“Child,” he said, “I should have waited for you, —
no matter through how many lives or worlds, — sure
through them all that you would be mine at the
last.”

Then, for a moment more, he looked at her, in all
her shadowy loveliness, and after that look some gust
of emotion swayed him from his calm. His words were
strong with a passion whose power startled her.

“Did you forget that our Father in Heaven pities
us, as a Father pities his children? He wants to
see us happy, believe it. You are mine, — my wife.
Flame and flood spared you, because you were for me.
Do you think I will give you up now?”

He took her into his arms, shy and startled, trembling
like a girl of sixteen before her lover. Her very agitation
calmed him, and he let her go before he had even
kissed her lips.

“You shall come to me of your own free will, or not
at all,” he said, gently. “I called you mine, — are you
mine, Elizabeth?”

Through the dusk which had gathered round them,
she felt rather than saw his ardent, longing look. The
moon, a pale crescent, was already high in the heavens,
and one star glittered beside it. A late bird, going
home, dropped a note full of hope and joy into the
heart of the fragrant, dewy night. Half unconsciously
she noted moon, and star, and bird-song, and the tender
fragrance of the summer dusk. Had every thing believed
and rejoiced in the Father's love except her
heart, — and now had her hour come? Was her life at

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

its flood-tide? She went through the shadows to Dr.
Erskine, close into the arms that once more shut her
in, — not passionately now, but gently, thankfully,
with a clasp that claimed, and accepted, and would
never again let her go.

p654-144 BRAINS.

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

“YES'M!”

I turned with a start. I was quite alone, as I
thought, and the fine treble of that odd little voice
struck strangely upon my ear. I had been saying that
I was tired of life, or some such repining speech, which
I never allowed myself except in solitude, and this
object at my knee answered me, “Yes'm!” I looked
at her in amazement. She was a little morsel, scarcely
so tall as a well-grown child of seven, but with a
grave, mature, preternaturally wise face, which might
have belonged to any age from fifteen to twenty-five.
Was she goblin or mortal?

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Susan Mory, ma'am, but they mostly
call me `Brains.' They say I've an old head to be on
such young shoulders.” And she laughed, a small,
fine, queer laugh, as uncanny in sound as her voice.
I was hardly yet convinced that she was human.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve, ma'am, last birthday.”

“And what do you want, `Brains'? How came you
here?”

“I want to do your errands, ma'am. I heard you

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

needed some one; and your door wasn't quite shut,
so I came in. Excuse the freedom.” And here she
bobbed me a droll little courtesy, quite in keeping with
her voice, and her laugh, and the quaint correctness
and propriety of her conversation. It was true I
wanted an errand-girl; but what could this odd morsel
of humanity do?

“What wages did you expect?” I asked, more from
curiosity to see what estimate she put upon her services
than with any serious intention of employing her.

“I heard you had been paying three dollars a week,
and the girl boarded herself. I think I could earn as
much.”

“But she was a large girl,” I said, in surprise. “She
swept and dusted my room, carried home all my work,
and shopped for linings and trimmings.”

“Yes'm.” She spoke with an acquiescent air, as if
she thought the work I had mentioned was not at all
too much for her. She seemed so ready and cheery
that I couldn't bear to refuse her.

“Can you sweep?” I asked.

“If you'll try me, ma'am, I think my work will please
you. If not, you know it's only to send me away
again.”

There was no room to dispute her assertion. I began
to like the quaint, neat little creature, with her earnest,
unchildlike face. I would question her a little more, I
thought.

“Have you a home?” I asked. “Do you live with
your parents?”

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

“With my mother. There are three of us, — mother,
and I, and `Body,' — I mean my sister Jane; she grew
so fast, and was so careless and thoughtless, that
father always used to call her `Body,' and me `Brains.'
When the war broke out he went for a private soldier,
but he was shot the second summer. We have eight
dollars a month, you know, — mother's pension, —
but that won't quite make us comfortable, and mother's
delicate; and so I thought if I could do your errands,
ma'am.”

So she, too, had lost by the war, — she in one way
and I in another. The thought made my heart warm
to her yet more.

“You may come to-morrow morning,” I said. “Come
at half-past six, and ask the porter for the key of
No. 10. You will find a broom in that closet behind
the door, and you can get the room swept and dusted
before the girls come to work.”

“Yes'm.”

Another droll little courtesy, and she was gone.

Then I went back to my thoughts again. They were a
little less melancholy and self-compassionate, however,
for the diversion. Yet I had lost so much. Before the
war began my father had been one of the wealthy
merchants of New York. He did a large wholesale
business, mostly with the South, and when the crisis
came it ruined him utterly. In the summer of 1861
we went to a little place in the country which belonged
to my mother, and there he died. I think it was his
trouble which brought on the long, slow fever from

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which he never rallied. Then, in that fall after
his death, I had to decide upon my future. We had
scarcely a hundred dollars in the world besides the
little place which sheltered us, but which insured us
only a roof over our heads. My mother was a delicate
woman, accustomed ever since her marriage to be
petted and waited on and tended. She was utterly
broken down by her grief at the loss of my father. I
must think for both and work for both.

I, too, had been accustomed to luxury, and never
trained to any thing useful. I had received a fine-lady
sort of education. I could play and sing, — with taste
rather than with science. I danced well; I drew a
little; I read French; I could manage Italian enough
for a song; but what one thing did I know well enough
to teach it? Not one. And even if I had, there were
fifty applicants for every vacant situation in the department
of instruction. Clearly I must do something
besides teaching. I could not sew fast enough to earn
much in that way. What was I good for? My selfesteem
went rapidly down to zero, when suddenly a
new idea took possession of me. I had one endowment
which I might make available as capital, — taste in
dress. I use the words in their highest sense. I not
only knew what was pretty when I saw it, — I knew
what would be pretty before I saw it. I had original
ideas. In the days when I had been a leader of fashion
in my own set, my dresses and my trimmings had
never been servile imitations of French models. I had
always invented something for myself, often for my

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

friends. Schneider had said that my taste would be a
fortune to any mantua-maker. It should be a fortune,
then, to me.

I matured my plan and then communicated it to my
mother. As I had foreseen, it vexed her sorely at first.
But when I set matters before her in their true light,
and she saw it afforded our only chance of comfort and
independence, she began to look on the idea more
favorably. She made only one stipulation, — that I
should not attempt to carry out my undertaking in
New York. To this I was quite ready to accede.
The supercilious patronage of all my former friends
would have been a burden quite too heavy to be borne.
I should feel more comfortable, even if I made less
money, to begin elsewhere. My scheme was quite an
ambitious one. I ignored the proverbs about small
beginnings, little acorns, and so on. I meant to storm
success at the outset. I let the house which we were
occupying for a year, and arranged to leave my mother
with the new tenants until I was ready to come for her.
Then I went to Boston.

I found vacant rooms in a building on Summer
Street, in which nearly all the upstairs apartments
were used by milliners and dress-makers. I had no
references, but I engaged to pay my rent monthly in
advance; and having paid the first month I arranged
my rooms, and put my sign — “Miss Macgregor” —
on my door, and downstairs at the lower entrance. I
had hired a dress-maker to go on with me from New
York, — one who had been in the habit of going out by

[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]

the day, and had often sewed for me on common
dresses. She could fit exceedingly well, but she would
have been utterly wanting in the comprehensive ability
necessary to carry on a business, and she made no pretensions
to taste about trimming. She was quite satisfied
to be hands, and let me be head, and would be
contented with her weekly wages. In one of my
rooms was a wardrobe bedstead which she and I were
to occupy together till I could send for my mother.
These arrangements made, I sent to the Transcript
an advertisement setting forth the claims to patronage
of Miss Macgregor from New York.

The evening the notice appeared I sat with it alone
in my own room, — where, until it was time to retire,
Miss Granger never intruded. The die was cast, and
now I must go forward. For the first time a sort of
passionate regret, a wild misgiving, took possession
of me, and I cried bitterly. It seemed to me I had
given up every thing I valued in life. If my social
position, my New York acquaintances, had been all, I
could have borne it without complaining; but I had
resigned much more. Two years before I had experienced
a new phase of emotion. Not to be romantic,
or put too fine a point upon the matter, I had fallen
heartily, and, I thought then, irrevocably, in love. I
felt sure, too, that Horace Weir had loved me. There
had been no engagement between us, but when he
went away in the spring of 1860 to study for three
years in the hospitals of Paris, — he was to be a
physician, — I think we had both felt sure of each

[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]

other's hearts, and looked forward to a future together
almost as confidently as if we had been betrothed.

I felt that in giving up all my old associations and
entering upon this new life I was giving him up also.
If we had been engaged, I had faith enough in him to
feel sure that he would have been changed by no
change of fortune. But, as it was, I had not the
shadow of a claim on him. We had never corresponded,
and when he came back he would not know
where to find me. I should drop out of his life.
I will confess that I suffered keenly at this prospect.
I would have clung to him if I could. For his sake I
would have clung, if I could, to position and old associations.
But the simple fact was that I could not. If
I had been willing to starve genteelly myself, I was
not willing that my mother should; and there was no
resource but to go to work. Just then I took up a
Bible lying near me, with some vague idea of finding
in it comfort or direction, and, curiously enough, my
eyes fell upon this passage: —

“And the Lord said unto Moses, Speak unto the
children of Israel that they go forward.”

I was just in the state of mind to receive these words
as a special direction, — a sort of omen. I took them
as meant for an indication that I had chosen the right
path and must walk on in it. So I tried to be brave,—
to cease to think of Horace Weir, — to suppress
every repining thought, every longing for the old days
of ease and luxury, and to content myself with the
present. I trusted that I should succeed. I felt sure

[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]

I should, if I could but once make a beginning. I
would let the old life go, and commence this new one
bravely. I had used on my sign my middle name,
Macgregor only. I trusted that if any old friends ever
chanced to read my advertisement they would not
associate Miss Macgregor, dress-maker, with Helen
Macgregor Bryce, their friend of the old time. Perhaps
this was a weakness; at any rate it harmed no
one, and Macgregor was a more imposing name than
Bryce would have been. To be imposing, to be elegant,
to become the fashion, was my only hope. I
had sold two diamond rings of considerable value for
money enough to start me fairly; but if, in the two
months to come, I could not secure a paying run of
custom, I should have lost my last chance.

The very next morning a magnificent-looking dame
walked into my room, stately after the manner of
Boston, with a certain severe majesty appropriate to
the hub of the universe. She was followed by two
pretty young ladies. I had made a distinguished toilet
that morning, and for stateliness it would go hard if I
could not match her. She bowed loftily. I bowed
loftily in response, and offered chairs.

“Miss Macgregor, I suppose.”

Bow the second on my part.

“I saw your advertisement last evening, and came to
talk with you about some dresses. Lubec has disappointed
me so many times, that if I could find some
one equally good who would be punctual, it would be a
satisfaction to make a change.”

