Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

FOR WHOSE SAKE?
A Sequel to “Why Did He Wed Her?”

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of

“Lilith,” “The Unloved Wife,” “Em,” “Em’s Husband,” “Ishmael,” “Self-Raised,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS :: :: NEW YORK

Popular Books

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price 60 Cents per Volume

CAPITOLA’S PERIL

CRUEL AS THE GRAVE

“EM”

EM’S HUSBAND

FOR WHOSE SAKE

ISHMAEL

LILITH

THE BRIDE’S FATE

THE CHANGED BRIDES

THE HIDDEN HAND

THE UNLOVED WIFE

TRIED FOR HER LIFE

SELF-RAISED

WHY DID HE WED HER

For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price

A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS

52 Duane Street New York

Copyright, 1884

By ROBERT BONNER

For Whose Sake

Printed by special arrangement with

STREET & SMITH

FOR WHOSE SAKE?

CHAPTER I
A STARTLING RENCONTRE

Two travelers on board the ocean steamer Scorpio, bound from New York to Liverpool, were Gentleman Geff and his queenly bride.

He was in blissful ignorance that his forsaken wife and her infant were on the same ship.

The wife whom he believed to be in her pauper grave in potter’s field, and the child of whose birth he had never heard!

Gentleman Geff was riding on the topmost wave of success and popularity. He had paid a high price for his fortune, but he told himself continually that the fortune was worth all he had given for it.

Certainly there were two awful pictures that would present themselves to his mental vision with terrible distinctness and persistent regularity.

The first was of a deep wood, in the dead of night, and a young man’s ghastly face turned up to the starlight.

The other was of a silent city street, in the dark hours before day, and a girl’s form prone upon the pavement, with a dark stream creeping from a wound in her side.

There were moments when the murderer would have given all that he had gained by his crimes to wake up and find that they had all been “the phantasmagoria of a midnight dream”; that he was not the counterfeit Randolph Hay, Esquire, of Haymore, with a rent roll of twenty thousand pounds sterling a year, and an income from invested funds of twice as much, and with two atrocious murders on his soul, but simply the poor devil of an adventurer who lived by his wits, and was known to the miners as Gentleman Geff.

At such times he would drink deeply of brandy, and under its influence find all his views change. He would philosophize about life, fortune, destiny, necessity, and try to persuade himself that he had been more sinned against than sinning. He then felt sure that, if he had been born to wealth, he would have been a philanthropist of the highest order, a benefactor to the whole human race; would have founded churches, and sent out missionaries; would have established hospitals and asylums, and erected model tenement houses for the poor.

Ah! how good and great a man he would have proved himself if he had only been born to vast wealth! But he had been born to genteel poverty. Fate had been unkind. It was all the fault of fate, he argued.

In this exaltation he would go into the gentlemen’s saloon, sit down at one of the gaming tables, and stake, and win or lose, large sums of money; and so, in the feverish mental and physical excitement of drinking and gambling, he would seek to drive away remorse.

Often he would drink himself into a state of maudlin sentimentality, and in that state reel into the stateroom occupied by himself and his bride. He was really more “in love” with Lamia Leegh than he had ever been with any woman in his long career of “lady-killing.” He had married her for love, although it was the Turk’s love.

But Lamia did not love him in the least. She had married him for rank, money and position. She had begun by liking him, then enduring him, and now she ended by detesting him.

“Some poor girls marry old men for money; some marry ugly men or withered men for the same cause; but to marry a drunkard for that, or for any cause; to be obliged to live with the beast; to be unable to escape from him; to see him day and night; to smell his nauseous breath—it is horrible, abhorrent, abominable!” she said to herself.

Yet she never dared to let her disgust and abhorrence appear to its object. She was too politic to offend him, for—he held the purse strings. There had been no settlements—nothing of the sort—notwithstanding all the talk about them with Will Walling. For every dollar she would receive she must depend on her husband.

The Cashmere shawls and sable furs and solitaire diamonds that she longed for, if she should get them at all, must be got from him, and she knew she would get them, and everything else she might want, so long as he should possess his fortune and she retain his favor. So she veiled her dislike under a show of affection, and she even made for herself a rule and set for herself a task, so that he might never find out her real feelings toward him.

The more disgusted she might really be, the more enamored she would pretend to be.

This was surely a very hard way of earning diamonds and the rest, but, like Gentleman Geff, she told herself that they were worth it; and she thought so.

Their fellow passengers all knew them to be a newly married pair; for there happened to be a few New York “society” people on the ship, who had heard all about the grand wedding at Peter Vansitart’s, and they had spread the news in the first cabin.

Their fellow voyagers also believed them to be a very happy couple; though ladies sometimes whispered together that he certainly did look rather dissipated; and gentlemen remarked to each other that it was a pity he drank so hard and played so high. It was a bad beginning at his age, and if it should continue Haymore fortunes could scarcely “stand the racket.”

But notwithstanding these drawbacks, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay were very popular among their fellow voyagers.

The weather continued good for the first week.

The bride and groom were daily to be seen on deck—well wrapped up, for the fine October days were cold on midocean.

Yet though they were every day on deck, they had never yet encountered Jennie.

How was that? And where was Jennie?

Jennie Montgomery was in her stateroom, so prostrated by seasickness that she was scarcely able to take care of her child. She had never once left her room even to go into the ladies’ saloon, but passed her time between her lower berth and her broad sofa.

Stewardess Hopkins became interested in poor little Jennie and her baby—“one as much of a baby as t’other,” she had said to one of the stateroom stewards—and so she showed them kindness from a heartfelt sympathy, such as no fee could have purchased.

On the eighth day out, Mrs. Hopkins was in the room with the young mother and child, when Jennie, looking gratefully at the stewardess, said, with tears in her eyes:

“Oh, Mrs. Hopkins, I do thank you with all my heart, but feel so deeply that that is not enough. I shall never, never be able to repay you for all your goodness to me.”

“Don’t talk in that way, my dear,” replied the stewardess, in self-depreciation.

“If it were not for you, I believe that I and baby should both die on the sea.”

“Oh, no, dear. ‘The Lord tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,’ and if I hadn’t been here He would have provided some one else for you. But now, dear, I do really think you ought to try and exert yourself to go up on deck. Here we are a week at sea, and you have had no enjoyment of the voyage at all. Don’t you think, now that the baby has gone to sleep, and is safe to be quiet for two or three hours, you could let me wrap you up warm and help you up on deck?”

“I should like to do so, but I am not able; indeed I am not. I am as weak as a rat.”

“Rats are remarkably strong for their size, my dear, for they’re all muscle. And as for you being weak, it is only a nervous fancy, caused by your seasickness. But you’re over that now. And if you will only let me help you up on deck, why, every step you take and every breath you breathe will give you new life and strength,” persisted the stewardess.

“Well, I will go.”

Jennie stood up, holding by the edge of the upper berth for support, while the stewardess prepared her to go up on deck.

And when last of all Jennie was well wrapped up in her fur-lined cloak, Mrs. Hopkins led and supported her to the stairs, and took her carefully up to the deck, and found her a sheltered seat on the lee side.

“Sit here,” she said, “and every breath of this fresh air you breathe will give you new life.”

And having tucked a rug well around the feet of her charge, the stewardess left Jennie to herself.

Jennie looked around her. There were very few people within the range of her vision, only the man at the wheel and two or three deck hands.

It was the luncheon hour, and nearly all the passengers who were not in their staterooms had gone to the dining saloon.

Then Jennie looked abroad over the boundless expanse of dazzling blue sea, leaping and sparkling under the light of a radiant blue sky. It was splendid, glorious, but blinding to vision just out of the shadows of the stateroom and cabin, and so Jennie closed her eyes to recover them, and sat with them closed for some moments. At this hour it was very quiet on deck. Only the sounds of the ship’s movements were heard. Jennie, with her tired eyes shut, sat there in calm content.

“Oh! I am going mad! I am going mad! It has taken shape at last—or is this—delirium tremens? I—must not—drink so much!”

It was a low, husky, shuddering voice that uttered these strange words in Jennie’s hearing.

She opened her eyes at the sound, looked up and saw——

Kightly Montgomery, her husband, within a few feet of her, staring in horror upon her, while he supported himself in a collapsed state against the bulwarks of the ship. The face that confronted her was ashen, ghastly, awe-stricken, yet defiant, as with the impotent revolt of a demon.

Jennie returned his glare with a gaze of amazement and perplexity.

And so they remained spellbound, staring at each other, without moving or speaking, for perhaps a full minute.

Jennie was the first to recover herself. A moment’s reflection enabled her to understand the situation—that Kightly Montgomery, under his new name and with his new wife, was her fellow passenger on the Scorpio. This was clear enough to her now.

She was also the first to break the spell of silence, though it cost her an effort to do so, and her voice quivered, and she lowered her eyes as she said:

“You seem to take me for an optical illusion.”

