“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn't he like Auntie
best?” and with this outburst, Johnnie plunged heart
and soul into the contest. “Who, I'd like to know,
makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a
married old chap, I mean, like father. 'Tain't you. It's
Auntie, and so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You
ask 'em. Talk about what you've done for Dora these
dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all that! I think
I'd dry up on that strain and tell what she'd done for me.
Hasn't there been a baby about every other week since
she lived here, and hasn't Auntie had the whole care of the
brats? And at Newport how was it? I never told before,
but I will now. I heard two nice gentlemen talking
over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how
mean and selfish it was in her sister to make such a
little nigger of her. They didn't say nigger, but that's
what they meant. Dora ain't coming home, no how.
You can go to Saratogo without her. Take Clem, and
Daisy, and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best
of the lot. Leave me and Burt and Ben at home. I'll
see to them, and we shall get on well enough.”

By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son
of hers should abuse her so, with his father standing by
and never once trying to stop him. Possibly some such
idea crept through Squire John's brain, for, putting into
his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing,
he said, “My boy, I'm astonished that you should use

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

such shocking words as thunderation, co-boozle, dry up,
and the like. Your Aunt Dora would be greatly distressed;
but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife and
trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is
right, on the whole; his plan is a good one. We'll take
Clem, and Rosa, too, if you like, leaving Johnnie, Ben,
and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where she is.
She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You
are not selfish, Madge; you'll let her stay. I'll write so
now,—shall I?” and there was a sound very much like a
very large, hearty kiss, while a moment after Johnnie,
in the kitchen, was turning a round of somersaults, striking
his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and tripping up
little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for
Dora.

“July 7th.

“Dear Auntie:—The house is still a as mouse, and
seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy,
Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me
with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into
mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and
twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all
then, but now that she is gone, I'll be—I guess I'll skip
the hard words, and say that every time I rem'ber
what I said to her, there's a thumpin' great lump comes

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

in my throat, and I wish I hadn't said it. I've begun
six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone
two days, but I've tore 'em all up, and now when you see
her you tell her I'm sorry,—'cause I am, and I keep
thinkin of when I was a little shaver in pettycoats, how
she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a
preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I'm
the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor
lets me kiss her 'cause she says I slawber and wet her
face, and muss her hair and dress. But she's mother,
and I wish I hadn't sed them nasty things to her and
maid her cry.

“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow
a book, but when he found it was yourn he wouldn't take
it; he said he'd write and ask permission.

“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and
Burt twice. I told her if she did it agen I'd spank her,
and so I will. I think I've got her under, so she knows
I'm man of the house. The old cat has weened her kittens.
Burt shut one of 'em up in the meal chest, and
the white-fased cow has come in, which means she's got a
calph.”

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

“Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to
write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter.
The fact is I want permission to go to that little
library, which, until this morning, I did not know was
yours. There are some books I would like to read, but
will not do so without leave from the owner.

“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, although
I miss you very much. Of course you know your
brother and sister are at Saratoga, and that Johnnie is
keeping house, as he says. If you have not time to answer
this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can
read the books or not.

“Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice
about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not
that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did
not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book
you like.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I
should not think you would. I'm not worth missing.
I hope you will see Johnnie as often as possible.

p605-059 CHAPTER VII. DORA'S DIARY CONTINUED.

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

IT is a long time since I wrote a word in this book;
I have been so happy and so busy withal; visits,
rides, picnics, and everything. I did not know
that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here
in Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to entertain
me. Mattie's brother Charlie is here, but he behaves
like a man; does not annoy me one bit, but flirts shockingly
with Bell Verner, who flirts as hard in return. He
teasingly asked me one day about Dr. West, and when
Bell inquired who he was, he said he was `a country
doctor of little pills; a sort of lackadaisical chap, who
read service very loud, and almost touched the pew railing
when he bowed in the Apostles' Creed.'

“I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell
honestly believes I care for him, and kindly stops Lieutenant
Reed when he begins his fun. I like Bell Verner more
and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over that
letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how
I tried not to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it; but
they did, and there came back such a nice response from

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

John. What a dear, unselfish man he is, and how smooth
he made it look,—so smooth that I really felt as if doing
him a favor by staying until Johnnie's letter was received,
and I guessed at once the storm through which they had
passed.

“Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from Dr.
West? I could scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there
was his name, Richard West, looking so natural. I felt
the blood tingling in my veins, even though he merely
wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish
man! Of course he might. He says he misses me, and
this I think is why the letter is worth so much, and
why I answered it. Perhaps it was foolish to do so, but
I can't help it now. It is not at all likely he'll write
again, though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and
what he would say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows
he wrote, for I told her, but pretended I did not care.
To-morrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David West.

“July 15th.—I have seen Mrs. David West; have
looked into her eyes, so like the doctor's; have heard her
voice; have seen the child; and oh! why am I so
wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up
that rose from Anna's grave and throw it to the winds?
I hate this room. I cannot bear it, for Anna used to
occupy it; she haunts me continually. She died in this
room. Richard kissed her here, and here that child was
born. Oh, what am I to think except what I do? And

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

yet it is all suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman
told me. I wish she had never come here. I would
rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard
what I have.

“It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see
this Mrs. David West, and I thought of little else all
the morning; but when dinner came Mattie had been
seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was impossible
for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I
had anticipated the call, and not wishing to have me disappointed,
she insisted that I should go without her,
Peter acting as my escort there, while the new cook, a
Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street,
would call for me on her way home. This was the arrangement,
and at about four o'clock I started. I had in
some way received the impression that Mrs. David West
lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I
asked Peter if we were right.

“`Yes, miss, Grove Street,—just there a ways in the
neatest little cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.'

“Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen
that first evening of my arrival at Morrisville, and something
told me I was going straight to that cottage with
its roses, its vines, and bay-windows. The surmise was
correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there
been a doubt it would have been dispelled by the widow's
cap and the little child out on the grass-plat, just where

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

they were that other summer day so like this and yet so
unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I
should be suffering now.

“`There she is. That's Mrs. West with Robin,' Peter
said, and the next moment I was speaking to Mrs. David
West, and before she said to me, `You know my son,'
I felt sure she was the doctor's mother.

“The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest
expression beaming in the dark eye, and the same curve
of the upper lip,—said by some to be always indicative
of high breeding. The mother and son were very much
alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a
softer style of beauty. I never saw one to whom the
widow's cap was so becoming. It seemed peculiarly
adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of
grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in
her manner and speech a refinement which even Bell Verner
might have imitated with advantage. My heart
went out to her at once, and by the time I was seated in
the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I
felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.

“`This is Robin,' she said, turning to the child, who I
now discovered was a cripple in its feet, and unable to
walk. `Did Richard ever tell you of Robin?'

“There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew
Richard had never told me of him, and doubted her own
integrity in asking the question.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“`No,' I replied, `the doctor never told me of Robin,
nor yet of himself.'

“`Richard is very reticent,' she answered; and then
as she saw my glance constantly directed to Robin, she
evidently tried to keep me from talking of him by asking
numberless questions about Richard, and by telling me
what a good, kind child he was to her.

“It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive,
but I can see now how she headed me off from the dangerous
ground on which I leaped at last, for I could not
resist the expression of that child's face, and breaking
away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt
by his chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked:

“`Whose boy are you?'

“`Papa Richard's and grandma's,' he replied, and then
there flashed upon me the thought that in spite of his
deep blue eyes and soft golden curls he was like Dr.
West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp, stinging
pain, as I said to myself, `Was Dr. West ever married?
' Surely he would have told of that,—would at
some time have mentioned his wife, and with the pain
there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr.
West than I had supposed; that I was jealous of the dead
woman, the mother of this child. Mrs. West must have
divined a part of my thoughts, for she said half laughingly,
like one under restraint:

“`He has always called my son “Papa Richard,” as he

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

is the only father the child ever knew,' and a shadow
flitted across her face as she directed my attention to a
tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be evaded;
curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark concerning
the heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose
little hand I now held in mine, and said, `He is your
grandchild?'

“Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing
to something or somebody for help; then they softened
and tears were visible in them.

“`Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sorrow
as well as of comfort to me, Miss Freeman,' and
Mrs. West's delicate hand smoothed and unwound the
golden curls clustering around Robin's head. `So I
used to unwind her curls,' she continued abstractedly.
`Robin's mother. I must show you her picture when
we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than any one
I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.'

“Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding
through my flesh, passed over me, but I listened breathlessly,
while still caressing the child she continued:

“`His mother was my adopted daughter: I never had
one of my own. Two sons have been born to me; one
I have lost,—and her breath came gaspingly like speaking
of the dead,—`the other you know is Richard. To all
intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am
sure no mother ever loved her own offspring more than I

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna darling! I never
dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could—
O Anna!' and Mrs. West's voice broke down in a
storm of sobs.

“After this I could not ask her any more questions, and
in a kind of maze I followed her into the house, which
was a perfect little gem, and showed marks of most exquisite
taste. Some of the furniture struck me as rather
too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but
little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard
and seen.

“`That is Anna,' Mrs. West said, pointing to a small
portrait hanging upon the wall just where the western
sunbeams were falling upon it and lighting it up with a
wonderful halo of beauty.

“Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything
so perfectly beautiful could ever have belonged to a
human being, and with a scream of delight I stood before
the picture, exclaiming, `It is not possible that this
is natural!'

“`It is said to be,' Mrs. West rejoined, `though there
is a look in her eye which I did not notice until a few
months before she died. She was crazy at the last.'

“`Crazy!' I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of
pity upon the lovely face, which seemed imbued with life.

“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it,
for after I had told of the dark blue eyes and curls of

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

golden hair, of the pure white skin and full ripe lips,
you, my journal, would not have the least idea of the
face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it
what it was can never be described on paper. The
artist had put it on canvas, so at least said Mrs. David
West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare loveliness
and repeating again, `Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for
long?'

“`No, not long; she died when Robin was born.'

“`And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,'
I ventured to say next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she
made no reply, and with my thoughts in a tumult, I
continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly remembering
the grave which had so interested me, I asked,
`How old was Anna when she died?'

“`Just twenty,' was the reply; while I rejoined, `I
am sure then I have seen her grave. It says upon the
stone, “Anna, aged 20.”

“`Yes, that's all Richard would have on the marble.
It almost killed Richard, but God has healed the wound
just as He will heal all hearts which go to Him.'

“I don't know why I said what I did next, unless it
were that I should have died if I had not. The words
were wrung from me almost against my will:

“`Was Richard Anna's husband?'

“`No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!' Mrs.
West replied, quickly.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning
Anna with hesitancy, but the `No, no, oh no, Richard
was not her husband,' was spoken eagerly, decidedly, as
if it were a fact she would particularly impress upon my
mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she
went on, but this time in the old, cautious manner:

“`I never knew who Anna's husband was. It is a sad
story, which I would gladly forget, but Robin's presence
keeps it in my mind,' and bowing her head over the
child, the poor woman wept passionately.

“`Poor grandma, don't cry. I love you! What
makes grandma cry over me so much, and look so sorry
at me? Is it because I am a little lame boy?'

“This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away
the tears of her he called grandmother. He had not
talked much before, but what he said now went through
my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered:

“`People sometimes cry for joy.'

“`But she don't,' he said, nodding toward Mrs. West,
who left us alone while she bathed her face and eyes.
`She looks so sorry, and says, “Poor Robin,” so often.
I guess it's because my feet will never walk, that she
says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to
me so good, and said God made me lame; that up in
heaven there were no little cripples; that if I loved the
Saviour, and didn't fret about my feet, I'd go up there
some day; and since then I've tried hard not to mind,

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

and ever so many times a day I say softly to myself,
“Will Jesus help Robin not to fret because he's a poor
lame boy, of no use to anybody.” I say it way in my
mouth, but God hears just the same.'

“I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling beside
the lame boy, I wound my arms around his neck,
and laid his curly head upon my bosom, just as I would
have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus
afflicted.

“`Seems like you was most my mother,' he said,
caressing my cheek with his soft little hand. `You
don't look like her much, only I dreamed once she came
to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted
feet, oh! so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and
next day I told it to grandma, and asked her if she wasn't
sure my mother was in heaven! She did not answer
until I said again, “Is she in heaven?” Then she said,
“I hope so, Robin;” but I wanted to know sure, and
kept on asking, until she burst out with the loudest cry
I ever heard her or anybody cry, and said, “God knows,
my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope she's
there!” but she wouldn't say for sure, just as she did
when the minister and Mrs. Terry's baby died. Why
not? Why didn't she? Lady, you look good. You
look as if you prayed. Do you pray?'

“`Yes,' I answered, wondering if he would call my
careless words a prayer.

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

“`Then lady,' and the deep eyes of blue looked eagerly,
wistfully at me, `then tell me true, is my mother in
heaven, sure?'

“What could I do,—I who knew nothing to warrant a
different conclusion,—what could I do but answer, `Yes.'
He believed me, the trustful, innocent child, clapping his
hands for joy, while the picture on the wall, wholly
wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of
heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the
answer given to her boy. He did not doubt me in the
least, neither did I doubt myself; Anna was safe, whatever
her sin might have been; whether the wife of one
husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely
was forgiven.

“Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and
placid as ever, and her voice as low and sweet.

“`You have had a sad call, I fear,' she said. `Richard
would not like it if he knew how I had entertained you,
but I'll promise to do better next time, though I cannot
talk of Anna. Some day perhaps you may know all,
but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.'

“She kept associating me with Richard, and though the
association was not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat,
making me wonder if he had ever told her much of me.

“At that moment Mattie's new cook, Mrs. Felton, appeared,
curtseying with a great deal of humility to Mrs.
West, who did not seem especially pleased to meet

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to
caress Robin, whom she called a `precious lamb,' a
`poor, little, stunted rosy,' and numerous other extravagant
names.

