They called quite often, Mrs. Simonson acknowledged, as did Mr. Norton, and Miss Fishblate.

"They seem to have good times, too," added kindly Mrs. Simonson. "Young folks will be young folks, you know. And why not? Bless you! we never can enjoy ourselves again as we do when young. There are too many cares and worries when we get to our age."

Miss Kling rose stiffly; this allusion to "our age" disgusted and offended her beyond pardon, and she flew into a spasm of sneezing.

"Well, I, for one, do not think such conduct is proper," she said, as soon as possible. "I was brought up to understand that young ladies should never receive the visits of gentlemen except in the presence of older people!"

Mrs. Simonson only laughed a little forced laugh she had when she did not know exactly what to say. For her own part, although not willing to offend Miss Kling by saying so, she was glad to see her lodgers enjoying themselves; more than glad to have Clem there, as on his arrival she had promptly tacked an extra dollar on the room rent, under the plea that the wear and tear on furniture was greater with two in a room.

Miss Kling, fearing, perhaps, another reference to "our age," left her, and next attacked Celeste Fishblate, having long ago discovered Nattie to be impregnable to the process known as "pumping," a fact that had augmented her ever-increasing dislike towards her lodger.

From Celeste, she learned that they had "such nice times!" that Mr. Stanwood was "so splendid!" and that "Miss Archer was just dead in love with him, and he with her!"

"Humph!" thought Miss Kling with a sneeze. "It's that Miss Archer then, is it?" Her next move was to arrest poor Quimby in the hall, intending to put him through a series of interrogations regarding the antecedents of his friend, and the length of his acquaintance with Miss Archer. But in this she was baffled, for at the first question, Quimby exclaimed,

"I—I don't know! Don't ask me!" and fled.

Miss Kling, much to her dissatisfaction, was therefore compelled to make the little she had gathered go as far as it would, for the present. But she lived in hopes.

It was perhaps not wonderful, that Miss Kling sitting lonely by her fireside, and pining for her other self, should feel envious because her lodger, whom she took ostensibly for company, was enjoying herself over the way evening after evening, and telling her absolutely nothing about it, but confining their intercourse to the necessary civilities.

Undoubtedly the few weeks that had passed since Clem's appearance on the scene ought to have been the happiest in Nattie's hitherto lonely life, happier even than those in which she talked to the then unseen "C," and speculated about him with Cyn. But yet—she sometimes felt that a certain something that had been on the wire was lacking now; that Clem, while realizing all her old expectations of "C," was not exactly what "C" had been to her. One reason of this she knew was her own inability to conquer a sort of timidity she felt in his presence, a timidity from which Cyn was certainly free. Well aware that beside the gay and brilliant Cyn she was nowhere, Nattie had a sensitive fear that he might be disappointed in her. But she did not yet know that the foundation of all these uneasy misgivings of hers was a selfish emotion, the same that had prompted that jealous pang at Cyn's "we" the day he first discovered himself, and this was, that on the wire "C" had been all hers, but in Clem, Cyn seemed to have the largest share.

Twice he had called on Nattie at the office, but neither time could stop, and as it happened on each occasion, she was in the midst of a rush of business, hat left no chance for conversation. But one rainy Saturday afternoon, when a general dullness prevailed, and she was fervently wishing the hands of the clock might move on faster towards six, Clem holding a very wet umbrella, and with water dripping from his curly locks, presented himself. If he was not, he certainly ought to have been flattered by the blush with which Nattie involuntarily welcomed him.

"Did you rain down?" she hastily exclaimed, hoping by this trite commonplace to distract attention from the blush, of which she was conscious.

"It appears like it, doesn't it?" he answered merrily, giving himself a little shake, and placing his wet umbrella and hat in a corner. "It was so dull at the store, I thought I would run around to the scene of former exploits. Do you not sometimes wish I was back at X n to keep you company such days as these?"

Without thinking twice before she spoke once, Nattie answered candidly, as she placed a chair for her visitor,

"Yes, I believe I do, often."

"I do not know whether to take that as a compliment or otherwise," Clem said, looking at her as if half vexed.

Nattie glanced up inquiringly

"It certainly is a compliment to my abilities for, making myself agreeable at a distance. But—" said Clem, with a shrug of his shoulders, "a poor fellow does not like to feel as if the farther away he is, the better he is liked!"

"Oh! I did not mean it that way at all!" exclaimed Nattie, in hasty explanation. "Only, you know, I had more of your company on the wire!"

Clem looked pleased.

"If that is the trouble—" he began, but Nattie interrupted, her face very red.

"I did not mean that, either; I meant it was in such a different way, you know—and I—I could talk more easily, and—I do not believe I know what I do mean!" stopping short in embarrassment.

Clem looked at her and smiled.

"Let us see if it is any easier talking on the wire," he said; and taking the key, he wrote,

"Good P m, will you please tell me truly, and relieve my mind, if you like me as well as you thought you would?"

Taking the key he relinquished, and without looking at him, she replied, "Yes; and suppose I ask you the same question, what would you say, politeness aside?"

"I should answer." wrote Clem, his eyes on the sounder, "that I have found the very little girl expected!"

And then their eyes met, and Nattie hastily rose and walked to the window, for no ostensible purpose, and Clem said, going after her,

"It is nicer talking on the wire, isn't it?"

Nattie was saved the necessity of replying by some one down the line who just then inquired,

"Who was that talking soft nonsense just now? We don't allow that sort of thing here!"

"How impertinent!" exclaimed Nattie.

"Possibly our red-headed friend is somewhere about," Clem said; then taking the key, responded to the unknown questioner,

"Don't trouble yourself; I shall not talk soft nonsense to you!"

"That sounds like 'C's' writing! Is it?" was asked quickly.

"My style must be very peculiar to be so readily detected," Clem said to Nattie, laughingly; then replied on the wire, "If you will sign I will tell you."

"Em."

"Ah!" said Clem, and immediately acknowledged himself. Then followed a short chat with "Em," in which she endeavored to make him confess what office he was then sending from, which he persistently refused to do.

Having bade "Em" good-by, and closed the key, he said to Nattie, verbally, "We ought to have a private wire of our own, since a wire is so necessary to our happiness! I see," glancing around the office, "that you have an extra key and sounder here."

"Yes;" Nattie replied, "we had at one time a railroad wire, and when it was taken out, the instruments were left, and have been here ever since."

"Do you suppose you could take them home—to practice on, say?" queried Clem, a sparkle in his brown eyes.

"Doubtless, if I asked permission, they would allow me that privilege; why?" asked Nattie, curiously.

"I have a brilliant idea!" replied Clem, gayly. "But do not be alarmed, I am used to it, as Quimby would say; it is this. I myself have a key and sounder, relics of college days, beauties, too, and if you can take home those over there, we will have telegraphic communication from your room to ours, immediately. The wire and battery I will fix all right, and when Cyn is out, and you can't come over, and at odd times, we will have some of our old chats."

"But," said Nattie, hesitatingly, although evidently delighted with the idea, "Miss Kling' will never—"

"Hang Miss Kling!" interrupted Clem, emphatically; "excuse the expression, but she deserves it; she never need know. I will undertake to arrange everything, and keep the secret from her. To account for the instruments in your room, tell her you are going to practice at home, and have a pupil. Cyn, I know, will be delighted to amuse herself by learning."

"I should like it very much," acknowledged Nattie, "but—"

"I allow no buts," Clem interrupted with gay decision; "you get the instruments, tell me the first time Miss Kling goes out to spend the day, and leave the rest to me."

Nattie needed little urging, being only too billing to have some more of those old confidential chats with "C,"—which nobody could share—and the required promise was given.

Strange it is, how circumstances alter cases. Coming to the office that morning, Nattie had found it disagreeable and hard enough to buffet the storm, and had growled at herself all the way, because she was not smart enough to get on in the world, even so far as to be able to stay at home in such weather For storms of nature, like storms of life, are hardest to a woman, trammeled as she is in the one by long skirts, that will drag in the mud, and clothes that every gust of wind catches, and in the other by prejudices and impediments of every kind, that the world, in consideration, doubtless, for her so-called "weakness," throws in her way. But now, on her way home, Nattie minded not the wind, and rather enjoyed the rain; it may be that this total change in her sentiments was due to the fact that Clem held the umbrella.

Miss Kling saw them come into the hotel together, wet and merry, and scowled. Perhaps in former days she had gone home under an umbrella with somebody—a possible other self—and so knew all about the enjoyability of the experience. But Nattie did not even notice her landlady's acrimonious glance, and sang a gay song as she changed her bedrabbled dress.

Cyn, who was of course immediately informed about the projected private wire, was delighted with the idea, and began studying the Morse alphabet at once.

"And the best of all is that we are going to get the better of that argus-eyed Dragon!" said Cyn.

"If we can!" Nattie replied with emphasis.

"Oh! but Clem is sure of that part!" Cyn said with great confidence.

But Nattie shook her head dubiously.

"She is so inquisitive!" she remarked.

"Yes, and the most despicable character on earth to me, is a person whose chief object in life is gossip! why, life is too short to take care of our own affairs in! I wish you would leave her, and come and room with me!" exclaimed Cyn indignantly.

"Mrs. Simonson would not dare have me. She is afraid of Miss Kling, you know. But I wish I might, for I am tired of being here," Nattie replied discontentedly.