[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]

Bow the third.

“Are you very busy, Miss Macgregor?”

“Not at all so. To-day is the first day I have been
open, and you are my first caller.”

Then followed a whispered consultation of the
mamma with the tallest young lady. I knew they
were debating whether it would be safe to trust a
stranger whose work they had never seen, whose first
patrons they were. I waited in apparent unconcern,
watching the customers go in and out of the store
opposite.

“You are sure,” the lady began, again turning back
to me, “that you would have no difficulty in fitting us
for the first time?”

“I apprehend none, madam.”

“And for trimmings, — what fashion-books do you
use?”

“None. I have them all, but I invent my own
styles for the most part.”

Upon that the youngest daughter spoke in a pleasant,
lady-like voice, —

“That will be nice, mamma. We shall not be copies
of every one else.”

“It would be better,” the elder lady remarked, “if
we could try some more common dresses first, but
there seems to be no time. Could you get two light
silks done for a wedding reception day after to-morrow?”

“Certainly, since, as I said, you have the fortune to
come first.”

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

“Then will you fit my daughters this morning?”

“At once.”

I led the way into the other room, where Miss
Granger sat waiting.

“White linen linings, Miss Granger,” I said, with
an air of command; “and please pin them on immediately.”

Madam started at this with a gesture of alarm.

“Do you not fit them on yourself?” she asked.
“Even Lubec always did that.”

“By no means. There is no surer way to spoil one's
power of adapting a dress to the figure. I stand at a
little distance, and see that an artistic effect is preserved.”

By this time Miss Granger was pinning on the lining
over the slight girlish form of the elder daughter. She
could fit well, and they must have perceived it. I
gave a few hints and directions, and the work was
accomplished.

“Will you leave the trimming entirely to me?” I
asked, as the mamma shook the lustrous, pearl-colored
silk out of its folds, “or have you a choice?”

“Leave it to her,” I heard the younger daughter
whisper, — “I know by her own looks she has good
taste.”

So it was settled that I should make the dresses as I
chose. No sooner had they left than I began my task.
I had only two seamstresses engaged besides Miss
Granger; but we all worked. A few other customers
came in, and I put them off until these two dresses

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should be finished. When done, they were to be sent
to Mrs. John Sturgis, Beacon Street; and I felt that if
they gave satisfaction I should have made as good a
beginning as I desired. I trimmed them so differently
that, though the silk was the same, the dresses were
totally unlike, and yet equal in elegance. I sent them
home the afternoon before the reception, and Miss
Granger was kind enough to go with them and try
them on, though that was not at all in her province.
She came back and reported elegant fits and perfect
satisfaction.

The next morning Mrs. Sturgis came for my bill.
It was a matter on which I had bestowed some
thought. I had questioned whether it would be the
best policy to conciliate custom by the moderation of
my charges, or to convey a sense of my own importance
by their extravagance. One of my girls had
formerly worked for Madame Lubec, who had stood at
the head hitherto of Boston fashion. After a consultation
with her, I had made out my bill, charging perhaps
two or three dollars on a dress more than Lubec would
have done.

Mrs. Sturgis ran over the items.

“You are a little higher in your rates than is customary
here,” she said; “but I suppose we must be
willing to pay something for your taste. My daughters'
dresses were the loveliest in the room. Can you make
them some more next week? They want some walking-dresses,
and I a dinner-dress.”

“Not next week, I am sorry to say. I am more busy

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

than when you came first. I think I might promise for
the week after next.”

I had decidedly made a hit. After that customers
came fast enough; and a good many of them spoke of
the dresses Aggie Sturgis and her sister had worn at the
wedding. I was able, in two months from that beginning,
to bring on my mother, and to take for her a
third room, — a small one which happened about that
time to fall vacant, — so that she could be as retired as
she wished. I completed this arrangement early in the
winter of 1861, and for the two years between that
time and the first appearance of little “Brains” in my
establishment, I had been prospering beyond my hopes.
But I was not happy. Success brought, indeed, a certain
kind of satisfaction; but I missed sorely the carefree
life of the old days, the liberty to follow my own
tastes and ways, and I did miss Horace Weir. I
had heard of him incidentally. He had come home
from France, and was now practising his profession in
New York. I would have given much to know
whether he had thought of me, inquired after me, tried
to trace me out. Vain enough it must have been if he
had. I had given no clue to my present residence to a
single old friend. Every one of them, to the best of
my belief, had lost sight of me. I was wedded to a life
very different from any of my early dreams. I had been
successful, it is true, beyond my expectations. I was
saving money. I could make my mother comfortable.
I had little to do with the laborious details of my
business. My task was to invent graceful fashions, —

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

to suit colors to fair faces, — to make charming toilets
for girls living just such lives as I used to live once.
God forgive me if sometimes I almost hated them, —
if now and then a mad rebellious impulse seized me,
and I cursed fate in my heart, forgetting that fate was
but another name for Providence.

I had been in one of these murmuring moods when
little Susan Mory interrupted my meditations with her
fine, small voice. After she went away I relapsed into
it only partially, and roused myself with determination
at last, and went to my mother, to amuse her with an
account of my droll little visitor. After all, mother had
much more to bear than I. She had not even the diversion
of business. She must sit through the long,
slow days, remembering the past and all its good gifts
and false promises, — stung by its contrast with the
empty-handed present. How much more she had lost,
too. What was the sentimental regret of a young girl
over a love that had never even been declared, to a wife's
sorrow and longing for the household tenderness which
had been hers for a quarter of a century? As I opened
her door I reproached myself for all my repinings.

I was glad to perceive that she was really interested
about “Brains.” She wanted to see her on the morrow,
and began planning about garments we could give
her to make over for herself and her sister.

The next morning, curious to see whether my small
handmaiden had arrived, I put on my dressing-gown a
little before seven, and looked into the work-room. I
opened the door so quietly that she did not hear it.

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

She had swept the room carefully, and now she stood
in a chair dusting the window frames. It was very
amusing to see her grave, womanly patience and care,
and her queer expedients to accomplish the tasks for
which she was too absurdly short. As she turned round
I said, —

“Good-morning, `Brains.'”

She dropped instantly from her chair, and made me
her droll little courtesy.

“Yes'm,” she said, cheerfully, “I'm come. I've been
trying to make it as clean here as usual.” And she
glanced at me interrogatively with her bright, thoughtful
eyes, that looked so large and wistful in her queer,
little, old-young face.

“Yes,” I said, “you have made it very nice; I think
you will please me.”

When her morning work was done I took her in to
see my mother, and her verdict was decidedly in the
little one's favor. “She'll be the best errand-girl you
ever had,” she said to me after “Brains” had gone back
to the work-room.

Time went on, and proved her right. Through all
the winter she was the most faithful of little maidens.
Never did pieces go astray, or bundles fail to reach their
destinations; and she developed a remarkable capacity
for matching dresses with buttons and braid, and similar
trifles. I grew really attached to her, and would
not have exchanged her for any other messenger of
twice her years.

Early in March she took a severe cold, and began to

[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]

cough. I tried to make her stay at home until she was
better, and let some one else take her place; but she
insisted on coming. She knew just my ways, she said,
and she was sure it didn't hurt her. She was going to
get better of her cold as soon as there were some warm
days. Still I was not just comfortable about her. I
did not like the sound of that constant cough, — the
color on her cheeks was too bright, — she was growing,
too, into such a mere little shadow.

One morning when I entered the work-room I missed
her. Some one else had been sweeping and putting
away things, but it was not in the accustomed order.

“`Brains' didn't come. I'm afraid she's worse,” Miss
Granger said. They had all fallen into the habit of
calling her “Brains,” — the name seemed so appropriate,—
there was so much thought, and care, and womanliness
in such a little body.

Half an hour later there was a timid knock on the
door, and in came a girl whom I had never seen before.
I recognized her at once for the ten-years-old sister of
my little errand-girl, — recognized her, as one often
does, by some mysterious family likeness, which seemed
to vanish when I looked at her more steadily. This
one was a real, actual child, — large of her age, with
full, rosy cheeks, and eyes round as beads. She came
straight up to me, and delivered her message with the
air of one who had been taught it carefully.

“Sister Susy is sick, and can't come. She is sorry,
and hopes it won't put you to much inconvenience.”

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

It was just like “Brains,” — the polite, careful message.

“And you are `Body'?” I asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” — and she looked as if she longed to
ask how I had learned her home name, — “Yes, ma'am;
I am Jane, and they call me `Body.'”

“Is Susy very sick?”

“Pretty bad, I guess, ma'am. She can't sit up, and
she coughs most all the time, and mother sent me after
a doctor this morning.”

I asked where they lived, and she mentioned a number
on Pleasant Street.

“Well,” I said, “tell Susy not to worry. I shall get
along nicely, and I will come to see her as soon as I can
make time, — to-night, if not before.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She went away then. She had a lazy sort of voice,
and spoke lingeringly, — quite unlike the quick, characteristic
utterance of little “Brains.” How well I remembered
that first day, and the brisk “Yes'm” that broke
in upon my musings.

It was late in the afternoon before I could make time
to go to Pleasant Street. I found the Morys living in
the third story of a comfortable-looking house. I went
first into a room which seemed to serve as a kitchen
and sitting-room. Mrs. Mory, a tired-looking woman
who had been pretty once, was stirring something in a
saucepan over the fire. She turned to greet me, and
invited me to go into the next room, where Susy was.
It was a small bedroom, but every thing was neat and

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

clean. There lay poor little “Brains,” with a bright flush
burning on her cheeks, her eyes glittering, and her poor
little body shaken by a paroxysm of coughing. As soon
as she could speak she put out her hand.

“Thank you, Miss Macgregor; it was very kind of
you to come. I didn't mean to give up this way, and
disappoint you. And I suppose you will have to get
some one else. I thought first that perhaps `Body' could
do my work for a week or two, until I got better; but
I don't suppose she'd answer.”

“No, I fear she wouldn't; and besides, while you are
ill, your mother will need her at home. But I'll keep
the place for you. I shall have to get some one else, to
be sure, but I'll get them with the understanding that
you are to come back just as soon as you are able, and
they must be ready to give up to you at any time.”

“Oh, how good, how good you are!” the poor little
morsel cried, with kindling eyes. “I was so afraid I
should lose my place that it was worse than the sickness.”

Her gratitude touched me profoundly, for it seemed
to me, even then, that she would never get any better;
and it was so hard to think of that poor little patient
life going out so early, quenched in its dawn.

It brought on her cough to talk, so I did not stay
with her long. On the way out I said to her
mother, —

“Do not be troubled by any fear of want. I shall
pay Susy her wages just the same as if she were well.
I can well afford it, for I am prospering in my business,

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

and if she wants any thing that you cannot get her,
you must let me know.”

