"Tell me, Uncle Terry," said Albert, "why it is she feels so extremely sensitive regarding her romantic history, and what is the cause of the peculiar moods you spoke of last summer? I noticed it last evening, and it pained me very much."

"It's hard tellin'," was the answer, "she's a girl that's given ter broodin' a good deal, an' mebbe when she was told the facts she began ter suspect some o' her ancestors would be lookin' her up some day. She allus has been a good deal by herself sence she got her schoolin', an' most likely doin' lots o' thinkin'. But Telly's all right," he added briefly, "an' the most willin' an' tender-hearted creetur I ever seen or heard on. She'll make an amazin' good wife fer some man, if she ever finds the right 'un."

It is needless to say some one else in the boat echoed that belief in thought. When they reached the island Uncle Terry landed, and going to the top of a cliff, scanned the sea for signs of fish.

"Mackerel's curus fish," he observed to Albert, who had followed. "They's a good deal like some wimmin: ye never know whar ter find 'em. Yesterday mornin' that cove jest inside o' the pint was 'live with 'em, an' to-day I can't see a sign o' one. We better sit here an' wait a spell till I sight a school."

To a dreamer like Albert Page the limitless ocean view he now enjoyed lifted him far above mackerel and their habits. His mind was also occupied a good deal by Telly, and while he desired to please the kindly old man who imagined fishing would entertain him, his heart was not in it.

"Don't let us worry about the mackerel, Uncle Terry," he observed as they seated themselves on top of a cliff, "this lone, uninhabited island and the view here will content me until your fish are hungry."

"It allus sets me thinkin' too," was the answer, "an' wonderin' whar we cum from and what we air here for. An' our stay is so amazin' short besides! We air born, grow up, work a spell, git old and die, an' that's the end. Why, it don't seem only last year when I cum to the Cape, an' it's goin' nigh on to thirty now, an' I'm a'most through my spell o' life. What puzzles me," he added, "is what's the good o' bein' born at all if ye've got ter die so soon! An' more'n all that, if life's the Lord's blessin', as the widder b'lieves, why are so many only born to suffer, or be crippled all their lives? An' why are snakes an' all sorts o' vermin, to say nothin' o' cheatin' lawyers, like Frye, ever born at all?"

Albert smiled at the odd coupling of Frye with vermin. "There are a good many wiser heads than mine, Uncle Terry, that have never been able to answer your question," he replied, "and I doubt if they ever will. To my mind the origin of life is an enigma, the wide variations in matters of health and ability an injustice, and the end a blank wall that none who scale ever recross with tidings of the beyond. As some one has expressed it: 'Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities! We strive in vain to look beyond the heights; we cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry.'"

"An' right thar," put in Uncle Terry earnestly, "is whar I allus envy the believers, as the widder calls 'em, for they are satisfied what is beyond and have it all pict'rd out in thar minds, even to what the streets are paved with, an' the kind o' music they're goin' ter have. It's all guesswork in my way o' thinkin', but they are sure on't, an' that feelin' is lots o' comfort to 'em when they are drawin' near the end. I've been a sort er scoffer all my life," he added reflectively, "an' can't help bein' a doubter, but there are times when I envy Aunt Leach an' the rest on' em the delusion I b'lieve they're laborin' under."

"But do you believe death ends all consciousness?" asked Albert seriously. "Have you no hope, ever, of a life beyond this blank wall?"

"Sartin I have hopes," replied Uncle Terry at once, "same as all on us has, but I wish I was more sure my hopes was goin' ter be realized. Once in a while I git the feelin' thar ain't no use in hopin', an' then a little suthin keeps sayin' 'Mebbe—mebbe—mebbe'—an' I feel more cheerful again."

Albert looked at the roughly clad and withered old man who sat near, and in whose words lurked an undertone of sadness mingled with a faint hope, and in an instant back came a certain evening months before when the Widow Leach had uttered a prayer that had stirred his feelings as no such utterance ever had before. All the pathos of that simple petition, all its abiding faith in God's goodness and wisdom, all its utter self-abnegation and absolute confidence in a life beyond the grave, came back, and all the consolation that feeling surely held for the old and poverty-environed soul who uttered it impressed him in sharp contrast to the doubting "mebbe—mebbe" of Uncle Terry.

Then again he thought of all the sneers against faith and religious conviction he had found in the writings of Paine and Voltaire; all the brilliant epigrams and sharp sarcasms he had heard fall from the lips of Ingersoll, and how he had felt a growing belief that faith in the Bible was but an evidence of ignorance and the ear-mark of superstition. Then following that came a contrasting comparison of the peace of mind that was the widow's and the lack of it that was Uncle Terry's, both of whom must feel that only a few short years were left them. And again following the line of comparison, what had he to look forward to when the end of all things earthly drew near? Truly, as he had thought the night that poor but devout old soul had clasped her hands and thanked God for the blessed belief that was her comfort and staff, what availed the doubt and distrust of atheism? All the epigrams of Ingersoll and the sneers of Voltaire served only to remove a hope and left nought to take its place; a hope, the divine solace of which is and will be for all time a blessed ray of light piercing the dark shadow of the beyond; a beacon beside which all the cold philosophy of sceptics will at the end fade away.

Then as Albert looked out to where the waves were breaking upon a ledge, and back again to this old man, sitting with bowed head beside him, a sincere regret that it was not in his power to utter one word that would aid in dispelling the clouds of doubt came to him. "Since I lack in faith myself," he thought, "all I can say will only increase his doubt. I wish I had as much faith as the widow, but I have not, and possibly never shall have." For a long time he sat in silence, living over the years during which scepticism had been slowly but surely growing upon him, and then Uncle Terry suddenly looked up at him. It is likely the old man's keen eyes read at a glance what was in Albert's mind, for he said: "It don't do no good ter brood over this matter o' believin', Mr. Page; I've wished I thought different many a time, an' more so now I'm gittin' near the end o' life, but I can't, an' so thar's no use in worryin'. Our 'pinions 'bout these matters are a good deal due to our bringin' up, and the experiences we've met with. Mine connected with those as has perfessed religion has, to say the least, been unfortnit, but as I said afore, I wish I believed different."

He paused a few moments, watching the ground swells breaking below them on the rocks, and then added sadly: "This hopin' ain't allus best fur some on us either, fur it's hopin' fur some one to cum year after year that's made Telly what she is, an' grieved Lissy an' me more'n she ever knew."

Albert looked curiously at the old man beside him, whose rough garb and storm-beaten face gave so little evidence of the tender heart beneath, and a new feeling of trust and affection came to him. In some ways Uncle Terry seemed so like his own father. Then following that came a sudden impulse to be utterly frank with him.

"Uncle Terry," he said, "I have a little story to tell you, and as it comes close to you, I believe it's right that you should know it. The first time I saw Telly I said to myself, 'That girl is a prize any man may feel proud to win.' I asked her if I might write to her, and what with her few letters, and the little I have seen of her, I feel that she is the one I want for a wife. I have not even hinted it to her yet, and before I do I would like to feel that you are satisfied with me. May I have your consent to win her if I can?"

Uncle Terry reached out and grasped Albert's hand, and shaking it cordially answered: "Ye hev my best wishes in the matter, an' I wouldn't say that if I didn't think ye worthy o' her!" Then he added with a droll smile, "Lissy an' me sorter 'spected that Telly was the magnet that drew ye down here!"

"I thank you for your confidence and consent," replied Albert gratefully, glad that he had spoken. "I am earning an income that is more than sufficient for two, and if Telly will say 'yes,' I shall be the happiest man on earth. And now," he added, "let's go fishing, Uncle Terry."

"I guess it's 'bout time," was the answer, "fur thar's two schools workin' into the cove, an' we'll have some fun."

Three hours after, when they landed at the cove, fairly sated with pulling in the gamy little mackerel, and happy as two boys, Telly met them with a smile and the news that dinner was ready.



CHAPTER XXXVI

A NAMELESS COVE

"We will go in my boat," said Telly the next afternoon when she and her admirer were ready to start on their trip to the cove, and unlocking a small annex to Uncle Terry's boathouse, showed him a dainty cedar craft, cushioned and carpeted. "You may help me launch the 'Sea Shell'" (as the boat was named), she added smiling, "and then you may steer."