He still glared at her without answering.

“I am no ‘illusion,’” she continued, more steadily, gaining more self-control every moment.

“If not—what—in the devil—are you?” he gasped at length, terrified, yet aggressive.

“I am your wife; but shall never claim, or wish to claim, the position,” she replied, still keeping her eyes down to avoid the pain of seeing his face.

“You are—I do not—I thought——How——” he began, in utter confusion of mind, and with his eyes starting from the intensity of his stare.

“Go away, please, and collect yourself. Do not fear me. I shall not trouble you. But pray, go now, and do not come near me or speak to me again,” said Jennie.

“But I thought—you were dead!” he blurted out, with brutal bluntness.

Jennie reflected for a moment. Why should he have thought that she was dead, even though he had tried to kill her, and had indeed left her for dead? Then she concluded that he must have fled from the city immediately after having committed the crime by which he had intended to rid himself of her forever; but she made no reply to his remark.

“Why have you followed me here?” he demanded, trying to cover his intense anxiety with an air of bravado.

“I did not follow you. I did not know that you were to be on this boat. How should I have known it? And why should I have followed you?” she calmly inquired.

“How is it—that you are here, then?” he questioned, his voice still shaking, his eyes staring, his form supported against the bulwarks of the ship.

“I am going home to my father’s house. When I got well in the Samaritan Hospital a few good women of means clubbed together and raised the funds to give me an outfit and pay my passage to England. They engaged for me one of the best staterooms in the ladies’ cabin.”

“How is it—that I have never seen you—or suspected your presence on the ship before? Have you been hiding from me?”

“No; I have already told you that I did not know you were on board. You have not seen me because I have been seasick in my stateroom. This is my first day on deck. And now will you please to go away and leave me?”

“Presently. By Jove, Jennie, you take things very coolly!” he exclaimed, drawing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiping his forehead, on which beads of perspiration stood out. “What do you intend to do?” he suddenly demanded.

“Nothing to trouble you while you are on this ship. I do not wish to see, or speak to, or even to know you here again, and I will not.”

“I—well—I thank you for so much grace. But what will you do after you shall have reached England?”

“I shall tell my father the whole story—of which he has no suspicion now—and I shall place myself in his hands for direction, and do whatever he counsels me to do. He was my guard and guide all my life until I threw off his safe authority and followed you.”

“Pity!” muttered Gentleman Geff to himself.

“And now,” said Jennie, “once more, and for the third time, I beg you to leave me. Let this distressing and most improper interview come to an end at once. I think it is both sinful and shameful, in view of the past and the present, for you to speak to me, or even to look at me. Perhaps I am doing wrong in keeping quiet. Perhaps I ought to denounce you to the captain and officers of this ship.”

“That would be quite useless, my girl,” exclaimed Gentleman Geff, daring to speak contemptuously for the first time during the interview, yet still quaking between the conflicting passions of terror and defiance; “you could not prove anything against me here.”

“Probably not; and my interference would not only be useless, but worse than useless; it would make an ugly scandal, and create a great disturbance. No, I will do nothing until I take counsel with my father. But let me give you this warning: My father is to meet me at Liverpool. Do not let him see you then! And now, Capt. Montgomery, if you do not leave me, I shall be obliged to go to my room,” Jennie concluded.

Gentleman Geff turned away. It was time, for people were leaving the dining saloon and coming up on deck.

Several people—men, women and children—passed Jennie on their way forward; nearly every one of these glanced at Jennie with more or less interest; for hers was a new face. Now, in the beginning of a sea voyage nearly all the passengers are strangers to each other. But after eight days, when every one on board is known to the other by sight, a new face is an event. And this face was fair, pensive and interesting, and it belonged to a young woman who seemed to be quite alone on board.

Among those who passed was a superbly beautiful woman, whose Juno-like form was wrapped in a rich fur-lined cloak, the hood of which was drawn over her lovely head, partly concealing the glory of her red, gold-hued hair, and half shading the radiance of her blond and blooming complexion.

This goddess did something more than glance at the pretty, pale, childlike form reclining there. She stopped and gazed at her for a moment, and then, when Jennie lowered her eyes, the goddess passed on.

When the stream of passengers had all gone forward Jennie drew a sigh of relief and composed herself to rest and to think over the sudden, overwhelming interview which had just passed between herself and her husband.

Jennie was troubled, not in her affections—for if Kightly Montgomery had not succeeded in slaying her, he had certainly managed to kill her love for him—but in her conscience. Was she right in letting him go on in his course of evil? Ought she not to stop it? But could she, even if she tried? And she shrank from trying. For if she should succeed in exposing him, what a terrible mortification it would be to that unfortunate young lady whom he had feloniously married; who was reported to be as religious and charitable as she was beautiful and accomplished; who, even in the busy week before her wedding day, had given time to go out shopping for her—Jennie’s—outfit; and whom it was now too late to save, since she had been living with her supposed husband for a week.

To expose him now, and here, would be to degrade her before all the ship’s passengers, so that all who now admired, honored or envied her, would soon pity and avoid her.

Jennie could not bring an “unoffending” fellow creature to that pass; and if her forbearance was a sin, she hoped the Lord would pardon her for His sake who pitied the sinful woman.

While Jennie was “wrestling” so in the spirit, the stewardess came up and put her baby in her arms, smiling, and saying:

“As I was passing by your stateroom I just looked in to see if all was right, and then I saw this little thing lying wide awake and crowing to herself as good as pie. And I thought I would wrap her up and bring her to you for a breath of this good, fresh air, which, if it was doing you good, wouldn’t do her harm. Was I right?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Hopkins. And I thank you so much,” said Jennie, as she stooped and kissed the babe that lay upon her lap; but Mrs. Hopkins had already gone about her business.

Jennie smiled and cooed to the little one, enjoying its presence, and rejoicing that Kightly Montgomery was gone from her side and was not likely to return. She had purposely avoided speaking of the child to him. She was glad that he had not once inquired about it. She had almost a superstitious dread of his seeing, touching or even knowing of the babe, for fear that his evil nature might, in some moral, physical or, perhaps, occult way, bring harm to the little innocent.

She was still bending over the babe, when a soft, sweet, melodious voice addressed her.

“Pardon me, you are Mrs. Montgomery, are you not?”

Jennie looked up. The goddess had come back. Jennie did not know her, but she answered quietly:

“Yes, madam.”

“I am Mrs. Randolph Hay; and that I had heard of you and become interested in you must be my excuse for intruding my acquaintance on you,” added the beauty, with a bewitching smile.

Jennie flushed, paled, trembled and cast down her eyes.

This, then, was Lamia Leegh, the unfortunate young lady whom Kightly Montgomery had married!

Jennie felt sorry for her, standing there in all the pride and pomp of her beauty and wealth.

“You are very kind, madam,” was all that she could find to say, in a low tone, with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks.

The goddess thought the little woman overpowered by her own grandeur, smiled condescendingly, and said complacently:

“What a pretty baby you have! Girl or a boy?”

“Girl, madam.”

“That is right. I love girl babies. What is her name?”

“She is not christened yet.”

“How old is she?”

“Two months on the third of this month, madam.”

“Ah! She is well grown for that age. I need not ask if she has good health. She looks so well.”

“Oh, yes, madam. Thank Heaven!”

“This is the first time you have been on deck, I think?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Suffered from seasickness, I fear.”

“Yes, madam, until this morning.”

“Ah! very sad to have missed all this beautiful voyage. An exceptionally fine voyage. I have crossed many times, but have never experienced so fine a voyage.”

Jennie did not reply.

“But, then, seasickness is a great benefit to some constitutions. I hope that it will have been so in your case.”

Still Jennie did not answer, except by a bow.

“Have you quite recovered?”

“Quite, ma’am, thank you.”

“Yet you feel weak?”

“Yes, madam.”

“That will pass away. You are traveling quite alone, I believe.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then, if I or Mr. Randolph Hay can be of any service to you, I hope you will call on us. I, and I am sure Mr. Hay also, would be very much pleased to serve you.”

“I thank you, madam, very much, but my dear father will meet me at Liverpool, so that I shall not need assistance. But equally I thank you.”

Jennie would have said more had she been able. She would have acknowledged the services or the supposed services the lady had performed for her before they had ever met; but her tongue “clove to the roof of her mouth,” so to speak. It was all she could do to utter the perfunctory words she had spoken, and these without raising her eyes to the face of the goddess.

Mrs. Randolph Hay bowed graciously, and passed on toward the cabin.

“Poor thing!” breathed Jennie, with deep pity; “poor, poor thing! She, so proud, so stately, so beautiful, to be cast down to the dust! Oh, no! Heaven pardon me, but I must spare him for her sake! I will do nothing until I see my father, and then I must tell him all, and be guided by his counsels.”

So then Jennie stooped and kissed her baby and felt at peace with all the world.

