"There! No more idle questions! Two o'clock? That camel's hair at Stewart's will be sold, Unless we go this minute. Such a bargain! Come, my dear, come!" And so, cajoling, coaxing, She drew away her daughter, and the door Closed quickly on the two. But Linda stood In meditation rapt, as thought went back To the dear parents who had sheltered her; Contrasting their ingenuous love sincere And her own filial reverence, with the scene She just had witnessed. So absorbed she was In visions of the past, she did not heed The opening of the door, until a voice Broke in upon her tender revery, Saying, "I've come again to get your answer To my proposal." Tranquillized, subdued By those dear, sacred reminiscences, Linda, with pity in her tone, replied: "Madame, I cannot entertain your offer." "And why not, Linda Percival?" exclaimed The imperious lady.—"I'm not bound to give My reasons, madame."—"Come, I'll make the sum Ten thousand dollars."—"Money could not alter My mind upon the subject."—"Look you, Linda; You saw my daughter. Obstinate, self-willed, Passionate as a wild-cat, jealous, crafty, Reckless in use of money when her whims Are to be gratified, and yet at times Sordid as any miser,—she'll not stop At artifice, or violence, or crime, To injure one she hates—and you she hates! Now for your sake and hers, I charge you leave This country, go to England;—close at once With my most liberal offer."

"Madame, no! This is my home, my birthplace, and the land Of all my efforts, hopes, and aspirations; While I have work to do, here lies my field: I cannot quit America. Besides, Since candor now is best, I would not take A dole from you to save myself from starving." The lady's eyes flashed choler. She replied: "Go your own gait; and, when you're on the street, As you'll be soon, blame no one but yourself. I've done my part. Me no one can accuse Of any lack of charity or care. For three weeks more my offer shall hold good. After that time, expect no further grace." And, with a frown which tried to be disdain, But which, rebuked and humbled, fell before The pitying candor of plain Innocence, Out of the room she swept with all her velvet.

These interviews had made our Linda feel How quite alone in the wide world she stood. A letter came, after her parents' death, From her aunt, Mrs. Hammersley, requesting A loan of fifty pounds, and telling all The family distresses and shortcomings: How this one's husband had proved not so rich As was expected; how another's was A tyrant and a niggard, so close-fisted He parcelled out with his own hands the sugar For kitchen use; and how another's still, Though amply able to receive their mother, A widow now, had yet refused to do it, And even declined to make a contribution For her support. And so the gossip ran. The picture was not pleasant. With a sigh Not for herself, but others, Linda penned A letter to her aunt, relating all The events that made her powerless to aid Her needy kinsfolk. She despatched the letter, Then sat and thought awhile.

"And now for duty!" She cried, and rose. She could not think of duty Except as something grateful to her parents. They were a presence so securely felt, And so related to her every act,— Their love was still so vigilant, so real, That to do what, and only what, she knew They would approve, was duty paramount; And their approval was the smile of God! Self-culture, work, and needful exercise,— This was her simple summing-up of duties Immediately before her, and to be Fulfilled without more parleying or delay. She found that by the labor of a month In painting flowers from nature, she could earn Easily sixty dollars. This she did For two years steadily. Then came a change. From some cause unexplained, her wild-flower sketches, Which from their novelty and careful finish At first had found a ready sale, were now In less demand. Linda was not aware That these elaborate works, to nature true, Had been so multiplied in copies, made By hand, or printed by the chromo art, As to be sold at prices not one fifth As high as the originals had cost. Hence her own genius winged the storm and lent The color to the cloud, that overhung Her prospect, late so hopeful and serene.

Now came her year of struggle! Narrow means, Discouragement, the haunting fear of debt! One summer day, a day reminding her Of days supremely beautiful, immortal, (Since hallowed by undying love and joy), A little girl, the step-child, much endeared, Of a poor artisan who dwelt near by On the same floor with Linda, came to her And said: "You promised me, Miss Percival, That some fine day you'd take me in the cars Where I could see the grass and pluck the flowers." "Well, Rachel Aiken, we will go to-day, If you will get permission from your father," Said Linda, longing for the woodland air. Gladly the father gave consent; and so, Clad in her best, the little damsel sat, While Linda filled the luncheon-box, and made The preparations needful.

"What is that?" Asked Rachel, pointing to an open drawer In which a case of polished ebony Glittered and caught the eye. "A pistol-case!" "And is the pistol loaded?"—"I believe so." "And will you take it with you?"—"Well, my dear, I did not think to do so: would you have me?" "Yes, if we're going to the woods; for panthers Lurk in the woods, you know."—"I'll take it, Rachel; We call this a revolver. See! Four times I can discharge it." At a block of wood She aimed and fired; then carefully reloaded The piece, and put it in a hidden pocket.

Some ten miles from the city, at a place Rich in diversity of wood and water, They left the cars. Rachel's delight was wild. Never was day so lovely! Never grass So green! And O the flowers! "Look, only look, Miss Percival! What is it? Can I pluck As many as I want?"—"Ay, that's a harebell." "And O, look here! This red and yellow flower! Tell me its name."—"A columbine. It grows In clefts of rocks. That's an anemone: We call it so because the leaves are torn So easily by the wind; for anemos Is Greek for wind."—"Oh! here's a buttercup! I know that well. Red clover, too, I know. Isn't the dandelion beautiful? And O, Miss Percival, what flower is this?" "That's a wild rose."—"What, does the rose grow wild? But is not that delightful? A wild rose! And I can take as many as I want! I did not dream the country was so fine. How very happy must the children be Who live here all the time! 'Tis better far Than any garden; for, Miss Percival, The flowers are here all free, and quite as pretty As garden flowers. O, hark! Did ever bird So sweetly sing?"—"That was a wood-thrush, dear." "O darling wood-thrush! Do not stop so soon! Look there, on that stone wall! What's that?"—"A squirrel." "Is that indeed a squirrel? Are you sure? How I would like a nut to throw to him! What are these little red things in the grass?" "Wild strawberries, my dear."—"Wild strawberries! And can I eat them?"—"Yes, we'll take a plate And pick it full, and eat them with our dinner." "O, will not that be nice? Wild strawberries That we have picked ourselves!"

And so the day Slid on to noon; and then, it being hot, They crossed a wall into a skirting wood, And there sat down upon a rocky slab Covered with dry brown needles of the pine, And ate their dinner while the birds made music. "'Tis a free concert, ours!" said Rachel Aiken: "How nice this dinner! What an appetite I'm having all at once! My father says That I must learn to eat: I soon could learn In such a place as this! I wish my father Himself would eat; he works too hard, I fear; He works in lead: and the lead makes him ill. See what nice clothes he buys me! I'm afraid He pays for me more than he can afford, Seeing he has a mother to support And a blind sister; for, Miss Percival, I'm but his step-child, and my mother died Two years ago; then my half-sister died, His only little girl, and now he says That I am all he has in the wide world To love and cherish dearly,—all his treasure. What would I give if I could bring him here To these sweet woods, away from lead and work!"

So the child prattled. Then, the gay dessert Of berries being ended, Linda sat On the rock's slope, and peeled the mosses off Or looked up through the branches of the pines At the sky's blue, while Rachel played around. From tree to tree, from flower to flower, the child Darted through leafy lanes, when, all at once, A scream roused Linda.

To her feet she sprang! Instinctively (but not without a shudder) She grasped the little pistol she had brought At the child's prompting; from the rock ran down, And, at a sudden bend, encountered three Young lusty ruffians, while, a few rods off, Another lifted Rachel in his arms, And to the thicker wood beyond moved on. The three stood side by side as if to bar The path to Linda, and their looks meant mischief. The lane was narrow. "For your life, make way!" She cried, and raised the pistol. "No, you don't Fool us by tricks like that!" the foremost said: "And so, my lady—" But before the word Was out there was a little puff of smoke, With an explosion, not encouraging,— And on the turf the frightened caitiff lay. Her road now clear, reckless of torn alpaca, Over the scattered branches Linda rushed, Till she drew near the leader of the gang, Who, stopping, drew a pistol with one hand, While with the other he held Rachel fast, Placing her as a shield before his breast.

But Linda did not waver. Dropping into The old position that her father taught her When to the shooting-gallery they went, She fired. An oath, the cry of pain and rage, Told her she had not missed her aim,—the jaw The ruffian left exposed. One moment more, Rachel was in her arms. Taking a path Transverse, they hit the public road and entered The railroad station as the train came in. When they were safely seated, and the engine Began to throb and pant, a sudden pallor Spread over Linda's visage, and she veiled Her face and fainted; yet so quietly, But one among the passengers observed it; And he came up, and taking Rachel's place Supported Linda; from a lady near Borrowed some pungent salts restorative, And finding soon the sufferer was herself, Gave Rachel back her seat and took his own. But at the city station, when arrived, This gentleman came up, and bowing, said: "Here stands my private carriage; but to-day I need it not. Let my man take you home." Linda demurred. His firm will urged them in, And she and Rachel all at once were riding With easy bowling motion down Broadway.

The evening papers had this paragraph: "In Baker's Woods this morning two young men Were fired on by a female lunatic Without a provocation, and one wounded. The bullet was extracted. Dr. Payson, With his accustomed skill and promptitude, Performed the operation; and the patient Is doing well. We learn the unhappy woman— She had with her a child—is still at large." "I'm glad it was no worse," quoth Linda, smiling. She kissed the pistol that had been her mother's, Wiped it, and reverently put it by.

