But Albert cooled off in time. We always do.

That night when he met Frank at the club he grasped one of that young man's hands in both of his and as he shook it, exclaimed:

"If you were Alice now, I would hug and kiss you!"

"Well," responded Frank, "if you were Alice now, all I can say is, it would meet my entire approbation; but tell me what ails you? Have you had a fortune left you?"

"Yes and no," replied Albert; "your father has given me the chance of a lifetime and I am free from old Frye. I have you to thank for the chance, I am sure."

"Well, I put in a good word for you when I had the opportunity," said Frank modestly, "and the sermon you preached me once, and which I reported to dad, may have had some weight with him."

In a week Albert had his office fitted up, and then he presented himself to John Nason, and after that he not only had all the responsibility thrust upon him that he was able to assume, but he no longer felt himself in the position of a menial. To one of his proud spirit it meant self-respect, life, and sunshine.



CHAPTER X

AMID THE GREEN MOUNTAINS

There are two characteristics sure to be found among the residents of a small country village, and those are kindness of heart and a love of gossip. The former showed itself in Sandgate when Albert Page went to those his family were indebted to, and, with much humiliation to himself, asked them to wait. Mr. Hobbs' reply is all that is necessary to quote, as it was a reflex of all the others.

"Don't ye worry one whit, Mr. Page," he said; "take your own time, an' if it's a year it's no matter. The only reason I called with the bill was because it's customary when an estate is bein' settled. Tell your folks I expect and want 'em to keep right on tradin' with me."

When Alice appealed to Mr. Mears she also met only the kindest of words.

"Ye can drive back an' forth, an' not be away from home over night," said he, "till snow comes, an' then I'll git ye a boardin'-place clus by the schoolhouse and fetch and carry ye Mondays and Fridays."

The love of gossip showed itself as distinctly in a general discussion by the townsfolk of the affairs of the Pages. For a month after Albert had gone away and Alice had begun teaching, they were the subject of much after-church and sewing-circle talk.

"If Alice could only git married now," observed Mrs. Mears, who was perhaps the leader among the gossips in Sandgate, "it 'ud be the most fortunit thing that could happen, but she holds her head perty middlin' high for a poor girl, which p'raps is nat'ral, she comin' from one o' the oldest families. They say there wa'n't nothin' left to either on 'em when the Widder Page died, an' the wonder is how she managed to git along as well as she did."

Fortunately none of this gossip, of which Mrs. Mears' remarks are only a sample, reached Alice, for she had enough to bear as it was. The vexations of an effort to pound the rudiments of an education into the heads of two dozen or so barefooted boys and girls that comprised her charge were far less hard to bear than the desolation of a home bereft of mother and brother. Occasionally some one of the neighbors would drop in of an evening, or one or two of her girl friends come and stay all night. On Sundays she was, as she always had been, a regular attendant at the village church, where she formed one of the choir. She had never encouraged the attentions of any of the young men, who mostly wore the habiliments of farmers on week days and worse-fitting ones on Sundays, which accounted for Mrs. Mears' remark that "she held her head perty middlin' high." It was true in a way, not from any false pride, but rather because Alice was of a more refined and fastidious nature than those who "would a-wooing go."

She was like a flower herself, not only in looks, but in delicacy of feeling and sentiment, and her sweet face, sheltered by a mourning-hat on Sunday at church, was a magnet that drew the eyes of many a village swain. The days and weeks of her new life as a teacher passed in uneventful procession until one by one the leaves had fallen from the two big elm trees in front of the desolate home, the meadows were but level fields of snow, and Christmas was only two weeks away. Then she received a letter from the absent brother that caused her heart to beat with unusual excitement. It read:

DEAR SIS: Three weeks ago I received a most flattering proposal from Mr. Nason, Frank's father, who offered me a good salary to take charge of his law business, and also the chance to accept anything else that came my way. I have a nice office now in a block he owns, and am so busy I do not find time to write to you even. It's an opening of a lifetime, and I owe it mainly to Frank. Now I am so homesick I am coming up to spend Christmas with you, and I've invited Frank to come also. We shall be up the day before and stay till the Monday after. Frank has done so much for me that I want to entertain him in the best way possible. He knows absolutely nothing about country life, and it may be dull for him, but he seems desirous of coming, and so I want you to help me to make it cheerful for him. To be candid, sis, I think the chance to see you, whom he has heard me say so much about, is the real loadstone. I enclose a bit of paper, and I want you to use it all in any way you wish.

It was a check for one hundred dollars!

It was not strange that at school next day Alice's thoughts were not on the recitations, and when one boy spelled beauty "b-o-o-t-i-e," and raised a laugh, she did not understand why it was. Children are in some ways as keen as briers, and her pupils soon discovered that "teacher" was absent-minded and they whispered right and left. When she discovered it she didn't have the heart to punish them, and was glad when the time came to dismiss school.

The instinct of her sex was strong within her, however, and that night she said to Aunt Susan:

"Do you think, auntie, we could manage between us to make up some sort of a pretty house-dress? Of course I must wear black when I go out, but it would be no harm to wear something brighter at home. I could get some delicate gray cashmere, and Mrs. Sloper can cut and fit it, and you and I can make it evenings. I want a sort of house-gown trimmed with satin. I wish I dared to have a new hat for church, with a little color in it,—my mourning-bonnet makes me look so old,—but I am afraid people would talk."

The feminine fear of looking old was needless in her case.

But how the days dragged, and how many times she counted them to see how many more were to pass ere that dearly beloved brother was to arrive! And what sort of a looking fellow was this Frank? she wondered. She hoped he was tall and dark, not too tall, but good and stout. And how could she ever entertain them? She could play and sing a few pretty ballads, and any number of hymns, but as for conversation she felt herself wholly deficient. Of the world of art, literature, and the drama she knew but little. She had read a good many novels, it is true, and had seen "Uncle Tom's Cabin," "East Lynne," and one or two other tear-moving dramas played in the town hall, but that was all. She had never even journeyed as far as Boston or New York. "He will think me as green as the hills around us," she thought ruefully, "but I can't help it. I can cook some nice things for him to eat, anyhow, and Bert must do the talking. I wonder if he plays the piano. I hope not, for if he does I'll not touch it."

Christmas came on Thursday that year and her school was to close for a week on the Friday before. She had a little plan in her mind, and the last day of school she called on two of the big boys to help her.

"My brother is coming home to spend Christmas," she said to them, "and I want a lot of ground-pine to trim up the house. Will you bring me some?"

If there is anything that will touch a country boy's heart it is to have "teacher"—and especially a young and pretty teacher—ask him to go for ground-pine; so it is needless to say that Alice was supplied with an ample outfit of that graceful vine. More than that, they begged for the privilege of helping her festoon it, and when long ropes of it were draped over the windows and above the fireplace in the big parlor, and the hall and dining-room received the same decoration, the house presented a cheerful appearance. The culinary department was not neglected either, and a great store of pies, frosted cake, and doughnuts was prepared.

"I do not know what I should do without you, Aunt Susan," the fair young hostess said the day before the guests were to arrive; "I couldn't do this all alone, and I want to give Bert a welcome."

It may be surmised that consideration for that big brother was not the sole force that moved her, but the veil that shelters the heart of a sweet young girl must not be rudely drawn aside. She had written: "I shall be only too glad to do all in my power, in my poor way, to entertain your friend who has done so much for you," and we will let that disclosure of gratitude suffice.



CHAPTER XI

BY THE FIRESIDE

"You must not expect much excitement up in Sandgate," Albert said to his friend the day they started for that quiet village. "It is a small place, and all the people do in the winter is to chop wood, shovel snow, eat, and go to meeting. We shall go sleighing and I shall take you to church to be stared at, and for the rest Alice and Aunt Susan will give us plenty to eat."

It must be admitted that this same Alice, whose picture had so interested him, was the attraction which made young Nason glad to accept his friend's cordial invitation, and then he really felt a very warm friendship for that friend. It is likely that the perfect sincerity and wholesome ideas of Albert attracted and held his rather more pliable and easy-going nature. The strong attract the weak, among men, and Frank Nason, never having been hardened by adversity, looked up to and admired the man who had courage and perseverance. He wondered if Alice was like him, and rather hoped not. It was nearly dark and snowing when they reached Sandgate, and when he saw a plump girlish figure with slightly whitened garments rush forward, almost jump into his friend's arms, and kiss him vehemently, it occurred to him that a welcome home by such a sister was worth coming many miles for.

Then he heard his name mumbled in a hurried introduction and, as he raised his hat, saw this girl withdraw a small hand from a mitten and offer it to him.

"I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Nason," she said with a bright smile; "my brother has told me so much about you I feel almost acquainted." And then, turning to that brother, she added: "I have the horse hitched outside, Bert, so we will go right home."

She led the way, and when they had stowed their belongings in the sleigh she said, "You can hold me in your lap, Bert, and I'll drive. I'm used to it now." She chirruped to the rather docile horse, and as the bells began to jingle she added: "What have you got in that box, Bertie?"

"Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no fibs, Miss Curious," he answered. "Wait until to-morrow and then I'll show you."

When they drove into the yard he said: "Take Frank right in, sis, and I'll unharness."

