idea."

"Nor to any one else, I imagine," said Hugh. "If the phrases ever had any meaning, it has long ago vanished into obscurity. I have seen explanations given of many popular terms but never of these. After I am gone, though, Bessie, you had better give up slang. It is all very well with me, and to tell the truth, I have taught you all you know, but it would not do with any one else."

"Just as though I should ever speak a word of it to any one else," said Bessie indignantly. "With you, it is different; you are like another myself."

"Alter ego," said Hugh.

"I don't know anything about alter ego, but I know I shall miss you dreadfully," said Bessie, throwing down her brush as the thought of Hugh's departure came into her mind with vivid distinctness.

"I shall be back again in November, Bessie."

"Yes; but only for a day or two."

"Perhaps I shall come home in the spring, also."

"But it won't be the same. You will change,—I know you will," murmured Bessie, with a half sob.

"I shall not change towards any of you here at home, but of course I shall grow older, and I hope I shall improve. You remember all I told you about my plans for the future?"

"Yes, Hugh. But it is such a long way off."

"It does not seem long to me, Bessie; I have so much to accomplish that the time will be short. I love to look forward,—I love to think of all I shall do, of all the beautiful things I shall buy,—of all the unfortunate people I shall help. I shall succeed,—I know I shall succeed, because I shall work with all my might and main,—and also because I shall try to do so much good with my money."

"Yes; but all this time where shall we be? Where shall I be?" said Bessie, sadly.

"You shall come down to visit me with Aunt Faith: you have only one more year of school-life, and then you can spend a part of every winter in New York."

"That will be nice," said Bessie, slowly, taking up her brush again; but, child-like, the present seemed more to her than the future. Hugh was silent, gazing out through the window 'over the summer landscape,—the pasture, the grove, and the distant lake. "Aunt Faith will miss you," said Bessie, after a pause.

"Dear Aunt Faith," replied Hugh, "she does not know how much I love her! She will miss me, but I shall miss her still more. All my life she has been my guardian angel. And to think how I have deceived her!"

"Oh, Hugh, such little things!"

"The principle is the same. I think, before I go, I will tell her all,—all the numerous escapades we have been engaged in; then I shall have a clear conscience to start with. After I am gone, Bessie, you will not be tempted to transgress in that way, and who knows but that we shall turn out quite well-behaved people in our old age."

"I have tempted you, not you me, Hugh."

"Call it even, then. Why! what are you crying about, Brownie?"

"You are going away,—you are going away!" was all that Bessie could say.

Hugh's eyes softened as he saw his cousin's grief. "Don't cry, dear," he said gently. "We shall not be parted long. And while we are parted, I want to think that you are happy, that you, too, are trying to improve as I am trying. I want to think that my little Bessie is growing into a stately, beautiful Elizabeth. You are part of my future, dear, and you can help me to succeed."

"How, Hugh?" said Bessie, wiping away her tears.

"By being happy, trying to improve yourself, and writing me all you are doing. Such letters will be very pleasant to me when I am working hard in the great city. We have never, either of us, taken a serious view of life, but for once, to-day, I feel very serious, Bessie; I am going to try to be good,—I am going to try to be a good man. And I want you to try and be good too."

"I will try, Hugh," whispered Bessie, affected by his serious tone.

"That is right. And now let us have no more sadness to spoil my last day at home. Whatever the future may bring to me,—and I have full confidence in the future, you know,—all of you here at home will have the first place in my heart. I have a great many plans, and all of them are bright; I have a great many hopes, and all of them are certain; life seems very beautiful to me, and I thank my Creator for my health and strength. I ask nothing better than what lies before me, and I am willing to take the labor for the pleasures it will bring."

Hugh paused, and an expression of glowing hope lit up his face and shone in his blue eyes. Bessie seized her brush, and, filled with a sudden inspiration, worked intently at her portrait for some time in silence.

"There is the first dinner-bell, Queen Bess," said Hugh; "I have idled away the whole morning up here. Good-bye, little studio," he continued, rising as he spoke; "I hope one day to see you altered into a beautiful, luxurious abode of art, filled with striking pictures, the work of America's greatest artist, Elizabeth Darrell!"

"If I should paint the best pictures in the world, you would not allow my name to be connected with them in public, Hugh. You are so prejudiced."

"Prejudiced, is it? Well, perhaps it is. I own I do not think that types adorn a woman's name. A woman ought not to appear 'in the papers' but twice; when she marries, and when she dies."