Lamia Leegh was not one to hide her “light under a bushel.”

Before many hours had passed every one had heard the pathetic story of the English curate’s young daughter, who had been married, deserted and months afterward half murdered by her husband; how she had been taken to the Samaritan Hospital, where she became a mother; how certain charitable ladies had become so interested in her case that they had made up a fund to give her and her child an outfit and send them home to her father, and how she was on this very ship.

Without claiming all the credit in so many words, Lamia Leegh had left the impression on the minds of her hearers that she herself had been the principal, if not the only, benefactress of Jennie Montgomery, and she won applause for her benevolence.

When Kightly Montgomery left his wife seated on the deck it was with a feeling of relief to get out of her presence. He hurried to his stateroom, looked around, and felt more relief to find that his deceived bride was absent.

He kept a private stock of strong old brandy in a case. He opened a bottle, poured out half a goblet full, and drank it at a draught.

Then he felt better still.

“She will keep her word,” he said to himself. “If she had intended to give me away, she would have done so before this. Any man would have denounced another under such circumstances. But these women are inexplicable. I wonder if her child was born alive? I wonder if it is living, and if she has it with her, or if she has placed it in some asylum? Impossible to say. She volunteers no information on the subject, and I certainly cannot question her about it. She wishes me to avoid her. I am quite willing to oblige her in that particular. I very much do not wish to see her again. No, nor her father! I must not meet the dominie, under present complications. It would be awkward. I shall shirk that rencontre by getting off the steamer at Queenstown and taking the mail route to London via Kingstown and Holyhead. That will do!”

He filled and drank another half goblet of brandy, and then sat staring at his boots.

Presently Lamia Leegh entered the stateroom. He looked up at her stupidly. His face was flushed, his eyes were fishy. The air was full of the smell of brandy. She knew that he had been drinking to intoxication; but she cared too little for him and too much for herself to notice this. He might drink himself to death, if he pleased, without any interference from her, so that he supplied her with plenty of money while he lived and left her a rich dower when he should die.

So, without seeming to notice his state, she sat down on the sofa by him and said, very pleasantly:

“You remember hearing me speak of that interesting young woman from the Samaritan Hospital for whom we furnished an outfit and engaged a stateroom in this cabin to send her home to her people?”

“What young woman? Ah! yes, I believe I do. What of her?” he drawled, with assumed indifference.

“I have just seen her and her child——”

“Child?” he echoed involuntarily.

“Yes; I told you she had a child, you remember.”

“Aw—no—I didn’t.”

“Oh, yes. Such a pretty little girl baby! They have been shut up in their stateroom for a week on account of the mother’s seasickness. She is out on deck to-day for the first time. When I saw a new face there I thought it was hers, but was not certain, so I passed her by. But a little later, when I saw the stewardess place a young infant in her arms, then I felt almost certain, and I went up and spoke to her. A prodigal daughter, I fear she is, but a most interesting one, and her father is to meet her at Liverpool and——”

“Lamia,” interrupted the man, “suppose we drop the subject. I am not at all interested in your charity girl.” He yawned with a bored air.

“Oh, very well; what shall we talk about? The end of the voyage? Well, I heard the captain say that we shall be at Queenstown to-morrow morning.”

“And we shall get off at Queenstown; do you hear?”

“At Queenstown? But why, when our tickets are for Liverpool?”

“Because I will it to be so!” said the man, in the sullen wilfulness of intoxication.

“Oh, very well! Quite right! So be it!” replied Lamia, with contemptuous submission.

And the discussion ended.

She loosened her dress and laid herself down on the lower berth to take an afternoon nap.

He sat on the sofa, with the brandy bottle before him, and drank and drank and drank.

That evening Gentleman Geff was much too drunk to go into the dining saloon, yet with the fatuity of drunkenness he insisted on doing so, and he reeled out of his stateroom and through the cabin and up the stairs. But had it not been for Lamia’s strong support he could never have reached his seat at their table. Lamia was like Burns’ Nanny:

“A handsome jaud and strang,”

and she succeeded in setting him safe in his seat, where he sat bloated, blear-eyed, and luckily stupid, instead of hilarious or quarrelsome. Every one at table noticed his condition, and—

“What a pity! What a pity!” was thought or whispered by one or another.

It was a severe ordeal for Lamia, yet the trial was softened by the thought that all the sympathies of the company were with her, all the condemnation for him.

She was glad at last when she succeeded in drawing him away from the table to the privacy of their stateroom, where he fell upon the sofa and sank into the heavy sleep of intoxication.

Lamia felt too bitterly humiliated to return to the saloon or go on deck, so she remained in the stateroom, reading a French book until it was time to retire.

Then she turned into her berth, leaving the stupefied inebriate to sleep off the fumes of his brandy, lying on the sofa dressed as he was.

Jennie Montgomery sat on deck with her baby on her knees until the fading day and the freshening breeze warned her to seek shelter in the cabin.

Then she took her child to her stateroom, where soon after both were rocked to sleep by the rolling of the ship.

It was a dark night, partly overclouded, and with but few stars shining.

A few passengers, all men, remained on deck to catch the first glimpse of land. Before midnight the man on the lookout made Cape Clear Lighthouse, and the ship ran along the coast of Ireland.

CHAPTER II
FATHER AND DAUGHTER

Jennie slept late that morning, and was finally awakened by the cessation of the motion to which she had been accustomed day and night for the last nine days.

She started up and looked out.

The ship was at anchor in the fine cove of Cork, and the window of her stateroom commanded the harbor. She knew there was a crowd of people on deck, but she felt no disposition to join them; so after she had washed and dressed her child and herself she sat down and waited until the kind stewardess brought her some breakfast.

“Well, here we are at Queenstown,” said the good woman, as she set down the breakfast tray.

“Thank you for bringing my breakfast, Mrs. Hopkins. How long will we remain here?” inquired Jennie.

“Only a few hours. The bride and groom—Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay, you know—have got off. I know they took their tickets for Liverpool, and here they have got off at Queenstown. Now they will go to London by way of Holyhead.”

“Ah,” said Jennie, only because she felt that she must say something.

“Very queer, I call it, for gentlemen and ladies to sacrifice their passage money in that way. But when people have more money than they know what to do with they do fling a good deal away, that’s certain.”

Jennie began to drink her coffee to avoid the necessity of speaking. She did not think it was queer that the pair should have left the steamer at Queenstown, for she understood very well that Kightly Montgomery dared not face her father at Liverpool.

“Are they really off, Mrs. Hopkins?” she inquired at last. “Are you sure they have actually gone?”

“Went ashore in the boat half an hour ago. Took all their baggage from the stateroom, but left that which is in the hold—big trunks that must go to Liverpool, where they will claim them at the custom house, when they themselves get there by the mail route,” replied the stewardess.

This was a great relief to Jennie. To know that Kightly Montgomery was really gone from the steamer, not to return, gave her a sense of freedom and security which she had not experienced since she had discovered his baleful presence on board. She felt now that she could go freely on the deck and take her child there, and enjoy all the delights of the voyage across the channel and up the Mersey, without the fear of meeting him or his deceived bride.

“I do not think, Mrs. Hopkins, that I shall trouble any one to bring my meals to me here after this. I shall go to the public table,” she said.

“It would be much better for you, my dear,” the stewardess replied.

“And now that I have finished breakfast, I will take baby and go up on deck.”

“That will be better for you, too, my dear. Let me help you.”

“Oh, no. I am quite well and ever so much stronger than I was yesterday. Besides, the ship is quite still, so you see I can walk steadily and carry baby.”

But the stewardess resolutely took the child from the arms of the young mother and carried it up before her.

The deck was a crowded and busy scene. All the passengers were up there, gazing out upon the beautiful scenery. But crowded as it was, the people were nearly all standing, so it was easy for the stewardess to find a good seat for the mother, to whom, when comfortably arranged, she gave the child.

Her fellow passengers took but little notice of Jennie now; they were too much interested in other matters. She sat there and enjoyed the scene until the ship got under way again and stood out for the mouth of the Mersey.

This last day on board Jennie enjoyed the voyage very much. She spent nearly the whole day on deck, and left it with reluctance at night to retire to her stateroom. That night she could scarcely sleep for the excitement of anticipating her meeting with her father.

Nevertheless, she was up and out on deck early the next morning.

They were near the mouth of the Mersey. As soon as she had breakfasted she packed up all her effects, so as to be ready to go on shore as soon as the ship should land.

Then she sat on deck to watch the shores until at last the steamer drew near to the great English seaport and came to anchor.

A steam tender from the piers was rapidly approaching the Scorpio.

A great crowd of people were on board the tender, apparently coming to meet friends on the Scorpio.

Many field glasses were in active use in the hands of voyagers trying to make out the persons of their friends.

Jennie had no glass, but as she stood bending forward, straining her eyes to see, a gentleman near her said:

“Will you take my glass?”