It was quite dark now, but Frank noticed, as he gathered up the bags and bundles and followed his hostess, that the rather stately house was aglow with light.

"Leave your hat and coat here in the hall, Mr. Nason," she said cordially, "and go right into the parlor and get warm. You will kindly excuse me now. I'm first and second girl, housemaid and cook, and I must go and help Aunt Susan to get supper ready. You two gentlemen are hungry, I'm sure."

It was not a formal reception, but it was a cordial one, which was better, and when Frank entered the parlor he was surprised at the cheerful sight, for the room was festooned all around with ropes of evergreen. The long mantel over the fireplace, bright with flames, was banked with a mass of green, and against each white lace curtain hung a wreath. In one corner stood an upright piano, in sharp contrast with the rather antique hair-cloth chairs and sofa. He had just drawn a chair to the fire, when Albert came in and gave a low whistle at the sight of the decorations. "That's one of the perquisites of a country schoolma'am," he observed, "and I'll bet the boys that gathered all this green for Alice enjoyed getting it. I used to when I was a boy. Well, old fellow," he added, addressing Frank, "here we are, and you must make yourself at home."

Then Alice came in and announced supper, and after Aunt Susan had been introduced, they all sat down. It was an old-fashioned meal, for while the brother helped to the ham and eggs and fried potatoes, Aunt Susan served the quince preserves and passed the hot biscuit, and Alice poured the tea. The table too had a Christmas touch, for around the mat where the lamp stood was a green wreath brightened with clusters of red berries. It was all a charming picture, and not the least of it was the fair girl who so graciously played the hostess. When the meal was over she said:

"Now you two gentlemen must go into the parlor and smoke, and I'll join you later. I command you to smoke," she added imperiously, "for I want the house to smell as if there was a man around."

When she came in later, wearing her new house-dress, she drew her chair close to her brother's and resting her elbows on his knee and her chin in her open palms she looked up and said with a witching smile:

"Now, Bertie, I've fed you nicely, haven't I? and I've done all I could for your comfort, so now please tell me what is in that long flat box you brought."

It was charmingly done, but the big brother was proof against her wiles. "You are a bewitching coaxer, sis," he answered, "but I am hard-hearted. I'll make a trade with you, though. First tell us all about your school-teaching and sing us all the songs I ask for, and then I'll open the box."

"You are very modest in your wants," she replied archly, "but like all men you must be humored to keep you good-natured, I presume."

"I wish you would tell us about your school, Miss Page," put in Frank; "you are not a bit like the schoolma'am of my boyhood, and I would like to know how you manage children."

"Well, it was a little hard at first," she answered, "for boys and girls of ten and twelve have surprisingly keen intuitions, and it seemed to me they made a study of my face from the first and concluded I was soft-hearted. I had one little boy that was a born mischief-maker, but he had such winsome ways I had to love him in spite of it. But he had to be punished some way, and so one day I kept him after school and then told him I must whip him hard, but not at that time. I explained to him what I was going to punish him for, 'but,' I said, 'I shall not do it to-night. I may do it to-morrow or the day after, but I will not tell you when the whipping is to come until I am ready to do it.' My little plan was a success, for the next night he waited till all the rest had gone, and then came to me with tears in his eyes, and begged me to whip him then. I didn't, though, and told him I wouldn't until he disobeyed again. He has been the most obedient boy in the school ever since. There is one little girl who has won my heart, though, in the oddest way you can imagine. The day I received your letter, Bert, I was so happy that the school ran riot, and I never knew it. They must have seen it in my face, I think. Well, when school was out, this girl, a shy little body of ten, sidled up to my desk and said, 'Pleath may I kith you, teacher, 'fore I go home?' It was such an odd and pretty bit of feeling, it nearly brought tears to my eyes."

"I should like to give that little girl a box of candy, Miss Page," observed Frank, "and then ask her for a kiss myself."

For an hour Alice kept both the young men interested in her anecdotes of school-teaching, and then her brother said:

"Come, sis, you must sing some, or no box to-night!"

"Well," she replied, smiling, "what shall it be? a few gems from Moody and Sankey, or from 'Laurel Leaves'?" And then turning to Frank she added: "My brother just dotes on church music!"

"Alice," said her brother with mock sternness, "if you fib like that you know the penalty!"

"Do you play or sing, Mr. Nason?" she inquired, not heeding her brother.

"I do not know one note from another," he answered.

"Well, that is fortunate for me," she said; "I only sing a few old-fashioned ballads, and help out at church."

Then without further apology she went to the piano. "Come, Bertie," she said, "you must help me, and we will go through the College Songs." And go through them they did, beginning with "Clementine" and ending with "The Quilting Party."

"Now, sis," said her brother, "I want 'Old Folks at Home,' 'Annie Laurie,' 'Rock-a-bye,' and 'Ben Bolt,' and then I'll open the box."

It was a simple, old-fashioned home parlor entertainment, and no doubt most musical artists would have sneered at the programme, but Alice had a wonderfully sweet and sympathetic soprano voice, and as Frank sat watching the fitful flames play hide-and-seek in the open fire, and listened to those time-worn ballads, it seemed to him he had never heard singing quite so sweet. Much depends upon the time and place, and perhaps the romance of the open fire sparkling beneath the bank of evergreen, and making the roses come into the fair singer's cheeks, and warming the golden sheen of her hair, had much to do with it. When she came to "Ben Bolt," that old ditty that has all the pathos of our lost youth in it, there was a tiny quiver in her voice; and when she finished, had he been near he would have seen the glint of two unshed tears in her eyes, for the song carried her thoughts to where her mother was at rest.

It was the first time he had ever heard that song, and he never afterwards forgot it.

"Now, Bertie," said Alice coaxingly, after she had finished singing, "haven't I earned the box?"

It was an appeal that few men could resist, and certainly not Albert Page, and, true to his promise, he gave her the mysterious box. With excited fingers she untied the cords, tore off the wrapper, and as she lifted the cover she saw—a beautiful seal-skin sacque!

We will leave to the reader's imagination any and all the expressions that followed, for no pen can give them with all their girlish fervor, and when the exciting incident was over, it was time for retiring.

That evening, with its simple home enjoyments, sincere and wholesome, its bright open fire, the unaffected cordiality of brother and sister, and beyond all, the feeling that he was a welcome guest, made those few hours ones long to be remembered by Frank. To begin with, the cheerful fire was a novelty to him, and perhaps that added a touch of romance. Then Alice herself was a surprise. He had been captivated by her picture, but had half expected to find her a timid country girl, too shy to do aught but answer "yes" and "no," and look pleasant. Then her voice was also a surprise, and when he reached the seclusion of his room it haunted him. And more than that, so intently had its bird-like sweetness charmed him that it usurped all his thoughts. He had thanked her for the entertainment, of course, but now that he was alone, it seemed to him that his formal thanks had been too feeble an expression. "I don't wonder Bert adores her," he thought; "she is the most winsome, unaffected, and sweet little lady I ever met. If I were to remain in this house a week I should be madly in love with her myself."

He was a good deal so, as it was.



CHAPTER XII

A COUNTRY SCHOOLMA'AM

"I have directed our liveryman to send over his best nag and a cutter this morning," said Albert at breakfast the next day to his friend, "and you and Alice can take a sleigh-ride and see Sandgate snow-clad. I have some business matters to attend to."

Later, when he was alone with Alice, he added with a smile: "You need not feel obliged to wear your new sacque, sis; it's not very cold."

"Oh, you tease!" she replied, but the light in her eyes betrayed her feelings.

It was a delightful day for a sleigh-ride, for every bush and tree was covered with a white fleece of snow, and the morning sun added a tiny sparkle to every crystal. A thicket of spruce was changed to a grove of towering white cones and an alder swamp to a fantastic fairyland. It was all new to Frank, and as he drove away with that bright and vivacious girl for a companion it is needless to say he enjoyed it to the utmost.

"I had no idea your town was so hemmed in by mountains," he said after they started and he had a chance to look around; "why, you are completely shut in, and such grand ones, too! They are more beautiful than the White Mountains and more graceful in shape."

"They are all of that," answered Alice, "and yet at times they make me feel as if I was shut in, away from all the world. We who see them every day forget their beauty and only feel their desolation, for a great tree-clad mountain is desolate in winter, I think. At least it is apt to reflect one's mood. I suppose you have travelled a great deal, Mr. Nason?"

"Not nearly as much as I ought to," he answered, "for the reason that I can't find any one I like to go with me. My mother and sisters go away to some watering-place every summer and stay there, and father sticks to business. I either dawdle around where the folks are summers, or stay in town and hate myself, if I can't find some one to go off on my yacht with me. The fact is, Miss Page," he added mournfully, "I have hard work to kill time. I can get a little party to run to Newport or Bar Harbor in the summer, and that is all. I should like to go to Florida or the West Indies in the winter, or to Labrador or Greenland summers, but I can't find company."

Alice was silent for a moment, for the picture of a young man complaining because he had nothing to do but spend his time and money was new to her.

"You are to be pitied," she said at last, with a tinge of sarcasm, "but still, there are just a few who would envy you."