"So if she don't marry, she never has a chance of being anybody until she is dead; I don't call that fair, Hugh."

"Surely, Elizabeth Darrell, you are not shrieking for suffrage!"

"Never!" said Bessie, "I'm only shrieking for my name."

"What's in a name!" replied Hugh, laughing. "Paint away, little artist; I will buy all your pictures, and pay you so well for them that you won't care for fame. By the way, am I not to ———

[Transcriber's Note: There is some dialogue missing here, although there are no pages missing in the images.]

"No," replied Bessie, moving the easel; "but I've got your eyes at last!"

"I'm glad of that; good-bye, Brownie," and Hugh ran off down the stairs to prepare for dinner.

"And my bracket!" said Sibyl, as he came into the dining-room.

"And my poems!" added Aunt Faith, with a smile.

"All in good time, ladies," replied Hugh. "The first hour after dinner is to be devoted to packing; the second, to Sibyl and her bracket; the third, to Aunt Faith and her book; the fourth I give to the family as a collective whole, and all the rest of the time I reserve for tea, general farewells, and embarkation."

"Highly systematic! You are practicing business habits already, I see," said Sibyl.

"The B. B.'s are all coming to see you off, Hugh," said Tom.

"What an honor! I am overwhelmed with the attention of the band! What time may I expect them?"

"A little after six. They are going to form on both sides of the front walk, and hurrah like troopers."

"Oh Hugh, I am real sorry you are going," said Gem suddenly, dropping her knife and fork as though the idea had only just become a reality to her. "I shall hate to see your empty chair in the morning when I come down to breakfast; I know I shall."

There was an ominous tremor in Gem's voice as she spoke.

"Come, little girl, no tears," said Hugh, bending to kiss his little cousin; "everybody must be cheerful or I shall not like it. And as for the chair, take it out of the room if you like, but be sure and bring it back in November when I come home again."

"I'll keep it in my room, and bring it down myself the day you come home," said Gem eagerly.

A little after three, Hugh tapped at Sibyl's door. "Is it you, brother? Come in," said Sibyl, and entering, Hugh sat down by the table and began to work on the half-finished bracket. They talked on many subjects, but principally on Hugh's New York life, and his plans for the future; then gradually they spoke of November, and the approaching wedding-day. "Before I go, Sibyl, I want to tell you in so many words how pleased I am to give you into Mr. Leslie's care. If I could have chosen from all the world, I know no one to whom I would more willingly have given my only sister; no one so welcome as a brother-in-law."

"How glad I am that you feel so, Hugh," said Sibyl warmly.

"And you yourself Sibyl; you have improved so much. It is not often that brothers and sisters express the affection they feel for each other, but you know I do not believe in such reserve, and I want you to know, dear, how thoroughly I appreciate the change in you. Leaving you, as I must, it is very pleasant to think that my one sister is growing into a noble good woman, such as our mother would have wished to have her."

Sibyl threw her arms around Hugh's neck; she was much moved. In her new life and new love, her brother had become doubly dear to her, and perhaps for the first time, she realized how much she loved him.

"No tears, I hope, sister," said Hugh, gently raising her head. "This is my 'good-bye' to you, dear. You know I do not like formal leave-taking. Here is your little bracket all done, but I shall bring you a better present from New York, a set of wedding pearls. You will have to wear them if I give them to you, although you are a clergyman's wife."

Aunt Faith was sitting by the window in her room when she heard her nephew's step outside. "Come in!" she said; and when he entered she pointed to a chair next her own. "My dear boy, I cannot realize that you are going to leave me."

"Only for a few weeks, Aunt Faith; I shall be back in November."

"Not to stay, dear. No, I feel that this is our first real separation, although for years you have been absent at school and college many months at a time. You are the first to leave the old stone house,—the first bird to fly away from the nest."

"I am the oldest, aunt, and therefore naturally the first to go."

"That is true, but the old bird feels none the less sad."

"You must not feel sad, Aunt Faith; the future looks very bright to me. Let me tell you all my plans." Sitting there in the quiet room, the young spirit full of hope, told to the old spirit full of resignation, all its bright dreams and plans.

"I hope they will all come true, dear," said Aunt Faith, after they had talked long on these subjects.

"I hope,—I think they will, if human energy can bring it about. But now, aunt, to look back on the past, I want to make a confession to you, I want you to hear and forgive me before I go."