“`I'm back to the old place,' she said to Mrs. West,
when through with Robin, `but my, such a change!
'Tain't much such times as when you were there, I tell
you. Then we had a head; now we've none.'

“Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to
come again, and saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or
she would call on me.

“`You might make the first advance,' I said. `You
have surely lived here longer than Mrs. Randall.'

“`Yes, I know,' and her pale face flushed up to her
soft grey hair. `But times have changed with me. I
do not go out at all.'

“`Come again,' Robin said, as I turned towards him;
`come again, lady; I likes you,' cause you seem some like
Papa Richard.'

“It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard,
and involuntarily I asked, `Why he did not say Uncle
Richard? He is not your father,' I added, while the
child's eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied:

“`Then where is my father, I'd like to know?'

“Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and
said:

“`Come, Miss Freeman, it's time we were going.'

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

“With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West's
proffered hand, and was soon out in the street with Mrs.
Felton, who, when we were at a safe distance from the
house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone:

“`The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child
not to call the doctor papa. I'd have broke him of it long
before this. It don't sound well, 'specially after all's
been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.'

“I wouldn't question her, neither was there a necessity
for it, as she was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.

“`I s'pose you know the doctor and his mother used to
own West Lawn?' was the next remark, which brought
to my mind the conversation between her and Mrs. West.

“`Used to own West Lawn!' I repeated, surprised out
of my cool reserve.

“`To be sure they did; but, for some unaccountable
reason which nobody ever knew, they sold it about the
time Anna died, and bought the place where they live
now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good
nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is
to blame for where they land. Mrs. West held her head
as high as the next one, drove her carriage, and used
solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I lived with
her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pellet
then.'

“I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered
her to go on.

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

“`I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad.
She was the sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you
ever seen, and when they took her to the hospital I felt
as bad as if she'd died.'

“`To the hospital? The lunatic asylum? Did she go
there?' I asked; and Sarah Felton replied:

“`Oh yes; they hoped 'twould cure her. Seems's if
the trouble all come to once. First, there was Robert,
Richard's twin, who went off, or was murdered, and has
never been heard of since.'

“`Richard's twin brother ran off? When? How long
ago? How long before Anna died, I mean?' I asked,
stopping suddenly as a new light dawned upon me, only,
alas! to fade into darkness at the answer.

“`Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year; for he'd
been gone a good spell before it was known to many. He
didn't live here; 'twas in New York, and he hardly ever
come home. He was a wild one, not much like Richard,
who was engaged to Anna, and that's what I can't make
out,—why he didn't marry her.'

“We were crossing a common now, where there were
rustic benches beneath the trees; and feeling that unless
I stopped I should fall, I was so faint and sick with what
I had heard, I said that I was tired; and seating myself
upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against
a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion continued:

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

“`He was engaged for years, so I've heard, and I know
he thought a sight of her. It was fairly sickish to see
'em together, he with his arm round her and she a lettin'
her head, with them long curls, loll on his shoulder.
They was to be married the very day she died. 'Twas an
awful sight. I went away from them about the time
they sent her to the hospital; but I was back a spell, as
the chamber-maid was took sick, and so I was in it all.
Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin', and she whispered
something in his ear.'

“`But Robin,' I gasped; `Anna was surely married to
somebody.'

“Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled
her lip as she answered:

“`Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very
pious girl, runnin' Sunday-schools, belongin' to the
church, tendin' to the poor, and all that.'

“I knew that woman did not believe in Anna's piety,
but I did, and the belief gave me comfort as I gazed up
into the clear blue sky and said to myself, `She is
there.'

“Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not
tell Robin that his mother was in heaven sure; but I was
glad I had done so, without reasoning in the least upon
the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only wrote bitter
things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, `And
Richard kissed her when she was dying?'

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

“`Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna's
room, where she died, and where Robin was born. I
didn't see it, but them that told me did. Richard fell
as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up
from the office and heard what had happened, and six
hours after, when they said she was dyin' and had asked
for him, he had to be carried, he was so limpsy and
weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as
if there was one, but would whisper, `Forgive,—I can't
tell,—I promised not. It's all right,—all right.' What
she meant nobody knows, for she died just that way, with
Richard's arm around her, and the doctor a-holdin' him,
for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead
he went into a ravin' fever, which lasted for weeks
and weeks, till the allopaths give him up. Then the
homopaths come in and cured him, and that's why
he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the
blisterin' and jollup kind before his sickness, but after
that he changed, and they do say he's mighty skilful. As
soon as he got well they sold West Lawn, and Mrs. West
has never seemed like the same woman since. Folks
thinks they's poor, though what's become of the property
nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother,
sendin' her money every now and agen.'

“`But why,' I asked, `did Mrs. Randall and Bell Verner
never hear of all this?'

“`Easy enough,' was the reply. `Judge Verner only

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

moved here last fall, and Mr. Randall last spring. West
Lawn has changed hands three times since the doctor
owned it; so it's natural that his name shouldn't appear
in the sale. Then, it's seven years since it all happened,
and a gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are upwards
of three thousand folks, don't harp on one string
forever; only them that was interested, like me, remembers.
'

“This was true in detail, and was a good reason why
neither Bell nor Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I
thought, as I dragged my steps homeward, hardly knowing
when I reached there, and feeling glad that Mattie was
still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at
once to my own room,—Anna's room,—where she died,
with her head on Richard's arm, and he so weak that he
had to be supported. Poor Richard! I do pity him,
knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was
it? How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast?
Anna said with her dying breath that it was all right,
and I believe her. I will not cast at her a stone. She is
in heaven sure; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard fell as
if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That betokened
innocence on his part. Then why this horrid
feeling? Is it sorrow that he cared for and loved her?
I don't know; everything seems so far off that I cannot
find it. What is the record? Let me see.

“Richard once lived here in this grand house; he has

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

met with reverses, nobody knows what; he has a brother
somewhere, nobody knows where; he supports his
mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stinginess.
How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West
would appear were it not for,—for,—I cannot say it,—the
horrible possibility, and I,—I guess,—I think,—I am very
sure I did care for him more than I supposed.

“July 23d.

“I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest
doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die.
It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common,
I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in
to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am
sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had
not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great
deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of
it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him
again! There is something wrong, and I've no faith in
anybody.

“There's a letter from Margaret lying on the table.
They are at the Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller
than either the United States or Union Hall, but makes
up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, and air of homelike
comfort. At least so Margaret says; and although
she complains that she does not see so many people as she
would at the larger houses, she seems contented, and

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

speaks in raptures of her nice large rooms and their gentlemanly
host. I am glad she is satisfied, and that
Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just received,
`as happy as a clam.'

“Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has
sent for me. I must have slept for many hours, I think:
not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I was vaguely conscious that
Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell Verner, too,
was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke
and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was
gone, and the soreness from the throat, leaving only a
pleasant, tired feeling which I rather enjoy.

“In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it
seemed, of me, for I heard Mattie say:

“`I wonder if she really does care about him?'

“`I think she does,' was Bell's reply, `for I remember
how annoyed she was when your brother teased her by
ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor girl! I half suspect
this has something to do with her illness. Mrs. Felton
has confessed having told her what she knew.'

“`She has? When?' and Mattie seemed surprised.

“`Why,' returned Bell, `that night I sat with Dora,
Mrs. Felton, you know, was with me a part of the time,
and once when Dora, in her disturbed sleep, was talking,
she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. “Poor lamb,
she's dwellin' on the young lady who died in this very
room,” Felton said; and when I inquired what young

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

lady, she told me all she knew, and more too, I think.
Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever heard of
Anna West, and she said, “Oh yes; she died just before
we came here. Everybody was talking about it;” and
then she told her story, which, of course, differed from
Mrs. Felton's about as much as is the difference in the
social position of the two women,—Felton seeing things
from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them
from hers. She said Mrs. West used to give elegant parties,
and Anna was always the star of the company. She
was so beautiful and attractive that young men could not
help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much,
and nobody now believe—'

“I covered up my head at this point, for I would not
listen to any more. After a little I heard some one coming
up the stairs, not quietly, soberly, as Mattie and Bell
had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at a time, trilling
a few notes from some opera, and when the music
ran high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle!
I was amazed, particularly as the next moment Bell
Verner said:

“`Hush-sh! Miss Freeman's asleep. You'll wake her
with your boy-ways!'

“`I don't care!” and the whistler evidently cut a pirouette.
`I'll try to wake her, unless you tell me quick
who is the handsomest man in town, the most distingué,
for I met him just now in the street, and fell in love at

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

once! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes,
and the whitest teeth! Tell me quick, Bell! You
ought to know every marriageable man between the two
poles, for here you've been out just as many years as you
are older than I am, to wit, ten. Say, who was it?'

“`Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know?' Bell began,
and then I knew the noisy girl was Bell's young sister,
Jessie, who had just been graduated in Boston, and had
of course come home.

“She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure,
but her flow of spirits suited my mood, and for the sole
purpose of seeing her I called to Bell, who, the next moment,
was asking anxiously what I wanted.

“`I am better,' I said. `Am well; and I want you
to open the blinds so I can see; then all come in where I
can hear you talk. Who is that with the cheery whistle?'

“`Eureka! she thinks my whistle beautiful!' I heard
from the next room, while Bell replied:

“`It's sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly
driven us wild already with her fun and spirits. She
stopped for a few days at Saratoga, and saw your sister.
Shall I call her?'

“`Yes,' I said; and Jessie came at once,—a little fairy,
hoydendish creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the
roundest black eyes, and a head covered with short,
black curls, which shook as she talked, and kept time
with the twinkle of her eyes.

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

“She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself upon
the foot of the bed, told me about Saratoga,—what a
little paradise it was at the Clarendon,—so clean and nice;
what a splendid man the proprietor was, treating his
boarders as if they were invited guests; humoring everybody's
whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked
at night, thereby disturbing some nervous invalid,—told
me too what a love of a man she thought Squire Russell.

“`Mrs. Russell is your sister,' she went on, `and so
I say nothing of her, pro nor con, except that it must
be good pious work to live with her,' and the curls and
the eyes danced together.

“I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on:

“`But that Mr. Russell is my beau-ideal of husbands.
I made him promise if he ever was a widower, he'd take
me for his second wife. There's nothing I'd like better,
I told him, than to mother his six children. You ought
to have seen my lady then!' and the queer, little face
put on a look so like Margaret's that I could not forebear
laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister
must have been.

““`Husband,” she said, “I think it's wrong to trifle
with matters so sacred!” Whereupon the husband
meekly subsided, and fanned her connubially with the
Saratoga paper. Oh, he's a splendid fellow, but I used
to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his
wife's chair, looking so wistfully at the dancers. She

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

wouldn't let him waltz,—thought it was very improper,
and I was told made several remarks not very complimentary
to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe.
She is rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale
blue silk, with all her diamonds and point-lace, she was
the finest-looking woman in the room.'

“`She used to be very beautiful,' I said, feeling that
I must defend her, `but she is sadly broken, and no
wonder,—six children in twelve years!'

“`Yes, I know. It's perfectly dreadful, but if I had
forty children, I'd let my husband waltz and smoke.
Oh, I forgot, she don't let him smoke if she knows it,
and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two
down in the office, he had to walk round the south-east
corner of the building sixteen times to air himself.
There's the gate,—who's come?' and with this she bounded
from the bed and ran to the window to reconnoitre.

“`As I live,' she exclaimed, drawing back from the
window, `it's the very man I told you about, and he's
coming here.'

“`Don't be angry with her: she's a crazy child,' Bell
whispered, and I had just time to reply that I was not
angry, when the peal of the door-bell was distinctly heard,
and Jessie, by leaning over the bannisters, tried to hear
what was said.

“`It's about you,' and she darted back to my side.
`He certainly said Miss Freeman.'

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

“I don't know that I expected what followed, but my
breath came heavily, and I was not surprised when
Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a card bearing
the name of Dr. West. He was in the parlor, and if I
could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. Instantly
Mattie and Bell exchanged glances, while the
former said in an aside:

“`Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for
him?'

“`What child?' I exclaimed. `Who is sick. Is it
Robin?'

“`Yes,' Mattie answered, hurriedly. `We did not
think best to tell you when the message came, four
days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps asking
for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure.
As you could not go, I went myself, learning by that
means many things concerning the family which I never
knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what
shall I tell the doctor for you?'

“I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and
so many, should know and talk about that story, and more
than all I was vexed that Bell should believe I cared for
the doctor, whose heart was buried in Anna's grave, and
I answered pettishly:

“`You needn't tell him anything.'

“Bell looked surprised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie
laughed, as she walked downstairs to receive her visitor.

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“`I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora
Freeman,' Jessie said, saucily, `but if I am any judge
of the genus female-homo, you are desperately in love
with that man, and are jealous of somebody.'

“Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her
for a moment, and in the pause I distinctly caught the
tones of Dr. West's familiar voice, though I could distinguish
nothing he said. He did not stay long, and
the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at
her post at the window, ready to watch him as he went
down the walk. I think Bell wanted to look out, but
she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie's entreaties
that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever
saw a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she
was and waited for Mattie, who soon appeared, joining
with Jessie in praises of Dr. West. The most agreeable
person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I
had not told them about him.

“I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when
he came to Morrisville, now why he had called; but Jessie
asked for me, and so I learned that he arrived at his
mother's the night previously, and in compliance with
Robin's repeated request that some one should go for
the lady, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mattie
said, and if no new symptoms appeared the doctor
would return to Beechwood the next day.

“All this while I asked no questions and volunteered

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

no remark, though in my own mind I resolved that so
soon as I was able, I would go to see Robin West. I
suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they
were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and
scolding, she persuaded her sister to leave with her.