She thanked him, and took it, adjusted the lenses to her sight, and held the instrument up to her eyes.

A cry of joy had nearly broken from her lips. She saw her father standing on the deck of the coming tender, looking well and happy. He, too, had a glass, and was using it. She saw that he had seen her; he took off his hat and waved it to her. She waved her hands.

The tender was drawing very near, and now came a general waving of handkerchiefs in salutation from the passengers on both steamers.

In another minute the tender was alongside, the gangplank thrown down, and the rush of friends to meet each other made a joyous confusion.

Jennie found herself in her father’s arms, scarcely knowing how she got there in such a crowd and confusion.

“My daughter! my daughter! welcome! welcome! welcome! welcome to my heart!” the father cried, in a breaking, choking voice, as he pressed her fondly to his breast.

“My own beloved father! Oh, thank the Lord—thank the Lord, that I see you again! And my mother!—my darling mother!—how is she?” cried Jennie, sobbing for joy.

“Well, my dearest, well, thank Heaven! Sends fondest love to you, my child, and waits your return with a joyful heart.”

“Oh! how have I deserved this love and tenderness, this divine compassion and forgiveness? Oh! my father, I ought to fall—not on your neck—but at your feet, and say—what I feel! what I feel!—‘Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy child.’”

“Hush! my darling, hush! We will talk later. Let us go away from here as soon as possible. Where is your babe, Jennie?”

“In my stateroom, dear father, fast asleep. Will you come down with me and see her?”

“Yes, dear.”

The father and daughter struggled through the pressing crowd, and made their way slowly and with difficulty down into the cabin, which was now all “upside down” with ladies and ladies’ maids, and gentlemen and valets, stewards and stewardesses, getting together their “traps” and making ready to go on shore.

Jennie took her father directly to her stateroom, where the pretty babe lay sleeping on the lower berth.

Jennie lifted the babe and placed it in her father’s arms.

The minister received the child, raised his eyes, and solemnly invoked God’s blessing on it, then stooped and pressed a kiss upon its brow. Finally he returned the babe to its mother, saying:

“Wrap her up, my dear. We must hurry, or we shall miss the first return trip of the tender and have to wait for the second, which would cause us to lose our train.”

Jennie quickly folded the baby in the warm white cloak and hood which had been given her by the Duncan children.

“Now I will take her again and carry her for you. Do you take up your hand-bag and parasol. I will speak to have the other things brought after us,” said Mr. Campbell, as he led the way to the deck, carrying the babe, and followed by his daughter.

The passengers had all left the steamer.

Men were carrying baggage on board the tender. Mr. Campbell spoke to one of them, directing him to the stateroom of his daughter. Then, holding the babe on one arm, he gave the other to Jennie, and led her across the gangplank and on board the tender, where by this time all the passengers were gathered.

In a few minutes the tender put off from the ship and steamed to the piers, where she soon arrived. The passengers swarmed out.

Mr. Campbell called a cab, put his daughter and her child into it, followed them and gave the order: To the Lime Street Railway Station.

When they reached the place the minister stopped the cab, got out and took the babe from her mother’s arms, and led the way into a second-class waiting-room.

“You will stay here, my dear,” he said, “while I go back to the custom house and get your baggage through. You will not mind?”

“Oh, no, dearest father. I shall not mind anything, except missing the sight of your dear face, even for a minute. It seems to me as if I should never bear to lose sight of you again.”

“I shall come back as soon as possible, my dear,” said the minister; and he found for her a comfortable seat, placed the baby in her arms, and so left her in the waiting-room.

Jennie sat there without feeling the time pass wearily, after all; her mind was too full of delightful anticipations of homegoing.

Nearly an hour passed, and then her father came hurrying in.

“It is all done, my dear. Your trunks are rescued from the custom house and deposited on the train, and now we have five minutes left in which to take some refreshments, if you would like,” he said cheerfully.

“I want nothing, dear papa, for I have not very long since breakfasted. But you?” she inquired.

“No, dear; nothing for me. And now, my dear child, I have at length found breathing space in this hurry and confusion to ask about your husband. You did not name him at all in your letter, from which I argued ill; and if there had been time, I should have written to you for some explanation; but I knew that you were then to sail in a few days, and that you would reach Liverpool before my letter could get to New York. Now, my dear, I must ask you some very serious questions.”

“Yes, papa.”

“How is it that you, the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of England, and the wife of an ex-captain in her majesty’s army, should have been confined in the charity ward of a public hospital?”

Jennie shuddered, but did not answer.

“How was it that you had to be indebted to alms for your outfit and passage to this country? Why did you not mention your husband’s name in your letter to me? Why are you here alone? Where is your husband? Tell me, child. Do not fear or hesitate to tell your father everything,” he said, tenderly taking her hand.

“Oh, papa, your goodness goes to my heart. He has left me, papa,” she said, and then suddenly lifting her soft, dark eyes, full of truth and candor, to meet her father’s pitying gaze, she added: “But do not mind that, dear papa. I do not. The best thing he ever did for me was to leave me.”

“Jennie!”

“Yes, papa dear, it was, indeed. I am not saying this from pride or bravado, but because it is the very truth itself, that the best thing he ever did for me was to leave me.”

“Oh, Jennie!”

“Yes, papa.”

“You do not care for him, then?”

“No, dear papa.”

“And yet, my child, he is your husband still,” said the minister.

“Unhappily, yes; but he has left me. It is the kindest act of his life toward me.”

“And you never wish to see him again, Jennie?”

“Never, nor to hear of him. I am happy now in a quiet way. I wish for nothing better on earth than to live in a quiet way at the darling little parsonage with you and dearest mamma and my blessed baby.”

Suddenly into the pathos and gravity of Jennie’s face came a ripple of humor as she spoke of her child and looked at her father.

The Rev. James Campbell was certainly the youngest grandfather in England, if not in Europe. He was really but thirty-eight years old, and might have been taken for a mere boy, for he was of medium height and of slight and elegant form, with a shapely head, pure, clean-cut classic features, a clear, fair complexion and dark chestnut hair, parted in the middle, cut rather short and slightly curling. He wore neither beard nor mustache. His dress was a clerical suit of black cloth of the cheapest quality and somewhat threadbare; but it perfectly fitted his faultless figure; but his linen collar and cuffs were spotless even after a railway journey in the second-class cars and his gloves were neatly mended.

Altogether he looked very young and even boyish, as we said, though he was in middle life and a grandfather.

But for the close resemblance between the father and daughter, their fellow passengers in the waiting-room must have taken them for a married pair, and “o’er young to marry also.”

“But about this man, Jennie,” he said, seeing that she paused. “Where is he now?”

“In Ireland, I believe, papa. It is a long story I have to tell when we get home. And—here is our train.”

The whistle sounded, and the minister took his grandchild from his daughter and carried it, followed by its mother, to their seats in one of the second-class carriages.

CHAPTER III
HER WELCOME HOME

The curate and his daughter found themselves in a crowded carriage of the second class, on the Great Northern express train from Liverpool to Glasgow. I say crowded, for though no one was standing up, yet many of the passengers had well-grown children on their laps.

Mr. Campbell and Jennie took the last two vacant seats.

“Give me the baby now, papa dear,” said the little mother, holding opt her arms, as soon as she had settled herself in her seat.

“No, dear, the child is sleeping. If she wakes and frets, I will hand her over to you; otherwise I will hold her to rest you,” replied her father.

Their fellow travelers turned and looked at the young grandfather and the youthful mother, and very naturally drew false conclusions.

They were mostly of the class who listen, comment and observe.

“It’s easy to see that is a young married pair, with their first child,” whispered a fat, florid country woman, with one baby sitting on her knees and two on the floor at her feet.

“He won’t be quite so fond of loading himself down with, the kids when there’s a dozen of ’em, maybe,” replied her companion, a stout, brown woman with a burden of two heavy bundles and a basket on and about her.

The minister and his daughter heard every word of this whispered colloquy with slight smiles of amusement; but it warned them that they could not indulge in any very confidential discourse there, where every whispered word could be so distinctly heard.

All further explanations would have to be postponed until they should reach Medge Parsonage. And that was a hundred miles off as yet. Nothing but the commonplaces of conversation could pass between them.

“Are you quite comfortable, my dear?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You don’t feel the draught from that window?”

“No, papa dear.” Etcetera.

Jennie took particular pains to call her young father “papa” whenever she spoke to him.

But that did not enlighten their companions as to the true relations between the two. They thought it only one more silly affectation of the youthful parents. Many vain young mothers called their husbands “papa” for baby, as many proud young fathers called their wives “mamma” also for baby.

So merely trivial talk passed between the father and daughter until the train blew the steam whistle and “slowed” into the first station after leaving Liverpool, stopped ten seconds and sped on again.