Then Hugh told of all the secret horseback rides, and many other wild adventures of past years, in which he and Bessie had each borne a part. "It has been all my fault, Aunt Faith," he said, as he concluded. "I was the elder and the stronger, and I led Bessie on. Without me she would have done none of those things. Poor little Bessie! she is very dear to me. You will be kind to her when I am gone?"

"I will, Hugh. I, too, am very fond of Bessie. But do not take all the blame upon yourself; she is by nature rash and way ward."

"I know she is, aunt. But, at the same time, if it had not been for my influence, Bessie would have been a very different girl; if she had thought that I disapproved of any of her actions that would have been the last of them, whereas instead of this, I have encouraged her. Whatever the blame may be I take it all upon myself. But Bessie is changing, I think; you will have no trouble with her hereafter, she will grow into a noble woman yet. And now, aunt, I will leave no work undone, but finish that volume, if you wish it."

So saying, Hugh took up the book which Aunt Faith had placed ready for him, and began reading aloud; he read well, and it was one of her greatest pleasures to listen to him. She often kept volumes by her side for weeks with the pages uncut, waiting until he could find time to read them aloud. "And now I will say good-bye!" said Hugh, as he finished the little book; "you know I dislike formal leave-takings in the presence of all the family."

"Good-bye, my dear boy!" said Aunt Faith, with a motherly embrace. "May God bless you and keep you in all your ways, in danger, sickness, temptation and perplexity, for the sake of His dear Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Oh, Hugh, can you not gladden my heart by saying those two sentences before you go,—you know what I mean?"

"I will try to say them soon, aunt. I feel that I have changed lately, but I want to know that it is not the mere excitement of parting and anticipation of a new life which has affected me. I am going to try hard to be a good man,—indeed I am; and if I find that these new feelings outlast my present excitement, I will write you word. Sometimes I almost feel as though I could make my public profession of faith now; but the next two months will show me the exact truth, and perhaps, Aunt Faith, the time of Sibyl's wedding will also be the time when I shall come forward to join the church."

"God be thanked," said Aunt Faith, fervently; "the feelings will last, Hugh, for they are holy and true. Go, my boy; I give you up freely now, for you are virtually enrolled in the army of the Lord, and He will aid you in all times of trial if you call upon Him."

A little before six all the family, together with Mr. Leslie, assembled in the sitting-room; there was an undercurrent of sadness in their minds, but Hugh would allow no melancholy words or looks.

"First we will have tea, then Bessie shall play 'Bonnie Dundee' for us, then we will all make a triumphal arch of flowers through which I shall pass, in token of the grand success which awaits me in the mercantile world, and then I shall go. No one must accompany me to the boat; I want to see you all on the piazza as the carriage drives away, and if there is so much as one tear-drop, I shall know it and be ready to inflict condign punishment therefor," said Hugh, laying down the law with a magisterial air.

Tea was soon over, and then Bessie with trembling fingers managed, with severe self-control, to play 'Bonnie Dundee' to the end without a tear. Another note, however, she could not play, but replaced the cover of her harp in silence. Then Tom and Gem brought in from the garden all the flowers they could find, and a long wreath was made and twined around and over the two pillars of the front piazza.

"There comes the carriage!" said Tom, "and there come the B. B.'s, too. Here, boys, form on both sides of the walk; Hugh's going in a minute."

The trunk was carried out, and Hugh took up his coat and valise. "Now I want you all to come out on the piazza," he said. "Aunt Faith, here is your chair. Gem, you stand by Aunt Faith's side: Sibyl and John, please stand opposite to them; and Tom,—where is Tom?"

"Here I am!" answered Tom from the back of the house; "I'm getting the dogs together for the group."

"That's right, the dogs by all means, for they are an important part of the family," said Hugh, laughing. "Sit over that side, Tom, and keep them by you. Bessie, I want you to stand in the centre just under the arch; there, that is perfect. I shall turn round and look at you all when I reach the gate." So saying, Hugh bent down and kissed Bessie's pale cheek, and then passing under the arch, walked rapidly down the long garden-walk. The B. B.'s in martial array on either side, gave him three cheers as he passed, and when he reached the gate he turned and looked back with a smile, waving his hat in token of farewell. In another moment he was gone, then the carriage rolled down the street out of sight, and Aunt Faith, rising, said solemnly, "May God bless our dear Hugh, now and forever."