“`Mind, now,' Jessie said to me, as she stood with her
hat poised on her short, thick curls, `if you are sure
you do not like this doctor, and wish to be rid of him;
I'll take him off your hands, and thank you, too. I've
a great mind to try the effect of my charms upon him:
shall I? You see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till
I verge upon the serious yellow leaf. I am going to be
married. Au revoir!' and whistling `Hail to the
Chief,' she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I
verily believe, for I trembled lest she should break her
neck, and felt relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon
the walk.

“The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was
at Mr. Verner's, prescribing for Jessie's father, who had
been taken violently ill.”

p605-085 CHAPTER VIII. JESSIE'S DIARY.

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

JULY 24th.—The richest thing has happened;
the best joke I ever heard of; and I give myself
great credit for having been the direct cause
of its happening! If there is any one thing which father
hates more than another, it is a homœopathic physician.

“`Quacks, humbugs, impositions, loggerheads, ignoramuses!
'

“These are very mild names compared with what I've
heard him call them, declaring he would show the door
to the first one who should ever come round him with
their two goblets, two spoons, two little plates for covers,
and one pill dissolved in a hogshead of water, half a drop
to be taken once in six hours! That's the way he talked,
submitting to any amount of blistering, bleeding, drugging,
and torturing, and thinking it felt nice. But I've
played him a trick which will do him good for the remainder
of his natural life.

“When I came home last night from Mr. Randall's, I
found him groaning, sweating, and almost swearing with
the colic, brought on by too much fruit at dinner, followed
by two saucers of cream. He never was in such

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

pain in his life; he should die, he knew he should; and
somebody must go for the doctor. Of course every servant
was out of sight and hearing, and so I went myself
for Dr. Lincoln, who was off in the country miles away,
and would not be home for hours. Here was a dilemma;
and as I was wondering what to do next, I saw that paragon
of M.D.'s, Dr. West, coming down the street. Instantly
my decision was made; and looking as anxious
as I could, I accosted him at once, begging him to go and
prescribe for my father, Judge Verner. He looked at
me a little curiously, but acceded to my request, and in
less than five minutes I had ushered him into the room,
where father was enacting a round of colicky gymnastics,
and where Bell looked up in wonder, actually starting to
her feet when I introduced Dr. West.

“`Dr. Lincoln was gone, and I brought this one,' I
whispered to father, who was in too much pain to notice
particularly, and who thought it Dr. Lincoln's student.

“`I shall need some water, a spoon, and two goblets,'
the doctor said, and I hastened to execute the orders,
watching father as the stirring process went on, and almost
screaming when he swallowed the first spoonful.

“`I'm afraid it ain't strong enough, doctor. It hasn't
much taste,' he said, smacking his lips, as he missed the
flavor of Dr. Lincoln's bottles.

“`We'll see what effect it has,' was the doctor's reply;
and in a few moments down went another drop of the

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

sweetened water; then another, and another, until the
groaning and flouncing ceased, and father lay upon his
pillow as well-behaved a patient as one would wish to
see.

“He was very quiet, and after waiting half an hour the
doctor said he did not think he was needed any longer,
and would leave.

“`Should the paroxysms return,' he said to Bell, `give
him six of these pills,' and he placed upon the table a
tiny phial, which at once caught father's eye and set him
to raving like a madman.

“`Bell! Jessie!' he gasped, as the gate closed after
the doctor, `who was that chap?—what persuasion, I
mean? Was he a rascally—'

“He was in too great a rage to say the words, and so I
said it for him.

“`He was a homœopathist, father. Didn't he help you
quick? You never groaned a groan after the third
swallow.'

“`Third swallow be—no, I won't swear, but I will say
Thunder and Mars!' he roared; `have I been insulted
in my own house? I won't stand it! I'll gag, I'll
heave, I'll puke, but what I'll get rid of the stuff! Give
me water for the colic,—me!'

“`But if the water answered the purpose, why do you
care?' Bell asked, and father gave her a look very like,
`Et tu Brute.'

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

“He could not deny that he was better,—that something
had helped him; but it wasn't sweetened water; no indeed;
and I might heave it out of the window.

“I took up the goblet to do so, when he yelled:

“`Don't be a fool because you made one of me! Set
that glass down and bring me that phial.'

“I obeyed, and he read on the little yellowish paper:
`For Colic. For an adult, take six every hour. For
children from two to three, according to age. Prepared
by R. West, M.D., Beechwood.'

“He read it aloud twice, then asked, `Who the —
was R. West, M.D., and how the plague came he there?'

“The hurricane was over, and I ventured to explain,
asking if he were not very gentlemanly and pleasant.

“`He's well enough for a fool!' he replied, declaring
he should have been better without the truck; that had
nothing to do with it.

“This morning I missed the little phial, and when I
asked where it was, father told me to mind my business,
and then I knew he had it safe in his vest pocket, a charm
against future attacks of colic. How Bell scolded when
we were alone, and how I rolled on the floor and laughed.
Bell is smitten; I can see it in her face and manner.
She does nothing but think of Dr. West, who has returned
to Beechwood. Will I ever see him again? and
does Dora Freeman hate or like him, which?”

p605-089 CHAPTER IX. EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST'S DIARY.

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

“Beechwood, July.

I DID not see Dora after all, and I had thought
so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more
than willing that Robin should be sick, and so
give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving
that little note from Dora, I have frequently
dared to build castles of what might some day be, for
something in that message led me to hope that I am not
indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my
informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it
so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in
store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neglected.

“Poor Robin, I fear he is not long for this world, and
when I remember how perfectly helpless he is, and must
always remain, I say to myself:

“`It is well that the child should follow the mother,
if indeed, as Dora told him, she is in heaven sure.'

“Darling Dora, I am glad you told him so. You have
no reason to think otherwise. Does Dora know how

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

much I once loved Anna? I fancy not, and yet there
are those in Morrisville who remember the sad story,
but she is not thrown much in their society. The
Randalls and Verners and Strykers form a circle into
which outsiders are not often admitted. I liked that
Mrs. Randall, and so did mother. How familiar the old
place looked to me, and how natural it seemed that I
should be there; and Dora too. Will she ever be the
mistress of my home? If so, that home I know will
not be West Lawn, but there is still a cherished hope of
one day redeeming that old homestead of which she talks
so much. Then, Dora, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora,
your little feet shall dance again upon the greensward and
your merry laugh awaken the echoes of the olden time.
Dear Dora, I trust she is not very sick, and I wish I
could have seen her.

“Judge Verner,—by what chance came I in his presence,
and that of his regal daughter Bell? I suspected
then I was the victim of a joke, perpetrated by that
saucy-looking, black-eyed elf, whom they called Jessie,
and now I am sure of it, for here this morning comes a
letter from the judge, worthy, I think, to be preserved
as a curiosity.

“`Mr. West,' he writes, with the Mr. heavily underscored,
as if to make it doubly evident that he ignored
the title of Dr. in my case: `Enclosed find five dollars
for professional services rendered to self July 22d. If

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

I hadn't had such a confounded stomach-ache I suppose
I should have marched you out-doors in double-quick
time, as that is what I've threatened to do with all kinds
of quacks; but I'm glad I didn't, as my remembrance of
you is that you are a gentleman, even if you have a soft
spot in the brain. Jessie,—that's my youngest,—insists
that your spoon victuals did me good, and prides herself
on having cajoled you into the house,—but she needn't
tell me; I know better. Bell, too,—that's my eldest,—
has partially gone over to the enemy, but I'll stick to my
principles. It's all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you'll
never breathe a word of it to Bell, nor Jessie, there is
something about those paltry little pills in that phial that
will stop the tallest kind of a gripe! I'd like to know
you better, young man, and so would my daughters.
Come here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine.
We have splendid woods for hunting, if you enjoy it.

“This is a judge's letter, and I rather like him for it.
He is not to be convinced in a hurry, but those little
pills will do the work. I'd like to know him better, and
his daughters too. There was something fascinating in
that haughty Bell's manner, while the mischievous
Jessie attracted me at once. I may some time improve
the acquaintance commenced under so very singular circumstances.”

p605-092 CHAPTER X. DORA'S DIARY.

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

IT seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet
'tis only three short weeks. But in that time
so much has happened that I scarcely can realize
it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor
left, and but for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly
stirred up, I could hardly have borne the loneliness.
She is so full of life, and she has made me laugh
so much as she described her father's conversion to
homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr.
West.

“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie's
laugh was hushed, and her merry eyes were dim with
tears, as she helped me array a little crippled form for the
grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now, can
speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought
of him brought a great choking sob, and I could only
weep, so fast he grew in my love during the few days I
watched over him. He was worse I heard, and in spite
of Mattie's assertion that I was not able to endure it, I
went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

of love which beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his
arms around my neck, he said:

“`I knew you'd come, for I asked God would He send
you to little Robin, and He did. You'll stay, too, won't
you, till Robin's dead? and you'll tell me again of my
mother in heaven?'

“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a
dream I had that night, in which Anna came to me, her
robes all white and pure as are the robes of the redeemed,
a halo of glory round her head, and a look of love in her
eyes as she bent over me and said:

“`There's a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy,
and ere many days his baby hands will sweep its golden
strings; but till that time arrives, he wants you, Dora
Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the river,
across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For
Richard's sake, you'll go.'

“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke
from what seemed more reality than a dream.

“`Not for Richard's sake,' I said, `but for Anna's;'
and so next day I went again to where the little sick boy
lay, watching and waiting for me.

“`I don't call him Papa Richard now,' he said, when
my wrappings were removed, and I sat down beside him.
`I told him what you said, that he was not my father,
and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he wouldn't

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in
heaven, too?'

“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into
some other channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and,
vain girl that I was, laying ingenious snares for ascertaining
if Richard had mentioned me when he was home.

“`He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call
you so?' Robin said, in reply to my direct interrogation
as to what Richard had talked about; and so after that I
was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let another
wait upon him. `You seem like mother. You'll stay,'
he kept repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after
me.

“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little
golden harp, and stayed, while people talked, as people
will, wondering what kept me at that child's sick-bed, and
associating me at last with Richard, for whose sake they
said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip
proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told
and retold in a thousand different forms, until madcap
Jessie Verner threatened to box the first one's ears
who should say Anna West to her again. This she told
me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all
that passed between us on the subject. It seemed to be
tacitly understood that neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself
were to speak of the story to me, and they did not.
Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this
point surrounded myself with so strong a barrier of reserve,
that they never tried to break it down.

“Jessie had come to Mrs. West's unsolicited, and it was
strange how the quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once
to receive the wild young creature, while Robin turned
to her trustingly, and whispered when she was gone:

“`I don't mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at
most everything, but she wouldn't at my poor, twisted
toes.'

“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush
of tears with which Jessie baptized those twisted toes
when first the shrivelled things met her view; but he
was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and
the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading
the golden streets. It was strange that one so young
should be so sensitive about his deformity, but he had
been so from the time he first learned that he was lame,
and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would
often ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by
guessed that he was not like them.

“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body
manifests itself in the expression of the face, but it was
not so with him. A more beautiful face I never saw, and
I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping upon his pillow,
wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as
the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father,

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

wherever he might be. I had said in my heart that I
exonerated Richard, but at times I experienced a feeling
which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West was
almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found
me with Robin on my lap, his head nestled upon my
bosom, while I sang to him of the Heavenly City, where
his mother waited for him.

“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the
coach stop before the gate, and a rapid step upon the
walk. My voice must have trembled, for Robin unclosed
his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I hushed him gently,
while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation was
carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the
doctor started for the room where I was sitting, but I
gave no sign of consciousness until he was close beside
me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance in which for
an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest;
the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts
of Anna, whom dying he had kissed, holding her as I had
held Robin, froze it back from my face, which must have
turned very white, for after his first words of greeting,
he said to me, `I cannot thank you enough for what you
have been to mother. She has told me of your kindness;
but Dora,' and his hand touched my hair lightly, `I fear
you are overtaxing your strength. You are very pale
to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.'

“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

that his hand slid from my hair, while he began speaking
to Robin, who only complained of weariness.

“`I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,' Robin
said, putting out his thin fingers and playing with the
heavy beard of the doctor, who had knelt beside me the
better to see the child. `I call you uncle all the time
because Dora wanted me to.'

“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson
with emotions whose nature I could not guess. I only
knew they hardened me into stone, and I was glad when
at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all necessity
of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly
manner amused and rested him, I could see, and it made
me half angry to hear how merrily he laughed at her remarks,
even when he knew that Robin's days were numbered.
How I clung to that child, refusing to give him
to the care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the
bed, and I felt a kind of fierce pleasure in holding him,
and in knowing that Richard knew what I was doing for
Anna's child.

“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and
the August moon cast its beams across the floor, even to
where I sat singing the low lullaby. And out upon the
piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together,
until the sick boy whispered moaningly, `It's very cold
and dark in here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the
candles now.'

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow,
whose import I could not mistake, and half bitterly, half
reproachfully, I exclaimed:

“`Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin
needs you.'

“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie;
her eyes filling with tears when she, too, saw and recognized
the shadow which had alarmed me. Robin was
dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too,
and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard
stretched out to him.

“`It's nicer here,' he said, and there was a world of
love in the soft blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
`I guess I'm dying. It's all so dark and queer. Is it very
far to heaven, and will I lose the way?'

“`No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,' Richard
answered, now pressing so close to Robin that his
shoulder touched mine, and I felt his breath upon my
hair.

“`And I won't be a cripple any more? I'll walk in
heaven, and mother's there sure?' was the next remark,
to which there came no response, except a moan
from Mrs. West, until I answered:

“`Yes, sure, Robin, sure.'

“`I'll tell her how good you was, and how much I
loved you, too. What shall I say for you, Grandma
West? What word shall I carry mother?'