Jennie had not seen her native country for two years, and she looked out at the vanishing station almost with the curiosity of a stranger, and then exclaimed with a look of astonishment:

“Why, papa! That was Huton!”

“Well, my dear!”

Jennie looked at her father in amazement.

“What is the matter, my dear?” inquired the curate.

“Matter? Why, papa, matter enough. We have certainly taken the wrong train. Huton is on the Great Northern, and not the South Eastern Railroad. This is not the way to Medge.”

“But, dear, we are not going to Medge.”

“Not going to Medge?”

“No, my dear.”

Jennie stared.

“I also have something to tell you which I have reserved until now,” said the minister gravely.

“What is it, papa? Oh, what is it?” demanded the young girl in sudden alarm. “You said my dear mother was quite well. If she were in heaven, you might say with truth she was quite well; but oh! how could I bear it! Oh, how could I bear it! Is she quite well in this world?”

“Quite well, here on earth, my dear. Compose yourself.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing to alarm you, Jennie.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Haymore, in the North Biding of Yorkshire, where I have a curacy.”

“To Hay—— And you never told me!” said Jennie, aghast with astonishment. All her life, until her hasty marriage, two years before, she had lived with her parents at Medge. She considered them as fixtures to that spot. She would as soon have expected the old parish church and graveyard to be plucked up by the roots from Medge and transplanted to Haymore as to have her father and mother removed from the first to the last named place. “‘Haymore!’” she said to herself—“‘Haymore!’ Surely that was the name of the manor to which Kightly Montgomery had fallen heir. And in Yorkshire, too. It must be the same place! She and her father were going there! And—Kightly Montgomery, under his new name, and with his new bride, was also going there. The first as the lord of the manor, the second as pastor of the parish. What was to be done? They must surely meet, and then?” Jennie was dumfounded from consternation.

“Why, what ails you, Jennie, my child?” inquired her father.

She found her tongue at last, and said, because she did not know what else to say:

“You never told me.”

“I explained that I reserved the information for our meeting,” gently replied the curate.

“How long have you been at Haymore?” was her next question.

“About twelve weeks. Not quite three months. But don’t look so horrified, my dear. If I had changed my religion, instead of having changed my parish, you could scarcely seem more confounded,” said the curate, with a little laugh.

“Oh, papa dear, what made you leave dear old Medge?” she dolefully inquired.

“Necessity, Jennie. My old rector died——”

“Oh! Good old Dr. Twomby! Has he gone?” exclaimed Jennie in a tone of grief.

“Yes, dear—full of years and honors. It would be impious to mourn the departure of so sainted a man. His successor was a young Oxonian, who gave me warning and put in a classmate of his own as his curate.”

“And what made you go so far—quite from the south to the north of England?”

“Again necessity, my dear. I was out of employment, and your mother and myself were living in cheap lodgings in the village, when I received a letter from Dr. Orton—an old friend of my father, who had heard of my misfortune—inviting me to come with my wife to Haymore and take his parish and occupy his parsonage for a year, during which he was ordered by his physician to travel for his health. I gratefully accepted the offer.”

“And how do you like it, papa?”

“Very much, my dear. The rectory is a beautiful old house, very conveniently fitted with all modern improvements and very comfortably furnished. The house is covered with ivy and the porches with climbing plants. There is a luxuriant old garden, full of flowers and herbs and all kinds of fruits and vegetables that our climate will grow, and there is a lawn with old oak trees.”

“How lovely!” impulsively exclaimed Jennie. But then her face fell.

“Yes, it is lovely,” assented the minister, who had not noticed the change in his child’s countenance. “And I like it so well that I shall grieve to leave it.”

“Oh, but you are sure of it for a twelvemonth!” exclaimed Jennie, eager to please her father, yet again stopping short at the sudden memory of what must meet him at Haymore.

“Oh, no, my dear. I am not sure of the place for a month even. Orton has heart disease, and, though he may live for months or years, he may drop dead at any moment. He may be dead now. And in such a case, you see, the very same thing that happened to me at Medge would happen again at Haymore.”

“How, papa?”

“If Orton should die, his successor would turn me adrift, to put in my place some friend of his own.”

“Who has the appointing of the incumbent? The bishop of the diocese or some nobleman?”

“Neither. The living is attached to Haymore Manor, and is in the gift of the new squire.”

In the gift of the new squire, and that squire Kightly Montgomery under a new name!

The thought of this complication turned Jennie pale. In her dismay and confusion, she could settle upon but one course—the course she had thought of all along—to tell her father everything; every single fact she knew concerning Kightly Montgomery.

The minister was now watching her curiously, anxiously.

To cover her distress, she asked the first question that came into her head, and not an irrelevant one:

“Were the terms favorable upon which you agreed to take this parish for a year, papa?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. The living is worth six hundred pounds a year, and Orton gives me two hundred, with the use of the rectory.”

“And you do all the work for one-third of the salary?”

“Yes, my dear; and I am very glad to do it. And there are hundreds of capable clergymen in England who would be glad to do it for one-sixth of the salary.”

Then Mr. Campbell suddenly became conscious that he was talking too freely of private matters in a crowded car. He looked about him. But every one seemed too sleepy to attend to him.

The woman with the three babies was sound asleep, as was her brood, and the group reminded the curate of a fat, cozy pussy cat and her kittens.

The woman with the bundles was nodding, catching herself, gripping her parcels and nodding again.

These were the nearest passengers to the curate and his daughter, and had evidently not been listening to the conversation.

The express had been running on a long while without stopping, but now, about noon, the steam horn shrieked again and the train drew into the station of a large manufacturing town, stopped two minutes and roared on again.

The swift motion of the train, that sent nearly all the grown people to nodding and all the children to sleep, seemed to have so overpowered the nerves of Jennie’s young baby as to steep it into a deep stupor.

The little mother at length grew anxious.

“Don’t you think baby sleeps too soundly, papa?” she inquired uneasily.

“Oh, no, my dear! She is all right. She will sleep until we get home and then wake up as bright as a daisy.”

“Ten minutes for refreshments!” shouted the guard at the window, as he climbed along on the outside of the carriage, while the train drew into the station of another large town.

“Will you get out, Jennie?” inquired her father.

“No papa dear, I would much rather not,” she answered.

“Then take the baby while I go,” he said, carefully placing the little one on her lap within her arms.

“Now, what shall I bring you, dear?” he next inquired.

“A cup of tea and a biscuit, papa, nothing more,” replied Jennie, who remembered the slender purse of the curate, who could ill afford the journey to Liverpool and back with his daughter.

She had ten pounds left of her own, but did not dare to offer them to her father, whose very poverty made him sensitive. She meant, however, when she should reach the parsonage, to put that little fund, through her mother’s agency, into the general household expenses.

Mr. Campbell left the carriage and went across to the refreshment rooms.

Jennie’s fellow passengers of the second class did not leave their seats, but took out luncheon baskets, and soon the air was full of the sound of popping ginger beer or ale or porter bottles, while bread and cheese and beef were laid out on laps covered with brown wrapping paper for a tablecloth.

The woman with the babies and the woman with the bundles, who sat opposite to Jennie and seemed to be friends, drew the cork of brown stout—one holding the bottle, and the other pulling the screw with all her might.

Then the mother filled a little thick glass tumbler with the foaming porter and held it to Jennie, saying kindly:

“Drink it, dearie. It’ll do ’ee good; ’specially as ye’re nussing a young babe.”

Jennie, touched by the kindness, smiled her sweetest and thanked her neighbor, explaining that her heart was weak and that she could not bear strong porter.

“Then I hope your good man will bring ’ee some light wine,” replied the woman.

“The gentleman with me is my father,” said Jennie, glad to make this explanation.

“Your fey—— And the grandfeyther o’ the bairn?” exclaimed the woman, opening her eyes with astonishment.

“Yes,” said Jennie.

“Well, it’s wonderful! He didn’t look a day over twenty-five. Do he, now, M’riah?” she said, appealing to her companion of the bundles.

“He don’t that,” replied the latter.

But here the three babies became clamorous for something to eat, and the two women turned their attention to them. And though this party had been nibbling cake or candy, more or less, during the whole journey, as is too much the custom of their class, yet now they all ate as if they had fasted since breakfast.

Mr. Campbell reappeared with a little tray in his hand, on which was arranged a cup of tea, a small plate of cream toast, and another plate with the wing of a roast chicken, which he placed on the vacant seat, while he relieved Jennie of her sleeping babe.

“Oh, dear papa, to think that you should remember my taste for milk toast and chicken, and bring them to me! This is killing the fatted calf, indeed,” said Jennie gratefully as she took the tray upon her lap.

Mr. Campbell then sat down on the vacant seat with the baby in his arms; but he made no reply except by a smile.

The train started.

“Oh, dear,” said Jennie, “we are carrying off the crockery ware!”

“Not at all,” replied the father. “The return train will bring them back and leave them at this station. Such is the arrangement.”