"Amen," said Mr. Leslie.

Bessie had disappeared.



CHAPTER X.

THE HOME-COMING.

"A forlorn, gloomy day," said Bessie at the breakfast-table the next morning, "and I'm glad of it!"

"I don't know that I care," said Tom. "When a fellow has got to go to school, it don't make much difference."

"It must have rained very hard in the night," said Sibyl, looking out into the garden where the vine-leaves were strewed all over the ground.

"It rained, but there was not much wind," replied Aunt Faith; "I was awake part of the night and listened to the storm. There was not wind enough to make any sea, and Hugh is probably in B——— by this time."

"What a jolly ride he will have on the cars to-day, whirling through the country and getting nearer to New York every mile, while I am digging away at these old books," said Tom discontentedly.

"Hurry, children!" said Aunt Faith, looking at the clock; "you must not be late the very first day of school."

"Here comes Mr. Leslie!" called out Tom, slinging his books over his shoulder.

"John is very early this morning," said Sibyl, going out to meet him as he came up the walk.

"That is the way it will be all the time now, I suppose," said Bessie with some irritation; "Hugh gone, and Sibyl so absorbed that she is good for nothing as a companion. Aunt Faith, you and I are like the last roses of summer left blooming alone."

Aunt Faith smiled. She was very gentle with Bessie this morning; she remembered her promise to Hugh, and she saw also that the young girl was suffering under her share of the sorrow of parting, a sorrow always heavier for the one that stays than for the one who goes.

"I shall go upstairs and paint," said Bessie after a pause; "I succeeded at last in giving the right expression to Hugh's eyes. You may see the picture, now, Aunt Faith; it is so like him."

At this moment Mr. Leslie came into the sitting-room, but Sibyl was not with him; his face was pale, he went up to Aunt Faith and took her hand with tender solemnity.

"What is it?" she asked, sinking into a chair; her voice was quiet, she had too often endured affliction not to recognize its messenger at a glance. Mr. Leslie, in his ministration in times of trouble, had learned never to hide or alter the plain truth.

"The morning boat from B——— has just come in," he said. "The captain reports that the evening boat of the same line, the America, which left Westerton last night, collided with a schooner off Shoreton about midnight, and sank in ten minutes. The night was very dark, but many of the passengers were picked up by the 'Empire' as she came along two hours afterward, some clinging to fragments of the wreck, and some in one of the America's small boats. The other boats are missing, but there is hope that they are safe, as the storm was not severe, and the lake is now quite calm. The rescued passengers think that some may have been picked up by a propeller whose lights they saw in the distance."

"You have come to tell us that Hugh is among the rescued," said Aunt Faith in a faint voice, hoping against hope.

"Hugh is drowned!" said Bessie with hard, cold distinctness; then she sat down by the table and buried her face in her hands.

"Hugh is not among those brought back by the 'Empire,'" said Mr. Leslie, "but I have strong hope that he is safe. Tugs have already started for the scene of the accident, the water is still at summer heat, and besides, among the many vessels and propellers constantly passing over that very spot, there is every probability that many have been picked up before this time. Hugh is very strong, and an excellent swimmer, also."

"Hugh is drowned!" said Bessie in the same hard voice; "He will never come back to us alive."

"Bessie, Bessie!" cried Sibyl, rushing into the room, "you shall not, you dare not say such cruel words!" Sibyl's face was discolored with violent weeping, and her whole frame shook with agitation; she and her cousin seemed to have changed places, for Bessie did not shed a tear.

"I say what is true," she answered; "Hugh is drowned! Hugh is dead!"

Mr. Leslie went over to her, and took her cold hand; "Bessie," he said gently, "why do you give up all hope? There are a great many chances for Hugh."

"Go away!" said Bessie in the same dull monotone; "Hugh is dead, I tell you! Go put crape on the door!"

"She is ill," said Mr. Leslie in a low tone to Aunt Faith; "you had better take her upstairs."

Aunt Faith roused herself from her own grief; "come, dear," she said, rising.

"I shall not go," said Bessie; "I shall wait here for Hugh."

At this moment Tom and Gem ran into the room.

"Oh, Aunt Faith! what is it?" began Tom. "We met some boys and they told us that the America was run into last night."

Gem looked at Bessie and Sibyl, and then without a word, she sat down in her little chair and began to cry bitterly. Aunt Faith could not answer Tom, the sound of Gem's violent weeping, and Sibyl's sobs, seemed to choke the words on her lips.