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon
the pillow, where Robin's had lain so long, and when he
thus addressed her, she answered:

“`Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till
my hair all turned white, and tell her how if in thought
I ever wronged her, I am so sorry now.'

“`I'll tell her,' Robin whispered; `and you, Uncle
Richard, what for you?'

“The doctor's frame shook, and his face was white as
ashes as he was thus appealed to for a message to the
dead, but he did not speak until Robin twice repeated,
`And what for you?'

“Then with a sob, he said:

“`Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.'

“`Why! didn't you love my mother?' the dying boy
asked, the look of surprise for a moment mastering the
look of death upon his face.

“`Yes, he did,' I said. `He loved her better than
his life. He loves her still. Tell her so.'

“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression
of his there was something which subdued all
my pride, and brought a rain of tears upon my face. I
did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did
Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick
and faint, while that great struggle went on between
death and the little life whose lamp had burned so
feebly.

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard
was praying softly, and that his words were soothing
to the sufferer, who suddenly exclaimed:

“`I see my mother! She's like the picture in the
frame! She's waiting for me over there where the banks
are so green! She is in heaven sure; but I don't see
my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is
my father?'

“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay
quietly upon his couch, his golden curls all smooth and
shining, just as Jessie had made them, his blue eyes
closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his poor,
crippled feet hidden from curious sight.

“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I
fancied did Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the
time, and in its place there came a tender, motherly
manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its
careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very
child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard,
too, was brought within her influence. He was weary
with his long ride of a hundred and thirty miles, but no
one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered
everything, and when I would have worried Mrs.
West with questions as to where Robin's clothes were
kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in
quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if
she had been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger.

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

It was Jessie who made Richard lie upon the lounge in
the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who arranged his pillows
for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, and
then brought him tea and toast she herself had made,
and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride.
I did not marvel that he followed her movements with
eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an ordinary
interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the
dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my
heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did not so
define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and
Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this
new interest of Richard's. I had cared for Robin to the
last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was
not needed longer, I thought, and so next morning I
went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard, when they
asked if I would soon be back:

“`I shall attend the funeral, of course. There in no
necessity for coming before. Jessie will do everything.'

“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did
Richard, but he went with me to the gate, opening it for
me, and then, standing a moment as if there was something
he would say, `You do look tired, Dora,—more so
than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you
have gone through. I think I must prescribe,' and he
took my hand to feel the quickened pulse. `You are
feverish,' he continued. `You ought to rest, but we

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

shall miss you so much. It's a comfort to know you are
here.'

“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started,
but I dashed them away, and taking the offered medicine,
answered back, `I leave to Jessie the task of comforter.
She will do better than I.'

“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the
street, never looking back until the corner was reached,
when, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the doctor still
standing where I had left him, leaning upon the gate. I
never remember a time when I was so childish, or more
unhappy, than I was that day and the following, which
last was the day of Robin's funeral. There was no parade,
no display,—only a few friends and neighbors, with
Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do,
while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there
as director, his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard
to the grave where they buried Robin.

“There was something in the young man which he liked,
he said, even if he was a fool, and so he had offered no
objections to Jessie's proceedings, and was himself doing
what he could for the family. There was room in the
carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge
whispered to me:

“`That chap they call Doctor wants you to go with
them. He says, next to his mother, the child loved you
the best.'

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking
back into the corner I answered no, so decidedly that the
judge hastened away, repeating his ill success to Richard,
who had risen, and with his mother on his arm was advancing
to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and
reaching his hand said gently, `Dora, come with us; for
Robin's sake.'

“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking
his other arm, and so out into the yard, past the
groups of people who speculated curiously as to why Miss
Freeman should go with the chief mourners. Behind us
came Mr. Randall's carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and
Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather
awkward position.

“`Mother,' Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery,
`it is seven years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?
'

“`Yes,' she answered sadly, while I remembered that
seven years ago was also to have been his bridal.

“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled
road, past the willow and the cedar, past the box, the
pine, and fir, to where Anna lay sleeping? Did he look
back with anguish and regret to that other day, when,
with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling
now, he listened to the solemn words, `Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust,' and heard the cold earth rattle
down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was sure, and

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his
lips quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were
driven from the yard, leaving Anna and Robin there alone.

“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could
not remain quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily
about until near nightfall, when I stole out unobserved
and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna
and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed
their graves there was a rude, time-worn seat,
placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem, from
the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down,
and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all
that had transpired since I had come to Morrisville.
Had I known all I was to see and hear, would I have
wished to come? I asked myself; but could find no satisfactory
answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his
memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was
glad I had heard of Anna ere I learned to think too
much of Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I
said aloud, `Can he ever forget Anna, who died in his
arms?'

“`No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I
mourn for her always, as I mourned when we first laid
her here, and I sat nearly all the night just where you
are sitting, watching the stars as they held their first vigil
over Anna's grave, and almost impiously questioning
the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.'

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

“I knew it was Richard's voice speaking to me, and I
gave a little start of surprise, but did not lose a word
which he had spoken.

“`I half believed I should find you here,' he said, sitting
down beside me, and drawing a little more about my
neck the shawl which had fallen off. `Something told
me I should find you, and so I came quite as much to
join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the
familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here,
where you have done me and mine so much good, you
will surely let me use a name which mother and Robin
adopted.'

“I bowed, and he went on.

“`You do not know how glad I am that you were with
us when Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have
you sitting with me in sight of Robin's grave.'

“`And Anna's?' I said, looking at him for the first
time.

“`Yes, Anna's,' he continued in the same kind tone;
`and it is of her I would tell you, Dora,' and he spoke
hurriedly now. `How much do you know of Anna, and
who told you?'

“`Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,'
I answered, my voice full of tears, which I could not repress.

“`Felton!' he repeated in dismay. `Unless her reputation
for veracity has improved, I would not vouch for

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

the truth of what she might say, though she liked Anna.
Shall I tell you her history, Dora?'

“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but
I must hear the story. I should never be happy till I
had, and I answered eagerly:

“`Yes, tell me of Anna.'

p605-107 CHAPTER XI. RICHARD'S STORY.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

HE was very white, and his voice trembled, while
his eyes had in them the far-off look I had once
or twice observed before.

“`There are some things in our family history,' he began,
`which I shall omit, as they have nothing in particular
to do with Anna and myself. For instance, you
know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in different
circumstances from what mother is living in now, and
that we suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one,
and living in a cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I
need not say, except that Anna was in no way connected
with it.

“`She was my adopted sister; and she came to us when
only six years old. I was twelve, as was my twin-brother
Robert. He went from us years ago, and has never been
heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the uncertainty
is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone.
But I was telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our
hearts, my brother and I quarrelling for the honor of
drawing her to school. This was in her childhood, but as
she grew older Robert professed to care less for her than

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

I. “She was a doll-baby,” he said; “a compound of red
and white, and yellow curls.” He would not even acknowledge
that she was beautiful, but said she could not
compare with the maidens of New York, where he went
to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty.
His coldness troubled me at first, but when I came to
think of her as something dearer than a sister, I was
glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville, for he was far
finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and nineteen
out of twenty would have given him the preference.
But he did not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen
I asked her to be my wife. It was here, too, Dora, on
this very bench, where you are sitting with me, and it
was eleven years ago this very day.

“`Something most always happens to me on this day—
something which leaves its impress on my mind. One
year ago we went to that picnic by the lake. Do you remember
it, Dora?'

“`Yes,” I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully.
`Yes, but go on with Anna.'

“He was silent a moment, and then continued:

“`We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little
dreaming how near we were to the spot of earth where
she would ere long be lying. I have told you that I asked
her to be my wife, but I have not told you how much I
loved her, for I did—oh, so much, so much! And she
was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

she was worthy then. You have seen her picture. It
hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever give a correct
idea of what that face was when lighted up with life,
and health, and love. I have never seen a face one-half
as beautiful as Anna's. She knew that she was beautiful,
but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had
given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to
keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart
pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she
had unless it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and
was too easily swayed by those in whom she had confidence.
But in all essential points she was right, serving
God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.'

“`Then why,' I exclaimed, `when Robin asked if she
was in heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him
yes?'

“A look of pain contracted his features as he replied:

“`I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her
to be my wife. We read of angels falling,—then why not
a mortal man? though Heaven knows that I cannot fully
believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I believed it.
Mother's religious creed and mine differ in one point,
although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child
of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make
me cease to be my mother's son. But to go on. I loved

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while for a
moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon
my arm and weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she
was too young to know her own mind yet; that she loved
me, and always had,—like a brother at first, but latterly
in a different way, and if I would not require her to be
my wife at once, and would promise to release her should
she ever come to think that she could not be mine, she
would answer yes. And so we were engaged.

“`After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so
full of anticipation was my whole being. I had been
graduated the previous year, and I was then a student in
Dr. Lincoln's office, but I boarded at home, and saw
Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left
her in the morning until I returned late in the afternoon
to our fashionable dinner, for we observed such matters
then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back
again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look when
she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her childish
face, and her white robes giving her the look of an
angel. I loved her too much. I almost placed her before
Him who has declared He will have no idols there,
and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married
on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous
to that time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that
Anna's love was not wholly my own. I well remember
the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

nto my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder,
parted my hair with the other, as she was wont to do.

““`Richard,” she began, “isn't it just as wicked to act
a lie as it is to tell one?”

““`I supposed it was,” I said, and she continued:

““`Then you won't be angry when I tell you what I
must. I was very young when I promised to be your
wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know what I was
doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more
like my brother; and, Richard, don't turn so white and
tremble so,—I shall marry you if you wish it; but please
don't, oh! don't—”

“`She was weeping bitterly now,—was on her knees
before me, my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought
her low-spirited for some days, but had no thought of
this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not,
however, see her so disturbed, when I had the power to
relieve her, and after talking with her calmly, dispassionately,
I released her from the engagement and she was
free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learning
to love me in time, because I fancied she would be
more apt to do so if wholly untrammelled; but that hope
alone kept my heart from breaking during the wretched
weeks which followed, and in which Anna's health
seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A
change of air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston,
where my mother has relatives. It was on the eve of

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

the new year when she came back to us, with a white,
scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual,
making it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous
and frightened. It was as if some great terror were
continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which
it was death to divulge and worse than death to cover
up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require
of her, and so I said to her one day that if the thing
preying upon her mind was a dread lest I should seek to
make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I should
not annoy her in that way.

“`Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her
eyes,—a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I
turned away, for I could not meet it.

““`O, Richard,” she moaned, drawing back so I could
not touch her, “you don't know how wretched I am.
It almost seems as if God had forgotten that I did try to
serve Him, Richard. What is the unpardonable sin?
Is it to deceive?”

“`I thought she referred to her relations with me, and
I tried to soothe her agitation, telling her she had not
deceived me; that she had told me frankly how she felt;
that she was wholly truthful and blameless.

“`With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she
exclaimed:

““`No, no, you kill me! Don't talk so! I am not
blameless; but, oh! I don't know what to do! Tell me,

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

Richard, tell me, which is worse, to deceive, or break a
solemn vow?”

“`I had no idea what she meant, and without directly
answering her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was
a useless task. She only wrung her hands and sobbed
more passionately, saying God had cast her off, and she
was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her
grief for many days, and then she settled down into a
stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had
been, because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to
us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, and
would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking
afar off as if in quest of some one who never came.

“We thought when she came home that we had as
much as we could bear, for a domestic calamity had overtaken
us, involving both ruin and disgrace, unless it
were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we
forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the
rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the first
of March we carried her there, taking every precaution
that her treatment should be the kindest and most considerate.
'

“`How long ago was that?' I asked, starting suddenly,
as a memory of the past swept over me.

“`Seven years,' he replied, and I continued:

“`Was it in Utica? If so, I must have seen her, for
seven years this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

schoolmate in Utica, and one day we went from curiosity
to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like Anna's
in the portrait. Oh yes,' and I started again, `I remember
now a young girl with the most beautiful golden
hair, but her face was resting on the window-sill, and
she would neither look up nor answer my questions,—
that was Anna,' and in my excitement I could scarcely
control myself to listen, while Richard continued:

“`It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not
answer any one.

“`Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after
the first time she never spoke to us, but tried to hide
away where we could not see her. She gave them no
trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the
window, where she sat the live-long day, looking westward,
just as she did at home. She had written one
letter, they said, and when we asked to whom, the
matron could only remember that she believed it was to
California, adding that the attendant who then took the
letters to the office had sickened since and died. It was
to some imaginary person, no doubt, she said, and so
that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I could
not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said
abruptly:

““`Anna, what correspondent have you in California?”

“`Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

at my feet senseless. This was a mystery upon which
I dwelt day and night, finding no solution whatever to
it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible tragedy drew
to a close.

“`Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and
when she returned her hair was almost as white as you
now see it, while her whole appearance was indicative of
some great, crushing sorrow which had fallen suddenly
upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,—
had fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had
kissed it abjectly, crying piteously, “Home, mother;
take poor Anna home; let her die there.”

“`It was the first time she had spoken to us in months,
and we could not refuse. So she came,—the seventh day
of August,—travelling by railroad to the station, and
coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her
last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at
our gate, carrying her into the house—and upstairs to her
old room, which had been made ready for her. As I
laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms tightly
round my neck, and whispered, “God has forgiven me,
Richard, will you?”

“`I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who
needed my services more than Anna, and who lay all
that evening on the lounge as white and rigid as stone.
The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope whispered
that she was getting better. The scared, wild

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

look was gone, and a bright, beautiful color burned
upon her cheeks. Her hair, which had been cut, was
growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled
in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little,
too, asking if we had ever heard from Robert, and bidding
me tell him, when he came back, that she spoke
kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth.
The next day was her birth-day, the one fixed upon for
our bridal. I do not know if she remembered it, but I
thought of nothing else as the warm, still hours glided
by, and to myself I said it may be some other day.
Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas! I little
dreamed of the scathing blow in store for me; the
frightful storm which was to rage so fiercely round me,
and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr.
Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private consultations
with my mother, and looking, when he came
from them, stern, perplexed, mysterious, and sorry.