As I went out of the house I caught a faint red glow
of the March sunset, shooting up high enough to show
a glimpse of its splendor even to the dwellers in brick
walls. Would little “Brains” see many more days decline?
I longed to take her away into the country,
and give her, before she died, one glimpse of widestretching
fields, of sunsets, and sunrisings. But it was
too late. She was not well enough to be moved, and
if she should never get any better she would see a light
before long such as no sun ever kindled, breathe airs of
healing, smell flowers that grow not on any earthly soil.
Her “country” would be brighter than any of her
dreams, — the land that lies “very far off.”

The next day I went to see her again. I had not
thought of going so soon, but a spell seemed to draw
me. It was reward enough to see her poor little face
brighten, and her eyes grow eager with welcome when
I went in. But she was no better. She never would
be, I thought. I asked her mother what the doctor
said, and she answered me, with a burst of sobbing, —

“I don't think he has much hope of her. He says
her lungs are very much inflamed. He thinks it might
have been better if she had staid at home when she first
got her cold, but I couldn't keep her. She was such
an ambitious child. Oh, ma'am, if God takes her, how
shall I bear it? Since her father left me, little as she
is, she's been what I depended on.”

I could well understand it. The girl had one of

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

those natures on which weaker ones rest instinctively.
She was thoroughly reliable, with a courage, a patient
hope, a quiet strength, utterly out of proportion to her
tiny frame. I could not say any thing to console her
poor mother, for I knew too well what she was losing,
and it seems so idle to talk about heavenly consolations
to ears deaf with misery. The soul is so seldom ready
to accept them until after the blow has fallen, and God
himself speaks to the stricken one through the darkness
of desolation. I could only say, —

“We need not quite give up hope yet, and we ought
to think of her now, — of making her as comfortable as
we can.”

Then I went out again into the March twilight.

Every night after that found me at Pleasant Street,
I could not stay away. Besides all my interest in her,
an unaccountable impression took possession of me that
she was in some wise associated with my own fate. I
was going, so it seemed to me, straight toward my destiny, —
a destiny in some dim, undreamed-of way connected
with “Brains” and her little room.

I have said that from the first I had not much hope
of her. My hope lessened every day. She would
never come back to the place I had engaged another to
fill till she got well. I should never watch again her
tidy little ways, or be amused at her quaint womanliness.
I had not thought it was in me to care for her
so much, but my heart grew heavy as I saw her fading
away. She suffered terribly with her racking cough, and
the constant wearing pain in her side and chest; but

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

she did not lose her bright cheerfulness. For a long
time, too, she continued to make light of her illness
and tell me that in a little while she should be back
doing my errands as of old.

The first time she said any thing else was one April
night. I went to her a little later than usual, and
found the doctor with her. I had never seen him
before, this Dr. John Sargent. His name seemed somehow
strangely familiar, though I could not recall at
the moment where I had heard it. He was bending
over poor little “Brains” when I went in, but he raised
his head and met my eyes with his own, so kind, so
pitiful, so serious, that I felt drawn toward him at
once. The child put out her hand.

“You'll have to keep her, Miss Macgregor,” she said,
with a sad smile.

I did not think at first who she meant, and I asked
her.

“The girl that took my place, you know. I've been
asking Dr. Sargent, and he doesn't think I'll ever be
able to go back any more.”

She was so calm that for very shame I tried to be
calm also, but the tears would come, and I went out
into the next room without speaking. Soon Dr. Sargent
joined me.

“It is very sad,” he said. “I have seldom been so
much interested in a case. Such a bright, patient little
thing as she is, and so wonderfully womanly. She
asked me herself, to-night, if there was any hope, and
I had to tell her. You see how she bears it.”

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

After he had gone I went back to little Susy. I had
brought her a bunch of violets, which I saw in a shopwindow
as I came along, and her very pleasure in
them made my heart ache. How she loved all beautiful
things. How much she was capable of enjoying, and
how little she had had to enjoy in this world, poor
child. And now she was going.

I think she guessed my thought, for she touched my
hand with a timid, caressing motion, and said, very
softly, —

“There will be brighter flowers there, Miss Macgregor.
`It hath not entered into the heart of man to
conceive,' you know. It is well for me; only it will be
so hard for mother and Jane. But their Father will
take care of them. You know what it says about the
widow and the fatherless.”

How unconsciously she reproved my lack of faith.
I bent over her, and pressed my lips to the little cheek
where the hectic burned. How many times I had
doubted God, and what faith she had. She seemed to
infuse into my soul new strength. As I went through
the other room to go home I found Mrs. Mory crying
very softly, so as not to disturb her sick child, in a
quiet, dreary way, inexpressibly pitiful. Poor “Body”
was kneeling with her face buried in her mother's lap,
fairly shaken by the violence of her suppressed sobbing.
I only said, as I went by, —

“Don't grieve her by weeping. She has been
telling me that God will take care of you.”

When I reached home I sat down and tried to think

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

what I had known before about Dr. Sargent. It carried
me back to Horace Weir. John Sargent was his
friend, I remembered, — a classmate, and the fidus
Achates of his early manhood. Did they occupy such
a relation still, I wondered. Would I be mentioned
between them? But no, Dr. Sargent knew of me
only as Miss Macgregor, the fashionable dress-maker
for whom little “Brains” had worked. He would never
associate me with Helen Bryce, even if Weir had once
made that name familiar to him. What was there
to arouse such tumult of hope and memory in my
heart? I remembered little Susy, and the world where
she was going, and tried to grow calm.

For a fortnight after that she failed fast. Of course I
went to see her every day, and it carried me strangely
near to the eternal world whither her footsteps tended.
You cannot think what a change it seemed to come
back to the thoroughly earthly atmosphere of my
fashionable establishment, — to see the bright-hued
silks, and laces white and dainty as hoar-frost, — to
hear the perpetual talk about what was stylish and
what was becoming, and be complimented about my
invention, my charming taste. It was like turning
back to earth from the gate of Heaven.

At length there came a day — it was toward the
last of April — when I went earlier than usual to see
little “Brains.” She had been so weak the day before
that I felt anxious. I carried her the first May flowers
I had seen. The little creature had a sort of passionate
fondness for flowers not unusual in such an

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

organization. She loved and cherished them as if they were
of her own kindred.

When I went in I saw Dr. Sargent was in the room,
and with him, his back toward the door, another gentleman.
The doctor heard my footsteps, and came out.

“A friend of mine is there,” he said; “Dr. Weir,
from New York. He came on to visit me, and I
brought him to see the child. There is no hope, of
course; but he might think of something to relieve her
that I did not.”

I felt my face turning crimson under his searching
glance. But neither he nor I made any comment. As
soon as I felt sufficiently mistress of myself I went
into the room. Calmness stole like balm over my
spirit as I crossed its threshold. I felt as if I were in
the presence of waiting angels. I met Horace Weir's
eyes, but I scarcely knew it as I went up to Susy, and
saw the strange, seraphic light which made her little
wan face seem as the face of an angel. I gave her the
flowers, and she took them and my hand together into
her clinging hold.

“Dear, kind Miss Macgregor,” she said, fondly; “you
won't have to bring me any more flowers. I am going
where they blow all the time. What should I have
done without you? How thankful I am that I went to
your shop.”

“But if you hadn't come there, perhaps you would
have lived,” I said, as well as I could for the sobs which
were choking me. She thought a moment, then she
shook her head.

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

“No, I should not have outlived God's time; and
you have made me so much happier. If I can pray for
any thing after I die, I shall ask Him, when I get to
His feet, to bless you for evermore. Can you stay with
me a little while?”

I took off my shawl and bonnet, and sat down at her
bedside. Dr. Sargent came up to bid her good-night.

“I must go now,” he said; “but I will come very
early in the morning. Will you stay a while, Weir, in
case any thing should be wanted?”

“Certainly,” answered a voice, every tone of which I
knew well.

Little “Brains” looked up with such a bright smile, —

“How kind every one is,” she said. “How kind
you've always been, Dr. Sargent. Good-by.”

Moved by some sudden impulse of tenderness, Dr.
Sargent bent over and kissed the little wistful face of
the child he had tended so long and patiently. Next
time he sees her it will be after he too has gone over
the river. He will not be sorry then that he “did
it unto one of the least of these,” Christ's little ones.

Weir sat down in the outer room. I stayed by Susy.
Her mother came in and out restlessly, with white face,
and eyes full of anguish and longing. “Body” had cried
herself into a state of exhaustion, and she sat on the
floor, her head in a chair, sleeping heavily. Shall I
ever forget the glimpse I had that night into the heart
of that dying child? Holding that little hand, looking
into those eyes so full of meaning, and so soon to close
for ever, I drew nearer than I ever had before to the

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

mysteries of death and of life. It was midnight, I
think, when a sudden light illumined all her face, and,
as if in answer to a call we did not hear, she said, —

“I am ready.”

Her mother clung to her in a passion of tears and
prayers. Her sister, wide awake now, was sobbing at
her side. She kissed them both fondly.

“God loves you,” she said.

Then she looked at me with wistful eyes. I bent
down and kissed her, my tears falling fast on her white
face.

“God loves you, too,” she said; and then a moment
after, she spoke again, as if that voice we could not
hear were once more calling, —

“All ready.”

Then she turned her face, with that last smile on it,
to the wall, and went home.

An hour afterward she lay, as we had robed her, in
white garments, with shut eyes, and a look so calm and
sweet upon her face you would have thought her sleeping.
I had to go then. I knew my mother was
waiting for me anxiously.

“May God comfort you,” I said, going up to Mrs.
Mory to bid her good-night. She did not turn her
eyes away from the dead face on the pillows.

“Yes,” she answered dreamily, “she said God loved
us.”

As I went down the stairs Weir followed me. When
we were in the street he drew my hand through his
arm, and spoke to me for the first time.

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

“Helen, that dead child has given us to each other.
But for her should I ever have found you? Sargent
knew how vain all my inquiries for you, since I came
back, had been. He had seen a photograph of you
which I carried — perhaps you have forgotten it —
across the sea with me. He felt pretty sure that he
recognized you from it the first time he saw you; and
he knew, besides, that Macgregor was your middle
name. So last week he wrote to me, and I came on to
find you out.”

We buried poor little “Brains,” two days after that,
in the cemetery at Forest Hills, under the shadow of a
great rock. You will see her tombstone if you go
there, — a little white cross, on which there is no word
save “Susy.”

We left her there on the last day of April, under a
sunshine bright as June. We put white flowers round
the little white face, and into the hands that would
never be tired any more. And on the sod piled above
her grave we left sweet blossoms to lie there and give
forth their sweetness, and then die as she had died.