“Then my mind is easy. Did you get anything to eat, papa dear?”

“Oh, yes; a slice of cold beef and a cup of coffee while they were fixing up your tray.”

“I am glad,” said Jennie; and she gave her attention to her tray, and exhibited such a healthy appetite that not a crumb or a drop was left when she finished her meal and put the little service under the seat.

The train rushed on, nor stopped again until nearly sunset, when it ran in at the station of York.

Here the father and daughter got off to take a branch line to Chuxton, the nearest railway station to Haymore.

Willingly would the curate have stayed here overnight to show his daughter the great cathedral city, which she had never seen, had not two good reasons prevented—first, his poverty, which could not bear the expense; secondly, the anxiety of the wife and mother at home to see her long-absent daughter, which, he knew, could not tolerate the delay.

“Some day we will return to see this ancient city, my dear; but to-day we must hurry home to your mother,” he said as he led her into the waiting-room to stay till their train should be ready to start.

There the “little angel” awoke in no angelic temper, but impatient to be nursed.

Jennie took her into the dressing-room, where she attended to all her needs, and presently brought her back smiling and good-natured to the arms of her grandfather.

“I foresee what an idol the grandmother will make of this little one,” he said as he received her.

“The idea of calling my pretty young mamma a grandmother! It is well she is not a woman of fashion, or she would be disgusted,” said Jennie, laughing.

“As it is, she will be delighted,” said her father, looking curiously at his child. He was very pleasantly disappointed in Jennie. He had feared to meet in her a heartbroken woman—a forsaken wife, whom none of her “old blessings” of father and mother, home and family affection, could possibly console—and he found a daughter who had let go the unfaithful husband and comforted herself with her unoffending babe, and meant even to enjoy herself with her parents at the parsonage in the performance of every filial, maternal and domestic duty. And that this disposition was not forced, but was natural, might be seen and heard in her contented countenance and frequent laugh. Even now, if the thought would recur that the curate’s temporary parish lay in the manor of Haymore, and the reigning or pretending squire was Kightly Montgomery, still, upon later reflection, she felt so much confidence in the wisdom and goodness of her father that she dismissed all dread of any fatal or even serious result of his meeting with her husband. And for one circumstance Jennie felt glad and grateful, namely, for the change of residence from Medge, where everybody had known her from childhood, and might, therefore, wonder and ask questions why the curate’s married daughter should return home to live without her husband—since it was clear from her dress that she was not a widow.

No such wonder could be excited at Haymore; no such questions asked. The people were strangers. They had taken their temporary pastor upon well-merited trust, and his family history was unknown to them.

As for the other matter connected with Kightly Montgomery, she would tell her father everything, and he would know what to do.

Kightly Montgomery, she knew, never by any chance entered a church, so her father would never see him there.

As for the curate, when she should have told him who the new squire really was, it was unlikely that Mr. Campbell would feel disposed to make a clerical call at the manor house.

Under the divine Providence she would leave everything to her father.

While the father and daughter were still chatting pleasantly together a door was flung open and a voice was heard announcing:

“Train for Chuxton.”

“Come, my child,” said Mr. Campbell, rising with the baby on his arms and crossing the room, followed by Jennie.

They went out to the train and entered the second-class carriage.

In five minutes, after they were comfortably seated, the train was off, speeding away from the old cathedral city in a northerly direction across the moors.

The sun had not yet set, though it was on the edge of the horizon. Jennie fixed her eyes on the vastness of the brown moor that stretched, or rather rolled, away in all directions to meet the horizon. It reminded her of the sea. It seemed a boundless ocean, enchanted into stillness; for not a breath of air disturbed the motionless heather, and not a hamlet or a farmhouse broke the illusion. No doubt there were farms and villages not far off, but they were in the hollows, out of sight.

Presently Jennie turned from the window to look at her baby. The little one was fast asleep again; so was the curate, who had been traveling all night and all day, for twenty-four hours. He had his arms so securely wound around the sleeping child that Jennie forbore to take it away, lest she should disturb their rest.

The sun set; twilight faded; yet the train sped on over the moor.

Presently Jennie observed twinkling lights before her that seemed to be on the edge of the horizon. As the train sped on toward those lights she recognized them as belonging to a station.

Then the steam horn shrieked and waked up all the passengers, and the guide shouted:

“Chuxton!”

“Here we are, my dear,” said the curate, waking up as the train stopped.

There were but few passengers who got out here, and there were all sorts of conveyances waiting for them, from donkey carts to fine coaches.

“How far are we from Haymore, papa?” inquired Jennie as her father led her from the train to the waiting-room of the station.

“Ten miles, my dear.”

“Is there a stagecoach to Haymore?”

“No, my dear, but I took the precaution to engage the fly from the Red Fox to meet us here for this train. If it has not come yet—and I do not see it—it will be here soon.”

“How much expense I put you to, dear papa!”

“Tut, tut! there is a time to spend! Whether there is a time to save or not, while there is the least need anywhere of spending, I really do not know! There’s the fly now!” exclaimed the curate, at the sound of wheels, suddenly breaking off in his discourse and going to the door.

“Well, Nahum, you are on time, I see!” said Mr. Campbell, speaking cheerfully to some one in the outer darkness.

“Ay, bound to be, sir, when your reverence had bespoken the kerridge,” answered a buoyant voice from the shades.

“Come, my dear! But, Nahum, perhaps the mule wants food and water?”

“Not she, sir! She had her oats and her water and her mug of ale! You’d no believe, sir, how that lass loves ale! So, with your leave, I’ll e’en give her another mug of that same, whiles she rests five minutes. No longer, your reverence. No longer, sir.”

“Quite right. Let us know when you are ready.”

The curate sat down by his daughter.

In something less than five minutes the voice of the hostler was heard, calling:

“All right now, sir. Miss Nancy and me is at your service, sir.”

“Miss Nancy?” inquired Jennie as she arose and took her father’s arm.

“This mule, of course. Nahum is an oddity! His avocations are multiform. He is coachman, groom, hostler and handy man generally at the Red Fox,” Mr. Campbell explained as he took his daughter out to the carriage.

It was not a “fly” at all, though they called it so; it was a strong, snug carryall, covered all over with a black tarpaulin, except the front, which was open. It was drawn by a stout mule.

Mr. Campbell put his daughter and her child in the sheltered back seat and placed himself beside the coachman in the front. And the carryall rolled away over the murky moor until it seemed to be swallowed up in the darkness.

But “Miss Nancy” knew the road, and, if she had not known it, her driver did. So they went on in safety.

CHAPTER IV
STARTLING NEWS

Nahum opened conversation with Mr. Campbell.

“The last of the workmen have left to-day, sir,” he said.

“The workmen? Oh, the decorators and upholsterers who were fitting up Haymore Hold for the young squire and his bride.”

“Yes, sir. All is finished in the very latest style, and with all the modernest improvements. And they do say as there is not a place in the North Riding aquil to it for magnificence and splendiferousness! They do that!”

“Ah, when are the young pair expected?”

“That I can’t jest tell you, sir. But Mr. Isaiah Prowt, the bailiff, do say as he is to receive a week’s notice of their arrival, so as to have the triumphanting arches put up all along the road leading into the village and the avenue from the park gate to the hall.”

“That will make a fine display, Nahum, but an expensive one. However, I suppose it will give pleasure to the people.”

“It will that, your reverence. And that is not all! They are to have tents and markees and pavilions all over the lawn, and a great outdoor gala for all the tenants, and even the villagers who are not tenants, and for the whole neighborhood; in fact, men, women, and children, sir, are to be feasted on the fat of the land, and have dances and games, and all that, all day long, and at night fireworks! All at the young squire’s expense.”

“It will be a boon to the village, where there is never even a market day or a fair.”

“It will that, sir. Why, the people have gone stark, staring mad over the very thought of it, though they don’t the least know when it is to come off. But they are looking forrid to it. For, as you say, sir, they never have anything here. Chuxton is the market town, and the fairs go there on market day.”

“So they never have a public fête unless it is given by the lord of the manor on the occasion of a marriage, or a coming of age in the family?”

“And never then, up to this toime. Such a day as this coming on has never been seen at Haymore in the memory of man. The old squires never did nothing like it.”

“No? Why was that?”

“Oh, they kept themselves aloof. They never thought about their tenants, except to keep them pretty strict and punctuous in the payment of the rents. Otherwise they looked down on them as dirt underneath of their feet.”

“Let us hope, from the present signs, that the new squire will be more genial and benevolent.”

“He will that, sir. You may depend upon it. And no doubt he will have the old church repaired. And you’ll do your part to welcome the bridal pair. You’ll have the parish school children drilled to stand aich side the road by which they come and sing songs and throw flowers? And you’ll have the bellringers to ring out joyful peals of music?”