He made no reply, for he did not quite understand whether she meant to be sarcastic or not. They rode along in silence for a time, and then Alice pointed to a small square brown building just ahead, almost hid in bushes, and said:

"Do you see that magnificent structure we are coming to, and do you notice its grand columns and lofty dome? If you had been a country boy you would recollect seeing a picture of it in the spelling-book. Take a good look at it, for that is a temple of knowledge, and it is there I teach school!"

Frank was silent, for this time the sarcastic tone in her voice was more pronounced. When they reached it he stopped and said quietly, "Please hold the reins. I want to look into the room where you spend your days."

He took a good long look, and when he returned he said, "So that is what you call a temple, is it? And it was in there the little girl wanted to kiss you because you looked happy?" And then as they drove on he added, "Do you know, I've thought of that pretty little touch of feeling a dozen times since you told about it, and when I go home I shall send a box of candy to you and ask you to do me the favor of giving it to that little girl."

It was not what she expected he would say, and it rather pleased her.

Conversation is but an exchange of moods, and in spite of their inspiring surroundings, the moods of those two young people did not seem to appeal to each other. To Alice, whose constant life of self-denial had made her feel that the world was cold and selfish, his complaints seemed little short of sacrilege; and he felt he had made a mess of it somehow in his really honest desire to be sincere. But two people so placed must talk, whether they feel like it or not, and so these two tried hard to be sociable. He wisely allowed her to do the most talking, and was really interested in her humorous descriptions of school-teaching. When they were nearly home he said:

"You are not a bit like what I imagined a schoolma'am was like."

"Did you think I wore blue glasses and petted a black cat?" she asked laughingly.

"The glasses might be a protection to susceptible young men," he answered, "and for that reason I would advise you to wear them."

"Shall I get some to-morrow to wear while you are here?" she queried with a smile. "I will if you feel in danger."

"Would you do it if I admitted I was?" he replied, resolving to stand his ground, and looking squarely at her.

But that elusive young lady was not to be cornered.

"You remind me of a story Bert told once," she said, "about an Irishman who was called upon to plead guilty or not guilty to the charge of drunkenness. When asked afterwards how he pleaded he said: 'Bedad, I give the judge an equivocal answer.' 'And what was that?' said his friend. 'Begorra, whin the judge axed me was I guilty or not guilty, I answered, "Was yer grandfather a monkey?" And then he gave me sixty days.'"

"Well," replied Frank, "that is a good story, but it doesn't answer my question."

That afternoon when Alice was alone with her brother, he said: "Well, sis, how do you like my friend?"

"Oh, he means to be nice," she replied, "but he is a little thoughtless, and it would do him good to have to work for his living a year or two."

Albert looked at his sister, while an amused smile spread over his face, and then said:

"If you weren't so abominably pretty you wouldn't be so fussy. Most young ladies would consider the good-looking and only son of a millionaire absolutely perfect at sight."

"But I don't," she replied, "and if you weren't the best brother in the world I'd box your ears! 'Abominably pretty!' The idea!"

The two days intervening before Sunday passed all too quickly for the three young people. One day they drove to a distant country town and had dinner, and that evening Alice, true to her sex, invited Frank to go with her to call upon her dearest girl friend. Just why she did this we will leave to any young lady to answer, if she will. The next day Albert invited a little party, and that evening they all met at the old mill pond and had a skating frolic. Secluded as it was, between wooded banks, it was just the place for that kind of fun, and the young men added romance to the scene by lighting a bonfire! When Sunday morning came they of course attended church, and Frank, as promised, found himself slyly stared at by all the people of Sandgate. He did not pay much attention to the sermon, but a good deal to a certain sweet soprano voice in the choir, and when after service Alice joined them, he boldly walked right away with her and left Albert chatting with a neighbor. It is certain that this proceeding did not displease her, for no wise young lady is averse to the assumed protectorship of a good-looking and well-dressed young man, especially when other girls are looking on.

On the way home she, of course, asked the usual question as to how he liked the sermon.

"I don't think I heard ten words of it," he replied; "I was kept busy counting how many I caught looking at me, and whenever the choir sang I forgot to count. Why was it they stared at me so much? Is a stranger here a walking curiosity?"

"In a way, yes," answered Alice; "they don't mean to be rude, but a new face at church is a curio. I'll wager that nine out of ten who were there this morning are at this moment discussing your looks and wondering who and what you are."

But all visits come to an end, and Frank, already more than half in love with the girl who had treated him in a rather cool though perfectly courteous way, realized that he would soon be not only out of sight, but out of mind, so far as Alice was concerned. In a way he had been spoiled by being sought after by managing mammas and over-anxious daughters, and was unprepared for the slightly indifferent reception he had met with from Alice. He had been attracted by her face the first time he saw her picture, and five days' association had not lessened the attraction.

A realization of her cool indifference tinged his feelings that evening just at dusk, where he had been left alone beside the freshly started parlor fire, and when the object of his thought happened in, he sat staring moodily at the flames. She drew a chair opposite, and seating herself, said pleasantly:

"Why so pensive, Mr. Nason? Has going to church made you feel repentant?"

"I don't feel the need of repentance except in one way," he answered, "and that you would not be interested in. If I am looking pensive," he continued, turning towards her, "it's because I'm going away to-morrow."

It was a step towards dangerous ground, and she realized it, but a little spice of daring coquetry impelled her to say:

"Tell me what you feel to repent of; I may be able to offer you some good advice."

He had turned toward the fire again, and sat shading his face with one hand, and slowly passing his fingers across his forehead. For a moment he waited, and then answered:

"To be candid, Miss Page, I'm growing ashamed of the useless life I lead, and it's that I feel to repent of. A few things your brother said to me three months ago were the beginning, and a remark you made the day we first went sleighing has served to increase that feeling. Ever since I left college I have led an aimless life, bored to death by ennui, and conscious that no one was made any happier by my existence. What Bert said to me, and your remark, have only served to make me realize it more fully."

They were both on risky ground now, and no one knew it better than Alice, but she did not lose her head.

"I am very sorry, Mr. Nason," she said pleasantly, "if any words of mine hurt you even a little. I have forgotten what they were, and wish you would. The visit which you and Bert are making me is a most delightful break in the monotony of my life, and I shall be very glad to see you again." And then rising she added, "If I hurt you, please say you forgive me, for I must go out and see to getting tea."

It was an adroit escape from a predicament, and she felt relieved. It must also be stated that her visitor had taken a long step upward in her estimation.

The last evening was passed much like the first, except that now the elusive Alice seemed to be transformed into a far more gracious hostess, and all her smiles and interest seemed to be lavished upon Frank instead of her brother. It was as if this occult little lady had come to feel a new and surprising curiosity in all that concerned the life and amusements of her visitor. With true feminine skill she plied him with all manner of questions, and affected the deepest interest in all he had to say. What were his sisters' amusements? Did they entertain much, play tennis, golf, or ride? Where did they usually go summers, and did he generally go with them? His own comings and goings, and where he had been and what he saw there, were also made a part of the grist he was encouraged to grind. She even professed a keen interest in his yacht, and listened patiently to a most elaborate description of that craft, although as a row-boat was the largest vessel she had ever set foot on, it is likely she did not gain a very clear idea of the "Gypsy."

"Your yacht has a very suggestive name," she said; "it makes one think of green woods and camp-fires. I should dearly love to take a sail in her. I have read so much about yachts and yachting that the idea of sailing along the shores in one's own floating house, as it were, has a fascination for me."

This expression of taste was so much in line with Frank's, and the idea of having this charming girl for a yachting companion so tempting, that his face glowed.

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he responded, "than to have you for a guest on my boat, Miss Page. I think it could be managed if I could only coax my mother and sisters to go, and you and your brother would join us. We would visit the Maine coast resorts and have no end of a good time."

"It's a delightful outing you suggest," she answered, "and I thank you very much; but I wouldn't think of coming if your family had to be coaxed to go, and then, it's not likely that Bert could find the time."

"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," he said, looking serious, "only mother and the girls are afraid of the water, that is all."

When conversation lagged Frank begged that she would sing for him, and suggested selections from Moody and Sankey; and despite her brother's sarcastic remark that it wasn't a revival meeting they were holding, she not only played and sang all those time-worn melodies, but a lot of others from older collections. When retiring-time came, Frank asked that she conclude with "Ben Bolt."

"I shall not need to recall that song to remind me of you," he said in a low voice as he spread it on the music rack in front of her, "but I shall always feel its mood when I think of you."

"Does that mean that you will think of me as sleeping 'in a corner obscure and alone' in some churchyard?" she responded archly.

"By no means," he said, "only I may perhaps have a little of the same mood at times that Ben Bolt had when he heard of the fate of his sweet Alice."

It was a pretty speech and Frank imagined she threw a little more than usual pathos into the song after it; but then, no doubt his imagination was biased by his feelings.

When they stood on the platform the next morning awaiting the train, he said quietly:

"May I send you a few books and some new songs when I get home, Miss Page? I want to show you how much I have enjoyed this visit."

"It is very nice of you to say so," she replied, "and I shall be glad to be remembered, and hope you will visit us again."

When the train came in he rather hurriedly offered his hand and with a "Permit me to thank you again," as he raised his hat, turned away to gather up the satchels and so as not to be witness to her leave-taking from her brother.