It was not long after that before I gave up my
business to a successor and married Dr. Weir. We
have enjoyed since then a happiness that sometimes
seems to me too blessed to last. But we try to sanctify
it by making ourselves ministers of God's bounty to
His children. What we do for Mrs. Mory and Jane is
no charity, for we consider them a bequest from little
“Brains,” at whose bedside we found each other
anew.

p654-170 TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE.

“We all are changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.”

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

I SAT alone in the room whence my mother, my sole
remaining earthly friend, had been that day borne
forth to her burial. It was a large, comfortable apartment,
up two flights of stairs, in a New York boarding-house.
The bed was shut up in a wardrobe; a few
engravings which we had brought there with us hung
upon the wall; a canary in the window sang all day to a
red rose and a white rose blooming below him; in the
centre of the room was a table flanked by two easy-chairs,
in one of which I was listlessly swaying to and
fro, — in the other she had been wont to sit; but alas,
she could never sit there again, save in the fancy, by
means of which I seemed to see her slight, wasted
figure, her pure, patient face, in the accustomed seat.

A bright fire burned in the grate, and, lit up by its
glow, the room looked quite like a parlor. I had congratulated
myself on this six months before when I
engaged it, and rejoiced that it would not seem to my
mother entirely devoid of the comforts to which she
had been accustomed in her old home. She was gone

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

now, and I sat there alone, a homeless, friendless, I had
almost said hopeless orphan, not quite eighteen.

Outside it was a wild October night. The rain fell
heavily, and upon the long, lamenting blast seemed
borne the wail of lonesome spirits, seeking rest and
finding none. I shuddered as I heard the rain-drops
plash upon the pavement, for only the cold sod was
between her and the pitiless storm. Does not every
one who has lost dear friends feel it harder to leave
them under a relentless sky, a sobbing blast, a driving
rain, than if moon-beam and star-beam shone on the
new-made grave like the visible promise of a Father's
love?

It would have been a luxury to abandon myself to
my sorrow; to walk, in thought, through the beloved
and memory-haunted past, and gather up every word
that had fallen, like scattered pearls unheeded at the
time, from the dear lips which Death had frozen into
eternal silence. But even in that hour which should
have been consecrated to love and sorrow, the Future
confronted me. Stern and unsparing she looked into
my eyes and bade me talk with her. “Wait a little,
only a little,” I cried out, trembling before her; but
the storm was not more pitiless than she.

In March, after a long illness, my father had died.
He left us poor. He had been a literary man, diligent,
studious, and illy paid. Perhaps the delicacy of his
fancies, the subtlety of his thoughts, failed to appeal to
the comprehension of those on whom he depended for
his fortune. We, at least, — his wife and his daughter,

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

— believed his writings above the times and the market;
but we may have been too partial judges. At all events,
the pecuniary rewards of his efforts were never abundant,
and we were in no danger of being led into temptation
by superfluity of riches.

He had the refined and exacting tastes peculiar to
such sensitive organizations, and we lived, though entirely
aloof from society and the world, much more
expensively than the bare law of necessity demanded.
His last hours were saddened by the knowledge that he
was leaving us lonely and destitute; but he did not feel
this so keenly as it would have been his nature to feel
it, because God, who tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb, mercifully sent upon him that sort of lethargy,
that prostration of the reasoning faculties, which so
often follows their too constant and severe exercise.
Sometimes a terrible dread of the future for us two
helpless women would rack his heart, but, as a whole,
he possessed the most thorough and childlike faith in
the Almighty and Eternal Father which I have ever
seen. His very last words, as he held our hands in his,
and sought our faces with his loving, longing eyes,
were, —

“The widow's God, — a Father to the fatherless, —
the Bible says so. Trust, my darlings, trust.”

And he lapsed into death peacefully, as one might
drowse away into sleep, with a smile upon his lips born
of that serene trust in God. It was there still when
we buried him, — we shall know him by it in the resurrection.

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

It is not needful that I should say how we two —
wife and daughter — had worshipped him; how we had
reverenced his genius, found rest in his strong heart,
and loved back his love. When we had left him in the
village church-yard and returned to our desolate home,
we felt that for us the sun of life had set for ever.
Stars might indeed arise and make our night holy; but
no matter how bright the stars shine, when the sun is
gone neither bird nor blossom has ever forgot that it
was night still, or been deluded into song or bloom.

Perhaps it was well that the stern necessities of life
were upon us. The inevitable fact that we must do
something gave tone and stimulus to our lives. By the
expenses of my father's illness and burial, and the
mourning habiliments which we had purchased, our
little hoard in the bank was more than half exhausted.
There remained to us now not quite three hundred dollars,
besides the small sum likely to accrue from the sale
of our simple household furniture. The lease of the
cottage which we occupied would expire on the first of
April, and in the two weeks intervening we must settle
upon some plan for the future.

It seemed to me that my mother could never endure
to remain in Woodstock. To keep house where we
had been living was simply impossible. We had no
means of paying the rent; besides, we could no longer
afford a servant, and neither of us had ever been used
to household labor. As for boarding there, I could see
no way of obtaining any employment for our support;
and even if I could, I thought it would kill my mother

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

to live on where he had died, — where they had passed
so many happy years. In this extremity my thoughts
turned to New York. We had occasionally passed a
winter there with my father, and I knew more about it
than about any other city. It seemed probable that
there would be something in that vast industrial hive
which my hands could do; besides, — and this reason
had great weight with me, — I should there be able to
procure for my mother the best of medical advice. I had
already begun to see in her the same symptoms which
heralded my father's decay; and a terrible fear haunted
me, which I strove in vain to banish, that she had not
watched over him so long and so lovingly without
inhaling from his lips the breath of the Destroyer.

So I went to New York. I engaged there the room
I have described, and returned to Woodstock to superintend
the dissolution of our household, and the sale of
our possessions. I retained the engravings which my
father had collected from time to time, and his small
but well-chosen library. For things like these there
was no sale at Woodstock; besides, they were endeared
to us by too many memories to be parted with willingly.

In two weeks we were domesticated in our new place
of abode. At first the entire change, the removal from
all early associations, seemed to do my mother good. I
made strenuous efforts to find an occupation that I
could pursue at home. I did not think of teaching, for
I feared I had neither the patience nor the tact to be
successful in that employment; besides, I possessed no

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

accomplishments, technically so called. My education
had been chiefly imparted by my father, and was not
only desultory, but of a very unusual kind for a girl.
I knew some Greek and a good deal of Latin, was
thoroughly familiar with English literature, and a more
than tolerable mathematician; but these are not what
most parents wish to have chiefly taught to their daughters,
and they stood me in poor stead of showier
knowledge.

I succeeded, after a time, in procuring some embroidery
to do. I worked upon it early and late, and
managed to earn about half enough to pay our expenses.
I soon, however, discontinued this attempt. As the
warm weather came on, my mother began to fail rapidly,
and the physician whom I called to attend her
took me aside and told me there was no hope. He said
her constitution was thoroughly broken, — that consumption
had already seized upon her, and in an organization
like hers its progress could not be slow. She
could not live longer than till the falling of the leaves,
perhaps not so long. In the mean time all that could
be done was to keep her as quiet and as happy as
possible.

When I went again into our room she saw the trouble
upon my face, — she, who from childhood had been able
to read my every thought. A person older and more
discreet than I might have evaded her inquiries, — I
could not. I had never kept even a momentary secret
from her. I threw myself on my knees beside her and
sobbed out all that the doctor had said. Her lips

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

moved. I knew she was murmuring an inaudible
prayer. Then she bent over me and folded me in
her arms.

“Oh, darling, darling, how can I be sorry that I am
going to him? And yet, if it were God's pleasure, I
would gladly stay with you, my poor, helpless girl. Do
not weep at our Father's will, Gertrude. It becomes
His children to submit to it, — no, not to submit, — to
receive it thankfully; for we know that beyond all our
asking or thinking He is good.”

From that day I gave up all employment for the one
duty of waiting on my mother. I nursed her; I read
to her; I talked to her; I guarded her from every pang
which love could ward off. I knew we had money
enough to last us while she would be spared to me;
farther than that I did not think or question.

That summer, with all its pain and sorrow, was a
blessed one. I went down with her into the night, but
looking up out of its darkness I caught glimpses of the
eternal morning, fairer than any morning of earth which
was to break for her there. From afar its glory shone
even on me. I almost saw the waving of the heavenly
trees, the gleam of the heavenly waters, — almost heard
the eternal new song which the hundred and forty and
four thousand are singing for ever before the throne of
God.

Late in October she left me. Was it death, or was
it translation?

During the three days in which her dead body lay in
the room which her living presence had consecrated I

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

sat beside it in a sort of trance. I shed not a tear.
I think I scarcely experienced a pang of anguish. All
selfish sorrow was subdued by a strange feeling of
nearness to the infinite world, — a profound sense
of the glory and majesty of that change which we call
Death.

But this state of exaltation passed entirely away
from me, leaving me hopeless and almost helpless,
like a child alone in a boundless desert, when I had left
her in a grave at Greenwood and come back to the
room where I could no longer see the glory of the
strong angel's presence, but only remember the darkness
of the shadow of his wing.

Now I would fain have sat down and indulged in
the luxury of grief. But, as I said, the Future was
stern and inexorable. She rose up and would have
speech with me. Long enough, she said, had I forgotten
the cares of this world. How much had I left now in
that purse which had never been the purse of Fortunatus, —
how much between me and starvation?
This last word goaded me into listening. I took out
my purse and counted its contents. When the expenses
attending my mother's funeral had been paid I
should have but twelve dollars in the world, and, at
the end of the week, half that would be due to my
landlady. What should I do? I was slow at my
needle, and, save in fancy work, little accustomed to use
it. I had already tried the experiment of embroidery,
and I knew I could not depend on it. I might teach
young children, but then I had no means of obtaining

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

such a situation, and my necessities were immediate.
I took up an evening paper, and ran over the column
of wants. I could see only one opening at all adapted
to my needs. A well-known fancy goods dealer advertised
for a saleswoman, — the salary, at first, to be five
dollars a week.

Of course this occupation would be most unsuited to
my previous habits of life, and uncongenial to my
taste, but I could not afford to be too particular. Any
thing was better than the horrors of destitution. On
the sum thus offered I could live. I had clothes
enough to last me for some time. At my father's death
both my mother and myself had been supplied with
mourning garments, not only plentiful, but even rich
and handsome, — we deemed this but a suitable respect
to his memory. In this regard, therefore, I was provided
for. The situation as saleswoman seemed, if I
could obtain it, to promise well. I believe I scarcely
thought of the improbability that I should succeed in
my application, with no experience and no references.
I satisfied myself with the resolve to make the attempt
on the coming morning, and then I shut out of my
thoughts all future worldly troubles, and abandoned
myself to the present reality of my loss.

Oh, with what homesick longing my heart cried out
for the mother whom I had so loved. God grant
that few who read these pages may be able to realize
the intensity of my despair. I was alone in all the
world. Not one human being lived to whom my life
was precious, or to whom my death could bring sorrow.

