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The Hotels were crowded with visitors. Every apartment
at — Hall, from basement to attic, was full, save
two small rooms, eight by ten, so dingy and uncomfortable,
that only in cases of emergency were they offered to
guests. These, from necessity, were taken by the Lawries,
but for Rosamond there was scarcely found a standing
point, unless she were willing to share the apartment of a
sick lady, who had graciously consented to receive any
genteel, well-bred person, who looked as though they
would be quiet and not rummage her things more than
once a day!

“She was a very high-bred woman,” the obsequious
attendant said, “and her room the best in the house; she
would not remain much longer, and when she was gone
the young lady could have it alone, or share it with her
companions. It contained two beds, of course, besides a
few nails for dresses.”

“Oh, do take it,” whispered the younger Miss Lawrie,
who was not yet thoroughly versed in the pleasures of a
watering place, and who cast rueful glances at her cheerless
pen, so different from her airy chamber at home.

So Rosamond's trunks were taken to No. 20, whither
she herself followed them. The first occupant, it would
seem, was quite an invalid, for though it was four in the
afternoon, she was still in bed. Great pains, however,

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had evidently been taken with her toilet, and nothing
could have been more perfect than the arrangement of her
pillows—her hair—her wrapper, and the crimson shawl
she wore about her shoulders. Rosamond bowed to her
politely, and then, without noticing her particularly, went
over to the side of the room she supposed was to be hers.
She had just lain aside her hat when the lady said, “That
open blind lets in too much light. Will you please shut
it Miss — I don't know what to call you.”

“Miss Leyton,” answered Rosamond, “and you are—”

“Miss Porter,” returned the speaker.

“Rosamond started quickly, for she remembered the
name, and looking for the first time directly at the lady,
she met a pair of large black eyes fixed inquiringly upon
her.

“Leyton—Leyton,” repeated the lady, “where have I
heard of you before?”

“At Atwater Seminary, perhaps,” suggested Rosamond,
a little doubtful as to the manner in which her intelligence
would be received.

A shadow flitted over the lady's face, but it was soon
succeeded by a smile, and she said graciously, “Oh, yes,
I know. You annoyed me and I annoyed you. It was
an even thing, and since we are thrown together again,
we will not quarrel about the past. Ain't you going to
close that blind? The light shines full in my face, and,
as I did not sleep one wink last night, I am looking horridly
to-day.”

“Excuse me, madam,” said Rosamond, “I was so taken
by surprise that I forgot your request,” and she proceeded
to shut the blind.

This being done, she divested herself of her soiled

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garments, washed her face, brushed her curls, and was about
going in quest of her companions, when the lady asked if
she had friends there. Rosamond replied that she had,
at the same time explaining how uncomfortable they
were.

“The Hotel is full,” said the lady, “and they all envy
me my room; but if I pay for the best, I am surely entitled
to the best. I shall not remain here long, however.
Indeed, I did not expect to be here now, but sickness
overtook me. I dare say I am the subject of many anxious
thoughts to the person I am going to visit.”

There was a half-exultant expression upon the lady's
face as she uttered these last words, but in the darkened
room, Rosamond did not observe it. She was sorry for
one thus detained against her will, and leaning against the
foot-board, she said, “You suffer a great deal from ill
health, do you not? Have you always been an invalid?”

“Not always. I was very healthy once, but a great
trouble came upon me, shocking my nervous system terribly,
and since then I have never seen a well day. I was
young when it occurred—about your age, I think. How
old are you, Miss Leyton?”

“I am eighteen next October,” was Rosamond's reply,
and the lady continued, “I was older than that. Most
nineteen. I am twenty-eight now.”

Rosamond did not know why she said it, but she rejoined
quickly, “Twenty-eight, So is Mr. Browning!”

“Who? exclaimed the lady, the tone of her voice so
sharp—so loud and earnest, that Rosamond was startled,
and did not answer for an instant.

When she did, she said, “I beg your pardon; it is Mr.
Browning who is twenty-eight.”

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“Ah, yes, I did not quite understand you. I'm a little
hard of hearing. Who is Mr. Browning?”

The voice had assumed its usually soft, smooth tone,
and Rosamond could not see the rapid beatings of the
heart, nor the eager curiosity lurking in the glittering
black eyes. The lady seemed indifferent, and smoothed
carelessly the rich Valenciennes lace, which edged the
sleeve of her cambric wrapper.

“Did you tell me who Mr. Browning was, dear?” and
the black eyes wandered over the counterpane, looking
everywhere but at Rosamond, so fearful was their owner
lest they should betray the interest she felt in the answer.

“Mr. Browning,” said Rosamond, “is—is—I hardly
know what he is to me. I went to his house to live when
I was a little, friendless orphan, and he very kindly educated
me, and made me what I am. I live with him still
at Riverside.”

“Ye-es—Riverside—beau-ti-ful name—his country-seat—
I—sup-pose,” the words dropped syllable by syllable
from the white lips, but there was no quiver in the voice—
no ruffle upon her face.