"Well, we will have our wire at all events, and for once something shall be that Miss Kling will not know," said Cyn exultantly.

Unconsciously the dreaded individual favored them, shortly after, by going to spend the evening with friends after her own heart—very genteel, but in reduced circumstances:—and as the instruments were all ready, and they had only been waiting for her absence, Clem went to work. He was assisted by the willing Jo, who argued that running a wire was solid work, and not romantic, and by Quimby, who viewed the arrangement as another formidable link in the chain of his rival, and clamored wildly for a "telephone," because "anybody could use a telephone." But that, as Clem said, was exactly what they did not want! Consequently Quimby, as he lent his aid, felt himself a very martyr. However, he was, by this time, "used to it, you know,"—as he would have said—having viewed himself in that light since his unwitting resurrection of "C." Still, he sometimes fancied he saw a dim light shining ahead through the gloom—a hope that Clem might be fascinated by Cyn. Many were, Quimby argued, so why should not Clem be? and certainly he talked with her more than he did with Nattie!

In Nattie's room, they placed the instruments on a small shelf put up for the purpose, just outside her closet, and run the wire through the closet into the hall outside, and thence along, so close to the wall that it was not noticeable, except to those who knew, and then into Mrs. Simonson's apartments. Here, no concealment was necessary, as Mrs. Simonson had been informed of the plan, and, although trembling lest the vials of Miss Kling's wrath would be poured on her head, should that lady discover the arrangement, had no objections to offer, if they were positive "the electricity on the wire would not wear out the carpet, or injure the table"—which was the terminus in Quimby and Clem's room.

Having satisfied her on this point, they deemed it expedient not to show her the battery in their closet, fearing alarm lest it might eat through the room and overpower her.

"And now," said Clem, gayly, when all was finished, and fortunately without attracting attention, not even Celeste being in the secret; "now, Quimby, we can dispense with that alarm clock we were intending to buy."

"I—I beg pardon, but I—I don't quite catch your meaning," the martyr replied, in evident surprise.

"Why, Nat is to be our alarm clock!" explained Clem, laughing. "She is, from necessity, an early riser, and I shall depend on her to call on our wire at precisely six thirty every morning, and continue calling until I answer."

"I certainly will," Nattie replied. "But I will venture to predict that both you and Quimby will privately call me all sorts of names for doing it. It makes people so very cross to be aroused from a morning nap, you know!"

"It doesn't make me cross, I—I assure you; it—it will be a pleasure!" quickly exclaimed Quimby, who was delighted with this idea of the alarm clock.

"I will report him if he shows the least symptom of growling, after that assertion!" Clem said to Nattie, somewhat to Quimby's internal agitation, for, to tell the truth, he was not really quite certain of being in a state of rapture at six thirty every morning, even when awoke by the clatter of a sounder, of which the motive power was his inamorata.

"And now, to christen our wire!" Nattie, who was in high spirits, said gayly, and she ran over to her room, and a half hour's chat with "C" followed before she went to bed. For a week after, however, she lived, as it were, on thorns, and came home every night half expecting an explosion.

None came, however. Miss Kling's eyes were not as good as they once had been, what with their long service watching for that other self, and overlooking her neighbors; the hall was dark; she had no duplicate key to Nattie's always-locked room, and the small wire, nestling close to the wall, was undiscovered; of course, she heard the clatter of the sounder, but this Nattie explained on the score of "practice."

"Well, I am sure!" said Miss Kling, snappishly, "I should think you would get 'practice' enough at the office, without sitting up nights to do it!"

At which Nattie turned away to hide a blush, aware that "C" and she sometimes talked even into the small hours, in their zeal, doubtless, that the new wire should not rust out for lack of using.

But this telegraphic arrangement came hardest on poor Quimby, who, between his jealousy when the two were communicating, his inability to understand what was being said, and the impossibility of sleeping with such a clatter in the room, lost his appetite, and invoked anything but blessings on the head of "that Morse man," who had made such things possible.

Cyn had no intention of being left out in the cold, and making Jo join her, began the study of telegraphy, and the two hammered away incessantly. It began to be observable, about this time, that Jo was very willing to be led about by the nose by Cyn. Why, was not so apparent; perhaps because there was no romance in it.

Cyn learned the quicker of the two, and she was soon able, slowly and uncertainly, to "call" Nattie, ask her to come over, or impart any little information, but was always driven frantic by the attempt to make out Nattie's reply, however slowly written. Cyn tried to induce Quimby to overcome the horrors of those little black marks, the alphabet and their sounds, but he recoiled from the effort as hopeless.

However, whenever they made candy, as they often did, he had an opportunity of distinguishing himself, that he did not fail to improve. On the first occasion, so uneasy was he about a quiet conversation Clem and Nattie were having, that he absently put the mass of candy he had been pulling, into his pocket to cool. It did cool, but he sold the coat afterwards, to a boy at the office.

Next time, he forgot to grease his hands, and stuck himself so together, that they had the utmost difficulty in getting him apart, but, as he said,

"It's no matter, I—I am used to it, you know!"

He capped the climax, however, by accidentally dropping a large handful, warm, on top of Celeste's head, aggravating the offense by telling her to "go quick and soak her head;" which, although it was what she eventually did, was too much like a certain slang phrase much in vogue, for human nature to endure; and giving him an angry look, the only one on record ever given by her to a man, she rushed from the room, and was seen no more that evening.

After this exploit, whenever molasses candy was on the programme, they made a rule that Quimby should sit in the corner, on the old familiar stool, and not move until all was over—a rule to which he submitted meekly.

But he was not happy. In truth, all his joys in these days were mixed with alloy, between the pointed monopoly of Celeste-who, of late, and since she had given up every one else as hopeless, had devoted herself entirely to him—and his secret jealousy of Clem.

Strangely enough, with the exception of Cyn, no one was aware of the exact state of his mind. Clem was as unconscious of it as a child, for any peculiarity in his behavior was laid to his well-known idiosyncrasies; Celeste suspected he was in love, but was blindly determined to believe she was the chief attraction in his eyes. Nattie, if she thought about it at all, imagined he was entirely cured Of that former "foolishness," as she termed his one attempt to put his devotion into words. And as for Jo, being so opposed to anything of a sentimental nature himself, naturally he was unwilling to observe any indications of the kind in another, and any glaring revelations that forced themselves on his notice, he, in common with Clem, decided was "only Quimby's way."

Oh, Dear, no! Jo could see nothing but plain-unromantic facts. It was no sentiment, or anything of the sort on Jo's part, of course, that made him reproduce the handsome, brilliant face of Cyn, in so many of his recent pictures. Oh, no! she was a good "study," that was all! Nor that caused him to seek her society in preference to all others, to listen entranced when she sang, and to be exceedingly annoyed—a rare thing once for good humored Jo—when Clem was given more than his share of her attention. Again oh, no! Cyn was a fellow Bohemian, a congenial spirit, that was all. Neither in the least sentimental or jealous was Jo!

But for all that, and for some unexplained reason, he was not quite so even in his spirits as he was wont to be, sometimes being very happy, and then terribly depressed. Did he eat too much, or too little, which? For if it was not the first commencement of a first love—and of course it was not—it must have been his digestion that ailed him!

Had Miss Betsey Kling known of these little uneasy undercurrents amidst the gayety that so annoyed her, the knowledge would doubtless have given her much satisfaction, besides, possibly, the inkling she could not now obtain of what was "going on." It was a source of great distress to her that she could not ascertain whether it was Cyn or Nattie with whom Clem was "flirting." For she was positive he was trifling with the affections of one or the other, and that matters would end in some kind of a horrible scandal. But for all her listening and prying around, she could not seem to gain much information, except that everybody but herself—and perhaps the old gentleman Fishblate—was having a good time. Nor could she get hold of anything "dreadful," which was the greatest disappointment of all.

One night, however, listening at her own door as Nattie bade Cyn "good night," over the way, Miss Kling heard Clem call out from within, something that made her very hair stand on end. It was this:

"Please wake me up earlier than usual to-morrow morning, will you, Nattie?"

"Wake him up, indeed!" thought the outraged but happy Miss Kling, as she wended her way back to her own room. "Pretty goings on! and I know I heard that machine clatter when she was not in, one day! Machines do not clatter without a human agency somewhere! There is something wrong here! and I will find it out, or my name is not Betsey Kling 'Wake him up,' indeed!"



CHAPTER XII.

CROSSES ON THE LINE.

It happened that not long after Cyn sang at a concert given in one of the principal halls of the city. Of course, a party from the Hotel Norman attended. This party consisted not only of all the young people, but also included Mrs. Simonson.

Cyn made a great success, and was encored every time she sang. Never had Nattie so fully realized the beauty and brilliancy of her friend, as she did upon that evening. Nor could she fail to observe that Clem, too, was startled into a new admiration. Was it because of this that a seriousness, quite foreign to the gay scene, fell over Nattie's face?

As for Celeste, she was decidedly envious, and had there been no gentlemen in the party, would have turned exceedingly glum. As it was, she, with some difficulty, called up her usual smiles, and contented herself with whispering spitefully to Quimby,

"How can she appear before the public so? it seems so unwomanly!"