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

I forgot the glory of the heavenly morning, the angels,
and the new song. I only remembered that over my
last friend blew the unquiet winds and fell the lonesome
rain of this wild October night, and neither God
nor man said any “Peace, be still!” to the tempest
of my grief.

Brave and bright, after that night of storm, rose
the October sun. It shone as gladly as if there had
been no trouble in all the world. It will shine so on
your grave and mine; for Nature has for her lost
children no Rachel-voice of lamentation. The brave,
joyful morning seemed a mockery to my grief. I
dressed myself carefully in my deep mourning garments,
and strove to look as well as I could, for the
impression I should make was all I had to depend upon.
The aspect which confronted me, as I tied on my bonnet
before the mirror, was neither plain nor actually
handsome. Dark and abundant hair was brushed
away from a pale face, youthful in outline, but worn
not a little with grief and watching. The eyes were
like my father's, large and dark, brown rather than
black, — the features were regular, and the mouth, my
mother used to say, both proud and loving. My figure
was tall; slender, without being thin. I had not much
vanity, but a year ago I had cherished dearly whatever
charms I might chance to possess for my father's sake,
who, like all persons of a poetical organization, placed
a high value on loveliness of person. I remembered
this as I stood there, and thought, with an added sense

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

of desolation, that no one cared for my looks now, — I
had no one left for whose sake I need strive to be
pretty.

And yet, despite my burden of sorrow, as I walked
rapidly through the streets which led to Broadway, a
hope or a wish stirred in my heart which was perhaps
akin to desperation, — a longing to live in this world,
only to live; no matter what troubles were in store for
me: to live till I should be old, — to see my game of
life played out, — to meet all that had been written for
me in the book of Fate. It seemed to me then that
I could accept joy or pain with equal fortitude, as only
the accidents incident to being, laying them up as
memories at which, in the long Hereafter, I could look
back and smile. I consoled myself as did Æneas his
old Trojans, —

“— forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.”

By the time I had reached my destination, however,
a little of my courage had deserted me. I went into
the store and asked for Mr. Emerson. I was shown at
once into a small counting-room, and a gentleman rose
to meet me with an air of polite attention. With a
rapid glance I searched his face. His expression was
kind, and his countenance by no means destitute of
refinement. In his eyes a look of habitual friendliness
and real warmth of heart disputed the territory with
the sagacions twinkle of the shrewd man of business.
Now that I had reached the Rubicon, I felt a strange
hesitation about crossing it.

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

“Mr. Emerson, I believe?” I said, half falteringly.

“The same, Miss —?”

“Hamilton,” I replied, answering his intonation of
inquiry. “I have called, sir, in reference to your
advertisement for a saleswoman.”

“For whom did you wish the situation?”

“For myself.”

A thousand exclamation points and notes of interrogation
twinkled in his eyes. I suppose neither my
attire nor my manner had prepared him for such a disclosure.
He looked at me a moment; then he said,
still very politely, —

“For yourself? Have you ever served in such a
capacity?”

“Never, sir.”

“Have you any references?”

“No, sir, none.”

I seemed to see a dismissal hovering upon his lips
and waiting for utterance. My last hope for food and
shelter was slipping away from me. I grew desperate.
Before he had time to speak I interrupted him. In
quiet, restrained tones, in few and simple words, I told
him all my story. I did not dwell upon my grief; perhaps
for that very reason he understood and sympathized
with it the more. God bless his noble heart.
He did not doubt for a moment the truth of my narration.
When I remember him and all his kindness, I
rejoice that human nature, even when seared by the
cares and disappointments of the world and of business,
is not so bad as it has been painted. When I had

[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]

finished my story, I saw that his eyes were misty. He
reached forward and shook my hand.

“Young lady,” he said, “I have a daughter at home
just about your age. Heaven save her from sorrow
like yours, and Heaven send her a friend if such sorrow
should come upon her. This situation is not good
enough for you, — you should have one very different,—
but, if you choose to take it until something better
offers, you can come on Monday.”

I tried to express my thanks, — to tell him that
I hoped to prove worthy of his trust and kindness;
but he interrupted me, —

“Good-morning now; you are weary and excited.
If you will give me your address I will send my wife to
see you to-morrow.”

He glanced at the card which I handed to him, and
as I was going out he said, —

“Would you not wish, Miss Hamilton, to change
your boarding-place for one nearer the store?”

“I should, and it would be necessary for me to seek
one less expensive.”

“Very well. Mrs. Emerson shall manage that.
Good-morning.”

I went home with my heart lightened of one heavy
care; but perhaps my sense of desolation was all the
more bitter when there was no other emotion to contend
with it in my thoughts. I will not linger upon
my own feelings. I have dwelt on them too much
already.

The next day Mrs. Emerson called. She was a kind,

[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]

friendly woman, — a worthy helpmeet for her husband.
She took me with her to see about a new boarding-place.
In a by-street, not very far from Mr. Emerson's
store, a widow, poor but worthy, occupied part of a
respectable house, and supported herself by plain
sewing. She would be glad, Mrs. Emerson said, to eke
out her scanty income by receiving a pleasant boarder.
We went to see this Mrs. Gray, and I was much pleased
with her quiet, civil manners and the neatness of her
humble home. It seemed to me, in prospect, like a
haven of rest. Before I left I had engaged to reside
with her for the winter. That week I effected the
removal of all my possessions. There was space in
Mrs. Gray's sitting-room for the bookcase containing
my father's library, and she seemed to take real pleasure
in helping me to ornament the walls with the engravings
I had brought. When we sat down to our
toast and tea the apartment already wore quite a look
of home.

I said I would dwell no more on my own feelings. I
must also pass lightly over the outward trials of that
period of my life. And yet, for the next two weeks,
they were by no means trifling. Besides the one great
loss, which deadened the force of all after-blows, I had
to give up so much. I was living far more humbly than
I had ever lived before. Every superfluous luxury, of
which habit had made almost a necessity, was abandoned.
Mrs. Gray, good, kind woman though she was,
had no interest in my favorite pursuits, no sympathy
with my tastes. Often had she been absent I should

[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]

have felt less alone. Added to this were the trials
incident to learning a new business. My occupation
was even more painful and disagreeable than I had
supposed. My life had been hitherto very quiet and
retired. Though not diffident, I had an instinctive
shrinking from contact with strangers. However, I
struggled with my distaste for putting myself forward.
I conscientiously strove to sell all the goods I could;
and I had the satisfaction of knowing that, even in a
business point of view, Mr. Emerson was satisfied with
the result of his experiment.

One day, when I had been there a few weeks, a
gentleman came into the store, and advanced to the
counter where I was standing. I scarcely know why
he should have attracted as he did my particular attention.
It certainly was not because of any especial
graces or charms of person. He had a lofty presence,
a fine, commanding form; but it was not until long
afterward that I learned to see any beauty in the stern
lineaments of his face. The time came when I recognized
the nobility of his expression, the power and
firmness indicated by his features, and discovered into
what gentle tenderness those calm eyes and stern lips
could soften. But I saw none of these things then.

I think what interested me was a certain desperate
and hopeless sorrow, of which I detected the traces
in his face. Those who themselves have suffered are
quicker to perceive and respond to the sufferings of
others. He made some trifling purchase, and went
out; but, for the first time since I had entered the

[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]

shop, I was roused from my selfish sorrow into a
genuine interest and curiosity about another person. I
speculated a long time that night, sitting silently before
Mrs. Gray's fire with a book between my fingers, as to
what trouble could so have left its mark and seal of hopelessness
upon his countenance; and he a man, allowed
by the world's creed to go where he pleased, to choose
for himself friends and amusements. I was a woman,—
desolate, bereaved of every friend whose love had
made my life rich and desirable; yet surely my face
had never worn, in the darkest hours, the impress of
such absolute despair.

It was not many days before I saw him again, and
after that he came quite frequently to the store. He
always seemed to prefer making his purchases at my
counter; and my interest in him strengthened with
every time I saw him. He treated me with as delicate
a courtesy as he could have shown to an equal in
society; and this formed such a pleasant contrast to
the haughty arrogance of some of my customers, and
the rude familiarity of others, that I began to mark the
days on which he came with a white stone.

At length a week passed without my seeing him. I
should have blushed to acknowledge, even to myself,
how much difference this made to me, — how often I
thought of him, and how many conjectures I wasted as
to whether I would ever see him again. Do not infer
from this that I was at all what story-books call “in
love” with him. I can safely assert that my heart
had not, at that time, approached even the verge of

[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]

that dangerous precipice. But it was pleasant to encounter
now and then, amidst the stagnation of my
life, some one whose face roused me from my apathy,
stimulating not only my curiosity but my sympathy;
the courtesy of whose manners recalled to me the
agreeable associations of earlier days.

At length I went home one evening and found a
gentleman in Mrs. Gray's little sitting-room. The circumstance,
so unusual in itself, surprised me; how
much more when I perceived that her visitor was none
other than the absentee concerning whom I had wasted
so many thoughts.

In accordance with her primitive ideas of courtesy,
Mrs. Gray introduced us by name to each other; and
then she added, —

“Mr. Lincoln has come, Gertrude dear, to get me
to do some plain sewing for him; though how in the
world he happened to hear that I did such work I'm
sure I don't see.”

Mr. Lincoln took no notice of the question so gently
insinuated. He addressed a few courteous and agreeable
remarks to me, in which he did not allude to the
circumstance of his ever having seen me before, and
then he took his departure. When he had reached the
door, as if struck by a sudden recollection, he turned
back, —

“By the way, Mrs. Gray, I forgot to bring you my
pattern. I will leave it with you to-morrow evening.”

After he went out my landlady became voluble at
once. It was such a piece of good luck that he should

[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]

have heard of her. He would pay her so much more
than she could get at the shops. He was so polite, too,
and so nice-looking.

She was turning over the linen as she talked with
busy fingers, making calculations which I was too much
absorbed to notice. I had taken, involuntarily, so much
interest in this Andrew Lincoln, without even knowing
his name, and now Fate had so strangely brought us
together again. Should I ever be better acquainted
with him, — ever be able to solve the mystery written
on his face? Time would tell.

He presently, after this, became quite a familiar visitor.
At first it had not struck me as at all singular
that he had heard of Mrs. Gray as a neat and reliable
seamstress; but when a second dozen of shirts succeeded
the first, and these in turn were followed by
other garments of various descriptions, whose construction
seemed to require his particular explanations and
directions, I began to think, with Mrs. Gray, that “he
must be going a missionarying to some heathenish
place where nobody knew how to sew,” or, — the
thought would haunt me, so I may as well confess it
here, — that he found pleasure in coming to my boarding-place,
and was determined to make a pretext for
continuing his visits as long as possible.