“Oh, yes, certainly, with all my heart. It falls in the way of my office to see that the parish school children and the bellringers take their part and do their duties properly in the ceremonial reception of the bridal couple,” cordially responded Mr. Campbell.

No more was said just then.

Jennie was aghast. She had not thought that Kightly Montgomery would bring his deceived bride, who was not a lawful wife, to England so soon after his rencontre with herself on shipboard. When he had left the steamer at Queenstown, to avoid meeting her father at Liverpool, she had supposed that he would go to the continent for his bridal tour, and return later to England. But instead of doing so he had written a letter from Queenstown, on the morning of his arrival there, to announce his intention of coming to Haymore. This letter he must have posted on the same morning, so that it came over land and sea by the shorter route of the Irish mail, and reached its destination at Haymore before she, by the longer way of the channel, arrived at Liverpool. But why did he think of coming to Haymore at this time?

A little reflection told her why. She tried to put herself in Kightly Montgomery’s place and think out his motives. Then she understood.

Kightly Montgomery knew certainly that Jennie had gone home to her father’s, but he believed, erroneously, that she had gone to him in his old parish at Medge, in Hantz, where the curate had lived and preached for twenty years past, and where he was likely to continue to minister for forty years to come.

Nearly the whole length of England lay between Medge, on the south coast of Hantz, and Haymore, in the North Riding of Yorkshire. He might, therefore, go safely to his manor house without fear of being troubled by Jennie or her people. He could not dream, of course, that the Rev. James Campbell had left Medge to become the pastor of the parish of Haymore, where his daughter would be with him; else he would as soon have rushed into a burning furnace as to come to Yorkshire.

So far Jennie reasoned out correctly the meaning of Kightly Montgomery’s course. But there was more cause for his false sense of security than she knew anything about.

Kightly Montgomery had not the least idea that Jennie, by putting odds and ends of facts and probabilities together, had made herself acquainted with his fraudulent claim to the name of Hay, and to the inheritance of Haymore. He thought she knew nothing beyond the fact of his second marriage, not even the name under which he married, and that, therefore, she could not know how or where to seek him, even if she were disposed to do so, which he utterly disbelieved. With his wronged wife at the extreme south of England, and in ignorance of his present name and residence, he felt perfectly safe in coming to Haymore in the north, to gratify his pride and vanity by a triumphant entry, with his queenly and beautiful bride, into the village and on to the manor house.

He little dreamed of the dread Nemesis awaiting him there.

“Jennie, my darling, why are you so silent?” inquired Mr. Campbell, breaking in upon his daughter’s reverie.

“I have been listening, papa.”

“But you have not heard anything for the last half hour. We have not been talking.”

“I listened with a great deal of interest while you did talk, papa.”

“And you have heard that in a few days, perhaps, we are going to have grand doings at Haymore to welcome the young squire and his bride.”

“Yes, papa dear, I heard all that.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I think it will be a very exciting time,” evasively replied the young woman.

“Jennie, my dear, you speak so faintly. Are you tired?”

“Yes, papa dear—rather tired.”

“Take courage, then, for we are near home, where the mother is waiting to welcome us with a bright fire and a nice tea table,” said the curate.

“Yes, papa. Don’t mind me, dear. It is a healthful weariness that will make me sleep all the better,” replied Jennie.

But the last words were fairly jolted out of her mouth, for the carryall was now ascending a very steep hill.

The curate turned his head again to speak to his daughter.

“We are entering the village, dear, and the church and parsonage are at this end. You can see nothing from where you sit behind there. If you could you would see a stony road, with paving stones set sharp edge up to make a hold for horses’ hoofs, otherwise they could scarcely climb it And you would see high stone walls on each side of the road, with plantations behind them. These walls, my dear, inclose Haymore Park, through a portion of which this road runs. On the top of the hill is Haymore Old Church and Rectory. There is our home at present. There is an old graveyard around the church, and an old garden around the rectory. All this is at the entrance of the village, which stretches on both sides of the road over the hill and down the declivity. All around the manor, the church and the village roll the everlasting moors from the center to the circumference. There, my dear, you have a picture of our home, though you cannot see it.”

“I see it in my mind’s eye, papa.”

All this time the mule was toiling slowly, painfully up the steep ascent.

Jennie, straining her eyes to look forward, saw nothing for a while but the black forms of her father and the driver against the darkness, but presently fitful lights glanced in sight and disappeared. After a while they grew more steady and stationary, and Jennie recognized

“The lights in the village,”

though they were still distant before her.

“Here we are,” said the curate blithely as the panting mule drew up before a gate in a wall, all covered with ivy or some other creeping plant, Jennie could not see what.

Beyond the gate and the wall was the front of a two-story, double stone house, like the wall, all covered with creeping vines, but with a bright firelight and lamplight gleaming redly from the windows of the lower room on the right-hand side.

The curate lifted his daughter and her child from the carryall and opened the gate that led between two low stone walls, also covered with green creepers, up to the steps of the long porch before the house. But some one in the house had heard the sound of wheels, for the front door was flung open, a small, slender woman rushed out and threw herself, sobbing, into the arms of Jennie.

“Oh, my darling! my darling! my darling!”

“Oh, mother! mother! mother!”

That was all they could say, as they clasped each other, sobbing.

Mr. Campbell went on before them into the house, carrying the baby out of the night air.

“Come in, come in, come in! Oh, welcome home, my child! my child!” sobbed the mother, as, with her arm around the waist of her daughter, she supported her into the house, through the hall and into that warm, bright room, where a sea coal fire was blazing in the grate, and a chandelier hung from the ceiling just over a dainty white cloth that covered the tea table, on which a pretty china service was arranged.

The parlor was furnished entirely in crimson—carpet, curtains, chair and sofa covers were all crimson, which, in the lamplight and firelight, gave a very warm, bright glow to the room, which the travelers had seen from the carryall without.

Jennie was placed in an easy-chair, and her fur-lined cloak and beaver hat taken off her by gentle mother hands. Even in that sacred moment of meeting, the feminine instinct caused the curate’s wife to hold up and admire the rich cloak and hat that had been given Jennie by her New York friends.

“You haven’t looked at baby, mother dear,” said Jennie.

“Oh! so I haven’t! How could I forget!” exclaimed the young grandmother; and down went cloak and hat, disregarded, on the floor, while she turned to look for the little queen who was destined to ascend the throne of the household.

Mr. Campbell, smiling at this impetuosity, placed the infant in her arms.

And then—but I will spare my readers the rhapsodies that ensued.

Meanwhile, everything else was forgotten.

But Nahum, the driver, remembered he had to collect his fare, and so “made bold” to walk into the curate’s house, and stand, hat in hand, at the parlor door. As he stood in the full glare of the light, he appeared a little, sturdy, muscular man, with a strange mixture of complexion; for while his skin was swarthy and his short hair, stubby beard and heavy eyebrows were as black as jet, his eyes were light blue. But the most characteristic feature in his remarkable face was his nose, which was large and turned up so that his nostrils described a semicircle upward. It was a “mocking nose,” of the most distinct type. He wore a suit of coarse blue tweed, and carried a battered felt hat.

“Well, Nahum!” exclaimed the curate on catching sight of him.

“Please, your reverence, it is eight shillings, sir.”

“Oh! Ah! Yes!” said the curate.

And the price was paid and the driver dismissed.

Esther Campbell and her recovered daughter were now seated close together on the crimson sofa, which was drawn up on one side of the blazing fire. Esther had her grandchild on her lap and her right arm around Jennie’s waist, while Jennie’s head rested on her shoulder.

“Come, Hetty, my love, we want our tea,” said the curate.

Mrs. Campbell put the baby in its mother’s arms and rang the bell.

A Yorkshire woman of middle age, dressed in a blue cheviot cloth skirt and a gay striped sack of many colors, came in with the tea urn and put it on the table. She was a stranger to Jennie, but she courtesied to the “master’s” daughter, who returned her greeting with a smile and bow.

“Where is our old servant, mamma?” inquired Jennie when the new one had left the room.

“Oh, Julia? She married the greengrocer and left us just before we left Medge.”

“Why, Julia was forty years old at least!”

“Yes, dear, and the greengrocer was a widower of fifty with all his children grown up, married and settled.”

“A good match for Julia, then!”

“Excellent.”

The Yorkshire woman re-entered the room, bringing in a tray on which was arranged hot muffins, dried toast, broiled chicken and fried ham, all of which she placed on the table.

“This is our daughter, Mrs. Montgomery, whom we have been expecting to see for so long a time, Elspeth,” said Mrs. Campbell, speaking from her own genial nature and overflowing happiness.

Elspeth courtesied again and smiled, but said nothing; she was rather shy. She took the baby, however, when the curate and his wife and daughter sat down to the table.