"Charming, indeed!" replied Quimby, without the slightest idea of what she had said, as his attention was concentrated on Cyn, and his brain incapable of entertaining two ideas at once.

But while acknowledging her attractions, Quimby preserved his composure, arguing to himself in a common sense way,

"What is the use of a fellow falling in love with a girl that every other fellow is sure to fall in love with too, you know?"

Mrs. Simonson, good soul, quite swelled with pride in her lodger, and by her behavior created the impression in the minds of people sitting near, that she was the singer's mother.

And Jo—unsentimental Jo—was entirely carried away. With the music, of course, for music was art, and art, only in another branch, was his life and work; and was not Cyn a beautiful work of Nature, the mother of all art?

"He will be a very lucky man who shall call our Cyn his," whispered Clem to Jo, as she came out in answer to an encore.

"What!" ejaculated Jo, so savagely that every one turned to look at him, and Clem opened his eyes wide with surprise. "Bah! Nonsense!"

And some way or other, after this, the music sounded very dismal to Jo, and the close air of the room made his head ache; but he had been working very hard all day, and was tired, so this was quite natural.

Was Clem presuming on his good looks, and thinking of making Cyn his, he wondered? If he was, she certainly would not be fool enough to—Jo stopped here in his meditations, because he would like to have been a little surer that she would not. Very strongly he felt just then that "things of a doubtful nature were sometimes very uncertain!"

It was, of course, no sentiment on his part that caused these emotions. He did not wish Cyn to throw herself away in matrimony, that was all; and so strong were his feelings on this point that he could not banish the idea from his mind all the rest of the evening, and was noticeably thoughtful.

But he was very gay; even unusually, wildly gay on the way home, and kept Mrs. Simonson, whom he escorted, in such a state of laughter that she burst three buttons, and was all "wheezed up" when they reached the hotel.

"Why are you so thoughtful to-night?" Clem asked Nattie, as they walked down their street behind the rest, in the wake of Jo's gayety and Celeste's meaningless giggle. Celeste was clinging to the arm of the unwilling, but helpless Quimby, and chatting of the handsome tenor.

With a slight start, Nattie replied to Clem's question,

"I do not know. Am I?"

"Yes; you have hardly spoken a word all the way. Is anything the trouble?" asked Clem, and she, looking moodily oh the ground, did not see the anxiety in his eyes as he spoke.

"Nothing!" she replied; then startled him by bursting out passionately,

"I am tired of living with no object; with nothing but a daily routine. Can it be there is no better place in the world for me? That my life must be always thus? I cannot be contented!"

Clem stopped short and stared at her agitated face.

"I never knew you were not happy, Nattie," he said, gently.

"Oh! I am not unhappy; I am only discontented," Nattie replied.

"You are somewhat contradictory in your statements," said Clem, as they went on again, for she also had stopped. "Is it office troubles that annoy you? Poor little girl, it is a monotonous life!"

Nattie flushed at the tenderness in his voice.

"That is one thing," she replied, a little tremblingly, "but I want something to work for, as Cyn has. I am ambitious; my present position can never content me; I am haunted all the time by an uneasy consciousness that if I was smart I should be doing something to get ahead; and yet, I don't know what to do!"

"I remember you once said something about becoming a writer; why not try that?" suggested Clem.

They had reached their own landing at the hotel, and paused. The remainder of the party had disappeared.

"It seems so hopeless," Nattie answered, dispiritedly; "there is no opening anywhere."

"But it will never do to wait for that, you know. If the world is a closed oyster, we must open it. Isn't that the way Cyn did?" said Clem, half surmising the realization of the difference between Cyn's brilliant success and her own plodding along that had caused her dejection; and as he spoke, he took her hand in his, but Nattie snatched it quickly away.

"Ah! Cyn!" she said in sudden and uncontrollable jealousy, "of course you could never expect me to compare with her!"

Clem looked at her a moment, then some emotion flushed his face, and he would have spoken had not Miss Kling, disgusted with her inability to catch a word from inside, opened her door, saying sharply,

"Are you coming in, Miss Rogers?"

"Certainly," Nattie replied quickly, and already ashamed of her jealous outburst. "Good night, Clem."

"But will you not come over and congratulate Cyn on her success?" he asked, detaining her. "I heard a carriage just stop, and think she is in it."

"Not to-night; to-morrow," said Nattie, hastily, and left him before he could again urge the request.

"Oh!" said Miss Kling, as Nattie closed the door behind her, "was that Mr. Stanwood who came home with you?"

"Yes;" Nattie answered, briefly. "I should hardly have thought Miss Archer would have allowed it!" remarked Miss Kling, with a sneeze.

"I don't know why she should have forbidden it!" replied Nattie, coldly, yet looking somewhat startled. Poor Nattie's nerves were decidedly unstrung to-night.

"You do not mean to say that you are ignorant of what every one else knows?" queried Miss Kling, with a malicious sparkle in her eyes; "that they are just the same as engaged."

Nattie turned a very pale face towards her.

"I—I think you are mistaken," she faltered.

"Mistaken! no indeed!" said Miss Kling, positively; "I should think your own eyes might tell you that! Why, Mrs. Simonson says, Miss Archer has thought of nobody but him since he came into the house, and that anybody can tell he is in love with her, from his actions and the attentions he pays her, and Celeste told me the same thing, long ago. But I suppose Miss Archer is willing he should come home with you. She isn't, of course, jealous of you!"

There was a sneering emphasis in Miss Kling's last words, that made them anything but complimentary, as Nattie felt; but saying only, in a voice she vainly tried to steady,

"You may be right," she went into her own room, and locked the door behind her.

She knew now! knew what that first romantic acquaintance, that dejection at the companionship lost in the obnoxious red-head, that joy when "C" was restored to her in Clem, that unsatisfied desire to have him back on the wire, all to herself; that suppressed jealousy of Cyn, led to—and what it all meant; that she loved him! and he, did he, as they said, love Cyn? alas! who could help loving bright, beautiful Cyn? To attract him to herself was only the romance of their first acquaintance—and even this Cyn slightly shared; it was not Cyn's fault. Nattie could not be guilty of the petty meanness of disliking her friend because she possessed attractions superior to her own. But if he loved Cyn, then, indeed, had the curtain fallen on the sad ending of her romance; the lights were out, and all was darkness. If he loved Cyn? Nattie, with the first full knowledge of her own feelings, could hardly hope otherwise, remembering their intimacy, his marked attention to her, his praise of her, and her winning beauty and talents. Yes, it must be that he loved her! Oh, why must Cyn be given everything, and she—nothing? What kind of fate was it that marked out the broad, sunny road for one, and the somber, uneven pathway for another? Must her life be one of lonely discontent, a telegraph office at the beginning, and a telegraph office at the end? was this to be all?

"No!" thought Nattie, raising her head proudly, and looking at the red and swollen eyes that gazed at her from the opposite glass. "Life shall give me something of its best; if not of love, then of fame! and I will work and persevere until I gain it!"

Yet, for all of her resolution, Nattie sobbed herself to sleep. Not so easy is it to renounce love, and look forward to a life barren of its best and sweetest gift.

And after this there was a change in her observable even to the undiscerning Quimby. Shadows had fallen over her face, lurked in her gray eyes and around the corners of her mouth. The old restlessness had given place to a settled gloom. She was less often seen among the gay circle that gathered in Cyn's parlor, pleading every possible excuse for staying away, and when with them, to his surprise and delight, and to Celeste's dismay, she devoted herself to Quimby, to Jo—to any one rather than to Clem. For most of all had she changed to him. Afraid of betraying her secret, and unable to control the pain that overpowered her when in his presence, now she knew her own heart, she avoided him in every practicable way, and seldom, even over their wire, talked with him. She was always "tired," or "busy," when he called her now.

Clem, surprised and puzzled by this unaccountable change, at first endeavored to overcome her coolness, but ended by becoming cool in his turn, and talked and joked with Cyn more than ever. And if a touch of the shadows on Nattie's face sometimes crept over his own, she, in her self-engrossment, did not observe it.

If Quimby's hopes burned brighter at this state of affairs, and he was consequently happier, Jo, for some reason unexplained, was not. In fact, he was decidedly queer; now gay, now horribly cynical, not to say morose.

Truly, Cupid, viewed in the character of a telegraphist, was far from being a success; for he had switched everybody off on to the wrong wire!

Cyn, gay unconscious Cyn, no more dreamed of Clem being supposedly in love with her, than she did that Jo was so filled with thoughts of her, that, had he been a different kind of a man, one would have called him desperately in love. But Cyn, unconscious of all this, saw, and with sorrow, the ever-increasing coldness between Nattie and Clem. For she had quite set her heart on the romance that had commenced in dots and dashes culminating in orange blossoms—a Wired Love. But now, to her vexation, she saw her anticipations liable to be set at naught, and herself unable to obtain even a clew to the trouble. Like the "line man," who goes up and down to find why the wires will not work, she could not find the "break" anywhere, and decided that romances, whether "wired" or taken in the ordinary way, were certainly very unwieldy things to manage.

"It seems to me that you do not use that wire very often now," she said one evening to Clem and Nattie, the latter of whom she had forcibly dragged forth from the solitude of her room. "Were it not for me, it would rust. Why! I used to hear your clatter into the small hours, but now—"

"Now we are more sensible," concluded Nattie, leaning over the piano to look at some music. "One gets tired of talking in dots and dashes after a time!"