After a while, however, he seemed to ignore any
necessity for excuses, and, by the time Mrs. Gray had
finished his sewing, he had fallen into the habit of
coming to see us quite regularly. He was lonely, he
said, at his hotel, and it was so pleasant to come where

[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]

he could feel at home; only, if he was intrusive or in
the way, we must give him a hint.

In an early stage of our acquaintance he had drawn
from me, in the most delicate manner, the history of my
past life. I hardly know how I was beguiled out of
my reserve, — chiefly, perhaps, by his appreciation of
my favorite books, and his warmly expressed admiration
of the engravings which had been my father's
pride. I was in some sort obliged to explain how
treasures so at variance with my present mode of life
came into my possession.

We had not been long acquainted, when, finding that
I, as well as Mrs. Gray, was always at my needle when
at home, he proposed to occupy the evenings he spent
with us in reading aloud. I soon suspected him of a
design in this manner to test my mental resources and
study my character. He had a marvellous way of
drawing out my opinions on various topics connected
with art and literature, and then he would bring forward
his own, — worth more than mine by as much as
thorough knowledge and mental discipline are more
valuable than mere taste and feeling.

As our acquaintance progressed, I had gradually
almost ceased to speculate concerning the sorrow
whose profound and passionate impress had awakened
my first interest in him. Indeed, I think that the sign
and seal of despair had been uplifted from his face.
Looking back, I believe that the hours he spent with
me did him good and not evil, — that he was a happier
and surely not a worse man for my influence.

[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]

Was it strange that my life once more put on the
colors of hope, — that flavor and tone and richness
came back to it? I no longer repined at the disagreeableness
of my daily task. Without my own knowledge
or volition my feet had wandered to the very border of
Love's ideal realm, and already every thing had begun
to look brighter than its wont, through the soft haze
of that enchanted atmosphere. The spell which was
woven round my life was more perfect than the devices
of the old magicians. I had no room for discontent, —
no longing for the talking bird, the singing tree, or the
golden water; or, perhaps, I had found them all. I do
not mean that I had admitted, as yet, even to my own
consciousness, that my heart had gone out from me, as
Noah's dove from the window of the ark, and, like
that, would return no more. For the nonce, judgment
and reason slumbered. Soon, however, came the moment
which roused them again from their repose.

A neighbor's child was sick, and Mrs. Gray went to
take care of it through the night. I was to remain at
home and alone. She had regretted this as she went
out.

“If Mr. Lincoln would only come,” she remarked;
“but it is not his evening.”

My heart echoed her wish. “If Mr. Lincoln only
would come,” I thought, as I trimmed my lamp, and
drew my chair up to the little round table with an intention
of reading. Books were before me which had
charmed many an hour in other days; but somehow I
did not care to read. I sat for half an hour looking

[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]

listlessly into the fire; seeing there castles with shining
turrets, flame-colored autumn woods, burning bushes
bright as the vision of Moses. Remember I was but a
girl, — barely eighteen.

At length I heard a familiar tap upon the door, and
sprang to open it. Mr. Lincoln had come.

“Alone?” he said, as he entered and glanced around
the room.

I explained the cause of Mrs. Gray's absence. A
look not so much of gladness as of relief crossed his
face. He sat down with an air of resolve and deliberation.

“It is fortunate that I came. I have been wanting
to see you alone for a long time, and I intended to-night
to have arranged such a meeting, but Fate or
Providence seems to have managed it for me. I must
tell you the whole truth, Gertrude, — a truth neither
pleasant to tell nor to hear. You must know just how
I am situated, and then you shall decide whether I can
see you any more.”

As he spoke the room seemed to grow very cold and
dark. Struggling with the gloom, my eyes could only
see his face, and on it sat more than the old despair. I
felt a shuddering presentiment. The trouble which
was coming nigh me seemed already to chill me with
its icy touch. I folded my hands and nerved myself to
listen.

I cannot repeat the story which he told me in his
own words. It was briefly this: —

He had married, when quite young, a woman whom

[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]

he thought he truly loved; by whom he believed himself
beloved in return. She was beautiful; a brunette,
full of fire and pride; wayward, exacting, and capricious.
For a time her beauty had enslaved him, her
petulant humors held him in thrall. After a while,
however, her exactions became wearisome. He was
tired of playing the lover, — coaxing and submitting by
turns. He felt it was time that the quiet happiness of
a peaceful union should succeed to the fantasies of a
year-long honey-moon. At this she rebelled. He
found that her temper, as well as her beauty, was of
the torrid zone. A calm existence did not suit her.
She cared little for the pleasures of the intellect, little
for the quiet peace of domestic life, — she would have
worship or war. He made this discovery just before
the birth of his first child, — his little boy. This event
had reawakened all his tenderness for the mother as
well as the infant.

Katherine was very beautiful in her illness, and
toward her child she seemed to develop a patient love
which was a new phase of her character. No sooner
had she regained her usual health, however, than the
customary miserable scenes of violence and contention
commenced again. It might have been his fault even
more than hers. He had been carried captive by her
beauty, and had striven eagerly to obtain her hand,
never pausing to consider whether her nature was
really fitted to make him happy, and when she was his
wife he had, like so many men, expected to find in
her traits of character which she never had possessed.

[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]

In short, they had both mistaken for love a thoughtless
youthful passion, which had presently consumed
itself.

For three years after his boy's birth things had gone
on thus, — there had been tempests of wrath fierce as
a tropic storm, long-continued estrangements, and now
and then an interlude of reconciliation, a gust of fondness.
By this time his little girl was born, and after
that there were no more glimpses, ever so brief, of
sunshine.

For his children's sake he strove, for still another
year, to remain under the same roof with her, but
a time came when this was no longer possible. Mutual
recriminations had again and again goaded them almost
to madness, until both became convinced that the only
relief must be in separation. They parted in anger,
without one word on either side, of relenting or forgiveness.
Four years had passed since that day, but he
had not once seen the faces of wife or children.

When he had proceeded thus far in his narration he
paused, and sat for a few moments looking into the
fire. I would fain have broken the silence with at least
a sentence of sympathy, to let him know that I understood
him, — that I had not listened to him unmoved,—
but I could not speak then. The time would come,
no doubt, when I could forget my own anguish in my
sympathy for his; but I believe the first impulse of
every human soul, — at least every woman's, — in any
hour of deathly agony, is selfish. With the poisoned
arrow yet rankling in my own heart, how could I

[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]

calmly strive to soothe in his a wound which had
already begun to cicatrize?

At length he spoke again.

“I do not hate Katherine. God knows, Gertrude,
that I pity her as fervently as I do myself. Nay, more;
for she is a woman, and to a woman it is doubly terrible
to know that she must live for ever with her heart's
warmest longings repressed and stifled. But for me
she might have married some one else, whom she could
have made happy; with whom she could have been
happy herself. Now her life must be like mine, —
desolate.”

“She has her children,” I found voice to say.

“Yes, the children!” His face kindled. “They
must be a great comfort now. Andrew is eight, and
his little sister three years younger. You don't know,
Gertrude, how I have longed to see those children. I
dream about them nights. I hear their baby words,
and feel the clinging hold of their little fingers, and
then I wake to remember that perchance they do not
even know that their father lives to pray for them.
But, Gertrude, their love would not be enough to fill
up all the voids in my life. I have felt this more than
ever since I knew you, and more than ever have I
pitied Katherine in her lonely, blighted youth.

“You know now that I have no right to talk to you
of love; still, this once, I beseech you to hear all that
is in my heart. When I first saw you I had little faith
in love or woman. I should have rejected, as a simple
absurdity, the idea that either could move me; and

[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]

yet, by some unconscious magnetism, you attracted me
at once. When I went out of the store I found myself
recalling your pale, sorrowful face; your slight figure
in its deep mourning robes; the grace and delicacy of
your manners. I wondered by what strange chance you
had been placed in that position, so unsuited, as I at
once saw it was, to your tastes and your previous habits.
My curiosity, — let me call it by some better name,—
my sympathy was fully aroused. I went again and
again to the store. At length I resolved to know you
better. I followed you home one night, and then set
myself to learn all the particulars concerning your place
of abode. I found that your landlady was a seamstress,
and that made my course clear.

“All this time, Gertrude, I had no thought of loving
you. I had no right. To a man of honor his vows are
as sacred in the untold wretchedness of an uncongenial
marriage as if happiness had made it impossible to
have a wandering wish. I believed myself incapable
of breaking mine, even in thought. There was no
reasonable ground on which the law could give me
freedom. The release which is granted to crime is
denied to misery. Even were it otherwise, I should
not have sought it. I had always a horror of divorce,
and not for worlds would I have entailed its disgraceful
publicity upon my children. Freedom could come to
me but in one way, and God knows, even when I
have been tempted almost beyond my strength, I have
never been mad enough or wicked enough to wish for
that. Therefore I regarded myself as beyond all

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

danger of falling in love. Indeed, in your case the idea of
love did not cross my mind. You had interested me,
and I had so few interests in life that I determined to
follow this one out, — to ascertain the cause of your
uncongenial situation, — if possible, to aid you.

“When I had visited here for a while I found I could
not stay away. Your society had become a necessity to
me. I believed you my friend merely, but I discovered
that friendship was very sweet. At last the knowledge
forced itself home that I loved you with all the strength
of my nature. This love had stolen upon me so gradually,
and now seemed so much a part of my life, that
I could scarcely chide myself. Had this been all, Gertrude,
I think you would never have heard the history
I have told you. I would have schooled myself to
taste calmly the dangerous delight of your presence;
and when this was no longer possible, you should have
seen me no more. But in the same hour that the conviction
of my love for you was brought home to my
soul, I discovered also that I had it in my power to win
your heart. I had a strange feeling as if, in the native
country of souls, yours and mine had grown together.
I believed I had power to summon my other self to my
side. Nay, I thought that, unconsciously to yourself,
you did love me now. Forgive me, Gertrude, I know
that I am speaking to you as man does not often speak
to woman, but in this hour there is no room for disguise
or concealment. I read your heart as I had read
my own. Then I knew my duty. I must tell you
all, that you might understand how hopeless was my

[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]

future, — that you might conquer your coming agony
before it was too mighty for you. I believe some
men would have been tempted to keep silence, and
strive still to win your love; but, thank God, I was
left open to no such temptation. More than I prized
yourself I prized the stainless purity of your heart and
life; dearer to me even than my love was my unsullied
integrity, by which only could I call myself your peer.
I have told you all. Do you forgive me that I took for
granted your love for me?”