"I don't believe a word of it!" cried Tom indignantly. "Hugh can swim better than any one in Westerton, and he's as strong as a lion! I'm going right down to the dock, and you'll see him coming back with me before night."

"Hugh is dead!" said Bessie again; "Hugh is dead!"

The hours passed slowly in those long minutes of weary waiting in which young hearts grow into old age in a single day. Friends and neighbors flocked into the old stone house, and their voices were hushed as they came and went with kindly but useless sympathy. Mr. Leslie had gone to the scene of the accident on a fast tug, accompanied by some of Hugh's young companions, and as, during the day, different vessels came into port, they were boarded by anxious friends and the latest reports eagerly sought. The bank of the lake was thronged, people stood there with glasses, in spite of the steady rain, scanning the eastern horizon in the hope of discovering the smoke of approaching propellers. Others had friends on board the America besides the family at the old stone house. But Hugh was well known and well liked, and his was the only young life among those still missing from Westerton; the others were middled-aged or old, and with that universal sympathy which the death of a bright vigorous youth always awakens, the whole town mourned for Hugh, and stories of his generous, manly nature, flew from mouth to mouth, until even strangers felt that they knew him.

At five o'clock a tug returned bringing a man and wife exhausted with twelve hours in the water lashed to floating spars; but they soon revived, and the good news flew through the city, and friends told it to the family in the old stone house, clustered together around Bessie, who had not changed her attitude or tasted food since morning. "If they were saved, why not Hugh?" they said hopefully.

"Hugh is dead!" repeated Bessie; "they will bring him home, poor drowned Hugh!" Sibyl broke forth into violent weeping, and Aunt Faith shuddered at Bessie's words. "Can you not persuade Bessie to go upstairs and lie down?" said a lady friend, looking apprehensively at the young girl's fixed eyes.

Aunt Faith shook her head. "We must leave her to herself for the present," she answered sadly; "her grief is beyond expression now."

Later in the day, the tug Mr. Leslie had taken was sighted from the bank, and a crowd assembled on the dock, with the feeling that suspense would soon be over.

"They would not have come back so soon unless they had found him," said one; "they would have cruised around there for a day or two as long as there was any hope."

"But they don't hoist any signal," said another; "they must know we are waiting here."

The little tug came rapidly in, watched by hundreds of eyes, and when at last she approached the dock, the anxiety grew intense. There came no shout from those on board, the quiet was ominous, and, chilled by a sudden awe, the crowd stepped back, and awaited the result in silence. The boat was made fast, and then, after a short delay, the young men came forth bearing the shrouded form of their late companion, now still in death. Hugh was dead, then? Yes, Hugh was dead!

But he had not died in vain, and the story of his death was repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the city; women heard it and sobbed aloud, as they held their darlings closer; men heard it and spoke a few brief words of praise and regret to which their wet eyes gave emphasis.

About half-past eleven the previous night, the America had been struck amidships by an unknown schooner driving down unseen in the intense darkness of the storm. Most of the passengers had gone to their state-rooms, but Hugh was still in the cabin; rushing out on deck he saw and heard that the boat would sink, and, accompanied by the captain, ran back through the cabin, arousing the passengers and telling them of the danger. In an instant all was confusion, agony, and despair; some of the men leaped overboard, but the women with their instinctive shrinking from the dark water, could not be persuaded to leave the deck. A few passengers and part of the crew got off in one of the small boats, but the other boats were swamped by the rush into them; a cry went up that the steamer was sinking, and Hugh was seen to jump overboard with a little child in his arms, a baby whose mother had held it imploringly towards him, as he tried to persuade her to take the dangerous leap. "Take the child," she said; "I will follow you," and then as they disappeared, with a wild cry the poor woman flung herself over after them. In the mean time the captain and some of the hands and passengers had ascended to the hurricane deck, and when the America sank, the force of the waves separated the deck from the hull, and it floated off, a frail support for the little group it carried. The lake was strewn with fragments, spars and barrels, and to these many persons were clinging. Hugh had managed to secure a piece of broken mast with spars attached, and with its aid he supported the mother and child until an iron-bound cask, caught in the cordage, struck him heavily in the darkness. The mother heard him groan, and his grasp loosened, "Quick!" he said hoarsely; "I cannot hold you. I must fasten you with these floating ropes; I am badly hurt, but I think I can hold the child."