It was a tactful act that was not lost upon her.



CHAPTER XIII

SOUTHPORT ISLAND

In summer Southport Island, as yet untainted by the tide of outing travel, was a spot to inspire dreams, poetry, and canvases covered with ocean lore. Its many coves and inlets where the tides ebbed and flowed among the weed-covered rocks; its bold cliffs, sea washed, and above which the white gulls and fish-hawks circled; the deep thickets of spruce through which the ocean winds murmured, and where great beds of ferns and clusters of red bunch-berries grew, were one and all left undisturbed, week in, week out.

At the Cape, where Uncle Terry, Aunt Lissy, and Telly lived their simple home life, and Bascom, the storekeeper and postmaster, talked unceasingly when he could find a listener, and Deacon Oaks wondered why "the grace o' God hadn't freed the land from stuns," no one ever came to disturb its quietude. Every morning Uncle Terry, often accompanied by Telly in a calico dress and sunbonnet, rowed out to pull his lobster traps, and after dinner harnessed and drove to the head of the island to meet the mail boat, then at eventide, after lighting his pipe and the lighthouse lamp at about the same time, generally strolled over to Bascom's to have a chat, while Telly made a call on the "Widder Leach," a misanthropic but pious protegee of hers, and Aunt Lissy read the "Boston Journal." Once in about three weeks, according to weather, the monotony of the village was disturbed by the arrival of the small schooner owned jointly by Uncle Terry, Oaks, and Bascom, and which plied between the Cape and Boston. Once in two weeks services were held as usual in the little brown church, and as often the lighthouse tender called and left coal and oil for Uncle Terry. Regularly on Thursday evenings the few piously inclined, led by Deacon Oaks, gathered in the church to sing hymns they repeated fifty-two times each year, listen to a prayer by Oaks, that seldom varied in a single sentence, and heard Auntie Leach thank the Lord for his "many mercies," though what they were in her case it would be hard to tell, unless being permitted to live alone and work hard to live at all was a mercy. The scattered islanders and the handful whose dwellings comprised the Cape worked hard, lived frugally, and were unconscious that all around them was a rocky shore whose cliffs and inlets and beaches were so many poems of picturesque and charming scenery.

This was Southport in summer, but in winter when the little harbor at the Cape was ice-bound, the winding road to the head of the island buried beneath drifts, and the people often for weeks at a time absolutely cut off from communication with the rest of the world, it was a place cheerless in its desolation. Like so many woodchucks then, the residents kept within doors, or only stirred out to cut wood, fodder the stock, and shovel paths so that the children could go to school. The days were short and the evenings long, and to get together and spend hours in labored conversation the only pastime. It was one of those long evenings, and when Aunt Lissy and Telly were at a neighbor's, and Uncle Terry, left to himself, was reading every line, including the advertisements, in the last "Boston Journal," that the following met his eye:

WANTED.—Information that will lead to the discovery of an heir to the estate of one Eric Peterson, a land-owner and shipbuilder of Stockholm, Sweden, whose son, with his wife, child, and crew, were known to have been wrecked on the coast of Maine, in March, 187-. Nothing has ever been heard of said Peterson or his wife, but the child may have been saved. Any one having information that will lead to the discovery of this child will be amply rewarded by communicating with

NICHOLAS FRYE, — PEMBERTON SQUARE, BOSTON. Attorney at Law.

"Wal, I'll be everlastin'ly gol darned!" he exclaimed after he had read it for the third time. "If this don't beat all natur, I'm a goat."

It was fortunate he was alone, for it gave him time to think the matter over, and after half an hour of astonishment he decided to say nothing to his wife or Telly.

"I'll jis' breathe easy an' sag up," he said to himself, "same as though I was crossin' thin ice, an' if nothin' comes on't nobody'll be the worse for worryin'."

Then he cut the slip out and hid it in his black leather wallet, and then wisely cut out the entire page and burned it.

"Wimmin are sich curis creeters they'd be sure to want to know what I'd cut out o' that page," he said to himself, "an' never rest till I told 'em."

When Aunt Lissy and Telly came home he was as composed as a rock and sat quietly puffing his pipe, with his feet on top of a chair and pointing towards the fire.

"Were you lonesome, father?" asked Telly, who usually led conversation in the Terry home. "We stopped at Bascom's, and you know he never stops talking."

"He's worse'n burdock burs ter git away from," answered Uncle Terry, "an' ye can't be perlite ter him unless ye want t' spend the rest o' yer life listenin'. His tongue allus seemed ter be hung in the middle an' wag both ways. I wasn't lonesome," he continued, rising and adding a few sticks to the fire, as the two women laid aside their wraps and drew chairs up; "I've read the paper purty well through an' had a spell o' livin' over by-gones," and then, turning to Telly and smiling, he added: "I got thinkin' o' the day ye came ashore, an' mother she got that excited she sot the box ye was in on the stove an' then put more wood in. It's a wonder she didn't put ye in the stove instead o' the wood!"

As this joke was not new to the listeners, no notice was taken of it, and the three lapsed into silence.

Outside the steady boom of the surf beating on the rocks came with monotonous regularity, and inside the clock ticked. For a long time Uncle Terry sat and smoked on in silence, resuming, perhaps, his by-gones, and then said: "By the way, Telly, what's become o' them trinkets o' yourn ye had on that day? It's been so long now, 'most twenty years, I 'bout forgot 'em. I s'pose ye hain't lost 'em, hev ye?"

"Why, no, father," she answered, a little surprised. "I hope not. They are all in the box in my bureau, and no one ever disturbs them."

"Ye wouldn't mind fetchin' 'em now, would ye, Telly?" he continued after drawing a long whiff of smoke and slowly emitting it in rings. "It's been so many years, an' since I got thinkin' 'bout it I'd like to take a look at 'em, jest to remind me o' that fortunate day ye came to us."

The girl arose, and going upstairs, returned with a small tin box shaped like a trunk, and drawing the table up in front of Uncle Terry, set the box down upon it. It is likely that its contents were so many links that bound the two together, for as he opened it she perched herself on the arm of his chair, and leaning against his shoulder, passed one arm caressingly around his neck and watched him take out the contents.

First came a soft, fleecy baby blanket, then two little garments, once whitest muslin but now yellow with age, and then another smaller one of flannel. Pinned to this were two tiny shoes of knitted wool. In the bottom of the box was a small wooden shoe, and though clumsy in comparison, yet evidently fashioned to fit a lady's foot. Tucked in this was a little box tied with faded ribbon, and in this were a locket and chain, two rings, and a scrap of paper. The writing on the paper, once hastily scrawled by a despairing mother's hand, had almost faded, and inside the locket were two faces, one a man's with strongly marked features, the other girlish with big eyes and hair in curls.

These were all the heritage of this waif of the sea who now, a fair girl with eyes and face like the woman's picture, was leaning on the shoulder of her foster-father, and they told a pathetic tale of life and death; of romance and mystery not yet unwoven, and a story not yet told.

How many times that orphan girl had imagined what that tale might be; how often before she had examined every one of those mute tokens; how many times gazed with moist eyes at the faces in the locket; and how, as the years bearing her onward toward maturity passed, had she hoped and waited, hoping ever that some word, some whisper from that far-off land of her birth might reach her! But none ever came, and now hope was dead.

And as she looked at those mute relics which told so little and yet so much of her history, while the old man who had been all that a kind father could be to her took them out one by one, she realized more than ever before what a debt of gratitude she owed to him. When he had looked them over and put them back in the exact order in which they had been packed, he closed the box, and taking the little hand that had been caressing his face in his own wrinkled and bony one, held it for a moment. When he released it the girl stooped, and pressing her lips to his weather-browned cheek, arose and resumed her seat. Had observant eyes watched her then, they would have noticed that hers remained closed for a few moments and that two tears glistened there.

"Wal, ye better put the box away now," said Uncle Terry at last. "I'll jest go out an' take a look off'n the pint and then it'll be time to turn in."



CHAPTER XIV

A LEGALIZED PICKPOCKET

"I've got ter go ter Boston," said Uncle Terry to his wife a few days later. "Thar's some money due us that we ain't sartin we'll git. You an' Telly can tend the lights for a couple o' nights, can't ye? I won't be gone more'n that. Bascom's to take me up to the head, an' if the boat's runnin' I'll be all right."

This plan had cost Uncle Terry a good deal of diplomacy. Not only did he have to invent a reasonable excuse for going by exciting the fears of both Bascom and Oaks regarding money really due them, but he had to allay the curiosity of his wife and Telly as well. In a small village like the Cape every one's movements were well known to all and commented on, and no one was better aware of it than Uncle Terry. But go to Boston he must, and to do so right in the dead of winter, when to take such a trip was an unheard-of thing, and not excite a small tempest of curious gossip, taxed his Yankee wit.

At Bath he had a few hours' wait, and went to the bank and drew a sizable sum of money from his small savings.

"Lawyers are sech sharps, consarn 'em!" he said to himself, "I'd better go loaded. Most likely I'll come back skinned! I never did tackle a lawyer 'thout losin' my shirt."