Raising herself upon her elbow, the lady continued,
“Pray don't think me fidgety, but won't you please open
that shutter. I did not think it would be so dark. There,
that's a good girl. Now, come and sit by me on the bed,
and tell me of Riverside. Put your feet in the chair, or
take this pillow. There, turn a little more to the light.
I like to see people when they talk to me.”

Rosamond complied with each request, and then, never
dreaming of the close examination to which her face was
subjected, she began to speak of her beautiful home—

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describing it minutely, and dwelling somewhat at length
upon the virtues of its owner.

“You like him very much,” the lady said, nodding a
little affirmative nod to her own question.

“Yes, very—very much,” was Rosamond's answer;
and the lady continued, “And Mrs. Browning? Do you
like her, too?”

“There is no Mrs. Browning,” returned Rosamond,
adding quickly, as she saw in her auditor's face an expression
she did not understand, “but it is perfectly proper
I should live there, for Mrs. Peters, the housekeeper, has
charge of me.”

“Perhaps, then, he will marry you,” and the jeweled
hands worked nervously under the crimson shawl.

“Oh, no, he won't,” said Rosamond, decidedly, “he's
too old for me. Why, his hair is turning gray!”

“That's nothing,” answered the lady, a little sharply.
“Everybody's hair turns early now-a-days. Sarah found
three or four silver threads in mine, this morning. Miss
Leyton, don't you love Mr. Browning?”

“Why, yes,” Rosamond began, and the face upon the
pillow assumed a dark and almost fiendish expression.
“Why, yes, I love him as a brother, but nothing else. I
respect him for his goodness, but it would be impossible
to love him with a marrying love.”

The fierce expression passed away, and Miss Porter was
about to speak when Anna Lawrie sent for Rosamond,
who excused herself and left the room, thinking that, after
all, she should like her old enemy of Atwater Seminary
very much.

Meantime “the enemy” had buried her face in her pillows,
and clenching her blue veined fists, struck at the

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empty air, just as she would have struck at the owner of
Riverside had he been standing there.

“Fine time he has of it,” she muttered, “living there
with her, and she so young and beautiful. I could have
strangled her—the jade!—when she sat here talking so
enthusiastically to me, of him! And she loves him, too.
I know she does, though she don't know it herself. But
I must be wary. I must seem to like this girl—must win
her confidence—so I can probe her heart to its core, and
if I find they love each other!”—she paused a moment,
then grinding her teeth together, added slowly, as if the
sound of her voice were musical and sweet, “Marie Porter
will be avenged!”

That strange woman could be a demon or an angel, and
and as the latter character suited her just now, Rosamond,
on her return to her room, found her all gentleness and
love.

That night, when all around the house was still, the full
moon shone down upon a scene which would have chilled
the blood of Ralph Browning and made his heart stand
still. Upon a single bedstead near the window Rosamond
Leyton lay calmly sleeping—her brown curls floating o'er
the pillow—her cheeks flushed with health and beauty—
her lips slightly apart and her slender hands folded gracefully
upon her bosom. Over her a fierce woman bent—
her long, black hair streaming down her back—her eyes
blazing with passion—her face the impersonation of malignity
and hate; and there she stood, a vulture watching a
harmless dove. Rosamond was dreaming of her home,
and the ogress, standing near, heard her murmur, “dear
Mr. Browning.”

For a moment Marie Porter stood immovable—then

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gliding back to her own couch, she whispered, “It is as I
believed, and now if he loves her, the time I've waited for
so long has come.”

All that night she lay awake, burning with excitement
and thirsting for revenge, and when the morning came,
the illness was not feigned which kept her in her bed and
wrung from her cries of pain. She was really suffering
now, and during the next few days, Rosamond staid almost
constantly at her side, administering to her wants,
and caring for her so tenderly that hatred died out of the
woman's heart, and she pitied the fair young girl, for in
those few days she had learned what Rosamond did not
know herself, though she was gradually waking up to it
now. It was a long time since she had been separated
from Mr. Browning, and she missed him so much, following
him in fancy through the day, and at night wondering
if he were thinking of her, and wishing he could hear the
sound of her voice singing to him as she was wont to do
when the twilight was over the earth. Anon there crept
into her heart a feeling she could not define—a feverish
longing to be where he was—a sense of desolation and
terrible pain when she thought of his insanity, and the
long, dreary years which might ensue when he would lose
all knowledge of her. She did not care to talk so much
of him now, but Miss Porter cared to have her, and caressingly
winning the girl's confidence, learned almost every
thing—learned that there was an impediment to his marrying,
and that Rosamond believed that impediment to be
hereditary insanity—learned that he was often fitful and
gloomy, treating his ward sometimes with coldness, and
again with the utmost tenderness. Of the interview in
the library Rosamond did not tell, but she told of every

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thing else—of his refusing to let her come to the Springs,
and then compelling her, against her will, to go; and
Marie Porter, holding the little hands in hers, and listening
to the story, read it all, and read it aright, gloating
over the anguish she knew it cost Ralph Browning to see
that beautiful girl each day and know he must not win her.