He bound the ropes and rigging about her, and told her how she could best support herself; then he was silent, but every now and then she heard him moaning as though in pain. How long they floated in this way the mother could not tell; it seemed to her many hours,—it was, in reality, less than four. They saw the lights of the Empire in the distance, but they could not make themselves heard, although they shouted with all their strength. At the first glimmering of dawn they discovered the hurricane deck not far distant, and Hugh said, "shout with all your might. I cannot hold on much longer, my head is on fire!" So the mother exerted all her strength in a piercing scream, and to her joy, an answering cry came back through the rain. Hugh made an effort to steer the spars towards the floating deck, and those on board pushed their raft towards him as well as they could. Still it was slow work, and as the dawn grew brighter, the mother saw her preserver's haggard face, and the blood matted in his curly hair. He did not speak, as, holding the baby in one arm, with the other he tried to guide the broken mast, but his eyes were strangely glazed and the shadow of death was on his brow. They reached the deck at last, and kind hands lifted them on board; it was only a raft, but it seemed a support after the deep, dark water. The mother took her baby, and Hugh sank down at her feet. Some one had a flask of brandy, and they succeeded in pouring a little through his clenched teeth; after a moment or two he revived, sat up, looked about him, and murmured some incoherent words. Then he tried to take out his little note-book, but it was wet, and the pencil was gone; the captain gave him his own, and Hugh had scrawled a few words upon it, spoke to the mother and smiled when she held up the child. But gradually he relapsed into unconsciousness, grew more and more death-like, and, after breathing heavily for an hour, passed away without a struggle. The mother and her child were safe; all the others on the floating deck were rescued,—but Hugh, dear Hugh was dead!

Mr. Leslie had preceded the funeral cortege by a few moments; slowly he alighted from the carriage and passed up the garden-walk towards the old stone house. His heart was heavy, and words of comfort came not to his lips; in the presence of so great a sorrow he bowed his head in silence. The friends who were in the house, came out to meet him, but no one spoke; they knew by his face that the worst was true. They did not follow him into the presence of the mourners, but going down to the gate, they waited there.

Mr. Leslie entered the sitting-room. "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away," he said solemnly. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. Hugh, our dear Hugh is dead."

Sibyl screamed and fell back fainting, the children burst into tears, and Aunt Faith knelt down by her chair and hid her face in her hands. Bessie alone was calm. "Are they bringing him home?" she asked, lifting her tearless eyes to Mr. Leslie's face.

"Yes Bessie; they will soon be here, now."

Without reply she rose, smoothed her disordered curls and arranged her dress. "Sibyl," she said, "do not cry; Hugh never could bear to hear any one cry! Aunt Faith, Hugh is coming. Let us go to meet him."

Her strange composure awed the violent grief of the others into silence, and they followed her mechanically as she led the way to the piazza; involuntarily they all took the positions of the previous evening, and, with Bessie standing alone in the centre, they waited for their dead.

The young men bore their burden up the walk slowly and solemnly, and behind followed a train of sorrowing friends, two and two, thus rendering respect to the youth who had so suddenly been taken from them in all the flush and vigor of early manhood. On came the sad procession, and when the bearers reached the piazza, the friends fell back and stood with uncovered heads, as up the steps, and under the faded triumphal arch, Hugh Warrington came home for the last time to the old stone house.

At midnight Aunt Faith went softly into the parlor; a faint light shone from the chandelier upon the still figure beneath, and Bessie with her face hidden in her hands, sat by its side. She did not move as Aunt Faith came to her; she did not answer when Aunt Faith spoke to her; she seemed almost as cold and rigid as the dead.

"Bessie dear, I have something to show you," said Aunt Faith, in a low tone; "I have a letter to you from Hugh."

Bessie started and looked up; her face was pinched and colorless, and her dark eyes wild and despairing.

"I have a letter to you, dear, from Hugh," repeated Aunt Faith; "he wrote it on board the floating deck just before he died."

"Give it to me," said Bessie hoarsely, holding out her cold hands.

"In a moment, dear. Come upstairs with me and you shall see it," answered Aunt Faith, trying to lead her away. But Bessie resisted wildly. "I will not go!" she said. "I shall stay with Hugh until the last. Give me my letter! It is mine! You have no right to keep it. Give it to me, I say!"