Poor Nattie's trouble made her bitter sometimes.

"Yes, one wants a person they don't know to talk with, in order to make it interesting!" added Clem, not to be outdone.

"Good gracious!" thought Cyn, dismayed at the result of her probing. "This is really dreadful!" then she exclaimed impulsively,

"I hope you have not quarreled, you two!"

"Oh! dear no!" replied Nattie quickly, "what should we quarrel about?"

But Clem, after looking at her a moment, advanced and held out his hand, saying frankly,

"I believe we have been cross to each other of late, although how it happened I do not know! So let us make up and be good!"

Cyn looked up hopefully at this, but Nattie, who could hardly conceal her agitation, replied coldly,

"I do not see that anything has been the matter!" and placing a limp hand in his for an instant, turned away.

Clem bit his lip, then took out his watch, saying,

"I believe I have an engagement down town this evening. I shall have to leave you now, I fear, ladies."

Nattie celebrated his departure by bursting into tears that she vainly tried to hide, and was detected in this situation on the sofa by Cyn.

Cyn's arms were about her in a moment, and Cyn's voice said lovingly,

"What is it, dear? Tell me what is the matter lately? Trust me with it. Is it about Clem?"

With a determination, very brave and unselfish, but unfortunately entirely uncalled for, not to mar Cyn's happy love by her sorrow, Nattie checked the tears, of which she was ashamed, and answered,

"No! I am very weak and foolish. The idea of my crying like a school-girl! I am only unhappy because—because—I am nobody!"

And this was all the information the sympathetic and perplexed Cyn could obtain.

Sitting that night on a low cricket before the fire with her dark hair unbound—and it was fortunate for Jo's peace of mind that he could not see her just then, because she was such an interesting "study!"—Cyn thought it all over, and could not, as she told herself, make out what it was all about.

"I thought everything was going on so smoothly," she mused, "and now here is what Clem himself would term a cross on the wire! and no one can find out where it is! Doesn't she love him, I wonder? I should, if I was she! Does he love her? if he does not, he is no kind of a hero! Ah! I know what would test the matter! a crisis! Now, for instance, if the house would only get on fire, and Nat burn up—that is, almost—and Clem save her just in time—that is the sort of thing that brings these heroes to terms in the dramas! but I suppose—everything is so different in real life—Clem would not wake up in time, and she would burn to a crisp—or some one else would save her first—Quimby, for instance, he is always doing something he ought not! no, I don't think it would do to risk it! nevertheless, I am convinced that a crisis is what is essential to complete the circuit, telegraphically speaking, or in other words, to bring down the curtain on every body, embracing everybody, with great eclat!"



CHAPTER XIII.

THE WRONG WOMAN.

Somewhat exultant over the new aspect of affairs, and unable longer to endure the strain of the load of love he was carrying about with him, Quimby came to a desperate determination.

This was no other, than to confide in his room-mate, and once dreaded rival, and then, provided he was not thrown out of the window, or kicked down stairs, ask his advice about how to render himself clearly understood by her, at the same time relating his former unfortunate attempt.

This programme he carried into effect one morning, as Clem was blacking his boots. Perhaps he had made private calculations on a blacking-brush hitting a man with less damage than some larger article.

"I say, Clem!" Quimby began, "I—I want to ask your advice, you know!"

"I am at your service, my dear boy," replied the unsuspecting Clem, rubbing away at his boot.

"Well—I—I want to know—the fact is, I—I am boiling over with love!"

"What!" exclaimed Clem, looking up with an amused smile, "you are not in love with Cyn too, are you?"

"With Cyn, too?" These words were balm to the soul of Quimby, and gave him courage to answer eagerly,

"Ah! no use in that for me, you know! It—it is she—Miss Rogers—Nattie—you know!"

The blacking-brush left Clem's hand, but not to fly at the expectant Quimby. It simply dropped onto the floor, while Clem gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged whistle.

"Is it possible!" he said, having thus relieved himself of his first astonishment. "I might have suspected as much if I had stopped to think, though!"

"Yes, I—I think I showed it plain enough, you know!" said Quimby candidly. "You see, I—I tried to tell her of it once, before you came here, when you were invisible, you know, but some way she—she didn't just understand, and—and bolted, you know! So just tell me how to do it, that is a good fellow, for do it I must!"

Clem picked up his blacking-brush, and very deliberately smeared the boot he had just polished, with another coat of blacking, before answering.

"How can I tell you?" he said at last. "You don't suppose proposing is an every-day habit of mine, do you? My dear boy, I never proposed in my life!"

"But you—you ought to—I mean you will sometime, you know! Just give me a—a start, you know!" pleaded Quimby, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Shall I call her and propose for you?" inquired Clem, somewhat ironically, and glancing at the sounder.

"No—no—I—No!" cried Quimby in great alarm at this proposition. "She might think you meant yourself, you know!"

"In which case the rejection would be sure!" said Clem. Then flinging his brush savagely into a corner, he added as he went out,

"You must settle it yourself, old fellow! No one can help us in those matters. There is no duplex!"

Quimby was therefore left to his own devices; and his own devices brought about a most extraordinary result.

That same evening, Nattie coming over to Cyn's room, and finding her absent, sat down to await her return, which Mrs. Simonson assured her would be very soon. There was no gas lighted, and in the dusk Nattie remained, feeling, perhaps, an affinity with the somber shadows of the twilight. As she sat musing, now wishing "C" had left her life forever when he left it with the odors of musk and bear's-grease about him, and now despising herself for the weakness she found it so hard to overcome, she became conscious of a denser shadow in the shadows of the open door.

"I—I beg pardon. Is it Cyn?" asked this shadow, in the voice of Quimby.

"No," Nattie replied, "Cyn is out."

"I—I beg pardon. Is it you?" the shadow asked with accents of delight.

Nattie acknowledged the "you."

"And you—you are alone?"

Nattie glanced around the room hoping the Duchess had strayed in, so she might truthfully say no. But she was compelled to reply in the affirmative.

"Glorious opportunity—I—it must not be wasted! I—I will explain, you know!" he exclaimed, excitedly and incoherently. But to Nattie's surprise, instead of entering, he darted away in such a tremendous hurry that he stumbled and fell, and she distinctly heard his skull bang against his own door.

But his last words were too ominous, and she was too well acquainted with his peculiarities to flatter herself she was permanently relieved of his company. He had perhaps gone to brush his hair, or take some quieting drops, but she knew he had certainly not gone to stay, and not being exactly in the humor for his company, Nattie resolved to fly ignominiously. Afraid of returning to her own room, lest she might meet him and be taken captive, she quietly retired into Cyn's bed-room. In a few moments she heard him stumbling over a stool in the parlor, and was just thinking that if he should take it into his head to remain any length of time, she would be in rather a predicament, when to her surprise she heard him say,

"I—I must speak! I—I hope this time I shall remember what I have so often—so often said in the privacy of my own apartment, to—if I may confess it—to a pillow—a pair of pants and a coat—placed in a chair as a poor effigy of—of you, you know. Will you—will you—don't speak, but let me alone, hear me and let the—the flow of language come!"

He paused, and in the greatest bewilderment, Nattie stared at the opposite wall. Did he by some powerful intuition discern she was within hearing distance, or was he in his disappointment rehearsing to her empty chair? Before Nattie could decide between these two solutions of his conduct, another voice, the voice of Celeste, said faintly and affectedly,

"Oh, Quimby"

And then Nattie comprehended the situation. After her own retreat, Celeste had entered and taken the just vacated chair. It was twilight. Celeste wore a black dress like hers, her hair was dressed in the same style, and was the same color, and Quimby had mistaken her for Nattie! And in his excitement and struggle with that "flow of language," he did not notice even that it was not Nattie's voice saying "Oh, Quimby!" for he continued,

"I—I—you may reject me—I am afraid you will, but I must say it, you know. I must, or I shall—I shall explode and fly into atoms!"

Here Celeste gave a little scream, but he went on determinedly, making the most of his "glorious opportunity."

"I—I am not like other fellows, you know! that is, I mean I have not the—the brass, if I may so express myself, and I am always doing something wrong—but I am used to it, you know—the question is, could you get used to it? for I have a heart that is—that is honest, and that beats all full of love—of—love for—you know who I mean!"

There was a murmured "oh!" from Celeste, as Quimby paused to wipe from his brow the perspiration called forth by his arduous undertaking.

"What shall I do!" frantically thought the perplexed listener, divided between the ludicrous part of the affair, and her desire to save him from the dilemma into which he was rushing; "what can I do? oh! if Cyn would only come!"

But Cyn came not, and while Nattie paused, irresolute, and not knowing what course to take, Quimby went on to his fate.

"I have thought, sometimes, that you liked some other fellow—Clem, I mean—" Nattie felt herself blush in the darkness—"but I do hope not! the thought has made me boil in secret often, and he loves Cyn, you know—" Nattie's color left her face as quickly as it had come—"but oh!" and he went down on to his knees with a whack that made the vases on the mantel jingle. "Let me tell you what I tried twice before to say, what is always in my thoughts! I—I adore you! the ground you walk on! and have, ever since I first saw your nose! I—I beg pardon, but I fell in love with your nose! and will you—can you tell me that you don't love any other fellow—Clem, I mean—and share my little property, and be—be Mrs. Quimby, you know!"