I could not speak, but I reached across the table
which stood between us and laid my hand in his. Then
for a while we were both silent. He spoke first: —

“Gertrude, I shall never talk of these things again.
I have shown you this once all that is in my heart. In
return I have a right to make but one request. I have
wealth; let me use some of it for you. I cannot bear
to see you toiling day by day for your daily bread.
While I have enough and to spare, you shall not, must
not, wear out your young life in this drudgery. If
you were my sister you would let me help you. Am I
not as near to you as a brother? Does not my love
give me as much right as brothers claim? Do not be
angry, Gertrude. I hardly know how to utter my
petition so as not to wound you. I beg only for this.
Let me make a home for you among congenial people;
let me surround you with the common comforts of
life; let me feel that you are at least above and beyond
the necessity of toil. Then I will submit to any thing
else. If you prefer, I will never see you; or, if you

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

will let me visit you sometimes, I will ask only for
your friendship, — the sympathy you would give to
suffering anywhere.”

He paused, but I read an appeal in his face fuller of
earnestness even than his words. I never for one
moment doubted his honor or his heart. I knew that
he respected me as deeply as he loved me, — that his
care for me would be tender as that of a brother for a
sister. But I was my father's daughter. I had my
own pride to satisfy also. I could not accept a pecuniary
obligation even from him. Still I did not wish to
answer him then. I had my arrangements to make, —
my future to settle. I would tell him in a week, I
said, — not now. I was too tired, — too much exhausted.
Would he leave me, and not come again for
one week, — then he should know. He must give me
time to think.

He obeyed me. He only held my hand for a moment,
and then he went.

“Good-by, and God be with you,” I said, as he
stepped out into the moonlight. He did not know
that in my heart I meant that farewell to be the last
utterance of my lips to him, until we should meet
again where victor souls learn the triumphal anthem of
the angels.

I went back into the room where I had met this last
and bitterest sorrow of my life. Soon my plan for the
future was shadowed forth in my mind. Then I had a
right to think over all that Andrew Lincoln had said.
I reverenced him unspeakably. Little as I knew of

[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]

human nature, I realized — I had read “Jane Eyre” —
the ease with which he might have deceived me. I
knew he loved me with a love as true and tender as
pen of the romancers had ever portrayed. How I
blessed him that it had been no selfish passion, — that
his love for truth and right had been mightier. And
yet, — answer me, heart of every woman who shall read
this tale, — was my trial light? Because of his very
goodness, because I could reverence his image in my
soul, and look up to it as almost without taint or flaw
of human imperfection, was it not all the harder to
know that between us swept the tide of circumstance,—
remorseless as death, pitiless as destiny?

And yet, in the midst of my desolation, it was something
to feel that he could have loved me, — that had
Fate given us to each other I might have made him
happy, — might have been his happy wife.

I sat there until the first ray of the morning stole
through the windows, I looked at the almost empty
grate. Castles with shining turrets, flame-colored tints
of autumn woods, burning bushes, all had vanished into
the cold gray ashes, signifying desolation. Was it a type
of what that night had done for my heart and life?

I walked toward the store that morning with a
heavy heart. Once more I must fold my tent and go
on alone into the desert. For a little time I had lingered
beside an oasis of peace. I had tasted pleasure.
It had proved a cheat, a mirage, it is true. No matter,
it had gladdened my eyes while it lasted. Now I must

[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]

give up all, — the home I had made for myself, the
friends who had been kind to me, the work by which I
had earned my bread. I must go, — where? In that
moment, clear as if my guardian angel had stooped to
whisper them in my ear, came to me my father's last
words: —

“The widow's God, — a Father to the fatherless, —
trust, my darlings, trust.”

Had the invisible, strong arm ever failed me? Need
I doubt it now? I walked on with renewed courage.

When I reached the store I sought an interview
with Mr. Emerson. I told him that I had imperative
need of change; that there were reasons why I was
unwilling to remain any longer in New York; and I inquired
if he could help me with advice or suggestions.

He told me, in reply, that he had felt from the first I
ought not to be in my present situation. He knew the
constant contact with strangers was repugnant to my
taste; that I was capable of doing something better.
Still he had honored me for submitting so cheerfully to
necessity; for doing so well what I had undertaken
to do. Ever since I had been there he had been on the
lookout for some different employment, by which I
could maintain myself more agreeably, but as yet he
had found nothing very desirable. Yet, if I was so
anxious for an immediate change, there was something,—
an advertisement he had seen in the evening paper,—
a governess wanted for two small children, in Eastern
Virginia. It did not seem to promise much, yet I
might like it better than the store.

[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]

I thanked him eagerly. I do not often weep, but the
tears choked my voice. It was not gratitude, though
his kindness touched me deeply; but I was leaving so
much, — so much that he could never know.

That morning a letter was dispatched to the address
indicated in the advertisement, giving, as I afterward
discovered, as much of my history as Mr. Emerson
himself knew: praising me far beyond my deserts, and
stating that, if my services were accepted, I would be
ready to commence my duties immediately.

Five days of my week of trial had already passed
before an answer was received to that letter. In the
mean time I had trembled lest I might not, after all,
be able to get away, — lest I might be obliged to see
Mr. Lincoln again, though I was convinced such an
interview could only be productive of additional pain.
At length my suspense was ended. Mr. Emerson's
recommendation was accepted, and he was requested to
inform the young lady that a carriage would await her
at the — station on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh
of April. The letter had been delayed one
day in its transit, and I should just be able, by starting
the next morning, to reach my destination at the appointed
time.

That night, with Mrs. Gray's assistance, I made all
my preparations. I did not confide my plans for the
future even to her. I told her enough of the circumstances
in which I was placed to convince her that, for
the present, it was better she should not know. I had
previously secured from Mr. Emerson a promise of

[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]

secrecy. He was to be deaf and dumb to all inquiries,
should any be addressed to him.

It was late in the night when I sat down alone before
the sitting-room fire, and prepared to write a letter to
Andrew Lincoln, which Mrs. Gray was to give him at
his next visit. This was the hardest task of all, and
yet in writing to him for the first and last time there
was a troubled joy. I confessed to him that even as he
had loved me so had I loved him, — loving better only
God and the right. At the same time I bade him an
eternal farewell. With a love in our hearts which it
would be deadly sin not to conquer, I showed him that
it would be worse than madness for us to meet. There
was no safety but in parting for ever. I told him how
impossible it was that I should accept from him any
pecuniary assistance, and assured him that I was going
to be so circumstanced as not to need it. Then I bade
him good-by, thanking God that when he read the
words he would never know the pang they had cost
me. I suppressed the cry of anguish which would fain,
through that dumb sheet, have made itself heard. If
my tears fell, I took good care that they did not drop
upon the paper. I signed my name firmly, and directed
it on the outside to Andrew Lincoln, and then —

It was a lovely afternoon when I stepped from the
cars at my place of destination. The Virginian spring,
earlier than ours, had already clothed the earth with
verdure. I could hear birds singing in the near woods,
and the air was full of a sweet, subtile odor, betokening

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that it had lingered above beds of violets and the pale
anemone. Just after the train stopped a handsome
carriage drew up before the little dépôt, and an old
gentleman, with silver hair and a kind benevolent face,
alighted.

“Miss Hamilton, I conclude,” he said, cordially extending
his hand. “My name is Wentworth.”

His appearance impressed me very pleasantly, yet it
surprised me. I had pictured the Richard Wentworth,
whose name had been signed to the letter received by
Mr. Emerson, as a young man, the father of the children
in whose behalf my services were required. They
must be his grandchildren, orphans, perhaps, and
already I felt my heart yearning over them, — I knew
what it was to be an orphan.

“Here are your pupils,” said Mr. Wentworth, as he
handed me into the carriage. “Andrew, Bella, this is
Miss Hamilton.”

The little girl was shy. She retreated to the farthest
corner, and hid her curly head behind her grandfather's
arm. The boy, however, gave me his hand, with a
frank, boyish welcome. As he lifted his blue eyes to
my face a thrill struck to my heart. They looked to me
like Andrew Lincoln's own.

“What nonsense!” I said to myself. “Has that
name Andrew such a hold on your imagination that
you cannot hear a child called by it without indulging
yourself in fancies of an impossible likeness?”

The drive to Hazelwood was a short and pleasant
one. I was not in a mood for enjoyment, and yet I

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was conscious of an involuntary sense of admiration at
the sight of my future home. It was a gentleman's
mansion of the olden time, large, hospitable-looking,
and somewhat quaint, with its old-fashioned gables,
and the piazza surrounding it on all sides. Mr. Wentworth
alighted, handed me from the carriage, and led
me into the house with ceremonious politeness. He
threw open the drawing-room door, and begged me to
be seated while he found his daughter.

“Mamma is in the arbor, — I see her dress,” I heard
one of the children say, and the three went out of
sight.

“They are not orphans, then, after all,” I said, as I
threw myself back upon the sofa. I dared not trust myself
to think. Night was coming, loneliness and silence.
Till then I remanded my thoughts; I bade my heart be
still. I took up, with some hope of distracting my attention,
a book which was lying beside me on the sofa.

On its fly-leaf was written, “To my wife, Katherine
Lincoln,” with a date nine years before. I knew that
handwriting. The book, then, had been Andrew Lincoln's
gift to his wife during their year of honey-moon.
The leaf had been partly torn out, as if in
some moment of passion, and then spared by a tender
afterthought. There were traces of tears upon the
page. Her tears, — perhaps after all she loved him.
If she did, God help and comfort her. Thank Heaven,
my heart could breathe an honest prayer for her, even
then.

My destiny had led me here, — here of all places, —

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under the same roof with Mr. Lincoln's wife; to be the
teacher of his children. The room seemed dizzily
whirling round and round. Chairs, tables, mirrors
assumed fantastic shapes, and blended together like the
colors in a kaleidoscope. I knew the symptoms, but I
would not faint, — I was determined not to lose my
self-command. I sat bolt upright and fanned myself
vigorously. Presently the mist cleared from my brain.
I was thankful for the lady's delay, which gave me a few
moments to reason with myself.

Providence had brought me here, — I ought not to
leave, now. Indeed I had nowhere else to go. There
could be no place where I was more safe from the danger
of meeting him. This path had been opened to
me, and my feet should walk on in it without faltering.
Shall I confess that there was one gleam of troubled
joy in the prospect? I could love him and serve him
innocently, in loving and serving his children. It was
not strange that the boy — his son — had looked at
me with his father's eyes. It was not strange that I
took him into my heart from that moment. I had
made up my mind concerning the future, and fully
regained my self-command, when a servant opened the
door, and said:—

“Mrs. Lincoln is coming, ma'am. She will be with
you at once.”

She had scarcely ceased speaking when her mistress
came into the room.

I rose to meet her, — face to face I stood with Andrew
Lincoln's wife. Physically, she was the most

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choice and perfect specimen of beautiful womanhood
I had ever seen. To this day I think I have never met
her peer. The picture she made as she stood there will
never fade from my memory. The crimson curtains
fell apart at the western window, and the golden sunset
rays lit up her dark hair into warm chestnut tints.
Full, queenly figure, clad all in white, as suited the
balmy April day, — bright cheeks, and lips of the reddest
bloom, — eyes full of slumberous fire, — little
hands, glittering with gems, — she charmed me like a
figure from an Oriental romance.