* * * * *

Three summers and an autumn had rolled on Since the catastrophe that orphaned Linda. Midwinter with its whirling snow had come, And, shivering through the snow-encumbered streets Of the great city, men and women went, Stooping their heads to thwart the spiteful wind. The sleigh-bells rang, boys hooted, and policemen Told each importunate beggar to move on. In a side street where Fashion late had dwelt, But which the up-town movement now had left A street for journeymen and small mechanics, Dress-makers, masons, farriers, and draymen, A female figure might be seen to enter A lodging-house, and passing up two flights Unlock a door that showed a small apartment Neat, with two windows looking on the rear, A small recess with a low, narrow bed, A sofa, a piano, and three chairs. 'Twas noon, but in the sky no cleft of blue Flashed the soft love-light like a lifted lid.

Clad plainly was the lady we have followed,— But with a certain grace no modiste's art Could have contrived. Youthful she was, and yet A gravity not pertinent to youth Gave to her face the pathos of that look Which a too early thoughtfulness imparts; And this was Linda,—Linda little changed, Though nearer by four years to womanhood Than when we parted from her in the shadow Of a great woe. Preoccupied she seemed Now with some painful thought, and in a slow, Half-automatic manner she replenished With scanty bits of coal her little stove; Then, with a like absorbed, uncertain air, Threw off her cloak and bonnet, and sat down; Motionless sat awhile till she drew forth A pocket-book, and from it took a letter, And read these words: "You guaranteed the debt: It now has run three months, and if to-morrow It is not paid, we must seek legal help." A bill of wood and coal for Rachel's father— Some twenty dollars only! And yet Linda Saw not the way to pay it on the morrow. He, the poor artisan, on whose account She had incurred the liability, Lay prostrate with a malady, his last, In the small room near by, with little Rachel His only watcher. What could Linda do? At length, with lips compressed, and up and down Moving her head as if to give assent To some resolve, now fixed, she took her seat At the piano,—from her childhood's days So tenderly endeared, and every chord Vibrating to some memory of her mother! "Old friend,"—she sighed; then thought awhile and sang.

I.

Help me, dear chords, help me to tell in song The grief that now must say to you Farewell! No music like to yours can ease my heart.

II.

An infant on her knee I struck your keys, And you made sweet my earliest lullaby: From you I thought my requiem might come.

III.

Hard is the pang of parting, but farewell! Harder the shame would be, if help were not; Go, but your tones shall thrill forevermore.

IV.

Farewell! And O my mother, dost thou hear? Farewell! But not to thoughts forever dear. Farewell, but not to love—but not to thee!

When little Rachel, by her father sent, Came in to take her lesson the next day, Behold, no instrument was in the room! What could it mean? "We must give up," said Linda, "Our music for a little while. Perhaps I soon shall have my dear piano back." Then they went in to see the sufferer. A smile lit up his face,—a grateful smile, That lent a beauty even to Disease, Pale, thin, and hollow-eyed:

"Is not the air Quite harsh to-day?" he asked. "A searching air." "So I supposed. I find it hard to breathe. Dear lady—but you've been a friend indeed! In my vest-pocket you will find a wallet. All that I have is in it. Take and use it. A fellow-workman brought me yesterday Fifty-two dollars, by my friends subscribed: Take from it what will pay for coal and rent. To-morrow some one of my friends will come To see to what the morrow may require. You've done so much, dear lady, I refrain From asking more."—"Ask all that you would have." "My little Rachel—she will be alone, All, all alone in this wide, striving world: An orphan child without a relative! Could you make interest to have her placed In some asylum?"—"Do not doubt my zeal Or my ability to have it done. And should good fortune come to me, be sure Rachel shall have a pleasant home in mine." "That's best of all. Thank you. God help you both. Now, Rachel, say the little prayer I taught you. ... That was well said. Now kiss me for good night. That's a dear little girl! I'll tell your mother How good and diligent and kind you are; How careful, too, of all your pretty clothes; And what a nurse you've been,—how true and tender. Rachel, obey Miss Percival. Be quick To shun all evil. Fly from heedless playmates. Close your young eyes on all impurity. Cast out all naughty thoughts by holy prayer. Love only what is good. Ah! darling child, I hoped to shield you up to womanhood, But God ordains it otherwise. May He Amid the world's thick perils be your Guide! There! Do not cry, my darling. All is well. Sing us some pious hymn, Miss Percival." And Linda, with wet eyelids, sang these words.

I.

Be of good cheer, O Soul! Angels are nigh; Evil can harm thee not, God hears thy cry.

II.

Into no void shalt thou Spring from this clay; His everlasting arm Shall be thy stay.

III.

Day hides the stars from thee, Sense hides the heaven Waiting the contrite soul That here has striven.

IV.

Soon shall the glory dawn Making earth dim; Be not disquieted, Trust thou in Him!

"O, thank you! Every word is true—I know it. Sense hides it now, but has not always hid. Remember, Rachel, that I say it here, Weighing my words: I know it all is true. God bless you both. I'm very, very happy. My pain is almost gone. I'll sleep awhile." Rachel and Linda sat an hour beside him, Silently watching. Linda then arose And placed her hand above his heart: 'twas still. Tranquilly as the day-flower shuts its leaves And renders up its fragrance to the air, From the closed mortal senses had he risen.

* * * * *

One day the tempter sat at Linda's ear: Sat and discoursed—so piously! so wisely! She held a letter in her hand; a letter Signed Jonas Fletcher. Jonas was her landlord; A man of forty—ay, a gentleman; Kind to his tenants, liberal, forbearing; Rich and retired from active business; A member of the Church, but tolerant; A man sincere, cordial, without a flaw In habits or in general character; Of comely person, too, and cheerful presence. Long had he looked on Linda, and at last Had studied her intently; knew her ways, Her daily occupations; whom she saw, And where she went. He had an interest Beyond that of the landlord, in his knowledge; The letter was an offer of his hand. Of Linda's parentage and history He nothing knew, and nothing sought to know. He took her as she was; was well content, With what he knew, to run all other risks. The letter was a good one and a frank; It came to Linda in her pinch of want, Discouragement, and utter self-distrust. And thus the tempter spoke and she replied:

"You're getting thin; you find success in art Is not a thing so easy as you fancied. Five years you've worked at what you modestly Esteem your specialty. Your specialty! As if a woman could have more than one,— And that—maternity! I do not speak Of the six years you gave your art before You strove to make it pay. Methinks you see Your efforts are a failure. What's the end Of all your toil? Not enough money saved For the redemption of your pawned piano! Truly a cheerful prospect is before you: To hear your views would edify me greatly."

"Yes, I am thinner than I was; but then I can afford to be—so that's not much. As for success—if we must measure that By the financial rule, 'tis small, I grant you. Yes, I have toiled, and lived laborious days, And little can I show in evidence; And sometimes—sometimes, I am sick at heart, And almost lose my faith in woman's power To paint a rose, or even to mend a stocking, As well as man can do. What would you have?"

"Now you speak reason. Let me see you act it! Abandon this wild frenzy of the hour, That would leave woman free to go all ways A man may go! Why, look you, even in art, Most epicene of all pursuits in life, How man leaves woman always far behind! Give up your foolish striving; and let Nature And the world's order have their way with you."

"Small as the pittance is, yet I could earn More, ten times, by my brush than by my needle."

"Ah! woman's sphere is that of the affections. Ambition spoils her—spoils her as a woman."

"Spoils her for whom?"

"For man."

"Then woman's errand Is not, like man's, self-culture, self-advancement, But she must simply qualify herself To be a mate for man: no obligation Resting on man to qualify himself To be a mate for woman?"

"Ay, the man Lives in the intellect; the woman's life Is that of the affections, the emotions; And her anatomy is proof of it."

"So have I often heard, but do not see. Some women have I known, who could endure Surgical scenes which many a strong man Would faint at. We have had this dubious talk Of woman's sphere far back as history goes: 'Tis time now it were proved: let actions prove it; Let free experience, education prove it! Why is it that the vilest drudgeries Are put on woman, if her sphere be that Of the affections only, the emotions? He represents the intellect, and she The affections only! Is it always so? Let Malibran, or Mary Somerville, De Stael, Browning, Stanton, Stowe, Bonheur, Stand forth as proof of that cool platitude. Use other arguments, if me you'd move. Besides, I see not that your system makes Any provision for that numerous class To whom the affections are an Eden closed,— The women who are single and compelled To drudge for a precarious livelihood! What of their sphere? What of the sphere of those Who do not, by the sewing of a shirt, Earn a meal's cost? Go tell them, when they venture On an employment social custom makes Peculiarly a man's,—that they become Unwomanly! Go make them smile at that,— Smile if they've not forgotten how to smile."

"I see that you're befogged, my little woman, Chasing this ignis fatuus of the day! Leave it, and settle down as woman should. What has been always, must be to the end. Always has woman been subordinate In mind, in body, and in power, to man. Let rhetoricians rave, and theorists Spin their fine webs,—bow you to holy Nature, And plant your feet upon the eternal fact."

"The little lifetime of the human race You call—eternity! The other day One of these old eternal wrongs was ended Rather abruptly; yet good people thought 'Twas impious to doubt it was eternal. Because abuses have existed always, May we not prove they are abuses still? If for antiquity you plead, why not Tell us the harem is the rule of nature, The one solution of the woman problem?"