"Ah! really I—such a trying moment!—but dear, dear Quimby, I never cared for Clem, never only for you—and I am yours!"

With these words, Celeste precipitated herself into his arms, and the next moment Nattie heard a crash as they both fell on the floor. The sudden shock of recognition that then burst upon him, weakened him to such an extent that he could not support himself, much less her, so down they went!

"He must know who it is now!" thought Nattie, with a sigh of relief.

And meanwhile Celeste had picked herself up, but Quimby still remained flat on the floor, bracing himself up by his hands on either side, and staring at her, motionless. Fortunately it was too dark for her to see the expression of his face.

"Did you hurt yourself?" asked Celeste at length. "Let me help you up! We are to help each other now, you know."

Quimby groaned.

"Oh, misery!" he gasped. "This—my destiny is too much for me! Oh! the evil deeds of darkness! Listen to me, I implore you! It is all a mistake! I thought—"

"Of course it was a mistake! You did not suppose I thought you fell purposely, did you, dear?" quickly interrupted Celeste, blindly or willfully misunderstanding—who shall say which? "But please get up, Cyn may come."

At this Quimby scrambled to his feet with startling suddenness, and exclaiming hastily,

"I will—I will write and tell you all—all! I have an engagement now with a friend just around the corner!" he rushed from the room, and would have flown, but the pertinacious Celeste had followed, and just as he reached the outside hall, regardless of the publicity, flung herself around his neck, this time without bringing him to the ground.

"It is not necessary to write!" she cried. "Pray, do not take such a trifle so much to heart. Remember I am yours, and—"

Another voice from the stairs just above the pair, interrupted her. It was the voice of Fishblate pere, and it said,

"Hugging! Marry her!"

"I—I—will!" wailed the now alarmed Quimby, as Celeste blushingly withdrew from her embrace of him. "I—I will see you to-morrow if I—if I live!" and striking his forehead with his hand, he burst away, bounded frantically down the stairs and fled, ejaculating,

"I knew it! I had a presentiment from my youth!"

"Excuse his eccentricity, Pa!" Celeste said. "He loves me so much, poor fellow!"

"Humph! Get enough of that!" he growled, with contempt.

"And he has a nice little property!" added Celeste, as they went up stairs.

"Property is the thing!" Fishblate pere said, with undisguised plainness.

Nattie emerged from her retreat on the hasty exit of Quimby and Celeste, so full of regret for the flight that had proved so disastrous to him, that the ludicrous part of the scene just enacted was forgotten.

"Poor Quimby!" she thought, remorsefully. "What a dreadful fix he is in! I hope he will get out of it; and I am so sorry for my share in it! How strange it would be if he should, as he once said, marry the wrong woman, after all!"



CHAPTER XIV.

QUIMBY ACCEPTS THE SITUATION.

When Quimby rushed out into the street, it was with some wild and indefinite intention of flying to the ends of the earth, but recalled to his senses by the stares of the passers-by, he concluded he had better first return and get his hat. When he reached his own room, where Clem was thoughtfully pacing the floor, he flung himself face downwards upon the bed, groaning and kicking his feet spasmodically.

"What is the matter?" Clem inquired.

"I've done it now! I've done it now!" was all the answer Quimby gave him.

"Has she rejected you?" asked Clem, his mind going back to their morning's conversation.

"No! no! she has accepted me!" wailed Quimby, with a prodigious kick.

"What!" shouted Clem, stopping short in his promenade.

"She has! Oh, she has!" moaned the wretched victim of mistakes. "I am engaged! Oh, heavens! engaged!"

"Do you mean to tell me that Miss Rogers has accepted you?" inquired Clem harshly.

This name completely unmanned poor Quimby, and he began to cry like a school-boy.

"Miss Rogers!—No! never—never! but she—Celeste!"

"Celeste!" echoed Clem; "Celeste!"

"Yes! I—oh!—I made a mistake, you know!" explained Quimby, wiping his eyes on the bedspread.

An irresistible smile, but quickly suppressed, curved Clem's lips as he asked,

"But how could you possibly make such a mistake as that? Come, cheer up, my boy, tell me, and let me help you out!"

Quimby looked at him mournfully.

"It—it was dark," he answered dejectedly, "she sat in the chair—the lost Nattie I mean, it was she, for she spoke to me! Why did I not seize the chance then? But no! I left her to—to rehearse a little first, and when I returned—Oh!—it was still dark, and I did not know a transformation had been effected—I burst forth in eloquence, and—oh!—it was Celeste, you know! I fled—she followed,—caught and hugged me in the hall! Her father saw—roared 'Marry her' and I—there was no escape, you know!"

"But, my dear fellow," remonstrated Clem, "you can explain the mistake! you are not obliged to marry Celeste because you accidentally proposed to her!"

Quimby shook his head hopelessly.

"She—she—would sue me for breach of promise you know, and take all—all my little property! And her terrific father—I don't know what he would not do to me! Only one thing could make me brave all!—If Miss Rogers—Nattie, would say it might have been, had not this fearful mistake occurred, I would face even old Fishblate and break all bonds."

"Dear old fellow, I am afraid she—Nattie would have rejected you, in any case. She is—a flirt!" said Clem, somewhat savagely. "She leads people on, for the sake of dropping them, when it suits her convenience!"

"I—now really, I—I cannot think that; even though she had rejected me, I could not think that!" said Quimby, loyally; then with sudden decision, "I will settle it now! If I had not put it off before, as I did, I might not have blundered into this awful fix, you know! I hear them in Cyn's room now; Cyn and Nattie; come with me! I—I will have witnesses, and no mistakes this time, you know!"

"What are you going to do?" asked Clem, following his excited friend, rather reluctantly.

"I am going to find out if she—Nattie—likes me, you know! if she does, I will brave Celeste—her fierce father—the law! if not—why then, I must be a martyr anyway, you know, and I don't care how big a one I am!"

So saying, Quimby went across to Cyn's room, Clem, not exactly liking the position thrust upon him, but unwilling to refuse, accompanying him.

Meanwhile, Nattie had pounced upon Cyn, the moment she returned, exclaiming,

"Oh! Cyn! such a dreadful thing has happened!"

"What? how? when?" asked Cyn, while, from the effects of the melodrama she had just been witnessing, visions of Clem, with a dozen bullets in his head, danced before her eyes.

"Quimby! poor Quimby! I have ruined him!" was Nattie's remorseful and unintelligible answer.

"Well, my dear, if you could possibly be a trifle lucid, perhaps I could understand the plot of the piece," said Cyn, decidedly relieved of her first surmise.

Upon which Nattie, half laughing and half crying, explained. But the ludicrous side was too much for Cyn, and she could only laugh.

"What a farce it would make!" she said, as soon as she could speak.

"Oh, Cyn!" Nattie said, reproachfully. "Think how dreadful it is for Quimby, and for me, the un-meaning instrument of it all!"

"Nonsense, my dear," said Cyn, more seriously, and bringing her philosophy to bear on the subject, "It was not your fault! she was determined to have him in any case! Had it been you, as he supposed, you would of course have declined the proffered honor, and she would have caught him in the rebound! If he has spirit enough, he can get out of marrying her in some way. If not—she will make him a good wife enough. Men, you know, as she says, prefer to marry women who don't know too much; so it is all right!"

And with this Nattie was fain to be content. But she felt great pity for the poor fellow; perhaps because of the unhappiness in her own heart.

It is only from the depths of our own sorrows that we learn to feel for that of others.

As Quimby and Clem entered, both Nattie and Cyn looked surprised and curious, but Quimby, so excited now that his usual nervous bashfulness was forgotten, said immediately,

"I—I beg pardon, I am sure, for calling so late, but my business will not wait, and I wanted Clem as witness—he and Cyn—so as to make no mistake now!" then turning to the astonished Nattie, he went on,

"Nattie, I—I—my feelings for you have long been of—of adoration—no, please, hear me—" as she made a gesture to interrupt him. "To-night, in this room, I addressed another—Celeste—" here he groaned, but recovered himself and went on, "in the dark, you know, with words intended for you. I want to know now, what, had I not been so deceived, you would have said?"

"But what difference can it make now?" asked Nattie, hesitating, and wishing to spare him, as he paused for a reply.

"Every difference!" said Quimby, wildly. "I beg you to—to answer me truly, in order that I may know what course to take!"

"Then since you wish," replied Nattie, with a pitying glance, "I will tell you that as a friend I think very highly of you, and always shall. But, that is all."

"Then come on, Celeste!" exclaimed Quimby, in a burst of despair. "She—she says, she loves me, and I—I may get used to it in time! all but her teeth," he added, in his strict honesty, "to those I never can!"

Cyn felt a mischievous desire to hint that time might relieve him of his objection, but restrained herself and said,

"But you can explain the matter to her, you know!"

"Just what I have been telling him," said Clem. "No woman would force herself on a man under such circumstances!"

"She would, I feel it!" answered the unconvinced Quimby. "Miss Rogers—Nattie, I—I thank you, I—I shall always remember you as something unattainable and dear, and hope somebody more worthy may be to you what I would have been if I could. But I—I was born to make mistakes, you know, and I—I am used to it—and ought to be thankful it was not Miss Kling!"