When, after an all-night ride, during which he sat in the smoking-car with his pipe and thoughts for company, he arrived in Boston, he felt, as he would phrase it, like a cat in a strange garret. He had tried to fortify himself against the expected meeting with this Frye, who he felt sure would, like all his profession, make him pay dearly for any service. When he entered the rather untidy office of that legal light he was not surprised to find that its occupant much resembled a vulture.

"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" asked Frye, after his visitor had introduced himself.

"Wal," answered Uncle Terry, taking a seat and laying his hat on the floor beside him, "I've come on rather a curis errand;" and taking out the slip he had a few days before placed in his wallet, he handed it to Frye with the remark: "That's my errand."

Frye's face brightened.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Terry," he said, beginning to rub his hands together. "If you have any facts in your possession that will aid us in the search for an heir to this estate we shall be glad to pay you for them, provided they are facts. Now, sir, what is your story?"

Uncle Terry looked at the lawyer a moment before answering.

"I didn't come here to tell all I knew the fust go-off," he said. "I know all 'bout this shipwreck, an' a good deal more that'll consarn ye, but fust I want to know who is lookin' for the information, an' what's likely to cum on't."

It was Frye's turn to stare now.

"This man won't be any easy witness," he thought; and then he said: "That I am not at liberty to disclose until I know what facts you can establish, but rest assured that any information you may have, if it be proved of real value, will entitle you to an ample reward."

"I reckon ye don't quite ketch on ter my drift," replied Uncle Terry. "I didn't cum here lookin' fer pay, but to see that justice was sarved and them as had rights got thar dues."

"Well, sir," said Frye, in a suave voice, "we too are looking to see the ends of justice served, but you must understand that in a matter of this importance we must make no mistakes. An estate awaits a claimant, but that claimant must establish his or her identity beyond the shadow of a doubt, in order, as you must see, that justice may be done."

"Wal," replied Uncle Terry, stroking his chin with his thumb and finger while he deliberated, "I s'pose I may as well tell ye fust as last. I cum here for that purpose, an' all I want to fix is, if thar's nothin' in it ye'd keep it a secret and not raise any false hopes in the minds o' them as is near and dear to me."

"It's a lawyer's professional duty never to disclose any business confidence that a client may confide to him," answered Frye with dignity, "and in this matter I infer you wish to become my client. Am I right, Mr. Terry?"

"I didn't cum here exactly purposin' to hire ye," answered Uncle Terry; "I cum to find what's in the wind, an', if 'twas likely to 'mount to anything, to tell all I knew an' see that them as had rights got justice. As I told ye in the fust on't, I'm keeper o' the light at the end o' Southport Island, an' have been for thirty year.

"One night in March, just nineteen year ago comin' this spring, thar was a small bark got a-foul o' White Hoss Ledge right off'n the pint and stayed thar hard an' fast. I seen her soon as 'twas light, but thar was nothin' that could be done but build a fire an' stand an' watch the poor critters go down. Long toward noon I spied a bundle workin' in, an' when it struck I made fast to it with a boat hook an' found a baby inside an' alive. My wife an' I took care on't, and have been doing so ever since. It was a gal baby and she growed up into a young lady. 'Bout ten years ago we took out papers legally adoptin' her, an' so she's ourn. From a paper we found pinned to her clothes, we learned her name was Etelka Peterson, an' that her mother, an' we supposed her father, went down that day right in sight o' us. Thar was a locket round the child's neck, an' a couple o' rings in the box, an' we have kept 'em an' the papers an' all her baby clothes ever since. That's the hull story."

"How did this child live to get ashore?" asked Frye, keenly interested.

"That's the curis part," replied Uncle Terry; "she was put in a box an' tied 'tween two feather beds an' cum ashore dry as a duck."

Frye stroked his nose reflectively, stooping over as he did and watching his visitor with hawk-like eyes.

"A very well-told tale, Mr. Terry," he said at last. "A very well-told tale indeed! Of course you have retained all the articles you say were found on the child?"

"Yes, we've kept 'em all, you may be sure," replied Uncle Terry.

"And why did you never make any official report of this wreck and of the facts you state?" asked Frye.

"I did at the time," answered Uncle Terry, "but nothin' cum on't. I guess my report is thar in Washington now, if it ain't lost."

"And do I understand you wish to retain me as your counsel in this matter, and lay claim to this estate, Mr. Terry?" continued Frye.

"Wal, I've told ye the facts," replied Uncle Terry, "an' if the gal's got money comin' I'd like to see her git it. What's goin' to be the cost o' doin' the business?"

"The matter of expense is hard to state in such a case as this," answered Frye cautiously. "The estate is a large one; there may be, and no doubt will be, other claimants; litigation may follow, and so the cost is an uncertain one. I shall be glad to act for you in this matter, and will do so if you retain me."

It is said that those who hesitate are lost, and at this critical moment Uncle Terry hesitated.

He did not like the looks of Frye. He suspected him to be what he was—a shrewd, smooth, plausible villain. Had he obeyed his first impulse he would have picked up his hat and left Frye to wash his hands with invisible soap, and laid his case before some other lawyer, but he hesitated. Frye, he knew, had the matter in his hands and might make the claim that his story was false and fight it with all the legal weapons Uncle Terry so much dreaded. In the end he decided to put the matter in Frye's hands and hope for the best.

"I shall want you to send me a detailed story of this wreck, sworn to by yourself and wife," said Frye, "also all the articles found on this child; and I will lay your affidavits before the attorneys for this estate, and report progress to you later on."

When Uncle Terry turned his face towards home his pocket was lighter by two hundred dollars. With most of us when we take an uncertain step, the farther we get from it the more sure we become that it was an unwise one, and it was so with Uncle Terry.

"I s'posed I'd git skinned," he muttered to himself after he was well on his way home, "an' I reckon I have! That dum thief, like all the rest o' lawyers, knows a farmer at sight, an' when he ketches one he takes his hay! He's taken mine fur sartin an' I begin to think I'm a consarned old fool, that don't know 'nuff to go in when it rains! How I'm goin' to git the wimmin to give up them trinkets, 'thout 'lowin' I've lost my senses, is one too many fur me!"



CHAPTER XV

THE VALUE OF GOOD EXAMPLE

It has been well said that we grow to be like our nearest neighbors, and the effect of Albert Page's vigorous efforts to attain success was not lost upon his friend Frank.

After their Christmas visit to Sandgate Albert had applied himself diligently to the care of Mr. Nason's legal needs. This brought him into contact with other business men and the fact that John Nason employed him easily secured for him other clients. In two months he not only had Mr. Nason's affairs to look after, but all his remaining time was taken up by others'. He had spent several evenings at the Nasons' home, and found the family a much more agreeable one than Frank had led him to expect. Both that young man's sisters were bright and agreeable young ladies, and though a little affected, they treated him with charming courtesy and extended to him a cordial invitation to have his sister make them a visit. A good-looking, well-educated, and well-behaved young man, no matter if he is poor, will find favor wherever he goes, and Albert was no exception.

Since the day he had shaken his fist at the closed door of Mr. Frye's law office he had met that hawk-nosed lawyer twice and received only a chilling bow. The memory of that contemptible contract he had tacitly allowed Frye to consider as made brought a blush to his face every time he thought of it, but he kept his own counsel. Once or twice he had been on the point of telling Frank the whole story, but had refrained, feeling it would do no good, and might cause trouble. He was a thorough believer in the truism that if you give a calf rope enough, he will hang himself, and a rascal time, he will get caught.

In his intimate relations with John Nason he saw enough to satisfy himself that Frye's insinuation against that busy man's character was entirely false. Mr. Nason seldom spent an evening away from his home, and when he did, it was to attend the theatre with his family.

After their visit to Sandgate Frank and himself naturally drifted into more intimate relations, and a day seldom passed that Frank did not step into his office for a chat.

"Don't mind me, Bert," that uneasy man would say when he saw that Page was busy, "and if you don't want me to talk any time, tell me to shut up. I shan't feel offended. The fact is, I don't know what to do with myself. If it were only summer I'd go off on the 'Gypsy,' even if I had to go alone."

One evening at the club he made Albert a rather surprising proposition. Albert, who seldom entered into any card games, and only occasionally played pool or billiards, was in the reading-room as usual enjoying a cigar and the evening "Journal" when Frank drew up a chair and sat down. They were alone, and as Page laid his paper aside to chat with Frank, whom he really liked very much, despite the fact that that young man bothered him a good deal, Frank said:

"Do you know, I am getting absolutely tired and sick of doing nothing. Ever since I left college I've been an idler, and I can't say I'm enjoying it. I arise in the morning and wonder how I can manage to get through the day. I read the papers, go down to the store, up to the club, down to your office, back to the club to lunch, and maybe play pool for an hour or two with some poor devil as lonesome as I am, or go to the matinee, and in the evening only do I begin to enjoy myself a little. I am beginning to realize that a life of idleness is a beastly bore, and I am sick of it. I want you to let me come into your office and study law; will you?"

Albert looked at him a moment, while an amused smile crept over his face.