“`Dora, you know what all this portended, but you
do not know, neither can you begin to guess, how heavy,—
how full of agony was the blow which awaited me,
when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I
had been for several hours. “Anna was dying.” This
was the message which greeted me in the hall, and like
lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting on the upper landing
with my mother, who had grown old twenty years
since morning.

[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]

““`Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it?
have they told you? do you know?”

““`Yes,” I said, “Anna is dying. I must see her; let
me go,” and I tore away from the hands which would
have held me back until I was to some extent prepared.

“`I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed
door I caught a glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and
her hand was beckoning. I was half-way across the
room, when a sound met my ear which took all consciousness
away, and for the next three hours I was insensible
to pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the
blow had stunned me so, I neither felt nor realized as I
did afterwards. I went straight to Anna, for she was
asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as
from a polluted thing. Through all the horror she had
never spoken a word, or made the slightest sound, and
this suppression of feeling was hastening her end. Nothing
but the words, “Tell Richard to come,” had passed
her lips since, and when I went to her she could only
whisper faintly, “Forgive me, Richard. It's all right,
but I promised not to tell. It's right, it's right.” Then
she continued, entreatingly, “Let me lay my head on your
arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of forgiveness.”

“`Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex
more harshly than we do, but you would not have had
me refuse that dying request?'

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

“`I should hate you if you had,' I sobbed, while he
continued:

“`Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a
stone, but I did not heed her. I lifted Anna up; I held
her on my bosom; I pushed away the clustering curls;
I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness and assuring
me all was right. I forgave her then and there
as I hoped to be forgiven; I said I would care for her
baby; I received her last injunction; I kept her in my
arms until the last fleeting breath went out, and when I
laid her back upon the pillow she was dead!

“`Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her
dying, threw over the past a veil of charity, which only
a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones ever tried to rend.
There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and
surmise, and something suspicious thrown upon me, the
more readily as people generally did not know that our
engagement had been broken; but I outlived it all, and
when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a sick-bed,
and went forth among people again, they gave me
only sympathy and friendly words, never mentioning
either Anna or Robin in my presence.

“`During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the
practice of medicine underwent a change, and greatly
to the horror of good old Dr. Lincoln, with whom I
studied, I became a homœopathist. This furnished me
with an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

investigate that mode of treatment, and gain every possible
information from physicians whom I knew to be intelligent
and thorough. I went first to New York, and
after a few months commenced my new practice in
Boston; thence, as you know, I went to Beechwood.
Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to go with me,
but she said:

““`I would rather stay here, where people know all
about it. I could not bear to be questioned concerning
Robin.”

“`Women are different from men; it takes them longer
to rise above anything like disgrace, and mother has
never been what she was before Anna's death. She came
in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune added
to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her
health is failing rapidly, and a change of place is necessary.
For a long time past I have had it in my mind to
sell the cottage and take mother to Beechwood. A friend
of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw
him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be
drawn which will deprive us of our home.'

“`And your mother!' I exclaimed, `will she go to
Beechwood?'

“`Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I
am going with mother to California as soon as I can
arrange my affairs at home. I may not return for a long
time, certainly not for a year.'

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

“There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as
he told me this, while to me the world seemed changed,
and I felt how desolate his going would leave me. Still
I made no comment, and after a moment he continued:

“`And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most
important of all. Men do not often lay bare their secrets
except to one they love! It has cost me a great
effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but
I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart
I would offer you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora,
only a scar; believe me, only a scar. It does not quicken
now one pulse the faster when I remember Anna, who was
to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were
she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I
know you now, I should give you the preference. You
are not as beautiful as Anna, but you are better suited
to my taste,—you better meet the requirements of my
maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you
began. I was interested in you from the first. I have
watched and pitied you these four years, wishing often
that I could lighten the load you bore so uncomplainingly,
and when you came away this time, life was so dreary
and monotonous that I said to myself, “Whether Dora
hears of Anna or not, I'll tell her when she returns, and
ask her to be my wife.” At first I was a very coward in
the matter, and cautioned mother against revealing anything,
but afterward thought differently. If you are to

[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]

be mine, there should be no concealments of that nature,
and so I have told you all, giving you leave to repeat it
if you please. There is one person whom I would particularly
like to know it, and that is Jessie Verner.'

“The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it
roused the demon of jealousy, and when he continued:

“`Dora, will you be my wife? Will you give me a
right to think of and love you during the time I am absent?
'

“I answered pettishly:

“`If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with
Jessie? You seem to admire her very much.'

“While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he
was leaning against the iron fence, where he could look
me directly in the face, and where I, too, could see him.
As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression flitted over
his features, succeeded by one more serious as he replied:

“`I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I
wished to win her, flut now that I am at the confessional,
I will say that next to yourself Jessie Verner attracts
and pleases me more than any one with whom I have
met since Anna died. There is about her a life and
sparkle which would put to rout a whole regiment of
blues, while her great kindness to mother and Robin
show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have
seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I

[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]

never met you, Dora, I might have turned to Jessie.
Surely this should not make you jealous.'

“I knew it should not, but I think I must have been
crazy; certainly I was in a most perverse, unreasonable
mood, and I answered:

“`I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admiration
for Jessie, and if on so short an acquaintance you
like her almost as well as you do me, whom you have
known for years, it would not take long for you to like
her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you
know your mind.'

“I wonder he did not leave me at once; he did move
away quickly, saying:

“`It is not like you, Dora, to trifle thus. You either
love me or you do not. I cannot give you up willingly.
You are tired, weak, excited, and you need not answer me
now, though I hoped for something different. I shall
think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone,
and possibly write to you; then, when I return, I shall
repeat the question of to-day, and ask you again to be my
wife.'

“He was perfectly collected now, and something in his
manner awed me into silence. The sun had already set,
and the night dews beginning to fall. He was the first
to notice it, and with tender care he drew my shawl a
second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in
his, led me away from Anna's grave out into the streets,

[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]

where more than one turned to look inquiringly after us,
whispering their surmise that we were really engaged.

“He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and
Mattie invited him to tea, with Judge Verner's family
and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew he would, but the
judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of
homœopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he
was going, when he held my hand in his own and looked
into my eyes so kindly that I could scarcely keep back
the tears which would have told him that I loved him
now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had
prevented Bell from coming, and as the judge was called
away on business, the doctor walked home with Jessie,
while I watched them as far as I could see, feeling myself
grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon
his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a
child.

“Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I
tried one day to tell her, but she knew it already from
Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from all blame.
She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her
greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said
that next to me he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me continually,
and makes me very unamiable.”

p605-124 CHAPTER XII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]

“`Saratoga, August 25th.

“`Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly
live.

THIS is the telegram which I received this morning,
and to-morrow I am going to poor Margaret.
God grant she may not be dead! Dear
sister, what would I not give if I had never written those
dreadful things of her in my journal. Poor Margaret!
her married life has not been very happy with all those
children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will
love her to make amends for the past. My trunks are
packed and standing in the hall, and I am looking, for
the last time it may be, on the woods and hills of
Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I
can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I
know where Anna's grave is so well. I have been there
but once since that day, and then I found Jessie with
Mrs. West planting flowers over Robin. Mrs. West
loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the
doctor said; but she does shock me with her boyish,

[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]

thoughtless manners, actually whistling John Brown
as she dug in the yellow dirt. Jessie is a queer compound.
She and her father and Bell are going on with
me to Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he
would cure Margaret. I have been half tempted to telegraph,
but finally concluded that brother John would do
so if desirable. Poor John! what will he do if he is left
alone? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she
said about his second wife? I trust not, for that would
be terrible, and Margaret not yet dead.

“Clarendon Hotel, Saratoga. }
August 30th.

“My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to
some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out
my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay
world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.— there were no rigid form, no pale
Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping
over her,—no motherless little children left alone so
early.

“It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I
stepped from the car into the noisy, jostling crowd which
Judge Verner pushed hither and thither in his frantic
efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How
sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng
upon the sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove
along the streets, and how anxiously I looked up at all

[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]

the upper windows as we stopped before the Clarendon,
saying to myself, `Is this Margaret's room, or that?'

“I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and
remembering how curiously new-comers are inspected, I
drew my veil before my face and was following Judge
Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, `Perfectly
splendid!' and the next moment my hand was grasped
by Dr. West. He was waiting for us, he said; he expected
us on that train, and was staying downstairs to
meet us.

“`And Margaret?' I asked, clinging to his arm, and
throwing off my veil so I could see his face.

“`Your sister is very sick,' he replied, `but your coming
will do her good. She keeps asking for you. I arrived
yesterday, starting as soon as I received your
brother's telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and
nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer
to have him remain at home, was of the least avail to
keep him from coming with me.

“All this he told me while we waited in the reception-room
for the keys to our apartments.

“`It is very crowded here,' he said, `but by a little
engineering I believe you are all comfortably provided
for. Your room especially,' and he nodded to me, `is
the most desirable in the building.'

“I did not then know he had given it up to me, going
himself into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous

[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]

Richard, you are a great comfort to me these dreadful
days. As he had said, my own room was every way desirable,
but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anxious
was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come,
and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was
changed from the Margaret who stood upon the piazza and
said good-by one morning last June. The long curls were
all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so unnaturally
bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I
liked her face better than ever before. There was less
of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest in
others.

“`Dora, darling sister,' was all she said, as she wound
her arms about my neck, but never since my childhood
had she called me by so endearing a title, and I felt springing
up in my heart a love mightier than any I had ever
felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the
harsh things written against my dying sister.

“I knew she was dying; not that instant, perhaps, but
that soon, very soon, she would be gone, for there was
upon her face the same pinched look I had seen on father
and Robin just before the great destroyer came.

“`Dora,' she whispered at last, `I am so glad you are
here. I was afraid I might never see you again, and I
wanted so much to tell you how sorry I am for the past.
I did not make your home with me as happy as I might.
Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much.

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

He says I never did, but I know better. I've thought it
all over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry
to have me die as I should if it were you.'

“I tried to stop her,—tried to say that I had been
happy with her,—but she would not listen, and talked on,
telling me next of the little life which had looked for
half an hour upon this world, and then floated away to
the next.

“`I called it Dora for you,' she said, `for something
told me that I should die, and I thought you might love
baby better if she bore your name. But I am glad she
died; it makes your burden less: for Dora, you will be
my children's mother,—you will care for them.'

“I thought of Dr. West, and the year which divided
us, but I answered, `Yes, I will care for the children;'
and then, to stop her talking, I was thinking of leaving
her, when Jessie's voice was heard in the hall, speaking
to the chamber-maid.

“`Who is that?' Margaret asked, her old expression
coming back and settling down into a hard, unpleasant
expression, when I replied:

“`That's Jessie Verner. The family came with me,
or rather I came with them. You know her; she was
here a few weeks since.'

“`The dreadful girl! Why, Dora, she whistles, and
romps with the dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes
down the sidewalk hip-pi-ti-hop, and up the stairs two at

[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]

a time; and joked with John about being his second wife
right before me! Actually, Dora, right before me!' and
Margaret's voice was highly indicative of her horror at
this last-named sin of Jessie's.

“`It was better to joke before you than when you were
absent. Jessie is at least frank and open-hearted,' I said,
but Margaret would not hear a word in her favor, so deeply
prejudiced had she become against the young girl, who
half an hour later inquired for her with much concern,
and asked if she might see her.

“`I did not know,' I said, `I'd ask.'

“`Never, Dora, never!' and Margaret's lips shut firmly.
`That terrible girl see me! No, indeed!' and in
this she persisted to the last, Dr. West telling Jessie that
he did not think it best for her to call on Mrs. Russell,
as it might disturb her.

“That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top
in the drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and
winning a host of male admirers by her frankness and
originality. Next morning I counted upon her table as
many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me
carry Margaret, with her compliments.

“Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been
the previous night, but her eyes lighted up with a gleam
of pleasure when I appeared with the flowers, and she involuntarily
raised her hand to take them.

[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]

“`Miss Jessie sent them,' I said, and instantly they
dropped from Margaret's grasp, while she exclaimed:

“`That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight.
They make me sick. I can't endure it!'

“So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the children's
room, and then went back to Margaret, who kept
me by her the live-long day, talking of the years gone by,
of our dead parents, and finally of the rapidly coming
time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke
of Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me
messages of love, with sundry injunctions to mind whatever
I might tell them. Remembering Johnnie's letter,
in which he had expressed so much contrition for the
saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told
her of his grief and his desire that I should do so. Margaret
was beautiful then, with the great mother-love
shining out upon her face, as with quivering lip she bade
me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the
past, and only thought of him as her eldest-born and
pride.

“`And, Dora, when I'm dead, cut off some of my curls,
and give the longest, the brightest to Johnnie.'

“I assented with tears, and received numerous other directions
until my brain was in a whirl, so much seemed
depending upon me.

“Hovering constantly over and around her was brother
John, doing everything so clumsily and yet so kindly,

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

that Margaret did not send him from her until the day
was closing. Then as I came back to her after a short
absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to
the Congress Spring, she said to him softly:

“`Now leave me with Dora.'

“He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush
upon his cheek as he closed the door upon us. All
thought of that, however, was forgotten in Margaret's
question:

“`Dora, are you engaged?'

“How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from
the window I saw Dr. West leaning against a tree, and
talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell upon the piazza. I
thought she referred to him, and I answered her no,
wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.

“`I am glad,' she said, reaching for my hand. `When
I heard he was at his sister's in Morrisville, I thought it
might end in an engagement, particularly as he admired
you so much when he visited us last summer.'