"I am very, very sorry!" murmured Nattie, and Clem saw there were tears in her eyes.

"Moral—never make love in the dark!" said Cyn, looking with solemn warning at Clem.

"Be sure that all—all the gas in the room is lighted if ever you propose!" added Quimby, miserably, to his friend.

"I will remember," said Clem, glancing at Nattie. "There are worse mistakes made in the dark than on the wire, it seems!"

"Far—far worse!" groaned Quimby, as Nattie hastily turned her head aside.

"But now, really, Quimby!" urged Cyn, seriously, "do be sensible. Do not be foolish enough to marry a woman you do not want, because you cannot have the one you do!"

But Quimby, with the fear of old Fishblate, and a breach of promise suit, and a dread of explanations in his mind—moreover, having firmly decided that a little more or less of misery did not matter, could not be persuaded to take any steps himself, or allow them to be taken, to free himself from the result of his latest mistake.

Therefore, it came about, to the surprise of those not in the secret, and the unconcealed exultation of one of the parties immediately concerned, that the engagement of Quimby and Celeste was announced.



CHAPTER XV.

ONE SUMMER DAY.

The week that decided Quimby's fate so unexpectedly and brought him so much woe, to Cyn brought good tidings. Her success at the concert had been so decided that she was the recipient of many offers for the coming season, and was enabled to accept those that promised most advantageously. No one was more honestly glad than was Nattie in her congratulations; Nattie, who had fought and overcome that selfish pain and bitter wonder of hers, why Cyn should have everything and she nothing.

Since the approach of summer, a much-talked of project among them had been a little picnic party in the woods, and as Clem now proposed to get it up in honor of Cyn's success, the plan was immediately carried out. Mrs. Simonson, with a feeble protest, because Miss Kling was not invited, accompanied them. The "them," of course, consisted of Cyn, Nattie, Clem, Jo, and the newly betrothed ones.

Nature was kind to these seekers of her solitudes, and gave them a perfect day; one of those that occur in our uncertain climate less often than might be wished, but that penetrate everywhere with their sunshine, when they do come, even into hearts where sunshine seldom glances. So, for the nonce, our friends forgot all their little troubles; even Quimby brightening up, and ceasing to think of his engagement, as they stood underneath the green trees, by the banks of a small river; sunshine everywhere, and the music of birds in the air.

"Is it not glorious?" cried Cyn, like a child, in her exuberance.

"Why not camp out here, and stay all summer?" ecstatically suggested Clem, as he fondled his fishing tackle.

"But it might not always be pleasant like this," said practical Mrs. Simonson.

"When the sun shines we forget it may ever storm," said Jo, and looking admiringly at Cyn as he spoke.

"Is our artist a philosopher, as well as all the rest we know he is?" asked Cyn, laughing.

"A very little one; five feet six!" replied Jo.

"Well, we will have no shadows to-day," said Cyn.

"No shadows to-day!" echoed Jo; then turning to Mrs. Simonson, asked, "I hope you do not still regret Miss Kling!"

"I suppose she would spoil it all!" that good lady committed herself enough to say.

"Well, really, I must say," remarked Celeste, who now gave herself many airs, and evidently looked upon Cyn and Nattie as commonplace creatures, not engaged!—"I must say, now that you are speaking of her, that she does Kling in a way that is not pleasant sometimes. She actually annoys pa!"

"I thought she entertained a high regard for The Tor—for your father," said mischievous Cyn.

"That is exactly it!" replied Celeste. "Too high a regard! Truly, she behaves very ridiculously! Why, she positively waylays pa! so indelicate in a woman, you know!" with sublime unconsciousness of ever having indulged in the pastime of waylaying herself! "Such an old creature, too! she is always coming and wanting to mend his old clothes and stockings! Poor pa actually has to lock himself in his room sometimes!"

The vision of "poor pa" thus pursued was too much for the gravity of the company, and there was a general laugh.

"It is true," asserted Celeste. "Now; isn't it, Ralfy?" appealing to her betrothed with appropriate bashfulness.

Everybody stared at this. No one before ever really knew that Quimby possessed a front door to his name, and he, as surprised as any one at the cognomen Love had discovered, fell back on a rolling log, and clutched his legs to that extent that they must have been black and blue for a week afterwards.

Clem saved the discomfited "Ralfy" the necessity of replying, by interposing with,

"Come! come! let us not talk on such incongruous subjects this lovely day! let us rather talk sentiment!" and he gave a prodigious wink in Jo's direction.

"I fear we are not a very sentimental party!" laughed Cyn; adding mischievously, "except, of course, Quimby and Celeste!"

"Oh! I—I am not, I assure you! I am not in the least, you know!" protested Quimby, taking a roll on the log; "never felt less so in my life."

"Why, Ralfy!" exclaimed Celeste, reproachfully, and to his distress went up close to him, and would have sat down by his side, but for the uncontrollable rolling propensity of that log, which made it impossible.

"How is it with you, Jo?" queried Cyn; "can you not for once, forget your horrible hobby, and be a little sentimental, in honor of the day?"

Jo, who was throwing sticks into the water, to the great disturbance of the bugs, and plainly-shown annoyance of a big frog, made a somewhat surprising reply. Decidedly seriously, he said,

"I fear if I should attempt it, I might get too much in earnest!"

"Oh! we will risk that, so please begin!" said Cyn, but staring at him a little as she spoke. "Jo, sentimental! Just imagine it!"

"Will you risk it?" he asked still seriously, and with so peculiar an expression that she could reply only by another astonished stare.

"But really, it does not pay to be sentimental, as you all ought to have found out long ago! as Jo and I have!" Nattie said, jestingly, yet with an undertone of earnestness.

"Then," said Clem, dryly, "since it is so with us, let us fish!" and he threw his line into the stream.

Cyn, Jo, and Mrs. Simonson followed his example. Quimby declined joining in the sport, and perhaps, likening himself to the fish, balanced himself on the log, and looked on with a pathetic face. Celeste, as in duty bound, remained by his side. Nattie, too, was an observer only, and from the expression off her face was decidedly not amused.

"I think it is cruel!" she exclaimed, as Jo took a fish off Cyn's hook.

"I—I quite agree with you!" Quimby replied quickly, in answer to Nattie's observation. "It is cruel!"

"But perhaps the fish were made for people to catch," suggested the pacific Mrs. Simonson, who had not yet been able to get a bite.

"Yes," acquiesced Clem, pulling up a skinny little fish. "They are no worse off than we poor mortals after all. We must each fulfill our destiny, whether man or fish."

"Yes! it is all fate!" exclaimed Quimby vehemently. "We cannot help ourselves!"

"You believe in fate then? I don't think I do!" said Cyn, with a glance half-humorous, half-pitying, at its victim on the log; "what incentive would we have to any effort, if we were sure everything was marked out for us in advance?"

"That is a question requiring too much effort for us to discuss on a warm day," said Nattie.

"Certain circumstances must bring about certain results, you will acknowledge," Clem gravely remarked.

"But, it is said that every soul that is born has a twin somewhere; and if so, that must be fate!" said Mrs. Simonson.

"Miss Kling's theory, I believe!" laughed Nattie.

"If it is so, the right ones don't often come together," said Quimby gloomily.

"We are an exception, then, to the general rule!" simpered Celeste.

Quimby groaned, and then murmured something about the toothache.

"Poor fellow!" said Cyn, in a low voice, to Nattie.

"After all, there is something in fate," Nattie sighed.

"Perhaps so," she said.

"Well, we will not get solemn over fate," said Jo, cheerily; then, in a lower voice, as he glanced at Cyn, he added—"yet."

"And do not frighten away what few fish there are here, with your theories," commanded Clem.

Although this mandate was obeyed, and for a time silence reigned, it was not long before they were all singing a gay song, started by Clem himself, even Quimby joining in the chorus with a feeble tenor. But they were tired of fishing by that time, and began to feel as if a little refreshment would not be out of place, and would indeed enhance the loveliness of Nature, so a fire was made, and lunch-baskets unpacked.

"It will take a good many of those fish for a mouthful," declared Clem, who was cook.

"You may have my share, I can't eat creatures I have seen squirm," said Nattie.

"Ah, you fastidious young woman! what shall I ever do with you, if you are cast away on a desert island with me?" exclaimed Clem, in mock despair.

"Set up a telegraph wire, and then she would need nothing more," insinuated Cyn.

"And get snubbed for my pains!" muttered Clem, sotto voce. But Nattie caught the words, and an expression of distress passed over her face.

"This reminds me of that feast!" Cyn declared, as they sealed themselves wherever convenient, with a dish of whatever was handy.

"Only more so," added Clem.

"What feast?" asked Celeste, curiously.

"One we had once," Cyn replied evasively, glad there was something Celeste did not know about. In fact, in the matter of curiosity, Celeste was an embryo Miss Kling.

"I am sorry we have no Charlotte Russes to-day, Quimby," remarked Clem, with an expression of transparent innocence.

Quimby could only reply with a groan. The recollections awakened were too much.

"What is the matter now, Ralfy?" asked the loving Celeste.

Again Quimby muttered something about "that tooth."

"Oh!" said Celeste, tenderly, "you really must have it out, Ralfy!"