"No, that is the lady's privilege in all voyages," he answered, "and we must begin this one right."

It was a good four-mile pull to the mouth of the inlet, and when he helped his fair passenger out he said, "Do you mean to say you rowed up here alone every day to work on that picture, Telly?" and he added hastily, "you will let me call you Telly now, won't you?"

"Why not? All my friends do, and I feel you are my friend." Then she added, "Now I am going to have my revenge and make you pose while I sketch this time. It was the other way before."

"I am glad it is," he said, "for my arms are too tired to use for an hour. How do you want me, flat on the rock fast asleep, the way I was when my boat drifted away?"

"Oh, no," she replied hastily, "that would look as if you were dead, and as this is to be my reminder of you, I want you very much alive." She seemed in unusually good spirits, and in a far brighter mood than usual, and ready to jest and joke with unaffected gayety. As for the pose she wanted Albert to assume, she could not determine which she liked the best.

"I want to sketch you in the position most natural to you here," she said finally, "and must ask you to choose that yourself."

"Let us trim the boat the way mine was that day," he suggested at last, "and I will sit beside it and smoke while you work."

The idea was adopted, and while Telly sketched, he smoked, contented to watch the winsome face, so oblivious of his admiring glances.

"There," she observed, after a half hour of active pencilling, "please lay your cigar aside and look pleasant. I want to catch the expression of your face."

When the sketch was completed she asked if he had any suggestions to make.

"Only one," he replied, "and that is, I would like you in the picture and sitting beside me."

She colored a little at this, for though utterly unused to the polite flatteries of society, she could not mistake his open admiration.

"I would rather not be in it," she replied soberly. "I only want to see you as you are here to-day. It may be a long time before you come to the Cape again."

It was an inadvertent speech, though quite expressive of her feelings, but she had no idea how anxious he was to obtain the insight it gave him.

"Would you like me to come often?" he queried.

"Of course," she answered, turning away her face; "it is so lonesome here, and there is no one I care to talk with except father and mother and Aunt Leach and Mandy Oaks."

Albert's heart began to beat with unusual speed. Never in his life before had he felt the impulse to utter words of love to any woman, and now he was face to face with the sweet though dreaded ordeal. For weal or woe, he could not go back and leave them unsaid. He had planned to say about what he had to Uncle Terry, beginning with a brief history of his life, his income, his hopes, and ending with asking her to share them. But the fortress of a woman's heart is seldom assailed that way, and with the queen of his, alone there beside him in that peaceful nook, where only the tiniest pulse of the ocean rippled on the rocks, he quite forgot his address to this fair judge and jury. "Telly," he said, "I promised to tell you a little story here to-day, but it's all said in a few words. I love you, and I want you to share my life and all that I can do to make you happy." A trifle incoherent, but expressive; and the answer?

For a moment, while the tide of feeling surged through that queen's heart, and into her cheeks, even to the tips of her ears, she was silent, and then as both her hands went to her face, she almost whispered, "Oh, no, no, I cannot! I can never leave father and mother alone here! It would break my heart!"

"But you do care a little for me, don't you, Telly?" he begged, trying to draw her hands away from her blushing face. "Just a little, Telly, only say a little, to give me hope."

And then, as one of the hands he was trying to gain was yielded, and as he softly stroked and then raised it to his lips, she turned her pleading eyes to him and said, "You won't be angry, will you? And you will come and see me once in a while, won't you? And let me paint a picture to give you when you come?"

It may have been the pain in his face added to her own desolation that overcame all else, for now she bowed her head and the tears came. "I thank you for so much, Telly," he answered tenderly, "and God bless you for it. I do not give you up and shall not, if I have to wait all my life for you. I can be patient if I only have hope." He brushed his face with one hand, and still holding hers, arose and drew her up. Then the bold wooer slyly put his arm around her waist, and as he drew her to him he whispered, "Just one, Telly, my sweetheart, to make this spot seem more sacred."

It was not refused.

It is no harm for a man to be refused; instead it is a beneficial tonic, and inevitably makes him realize how serious a step he is asking some good woman to take and how much it means to her. In Albert's case it was tempered by so many consolations, one at least of exquisite sweetness, that he did not really feel it a final refusal. That Telly's heart was very tender toward him he felt sure, and what is more, that in time he would overcome her one objection.

"Come out on the point, dear," he said as she tried to draw herself away, "so we can see the ocean better. I will tell you the story I promised last evening." He still held her a half prisoner, and when they were seated where the waves were beating almost at their feet, he began his recital. When he came to that portion in which Frye played a part, and ending in such a ghastly denouement, she shuddered.

"That is the one horrible part of taking your own life," she said, "to think how you will look and what those who find you will say. If I were to do such a thing I should first make sure no one would ever find me."

The remark startled him. "Telly," he said soberly, "do not ever think of such a thing. Would you, whose heart is so loving and tender, burden all those who know you with a lifelong sorrow?"

"No, no, not that way," she answered quickly, "only if those who love me were taken I should want to follow them; that is all. Please forget I said it." Then she told him her own brief history, and at last, after much coaxing, a little of the one sorrow of her life.

"Now I know," he said, "why you avoided speaking about the picture of the wreck the first time I came here." Then in a moment he added, "Telly, I want you to give it to me and let me take it away. I want it for two reasons: one is, it gave me the first hint of your life's history. And then I do not want you to look at it any more."

"You may have it," she answered, smiling sadly; "it was foolish of me to paint it in the first place, and I wish I never had."

When the sun was low and they were ready to return he said, "Promise me, sweetheart, that you will try to forget all of your past that is sad, and think only of us who love you, and to whom your life is a blessing."

That evening he noticed Uncle Terry occasionally watched her with wistful eyes, and, as on the evening before, both he and Aunt Lissy retired early.

"They wish me well," Albert thought, and with gratitude. He had even more reason for it when the next day Uncle Terry proposed that Telly should drive to the head of the island in his place.

"I'm sorry ye must leave us, Mr. Page," he said, when Albert was ready to bid the old folks good-by. "I wish ye could stay longer; but cum again soon, an' remember, our latch-string's allus out fer ye."

When the old carryall had made half its daily journey, Albert pointed to a low rock and said, "There is a spot I shall always be glad to see, for it was there Uncle Terry first found me."

Telly made no answer; in fact she had said but little since they started, and soon the hardest part of life and living, that of separating from those who seem near and dear to us, was drawing near. When they reached the little landing, no one else was there. No house was in sight of it, and the solitude was broken only by the tide that softly caressed the barnacled piles of the wharf and the weed-covered rocks on either side. No boat was visible adown the wide reach that separates Southport Island from the mainland, and up it came a light sea breeze that barely rippled the flowing tide and whispered through the brown and scarlet leaved thicket back of them. Over all shone the hazy sunlight of October. It is likely that a touch of regret for the sacrifice she had made came to Telly as she stood listening and hoping that the boat which was due would be late in coming, for a look of sadness came over her face, and a more than usually plaintive appeal in her expressive eyes. "I am sorry you are going," she said; "it is so lonesome here, and it will seem more so now." Then as if that was a confession he might think unmaidenly, she added, "I dread to have the summer end, for when winter comes, the rocks all around seem like so many tombstones."

He was watching her as she spoke, and the little note of sorrow in her voice gave him a hope that she might relent at the last moment, and give him the promise he wanted so much. He put out his hand as if that would aid his appeal, and as his fingers closed over hers he said, "I am going away with a heavy heart, Telly, and when I can come back is hard to say. Will you not promise me that some time, no matter when, you will be my own good and true wife? Let me go away with that hope to comfort me while I work and save for a home for us both. Will you, Telly?"

But the plaintive face was turned away, perhaps to hide the tears. Then once more an arm stole around her waist, and as he drew her close, she whispered, "When I am no longer needed here, if you want me then I will come to you."

She was sobbing now, but her head was resting on his shoulder, and as he kissed her closed eyes and unresisting lips, a boat's sharp whistle broke the sacred spell.