“I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed,
and that no suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever
crossed her mind, and so I listened, while she continued:

“`I told you last night that you must be my children's
mother, and you promised that you would. Tell me so
again, Dora. Say that no one else shall come between
you, and if, in after years, children of your own shall

[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]

climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still
for your dead sister's sake. Promise, Dora.'

“For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought,
the reality of which would prove a living death, and in
that interval I felt all the sickening anguish which would
surely come upon me were I to take her place in everything.
But she did not mean that. She could not doom
me to such a fate, and so when she said to me again
faintly, oh! so faintly, while the perspiration stood on her
white lips, and her cold hand clasped mine pleadingly,
`Promise, Dora, to be my children's mother.'

“I answered, `Yes, I will care for and be to them a
mother.'

“`You make me so happy,' she replied; `for, Dora,'
and her dim eyes flashed indignantly, `you may say it
was all in a jest, but I know that dreadful whistling girl
meant more than half she said. She fancied John, and
sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise
out of my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in
my carriage, sporting my diamonds, and using my dresses,
the whistling hoyden!'

“I shed tears of repentance over Margaret's dead body
for the merry laugh I could not repress at the mere idea
of her being jealous of Jessie Verner, who was only eighteen
years of age, while brother John was almost forty.
My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going at

[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]

her request for John, who, when next we met alone,
stroked my hair kindly, saying to me:

“`You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy
about the children.'

“Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through
every nerve, and hurrying on to the farther end of the
long hall, I sat down upon the floor and wept bitterly as
I thought, `What if Margaret did mean that I should
some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do
so?'

“From the busy street below came up a hum of voices,
among which I recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr.
West, while there stole over me a mad desire to fly to
him at once, to throw myself into his arms and ask him
to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the
white-faced sister going so fast from our midst. And
while I sat there crouching upon the floor, Jessie came
tripping down the hall, her bright face all aglow with
excitement, but changing its expression when she saw
and recognized me.

“`Poor Dora!' she whispered, kneeling beside me and
pressing her warm cheek against my own; `I am so sorry
for you. It must be dreadful to lose one's sister. Why,
only this afternoon, when I was talking and laughing
with those young men downstairs, whom I can't endure,
only I like to have them after me, I was thinking of you,
and the tears came into my eyes as I tried to fancy how

[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]

I should feel if Bell were dying here. Death seems more
terrible, don't it, when it comes to such a place as this,
where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and
fashion? I have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked
to me so Christian-like. Oh! I wish I was as good as
Dr. West! I should not then be afraid to lie where
your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the
night, leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you
think?'

“I did not know, and I answered only with a choking
sob, as I gazed up into the clear evening sky, where the
myriads of stars were shining, and thought of the father
and mother already gone, wondering if we should one
day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time
we sat there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not
thought it possible for her to talk. There was more to
her even than to Bell I began to realize, wishing Margaret
might live to have her prejudice removed. But
that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger
was on his way, stealing noiselessly into the crowded
house and gliding past the gay throng, each one of which
would some day be sent for thus. Up the winding stair he
went and through the upper halls until Margaret's room
was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the
first to detect his presence, knowing he was there by the
peculiar shadow cast by his dark wing upon the ghastly
face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse; and

[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]

Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the children.

“I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the
glittering stars, when a step came hurriedly towards us,
and Dr. West's voice said to me, pityingly:

“`Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she
is dying.'

“I had expected she would die,—had said I was prepared
to meet it; but now when it came it was a sudden
blow, and as I rose to my feet I uttered a moaning cry,
which made the doctor lay his hand on my head, while,
unmindful of Jessie's presence, he passed one arm round
my waist, and so led me on to where the husband and
the children wept around the dying wife and mother.
The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below, and
strain after strain of the stirring music came in through
the open windows, making us shudder and grow faint,
for standing there, with death in our midst, the song and
the dance were sadly out of place. For a moment I
missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard
how a few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to
stop the revellers, who silently dispersed, some to the
other hotels, where there was no dying-bed, some to the
cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked together
of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jessie
had done, how much more terrible was death at such
a place as this, than when it came into the quiet

[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]

bedchamber of home. And the great hotel was silent at
last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily
on a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching
the pervading spirit, and speaking only in whispers as
they kept on with their labor. And up in Margaret's
room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life going out
slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were
gone from the many windows, and the nuns in the convent
across the street had ceased to tell their beads ere
the chamber-maid in our hall leaned over the bannisters,
and whispered to a chamber-maid below, `The lady is
dead.'

“There had been a last word, and it was spoken to
me, ringing in my ears for hours after the stiffening
limbs were straightened, and the covering laid over the
still, white face of her who said them.

“`Remember your promise, Dora,—your promise to
your dead sister.'

“Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I
said to myself, hugging little Daisy in my arms, and
soothing her back to the sleep which had been broken
that her mother might kiss her once more. And while
I cared for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she
had for Robin. Jessie was a blessing to us then, and we
could not well have done without her. Bell, though ten
years older, was helpless as a child, while her young sister
ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved

[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]

husband sobbing so long by the side of his lost wife. In
the gray dawn of the morning, as I passed the room, I
saw her standing by him, and knew she was comforting
him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he
had been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if
from the dead there came no sign of disapprobation; but
no, the wife was lying there so still, while Jessie comforted
the husband.

“They have put Margaret in her coffin; it is fifteen
hours since she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her
back to the home she left a few weeks since, and whither
a telegram has preceded us telling them of our loss.
Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it
best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind,
and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need
her then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,—
Margaret gone, and the California sun shining down on
Richard. Do I love him now? Yes, oh yes, and I am
not ashamed to confess it here on paper, while more than
once I have wished so much to tell it to him,—wished he
would ask me again what he did by Anna's grave, and I
would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would
say to him:

“`Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret's children
are a few years older, and then I will be yours, caring
still for the little ones as I promised I would.'

[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]

“But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie
and Bell far more than he does with me. He is going
with us to Beechwood, and then in a few weeks' time he
too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would
but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of
one who was to be my husband, that terrible something
would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask myself
so constantly:

“`Did Margaret mean anything more than that as a
mother I should care for her children?”'

p605-139 CHAPTER XIII. AT BEECHWOOD.

[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]

The Author's Story.

THE great house at Beechwood was closed, and
the first September sunshine which lay so
warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming
flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and
curtained windows of what had been Margaret Russell's
home, and whither they were bringing her lifeless form.
During the past week there had been hot, passionate
tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish
prayers made that God would spare the sick mother till
her broken-hearted boy could tell how sorry he was for the
angry words spoken to her, and for the many acts of disobedience
which came thronging around him like so
many accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie's heart was almost
crushed when he heard that his mother must die, and
calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them kneel with
him, and ask that God would give her back to them
alive. And so with concern for Johnnie on their baby
faces, rather than concern for their mother, the two little

[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]

boys prayed that “God would make mamma well, and
not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora.”

This was Ben's idea, and it brought a world of comfort,
making him ask Johnnie “if it wouldn't be nicer
after all to have Auntie than mamma.”

“Perhaps it would, if I hadn't been so sassy to her
that morning, twitting her about not caring for us like
Auntie, and telling her to dry up. Oh, oh!” and the
conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in his first real
sorrow.

To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought
fraught, as he hoped, with comfort to his brother, and
pursing up his little mouth, he said:

“Pho! I wouldn't keel over like that 'cause I'd said
dry up. 'Taint a swear. It's a real nice word, and all
the boys in the street say so.”

Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of terrible
suspense he waited from day to day until the fatal
morning when there came a telegram which he spelled
out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep beside him,
their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty
faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read:

“Saratoga, August 31st.

“Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow,
on the evening train.”

There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed

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quivering of the lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless
look in the eyes, which closed tightly as Johnnie began to
realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild cry, he threw
himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed gleefully
at the contortions of body which they fancied were
made for their amusement. At last, however, they too
understood it partially, and Ben tried to imitate his
brother's method of expressing grief by also rolling in the
grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said,
with a sigh of relief:

“I'm plaguy glad Aunty isn't dead too.”

And this was all the consolation there was in that
home at Beechwood. Dora was not dead. She was
coming home and would bring sunshine with her. With
a desire to have everything done in accordance with her
taste, and also with a view to honor his mother's memory,
Johnnie, roused at last, and without a word of consultation
with any one, sought the old colored sexton, bidding
him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering lip:

“It's for my mother, and if you'll toll it extra for an
hour I'll give you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-barks
in the fall.”

It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher
authority than Johnnie's was needful ere he proceeded to
toll for a person dead in Saratoga, but love of gain and
shag-barks predominated over other feelings, and for a
full hour and a quarter the bell from the old

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churchsteeple rang out its solemn tones, tolling till the villagers
wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of
them, to the spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shylock,
holding the sexton's watch and keeping accurate
note of time as the old man bent to his task, and tolled
that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done
Johnnie wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before
night-fall there were streamers of crape hanging from the
gate and from every door-knob, while a band of the same
was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore
them quietly for a time and then made what they called
horse blankets for their velocipede. Poor little babies
of four and five, they knew no better, and only acted as
other children do when left wholly to themselves. Years
hence they will weep for the mother scarcely remembered,
but now her death was nothing to them, except as
they saw the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after
they were sleeping in their cribs, sobbed passionately
upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all for the angry words
spoken to the mother who would never know his grief.
How long to him were the hours of the next day, when
they waited for the dead. It was also a day of peace and
quiet, for owing to Johnnie's continual efforts there was
only a single fight between the little boys, who otherwise
comported themselves with admirable propriety, asking
often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie
was sure she was not dead too?

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At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after
the hearse stopped before the gate, while the coffin was
brought slowly up the walk and placed in the darkened
parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie sprang
towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there
flashed upon his mind that to his father belonged the first
greeting of sorrow. And who that has passed through
such a scene that knows not the comfort there is in the
sympathy of a warm-hearted child! Squire Russell felt
it keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard
his boyish attempts at consolation.

“We'll love each other more, father, now our mother's
gone. Poor father, don't cry so hard. If you'll stop I'll
try to do so too. We've got Aunt Dora left and all the
children. Benny, come and kiss poor father, because
mother is dead.”

Such were Johnnie's words, and they fell soothingly on
the father's heart, making him think he had not lost everything
which made his life desirable. He had his children
still, and he had Dora too. She was in the nursery now,
with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why
she cried when they were so glad to have her back, asking,
too, what made mamma so cold, and why she was
sleeping in that long queer box on the parlor table. They
did not know what death meant, and continued their
questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and

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they forgot the long box on the parlor table, with the
mother sleeping in it.

The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing
restlessly, she fancied she heard a sound from the parlor,
which was just beneath her room, and throwing on her
dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the stairs to the
parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form
kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious
dead.

“O mother, maybe you can hear me; I'm Johnnie,
and I'm so sorry I was ever bad to you, and made your
head ache so! Poor mother, I used to think I loved
Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn't! There's
nothing like a mother, and I was going to tell you so
when you got home, but you're dead and I can't! O
mother! mother! will you never know?”

“She does; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,”
Dora said, advancing into the room and taking the child
in her arms; “I told her you were sorry, and she forgave
you freely, sending you messages of love, and bidding me
cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie;
it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it.”

“Why not to-night?” Johnnie pleaded, and so his
aunt brought him the lock of hair cut from Margaret's
head, the mother's last memento, which Johnny took with
him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that
tress of hair upon his pillow.

[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]

It was a long procession which followed Margaret to
her grave, and for the sake of Johnnie the sexton again
tolled for the dead, until the husband and the sister
wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they returned
to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing
her more than one month ago they would have thought
it possible. But as the days went by the family gradually
resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for Dora was there still:
their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many lonely
hours Squire Russell experienced, it is true, but there was
always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him
home after a brief and necessary absence; that Dora
would preside at his table, and keep his children in order;
that Dora, in short, would do everything which the most
faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to
Dora even more than they were wont to do; and little
Daisy, taught by Clem, the nurse-maid, called her mamma,
a name which Ben and Burt were quick to catch,
and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the
father chanced to be present.

At Dora's heart there was a constant dread of some
impending evil, and when, three weeks after Margarets'
death, she stood one night alone with Dr. West, listening
to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw herself
on his protection, and thus she might be saved from danger.
But the doctor, though treating her with the utmost
tenderness, had never broached the subject of his

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love since that time at Anna's grave, where she answered
him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him
more since than they did then, causing him sometimes to
wonder if she did really care for him. If not, or if the
germ of her affection was as yet very small, it was better
not to press the matter, but let it take its course; and so,
trusting that absence would do all that he wished done,
he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear
sister, and hardly so, for when he would have kissed the
sister, he left Dora unkissed, fancying she would be
better pleased with such a parting. His caresses had
wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so
he never touched the lips which would have paid him
back so gladly, but merely pressed the little hand which
trembled in his, as he said to her, “A year is not very
long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and you
must not forget me.” Another pressure of the hand, and
he was gone, leaving the maiden far more desolate than
he dreamed. Could he have known how fast the tears
came, when alone in her room she went over with the
parting and said to herself, “He does not love me now.
My waywardness has sickened him;” could he have
seen her when in the early dawn she watched him as he
left the house for the last time, he would have turned
back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with
her, would have saved her from the dark storm which
would bear her down with its mighty force.

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But this he did not know, and he went his way to
Morrisville, where his mother waited for him, and where
Jessie, just returned from Saratoga, sparkled, and flashed,
and flitted around him, asking him to write occasionally
to her father, and tell them of California.

“Why not write to you?” he replied, and Jessie responded
at once:

“To me, then, if you like; I shall be delighted.”

Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard
this conversation, and so there could be no harm in it,
Jessie thought, while the others thought the same, knowing
that the light-hearted girl was already corresponding
with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she
care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and
she made the doctor's stay at Morrisville much pleasanter
than it would otherwise have been, and after he was
fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a glowing account
of “the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor
West, the best and most agreeable man in the world.
We are going to correspond, too,” she added in a postscript,
“and that will make the eleventh gentleman on
my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I'll be satisfied.”

Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen
the pang with which she read that Jessie, and not herself,
was to be the recipient of the doctor's letters. Never
had the autumn seemed so dreary to her before; and

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when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with
a nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long,
long evenings, when there would be nothing to occupy
her time, except, indeed, the children, or the game of
chess which she played nightly with her brother.

For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead,
the squire had recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the
villagers even hinted that, as is usual with widowers, his
dress had undergone a change, being now more youthful
and stylish than in former days when Margaret was alive.
Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the social
gatherings, while the older ones grew very conscious
of themselves, and the mothers were excessively polite
and gracious to the squire. He was happier than he
used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week
to Margaret's grave, and always spoke of her as “my dear
wife.” It soothed his conscience to do this, particularly
as he felt how much he enjoyed going home from Margaret's
grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant
words, where once there had been confusion and fretful
complaints. Dora was very pretty in her mourning garb,
with the simple linen band about her neck and wrists,
for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her dress with
a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There
was not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were
larger than usual, but to the squire and the children she
was very beautiful, moving among them as their

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

household goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and
kind.

Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr.
West,—a friendly letter, which any one might read, and
which said that he was at Marysville, with his mother,
whose health was greatly improved.

“I like the country much,” he wrote, “and if I had
with me a few of my Eastern friends I should be willing
to settle here for life; but, as it is, I find myself looking
forward eagerly to the time when I shall return and meet
you all again.”

This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced
again at the “My Dear Dora” with which the letter
commenced.

“The doctor is very affectionate,” he said, “calling
you `Dear Dora,' though perhaps he has a right, for I
remember thinking he admired you.”

Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking
to sleep, and he did not see her blushes as she replied:

“That is a very common way of addressing people, and
means nothing at all.”

Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite
absent-minded the remainder of the day, and in the
evening was twice checkmated by Dora, when his usual
custom had been to checkmate her.

Dora's first intention was to answer the doctor's letter

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at once, but sickness among the children prevented her
from doing so, and when she was at last free to write, the
disposition had in a measure left her, and so the answer
for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent.

p605-151 CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SPRING.

[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]

ABOUT the house at Beechwood the May flowers
were blooming, and in the maple-trees the birds
were building their nests, cooing lovingly to
each other as they did so, and seeming all unconscious of
the young heart which within the doors felt that never
before had there come to it a spring so full of sorrow and
harrowing dread. Jessie and Bell Verner were both
there now, and Jessie had brought two immense trunks
and a hat-box, as if her intention was to spend the entire
summer. She was just as merry and hoydenish as of old,
romping with the children in the grass and on the nursery
floor, herself the veriest child among them, while her
ringing laugh woke all the echoes of the place and made
even the Squire join in it, and try to act young again.

Both Jessie and Bell noted the change in Dora, and
Jessie asked her outright what it was that made her
look so frightened, as if constantly in fear of something;
but Dora could not tell what she feared, for she had
scarcely dared to define to herself the meaning of Squire
Russell's manner toward her. A stranger would have

[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]

perceived no difference in his treatment of her now and
when his wife was living, but Dora felt the change, and it
almost drove her wild, making her one day sharply rebuke
the little Daisy for calling her mamma.

“I am not your mother,” she said fiercely. “Your
mamma is dead, and I am only Auntie.”

The child looked up in surprise, but called her mamma
just the same, while Dora's eyelids closed tightly over
the hot tears she thus kept from falling. That day
when Johnnie came home from school at dinner-time he
showed unmistakable marks of having been in a fight,
and when questioned by his father as to the cause of his
black eye, broke out furiously:

“I've been a lickin' Bill Carter, and I'll do it again if
he ever tells such stuff about you! Why, he said you're
a going to get married to that ill-begotten, shoulder-shotten
snap-dragon of a Miss Dutton! I told him 'twas the
biggest lie, and then he said it wasn't, that it was true,
and she was coming here to be our step-mother; that she
would cut off 'Tish's curls, spank Ben and Burt twice a
day, shake Daisy into shoe-strings, and make Jim and me
toe the mark,—the hateful!”

“She ain't, she shan't,—old nasty Dutton,” and fiery
Ben shook his tiny fist at an imaginary bugbear who was
to spank him twice a day.

Jessie laughed aloud. Bell looked amused, Dora disturbed,
and the Squire very red, as he said to his son:

[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]

“You should not mind such gossip, or allow yourself
to get into a passion. Time enough to rebel when
the step-mother comes. Now go to your room and bathe
your eye.”

Johnnie obeyed, muttering as he went:

“There's only one person I'd have for a step-mother
any how, and that's Aunt Dora. Guy, wouldn't
I raise hob with anybody else!”

“John, leave instantly!” the Squire said sternly, while
his face colored crimson, as did Dora's also, making Bell
and Jessie glance curiously at each other, as both thought
of the same thing.

In their own room, after dinner, they discussed together
the possibility of Dora's becoming what Johnnie
wished her to be, Bell scouting the idea as preposterous,
and Jessie insisting that a girl might love Squire Russell
well enough to take him with all his children.

“Not that I think Dora will do so,” she said, “for I
fancy he is not as much to her taste, even, as he is to
mine; and I guess I'd jump in the creek sooner than
marry an old widower with half a dozen children.”

What the two sisters were discussing privately in
their room was talked openly in the village, some of
the people arguing that Dora could not do better,
while all agreed that for the Squire it would be a match
every way desirable both for his own and his children's
sake. To the Squire himself the story was told one day,

[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]

the teller hinting that the matter was entirely settled,
and asking when the marriage would take place.

With some jocose reply, the Squire rode away, going
round to Margaret's grave, and thence back to his home,
where the evening lights were shining, and where Dora,
with Daisy in her arms, sat alone in the back parlor,
Bell and Jessie having accepted an invitation which she
was obliged to decline on account of a bad headache.

There were strange thoughts stirring in the Squire's
breast that night, thoughts which had haunted him for
weeks and months, aye, since Margaret died, for he could
not forget her words.

“You need not wait long. You and Dora are above
people's gossip, and it will be so much better for the
children.”

This was what Margaret had said to him that night
when misapprehending her sister just as she was misapprehended,
she had told him:

“I have talked with Dora, and she has promised to
take my place.”

At first he had been satisfied with matters as they
were, and had said that he never could marry and love
again. But gradually there had crept into life another
feeling, which prompted him to watch Dora constantly
as she moved about his house; to miss her when she was
away,—to think of her the last at night as well as first in
the morning,—to wonder, with a harassing jealousy, if Dr.

[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]

West cared for Dora, or if she cared for him. No, she
did not, he thought, and made himself believe it, else he
had never said to her what he did that night, when, with
Daisy in her arms, she sat wholly in his power, and was
obliged to listen to what was not unexpected, but which,
nevertheless, fell like a thunderbolt upon her, turning her
into stone, and making her grow faint and sick, just as
she did at Saratoga, when the first suspicion dawned upon
her that some day John Russell would speak to her what
he was speaking now, with one hand on her shoulder and
the other on Daisy's golden head. It was a kind, true,
fatherly heart he offered her, and she felt that he meant
it all. He cast no reflections upon his departed wife,—
he merely said:

“You knew Margaret as well as I. She was not, perhaps,
as even-tempered as a more healthy person would
have been, but I loved her, remembering always what she
was when I took her from her home. You were a little
girl, then, Dora, and I never dreamed that I should
some time be sueing for your hand just as I had sued for
Margaret's.”

Then he pleaded for his children, who loved her so
much; would she be their mother, just as she had promised
Margaret she would? Then Dora roused herself,
and the face which met the Squire's view made his heart
beat faster as he doubted what it portended.

“I did not think Margaret meant what you ask,” Dora

[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]

said, her words coming gaspingly. “I thought she meant
care for them as I have tried to do, and will do still. I'll
stay with you, John. I'll be your housekeeper, but don't
ask me to be your wife. I can't; I'm too young for
you; I'm,—O John! O Margaret!” and here the
voice broke down entirely, while Dora sobbed convulsively.

Margaret, too, had said she could not be his wife when
he asked her. She, too, had said she was too young, and
cried, but hers was not like Dora's crying, and Squire
Russell saw the difference, feeling perplexed, but never
suspected the truth. It was natural for girls to cry, he
thought, when they received an offer of marriage, and so,
with both hands on her shoulder, he pleaded again, but
this time for himself, telling her in words which his true
love made eloquent, how dear she was to him, dearer, if
possible, than his early choice, the beautiful Margaret.
And Dora believed him, for she knew he was incapable of
deception, and that made her pain harder to bear.

“If I had supposed you cared for any one else,” he
said, “I should not have sought you, but I did not. Dr.
West wrote to you, I know, and I was foolish enough to
wish he had not called you his dear Dora, but you did
not answer him, and of course there is but one conclusion
to be drawn from that. You do not care for him, nor he
for you?”

He put this to her interrogatively, but Dora could not

[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]

speak. Once she thought to tell him what there was between
her and Dr. West, but something kept her silent,
and so in perfect good faith, kind, honest, truthful John
kept on until she answered:

“Please leave me now; I must think, and I am so
stunned and bewildered. I'll answer another time.”

Squire Russell was far too good-natured to stay longer
if she did not wish it, and stooping down he kissed his
sleeping child, and said:

“Let me kiss baby's auntie, too?”

Dora offered no resistance, and he touched her forehead
respectfully, and then quitted the room. He had kissed
her many times when Margaret was living, but no kiss
had ever burned her as this one did, for she knew it was
not a brother's kiss, and with a sensation of loathing she
passed her hand over the place, and then wiped it with
her handkerchief, just as a rustling sound met her ear, and
the next moment there was another pleader kneeling at
her feet, Johnnie, who had overheard a part of his father's
wooing, and who took it up just where his sire had
left it; his stormy, impetuous arguments bearing Dora
completely away from herself, so that she hardly knew
what she did or said.

“You will be father's wife, Aunt Dora; you will, you
must!” Johnnie began. “I've prayed for it every single
day since I heard that stuff about old Dutton. I've
gone to mother's grave and knelt down there, asking that

[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]

it might be. Jim and 'Tish pray so, too, for I told 'em
to, and I should make Ben and Burt, only I knew they'd
tell you; and Auntie, you will! Father's older than you
a lot, I s'pose, but he is so good, and was so kind to
mother, even when she plagued him. I never told, but
once after you went to Morrisville, she got awful, and
lammed him the wust kind,—told him he was fat, and
pussy, and awkward, and she was always ashamed of him
at watering-places, and a sight more. At last she left
the room, and poor papa put his head right in my lap
and cried out loud. I cried too, and said to him:

“`Let's lick her: I'll help.'

“But he wouldn't hear a word. Says he:

“`Hush, my boy; she's your mother and my wife.
She is not as she used to be. She's sick and nervous.'

“And when I asked the difference between ugly and
nervous, he made me stop, and was just as kind to her at
supper-time as ever. Tell me such a man won't make a
good husband! He'll be splendid, and he's handsomer
than he was,—he has lost that look as if he was afraid
something was after him, a henpecked look, Clem called
it. Poor father; he has had so little comfort, you must
make him happy, Auntie; you will, and you'll make
us all so good. You know how like Cain we behave without
you, and how we all mind when you tell us what is
right. Will you be father's wife and help us grow up
good?”

[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]

He had her face between his warm hands, and was
looking at her so earnestly, that for his sake Dora could
almost have answered yes, but thoughts of what being his
father's wife involved chilled her through and through,
and she answered him:

“Johnnie, I do not believe I can.”

For an instant the boy's black eyes blazed fiercely at
her, and then he angrily exclaimed, “I'll go to ruin, just
as fast as I can go! I'll smoke to-morrow, if I live, and
teach Jim and Ben to do so too! I'll swear, and when
the circus comes next week I'll run away to that, and
take 'Tish with me; I'll gamble; I'll drink, and when
I'm brought home drunker'n a fool, you'll know it is your
work!”

He looked like a young tiger as he stood uttering
these terrible threats, and Dora quailed before his flashing
eyes, feeling that much he had said was in earnest.
She did not fear his swearing, or gambling, or drinking,
for the present, at least, but he might not always act his
best; he might grow surly and hard and unmanageable,
even by her, unless she yielded to his request, and this
she couldn't do.

“Johnnie,” she began, and something in her voice
quieted the excited boy, “would you have me marry your
father when I do not love him, and just the thought of
being his wife makes me almost sick?”

Johnnie was not old enough to comprehend her

[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]

meaning. He only felt that it was not a very bad thing
to be the wife of a man as good as his father, and he answered
her, “You do love him well enough, or you will,
and he so affectionate. Why he used to hug and kiss
mother every day, even when she was crosser than fury.
Of course then he'll hug you most to death.”

“Oh—h,” Dora groaned, the tone of her voice so indicative
of disgust that even Johnnie caught a new idea,
which he afterwards acted upon; but he would not yield
his point: Dora should be his mother, and he continued
the siege until, wearied out with his arguments, Dora peremptorily
bade him leave her while she could think in
quiet.

Oh, that long, terrible thinking which brought on so
racking a headache that Dora was not seen in the parlor
on the day following, but lay upstairs in her own room,
where, with the bolted door between her and the world
outside, she met and battled with what seemed her destiny!
One by one every incident connected with Margaret's
death came back to her, and she knew now what
the questionings meant, far better than she did then,
while she half expected the dead sister to rise before her
and reproach her for shrinking from her duty. Then the
children came up, a powerful argument swaying her in
the direction of Squire Russell. She could do them good;
she could train them so much better than another, and
John, if she refused him, would assuredly bring another

[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]

there to rule and govern them. These were the arguments
in favor of John's suit, while on the other side a
mighty barrier was interposed to keep her from the sacrifice.
Her love for Dr. West, and the words spoken to
her at Anna's grave; and was she not virtually engaged
to him?