The possibility of being obliged to part with a sound tooth in self-defense, restored him for the time being. But he was not the only one to whom the retrospect brought a momentary pain. Nattie sighed as she looked back to the day that had brought Clem, but not restored as she then supposed, but taken away, her "C."

"The salubrious air and the invigorating odor of the forest adds immeasurably to the natural capacity of the appetite!" commented Jo, gravely, as he passed his plate for the seventh fish.

"Ah!" sighed Celeste, who prided herself on her delicacy, "I never could eat more than would satisfy a mouse, and since my engagement," simpering, "I cannot swallow enough to scarce keep me alive!"

Quimby looked up eagerly.

"I—I beg pardon, but if the—if the engagement weighs upon you, I—I am willing to release you, you know!" he exclaimed, hopefully.

"You jealous creature!" replied Celeste, archly. "You know, Ralfy, that no consideration could make me release you!"

Quimby knew it only too well, and sighed as he picked a chicken bone.

"A great objection to dining in the woods is that one is apt to find his food unexpectedly seasoned!" said Clem, as he captured a six-legged bug of an adventurous spirit, that had sought to investigate the contents of his plate.

"Isn't it strange that bugs don't seem half so bad in our food here as they would at home!" said Mrs. Simonson.

"Oh! we can get used to anything, if we only think so!" said Cyn, bringing her cheery philosophy to the front.

"Yes!" assented Quimby, mournfully, "I—I am used to it, you know!"

Cyn laughed, and then proposed the health of the betrothed pair, which was drank in lager beer, and to which Quimby, bolstered up by Celeste, attempted to respond, but collapsed in the middle of the third sentence, and with the words,

"Thank you! and I—I am used to it, you know!" sat down, wiped his forehead on his napkin, and looked intensely miserable.

After that they toasted Cyn, and then "Dots and Dashes," and last, Jo with mock solemnity proposed "Fate."

And just then Quimby met with a fresh mishap, and came near ending his sufferings in a watery grave, only the water did not happen to be quite deep enough. Arising from the sharp-pointed rock that had served him for a pivot on which to eat his dinner, he stumbled, fell and rolled over and over down the bank, and into the river, with a tremendous splash.

Every one jumped up in consternation.

"Oh, Clem! Jo!" shrieked Celeste, wringing her hands, and rushing down to the water's edge. "Save him! Save my darling Ralfy!"

"Ralfy," however, was equal to saving his own life this time. The water was only up to his waist, and he had already picked himself up and was wading ashore.

"I—I am all right!" he said looking up at his anxious friends with a reassuring smile. "I—I am used to it, you know!"

As Clem assisted him up the bank, the thought came into Cyn's head, why would it not be a good idea to push Nat—accidentally—into the river, so Clem might rescue her, and thus bring about that much to be desired crisis? But remembering that water would run the colors of her dress, and farther, how dreadfully unbecoming it was to be wet—a fact fully demonstrated by the present appearance of Quimby—Cyn rejected the idea as not exactly feasible.

They left Quimby drying on a sunny bank, with Celeste as guardian angel, love, and the remains of the repast to cheer her, and the consciousness that his clothes were shrinking on him as they dried, to divert him, and wandered off through the woods, and over the hills, gathering on the way so many flowers and green things, that Cyn declared they looked like Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane.

At first they were all together, then straggled apart; Mrs. Simonson being the first dereliction, as she was not quite equal to climbing as fast as the young people. Thus it came about that Nattie found herself alone with Clem, and suddenly stopping, with some embarrassment, but steadily, said,

"There is something I wish to say to you. You have spoken several times of late about my 'snubbing' you. I want to say, I have not intentionally done so; that I have the same—the same friendship for you as always, and that I wish you every happiness. What may have appeared to you as strange or cold in my conduct of late, is due to secrets of my own."

Clem look at her scrutinizingly, as she spoke, and the flowers he had gathered fell unheeded from his hands.

"It has never been my wish that any coldness should come between us; you know that, Nattie," he replied earnestly. "From our first acquaintance, the old acquaintance over the wire, you have held the same place in my heart!"

"The place next to Cyn!" was Nattie's involuntary bitter thought, but she instantly stifled the feeling, and answered,

"Thank you, Clem; and I hope we may always be the same friends."

At this Clem took an impetuous step towards her, and would have said—who can tell what?—had not at the same moment Mrs. Simonson, very much out of breath, come up with them. Nattie was not sorry. She had wished to say to him what she had, that he might not think her changed manner of late had been caused by any feeling of dislike, and might understand she wished him success with Cyn. But she had no desire to prolong the interview, and gladly walked on by the side of the puffing Mrs. Simonson.

Clem, however, looked displeased, and followed with a thoughtful face; so thoughtful that Mrs. Simonson noticed and wondered at his preoccupation.

Meanwhile, Cyn, with Jo, were far in advance, and had turned into a by-path that led toward a slight rising, sauntering on, Cyn talking merrily, Jo unusually quiet, until suddenly stopping, she exclaimed,

"Dear me! we have lost sight of every one! Had we not better return?"

"No! I do not want to!" answered Jo, bluntly.

"Do you not? As you say, only we must not lose them. Possibly they may stroll this way; shall we sit down?" and without waiting for a response Cyn seated herself on a big rock by the side of the pathway.

Although Jo was not romantic, he had an artist-eye, and could not but note the beauty of the scene before him, a scene he did not need to reproduce on canvas to remember ever after;—the mountains in the background, the narrow path sloping down from the near hill to where, on the gray and moss-covered rock, Cyn sat, her dark eyes mellow with the summer sunshine, and the cherry ribbons of her hat giving the requisite touch of color to make the picture perfect.

For a moment he stood in silent admiration, then, taking off his hat, and smoothing down his shaven locks, he said,

"To tell the truth, Cyn, I do hope they will not stroll this way. They are around altogether too much. I never can have a quiet talk with you!"

"I declare, I believe in addition to your being unsentimental, and all that, you are becoming a confirmed grumbler!" exclaimed Cyn, as she caught one of the boughs of the tree overhead and turned a merrily-protesting face towards him.

Jo looked at her, and a queer expression came over his face.

"Am I?" he said, slowly. "Well—would you like to see me sentimental? Would you like to see me make a fool of myself?"

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure!" cried Cyn.

"Then," exclaimed Jo, planting himself directly in front of her, "here goes! now I am going to astonish you very much, Cyn!"

"Very well! I am all impatience! Go on!"

"But it is no joke!" he replied, in protest to her laughing face. "If I am to make a fool of myself I am going to do it in dead earnest!"

"That is the way, of course," responded Cyn, but beginning to look a little surprised.

For Jo seemed very much excited, and his manner indicated anything but a jest. Extraordinary creature, that Jo! His next proceeding was even more strange; that was to ask the apparently irrelevant question,

"Do you remember what we were all saying a short time ago, about Fate?"

"Certainly; but are you going to favor me with a dissertation on Fate, instead of making a fool of yourself?"

"No!" was the solemn reply, "have a little patience, Cyn. The fact is, you are my Fate—there is no mistake about it!—and must be either cruel or kind, and there's no alternative!"

Cyn's surprise increased visibly.

"I am sure, I do not understand you at all! how queer you are to-day, Jo!"

"Of course I am queer! when a man throws his theories and hobbies to the winds, and confesses himself conquered, he is apt to be queer, is he not? Can you not understand, that I, Jo Norton, who have always scoffed at sentiment, and proudly declared myself incapable of being the victim of love, am ready—yes, and longing!—to make as big a fool of myself as the veriest spooniest youth in existence, and all for love of you, Cyn?"

To this exceedingly novel declaration of love, Cyn responded by releasing the bough she held, and staring at him with distended eyes and a perfectly blank face; for once in her life, speechless.

"I told you I was going to astonish you," said Jo, quaintly, in answer to her prolonged stare, "and I do not wonder that you cannot believe I really love you! I did not myself, for a long time, and I would not after I knew it! But it is a fact. No joke—no mistake, but a sober, serious fact! I love you, love you, love you!"

Jo's voice grew very fervent, as he uttered these last words, and was in such striking contrast to his ordinary manner, that Cyn could but see that this was indeed, "no joke."

"You—you love—and love me!" she gasped.

"Yes, I could not help it! I have only known it within a few days, but I think I have loved you ever since we first met, only those confounded theories of mine blinded me."

"Well—but what are you going to do about it?" questioned Cyn, unable yet to recover from her bewilderment.

Jo looked at her, wistfully.

"I know I am homely, Cyn, and I am poor; I have nothing to offer you but an honest, loving and true heart. I suppose a man who is in love is naturally unreasonable—I never was in love before, you know—but an extravagant hope will whisper to me, that even this little might not be unappreciated by you."

And as he spoke, Jo's face was so transfigured that it could no longer be called plain. Cyn gazed at him in wonder, and recovering partly from her first surprise, an unusual seriousness came over her own handsome face, as she answered earnestly,

"It is not unappreciated! oh, no, Jo! Nothing to offer me but an honest, loving and true heart, you say? why, that is everything!"

"Then will you accept it? May I try and win your love?" he asked eagerly, advancing close to her. "I will work very hard to make myself worthy of it, and to win a name you need not be ashamed to bear. I lay myself, my life at your feet, Cyn."