"Go a little way back, my darling," he whispered, "until the boat is gone. I do not want any one to see you have been crying."

When her misty eyes could no longer see the boat that bore her heart away, she turned, and all the long, lonely way back love's tears lingered on her lashes.



CHAPTER XXXVII

AMID FALLING LEAVES

The mountains around Sandgate were aflame with the scarlet and gold of autumn before life seemed quite as usual to Alice Page. The summer idyll had passed, and though it left a scar on her heart, she had resolutely determined to put the sweet illusion out of her mind. "I was very foolish to let him see that I cared," she thought, "for it can never be, and by and by he will forget me, or if he does think of me, it will be to recall me as one of his summer girls who had a fit of silliness."

But for all that her heart ached at times, and in spite of all resolution her fingers would once in a while stray to the chords of "Ben Bolt." She tried, and fairly succeeded in answering his letters in a cool, matter-of-fact way. Occasionally when he referred to his heart hunger, and how hard he was studying in hopes that she might think better of him, she wished that he had no purse-proud and haughty mother to stand between him and a poor girl, and her next letter would be more chilly than ever. What perhaps was a bitter-sweet thought was the fact that the colder she answered him, the warmer his next letter would be. Unwisely, too, he happened to mention once that his mother had spoken of a certain young lady who belonged to the cream of Boston society as an eligible match, and advised him to show her a little attention. It was really of no moment, yet it hardened Alice against his mother, and did not help his cause.

Every Sunday she took her wonted place in the choir, and after church occasionally walked alone to the cemetery and visited her mother's grave. Then, too, her brother's letters grew less frequent, and that was a source of pain. With intuitive and feminine instinct she began to assume that some woman was winning his thoughts, and as it was but natural, she could not and did not mention her belief to him. How grateful she was all through those melancholy autumn days that she had a large school to absorb her thoughts, no one, not even Aunt Susan, guessed. She was having a long and hard fight with her own feelings and imagined she had conquered them, when Thanksgiving time drew near and her brother announced he would run up and spend the day with her. She almost cried for joy at the good news, for poor, pretty, and proud-spirited Alice Page was feeling very heart-hungry when the letter came. He was just a little surprised at her vehement welcome.

"Oh, I have been so lonesome, Bertie," she said when they were alone together, "and the evenings drag by so slowly! Then you do not write me as often or such nice letters as formerly, and Aunt Susan never seems to notice that I am blue. If it were not for my school, I should go crazy, I think."

His heart smote him as he thought of a certain other blue-eyed girl who was now occupying his thoughts to the partial exclusion of this loving sister, and of whom he had meant to tell Alice. In an instant it occurred to him that it would hurt her now to know it, and that he had best keep it to himself.

"I am very busy these days, sis," he replied, "and my mind is all taken up with work. Mr. Nason's business is increasing and I have a good many clients besides him." Then as if to draw her out, he added: "How did you like Blanch Nason?"

"Oh, she was very nice," replied Alice coolly, "and if she were a poor girl and lived here I could easily learn to love her. As it is, it is useless for me to think of her as a friend. It was good of her to pay me a visit, though, and I enjoyed every minute of it."

"And what about Frank?" queried Albert, eyeing his sister with a smile; "did he not say a lot of sweet things to you?"

Alice colored.

"Oh, he is nice enough," she answered, "and tried to make me believe he had fallen in love with me, but it won't do any good. I am sure his managing mamma will marry him to some thin girl with a fat purse, or aristocratic family, which, I imagine, is of more consequence to her."

Albert gave a low and prolonged whistle.

"So that is the way the wind blows, my sweet sister, is it?" he observed; "and yet my possible future law partner has been humming 'Ben Bolt' nearly every day for the past two months! I made believe you must have smiled on him very sweetly when he was here."

The thought of one day when she had done more than smile at this young man brought even a deeper color than before to her face.

"Please do not say any more about him, Bert," she answered with a little pain in her voice; "he is all right, but I am too poor and too proud to satisfy his mother, so that is all there is or ever will be to it." Then she added in self-protection, "Tell me about the island girl I heard you fell in love with on the yachting-trip, and for whom you deserted the crowd." It was his turn to look confused, and he did, in a way that smote his keen-eyed sister with sudden dread. "It is true, Bertie," she said quickly; "I can see it in your face. That explains your short letters." A little quiver passed over her lips and down the round chin like a tiny ripple on still water, and she added pathetically, "I hated to believe it, but it cannot be helped, I suppose. I shall feel more desolate now than ever." Then womanlike she said, "Is she very pretty, Bertie? She must be, or you would not have fallen in love with her so soon."

There was no use in concealment or evasion, and it was not like him to resort to either. "Alice, my sweet little sister," he replied, resolutely drawing his chair near and taking her hand, "it is true, and I intended to tell you all about it, only I hated to do it at first, and so put it off. She is more than pretty, she is beautiful, and the most unaffected and tender-hearted girl I ever met. But you need not worry. She is so devoted to the two old people who have brought her up as their own that she will not leave them for me as long as they live." Then he added regretfully, "So you see I must be a patient waiter for a long time yet." Then he frankly told Alice the entire story of his waif of the sea, and how even at the last moment she had refused to yield to his pleading.

"And now, sweet sister," he said at last, "I have a plan to unfold, and I want you to consider it well. I am now earning enough to maintain a home, and I am sick and tired of boarding-house life. It is not likely I shall marry the girl I love for many years to come, and there is no need for us to be separated in this way. I think it is best that we close the house, or rent it for the present, and you and Aunt Susan come to Boston. I can hire a pretty flat, and we can take down such of the furniture as we need, and store the rest. What do you think of the plan?"

"Oh, I shall be so glad of the change, Bertie!" she answered, brightening; "it is so desolate here, and you do not know how I dread the long winter." And then she added quickly, "But what can I do in Boston? I cannot be idle; I should not be contented if I were."

"Will not housekeeping for me be occupation enough?" he answered, smiling, "or you might give music lessons and study shorthand. I need a typewriter even now, and in a few months must have one."

She was silent, considering the matter in its various bearings for a few moments, and then said: "But what will Aunt Susan think of the change, and it will be such a change for her; like going into a new world!"

"Well, she will have to get used to it," he answered; "at any rate, it is not wise for us to go on in this way solely for her comfort."

Then, as Alice began to realize what it meant to bid good-by to the scenes of her childhood, the old home, the great trees in front, the broad meadows, the brook that rippled through them, the little church where every one greeted her with a smile, and the grand old hills that surrounded Sandgate's peaceful valley, her heart began to sink. Then she thought of the pleasant woods where she had so often gone nutting in autumn, the old mill-pond where every summer since babyhood she had gathered lilies, and even those barefooted school-children of hers, every one of whom had come to love the pretty teacher, came into her thoughts. Life in Sandgate did not seem so desolate to her as it had, and the thought of going away grew less attractive.

"I shall dislike to go, after all," she said at last, "but perhaps it is best. I shall cry when I leave here, I know, and be very homesick for a spell, but then I shall have you, and that is a good deal." Then this mingled clouds and sunshine of a girl deliberately rose, and like a big baby, crept into her brother's lap, and tucking her sunny head under his chin, whispered, "Oh, if you were never going to be married, Bertie, I would leave it all and try to be contented. I could come up here every summer, and go the rounds, could I not?" Then she added disconsolately, "But you will get married, and in less than a year, too. I know it. Your beautiful island girl cannot and will not keep you waiting so long. I could not if I were she, I know."

Then that big brother, blessed with such an adorable sister, raised her face so he could look into her blue eyes and said, "No sweetheart and no wife shall ever lessen my love for you, Alice, who have been my playmate, my companion, and my confidant all my life. And if you are likely to be homesick and unhappy in Boston, we will abandon the plan at once."

"Let me think about it a few weeks first," she replied. "I could not go away until this term of school is over, and that will not be till Christmas."

Then after those two good friends had discussed the proposed step in all its bearings for a half hour Albert said, "Come, now, sis, sing a little for me; I am hungry to hear you once more."