Her husband had told me she was proud, but she
never could have been haughty. There was a certain
childlike impulsiveness in her manner still, — she would
carry it with her all her life.

She took my hand and looked searchingly into my
face for a moment.

“I am sure I shall like you,” — she said the words
with a warm, satisfied smile. “Let us be real friends,
Miss Hamilton.”

“We will.” I answered her quietly, but in the
silence of my soul I recorded the words as a vow.
God knows I have kept it. I was her true friend from
that hour.

Days wore on, and something which was not quite
happiness, yet bore a strange resemblance to it, stole
into my heart. I loved Andrew Lincoln's children as I
shall never love children again, and I loved Katherine
his wife. Her character must have changed much in
the solitary years since her husband left her. She was

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not exacting now, — certainly not selfish. I have never
seen a mother more tender or devoted, especially to
Andrew, whose resemblance, in both face and manner,
to his father, daily appeared to me more striking. Was
this likeness the secret of the tears I so often saw in
her eyes when she kissed him?

She had appeared to like me from the first. She
sought my society, and seemed to wish me to consider
myself not her children's governess merely, but her
friend and her equal. One day, with a gush of passionate
weeping, she told me her story. It was much the
same which I had listened to before from Andrew Lincoln's
lips, only she blamed herself more than he had
blamed her. It was all her fault, she said. She had
been a spoiled child, turbulent, and exacting, and she
had played with his love until she had lost it.

“And did you love him all the while?” I asked.

“I did not think so then, but I am sure now that my
real love for him never wavered. For a long time,
though, I thought that I actually hated him. My
fierce temper was in the ascendant. He provoked me,
and I suppose I was half mad. I told him more than
once that all I would ask in the world would be to have
him go away from me out of my sight, and never torment
me again with his presence.”

“And he only took you at your word?”

She smiled bitterly. “Only that; but he had not
been gone long before I knew that he had taken with
him all I cared for in life. I am a desolate, heart-broken
woman, Gertrude. I have my children, it is

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true; his children and mine. It is that, I believe,
which has kept me alive; but I would give every thing
on earth to feel the forgiving pressure of his lips, to
hear him say, as he used to, `Katherine, I love you.'
Oh, if you only knew him you could tell better what I
have lost, and what bitter right I have to mourn.”

If I only knew him! Alas, alas, did I not know him
too well for my own heart's peace? He was indeed all
she had pictured him, — but what was that to me? He
was hers only. He ought to be hers. She was worthy
of him, too. I commanded myself perfectly. No one
could have suspected that I was more than Katherine
Lincoln's sympathizing friend, — no one dreamed that
I had ever heard of her husband before. I asked, in
quiet tones, —

“But why, if you think the chief fault was yours,
have you not written to him to come back? Was it
not your duty to make the first advances, if yours had
been the first blame? Do you say that you love him
and are yet too proud for this, Mrs. Lincoln?”

She shook her head sadly.

“It is not pride, Gertrude. Pride with me died a
violent death, long ago, but I love my husband. What
comfort would his presence be when I knew that his
heart had shut me out? And yet I think sometimes,
that he might love me now better than he used. I have
tried so hard since he went away to grow up to his
standard, — to be all that he admired in women. It
has been the law of my life. Vain words. Men never
tread the same path twice, do they? I was hateful to

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him when he went away. He might come back, if I
sent for him, out of duty or pity, but if he loved me he
would wait no summons.”

There was truth in her words, and yet I felt that
they must, in some way, be brought together. What
capacities for blessing were in both their natures. Her
love for him, despite all, was so true and so steadfast.
He would love her if he were to see her now, — he
could not help it. I longed to do something to bring
about their reconciliation, — but how? There was
nothing for it but to fold my hands and wait. Had I
ceased to love him myself? Why torture me with this
question? I strove then to put self and selfish feelings
out of sight. I was trying to follow Christ, though it
were but afar off. Should I shrink because the way
was hard? From the time I came to Hazelwood I had
never thought of Andrew Lincoln without thinking at
the same time of Katherine, his true and loving wife.

For a whole year we lived on peacefully together, —
Katherine, her children, and I. I had learned to love
her as if she were my sister. I shared, I believe, all
her thoughts, and I knew she was each day growing
into purer and more perfect womanhood, — more and
more worthy of being a good man's honored and cherished
wife, — as she ought to be, as I trusted in God
she would be soon. She was singularly gentle and
winning now, but as sad as she was tender. We used
to talk often of her husband; but when I prophesied
that he would come back some day and make her
happy, she used to say that I did not know him, — I

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could not dream how utterly he had ceased to love her.
She should never see him on earth. Perhaps it would
be permitted her to go to his side, and ask his forgiveness
in heaven.

It was in April that little Andrew fell sick. We
sent for a physician, but before he came I was well
satisfied what we had to dread. “Scarlet fever,” he
whispered, as he bent over the bedside, thus confirming
our worst fears. When he went out of the room
my eyes met Katherine's. I understood her expression,
and answered the question it implied.

“Yes, you must write to him. There can be no
doubt about your course now. You say he loved his
children dearly. How could you answer for it to him
or to yourself if Andrew should die, and he not be here
to see him? Think if you had been away from your
child five years and could not even give him one
poor, parting kiss before he was snatched from you for
ever!”

“But Andrew may not die; oh, it will kill me if he
should.”

“And yet he may, — in any case, you have your
duty to do.” I spoke with decision and severity; I
could not allow myself to falter. They must be reunited
now if ever.

She went to a writing-desk which stood in the corner
of the room and wrote for a few moments rapidly.
Then she came and put the sheet into my hand.

“Read it, Gertrude. Have I done rightly?”

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“My Dear Husband, — Andrew, our little boy, is
very ill. The doctor calls it scarlet fever. I thought
that you would wish to see him. Your presence would
be the greatest comfort.

This was the note. Could it fail to touch that
strong, true heart of his?

I had little time for speculations, or Katherine Lincoln
for hopes. Andrew grew worse rapidly, until the
question was no longer whether he would recover, but
how many hours he could live. Neither of us left him
for a moment except occasionally, when one or the
other would steal away, to whisper a few words of
comfort to poor little Bella, who was kept in a distant
wing of the house in order to be removed from the
danger of infection. But we could not go out of the
room without those restless, preternaturally bright
eyes missing us in a moment, and then the little, weak
voice would wail, — “Mamma, Gerty, don't leave Andy,
please.” So we watched over him constantly together,
neither sleeping, eating, nor weeping.

It was the afternoon of the fourth day since Mrs.
Lincoln had dispatched her letter. A change had
passed over Andrew's face sudden and fearful. We
knew too surely what it portended. He was dying.
In a few moments his soul would go forth, and leave
the fair little body lying upon the pillows still and
tenantless. Katherine's eyes met mine, with a look of
stony, immovable wtetchedness in them that fairly
chilled me.

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“To think,” she said, “that he will not be here, —
that he can never see poor little Andrew again alive.
Gertrude, this is my work.”

I knew the step which came, at that very instant, so
hurriedly across the hall. So did she, for she clasped
her hands tightly upon her breast, as if to hold her
heart from breaking. She looked as white as a marble
statue, and as fair. I could see that, even in the
midst of my sickening anguish over the boy whom I
loved as if he were my own. I do not think Andrew
Lincoln looked at her as he crossed the threshold. I
think he saw nothing but the little wan, death-stricken
face upon the pillows. He sprang to the bedside and
knelt down with a groan of despair; he had recognized
the impress on the pallid brow.

Do dying eyes see more clearly than living ones?
Andrew was nine years old now; he had been only
four when he saw his father last, and yet his face
lighted up with a sudden, glad glow of recognition.
“Papa, papa!” — he piped the words in his clear boyish
treble, as joyously as I had ever heard him speak.
He stretched up his arms, and his father caught him to
the bosom that, for five years, had longed so vainly for
the touch of that little head. “Papa, papa!” and the
face and eyes brightened with a radiance as of dawning,—
the pale, quivering lips sought the father's lips bending
to meet them, — a shiver ran along the slender
limbs, and then the golden head dropped backward.
Andrew Lincoln's boy was dead.

Katherine saw it, and the energies so long taxed

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gave way at last. She fell at her husband's feet in a
death-like swoon. He kissed the white, still face ere he
lifted her. “Poor Katherine!” I heard him murmur.
Was there a quiver of love in his tones, or was it only
pity?

“Had we not better take her into the next room?
She ought not to be here when she comes to herself,” I
said, forgeting at the moment how strangely my voice
would fall upon his ears. I had been standing in
the shade of the bed-curtains, and he had not seen me
before.

“You, Gertrude?” The words, with their accent of
questioning surprise, came as if involuntarily from his
lips, and then neither of us spoke again while we
carried his wife into the next room, and busied ourselves
in restoring her. I only waited until she opened
her eyes and, putting back the hair from her white face,
sat up and looked at her husband, before I went away
from them. I did not stop to think; I knew it would
not be wise or safe. I went at once to Mr. Wentworth,
who was with Bella, to tell him of Andrew's death, and
Mr. Lincoln's arrival. I had occupation for a while in
soothing the little girl. Then with my own hands
I made ready my boy — mine by the love I bore him—
for the grave. I brushed the soft, curling hair round
the still face, restored now to more than the beauty of
life, and frozen into the last and sweetest smile of all.
When I had arranged all things, I went again to his
parents. They were sitting near together upon the
sofa, and Katherine was repeating, in a voice broken

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with sobs, all the details of those last sad days. Even
then, she thought of me with her usual tender consideration.
When I went into the room she said: —

“This is Miss Hamilton, who has been to me the
dearest and truest of friends. We can never thank her
enough for all she has done for Andrew. He loved
her scarcely less than he loved his mother.”

How strange it seemed to have him speak to me in
such words, constrained yet grateful, as a husband
would naturally use to his wife's friend, who had been
kind to his dead child. He had uttered such different
ones when we met last. I was weak, I know, but I
could not command myself sufficiently to answer him.
I only said: —

“I have dressed our darling now. I thought you
would wish to see him.”

They rose and went together into the still room
where lay their dead. I staid alone. Even my love
and my grief gave me no claim on that consecrated
hour.

Andrew had died on Thursday. On Saturday afternoon
he was to be buried. I had passed Friday in
my own room, keeping Bella with me most of the time.
The poor child was almost frantic at the loss of her
brother, and it was well for me to have some one
besides myself to think of and to comfort. I believe
Mrs. Lincoln passed that long, dreary day, for the most
part, alone. Much of the time I could hear her husband's
restless steps pacing along the piazza, and once
I knew he went away for a solitary walk.

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