"Does not St. Paul—"

"Excuse me. Beg no questions. St. Paul to you may be infallible, But Science is so unaccommodating, If not irreverent, she'll not accept His ipse dixit as an axiom. Here, in our civilized society, Is an increasing host of single women Who do not find the means of livelihood In the employments you call feminine. What shall be done? And my reply is this: Let every honest calling be as proper For woman as for man; throw open all Varieties of labor, skilled or rough, To woman's choice and woman's competition. Let her decide the question of the fitness. Let her rake hay, or pitch it, if she'd rather Do that than scrub a floor or wash and iron. And, above all, let her equality Be barred not at the ballot-box; endow her With all the rights a citizen can claim; Give her the suffrage;[7] let her have—by right And not by courtesy—a voice in shaping The laws and institutions of the land. And then, if after centuries of trial, All shall turn out a fallacy, a failure, The social scheme will readjust itself On the old basis, and the world shall be The wiser for the great experiment."

"But is sex nothing? Shall we recognize No bounds that Nature clearly has defined, Saying, with no uncertain tone, to one, Do this, and to the other, Do thou that? The rearing of young children and the care Of households,—can we doubt where these belong? Woman is but the complement of man And not a monstrous contrariety. Co-worker she, but no competitor!"

"All true, and no one doubts it! But why doubt That perfect freedom is the best condition For bringing out all that is best in woman As well as man? Free culture, free occasion, Higher responsibility, will make A higher type of femininity, Ay, of maternal femininity,— Not derogate from that which now we have, And which, through laws and limitations old, Is artificial, morbid, and distort, Except where Nature works in spite of all. 'Woman is but the complement of man!' Granted. But why stop there? And why not add, Man, too, is but the complement of woman? And both are free! And Nature never meant, For either, harder rule than that of Love, Intelligent, and willing as the sun."

"Ah! were men angels, women something more, Your plan might work; but now, in married life, One must be absolute; and who can doubt That Nature points unerringly to man?"

"Then Nature's pointing is not always heeded. Marriage should be a partnership of equals: But now the theory would seem to be, Man's laws must keep the weaker sex in order! Man must do all the thinking, even for woman! I don't believe it; woman, too, can think, Give her the training and the means of knowledge. 'O no!' cries man, 'the household and the child Must claim her energies; and all her training Must be to qualify the wife and mother: For one force loses when another gains, Since Nature is a very strict accountant; And what you give the thinker or the artist, You borrow from the mother and the wife.' With equal truth, why not object to man That what he gives the judge or politician He borrows from the husband and the father? The wife and mother best are qualified When you allow the woman breadth of culture, Give her an interest in all that makes The human being's welfare, and a voice In laws affecting her for good or ill. To 'suckle fools and chronicle small beer' Is not the whole intent of womanhood. Even of maternity 'tis not the height To produce many children, but to have Such as may be a blessing to their kind. Let it be woman's pure prerogative, Free and unswayed by man's imperious pleasure (Which now too often is her only law), To rule herself by her own highest instincts, As her own sense of duty may approve,— Holding that law for her as paramount Which may best harmonize her whole of nature, Educe her individuality, Not by evading or profaning Nature,[8] But by a self-development entire."

"Enough, enough! Let us split hairs no longer! You hold a crumpled letter in your hand; You know the writer; you esteem, respect him; And you've had time to question your own heart. What does it say? You blush,—you hesitate,— That's a good symptom. Now just hear me out: If culture is your aim, how opportune A chance is this! Affluence, leisure, study! Would you help others? He will help you do it. Is health an object? Soon, exempt from care, Or cheered by travel, shall you see restored Your early bloom and freshness. Would you find In love a new and higher life? You start! Now what's the matter? Do not be a fool,— A sentimentalist, forever groping After the unattainable, the cloudy. Come, be a little practical; consider Your present state: look on that row of nails Recipient of your wardrobe; see that bonnet, All out of fashion by at least a month; That rusty water-proof you call a cloak; Those boots with the uneven heels; that pair Of woollen gloves; this whole absurd array, Where watchful Neatness battles Poverty, But does not win the victory. Look there! Would not a house on the great avenue Be better than these beggarly surroundings? Since you're heart-free, why not at once say Yes?"

"Sweet fluent tempter, there you hit the mark! Heart-free am I, and 'tis because of that You're not entirely irresistible. Your plea is simply that which lends excuse To the poor cyprian whom we pass in scorn. I've done my utmost to persuade myself That I might love this man,—in time might love: But all my arguments, enforced by yours, Do not persuade me. I must give it up!"

Never was No administered more gently Or more decisively than in her answer To the proposal in the crumpled letter.

* * * * *

Musing before a picture Linda sat. "In my poor little range of art," thought she, "I feel an expert's confidence; I know These things are unexcelled; and yet why is it They do not bring their value? Come, I'll try Something more difficult,—put all my skill, Knowledge, and work into one little piece." Bravely she strove: it was a simple scene, But with accessories as yet untried, And done in oil with microscopic care; An open window with a distant landscape, And on the window-sill a vase of flowers. It was a triumph, and she knew it was. "Come, little housekeeper," she said to Rachel, "We'll go and seek our fortune." So she put Under her arm the picture, and they went To show it to the dealer who had bought Most of her works. But on her way she met A clerk of the establishment, who said: "Come into Taylor's here and take an ice; I'd like to tell you something for your good."

When they all three were seated, Brown began: "You may not see me at the store again; For a ship's cousin wants my place, and so, With little ceremony, I'm dismissed. Now, if you've no objection, tell me what The old man gave you for that composition In which a bird—a humming-bird, I think— Follows a child who has a bunch of flowers." "Yes, I remember. Well, 'twas fifteen dollars." "Whew! He said fifty. Is it possible? You've seen the chromo copy, I suppose?" "The chromo? I've seen nothing of a chromo. Never has my consent been given to publish!" "That's little to the purpose, it would seem. A hundred thousand copies have been sold Of all your pieces, first and last. You stare?" A light broke in on Linda. All at once The mystery that hung upon her strivings Lay solved; the cloud was lifted; and she saw That all this while she had not weighed her talents In a false balance; had not been the dupe Of her own aspirations and desires. With eyes elate and hope up-springing fresh In her glad heart, she cried, "And are you sure?" "'Tis easily confirmed. Go ask the printer; Only my number is below the mark."

From Brown, then, Linda got particulars, Showing 'twas not a random utterance. "'Tis strange," she said, "that I've not seen the chromos At the shop windows."—"Only recently," Said he, "have they been sold here in the city; The market has been chiefly at the West. The old man thought it policy, perhaps, To do it on the sly, lest you should know. Well, well, in that bald head of his he has A mine!" Then Linda struck the bell, and said: "This is my entertainment, Mr. Brown; Please let me pay for it." And Brown's "O no" Was not so wholly irresistible That Linda did not have her way in this. They parted.

"Why, Miss Percival," said Rachel, "You look precisely as you did that day You fired the pistol in the woods,—you do! I watched your eye, and knew you would not fail." "'Tis to bring down a different sort of game, We now go forth."—"But you forget your pistol." "This time we shall not need one. Did I not Say we were going forth to seek our fortune? Well, Rachel, my dear child, we've found it,—found it." "O, I'm so glad! (How rapidly you walk!) And shall we have the old piano back?" "Ay, that we shall! And you shall go to-morrow And take a present to the poor blind aunt And her old mother,—for they love you well." "A present! Why, Miss Percival, there's nothing I do so love to do as to make presents. I've made three in my lifetime; one a ring Of tortoise-shell; and one—"

But here they entered A picture-store. A man who stood alert, With thumbs hooked in the arm-holes of his vest, Advanced to welcome her. The "old man" he, Of Brown's narration; not so very old, However; not quite thirty-five, in fact. The capital which made his note so good Was a bald head; a head you could not question; A head which was a pledge of solvency, A warrant of respectability! The scalp all glossy; tufts above the ears! This head he cultivated carefully, And always took his hat off when he went To ask a discount or to clinch a bargain. "Ah! my young friend, Miss Percival," he cried, "You've something choice there, if I'm not mistaken." Linda took off the wrapper from her picture And showed it.

An expression of surprise Came to the "old man's" features; but he hid it By making of his hand a cylinder And looking through it, like a connoisseur. These were his exclamations: "Clever! Ay! Style somewhat new; landscape a shade too bright; The sky too blue, eh? Still a clever picture,— One of your best. Shall we say twenty dollars?" Taking the picture, Linda said, "Good morning! I'm in a hurry now, and you'll excuse me." "Will you not leave it?"—"No, I'm not disposed To part with it at present."—"Thirty dollars Would be a high price for it, but to aid you I'll call it thirty."—"Could you not say fifty?" "You're joking with me now, Miss Percival." "Then we will end our pleasantry. Good by." "Stay! You want money: I shall be ashamed To let my partners know it, but to show How far I'll go for your encouragement— Come! I'll say fifty dollars."