She complied willingly, and as the mischievous heartbreaker never forgot to pay an old score, the moment she was seated at the piano she began with "Hold the Fort," and singing every verse of that, followed it with "Pull for the Shore."

Her brother never winced, and after she had inflicted two more of those well-worn gospel hymns upon him he quietly remarked, "My dear sis, you are not punishing me for what I once said half as much as you think you are. Sing some more of them; they sound like old times." And it was true, too.

The latest and most classic compositions are all very well for highly cultured ears afflicted with Wagnerian delirium; but for plain, ordinary country-born people, such as Albert was, there is a sweet association in the old songs first heard in childhood that no classic productions can usurp. The "Quilting Party" will surely recall some moonlight walk home with a boyhood sweetheart along a maple-shaded lane, when "on your arm a soft hand rested," and "Money Musk" will carry you back to a lantern-lit barn floor with one fiddler perched on a pile of meal bags; and how delightful it was to clasp that same sweet girl's waist when "balance and swing" came echoing from the rafters.

And so that evening, as the piquant voice of Alice Page trilled the list from "Lily Dale" to "Suwanee River" and back to "Bonny Eloise" and "Patter of the Rain," Albert lazily puffed his cigar and lived over his boyhood days.

When the concert was ended he exclaimed:

"Do you know, sis, that an evening like this in Boston would seem like a little taste of heaven to me, after I came back from the all-day grind among hard-hearted, selfish men who think only of the mighty dollar! And now you see why I want you to come to Boston to live."

It pleased that loving sister of his wonderfully, for as yet her brother was far dearer than any other living person. No lover had so far usurped his place or seemed to her as likely to. She gave him a grateful look and smile that prompted him to say:

"Now I will look around before Christmas and see what kind of a flat can be found, and then when your school closes you must come down and visit me and see how you like Boston."

"Oh, that will be just delightful," was the rejoinder, "only you must promise not to tell the Nasons that I am coming."

"But if they find it out, Blanch and Frank would feel bitterly hurt," he replied; "remember, they did you the honor of coming up here to visit you, and Blanch has said to me several times that she hoped you would visit her this winter."

"I should love to," replied Alice, hesitating, "but—well, I will tell you what we can do: we will wait until the day before I am to return, and then we can call there one evening. They need not know how long I have been in Boston."

Albert looked curiously at his sister. "I think I understand you, sis," he observed, "and that is right; but is it not a little rough on Frank? He has settled down to hard study and sticks to it, and really is an exemplary young man and a good fellow. I am growing very fond of him, and should dislike to have you actually offend him."

"I do not want to offend him, by any means," said Alice soberly, "and neither do I want him or his haughty mother to think I am disposed to put myself in his way. If he wants to see me, let him come here."

The next day Albert and Alice felt obliged to attend church, as all the good people of Sandgate usually so observed Thanksgiving day, and he was gladdened by many a cordial handshake and kindly inquiry from old friends. Alice as usual sang in the choir, and when the services were over they returned, to find that Aunt Susan had the honored emblem of the day well browned and ready for the table. In a way the meal was a trifle saddened, for in spite of the good cheer, it brought back to all three recollections of those who would never more be present. And that evening both brother and sister called on Abby Miles, more to escape the home mood than to enjoy her society.

When morning and departure came Albert said: "I will do as you wish, sweet sister, and unless some of the Nasons should meet us at a theatre, I imagine it will work all right. Only it is a little rough on Frank, after all."



CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE OLD SONGS

Influenced by time, place, and the earnest pleading of her admirer, Alice Page had, on that summer afternoon by the mill-pond, stepped a little from her pedestal of pride. In a way, too, her feelings were touched, at least enough to give her many an hour's heartache afterwards while she was resolutely putting the sweet illusion out of her mind. But no one, not even her brother, knew it, and only Aunt Susan suspected, and she wisely kept her counsel, hoping that all would come right in the end.

The proposed change did not seem to disturb her much, although Alice noticed that she was more quiet than ever and avoided that subject.

"I'm ready an' willin' to go if you think best," she said; "and I'll do my best as long as I can. I hain't got long to stay, and if I see you two happy, I'm content."

It was the pathos of old age, and it touched Alice's heart.

Two weeks before Christmas came a cordial letter from Blanch, reminding Alice of her promise to visit her during the holidays and insisting that she do so now. With it was enclosed an equally cordial but brief note of invitation from Mrs. Nason. Alice replied to both in due form and with profuse thanks, also stating that she had promised her brother she would visit him during her vacation, and hoped to have one or two evenings with them at that time.

"I will let them see I am not a deserted tabby-cat," she said to herself, "waiting around in the cold until some one opens a door for me." And then this proud little country girl enclosed both notes to her brother and told him he had best inform the Nasons of her intended visit in a matter-of-fact way. "But mind," she added, "you do not let on that you know they have invited me to visit them. We will do just as we talked, go there and spend one or two evenings, or perhaps I may meet them at a theatre, which would be much better."

By return mail came his assurance of obedience and a sizable check. "Use it all, my dear sis," he wrote, "and for your own needs, too. I do not want you to feel ashamed of your gowns when you come to Boston."

"Bless his dear heart," said Alice, when she read the letter, "what a prize that island girl will get in him!" And then she came near crying at the thought of that possible outcome. But when Christmas came and she kissed Aunt Susan good-by, she was near giving up the trip altogether. It may have been the sad face of her aunt that brought the irresolution, or a feeling that meeting Frank would re-awaken the little heartache she had for five months been trying to conquer; for this proud girl had firmly made up her mind that she would utter a very decided "no" if Frank proposed again. When she reached Boston she was met by her brother, and for three days he devoted his entire time to her.

"I have not told Frank, even, when you were coming," he observed, "and shall not let them know you are here until we call." Then he added, smiling, "I want you to myself for a few days, because after Frank knows you are here I am sure to be one too many most of the time."

"Not on his account, you'll not be," replied Alice with a snap, and it is likely that moment she meant it too.

And what a gallant escort that brother was! And what a change from the dull monotony of her home life those days were to Alice!

They hunted for houses and visited art galleries mornings, lunched at Parker's at noon, and devoted the afternoons and evenings to theatres. Then after that usually a tete-a-tete supper at a cozy place where the best was to be had, and a little chat in his or her room before retiring. It was during one of these brief visits that she noticed some of the pictures that hung in his room.

"Who painted that shipwreck scene?" she asked, looking at one. "It is a gem, and those poor sailors clinging to the ice-covered rigging are enough to make one shiver. And those awful waves, too, are simply terrifying. And what a pretty scene is this wild tangle of rocks with a girl leaning on one and looking out on the ocean where the sun is setting or rising," she continued as she viewed the next one. Then as she examined it a little closer she added, "Who is E. T.?" Albert made no answer and she passed to a third one showing a little rippled cove with the ocean beyond and a girl seated in the shade of a small spruce tree.

"Why, this is by E. T. too," she exclaimed, and turning to her brother she repeated, "who is E. T.?"

"Well," he answered, "I will take you down to the island some time and introduce you to her. She will be glad to meet my sister, you may be certain."

Then it all flashed over Alice, and the brief history of this girl, as her brother had told it, came back to her in an instant. "So that was the wreck she floated ashore from, was it, Bert?" she asked; "and can she paint like that? Why, I am astonished! And who is the girl leaning on the rock?" she added; "and what an exquisitely molded figure! And what a pretty pose! Who is she?"

"That is your possible sister-in-law," answered Albert with a touch of pride, "and the pictures were done by her from sketches I first made myself. They are true to life so far as all details go, only I failed to catch her expressive face in the one that shows a front view of her."

"And so that was the way you wooed your island goddess, was it?" observed Alice with a roguish look; "made her pose for a sketch while you said sweet things to her." Then with a woman's curiosity she added, "Have you a picture of her?"

"No, I am sorry to say I have not," he replied; "remember, she has been hidden away on an island all her life, and I doubt if she ever had a picture taken."

"And when will you take me to see her?" asked Alice. "I am so anxious to meet this fairy of the shore who has stolen my brother's heart. Can't we go down there before I return home?"