"Do you know what that means?" he responded at last. "Do you know that to read law means two years, perhaps, of close application and perseverance? In my case I had the spur of necessity to urge me on and even with that stimulus it was a dry, hard grind. With you, who have all the money you need and are likely to, it will be much worse. I respect your feeling and I admire your determination very much, and, of course, do not wish to discourage you. You are more than welcome to my office and law books, and I will gladly help you all I can," and then after a moment's reflection he added, "I believe it's a wise step, and I'll be very glad to have you with me. You can help me out in a good many ways also that will advance you even faster than steady reading."

He was surprised at the look of pleasure that came into Frank's face.

"I had half expected you would try to discourage me," said he, "and it's very kind of you to promise to help me."

"Why shouldn't I?" answered Page. "I owe you a good deal more than that, my dear boy, and when you have been admitted we will go into a partnership if you want to do it."

"Here's my hand on it," said Frank, rising, "and I mean it, too, and if you will have patience with me I'll stick it out or own up I'm no good in this world." He seemed overjoyed and for two hours they sat and talked it over. "When may I begin?" he said finally. "I want to go at it right away."

"To-morrow morning at nine o'clock sharp," replied Albert, smiling, "and I warn you I shall keep you grinding eight full hours, six days a week, and no let-up until July first. But tell me, when did this sensible and eminently laudable idea enter your head?"

"Well, to be exact, it came to me in the parlor of your house in Sandgate, just at dark, the last evening I was there, and a remark your sister made to me was the cause of it."

A droll smile crept over Albert's face at this frank admission, but he made no reply, and as he scanned his friend's face, now turned slightly away from him, and recalled that last evening at home, and how Alice had so persistently devoted herself to the entertainment of this young man, a revelation came to him.

"So it's that heart-breaker's blue eyes that have begun to work mischief in Frank's feelings, is it?" he said to himself, after he had left the club, and he almost laughed aloud at the thought. "Sis has some rather pronounced ideas about idleness, and maybe she has read my young friend a lesson in a few words. She is capable of it!"

When Frank, true to his promise, came to the office next morning, Albert set him to work and made sure to give him all possible encouragement.

"I think far more of you, Frank," he said earnestly, "for this good resolve, and when you get fairly into it and begin to take an interest you will be glad you took hold. I believe every one in this world is happier and healthier for having an occupation, and certainly you will be."

It must be recorded that Frank showed a persevering spirit as the weeks went by, and he became, as Page predicted, thoroughly interested, and an earnest student. In a way, too, he was a help to Albert, for he could call on him any time to find some references or some decision bearing on a case in hand. It was soon after Frank's new departure in life that Alice received a letter from her brother, and among other things he wrote:

"What was it you said to Frank the last evening of our visit at home? He has decided to study law in my office and admits his sensible resolution to do so was the result of a remark you made then. Knowing what a fine vein of sarcasm you are blessed with (as well as bewitching ways), I am curious to know what sort of an arrow you drew from your quiver that evening."

But Albert was not adroit enough to obtain a confession from his keen-witted sister, and thereby be enabled to joke her a little about it, for she never replied to his question.



CHAPTER XVI

SWEET ALICE

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown?" Old Song.

Every person we meet in life makes an impression on us, varying from the faintest shadow that soon vanishes to a vivid one that lasts as long as memory.



Alice Page's first impression of Frank Nason did not do him justice. She thought him a big, good-natured, polite boy, rather conscious that he was likely to be sought after, and disposed to sulk if he wasn't. His plea for sympathy on the score that his life of idleness was a bore, which he made the day they went sleighing, only provoked her derision, and as she was disposed to judge all men by the standard of her self-reliant brother, he came near awakening contempt on her part. It was not until the last evening of his visit that she discovered her mistake and realized that he had more depth of character than she had thought. It is likely the keen enjoyment which he seemed to feel when she sang for him had weight, for we are prone to like those who like us, and it was natural also that she should feel a little gratitude for what he had done for her brother.

Her life, hidden away as she was in a by-way corner of a country town, and seeing no one all the week except her small band of pupils, gave her plenty of time for thought, and there was no young man in the village whose company she would tolerate if she could help it. Once a week, usually on Saturday, she received a letter from her brother, and that, together with the mild excitement of Sunday church-going, was all that broke the monotony of her life.

A week after the Christmas visit she received a package containing a new book, three of the latest popular songs, and a box of candy, and pinned to the candy Frank Nason's card, on the back of which was written: "For the girl who wanted to kiss her teacher."

She wrote a polite note of thanks, and then, feeling that she would soon be forgotten by him, and not caring much whether she was or not, settled down to the unvarying round of her daily life. It was mid-winter, and two weeks after her brother wrote that Frank had begun studying law in his office, when she received a letter from that young man that surprised her. He wrote:

MY DEAR MISS PAGE: I trust you will pardon me for intruding myself upon you, but I wish you to know that a few pointed words spoken by you while I was enjoying your hospitality have not been forgotten, and have influenced me to make an effort to be something better than an idler in the world. Your brother kindly consented to let me read law in his office, and I am now hard at it. I do not imagine this will interest you, but I felt that you had scant respect for useless people, and as you could rightly so regard me, I wanted you to know that I am capable of rising above my aimless life.

I have recalled so many times all the little incidents of my visit to your home, and lived over those evenings graced by your presence, and lit by a cheerful fire, time and again. Do not think me insincere when I assure you they were the most delightful ones I ever passed. If you find time to write a line to one who is now a worker in the hive instead of a drone, it will be gratefully received by me.

To a girl with Alice Page's sympathetic nature and tender feelings, words like these made her feel she was what she most enjoyed being—an inspiration and help to others. In this respect Frank Nason had read her better than she had read him, or else some fortunate intuition had led him aright. She answered the letter at once, thanking him for his flattering words, but forbidding him to use any more of them.

"I do not like flattery," she wrote, "because no one ever can feel quite sure it is sincere. I will answer all your letters if you will promise not to tell Bert we are corresponding. Not that I am ashamed of it by any means, but he is inclined to tease me and I love him so dearly I can't bear to have him do so. The little girl you sent the candy to was both astonished and grateful. I did not tell her who sent it, for the fact would have been all over town in a week if I had, and I do not like to be gossiped about. I merely told her a good fairy had sent it, which was better."

Once a week thereafter Alice received a long letter from Frank and as regularly answered it. It is needless to say that she soon began to anticipate them and that they added much to her monotonous life. Frank wisely refrained from any expression of love, though Alice felt sure he was likely to make such expression in person if ever he had an opportunity to do so. No woman, much less a keenly sensitive young woman like her, is ever long in doubt as to a man's feelings, and Alice Page, whose heart had never felt a stronger emotion than love for her brother, knew the moment she read her admirer's first letter that its well-considered words were really inspired by Cupid. More than that, she felt sure that his commendable efforts to become a useful professional man, instead of a badly bored idler, were due to the hope that the effort would find favor in her eyes. In all these surmises it is needless to say her feminine intuition was quite correct.

That her brother also surmised the truth is quite likely, though he wisely kept these thoughts to himself for good and sufficient reasons.

"Frank is getting along nicely," he wrote Alice, in the early spring; "I believe he has the making of a capable lawyer in him. He grinds away harder than I ever did when reading law, and has never yet complained of how dry and dull it all is. He is a big, warm-hearted fellow, too, and I am growing more fond of him every day. He is more devoted to me than a brother, and we have made a lot of plans for a month's outing on the 'Gypsy' this coming summer. I like his family very much, and Mrs. Nason and both her daughters have invited me to bring you down when your school closes to make them a visit. I think I shall run up in June, and stay over Sunday, and bring Frank with me. I imagine he would like to come, for once in a while I overhear him humming 'Ben Bolt.'"

"A very nicely worded little plot; but don't you imagine, my dear Bert, I do not see through it!" was the mental comment of Alice when she read the letter. "The young gentleman has bravely set to work to become a man instead of a cipher; my brother likes him; he whistles 'Ben Bolt;' my brother is to bring him up here again; I am expected to fall in love with Mr. Cipher that was, and help him spend his money, and I am to be barely tolerated by mamma and both sisters! A most charming plot, surely, but it takes two to make a bargain. I think I know just the sort of people mamma and sisters are. He told me she read him a lecture every time he danced twice with a poor girl, and now I am expected to walk into the same trap, and cringe to her ladyship, for the sin of being poor. I guess not! I'll teach school till I die first, and he can think of me as having a 'slab of granite so gray' to keep me in place."

But this diplomatic "Sweet Alice" wrote to her brother: "I am delighted that you are coming up, for I am so lonesome, and the weeks drag so hard! Bring your friend up, by all means, and I'll sing 'Ben Bolt' until he hates the name of Sweet Alice. The country will be looking finely then, and he can go over to the cemetery, and select the corner I am to occupy. Pardon the joke, and don't tell him I uttered it."

To Frank she wrote: "Be sure to come up with Bert. I will sing all the old songs, and the new ones you have sent me, as well. If you come up on a Thursday you may visit my school Friday afternoon, if you will behave, and then you can see the girl you sent the candy to. She wears a calico pinafore, and comes to school barefooted."

Consistency, thy name is woman!