The "old man" Lowered his head, so that the burnished scalp Might strike her eye direct. Impenetrable To that appeal, Linda said: "I can get A hundred for it, I believe. Good day!" "Stop, stop! For some time our intent has been To make you a small present as a proof Of our regard; now will I merge it in A hundred dollars for the picture. Well?" "Nay, I would rather not accept a favor. I must go now,—will call again some day." Desperate the "old man" moved his head about In the most striking lights, and patted it Wildly at last, as if by that mute act To stay the unrelenting fugitive. In vain! She glided off, and Rachel with her. "Where now, Miss Percival?"—"To make a call Upon a lawyer for advice, my dear."

Thoughtfully Diggin listened to the case, So clearly stated that no part of it Was left to disentangle. "Let me look," He said, "at your new picture; our first step Shall be to fix the right of publication In you alone. Expect from me no praise,— For I'm no judge of art. Fine points of law, Not fine points in a picture, have engaged My thoughts these twenty years. While you wait here, I'll send my clerk to copyright this painting. What shall we call it?"—"Call it, if you please, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.'"—"That will do. Entered according to—et cetera. Your name is—" "Linda Percival."—"I thought so. Here, Edward, go and take a copyright Out for this work, 'The Prospect of the Flowers.' First have it photographed, and then deposit The photographic copy with the Court."

Then Diggin paced the room awhile, and ran Through his lank hair his fingers nervously. At length his plan took shape; he stopped and said "You shall take back your picture to this dealer; Tell him 'tis not for sale, but get his promise To have it, for a fortnight, well displayed At his shop window. This he'll not refuse. Don't sell at any price. What's your address? Edward shall go with you: 'tis well to have A witness at this juncture. Write me down The printer's name Brown gave you. Ay, that's right. Now go; and if the picture is removed— For purposes we'll not anticipate— As it will be—we'll corner the 'old man,' And his bald head sha'n't save him. By the way, If you want money let me be your banker; I'm well content to risk a thousand dollars On the result of my experiment."

The picture was removed, as he foretold. Ten weeks went by; then Linda got it back. "It is the pleasant season," said the lawyer; "Here are three hundred dollars. You start back! Miss Linda, I shall charge you ten per cent On all you borrow. Oh! You do not like To be in debt. This is my risk, not yours. If I recover nothing, then no debt Shall be by you incurred,—so runs the bond! Truly, now, 'tis no sentimental loan: I trust another's solvency, not yours. At length you understand me,—you consent! Now do not go to work; but you and Rachel Go spend a long vacation at the seaside. You want repose and sunshine and pure air. Be in no hurry to return. The longer You're gone, the better. For a year at least We must keep dark. That puzzles you. No matter. Here, take my card, and should you any time Need money, do not hesitate to draw On me for funds. There! Not a word! Good by!"

In the cars, eastward bound! A clear, bright day After a rain-storm; and, on both sides, verdure; Trees waving salutations, waters gleaming. The brightness had its type in Linda's looks, As, with her little protegee, she sat And savored all the beauty, all the bloom. On the seat back of them, two gentlemen Chatted at intervals in tones which Linda Could hardly fail to hear, though little heeding. But now and then, almost unconsciously, She found herself attending to their prattle. Said Gossip Number One: "You see that veteran In the straw hat, and the young man beside him: Father and son are they. Old Lothian, Five months ago, was high among the trusted Of our chief bankers; Charles, his only son, By a maternal uncle's death enriched, Kept out of Wall Street; turned a stolid ear To all high-mounting schemes for doubling wealth, His taste inclining him to art and letters. But Lothian had a partner, Judd,—a scamp, As the result made evident; and Judd One day was missing; bonds, securities, And bills, deposits of confiding folk, Guardians, and widows, and old men retired, All had been gobbled up by Judd—converted Into hard cash—and Judd had disappeared. Despair for Lothian! a man whose word No legal form could make more absolute. Crushed, mortified, and rendered powerless, He could not breast the storm. The mental strain Threw him upon his bed, and there he lay Till Charles, from Italy in haste returning, Found his old sire emaciate and half dead From wounded honor. 'Come! no more of this!' Cried Charles; 'how happened it that you forgot You had a son? All shall be well, my father.' He paid off all the liabilities, And found himself without three thousand dollars Out of a fortune of at least a million. What shall we call him, imbecile or saint? His plan is now to set up as a teacher. Of such a teacher let each thrifty father Beware, or he may see his only son Turn out a poor enthusiast,—perhaps— Who knows?—an advocate of woman's rights!"

Attracted by the story, Linda tried To get a sight of him, the simpleton; And, when she saw his face, it seemed to her Strangely familiar. Was it in a dream That she had once beheld it? Vain the attempt Of peering memory to fix the where And when of the encounter! Yet she knew That with it was allied a grateful thought. Then Rachel spoke and made the puzzle clear: "The man who sent us in his carriage home, That day you fainted,—don't you recollect?" "Ay, surely! 'tis the same. No dream-face that! Charles Lothian, is he? If his acts are folly, Then may I be a fool! Such fools are rare. How tender of his father he appears! I wonder where they're going."

When, at Springfield, Father and son got out, a sigh, or rather The ghost of one, and hardly audible, Escaped from Linda. Then Charles Lothian, While the cars waited, caught her eye, and bowed. So he remembered her! "Now that was odd. But the bell sounds; the locomotive puffs; The train moves on. Charles Lothian, good by! Eastward we go; away from you—away— Never to meet again in this wide world;— Like ships that in mid-ocean meet and part, To meet no more—O, nevermore—perchance!"



VI.

BY THE SEASIDE.

Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay, Still on the wings of steam the travellers went; And tenderly the purple sunset smiled Upon their journey's end; a little cottage With oaks and pines behind it, and, before, High ocean crags, and under them the ocean, Unintercepted far as sight could reach! Foliage and waves! A combination rare Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then— No barren strip to mar the interval— The watery waste, the ever-changing main! Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed! The shore, a line of rocks precipitous, Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound, Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back Till the surge drove them furiously in, Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite! Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach, The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn, The blueberry, the clinging blackberry, Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray. From the main shore cut off, and isolated By the invading, the circumfluent waves, A rock which time had made an island, spread With a small patch of brine-defying herbage, Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock, Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman, In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked In a wild storm, and every life was lost.

Stand on the cliff near by,—southeasterly Are only waves on waves to the horizon; But easterly, less than two miles across, And forming with the coast-line, whence you look, The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point, A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off; So narrow that beyond its width, due east, You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made Less inconspicuous by the intervention. The cottage fare, the renovating breeze, The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers, Rambles at morning and the twilight time, Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant, Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,— Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change. Each day their walks grew longer, till at last A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one.

"And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning. "To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets! For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point; Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,— All we shall find in prodigality!" And so by what was once the old stage-road Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,— Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters, And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes; Then leaving on their right the wooded hill Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete; Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach, Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel, And through the village, even to Eastern Point,— The maidens went, and had a happy day. And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild, And every little cloud was steeped in crimson, To a small wharf upon the harbor side, Along the beach they strolled, and looked across The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and Linda Wistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired; And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn, And hardly good for four miles more of road. Could we but make this short cut over water! What would I give now for a boat to take us To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman Would only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles, My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide, And eager to convey you to your home!' Then would I——Rachel!"

"What, Miss Percival?" "Look at those men descending from the ridge!" "Well, I can see an old man and a young." "And is that all you have to say of them?" "How should I know about them? Ah! I see! Those are the two we met three weeks ago,— The day we left New York,—met in the cars." "Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian; Father and son are they. Who would have thought That they would find their way to Eastern Point?" "Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival? Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it, If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat. The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck! They're going to the boat,—he'll row us over, I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket." "Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl! Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"

But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed, Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men Drew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismay She went up and accosted them, and pointed To Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,— And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks For some reply the younger man had made, She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow Along the foot-path to the granite bench Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering. And, when they stood before her, Rachel said "Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian; He has a boat near by, and will be glad To give us seats and row us both across." Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said, "Against my orders did this little lady Accost you, sir, but I will not affect Regret at her success, if you're content." "More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles; "My boat is amply large enough for four, And we are bound, it seems, all the same way. My father and myself have taken rooms At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live: So count your obligation very slight." "An obligation not the first!" said Linda. "So much the better!" said Charles Lothian: "Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket. What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one." "Why not of two? As many as you will?" "Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems." "Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous: See the old proverb verified to-day!" "Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father: Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed, And said, "I used to know—" And then, as if Checked by a reminiscence that might be Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went All to the boat. "Please let me take an oar," Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little! My father taught me." Then old Lothian Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.

The ocean billows melted into one, And that stretched level as a marble floor. All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold, And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left, Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined. The very pulse of ocean now was mute; From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell! Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails Hung limp and white, their very shadows white. The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red, And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.

"A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise, As with poised oars the two looked oceanward. Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore. "But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might return The compliment," said Linda. "See that duck! How near, how still he floats! He seems to know The holy time will keep him safe from harm." "Had I a gun," said Charles—"You would not use it," Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he. "'Nobility obliges'; sympathy Now makes all nature one and intimate; And we'd respect, even in a duck, his share In this tranquillity, this perfect rest." "I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied. "Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you think He's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear! He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound At Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that? He would far rather face a battery Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner." "See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effect Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air! 'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of his Since my return from Europe. Look you, father, If I'm to be exposed before young ladies, Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply Of oxygen reduced,—with no more joking. Don't eye those berries so feloniously. Because you've now an appetite,—because You've just begun to gain a little flesh,— Must I be made the target of your jeers?"

Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said: "Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,— Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life Into the breach of ruin made for me,— Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart Out of my wounded honor—to restore—" "Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!" Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place, Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows! See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire! And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge! Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps! Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow In adoration at this solemn rite: I'll compromise, however, for a song." "Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda. And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.

LINDA'S SONG.

A little bird flew To the top of a tree: The sky it was blue, And the bird sang to me. So tender and true was the strain The singer, I hoped, would remain; O little bird, stay and prolong The rapture the grief of that song!

A little thought came, Came out of my heart; It whispered a name That made me to start: And the rose-colored breath of my sigh Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky. Delay, little thought! O, delay, And gladden my life with thy ray!

"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!" Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out, Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe. See to your oars!—Where are we drifting, man?" "Who would not drift on such a night as this?" Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove, Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.

But, when the moon shone crescent in the west, And the faint outline of the part obscured Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,— And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs, And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth, And the great concave opened like a flower, Unfolding firmaments and galaxies, Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white With undistinguishable suns beyond,— They paused and rested on their oars again, And looked around,—in adoration looked. For, gazing on the inconceivable, They felt God is, though inconceivable;— And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly A change came over Linda's countenance, And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless; For there, before her in the boat, stood two Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers, Her father and her mother....

"Why, Miss Linda, Wake! Are you sleeping? What has been the matter? Here we've been waiting for you full five minutes. And I have called, and Mr. Lothian He too has called, and yet you make no answer!" "Rachel! What is it? There! Excuse me all, If I seemed impolite. Now, then, I'm ready. A strong pull shall it be? So! Let her dart!"

And in ten minutes they were at the landing And on their homeward way; and, as they parted, The spoils were shared, and the old man accepted One of the baskets, and all cried, "Good night!"

* * * * *

The morning sea-fog like an incense rose Up to the sun and perished in his beam; The sky's blue promise brightened through the veil. With her unopened sketch-book in her hand, Linda stood on the summit looking down On Norman's Woe, and felt upon her brow The cooling haze that foiled the August heat. Near her knelt Rachel, hunting curiously For the fine purple algae of the clefts. Good cause had Linda for a cheerful heart; For had she not that day received by mail A copy of "The Prospect of the Flowers,"— Published in chromo, and these words from Diggin? "Your future is assured: my bait is swallowed, Bait, hook, and sinker, all; now let our fish Have line enough and time enough for play, And we will land him safely by and by. A good fat fish he is, and thinks he's cunning. Enclosed you'll find a hundred-dollar bill; Please send me a receipt. Keep very quiet."

Yet Linda was not altogether happy. Why was it that Charles Lothian had called Once, and once only, after their adventure? Called just to ask her, How she found herself? And, Did she overtask herself in rowing? How happened it, in all her walks and rambles, They rarely met, or, if they met, a bow Formal and cold was all the interview? While thus she mused, she started at a cry: "Ah! here's our siren, cumbent on the rocks! Where should a siren be, if not on rocks?" Old Lothian's voice! He came with rod and line To try an angler's luck. Behind him stepped Charles, who stood still, as if arrested, when He noticed Linda.

Then, as if relenting In some resolve, he jumped from rock to rock To where she leaned; and, greeting her, inquired: "Have you been sketching?"—"No, for indolence Is now my occupation."—"Here's a book; May I not look at it?"—"You may."—"Is this An album?"—"'Tis my sketch-book."—"Do you mean These are your sketches, and original?" "Ay, truly, mine; from nature every one." "But here we have high art! No amateur Could color flower like that."—"Ah! there you touch me; For I'm no amateur in painting flowers,— I get my living by it."—"I could praise That sea-view also,—what a depth of sky! That beach,—that schooner flying from a squall,— If I'm a judge, here's something more than skill!"

Then the discourse slid off to woman's rights; For Lothian held a newspaper which told Of some convention, the report of which Might raise a smile. One of the lady speakers, It seems, would give her sex the privilege Of taking the initiative in wooing, If so disposed!

"Indeed, why not?" cried Linda. "Indeed, you almost take my breath away With your Why not, Miss Percival! Why not?" "Yes, I repeat,—if so disposed, why not? For why should woman any more than man Play the dissembler, with so much at stake? I know the ready taunt that here will rise: 'Already none too backward are our girls In husband-seeking.' Seeking in what way? Seeking by stratagem and management,— Not by frank, honest means! What food for mirth 'Twould give to shallow men to see a woman Court the relation, intertwined with all Of purest happiness that she may crave,— The ties of wife and mother! O, what pointing, Sneering, and joking! And yet why should care Thoughtful and pure and wisely provident, That Nature's sacred prompting shall not fail, Be one thing for a man, and quite another For her, the woman? Why this flimsy mask? This playing of a part, put on to suit, Not the heart's need, but Fashion custom-bound? Feigning we must be sought, and never seek? Now, through these social hindrances and bars, The bold, perhaps the intriguing, carry off Prizes the true and modest ought to win. And so we hear it coarsely said of husbands, 'Better a poor one far, than none at all!' A thought ignoble, and which no true woman Should harbor for a moment. Give her freedom, Freedom to seek, and she'll not harbor it! Because if woman, equally with man, Were privileged thus, she would discriminate Much more than now, and fewer sordid unions Would be the sure result. For what if man Were chained to singleness until some woman Might seek his hand in marriage, would he be Likely as now to make a wise election? Would he not say, 'Time flies; my chances lessen And I must plainly take what I can get?' True, there are mercenary men enough, Seeking rich dowries; they'd find fewer dupes, Were women free as men to seek and choose, Banish the senseless inequality, And you make marriage less a vulgar game In which one tries to circumvent the other. Oh! all this morbid ribaldry of men, And all this passive imbecility, And superstitious inactivity, Dissimulation and improvidence, False shame and lazy prejudice of women, Where the great miracle of sex concerns us, And Candor should be innocently wise, And Knowledge should be reverently free,— Is against nature,[9]—helps to hide the way Out of the social horrors that confound us, And launches thousands into paths impure, Shutting them out from holy parentage."

"I hold," said Charles, "the question is not one Of reasoning, but of simple sentiment. As it would shock me, should a woman speak In virile baritone, so would I shudder To hear a grave proposal marriageward In alto or soprano."

"'Twould depend! Depend on love," said Linda; "love potential, Or present."—"Nay, 'twould frighten love!" cried Charles,— "Kill it outright."—"Then would it not be love! What! would you love a woman less because She durst avow her love, before the cue Had been imparted by your lordly lips? Rare love would that be truly which could freeze Because the truth came candid from her heart, And in advance of the proprieties!" "But may the woman I could love," cried Charles, "Forbear at least the rash experiment!" "I doubt," said Linda, "if you know your heart; For hearts look to the substance, not the form. Why should not woman seek her happiness With brow as unabashed as man may wear In seeking his? Ah! lack of candor here Works more regrets, for woman and for man, Than we can reckon. Let but woman feel That in the social scheme she's not a cipher, The remedy, be sure, is not far off."

"To me it seems," said Lothian, "that you war Against our natural instincts: have they not Settled the point, even as the world has done?" Said Linda: "Instincts differ; they may be Results of shallow prejudice or custom. The Turk will tell you that polygamy Is instinct; and the savage who stalks on In dirty painted grandeur, while his squaw Carries the burdens, might reply that instinct Regulates that. So instinct proves too much. Queens and great heiresses are privileged To intimate their matrimonial choice,— Simply because superiority In power or riches gives an apt excuse: Let a plurality of women have The wealth and power, and you might see reversed What now you call an instinct. When a higher Civilization shall make woman less Dependent for protection and support On man's caprice or pleasure, there may be A higher sort of woman; one who shall Feel that her lot is more in her own hands, And she, like man, a free controlling force, Not a mere pensioner on paternal bounty Until some sultan throws the handkerchief."

A cry of triumph from the fisherman, Exuberant at having caught a bass, Here ended the discussion, leaving Linda With the last word. Charles went to chat with Rachel; And Linda, summoned by vociferations From the excited, the transported captor, Descended to inspect the amazing fish. "A beauty, is it not, Miss Percival? A rare one, too, for this part of the coast! 'Twill be a study how to have it cooked. Now sit here, in the shadow of this rock. Your father's name was Albert Percival? So I supposed. I've often heard my wife Speak of him as of one she knew was wronged Most foully in his wrestle with the law. Have you not met with Harriet Percival?" "Once only, and our interview was brief. Is she not married?"—"No, nor like to be, Although her fortune is a pretty one, Even for these times,—two millions, I believe; All which her mother may inherit soon; For Harriet is an invalid, but hoards Her income quite as thriftily as if She looked for progeny and length of days. The mother, as you may not be aware, Has married an aspiring gentleman Who means to build a palace on the Hudson, And Harriet's money hence is greatly needed." The mist now cleared, and the sun shone in power, So that the heat soon drove them to the woods. The senior took his capture home for dinner; Rachel strolled, picking berries by the brook; And, under lofty pines, sat Charles and Linda, And talked discursively, till Linda's thoughts, Inclining now to memory, now to hope, Vibrating from the future to the past, Took, in a silent mood, this rhythmic form.

UNDER THE PINES.

O pine-trees! bid the busy breeze be still That through your tops roars like the constant surge: Such was the sound I heard in happy days Under the pines.

In happy days, when those I loved were by; In happy days, when love was daily food; And jocund childhood, finding it, found joy Under the pines.