"We can," he added, "but I think we'd better wait until spring."

The next day he informed her he had secured a box at the Tremont for that evening, and had invited the Nasons to join them. "I thought it would relieve your mind a little, Alice," he added, "to meet your bogie on neutral ground." And it did.

But Mrs. Nason was a long way from being the haughty spectre Alice had conjured up, and like many excellent mothers was simply interested to see that her only and impetuous son did not make a mesalliance. While she had wisely made no comment regarding her son's apparent disappointment, what Blanch had said, together with that fact, had won for Alice a respect she was totally unaware of. That a poor and pretty country schoolma'am was proud enough to discourage that son's attentions because of the difference in their positions was an unusual experience to her and one that awakened her curiosity. "I should like to meet Miss Page," she said to Blanch when the latter had asked if she might invite her to visit them, "and see what she is like. A girl that shows the spirit she does is certainly worth cultivating, and as she entertained you so nicely, by all means let us return the obligation."

When Alice's cool but polite note reached Mrs. Nason, she was piqued to even a greater degree of curiosity, and when Albert's courteous letter, inviting "Mrs. Nason and family to share a box at the Tremont for the purpose of meeting my sister" was received, she returned a cordial acceptance by bearer.

To Alice the proposed meeting was a source of dread, and when the carriage called for Albert and herself she was in an excited state of mind, and maybe it was not all on account of Mrs. Nason either. They had barely taken their seats in the box, and the orchestra had only just begun the overture, when the usher knocked and Blanch, followed by the rest of the family, entered. That young lady greeted Alice with an effusive kiss at once, and the next instant she found herself shaking hands with a rotund and gray-haired lady of dignified bearing, but of very kind and courteous manner. An introduction to Edith followed, and then Frank acknowledged her polite "How do you do, Mr. Nason?" with his very best bow.

Their meeting was the most formal of any, as Alice evidently wished it to be, since she did not offer her hand, and then she insisted that Mrs. Nason and her two daughters occupy the front chairs.

"You are our guests this evening," said Alice with quiet dignity, when Blanch urged her to take one, "and so must pardon me for insisting."

Then the play began, and by the time the first act was over Alice had taken a mental inventory of her "bogie" and made up her mind that she was no bogie at all. When the curtain fell, Mrs. Nason began chatting with Alice in the pleasantest way possible, and with seemingly cordial interest in all she said, while Blanch wisely kept quiet and Edith devoted herself to Albert. It was after the second curtain when Mrs. Nason said: "I must insist that you divide your visit with us, Miss Page, and allow us to return a little of your hospitality. Of course I understand that your brother comes first, and rightly too, but we must claim a part of your time."

"I had promised myself one or two evenings at your home," Alice answered quietly, "but I do not feel that I ought to desert Bertie more than that."

Then for the first time Blanch put in her little word: "Now do not offer your brother as an excuse," she said, "for it will not do a bit of good. I have been anticipating your promised visit for a long time, and no brother is going to rob me of it. I shall come around to-morrow forenoon with the coachman, and if you are not ready to go back with me, bag and baggage, I will take your baggage, and then you will have to come."

Alice smiled at this vehement cordiality.

"I do not see why you cannot see your brother and visit with him just as well at our house," put in Mrs. Nason; "he is always welcome there, and he knows it, I am sure."

Alice turned to her brother, remarking: "It is nice of you to insist, and I am more than grateful, but it must be as he says." Then she added prettily: "He is my papa and mamma now, and the cook and captain bold, and mate of the 'Nancy' brig as well."

"I will stir up a mutiny on the 'Nancy' brig if he does not consent," laughed Blanch, "so there is an end to that; and you must be ready at ten to-morrow."

"Well, what do you think of the 'haughty mother' now?" observed Albert, after the Nasons had rolled away in their carriage. "Is she the awful spectre you imagined?"

"Oh, she's nice enough," answered Alice, "only it is just as well to let her see I need a little urging."



CHAPTER XXXIX

SOCIETY

Three more days of Alice's visit in Boston had passed, and quickly to her. Blanch had kept her threat, and literally taken possession of her new friend, and installed her in the guest room of the Nason residence. Then she set out to entertain Alice to the best of her ample ability. To be taken in hand, as it were, by a highly cultured and wealthy young lady, and to have a liveried and obsequious coachman on duty to convey them anywhere and everywhere, was a new experience, and a decided change from Sandgate. The two went shopping mornings, and to matinees or made calls afternoons, or discussed styles and effects with modistes; evenings it was a theatre or else a quiet evening at home, when Mr. Nason was in evidence. As for Frank, he was barely allowed the privilege of procuring tickets and buying bonbons, or else making one of a rubber of whist. "Don't you dare to say any sweet things while she is here," Blanch had cautioned him at the outset. "In the first place it is not good form, and in the second it would offend her. Be as gallant as you know how, but do not let mamma see that you are any more attentive to Alice than to Ede and I. If you hope to win your pretty schoolma'am you must pay your court in her own home, not here." It is needless to say Frank obeyed. It was not long ere Alice began to feel herself quite at home in the Nason family, and to notice that Mrs. Nason treated her in a motherly way which was both nice and kind. That excellent lady also expressed a warm sympathy for Alice in her orphaned condition, and showed an interest in her occupation at home.

"I see that you are fond of your little charges," she said, after Alice had described her school and some of the peculiarities of her pupils who wore out-grown roundabouts or calico pinafores, "and I suppose they grow fond of you as well."

"I try to make them," replied Alice, "and I find that is the easiest way to govern them. I seldom have to punish any one, and when I do it hurts me more than the culprit. In a way, children are like grown people and a little tact and a few words said in the right way are more potent than fear of punishment."

"And do you not find life in so small a place rather monotonous?" asked Mrs. Nason.

"Oh, yes," replied Alice, "it is not much like city life as I understand it; but having lived in the country all my life, as I have, I am accustomed to it and do not mind. It is delightful to have theatres and the excitement of social duties, as I imagine you have all the time, and yet I am not sure I should like it. I fancy once in a while I should sigh for a shady spot in the woods in summer where I could read a book or hear the birds sing. It is only in winter that I should like to live in the city."

But the pleasant days of Alice's stay in Boston passed rapidly until only two were left, when Blanch said to her, "I have invited a few of my friends here to meet you to-night, and I want you to do me a favor, and that is, sing for me."

"Oh, please do not ask that," replied Alice hastily. "I do not sing well enough, and fear that some of your friends might be critics, and that would quite upset me."

"But you sing in church," assented Blanch, "and that is much harder."

"That is nothing," answered Alice, smiling; "not one in ten of those country people know one note from another, and that fact makes me indifferent. Here not only all your people, but all your friends, hear the finest operatic singers, and poor I would cut a sorry figure in contrast."

"But you will sing just once to please me, won't you?" pleaded Blanch.

"I will not promise," was the answer; "I will see how many are here and how my courage holds out."

When that evening came Blanch waited until Alice had become somewhat acquainted with the little gathering and the reserve had worn away, when she went to her and putting one arm around her waist, whispered, "Come, now, dear, just one little song; only one to please me." At first Alice thought to refuse, but somehow the pride that was in her came to the rescue, and the feeling that she would show her friend that she was not a timid country girl gave her the needed courage, and she arose and stepped across the room to the grand piano that stood in one corner. Her cheeks were flushed, and a defiant curl was on her lips, and then without a moment's hesitation she seated herself and sang "The Last Rose of Summer." She had sung it many, many times before, and every trill and exquisite quiver of its wondrous pathos was as familiar to her as the music of the brook where she had played in childhood. I am not certain but some of that brook's sweet melody came as an inspiration to her, for now she sang as she never had before, and to an audience that listened entranced. When the last sweet note had passed her red lips she arose quickly and returned to her seat; and then, had she not been so modest that she dared not look at any one, she would have seen two little tears steal out of Mrs. Nason's eyes, to be quickly brushed away with a priceless bit of lace. Sweet Alice, the motherless little country girl, had from that moment entered the heart of Mrs. Nason and won a regard she hardly realized then; in fact, not at all until long afterward. When the applause had subsided it was Frank that next pleaded.