From all this it may be inferred that Alice was just a little coquettish, and that verdict is no doubt true. Like all her charming sex who are blessed with youth and beauty, she was perfectly conscious of it, and quite willing to exert its magic power on a susceptible young man with dark curly hair and earnest brown eyes. Neither was she impervious to the fact that this said young man was a possible heir to plenty of money. She never had much lavished on her, and, while not having suffered for the necessaries of life, she had had to deny herself all luxuries, and, most vexatious denial of all, a new gown and hat many times when she needed them. Her tactful reply to her brother's letter, coupled with his own sincere affection for her, brought her a response by return mail in the form of a check for one hundred dollars, with explicit orders to spend every cent of it before he came.

Whether she did or not we will leave to the imagination of all young ladies so situated.



CHAPTER XVII

A BY-WAY SCHOOLHOUSE

Sandgate was just budding forth in a new suit of green, the meadows dotted with white and yellow daisies, and here and there a bunch of tiger lilies waved in the breeze, when one Friday afternoon the teacher at the north district school heard a knock.

The class in reading, then in evidence, were halted in their sing-song of concert utterance and Alice Page opened the door to find two stalwart young men standing there. With a quick impulse of propriety she stepped out and closed the door behind her, only to find herself clasped in a big brother's arms and to receive a smack that was heard by every pupil in the little schoolroom. With a very red face she freed herself and then presented a small hand to the other young man with the remark:

"I think you are both just as mean as you can be to surprise me in this way!"

Her eyes told a different tale, however, and when explanations were duly made, the two visitors were invited inside and given seats. The class in reading was then dismissed and that in spelling called to what was now seemingly to them an unexpected misery. A bombshell, or a ghost at the window, would not have produced any more consternation than those two strange visitors. This class, that one by one filed up in front of the teacher's desk, and ranged themselves in line, stood trembling, and the boy at the head, to whom was put the first word, was unable to utter a sound. The next one spelled it wrong, and it was tried by two others and finally spelled right by a girl who could hardly do better than whisper it. She was told to go to the head, and after that the rest did better. The search for knowledge in that school had received a set-back, however, for that day, and Alice decided to do the wisest thing and dismiss her band of pupils without delay. When the room was cleared of them she turned to her two callers and said with mock seriousness: "The first class in deportment will now define propriety."

"Propriety is—is—Propriety," replied her brother, "consists in two young men surprising one small and very saucy schoolma'am and letting a lot of imprisoned boys and girls escape to the woods and enjoy an extra hour of freedom."

"Not right," said Alice severely; "the next pupil will now answer."

"Propriety," answered Frank, "consists in two young men escaping from the city and relieving one tired school-teacher from her duty and permitting her to go and gather flowers if she will. But which was the girl you told the fairy tale to, Miss Page?" he added, as Alice began putting her books away.

"The only one in the spelling-class you two bold bad men didn't scare half out of her wits," she answered.

Frank walked about the room, peering curiously at its rather primitive fittings. Around three sides extended a breast-high shelf, carved and cut by many a jack-knife, and beneath it a narrower one where books and slates were stowed. In front were rows of backless benches for seats, and in the centre of the room an open stove shaped like a fireplace. Around this were three long, low seats with backs, and on the sides where the door was, a desk stood on a low platform. Back of this a large blackboard formed part of the wall, one end covered by the multiplication tables. No part of the room was plastered, and overhead the bare brown stringers held extra benches kept there for use on examination days.

"So this is what you call a temple of learning," he remarked, as he surveyed the barn-like room; "it is a curiosity to me, and the first time I was ever in an old-time country schoolhouse. I should like to peep through one of the knot-holes some day, and watch the performances, and hear a scared boy speak a piece."

"You had better not try it," answered Alice, "unless you want two or three farmers to swoop down on you, armed with scythes, and demanding to know what you are doing there."

When she had locked the schoolhouse door they got into the carriage the two young men had come in, and left the forlorn little temple to the solitude of the trees and bushes that almost hid it from sight.

"I will stop in the village," said Albert, as they drove away, "and leave you two to go home or take a ride, as suits you best; only mind, be home by tea-time, for I shall be hungry."

There is no time when a drive along wooded country roads is more charming than when the trees are fast growing green, and the meadows spangled with daisies and buttercups.

"Let's go around by the mill-pond," said Alice, after leaving her brother in the village; "that's where we went skating last Christmas, and the road to it follows the brook up a mile. We may find a few lilies in the pond."

The brook beside which they were soon walking the horse was a charming bit of scenery as it came leaping over mossy ledges, laughing, chattering, and filling the pools with foam flecks, and the old mill, with its great wheel dripping and clattering, and the mill itself, proved even a greater curiosity to Frank than the schoolhouse. He hitched the horse, and helping his fair companion to alight, the two went inside the mill and watched the rumbling wheels. Alice introduced her escort to the miller, and after they had been shown the mysteries of grinding he invited them out to the pond, and after bailing the old leaky boat so it was usable, the two visitors started after the lilies.

"Mind you don't tip me over," said Alice. "I can't swim."

"If I do I'll rescue you or drown with you," he answered gallantly. What silly nothings these two young people uttered as they made the circuit of that long wood-bordered mill-pond need not be recorded. One at least was just tasting the first sweet illusion of love, and the glassy surface of the water that reflected the trees bending over it, the bunches of water flag growing here and there, and the scattered patches of broad lily pads with now and then a white blossom, made a most picturesque background for the girl who sat in the stern. Her piquant face, shaded by a broad sun-hat, was fairer to his eyes than any of the lilies she plucked, and as she drew one sleeve up a little to reach for them, the round arm and dimpled hand she thrust into the water looked tempting enough to kiss. The miller had shut the gate and gone home when they returned to the mill, and when Alice, with both her wet hands full of lilies, was helped into the carriage, Frank said: "I am sorry that dusty old miller has gone. I wanted to give him five dollars for his kindness."

"He would think you insane if you did," answered Alice.

"Many a man has lost his wits with less provocation," replied Frank pointedly, "and I feel indebted to him for his help to one of the most charming hours I ever passed."

"That is all right," responded Alice; "he has known me ever since I was a little tot in short dresses and rode to mill with father. He would do more for me than bail his boat out."

"Do you know," remarked Frank, when they had left the mill behind and were driving through a bit of woods, "that I have anticipated this visit for weeks? I know scarcely anything about the country and it is all a revelation to me. I've seen pictures of old mills and ponds covered with lilies, but no painter can ever put the reality on canvas. Why, that great wheel covered with moss and churning away all day, so steadily, with a willow bending over it, is a poem in itself!"

"The mill was built over a hundred years ago," observed Alice, "and has been grinding away ever since. I love to visit it, for it takes me back to childhood and," she added a little sadly, "it makes me live over the happiest days of my life, when father used to take me with him everywhere he went."

"'But the mill will never grind with the water that has passed,'" quoted Frank, "'and the tender grace of a day that is dead will never come back again, 'tis said.' I wish I had been country born. I think I've missed countless pages of pleasant memories. Do you know," he added, turning to his companion, "I am rapidly falling in love with the country and—and its pretty sights?"

It was in his heart to say "you" as he saw the half-pathetic expression on his companion's face and noted the sad droop of her sweet mouth, but his courage failed him.

He was enough in love with her already to begin to feel afraid of her. "I must bide my time," he thought; "she is not to be won easily, and a word too soon may spoil all."

"Whose idea was it to pounce upon me that way at school?" exclaimed Alice suddenly, throwing off her retrospective mood and smiling again. "Was it yours or Bert's?"

"I confess I did it with my little hatchet," answered Frank; "I coaxed Bert to do it. We had to take the train at five o'clock in the morning and have coffee and rolls at the station for breakfast and pie and sandwiches for dinner."

"And all to surprise one poor little schoolma'am and break up her school," put in Alice; "was it worth all that annoyance?"

"Up to the present moment," answered Frank, "I must honestly say it was. This drive and the mill I consider cheap at any price."

"I don't mean this part of the surprise," said Alice, blushing a little at his open admiration, "and you know it." And then in self-defence she added, "What has become of the 'Gypsy'? Bert writes me that you two are planning trips in her already."

"She is still in winter quarters," answered Frank. "I've been too busy studying law to do more than think of her. I've reformed, you know."

Alice made no reply. The memory of what he had so evidently wished her to infer regarding his reasons for this new departure came to her in an instant and brought a little wonderment as to the possible outcome of it. Turn which way she would, and propose what topic she might, he seemed bound to use it as a vehicle of his undisguised admiration. She had wished to consider him as a friend, because he had been a friend to her adored brother when that brother needed one, and while she had written him a dozen chatty letters which might be printed for all the privacy they contained, she had studiously refrained from allowing him to infer, even, that she had any special interest in his actions. That he came to woo her, he was plainly allowing her to infer by every word and look, and she had feminine wit enough to see that it was earnest wooing, and not the simulated article usually designated as gallantry.

"I must avoid giving him opportunities," she said to herself, "or he will make some rash declaration and spoil our pleasant acquaintance."