Alarmed at the expression of her eyes, Aunt Faith took out the captain's note-book, opened it, and handed it to her niece. The words were scrawled across the page in irregular lines; there seemed to be two paragraphs. The first was this: "Bessie, try to be good, dear; I love you." The second: "I can say the two sentences, Aunt Faith,—I am saying them now.—Hugh."

The writing was trembling and indistinct, and the last words barely legible; the signature was but a blur.

As Bessie deciphered the two messages, a sudden tremor shook her frame; then she read them over again, speaking the words aloud as if to give them reality. "Oh Hugh! Hugh!" she cried, "how can I live without you!"

With a quick movement, Aunt Faith turned up the gas and threw back the pall; then she put her arms around the desolate girl and raised her to her feet. "Look at him, Bessie!" she said earnestly; "look at dear Hugh, and think how hard it must have been for him to write those words, how hard he must have tried, how much he must have loved you!"

Hugh's face was calm, the curling, golden hair concealed the cruel wound on his temple, and there was a beautiful expression about the mouth, that strange peace which sometimes comes after death, as if sent to comfort the mourners. His right hand, bruised by the hard night's work, was covered with vine-leaves, but the left, the hand that had held the little child, was folded across his breast; he was dressed as he had been in life, and some one had placed a cross on his heart,—a little cross of ivy simply twined. "My soldier, true soldier of the cross," murmured Aunt Faith, stooping to kiss the cold brow. "In those hours it all became clear to you. 'Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief;'—'Lord be merciful to me a sinner.' With these two sentences on your lips, you passed into another country. Farewell, Hugh! You will not return to us, but we shall go to you."

Bessie had not raised her head from Aunt Faith's shoulder. She had not looked upon Hugh since they brought him home, and now she stood holding the note-book in her hands, and trembling convulsively.

"Look at him, Bessie," said Aunt Faith again; "look at dear Hugh. He is speaking to you now, in that dying message."

At last Bessie raised her head and looked upon the still face long and earnestly; then, throwing herself down upon her knees, she burst into a passion of wild grief, calling upon Hugh, beseeching him to speak to her, and listening for his answer in vain. Aunt Faith did not try to check her, for these were her first tears; she knew they would relieve that tension of the head and heart, which, if long continued, must have ended in physical and mental prostration. After a few moments, Sibyl came in, and the two watched over Bessie until she sank exhausted to the floor, when they lifted her slight form and bore her upstairs.

Then, from the sitting-room, two of Hugh's friends came in, turned down the light, covered the still face, and went back to keep their watch in the desolate hours of mourning.

The sun was sinking towards the west in unclouded brightness when a throng gathered in the old stone house to pay their last tribute of respect to the dead. "Fitz Hugh Warrington, aged twenty years and ten months," said the inscription on the coffin-lid, and many tears dropped upon it, as, one by one, the friends bent over to take a farewell look at the handsome face with its clustering golden hair. Then came the voice of the aged pastor, reading the words of the Gospel of St. John,—Hugh's favorite chapter, the fourteenth. A hymn followed,—Hugh's favorite hymn, "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning," and then they all knelt in prayer, the fervent prayer mingled with tears which ascends from the house where the dearest one of all is dead.

Mr. Leslie took no part in the services; he stood with Sibyl as one of the family. Aunt Faith leaned upon the arm of Mr. Hastings, who had come from New York immediately upon hearing of the accident. Tom and Gem stood together, but Bessie was alone; she wished no support, she said; she only wanted to stay by Hugh until the last. So they let her stand by the head of the coffin alone,—alone with her dead, and with her God.

Then came another hymn, and slowly the bearers lifted all that was left of their friend, and bore it forth under the same faded flower-arch, and down the garden-walk, where the throng made way for them on either side as they passed.

The sun was setting, and, standing on the piazza, the choir sang,—

Abide with me; fast falls the even tide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts Bee, Help of the helpless, Oh abide with me.

I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless, Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness; Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me."



CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

A year had passed, and the colored leaves were dropping for the second time upon Hugh's grave. Aunt Faith and Bessie were in the sitting-room of the old stone house, and the voices of Tom and Gem sounded through the open hall-door from the back garden, where they were sitting under the oak-tree. Hugh's portrait stood upon an easel, with living ivy growing around it from the little bracket which he had made that last day of summer. The afternoon sun struck the picture, and gave it a vivid realistic expression; Bessie saw it, and laying down her work, looked lovingly into the bright face. "It is very like Hugh, is it not, Aunt Faith?" she said at last.