Again I hear the west-wind in your tops; Again I scent the odor you exhale; But sound and odor now provoke but tears Under the pines.

O pine-trees! shall a different joy be mine, One day when I shall seek your fragrant shade? Whisper it faintly, breezes, to my heart Under the pines.

"Truly, Miss Percival, you puzzle me," Said Charles, upon her silent revery Breaking abruptly in: "ay, you could fire And wound the villain bearing off the child, And you can brave the radical extreme On this great woman question of the day,— Yet do you seem a very woman still, And not at all like any man I know,— Not even like an undeveloped man! And I'm not greatly exercised by fear, Leaning here by your side thus lazily." "Don't mock me now," said Linda; "I'm not armed; Be generous, therefore, in your raillery." "Not armed? Then will I venture to propose That when the tide is low this afternoon We try the beach on horseback. Will you venture?" The joy that sparkled in her eyes said "Yes" Before her tongue could duplicate assent. Said Charles, "I'll bring the horses round at six." "I will be ready, Mr. Lothian."

There was no breach of punctuality: Though sighs, from deeper founts than tears, were heaved, When she drew forth the summer riding-habit Worn last when in the saddle with her father. "Here are the horses at the door!" cried Rachel; "A bay horse and a black; the bay is yours." When they were mounted, Lothian remarked: "Little Good Harbor Beach shall be our point; So called because an Indian once pronounced The harbor 'little good,' meaning 'quite bad'; A broad and open beach, from which you see Running out southerly the ocean side Of Eastern Point; its lofty landward end Gray with huge cliffs. There shall you mark 'Bass Rock,' Rare outlook when a storm-wind from the east Hurls the Atlantic up the craggy heights."

The air was genial, and a rapid trot Soon brought them to the beach. The ebb had left A level stretch of sand, wide, smooth, and hard, With not a hoof-mark on the glistening plain. The horses tossed their heads with snorting pride, Feeling the ocean breeze, as curved and fell Up the long line the creeping fringe of foam, Then backward slid in undulating glass, While all the west in Tyrian splendor flamed. "But this is life!" cried Linda, as she put Her horse to all his speed, and shook her whip. They skimmed the sand, they chased the flying wave, They walked their horses slow along the beach: And, as the light fell on a far-off sail, And made it a white glory to the eye, Said Linda: "See! it fades into the gray, And now 'tis dim, and now is seen no more! Yet would a little height reveal it still. So fade from memory scenes which higher points Of vision shall reveal: the beautiful, The good, shall never die; and so to-day Shall be a lasting, everlasting joy!"

"Would I might see more of such days!" said he, "In the obscure before me! Fate forbids. My time of idlesse terminates to-night. To-morrow to the city we return. Thither I go, to open, in October, A private school; and I must find a house And make my preparations."

On they rode, After these words, in silence for a mile Upon their homeward way. Then Lothian: "And what will your address be, in the city?" "I do not know, nor care," said Linda, switching Her horse's ear, to start a quicker trot. Another mile of silence! "Look!" cried he; "The lighthouse light salutes us!"—"Yes, I see." "Why do you go so fast?"—"I'll slacken speed If you desire it. There!" They breathed their horses; Then Lothian: "Indeed, I hope that we Shall meet again."—"Why not? The world is wide, But I have known a letter in a bottle, Flung over in mid-ocean, to be found And reach its owner. Doubtless, we may meet." "I'm glad to find you confident of that." Silence again! And so they rode along Till they saw Rachel coming from the house To greet them. Charles helped Linda to dismount, Held out his hand, and said, "Good by, Miss Linda." "Good by!" she cheerily answered; "bid your father Good by for me. And so you go indeed To-morrow?"—"Yes, we may not meet again." "Well; pleasant journey!"—"Thank you. Good by, Rachel." He rode away, leading her panting horse; And, when the trees concealed him, Linda rushed Up stairs, and locked the door, and wept awhile.

As, early the next morning, she looked forth On the blue ocean from the open window, "Now, then, for work!" she cried, and drew her palm Across her brow, as if to thrust away Thoughts that too perseveringly came back She heard a step. 'Tis he! "I hardly hoped, Miss Percival, to find you up so early: Good by, once more!"—"Good by! Don't miss the train." At this a shadow fell on Lothian's face, As with uplifted hat and thwarted smile, He turned away. Then off with hasty stride He walked and struck the bushes listlessly.

"What did I mean by speaking so?" said Linda, With hand outstretched, as if to draw him back. "Poor fellow! He looked sad; but why—but why Is he so undemonstrative? And why Could he not ask again for my address, I'd like to know?" Poor Linda! She could preach, But, like her elders, could not always practise.



VII.

FROM LINDA'S DIARY.

I.

Home again! Home? what satire in the word! If home is where the heart is, where's my home? Well: here's my easel; here my old piano; Here the memorials of my early days! Here let me try at least to be content. This din of rolling wheels beneath my window, Let it renew for me the ocean's roar!

II.

It is the heart makes music musical! My neighbor has a mocking-bird: its song Has been as little heeded as the noise Of rattling wheels incessant; but to-day One of its strains brought all Elysium back Into my heart. What was it? What the tie Linking it with some inexpressive joy? At length I solve the mystery! Those notes, Pensively slow and sadly exquisite, Were what the wood-thrush piped at early dawn After that evening passage in the boat, When stars came out, that never more shall set. Oh! sweet and clear the measured cadence fell Upon my ear in slumber—and I woke! I woke, and listened while the first faint flush Of day was in the east; while yet the grove Showed only purple gloom, and on the beach The tidal waves with intermittent rush Broke lazily and lent their mingling chime. And O the unreckoned riches of the soul! The possible beatitudes, of which A glimpse is given, a transitory glimpse, So rarely in a lifetime! Then it was, Hearing that strain, as if all joy the Past Had in its keeping,—all the Future held,— All love, all adoration, and all beauty,— Made for a moment the soul's atmosphere, And lifted it to bliss unspeakable. O splendor fugitive! O transport rare! Transfiguring and glorifying life!

III.

This strange, inexplicable human heart! My lawyer sends me more good news; he writes: "The picture's sale will reach ten thousand copies, And for the first year only! We shall have A big bill to send in; and do not fear But the 'old man' will pay it, every dime. To escape the heavy damages the law Allows for such infringement, he'll be glad To compromise for the amount I fix; And what I shall compel him to disgorge Will simply be fair copyright on all Your published works; and this will give you clear Some fifteen thousand dollars, not to speak Of a fixed interest in future sales." So writes my lawyer. Now one would suppose That news like this would make me light of heart, Spur my ambition; and, as taste of blood Fires the pet tiger, even so touch of gold Would rouse the sacred appetite of gain. But with attainment cometh apathy; And I was somewhat happier, methinks, When life was all a struggle, and the prayer, "Give me my daily bread," had anxious meaning.

IV.

Is it then true that woman's proper sphere Is in the affections? that she's out of place When these are balked, and science, art, or trade Has won the dedication of her thought? Nay! the affections are for all; and he, Or she, has most of life, who has them most. O, not an attribute of sex are they! Heart loneliness is loneliness indeed, But not for woman any more than man, Were she so trained, her active faculties Could have a worthy aim.

What worthier, Than the pursuit, the discipline of beauty? He who finds beauty helps to interpret God: For not an irreligious heart can dwell In him who sees and knows the beautiful. I'll not believe that one whom Art has chosen For a high priest can be irreverent, Sordid, unloving; his veil-piercing eye Sees not in life the beauty till it sees God and the life beyond; not in a dream Of Pantheistic revery where all In all is lost, diluted, and absorbed, And consciousness and personality Vanish like smoke forever; but all real, Distinct, and individual, though all Eternally dependent on the One! Who gave the Eye to see, shall He not see? Who gave the Heart to feel, shall He not love? Of knowledge infinite we know a letter, A syllable or two, and thirst for more: Is there not One, Teacher at once and Cause, Who comprehends all beauty and all science, Holding infinity, that, step by step, We may advance, and find, in what seems good To Him, our gladness and our being's crown? If this were not, then what a toy the world! And what a mockery these suns and systems! And how like pumping at an empty cistern Were it to live and study and aspire! Come, then, O Art! and warm me with thy smile! Flash on my inward sight thy radiant shapes! August interpreter of thoughts divine, Whether in sound, or word, or form revealed! Pledge and credential of immortal life! Grand arbiter of truth! Consoler! come! Come, help even me to seek thee and to find!

V.

Winter is here again; it sees me still At work upon my picture. This presents Two vases, filled with flowers, upon a slab. "Which will you choose?" I call it: 'tis in oil. Three hours a day are all I give to it, So fine the work, so trying to the eyes. Thus have I ample time for teaching Rachel: A good child and affectionate! I've found Her aptitude; she has a taste in bonnets, With an inventive skill in ornament. And so I have her regularly taught By an accomplished milliner; and Rachel Already promises to lead her teacher. Had I a fortune, still I'd have her feel That she must conquer something worthily; Something to occupy her active powers, And yield a fair support, should need require.

VI.