“But I pity her,” she said, “for there is coming to her
a terrible awakening.”

Then, for no other reason than a thirst for excitement,
she longed to see that awakening, and one day when they
sat together alone, she took Rosamond's hand in hers,
and examining its scarcely legible lines, said, half playfully,
half seriously, “Rosamond, people have called me
a fortune-teller. I inherited the gift from my grandmother,
and though I do not pretend to much skill, I can
surely read your destiny. You love Mr. Browning. I
have known that all along. You think of him by day—
you dream of him by night, and no thought is half so
sweet as the thought of going home to him. But,
Rosamond, you will not marry him. There is an impediment,
as you say, but not insanity. I cannot tell you
what it is, but I can see,” and she bent nearer to the hand
which trembled in her own. “I can see that for you to
marry him, or—mark me, Rosamond—for you even to
love him, is a most wicked thing—a dreadful sin in the
sight of Heaven, and you must forget him—will you?”

Rosamond had laid her face upon the bed and was sobbing
hysterically, for Miss Porter's manner frightened
her even more than her words. In reply to the question,
“Will you?” she at last answered passionately, “No, I
won't!” It is not wicked to love him as I do. I am his
sister, nothing more.”

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Miss Porter's lip curled scornfully a moment, and then
she said, “Let me tell you the story of my life, shall I?”

No answer from Rosamond, and the lady continued:
“When I was about your age I fancied I loved a man
who, I think, must have been much like Mr. Browning—”

“No, no,” interrupted Rosamond. “Nobody was
ever like Mr. Browning. I don't want to hear the story.
I don't want any thing but to go home.”

I will not tell her until it's more necessary, thought
Miss Porter, but if I mistake not she will go home much
sooner than she anticipates. And she was right, for on
that very night Mr. Browning sat reading a letter which
ran as follows:

“I find myself so happy with your little Rosamond,
who chances to be my room-mate, that I have postponed
my visit to Riverside until some future time, which, if
you continue neutral, may never come—but the moment
you trespass on forbidden ground, or breathe a word of
love into her ear—beware! She loves you. I have found
that out, and I tell it because I know it will not make
your life more happy, or your punishment easier to
bear!”

He did not shriek—he did not faint—he did not move—
but from between his teeth two words came like a
burning hiss, “Curse her!” Then, seizing his pen, he
dashed off a few lines, bidding Rosamond “not to delay
a single moment, but to come home at once.”

“She knows it all,” he said, “and now, if she comes
here, it will not be much worse. I can but die, let what
will happen.”

This letter took Rosamond and the Lawries by surprise,

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but not so Miss Porter. She expected it, and when she
saw how eager Rosamond was to go, she smiled a hard,
bitter smile, and said, “I've a half a mind to go with
you.”

“What! where? To Riverside?” asked Rosamond,
suspending her preparations for a moment, and hardly
knowing whether she were pleased or not.

“Yes, to Riverside,” returned Miss Porter, “though on
the whole, I think I'd better not. Mr. Browning may not
care to see me. If he does, you can write and let me know.
Give him my love, and say that if you had not described
him as so incorrigible an old bach, I might be coming
there to try my powers upon him. I am irresistible in
my diamonds. Be sure and tell him that; and stay,
Rosamond, I must give you some little token of my affection.
What shall it be?” and she feigned to be thinking.

Most cruel must her thoughts have been, and even she
hesitated a moment ere she could bring herself to such an
act. Then with a contemptuous “Pshaw!” she arose and
opening her jewel box took from a private drawer a plain
gold ring, bearing date nine years back, and having inscribed
upon it simply her name “Marie.” This she
brought to Rosamond, saying, “I can't wear it now;—my
hands are too thin and bony, but it just fits you,—see—”
and she placed it upon the third finger of Rosamond's left
hand!

Rosamond thanked her,—admired the chaste beauty of
the ring and then went on with her packing, while the
wicked woman seated herself by the window and leaning
her head upon her hands tried to quiet the voice of conscience
which cried out against the deed she had done.

“It does not matter,” she thought. “That tie was

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severed years ago,—by his own act, too. The ring shall
go. But will he see it! Men do not always observe such
things,” and then, lest he should not quaff the cup of bitterness
prepared for him, she wrote on a tiny sheet of
gilt-edged paper, “Look on Rosamond's third finger!”

This she carefully sealed and gave to Rosamond, bidding
her hand it to Mr. Browning, and saying in answer
to her look of inquiry, “It is about a little matter concerning
yourself. He can show it to you, if he thinks proper!”

“The omnibus, Miss, for the cars,” cried a servant at
the door, and with a hurried good-bye to her friends,
Rosamond departed and was soon on her way to Riverside.

p592-279

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