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“June 13th, 10 P. M.

HOW beautiful it is this summer night, and how
softly the moonlight falls upon the quiet street
through the maple-trees! On such a night as
this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden
must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I
have often wished it had been Adam who first transgressed
instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a
man than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon
our race. And yet, when I remember that by woman
came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest
honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much
faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that
was good and pure and lovely. And have I been mistaken
in her? Once, yes. But that is past. Anna is
dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for
her as for a sister. How long it took to crush out my
love,—to overcome the terrible pain which would waken
me from the dream that I held her again in my arms,
that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden

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curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do
not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell,
with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably
agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair dangling
about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and
braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She
is no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that.
Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I've
suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she urged me
to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought
me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at
least among the fast young men; but my heavenly Father
knows, and some time maybe Dora will. I like to
call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit
more like Anna, I never could have liked her as I do,—
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora.

“And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived.
Is this Mrs. Randall very grand, I wonder, and will
Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I knew that
when I asked her to be the bearer of that package
which I might have sent by express. Perhaps she will
take it herself, seeing little Robin and so hearing of
Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you knew how
much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength
to endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden
uncomplainingly.

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“Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall's brother?
What a blow that story gave me, and yet I doubted
its truth, though the possibility nearly drives me wild, and
shows me the real nature of my feelings for Dora Freeman.
Let me record the event as it occurred. This
morning Dora went away to Morrisville, my old home,
though she does not know that, because, for certain reasons,
I have not chosen to talk much of my affairs in
Beechwood. She went early, before many people were
astir, but I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of
the train until it was miles away, and then I awoke to
the knowledge that the world had changed with her
going, that now there was nothing before me but the
same monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome
chatter of my landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham,
and the tedious sitting here alone.

“Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in
watching the house across the street for a glimpse of
Dora, in waiting for her to come out upon the lawn
where she frolicked and played with all those little Russells,
in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone,
and in pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on
her track and would soon discover her hiding-place, in
wishing that I could spirit her away from the cares which
should fall upon another, in seeing her after the gas was
lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with
the scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window

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until the shadow flitting before it disappeared with the
light, and I was left to wonder if the little maiden were
kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life and being.
All this, or something like it, has formed a part of
my existence, but with Dora's going everything changed.
Clouds came over the sun; the breeze from the lake
blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham's talk was more insipid
than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two
of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure.
Dora was gone, and in a listless mood I made my
round of visits, riding over the Berkley hills and across
the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to send that
package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to
her hearing of Anna.

“It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sunset,
such as always reminds me of Dora in her mature
beauty. There was a stillness in the air, and from the
trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the
katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to
like to hear them when a boy, and many's the time I've
stood with Anna listening to them by the west door at
home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as if
they were saying, `Dora's gone; Dora's gone,' while the
opposite party responded, `And Anna too; and Anna
too.'

“I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first
knew she was lost forever, but to-night, in the gathering

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twilight, with the music of my boyhood sounding in my
ears, the long ago came back to me again, bringing with
it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there
hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my
eyes, and a tear which dropped on Major's mane, and
was shed for Anna dead as well as for Dora gone. When
I reached the office, I found upon the slate a hand-writing
which I knew to be Johnnie Russell's, and for a moment
I felt tempted to kiss it, because he is Dora's
nephew. This is what he had written:

“`Mother's toock ravin' with one of her headaches,
cause auntie's gone, and there's nobody to tend to the
young ones. Gawly, how they've cut up, and she wants
you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours,
with regret,

“I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora
will be shocked at his language. And so my services
were needed at the big house over the way. Usually I
like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite
another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself,
I dislike Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it,
prayed against it, but as often as I see her face and hear
her voice, the old dislike comes back. There's nothing
real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were
she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be

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just as elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully
arranged, and her heavy bracelets clasped as conspicuously
around the wrists as if in full dress for an evening
party. To-night I found her in just this costume,
with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon
the pillow. I knew she was suffering, from the dark
rings beneath her eyes, and this roused my sympathy.
She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to
stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough
she spoke of Dora, whom she missed so much, she said,
and then with a little sigh continued:

“`It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but
my most intimate friends, but you have been in our
family so much, and know how necessary Dora is to us,
that you will partially understand what a loss it would
be to lose my sister entirely.'

“`Yes, a terrible loss,' I said, thinking more of myself
than of her. `But is there a prospect of losing her?'
I asked, feeling through my frame a cold, sickly chill,
which rapidly increased as she replied:

“`Perhaps not; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has
gone to visit, has a brother at West Point, you know,
Lieutenant Reed, the young man with epaulets, who was
here last summer.'

“`Yes, I remember him,' I said, and Mrs. Russell
continued:

“`He has been in love with Dora ever since she was

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with his sister Mattie at school. Dora has not yet given
him a decided answer, but I know her preference for
him, and as he is to be at his sister's while Dora is
there, it is natural to fear that it may result in eventually
taking Dora away from Beechwood.'

“`It may, it may,' I responded, in a kind of absent
way, for my brain was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew
what I did.

“She must have observed my manner, for her eyes
suddenly brightened as if an entirely new idea had been
suggested to her.

“`Now if it were some one near by,' she continued, `perhaps
she would not leave me. The house is large enough
for all, and Dora will marry some time, of course. She is
a kind sister, and will make a good wife.'

“At this point Squire Russell came in, and soon after
I said good-by, going out again into the summer night,
beneath the great, full moon, whose soft, pure light could
not still the throbbing of my heart; neither could the
long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I
went one day last summer. There were quite a number
of the villagers with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw
only Dora, who, afraid of the water, stayed on the shore
with me, while the rest went off in sail-boats. We talked
together very quietly, sitting on the bank, beneath a
broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of
wreath, as she told me of her dear old home, and how the

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saddest moments she had ever known were those in
which she fully realized that she was never again to live
there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the
flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks
and alleys and winding paths with which the grounds
abounded. I remember how the wish flashed upon me
that I might some day buy back the home, and take her
there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sitting
on the lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening
to the low dash of the waves, which, as they came
rolling almost to my feet, seemed to murmur, `Never,
never more!'

“I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to-night,
and the walk down to the lake did not dispel the
sadness. It may be it is wrong in me thus to despond,
when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my
most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last,
thanks to the kind Father who raised me up so many
friends, and whose healing hand has more than once been
outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of
avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when
I knew it was God who had wrought the almost miraculous
change. And shall I murmur at anything when sure
of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it be
God's will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain
would shelter her from all the ills of life; and if 'tis not His
will, what am I, that I should question His dealings?”

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