"Won't you sing one for me now, Miss Page?" he asked. "I bought the song I wanted to-day," and going to the piano he unrolled and spread upon the music rack—"Ben Bolt"!

"But I only consented to sing once for Blanch," Alice replied, "and there are others here who I am sure can do much better."

"Come, please," he said coaxingly, "just this one for me." And then once more Alice touched the keys.

Back to a simply furnished parlor in Sandgate, with its lamp on the piano and open fire burning brightly as it had one year ago, went two of that company in thought, and maybe others there, whose youth had been among country scenes, were carried back to them by the singer's voice, and saw a by-way schoolhouse "and a shaded nook by a running brook," in fancy; or perhaps a little white stone in some grass-grown corner, where, "obscure and alone," lay a boyhood's sweetheart! For all the pathos of our lost youth trilled in the voice of Alice Page as she sang that old, old song of the long ago. And not one in that little audience but was enthralled by the winsome witchery of her voice, and for the moment was young again in thought and feeling. As for Mrs. Nason, when the guests had departed she turned to Alice, and taking her face in her hands exclaimed, "I want to kiss the lips that have brought tears to my eyes to-night."

Sweet Alice had won her crown.

The last evening of her visit she decided to spend with her brother, and when she came to bid adieu to her hostess, that much dreaded haughty mother had resolved herself into a charming old lady, who said: "Now I can see why my daughter went into raptures over some one who I hope will visit us again and stay much longer." It was a graceful tribute, and one that touched the motherless girl as few words could.

"It is odd, Bertie," she said to her brother that evening, when they were alone together, "how different people seem when one comes to know them. Now from one or two things which you have said, and an admission that Frank made a year ago, I felt I should be sure to hate his mother, and now I think she is perfectly lovely."

"So she is to those she likes," answered Albert, "but if you had not shown the tact you have, my dear sis, I am not sure you would now be praising her. You carried her heart by storm last evening, as well as the rest of the company, and you deserved it, for I never heard you sing so well."

"I am glad I didn't break down, anyway," she replied, "for when I touched the piano my heart seemed in my mouth."

"Yes, and in your voice, too," he replied with pride, "and that is what carried us all away."

For an hour they discussed the Nasons, while Albert noticed his sister avoided any mention of Frank, and then he said: "Well, sis, which of the rents we have looked at do you think I best engage and when will you be ready to move?"

Alice was silent and for a few minutes she pursed her lips and looked at the chilly shipwreck scene near her as if it contained a revelation.

"I am not so sure," she answered finally, "that we should make the change at present. If I were certain your beautiful waif of the sea would adhere to her filial resolution, it would be different, but I am not. If you secure this legacy for her that you told me about and she donates it to those old people, as you say she intends to, why the next thing will be an invitation to my dear brother's wedding, and that is one reason why I hesitate to make this change. Another is that I do not think it would be good for Aunt Susan. She says she is ready and willing, but when she has left all the associations of her life behind, she will just sit and grieve her poor old heart away in silence."

Albert did not and could not answer all these surmises, and to a certain extent he felt that his sister was right. He certainly meant to coax Telly to marry him, even if she insisted on spending most of her time where she felt her duty called her. Then he had felt all along that Alice might be persuaded to become one of the Nason family, though his Thanksgiving visit had about dispelled that idea. As for Aunt Susan, if the proposed change was not likely to be a permanent one, it would not be best to make it at all. Deliberating thus he sat in silence for a time, and leisurely puffed smoke rings in the air as he studied the ceiling. Finally an idea came to him.

"My dear sister," he said, "have you considered or do you consider Frank in your calculations? and if so, where does he come in, may I ask?"

Alice's blue eyes assumed an expression like unto a pansy, and her face the placidity of a mill-pond as she answered, "I had quite forgotten his existence!"



CHAPTER XL

"YES OR NO"

A woman's heart, as transitory as the wind, as evanescent as the rainbow, and as tender as spring violets, is hard to portray with pen, and for that reason the summer-day nature of Alice Page is but faintly outlined. When on the morning of her departure from Boston she stood beside the train exchanging the usual good-by words with her brother, she was surprised at being joined by Blanch and Frank. The former brought her a tasty basket of lunch, sent with her mother's compliments, and the latter an elaborate bouquet of flowers.

"I want to kiss you good-by," said Blanch, and when the two had embraced and Frank had uttered a suitable speech, Alice kissed her brother and took her seat. No one apparently noticed that Frank was not on the platform when the train started, and when it was well under way Alice was astonished to see him enter the car. She was, as may be expected, feeling rather blue, and the sight of his cheerful face was a pleasant surprise.

"You will not object to my company home, will you?" he asked at once; "I thought you might be lonesome, and as I have not had a chance to talk to you since you came to Boston, I decided to go up with you. I can come back on the night train," he added rather apologetically, "or if you prefer to ride alone, I can get off at the next station."

"Oh, no, I am very glad of your company," she replied sincerely, "and it was good of you to think of it. It is a long ride and I have had such a nice time I should have been disconsolate. You did not know," she added archly, "that one reason I came to Boston was to look at rents. Bert wants us to come here and keep house for him, Aunt Susan and me."

"And are you going to do it?" put in Frank, with sudden interest; "I hope so, for that would give me a chance to take you to the theatres."

"No, the plan is off for the present," she answered; "not but that I would like to, but for many reasons, one of which is Aunt Susan, we think it is not best."

Frank was a little ill at ease, and in a way did not feel certain he was welcome. Even without his sister's advice he would not have considered it good taste to press his suit while Alice was their guest. But now it occurred to him that to escort her home would be a wise move. "By all means go back with her," Blanch had replied when he broached his idea, "and by the time you have reached Sandgate you will know where you stand in your schoolma'am's feelings. She knows, too, how mamma feels towards her, so that obstacle is removed. And if there is any hope for you, you will know it soon; only as I told you once before, wait until the right moment comes, and then woo her quickly and courageously."

For an hour they trundled along through the snow-clad country chatting commonplaces, and then Alice said: "Did you meet the island girl last summer that you told me Bert had fallen in love with?"

"Only once," he replied. "Bert invited her and the old lady on board the 'Gypsy' and introduced them. They remained only long enough to look the yacht over. I left that day for Bethlehem, and as you know, came to Sandgate." His eyes were on her as he said this, and he noticed that an added color came to her face.

"What did you think of this girl?" asked Alice hastily; "tell me what she looks like—is she handsome?"

It is a woman's usual question, and a hard one for a man to answer, especially if the one who asks it is the girl he adores.

"She has a beautiful figure," he answered, "and eyes like yours, which you know are what I admire; only they are not so full of mischief. They have a far-away look that makes you think her thoughts are a thousand miles away."

"How was she dressed?" was the next query.

"Oh, I haven't the least idea," was the answer; "she might have worn calico for all I could tell. The only thing I can remember is that her dress was tight-fitting and very plain."

Alice smiled.

"Those far-away eyes must have entranced you, your description is so lucid," she replied sarcastically. Then she added: "How long did Bert stay there after you came away?"

"Only a few days," replied Frank; "I never asked him. I told him to keep and use the 'Gypsy' as long as he wanted and then I cut stick for Blanch and—Sandgate."

He seemed to dwell upon the little outing, and Alice, noticing it, and evasive ever, fought shy of the subject. She saw also that he was not aware of her brother's infatuation and from motives of delicacy forbore further questioning.

"Well, how do you like my haughty mother now?" he asked, "if that is a fair question."

It was not exactly a fair question, but conscious of the fact that she had tried to quiz him, Alice answered it frankly.

"I think she is the most gracefully charming hostess I ever met," she replied, "and you ought to be proud of her. In a way, I think you conveyed a wrong impression of her to me the first time I met you, and it has lasted ever since."

"I am sorry if I did," replied Frank honestly, "I did not mean to. Mother knows how to be very nice to any one she likes and very freezing to any one she doesn't. She fell in love with you the night you sang, and I knew she would. That is why I almost begged you on my knees to sing," he added earnestly, "so please do not scold me for, as you say, giving a wrong impression."