When they arrived home Albert was on the piazza and Aunt Susan had supper waiting. The table was set with blue ware of a very old and quaint pattern, and when Alice had filled a bowl with lilies for a centrepiece they gathered around and "passed things" in true country fashion. The evening was unusually warm for June, and after the two young men had smoked and chatted for half an hour, Alice appeared dressed in spotless white, with a half-open lily in her hair and another at her throat. The moon, which was nearing its full, shone through the open spaces of the vine-clad porch and added an ethereal touch to the sylph-like picture she presented, and one that was certainly not lost upon Frank at least.

"Well," she remarked cheerfully, as she seated herself near her brother, "my time is yours, and what can I do to entertain you?"

"I had planned to take Frank to a trout brook to-morrow morning," responded Albert, "and in the afternoon you and he can hunt for mill-ponds and grottoes if you like, or gather laurel."

"And leave me alone all the forenoon!" put in Alice. "No, thank you. I'm shut up for five days and you can't get rid of me so easily. Why can't I go too?"

"I'm agreeable," replied her brother, "only a trout brook is not nice walking for a lady."

"I'm aware of that," she responded, "and you two can go fishing and I'll hunt for laurel in the meantime. We can take a basket of lunch with us and make a day of it in the woods." Then, as a possible contingency presented itself to her, she added, "Why not let me invite my friend, Abby Miles, to go for company? She and I can pick laurel, and when you have caught all the harmless little trout you want, we can meet where we leave the wagon and have a picnic."

"That suits me," said her brother, and without waiting for further discussion this diplomatic fairy in white arose and remarked, "I'll get a shawl, and then I'll trouble you, Mr. Nason, to escort me over to Abby's. It's only a few rods, and I want you to meet her. She's ever so nice."

From this it may be inferred that our "Sweet Alice" had resolved to protect herself against any romantic tete-a-tetes in the woods with a certain well-intentioned but presuming young man who might desire to play Romeo.

This was not quite to his taste, but he had the good sense not to show it, and all the next day he divided his attentions impartially between the two young ladies. The plan as mapped by Alice was carried out to the letter, and when the two young men joined the girls at noon they found a broad flat rock in the woods had been covered with a tablecloth and spread with a tempting meal. The girls had gathered great bunches of that beautiful flower pink laurel, and a cluster of it decked the table. After dinner our imperious Alice insisted that they visit the mill-pond once more, and when they returned at night, with two baskets of trout, and laurel and pond lilies enough to stock a flower stand, the day was voted an eminent success.

Frank made one error, however, for just before they left the mill he slipped away unobserved, and finding the miller, put a bit of paper into his hand with the remark, "Keep this to pay for the boat," and left him hurriedly. When the old man made examination he found he had a five-dollar bill. To surprises of this kind he was not accustomed, and before noon the next day there wasn't a man, woman, or child in Sandgate who had not heard of it.



CHAPTER XVIII

VILLAGE GOSSIP

"What care I what the world may say, So long as I have my way to-day?— For this dear old world, This queer old world, With tongue like sands of the sea, Is never so gay As when wagging away, And talking of you and of me."

That evening Frank begged for music, and Alice sung for two long hours. At least they might have seemed long to any but an enraptured young man who had for the entire day been kept from uttering one of the many love-lorn words that filled his heart. Albert, who had been informed by Alice that if he deserted her for a single moment that evening or the next he need never bring his friend there again, sat outside on the porch and close by the window, smoking incessantly and smiling to himself at the clever tactics of his charming but coy sister. When the concert was ended he observed, "If there's one song in the house that you have not sung, Alice, I wish you would sing it. I hate to have you omit any."

"I have only sung what I was asked to," she replied; "is not that so, Mr. Nason?"

"That is true," replied he boldly, "and you have not sung one that I wouldn't enjoy hearing again to-night."

"Oh, I have enjoyed them all," said Albert, "only I thought you might have missed one, and as Frank remarked coming home that he was hungry for music, I wanted him satisfied."

The next day, as usual, they attended church, only this time all three walked back together, although Albert felt that he was one too many, and all the afternoon and evening it was the same. But Alice was graciousness personified. All her jokes and smiles and all her conversation were lavished upon Frank. It may be that she wished to make amends for the opportunities she knew he was anxious to obtain but could not, for the most charming of women have a little of the feline instinct in their nature, and whether there is any response to a man's wooing in their hearts or not, they love to enjoy their power. Several times Frank, who intuitively felt she did not wish to be left alone with him, started to ask her to take a walk that Sunday evening, but each time his discretion prevailed. "If she is willing to listen to any love-making, she has tact enough to give me a chance," he thought, "and unless she is, I'd better keep still." Which would show he had at least a faint inkling of woman's ways. The evening was one to tempt Cupid, for the moonlight fell checkered through the half-naked elms along the roadway, and where here and there a group of maples stood was a bit of shadow. The whippoorwills had just returned to Sandgate, and over the meadows scattered fireflies twinkled. The houses along the way to the village were wide apart and the evening air just right for a loitering walk. To Frank, anxious to say a few words that would further his hopes in the direction of this bewitching girl, it seemed a waste of good time not to take advantage of the evening. It was almost past, and the lights in the houses across the valley had long since vanished when he obtained a little consolation.

The charm of the evening had stilled conversation and no one had spoken for a long time when he said, rather disconsolately, "My anticipated visit is almost over. May I ask you to go in and sing just one song for me, Miss Page?"

"With pleasure," she responded in her sweetest tone, "what shall it be?"

"I will leave that to your selection," he replied.

Without a word she led the way in and began searching among the pile of music on the piano, and finding what she wanted, opened and spread the music on the rack.

It was "Ben Bolt."

She sang it in a minor key, and as the opening words,

"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,"

floated out on the still evening air, they seemed to him fraught with a new meaning and that a veritable sweet Alice was bidding him, another Ben Bolt, not to forget her. When the last note had faded into the night air, she turned her now serious eyes toward him and said:

"Did I guess right?"

How much he longed to take that fair girl in his arms then and there and ask her to be his own sweet Alice need not be specified. For a moment her tender blue eyes met his brown ones, and then they fell.

"I am glad I did not make a mistake," she said softly.

"I thank you," he almost whispered, "and there won't be many waking moments in my future when I shall not think of—sweet Alice!"

It was not much of a love scene, but to him it seemed a wide-open door of hope, and when many miles separated them, and for days, weeks, and months afterward, even when doing his best to crowd dull law reports into his brain, the one tender glance she gave him and the tones of her voice came back with unfailing accuracy.

There is no spot where every one knows everybody else's business and discusses it that is quite equal in this way to a small country town, and Sandgate was no exception. The first visit of Frank Nason to the Page home, his sleigh-rides with Alice, and his appearance at church had caused no end of comment. It was known that he had been a classmate of Albert's and came from Boston, and later Aunt Susan vouch-safed the information that she "guessed he came from one o' the first families and that he appeared right well behaved."

It was all she really did know, for both Alice and her brother were considerate of her failings and knew it was not safe to discuss their visitor in her presence. The tempest of gossip had not more than half quieted down when it received a regular boom from his second coming. The pupils of the north end district school spread the news of their teacher's unexpected callers; that they heard her kiss one, and which one they did not know; and that she had dismissed school at once and gone on with the stranger. Old Amos Curtis, the miller, told of their visit, and, wonder upon wonder, how the next day "her beau" had given him a five-dollar bill "jest fer lettin' 'em use a leaky old boat fer an hour."

The buxom Abby Miles had the best and longest story to tell, and her praise of Mr. Nason, how polite he was, and "how he couldn't keep his eyes off'n Alice all the afternoon," was whispered to every girl she knew. The five-dollar incident created the most gossip, however. The miller had remarked that a "young feller who threw money 'round that way must be rich," and that remark soon grew into a story that Alice Page's beau was worth a million, and that she was engaged to him.

As might be expected, the subject of all this gossip heard none of it until the storm had reached alarming proportions. Some of the village swains who had tried to pay court to her and failed were inclined to sneer at the "smart young man from the city" who had cut them out; but the older people and the girls were disposed to congratulate her upon what they considered her good luck. It was this inclination that led Mrs. Mears to be the first one to tell the extent of the gossip.

"They tell me," said that worthy matron to Alice one Sunday, after church, "that you ain't likely to teach school after this summer."

"And why not?" answered Alice, conscious that she was likely to hear a choice bit of gossip; "don't I give satisfaction?"

"Oh, 'tain't that," was the answer; "I guess you can imagine the reason and I want to be the first to congratulate you. They tell me he's worth a pile o' money, an' he's sartinly well favored, so far as looks goes, but then, 'handsome is as handsome does' was allus my motto."

Alice colored.

"Do you mean Mr. Nason, my brother's friend?" she said nervously.

"Why, who else would I mean?" responded Mrs. Mears. "I've heard that you was to be married this fall, and that he is worth a million. They say he told Amos Curtis he was, though I don't believe that, but anyway, Amos says he gave him five dollars 'jest fer usin' his old boat that wa'n't worth splittin' up for kindlin's!'"

It was all out now, and in a moment Alice saw through the whole story and up to its source. For one instant she felt as if the entire town was staring at her, and grew correspondingly red. It was unfortunate, for several besides Mrs. Mears were observing her and drew their own conclusions. As for the worthy gossiper who had enlightened Alice, the blush she saw rise on her cheeks and spread until it glowed all over her face and throat was confirmation enough.