"And this is unsentimental Jo!" Cyn exclaimed involuntarily.

"This is unsentimental Jo," he answered, in all humility. "Do with him what you will; he is all yours."

Into Cyn's expressive eyes came some deeply-stirred emotion.

"I am so sorry;" she said, sadly, "so very, very sorry! what shall I say? what shall I do? I like you so much as a friend! But what you ask, Jo, could never be!"

The sun sank behind the distant hills, and a shadow, such as had fallen over the woods behind them, settled on Jo's face.

"The idea is new to you. At least, think it over. Do not leave me without a little hope," he entreated.

"Jo, I wish—yes! I do wish that I could love you as you deserve to be loved," said Cyn, earnestly. "But it cannot be! it never could be! Do not deceive yourself with false hopes. Friends always, Jo, but lovers never!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Jo, bitterly, unable to restrain his jealousy, "it is Clem who stands between us!"

"Clem who stands between us!" echoed Cyn, astounded for the second time that day.

"There—now I have lowered myself in your estimation; I am but a blundering fool, Cyn. You see I am selfish in my love; and I have not yet become sentimental enough to be willing to see another fellow win what is all the world to me!"

Cyn's face grew red as was the sky when the sun had gone down.

"Do you mean to insinuate that I am in love with Clem?" she asked, angrily.

"I would not insinuate it for all the world, if you are not," was Jo's eager reply; "I am not experienced in love matters, but I am quite sure he loves you—and he is very handsome," he added ruefully.

"What a dreadful combination of circumstances!" cried Cyn, distractedly. "But, pshaw! It's impossible!"

"Impossible? No, indeed! Why, it was by being so jealous of him that I first awoke to the fact that I was in love with you myself. Besides, every one has noticed his fondness for you."

"They have?" vehemently, and smiting the rock where she sat with her hand, as she spoke. "But this is truly awful!"

"Then you do not care for him?" questioned Jo, joyfully.

"Care for him?" repeated Cyn, irritably. "Of course I care for him! Is it not my pet scheme that he should marry Nattie? Certainly it is, and has been from the first! And now, if he has gone and fallen in love with me, a nice predicament we will all be in. But you must be mistaken! I cannot believe him capable of such a thing! The only reason I have to fear it is that I would not have credited it of you yesterday!"

"But you see I do love you. You believe I do, do you not, Cyn?" asked Jo, too eager to press his own suit to give much thought to Nattie and Clem. "Why will you not try and love me, as you do not love Clem? Am I so homely as to be repulsive to you?"

"Homely? Nonsense!" replied Cyn, momentarily putting aside her newest anxiety for the previous one, "now I come to think of it, I had rather marry you than any man I know!"

"Would you? Would you really?" seizing her hand hopefully. "Then why will you not?"

Cyn allowed her hand to remain in his as she said slowly and impressively,

"I cannot marry. That is entirely out of the question for me. Of my life, love can form no part!"

"But I thought you believed in love?" said Jo, looking perplexed, but clinging to her hand as a sort of anchor.

"I do. I believe it is the best happiness of life. But it cannot be for me. Why, I will tell you. I owe this much in return for what you have given me; what I prize even though I am compelled to refuse it. What stands between us is the memory of a love—gone forever."

"What!" exclaimed Jo, astounded in his turn. "You do not mean to say that you—that you—you, the gayest of the gay—that you—" Jo stopped, unable to proceed.

"You hardly expected to find me in the role of the victim of a broken heart, did you?" questioned Cyn, with a half-sad, half-humorous smile. "I admit I do not exactly answer to the average description, and my heart is not broken—there is only a blank in it—something dead that can never live again. Once I loved a man with all my heart"—Jo sighed—"with all the illusion of youth, and he loved me. The difference between his love and mine was, that mine was forever, and his was for a day."

"Impossible!" interrupted Jo. "No man who once loved you could ever change."

"He happened to be one of the kind who could. I never really knew the cause—it might have been another woman. You know there always is another woman."

"Or another man," added Jo gloomily.

"Yes," assented Cyn, and continued. "He was one of the kind, I think now, who are incapable of appreciating a woman's love, and consequently unworthy of it. But unfortunately, I did not know this, and wasted mine on him. So he and love, went out of my life forever. But," with a proud raising of her head, "I would not be weak enough to allow all my life to be ruined because one part of it was wrecked; with so much gone, there still remained something, and of that I made the most. This is why my art is everything to me, and why I cannot marry you."

"But it seems to me unreasonable, that because you loved one man who was unworthy, you should refuse the love of another who would try very hard to make you forget that first sad experience," argued Jo. "Give me what you have left, Cyn! If it be but dead ashes, I will thank God for the gift, and perhaps, at some future day, in response to my devotion, even from those ashes shall arise another love, so strong, so intense, that, in comparison, the old shall be but as some half-forgotten trouble of childhood, whose remembrance cannot awaken even a passing pain."

The fervor of an honest affection made Jo truly eloquent, and his true blue eyes met the dark ones of Cyn, glowing with earnestness and love, and for a moment she looked at him and hesitated. Then she arose, saying resolutely,

"No! Jo! no! Do not tempt me! The experiment would be too dangerous! To give you a warmed-over affection in return for your whole heart, would only be misery for us both—more misery than I am bringing to you now. I respect and esteem you, as I said before—we will be friends—comrades—always—no more!"

As she spoke, she extended her hand to him, in farewell to all his hopes.

And so understanding he clasped it, a sadness on his face she had never seen there before.

"As you will, Cyn," he replied, brokenly, "but I shall love you—forever!"

As he spoke, from below came the cry,

"Cyn Jo! where are you? we are going!"

"Coming!" Cyn's clear voice answered back.

"One moment," Jo said, detaining her, "may I—may I kiss you once, Cyn? Once, and for the last time?"

There were tears in Cyn's eyes. She bent her handsome head, their lips met, then, without a word, they went on together to join those who awaited them.

And it was thus Fate decreed for these two.

Love brings the most intense sorrows, the keenest joys of life. But there must always be some lives, into which comes only the sadness, and none of the bliss, of loving.



CHAPTER XVI.

O. K.

Leaving Clem, on their arrival at the hotel, to bear the burden of the green stuff they had brought from the woods, Cyn, with a trace of melancholy on her sunny face, followed Nattie to her room. For Cyn's joyous picnic, with its gay beginning, had ended sadly enough for her.

"I want to ask you something," Cyn said, with frank directness, as she carefully closed the door behind them. "And that is, are you, can you be foolish enough to imagine, that Clem and I are in love with each other?"

The small basket Nattie held in her hand fell to the floor, at this unexpected question. Had Cyn drawn forth a bowie-knife, and playfully clipped off her nose, she could not have been more astounded.

"If you can possibly reduce your eyes to their ordinary size, and give me a candid yes or no, I will be obliged," Cyn said, rather petulantly, after waiting in vain for an answer. The events of the day had sorely tried her usually even temper.

A little tremulously, while a burning flush covered her face, Nattie answered her,

"I—I have heard it intimated!"

"You have heard it intimated! That means yes, to my question," said Cyn; then sinking despairingly on the lounge, she added, "here is a crisis of which I never dreamed!"

Not understanding very well, and moreover much agitated by the subject, Nattie knew not what to say.

"This is awful!" went on Cyn, savagely beating the pillow with her fist; "what contrary things love affairs are!"

Fearful of having in some way betrayed her secret—the only conclusion she could draw from Cyn's extraordinary outburst—Nattie stood looking guiltily at the floor a few moments, then recovering herself, she went to Cyn, and said, in a voice full of emotion,

"I do not just comprehend your meaning, dear, but it may be you think I might not quite like the idea, on account of that—that first affair on the wire. If so, dismiss the thought. You and Clem are suited to each other, and—" Nattie stopped, unable to continue.

Cyn, who had been beating the innocent pillow, as if it was the cause of all this, while Nattie was speaking, now threw it across the room, as she exclaimed.

"Oh! the perversity of human nature! Oh! you degenerate girl! As if I cared for Clem in that way! Have I not from the first set my heart on this real-life romance ending in the only way it could rightfully end?"

A sudden light came into Nattie's face, but it died away in a moment.

"Then you do not care for him? Poor Clem!" she said, in a low voice.

"Poor Clem, indeed!" cried Cyn, pacing the floor excitedly. "I cannot—no, I cannot—believe it of him! He certainly has sagacity enough not to run his head against a beam in broad daylight, even—"

"If Jo had not," she was about to add, but checked herself suddenly. Not for the world would she betray Jo's confidence. What had passed between them to-day should be a secret always, never again to be mentioned—but never forgotten in the friendship and companionship of after years.

"You must be very difficult to suit, dear, if you do not like Clem!" said Nattie, with unconscious significance, after waiting in vain for Cyn to finish her sentence.

"It is not that," replied Cyn, somewhat sadly. "Do you not know I have only one love,—music?"

"Poor Clem!" again said Nattie, from the depths of her tender heart. "For I know he loves you, dear. He could not help it, who could?"

Such words would have been sweet to the vanity of an ordinary woman. But on Cyn they had a very opposite effect.

"Things have come to a pretty pass if one can not laugh and joke, and enjoy one's self with friends without being made love to!" she said, annoyed. Then looking scrutinizingly at Nattie, she asked,