"I did not mean to scold you, Frank," she replied, "and if I hurt you, please forgive me." It was the first time she had ever used his first name and it made his heart beat high with hope. He would have there and then whispered of that hope, had it not been for his sister's advice to wait for the right moment, and it was wise that he heeded that advice. When noon came he bought a pitcher of coffee all prepared, at a railroad lunch counter, and a cup and saucer, then spread a newspaper between them, and over it a napkin, and while she ate he held the cup and shared the edibles. It was not a gracefully eaten lunch, and yet it served to brush away much of the restraint that lay between them. When the hills of Sandgate were visible he said, "I have an hour before the returning train, and just time enough to see you safely home."

Alice looked at him with surprise.

"And that is your idea of my hospitality," she exclaimed, "to let you go away like that? The morning train is the earliest one you can escape on, and if I am not good enough company for you this evening, you can go and call on Abby Miles."

And what a surprised and glad old lady Aunt Susan was when the two stepped off the train, and how vividly Frank recalled one year ago when he and Albert met Alice at this same cheerless depot with its one small waiting-room and adjoining shed! The same staid horse was hitched outside, and as he bundled his two charges into the sleigh and officiously took the reins, while Aunt Susan lamented because she had not known he was coming, "so's to hev suthin' fit to eat in the house," he felt he was master of the situation.

"Don't mind me, Aunt Susan," he said with easy familiarity; "I am not a visitor, I am a big brother escorting a lone sister home."

And how kindly that wrinkled face beamed on him behind her spectacles while he insisted that she stand by and let him unharness and see to the horse as she directed! And how willingly he carried baskets of wood in and started the parlor fire, and joked and jested with her regarding his ability as an assistant!

It warmed her old heart in a wonderful way, for her husband and only son had long years ago been laid at rest in the village "God's acre," and it seemed so nice to her to be noticed at all.

Then the best blue china was none too good for this event, and the hot biscuits must be made and a jar of peach preserves opened, some cold tongue sliced, and by the time Alice had changed her garb and appeared in a house-dress, he and Aunt Susan were the best of friends. It was all an odd and new experience to him, and so anxious was he to win the favor of those two people that he did not even stop to think what any of his club friends would say could they have peeped into the old-fashioned country home and seen him helping Aunt Susan. Even Alice had to laugh when she saw what he was doing.

"I did not know you could make yourself so useful," she observed, "for even my beloved brother was never known to help aunty set the table."

But she knew well enough what inspired him, and when supper was over he began asking her all manner of questions about her school, and when she meant to open it again, how the old miller was, and what had become of the boat, and how the mill-pond looked in winter, and had she been there since the day she gathered lilies. "Always back to that spot," she thought, and colored a little.

Then later when she opened the piano she knew just what songs he expected, but, disposed now to tease him, sang just their opposites, and all the while the clock ticked the happy hours away.

It was ten ere he could coax her to favor him with one that suited his mood, and when he asked her for "The Last Rose of Summer" she exclaimed with a pretty pout:

"I do not want to sing that, Frank; it reminds me how scared I was when I sang it last."

"But you brought tears into most of our eyes that night," he answered, "so you may well feel proud of your effort."

"Do you want to weep again?" she asked archly, looking up at him and smiling; "if you say you do, I will sing it."

"No," he answered, and then hesitating a moment added, "I do not feel that way to-night. I may when train-time comes to-morrow."

Her eyes fell, for she saw what was in his thoughts, and rising quickly, like a scared bird anxious to escape, turned away.

But a strong hand clasped one of hers, and then she heard him say, "Am I to go away to-morrow happy or miserable? You know what I came up here to ask. You know what I have worked and studied and waited for all the long year since first I saw you, and for whom I have tried to become a useful man in the world instead of an idler. It was to win you and to ask this that I came here to-day."

Then she felt an arm clasp her waist, and a voice that trembled a little say:

"Answer me, sweet Alice, is it yes or no?"

And then he felt her supple form yield a trifle, and as he gathered her close in his arms her proud head touched his shoulder.

He had won his sweet Alice.



CHAPTER XLI

AN HEIRESS

The winter had passed and March returned when one morning Albert received a bulky envelope bearing the Stockholm postmark, and containing numerous legal papers and a lengthy letter, all of which imparted information both surprising and pleasant. So interesting was it that he did not notice Frank when he came in, or even hear his greeting, and well might Albert be keenly absorbed in those documents, for they made him the emissary privileged to lay at the feet of the girl he loved—a fortune!

No more need she devote herself to her foster-parents for many years to come, and no more need Uncle Terry putter over lobster traps in rain or shine, or good, patient Aunt Lissy bake, wash, and mend, year in and year out.

Here was enough and more than they could spend in all the years that were left them, and what a charming privilege it would be to him to place in her loving hand the means to make glad and bless those kindly people who, all unasked, had cared for her as their own; and what a sweet door of hope it opened for him! He could hardly wait for the moment when he should say to her, "Here is the golden key that unlocks the world for you and yours."

Then for the first time he noticed Frank watching him with smiling interest.

"Well," remarked that cheerful young man, "I'm glad to see you emerge from your trance and return to earth again. I've said good morning twice, and watched you for half an hour, and you didn't even know I was in the room."

When Frank had perused the most interesting of the documents he gave a low whistle, and with his rather startling faculty for jumping at conclusions, said:

"Now, methinks, somebody will be taking a wedding-trip to the Land of the Midnight Sun in the near future. I congratulate you, my dear boy, and you can have the 'Gypsy' when you are ready." Then he added shyly, "Maybe it can be arranged so that there can be four in the party."

The next morning Albert, bearing the legal evidence of Telly's heritage, and with buoyant heart, left for Southport. The day was dark, and when, late in the afternoon, the little boat bearing him as sole passenger halted at the head of the island and he saw the smiling face and muffled form of Uncle Terry standing on the wharf alone, he could hardly wait to leap ashore.

"Bless yer heart, Mr. Page," exclaimed Uncle Terry, grasping both of Albert's hands in his, "but the sight o' ye is good fur sore eyes."

"And how are Aunt Lissy and Telly?" responded Albert, smiling into the glowing face of the old man.

"Oh, they're purty middlin', an' they'll be powerful glad to see ye, too. It's been a long time since ye left us."

And how vividly at this moment came to Albert every detail of his last parting from Telly, framed as she was then in a background of scarlet and brown foliage! He could see her as he last saw her, standing there with bowed head and tear-wet face, and feel a tinge of the keen pain that pulled at his own heart-strings then. He could almost hear the sad rustle of the autumn winds in the dry leaves all about that had added a pathos to their parting.

And now only a few miles separated them!

But the way was long and Uncle Terry's old horse slow, and the road in the hollows a quagmire of half-frozen mud. Gone were all the leaves of the scrub oaks, and beneath the thickets of spruce still remained a white pall of snow. A half gale was blowing over the island, and when they reached the hilltop that overlooked the Cape, it was so dark that only scattered lights showed where the houses were. When they halted in front of Uncle Terry's home the booming of the giant billows filled the night air, and by the gleam of the lighthouse rays Albert could see the spray tossed high over the point rocks.

"Go right in," said Uncle Terry, "an' don't stop ter knock; ye'll find the wimmin folks right glad ter see ye, an' I'll take keer o' the hoss."

With Telly it had been a long, dreary, desolate, monotonous winter. Her only consolation had been the few letters from the one and only man who had ever uttered a word of love to her, and how eagerly they had been read again and again, and then treasured as priceless keepsakes, he little realized. Neither did he know how many times she had lived over each and every hour they had passed together, and recalled every word and look and smile.

At times, when the cold desolation of winter was at its worst, she had half regretted the sacrifice she had made, and only maidenly reserve had kept her from writing him that her loneliness and heart-hunger were more than she could bear.

She had no inkling of his coming on that dark and tempestuous evening, and when Uncle Terry bade him enter the house, she was alone in the sitting-room laying the table, while Aunt Lissy was in the kitchen cooking supper. And then, just as she paused to listen to the thunder of the giant waves, so near, she heard the click of the front door latch, and stepping quickly into the little hall, as the door slowly opened, she met the man who for five long months had never been absent from her thoughts one moment.