“Yes,—oh yes, I am!” she cried, and then there
came over her all the doubts which had so tortured her
since that time in the Morrisville cemetery.

Had he not spoken hastily and repented afterwards?
His continued silence on the subject would seem so; and
why did he not write to her just as did he to Jessie, who,
since coming to Beechwood, had received a letter from
him which contained no mention of her, but was full of
the light, bantering matter in which he knew Jessie delighted.
Dora had heard Jessie say she was going to
answer the letter that very day; and suddenly, like a
dawn of hope, there flashed over her the determination
that she, too, would write and tell him of Squire Russell's
offer; and if he loved her still he would come to
save her, or he would write, telling her again how dear
she was to him, and that he alone must call her his wife.

“Yes, I'll do it,” Dora whispered; “I know he is at
San Francisco, for Jessie directs there; I'll write to-day.
It shall go in the same mail with hers. I'll wait
two months for his reply, and then, if he answers Jessie
and ignores me, I'll—”

[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]

Dora set her teeth firmly together, and her breath
came hurriedly, as she paused a moment ere she added,
“I'll marry John.”

And so with a throbbing head Dora wrote to Dr.
West, telling him of the proposal and asking what he
thought of it. This was all she meant the letter to
mean, for her maidenly reserve would not suffer her to
betray her real motive if she knew it, but it was more
like a pleading cry for help, more like a wail of anguish
for one she loved to save her from a fate she had not
strength to resist alone, than like a mere asking of advice.
The letter was finished, and just after dark, when
sure no one could see her, Dora stole from the house
unobserved, and hastening to the office, dropped into the
box the missive of so much importance to her.

“It is sure to go with Jessie's,” she said, as she
wended her way back, “so if hers is received I shall
know that mine was also.”

Alas! Jessie's had been written the previous night,
after that young lady's return from her visit, and while
Dora's letter was lying quietly in the box at Beechwood
awaiting the morning mail, Jessie's was miles on its way
to New York and the steamer which would take it to
California a week in advance of the other. But Dora
did not know this, neither did she know that it contained
the following paragraph:

“There is no news, except the rumor that Squire

[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]

Russell will marry his pretty sister-in-law. Bell won't
believe a word of it, but some things look like it. Dora
is so queer. I had picked her out for you, and believe
now that she likes you, though when your name is mentioned,
she bites her words off so short and crisp that I
am confounded. She is a splendid girl, and will make a
grand wife, to say nothing of step-mother.”

Little did Jessie suspect the harm these few comparatively
harmless lines would cause, and little did Dora
suspect it either, as with a load of pain lifted from her
heart and consequently from her head, she sat down by
her open window and followed with her mind her letter's
course to far-off California, and then imagined the quick
response it would bring back, and which would make her
so happy.

“Johnnie must be the medium between Squire Russell
and me,” she said. “I'll tell him to-morrow that
his father must wait for my definite reply at least six
weeks, and possibly two months. At the end of that
time I shall know for sure, and if the doctor does not
care, there will be a kind of desperate pleasure in marrying
my brother.”

p605-164 CHAPTER XV. WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.

[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]

AS Dora reached this conclusion there came a
well-known knock upon the door, and unfastening
the bolt she admitted Johnnie, who had
been up many times that day, but had not before been
permitted to enter.

“O Auntie,” he cried, “you are better and I'm glad.
I didn't mean what I said about swearing, and drinking,
and smoking, and I was so mad at myself that I teased
Ben and Burt on purpose till they got hoppin', and then
I lay still while both little Arabs pitched into me. My!
didn't their feet fly like drumsticks as they kicked and
struck, and pulled my hair; but when Ben got the big
carving-fork, I concluded I'd been punished enough, and
so deserted the field! But, Auntie, I do wish you could
love father. He has looked so sorry to-day, kind of
white about the mouth, and his hand trembled this noon
when he carved the turkey. Won't you, Auntie? I've
prayed ten times this afternoon that you might, and I
begin to have faith that you will. Dr. West, who used
to talk to me so good last summer when I was in his

[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]

Sunday-school class, said we must have faith that God
would hear us.”

Dora drew a long, sad sigh, as she wished she too had
been taught of Dr. West to pray differently from what
she knew she did. Smoothing back John's soft, dark
hair, she said:

“Johnnie, girls cannot make a love in a minute, and
this came so suddenly upon me, I must have time to think,—
six weeks or two months, and then I will decide. Will
you tell your father this for me? Tell him I'm sorry to
make him feel badly,—that I like him and always shall,
even if I am not his wife—that I know how good, how
generou she is,—that he will wait until I know my own
mind better, and then if I cannot be his, he must not
mind it.”

“I'll tell him,” Johnnie said, while Dora continued:

“And Johnnie, perhaps it had better be understood
that nothing is to be said about it in the mean time,—
nothing to me by your father.”

“Yes, I know, I see. I'll fix it,” Johnnie answered.
“I'll go to father now,” and stooping down, he kissed his
aunt tenderly, then suddenly asked, as he looked into her
eyes, “You don't mind my kissing you, do you? That
don't make you sick?”

“No, oh no!” she answered, and Johnnie departed on
his strange errand.

Squire Russell sat in his office or reading-room,

[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]

pretending to look over his evening paper, but his thoughts
were really upstairs with Dora, whom he had not seen
that day, and whose illness troubled him greatly, for he
rightly associated it with his proposal of the previous
night. Squire Russell loved Dora with a great, warm,
sheltering love, which would shield her from all harm,
and unselfishly yield to her everything, but he had not
the nice, quick perception of Dr. West, and had he been
younger he could never have satisfied the wants of her
higher nature as could the rival whose existence he did
not suspect. But he loved her very much. He must
have her. He could not live without her, he thought,
and womanish man that he was, a tear was gathering in
his eyes when Johnnie entered the room abruptly, and
locking the door, came and stood beside him.

“What do you wish, my boy?” the Squire said
kindly, for he was never impatient with his children.

Johnnie hesitated, beginning to feel that his father's
love affair was a delicate matter for him to meddle with.

“Confound it,” he began at last, “I may as well spit
it out, and then let you knock me down, or lick me, or
anything you like. Father, I heard what you said to
Auntie last night, and what she said to you, and after
you was gone I took the floor and beat you all to smash.
I said she must be my mother,—she should be my mother,
and all that, and set you up, I tell you, till you'd hardly
know yourself from my description. To-night I've seen

[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]

her again,—have just come from her room to tell you
something she bade me tell.”

Squire Russell had turned very white at first, feeling
indignant at his son for presuming to interfere, but this
feeling had disappeared now, and he listened eagerly while
Johnnie continued:

“She says its sudden; that she can't make a love in a
minute; that she must have six weeks or two months to
decide, and then she will tell you sure, and, father, you'll
wait; I know you will, and,—and,—well, I guess I'd hold
my tongue,—that is, I wouldn't keep teasing her, nor say
a word; just let her go her own gait, and above all I
wouldn't act lovin' like, for fear she'd up and vomit.
She don't mind me kissing her, because I've no beard, I
don't shave, nor carry a cane. I'm a boy, and you are a
whiskered old chap. I guess that's the difference between
us. Father, you'll wait?”

Squire Russell could not forbear a smile at his son's
novel reasoning, but he was not angry, and it made his
child seem nearer, now that both shared the same secret,
and were interested in the same cause. Yes, he would
wait two, three, or four months if Dora liked, and meantime
things should continue as usual in the household.

“And afterward, father?” Johnnie asked. “How
about that? If auntie says no, she'll mean it, and you
won't raise a rumpus, will you? You'll grin and bear it
like a man?”

[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]

Yes, the Squire would do all his son required, and before
Dora retired for the night, a bit of paper was pushed
under her door, on which was written:

“The governor is O. K. He'll wait and so will I;
and if you must say no, he won't raise hob, but I will.
I tell you now I'll raise the very roof! Don't say no,
Auntie, don't!

It was rather embarrassing next morning at the breakfast
table, but Johnnie threw himself into the gap, talking
loudly and rapidly to his father of the war meeting to be
held that night, wishing he was a man, so he could enlist,
and predicting, as did many a foolish one at that period,
the spring of '61, that the immense force of 75,000,
called for by the President, would subjugate the South
at once.

The Squire talked very little, and never once glanced
at Dora, who in her heart blessed both Jessie and
Johnnie, the latter for engaging his father's attention and
the former for talking so constantly to herself and
Bell.

Dora was very white and nervous, but this was imputed
to her illness of the previous day, and so neither Bell nor
Jessie dreamed of what had passed between her and their

[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]

host, or how her heart was aching with the terrible fear
of what might be in store for her.

It had been arranged that the Misses Verner should
remain at Beechwood for a long time, and as Bell thought
four weeks came under that definition she began to talk
of returning home as early as the first of June; but with
a look of terror which startled both the girls, Dora
begged of them to stay.

“Don't leave me alone!” she cried, clasping Bell's
hand pleadingly. “I shall die if you do! Oh, stay,—
you would if you knew—”

She did not say what, and Bell gazed at her wonderingly,
but decided at last to stay a few weeks longer.
Nothing could please Jessie better, for she did not particularly
like Morrisville, and she did like Beechwood
very much. She liked the lake view, the hills, and the
people, and she liked the six noisy, frolicsome children,
with their good-humored sire, who treated her much as
he would have treated a playful, teasing child not his
own, but a guest. Many were the gambols she had with
Ben and Burt, and little Daisy, who loved her almost as
much as they loved Dora, while upon the matter-of-fact
Squire she played off many a saucy trick, keeping him
constantly on the alert with plots and conspiracies, and
so making the time seem comparatively short, while he
waited for Dora's decision. But to Dora there was
nothing which brought comfort or diverted her for a

[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]

moment from the agonizing suspense which grew more
and more dreadful as the days went swiftly by, bringing
no answer to the letter sent to Dr. West.

“Is it anything in particular you are expecting?”
Johnnie asked one day, when she turned so white and
shivered, as he returned from the post-office, with letters
for all except herself.

“Yes,—no! Oh, I don't know what I expect,” she
answered, and leaning her head on Johnnie's shoulder,
she wept silently, while the boy tried to comfort her,
and became from that moment almost as anxious that she
should have a letter as she seemed herself.

Regularly each day at mail-time he was at the office,
and if there chanced to be a letter for Dora, as there
sometimes was, running to her eagerly, but saying always
to himself as the weary, disappointed look remained the
same:

“The right one has not come.”

No, the right one had not come, and now it was more
than seven weeks since the night when Dr. West had
been written to.

Bell and Jessie were really going home at last, and
their trunks stood in the hall ready for the early morning
train. Dora had exhausted every argument for a longer
stay, but Bell felt that they must go.

“They would come again in the autumn, perhaps, or
Dora should visit them. She would need rest by that

[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]

time, sure,” Bell said, and Dora shuddered as she thought
how she might never know rest or happiness again, save
as she found them in the discharge of what she was beginning
to believe was her imperative duty.

“Letters! letters!” shouted Johnnie, running up the
walk, his hand full of documents, one of which he was
closely inspecting. Spelling out the place where it was
mailed, he exclaimed, as he entered the room, “That's
from the doctor, for it says `San Francisco.”'

Instantly both Jessie and Dora started forward to
claim it, the hot blood dyeing the cheeks of the latter, but
subsiding instantly, and leaving only a livid hue as Jessie
took the letter, saying:

“It is for me.”

Sinking back in her chair, Dora pressed her hands
tightly together, as Jessie broke the seal and read, partly
to herself and partly aloud, that message from Dr.
West.

“Is still in San Francisco, at the hotel, which is
crowded with guests, and will compare very favorably
with the best houses in New York City. Begins to
think of coming home in the autumn. Mother's health
improved. Was pleased to get my letter,” and so on.

This was the substance of what Jessie read, until she
reached a point where she stopped suddenly, and seemed
to be considering; then turning to Johnnie, she asked
him to do for her some trifling service, which would take

[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]

him from the room. When he was gone, she said to
Dora:

“Maybe you'll scold, but it cannot now be helped. In
my letter to Dr. West, I said, or hinted, at what everybody
is talking about,—that is, you know, about your
marrying Squire Russell, and this is the doctor's reply:
`What you wrote of Miss Freeman took me by surprise,
but it will be a grand thing for the Squire. Tell her that
if she decides to mother those six children, she has my
best wishes for her happiness. You say you had picked
her out for me. She would probably tell you differently,
as she has seemed to dislike rather than like me,
and according to your own story, bites her words off
crisp and short when I am mentioned.”'

“O Jessie, how could you? What made you tell
him that? It was cruel of you, when I do like him,”
Dora cried, her face for an instant crimsoning with passion
and then growing deathly white as she felt her destiny
crushing down upon her without a hope of escape.

“Because you do,” Jessie retorted, anxious to defend
herself. “You are just as spiteful as can be when I
tease you about him, and I don't care!”

Jessie was vexed at herself for having told Dr. West
what she had, and vexed at Dora for resenting it; but
she never dreamed of the terrible pain throbbing in
Dora's heart, as with a mighty effort she forced back the

[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]

piteous, despairing cry rising to her lips, and brought
there a smile instead, saying pleasantly:

“Well, never mind it now. It does not matter; only
Dr. West has been so kind to us in sickness that I ought
to like him, and do. Does he say what time he will be
home?”

Jessie was thoroughly deceived, and after ascertaining
that he merely spoke of coming in the autumn, went to
her room, as there were a few things she must yet do for
her morrow's journey.