Whom should I meet to-day but Meredith! My washerwoman, Ellen Blount, is ill, So ill I fear she never will be well. 'Tis the old story, every day renewed: A little humble, tender-hearted woman, Tied to a husband whom to call a brute Would be to vilify the quadrupeds! A fellow, who must have his pipe, his whiskey, And his good dinner, let what may befall His wife and children. He could take the pittance She got from her hard toil, and spend it on Himself and his companions of the jug. When out of work, as he would often be, Then double toil for her! with peevish words From him, the sole requital of it all! Child after child she bore him; but, compelled Too quickly after childbirth to return To the old wash-tub, all her sufferings Reacted on the children, and they died, Haply in infancy the most of them,— Until but one was left,—a little boy, Puny and pale, gentle and uncomplaining, With all the mother staring from his eyes In hollow, anxious, pitiful appeal. In this one relic all her love and hope And all that made her life endurable At length were centred. She had saved a dollar To buy for him a pair of overshoes; But, as she went to get them, Blount waylaid her, Learnt that she had the money, forced it from her. Poor Teddy had to go without his shoes. 'Twas when the January thaw had made The streets a-reek with mud and melting snow. Poor Teddy wet his feet, took cold, and died. "Come soon, mamma," were his last feeble words. Blount was a cunning ruffian; well he knew How far to go, and where and when to pause. Fluent and specious with his tongue, he kept, In his small sphere, a certain show of credit; And he could blow in tune for mother church, Though few the pennies he himself would give her. "Cast off the wretch," was my advice to Ellen. She loved him not; she might as well have tried To love a load that galled and wearied her. But custom, social fear, and, above all, Those sacramental manacles the church Had bound her in, and to the end would keep, Forbade the poor, scared, helpless little woman To free herself, by one condign resolve, From the foul incubus that sucked her life. So a false sense of duty kept her tied, Feeding in him all that was pitiless. And now she's dying. I had gone to-day To take some little dainties, cream and fruit, And there, administering consolation, Was Meredith.

Hearing his tones of faith, Seeing his saintly look of sympathy, I felt, there being between us no dissent In spirit, dogmas were of small account: And so I knelt and listened to his prayer. At length he noticed me, and recognized. "Miss Percival!" he cried; "can this be you? But when and why did you return from England?" "I've never been in England, never been Out of my native country," I replied. "But that is unaccountable," said he; "For I've seen letters, written as from you, Signed with your name, acknowledging receipts Of certain sums of money, dated London." "No money have I had but what I've earned," Was my reply; "and who should send me money?" Said he: "I have a carriage at the door; I would learn more of this; you'll not object To take a seat with me? Thank you; that's right."

Leaving the patient in good hands, we went, And through the noisy streets drove to the Park. Then all I'd ever known about my parents He drew from me; and all my history Since I had parted from him; noted down Carefully my address, and gave me his. Then to my lodgings driving with me back, He left me with a Benedicite! He's rich: has he been sending money, then? What means it all? Conjecture finds no clew.

VII.

Gently as thistle-downs are borne away From the dry stem, went Ellen yesterday. I heard her dying utterance; it was: "I'm coming, Teddy! Bless you, dear Miss Linda!" No priest was by, so sudden was her going. When Blount came in, there was no tenderness In his sleek, gluttonous look; although he tried, Behind his handkerchief, to play the mourner. What will he do without a drudge to tread on? Counting himself a privileged lord and master, He'll condescend to a new victim soon, And make some patient waiter a sad loser.

VIII.

"Some patient waiter!" Such a one I know. There was a time when I resolved, if ever I could secure a modest competence, I would be married; and the competence Is now secure—but where is my resolve? Shall I conclude 'tis all fatality? Leave it to chance, and take no active step Myself to seek what I so hope to find? Accepting it as heaven's fixed ordinance, That man should change his single lot at will, But woman be the sport of circumstance, A purposeless and passive accident, Inert as oysters waiting for a tide, But not like oysters, sure of what they wait for? "Ah! woman's strength is in passivity," Fastidio says, shaking his wise, wise head, And withering me with a disdainful stare. Nay! woman's strength is in developing, In virtuous ways, all that is best in her. No superstitious waiting then be mine! No fancy that in coy, alluring arts, Rather than action, modest and sincere, Woman most worthily performs her part. Here am I twenty-five, and all alone In the wide world; yet having won the right, By my own effort, to hew out my lot, And create ties to cheer this arid waste. How bleak and void my Future, if I stand Waiting beside the stream, until some Prince— Son of Queen Moonbeam by King Will-o'-the wisp— Appears, and jumping from his gilded boat, Lays heart and fortune at my idle feet! Ye languid day-dreams, vanish! let me act!

But ah! Fastidio says, "A woman's wooing Must always be offensive to a man Of any dignity." The dignity That modest truth can shock is far too frail And sensitive to mate with love of mine, Whose earnestness might crush the feeble hand Linked in its own. So good by, dignity! I shall survive the chill of your repulse. Defiance, not of Nature's law, but Custom's, Is what disturbs Fastidio. Does he think That a man's wooing never is offensive To woman's dignity? In either sex The disaffection is not prompted by The wooing but the wooer; love can never Be an unwelcome tribute to the lover; Though freedom premature, or forwardness Unwarranted, may rightly fail to win. And so I'll run my risk; for I confess— (Keep the unuttered secret, sacred leaf!)— That there is one whom I could love—could die for, Would he but—Tears? Well, tears may come from strength As well as weakness: I'll not grudge him these; I'll not despair while I can shed a tear.

IX.

I've found him—seen him! The Directory Gave me his residence. He keeps a school, One for young ladies only; and at once My coward heart hit on a good excuse For calling on him: Would he take a pupil? Rachel, my protegee? Of course he would. A flush of tender, joyful wonderment, Methought, illumed his face at seeing me; Then, as it faded, I was grieved to mark How pale and thin and worn with care he looked. I took my leave, promising to return Within a week; and on the outer steps I met his father. "Turn and walk with me A square or two," said I; and he complied. "What ails him?" I inquired. "Only hard work: He puts too much of conscience into it. Needs help, but shrinks from debt, and so keeps on Doing the labor two or three should share. What shall I do, Miss Percival, to stop it?" "I know not,—only something must be done, And that at once," said I, in tones which made The old man turn to get a look at me. I hailed an omnibus, and there we parted.... What if I write Charles Lothian a letter? Nay, I'll not skulk behind a sheet of paper, But face to face say what I have to say. This very evening must I call again. Let a firm will bear up my fainting heart!

X.

And so at eight o'clock the carriage came, And entering it I drove to Lothian's. At last I was alone with him once more! He had been sitting at a table heaped With manuscripts, and these he was correcting. "I'm here to interrupt all this," said I; "Too long you've kept your brain upon the stretch: Why be so heedless of your health, your life?" "But what are they to you, Miss Percival?" "And that is what I've come to let you know," Said I, emboldened by the offered foothold. He flushed a little, only just a little,— Replying, "That I'm curious to learn." And then, like one who, in the dark, at first Moves cautiously, but soon runs boldly on, I said: "Rash gambler that I am, I've come To put upon the hazard of a die Much of my present and my future peace; Perhaps to shock, repel, and anger you, Since 'twill not be unwarned that I offend. I know you guess my purpose, and you shrink From hearing me avow it; but I will, And that in homely English unadorned. I'm here to offer you my hand; the heart That should go with it has preceded it, And dwells with you, so you can claim your own, Or gently bid it go, to trouble you Never again. If 'tis unwomanly This to avow, then I'm unlike my sex, Not false to my own nature,—ah! not false. I must be true or die; I cannot play A masker's part, disguising hopes that cling Nearest my brooding heart. But, say the word, 'I cannot love you,' and the bird who leaves The cage where he has pined will sooner try To enter it again, than I return To utter plaint of mine within your hearing."

With throbbing heart and burning face I ceased. Twice, thrice he tried to stop me; but my words Came all too quick and earnestly for that. And then resigned he listened. I had seen, Or dreamed I had, at first a sacred joy At my avowal sparkle in his eyes, And then an utter sadness follow it, Which chilled me, and I knew that I had failed.

"O divine Pity! what will you not brave?" He answered, and the dew was in his eyes,— "You bring her here, even to abase herself To rescue me! Too costly sacrifice! Here do not dwell the Graces and the Loves, But Drudgery is master of the house. Dear lady, elsewhere seek the answering bloom." A hope flashed up. "Do you suppose," said I, "That any impulse less supreme than love— Love bold to venture, but intemerate— Could bring me here—that Pity could do this?"

"I believe all," he answered, "all you say; But do not bid me whisper more than this: The circumstances that environ me, And which none know,—not even my father knows,— Shut me out utterly from any hope Of marriage or of love. A wretch in prison Might better dream of marrying than I. But O sweet lady! rashly generous,— Around whom, a protecting atmosphere, Floats Purity, and sends her messengers With flaming swords to guard each avenue From thoughts unholy and approaches base,— Thou who hast made an act I deemed uncomely Seem beautiful and gracious,—do not doubt My memory of thy worth shall be the same, Only expanded, lifted up, and touched With light as dear as sunset radiance To summer trees after a thunder-storm."

And there was silence then between us two. Thought of myself was lost in thought for him. What was my wreck of joy, compared with his? Health, youth, and competence were mine, and he Was staking all of his to save another. If my winged hopes fell fluttering to the ground, Regrets and disappointments were forgotten In the reflection, He, then, is unhappy! "Good by!" at length I said, giving my hand: "Even as I was believed, will I believe. You do not deal in hollow compliment; And we shall meet again if you're content. The good time will return—and I'll return!" "If you return, the good time will return And stay as long as you remain," said he.