A glad cry escaped her, and then—

But such a moment is too sacred for words; only it must be said it was fortunate for both that Aunt Lissy was in the kitchen.

When that worthy soul came in and greeted Albert as cordially almost as a mother, if she noticed Telly's red face and neck no one was the wiser, and maybe it was due to the cheerful open fire after all.

And what a happy little party that was when Uncle Terry came in, and after Telly, as usual, had brought his house coat and slippers, and they were seated at the table! What mattered that the ocean surges thundered so near, and at times tossed their angry tears against the windows! Inside was light, and warmth, and love, and trust, and all that is holiest and best in human emotions.

And when the meal was eaten, Uncle Terry and Albert smoked and talked while the fire burned bright, and the little clock on the mantel ticked the time away as clocks are bound to do, no matter how content we are.

When Albert had asked about the Widow Leach and Bascom, Deacon Oaks and Mandy, heard all the little gossip of the Cape, and given his isolated friends a brief synopsis of current events in the great world of which they could hardly be considered a part, and the evening was two-thirds past, he said:

"Now, my good friends, I have a little surprise in store for you," and drawing from an inside pocket a bulky envelope, rising and crossing the room to where Telly sat, he handed it to her with the remark:

"I have the honor and exquisite pleasure of presenting to you, Miss Etelka Peterson, sole surviving heiress and descendant of one Eric Peterson, of Stockholm, your paternal grandfather, these legal documents certifying to your inheritance of about one hundred and thirty thousand dollars, besides various pieces of real estate as yet unappraised."

The effect of this announcement upon the three listeners was unique and not exactly what Albert had anticipated. For an instant they seemed dazed, and Telly, holding the big envelope gingerly, as if it might bite her, stared at Albert with a look of fright. Aunt Lissy was the first to speak, and "Good Lord-a-massy" came from her in an awed whisper.

"Thank God, little girlie, you've got yer dues at last," was Uncle Terry's remark, and then, as the probable end of Telly's life with them cast its shadow athwart his vision, he bowed his face upon his hands and added in a pained voice: "I knowed it'ud come an' we'd lose ye, soon or late."

The pathos of his act and words, with the overwhelming disclosure, seemed to force upon Telly the belief that in some unknown way it meant the ending of her present home life. For one instant she looked at him, and then the tide of emotion swept her to his side and kneeling there she thrust the envelope into his hands and clasped his arm.

"I won't take it, father," she said quickly, "not one penny of it! It's all yours, and I'll never leave you so long as you live, and no one can make me!" Then as the tide ebbed, her head sank upon his knee and she began to sob.

"Thar ain't no cause fur worryin' 'bout that yit, girlie," he answered, placing one hand on her bowed head, "an' no need fur ye to leave us 'thout ye mind to. We want ye allus, long as we kin keep ye, make sure." Then noting the dumfounded look on Albert's face he added, "Ye mustn't mind Telly's ways, Mr. Page, it's upset her a little an' made her histeriky. She don't quite understand, yit, what it all means. She ain't much used ter havin' a fortin drapped in her lap."

To Albert the climax was not what he anticipated. If this heritage did not relieve her sense of filial duty, he thought, what chance would his love have? But Uncle Terry was wiser than the rest.

"Don't mind what I said, girlie," he continued, stroking her bowed head and looking into the slowly dying fire as if it contained a prophecy. "It was an inadvartance." And then rising and lifting the girl tenderly, he added, "We'd best go to bed now, Lissy, an' mebbe Mr. Page, bein' a lawyer, can 'splain matters to Telly."

When they had left the room Albert seated himself on the sofa to which the girl had gone, and said: "I am a trifle puzzled and a little disappointed, Telly, at the way you feel about this inheritance. It is rightfully yours and will enable you to do much for the future comfort of those you are devoted to. I had hoped, also, it would relieve your feeling of obligation a little."

"No money can do that," she answered quickly, "and all this won't be worth to father the care he has grown accustomed to from me. It was his feeling that I was likely to leave him, though, that upset me, and then that name you called me by hurt a little."

"Still the same Chinese wall of filial duty," thought Albert, and growing desperate at the prospect of possible years of waiting and heart-hunger he continued:

"But won't this money do more for them than you can, Telly? Is there any need of his remaining here to putter over lobster traps and drive a wagon, rain or shine? He is getting too old for that, anyway. Why not build a home for them in Boston, or better still, share ours there?"

It was the first suggestion of what was nearest his heart, and a flush came over Telly's face.

"We haven't a home there yet," she answered, turning her face away.

"But we will have, darling," he answered quickly, seizing the opening, "and as soon as you consent I shall begin to make it ready. It is folly," he added hurriedly, as if to forestall any negation, "for us to go on this way any longer. I want you, darling, and I want a home. Life to me, with you buried here, is only desolation, and how much so to you, the past five months can only tell. I know how you feel toward these good people, and your care for them shall be my care."

Once more Telly hid her face behind her hands, the better to think, perhaps, or to hide rebellious tears. And now she felt herself gathered within strong arms and a hand making both hers prisoners, and as she yielded a little to his clasp he whispered: "Do not say 'no' again, Telly! Do not rob yourself and me of love and home and happiness any longer! Make what plans for them you wish; do as you will with your heritage; all I plead for is you. Must I be deprived of my hoped-for happiness." It was an eloquent plea, and the last suggestion of the morrow's parting won the victory, for as he paused, holding her close while he waited for her answer, only listening love heard it whispered.

And outside, the billows that years before tossed her ashore, and had woven their monotone of sadness into her life, still tolled their requiem, but she heard them not. She had entered the enchanted castle of illusions.



CHAPTER XLII

THE PATHOS OF LIFE

When June had again clad Sandgate's hills and village with green, and spangled its meadows with daisies, there occurred two events of sacred import to four young people, but of little interest to the rest of the world.

The first was a wedding in the village church where the sweet voice of Alice Page had oft been heard, and where now as a bride she walked timidly to the altar.

Her pupils, aided by their parents, had turned the church into a bower of green, brightened by every colored flower that grew in field or garden. Even the old mill-pond contributed its share, and the altar was white with lilies. Almost every resident of the town was present, and the aged miller sat in one corner and watched with wistful eyes. The Nason family, with Aunt Susan and Albert, shared the front pew, and the little girl who once upon a time had said, "Pleath may I kith you, teacher," was accorded the proud privilege of strewing roses and violets along the aisle in front of the bride.

When the parting came, Aunt Susan made a brave effort to bear up until the train carried the wedding-party away, and the little miss who scattered flowers was inconsolable after Alice kissed her good-by. The old miller returned to his toil with a heavy heart, for he had known Alice since, as a child, he held her up that she might see the wheel go around and laugh and crow at its splashing. Many times each summer she had come there to gather lilies, and now she had gone, perhaps never to return. One by one the summer days would come and go, the mill-stone rumble, the big wheel splash, the old boat float idly beneath its willow, and the water-lilies bloom and fade; for sweet Alice would come no more to pluck them.

Two weeks later occurred the other event, when the 'Gypsy' steamed into the Cape harbor and a select party became the guests of honor at Uncle Terry's home. Long tables decked with flowers and loaded with the best that Aunt Lissy could prepare stood under the trees in front; the little porch was a bower of ferns and clusters of red bunch-berries, and every man, woman, and child that dwelt on the island was there.

Then after Albert and Telly had halted in the fern-covered porch to utter the simple but sacred words that bound them for life, the gladsome party gathered and made merry at the tables.

The sun was low in the west ere Telly kissed the tear-wet faces of Uncle Terry and Aunt Lissy and the 'Gypsy' sailed away. Far to seaward the purple line of coming night was slowly creeping in, and side by side on the little knoll where stood a low white headstone, those two sat and watched her pass out of their lives. When only the wide ocean was visible and the line of shadow had crept up to the wave-washed rocks beneath them, Uncle Terry arose.

"We'd best go in, Lissy," he said.

And looking into his saddened face she saw that she must lead him, for he was blinded with tears.

THE END.