XI.

It is as I supposed: an obstacle Which his assumption of his father's debts Has raised before him unexpectedly! I did not let a day go by before I saw the elder Lothian, and he, Distressed by what I told him of a secret, Applied himself to hunting up a key To the mysterious grief: at last he got it, Though not by means that I could justify. In Charles's private escritoire he found A memorandum that explained it all. Among the obligations overlooked, In settling up the firm's accounts, was one Of fifty thousand dollars, payable To an estate, the representatives Of which were six small children and a widow, Dependent now on what they could derive Of income from this debt; and manfully Charles shoulders it, although it crushes him; And hopes to keep his father ignorant. I can command one quarter of the sum Already—but the rest? That staggers me. And yet why should I falter? Look at him! Let his example be my high incentive. I'll be his helpmate, and he shall not know it. Poor Charles! I'll toil for him,—to him devote All that I have of energy and skill, All I acquire. Ambition shall not mount Less loftily for having Love to help it. Come forth, my easel! All thy work has been Girl's play till now; now will I truly venture. I've a new object now—to rescue him! And he shall never know his rescuer From lips of mine,—no, though I die for it, With the sweet secret undisclosed,—my heart Glad in the love he never may requite!



VIII.

FROM MEREDITH'S DIARY.

I.

Incalculably selfish and corrupt, Well may man need a sacrifice divine To expiate infinity of sin. Few but a priest can know the fearful depth Of human wickedness. At times I shrink Faint and amazed at what I have to learn: And then I wonder that the Saviour said His yoke is easy and his burden light. Ah! how these very murmurs at my lot Show that not yet into my heart has crept That peace of God which passeth understanding!

II.

Among my hearers lately there has been A lady all attention to my words: Thrice have I seen that she was deeply moved; And to confession yesterday she came. Let me here call her Harriet. She is By education Protestant, but wavers, Feeling the ground beneath her insecure, And would be led unto the rock that is Higher than she. A valuable convert; Not young; in feeble health; taxed for two millions; And she would found, out of her ample means, A home for orphans and neglected children. Heaven give me power to lead the stray one safe Into the only fold; securing thus Aid for the church, salvation for herself!

III.

A summons took me to her house to-day. Her mother and her step-father compose With Harriet the household. I refrain From putting real names on paper here. Let me then call the man's name, Denison; He's somewhat younger than his wife, a lady Advanced in years, but her heart wholly set On the frivolities of fashion still. I see the situation at a glance: A mercenary marriage on the part Of Denison, whose hungry eyes are fixed Upon the daughter's property; the mother Under his evil influence, and expecting The daughter to die soon, without a will, Thus leaving all to them;—and Harriet Not quite so dull but she can penetrate Denison's motive and her mother's hope! A sad state for an invalid who feels That any hour may be her last! To-day Harriet confessed; for she has been alarmed By some bad symptoms lately. As she urged it, I sent word to the bishop, and he came, And she was formally confirmed, and taken Unto the bosom of the Church, and there May her poor toiling spirit find repose!

IV.

Another summons! In the drawing-room, Whom should I meet but Denison? His stare Had something vicious in it; but we bowed, And he remarked: "I hear that Harriet, Caught in your Catholic net, is turning saint. No foul play, priest! She's not in a condition To make a will, or give away her money. Remember that, and do not waste your words." My color rose, and the brute Adam in me Would, uncontrolled, have surely knocked him down. But I cast off temptation, and replied: "Sir, I'm responsible to God, not man." I left him, and passed on to Harriet. I found her greatly moved; an interview She had been having with her mother caused The agitation. "Take me hence!" she cried; "I'll not remain another day or hour Under this roof. I tell you, I'm not safe With these two, watching, dogging, maddening me." She rang the bell, and to the servant said: "My carriage, and that quickly!" Then to me: "I'll show them that I'm mistress of my fortune And of myself. Call on me in an hour At the Fifth Avenue Hotel, for there Henceforth I make my home." And there I called, as she had ordered, and we met In her own parlor. "What I wish," said she, "Is to give all I have, without reserve, For the foundation that I've planned. I'll send Directions to my lawyer, and the papers Shall be prepared at once."—"Before you do it, Let me learn more of you and yours," said I: "Who was your father?" Then, to my surprise, I learnt that he was one whom I had met Some years before,—in his death-hour had met. "But you've a sister?" suddenly I asked. Surprised, she answered: "A half-sister—yes— I've seen her only once; for many years I lived in Europe; she's in England now, And married happily. On three occasions I've sent her money."—"Do you correspond?" "Not often; here are letters from her, full Of thanks for all I've given her."—"In your will Shall you remember her?"—"If you advise it." "Then I advise a liberal bequest. And now I must attend a sufferer Who waits my help."—"Father, I would confess." "Daughter, be quick: I listen." Harriet Then gave a sad recital of a trial And a divorce; and (but reluctantly) Told of a terrible suspicion, born Of a remark, dropped by a servant once, Concerning her unlikeness to her father: But never could she wring a confirmation Of the distressing story from her mother. "Tell her," said I, "you mean to leave your sister A handsome legacy." She promised this. Then saying I would call the following day, I hurried off to see poor Ellen Blount.

V.

A new surprise! There, by the patient's bed, I came on Linda, Harriet's half-sister! (Reputed so, at least, but here's a doubt.) I questioned her, and now am satisfied Treason and forgery have been at work, Defeating Harriet's sisterly intent; Moreover, that the harrowing surmise, Waked by a servant's gossip overheard, Is, in all probability, the truth! And, if we so accept it, what can I Advise but Harriet's complete surrender Of all her fortune to the real child And proper heir of Albert Percival? But ah! 'tis now devoted to the Church! Here's a divided duty; I must lay The case before a higher power than mine.

VI.

I've had a long discussion with the bishop. I placed before him all the facts, beginning With those of my own presence at the death Of Linda's parents; of her father's letter Received that day, communicating news Of Kenrick's large bequest; the father's effort In dying to convey in legal form To his child Linda all this property; The failure of the effort; his decease, And all I knew of subsequent events. And the good bishop, after careful thought, Replied: "Some way the mother must be brought To full confession. Of her guilt no doubt!" I told him I had charged it on the daughter To tell her mother of the legacy Designed for Linda; this, perchance, might wring Confession from the guilty one. He seemed To think it not unlikely, and remarked: "When that is got, there's but a single course For you to urge on Harriet; for, my son, I need not tell a Christian gentleman, Not to say priest, that this peculiar case We must decide precisely as we would If the Church had in it no interest: Let Harriet at once give up, convey, Not bequeathe merely, all she has to Linda. Till she does this, her soul will be in peril; When she does this, she shall be made the ward Of Holy Church, and cared for to the end." I kissed his hand and left. How his high thoughts Poured round my path a flood of light divine! Why did I hesitate, since he could make The path of duty so directly clear!

VII.

Harriet's intimation to her mother That she should leave a good part of her wealth To her half-sister brought things to a crisis. To-day my visit found the two together: Harriet, in an agony of tears, Cried to me, as I entered,—"'Tis all true! God! She confesses it—confesses it! Confesses, too, she never sent the money, And that the letters were all forgeries! And thinks, by this confession, to secure My fortune to herself! Ah! Can this woman Be, then, my mother?"

Hereupon the woman, Crimson with rage at being thus exposed, Exclaimed, "Unnatural daughter—" But before Her wrath could vent itself, she, with a groan, Fell in convulsions. Medical assistance Was had at once. Then Denison came in, Aghast at what had happened; for he knew His wife's estate was all in lands and houses, And would, if she should die, be Harriet's, Since the old lady superstitiously Had still put off the making of a will. All help was vain, and drugs were powerless. Paralysis had struck the heated brain, Driving from mortal hold the consciousness: It reappeared not in one outward sign, And before midnight life had left the clay.

VIII.

Meek and submissive as a little child Is Harriet now; she has no will but that The Church imposes as the will divine. "Your fortune, nearly doubled by this death, Must all," said I, "be now conveyed to Linda." "Let it be done," she cried, "before I sleep!" And it was done to-night—securely done,— I being Linda's representative. To-morrow I must take her the good news.

IX.

After the storm, the rainbow, child of light! Such the transition, as I pass to Linda! I found her hard at work upon a picture. With wonder at Heaven's ways she heard my news. Shocked at the tragic death, she did not hide Her satisfaction at the tardy act Bringing the restitution of her own. Three things she asked; one was that I would place At once a certain person in possession Of a large sum, not letting him find out From whom it came; another was to have This great change in her fortunes kept a secret As long as she might wish; the third and last Was that she might be privileged to wait On Harriet with a sister's loving care. All which I promised readily should be, So far as my poor human will could order. Said Linda then: "Tell Harriet, her scheme For others' welfare shall not wholly fail; That in your hands I'll place a sum sufficient To plant the germ at least of what she planned."

X.

I've taken my last look of Harriet: She died in Linda's arms, and comforted With all the Church could give of heavenly hope. Slowly and imperceptibly does Time Work out the dreadful problem of our sins! Not often do we see it solved as here In plain results which he who runs may read. Not always is the sinner's punishment Shown in this world. May the Eternal Mercy Cleanse us from secret faults, nor, while we mark Another's foulness, blind us to our own!