Esther Campbell looked a young, fair and pretty woman as she presided over the tea urn. She was really thirty-five years old, but did not look more than twenty-three. But, then, she had always had excellent health, few family cares and no sorrows, except in the marriage of her daughter, and even that was a light one compared to what that wayward daughter was made to suffer. She was a woman of medium height and slender form, for she had escaped the malady of fat to which women of middle age or those approaching middle age are subjected. Her figure was girlish, her features were delicate, her complexion very fair, with a faint rose hue over cheeks and chin. Her hair was brown, bright and curly. She wore her only Sunday’s dress, a dark green silk with a little lace at the throat and wrists. It was put on in honor of her daughter’s return.

The party of three waited on themselves and each other.

When all were served Hetty Campbell would most eagerly have asked her daughter:

“Where is your husband?” but that she feared something was very wrong with him and dared not question Jennie on this subject in the presence of the new servant.

Jennie had a healthy young appetite, and ate heartily, to the great comfort of her mother, who joyously watched her plate and kept it well supplied.

“Do you like this place, mamma?” inquired Jennie at length.

“Yes, my dear, on many accounts I like it very much. Of course we felt a natural regret at leaving a home where we had lived so long that we seemed grown into it, like a cluster of oysters in their shells, which to shuck out is death. But as it was not our own act there was no compunction; and as it was inevitable, there had to be resignation. We are happy here, my dear.”

“But the old friends—the people papa has christened and married and comforted and instructed for twenty years! For he was there before you were married, mamma.”

“Yes, it was hard to leave them. But the knowledge that we must submit to the inevitable strengthened us even for that.”

“And how do you like the people here, mamma?”

“Very much, indeed. They are exceedingly kind.”

Elspeth having set the baby in its mother’s lap, and left the room to take a new supply of hot muffins from the oven, Jennie lowered her voice and inquired:

“And the one humble woman among the people with whom we are in daily intercourse, and on whom so much of our comfort must depend, mamma?”

“You mean our new servant?”

“Of course. Is she a worthy successor to Julia?”

“A most worthy one. Elspeth—the widow Longman—has not always been in service. She has had reverses and great sorrows—the loss of her husband while she was still a young woman with an infant boy, a boy whom she spoiled as only a widowed mother can spoil an only child. He grew up, so it is said, not really wicked or worthless, but idle, wilful, headstrong, and fond of pleasure and of roving. One day the poor mother lost her temper, under some great provocation, and told him he was the one grief and trial of her life, or words to that effect. He took his hat and walked out of the house. She thought he had only gone to the barn or to the village, and her burst of grief and anger being over, she prepared that evening an extra good supper for her boy, that they might make up their misunderstanding. But, though she waited long and anxiously, he did not come, nor has he ever come, nor has she ever heard one word of him since that day when he walked out of the house in sullen wrath.”

“Oh, how dreadful! how dreadful!” exclaimed Jennie.

“Yes; it nearly killed her. The farm, with no one to look after it, went to rack and ruin. She was compelled to sell off all the stock to pay the rent, and then to give up the lease and go into service. That is Elspeth’s sad little story,” said Mrs. Campbell, hurriedly concluding as she saw the subject of her discourse re-entering the room with the plate of hot muffins in hand.

But no one wanted any more.

The curate gave thanks and they arose from the table.

The mother and daughter reseated themselves on the crimson sofa in the glow of the fire, Hetty Campbell took the baby on her lap, and the fondling and idolizing recommenced, and might have continued all night, but that James Campbell wisely put an end to the play.

“Come!” he said. “I have been traveling night and day for twenty-four hours, and am well worn out. So is Jennie, though she has only traveled one day by rail. So we had better go straight to bed. Listen, Hetty: I have had our daughter all day long to myself. You take her to your bosom to-night.”

“Eh?” exclaimed his wife, not understanding.

“Do you sleep with Jennie and the precious baby to-night. That will make you all very happy, though I am not so sure about the baby. Only don’t talk all night. Put off all mutual explanations until the morning,” the curate explained.

Jennie sprang to her father and embraced him, exclaiming:

“Oh, papa! how good of you!”

Hetty, with the baby in her arms, came up on the other side, kissed him, and said:

“How kindly thoughtful of you, dear Jim!”

The curate laughed.

“There! there! I shall not break my heart for your absence this one night, Hetty, my dear. I shall sleep too soundly. And the arrangement is on no account to be a perpetual one.”

Elspeth, having cleared away the tea table, was called in, and the evening worship was offered earlier than usual.

Mr. Campbell in the course of his devotions prayed for the safe return of the poor widow’s son. This he had always done morning and evening since Elspeth had been living with the family.

It was a great comfort to the poor mother, who one day said to Mrs. Campbell:

“No minister ever prayed for my poor lad to come back before. Now the minister prays for him, I know he will come. I see it a’ as plain as if my eyes were opened; the maister’s prayer goes straight up to the Throne; the Lord receives it, and sends its spirit straight down to my boy’s heart, wherever he may be on the footstool; and he will feel it a-drawing and a-drawing of him until he turns his steps homeward. I know it! And, oh! mem, the one that kept me from going crazy with the trouble was the thought that go where he would, he wouldn’t get out of the Lord’s world; and if I didn’t know where he was, the Lord did; and if I couldn’t see him, the Lord could. So I prayed for him, and by the Lord’s help kept up.”

When the prayers were over the little family circle separated.

Elspeth went back to her kitchen to wash up her dishes.

Hetty and Jennie kissed the husband and father good-night and went up to a spacious, white-draped chamber which was over the parlor, and where a fine sea coal fire was burning; and there they went to rest.

CHAPTER V
IN THE SILVER MOON MINING CAMP

It was the close of a dark November day. Heavy mists hung over the gulch and settled upon the mountain stream that ran between high banks at its bottom, and upon the miners’ huts that dotted either side.

The men had returned from their work and many of them were seeking rest and refreshment in the shed dignified with the name of saloon, where they paid very high prices for very bad whisky, and won or lost money with very grimy cards.

One excuse for them was this—the camp was a new one, far out of civilization. It had been called into existence by the hue and cry of a new and grand discovery of ore in a mine which the discoverers christened the Silver Moon. It was formed mostly of men who had been unsuccessful in other mines. And there was not a woman in it.

Three men sat on the ground in the rudest of rude stone huts, built up irregularly of small fragments of rocks, and roofed with slender logs. There was neither door, window nor chimney, but there was an opening in front, protected by a buffalo hide—to keep the heat in, and there was a hole in the roof to let the smoke out. The floor was the solid earth, and the fire was built against the wall. There was scarcely any furniture to be seen, only a heap of coarse blankets in one corner, and an iron pot and a few tin cups and plates in another.

Judy’s well-ordered hut at Grizzly was a little palace compared to this squalid shelter.

The three men sitting on the earth floor, before the fire, which afforded the only light in the place, were unkempt, unwashed and altogether about the roughest-looking savages since the prehistoric ages. Yet they were three as different men as could be found anywhere.

The first was perhaps the very tallest man ever seen outside of a show, grandly proportioned, with a fine head, fine face, clear, blue eyes, and yellow hair that flowed to his shoulders, and a yellow beard that fell to his bosom. He was clothed in a buckskin coat trimmed with fur, now much the worse for wear, and buckskin leggings and buffalo-hide boots. In a word, this Hercules was our old friend, Samson Longman.

The second was a medium-sized and elderly man, with a thin, red face, red beard and a bald head. He was clothed in a coarse, gray shirt, duck trousers, a nondescript jacket, and many wrappings of sackcloth and sage grass around his feet and ankles, by way of boots. He was our old acquaintance, Andrew Quin.

The third was a slight yet muscular youth, with clear, bright complexion, dark gray eyes and dark brown hair, a mocking nose and a laughing mouth. He wore a coarse, red flannel shirt, duck trousers, tucked into hide boots, a knit-woolen blouse, and battered felt hat. Of course, he was young Michael Man.

All three of the men lived together like friends in this hut. This evening they were all very grave, not to say gloomy.

Old Dandy Quin, sitting flat upon the ground and engaged in unwinding the strips of sacking from his tired feet, was the first to break a silence that had continued some time.

“I’m gettin’ tired of this yere,” he grumbled. “Here we’ve been more’n two months working like mules, and never got a gleam o’ this yere moonlight. It’s moon-calves we are, all on us. Ef it hadn’t been for Longman and his gun we’d ’a’ starved! that’s what we would—’a’ starved! We never had no luck nowhere! Leastways, I never had! I’ve been nigh twenty years slaving in the mines, digging in the bowels of the yeth, working hard and living harder, and running like a luny after a jack-o’-lantern, from one grand discov’ry to another, but never got no more but hard work and harder living out of any on ’em, and now I’m sixty years old come next Martinmas, and I’m gettin’ tired on it,” he concluded, flinging his rags aside and caressing his poor feet.

“Dandy, ye poor ould craychur, haven’t ye pit a cint itself, nowhere?” questioned Mike in a sympathetic tone.

“Oh, jest eleven hund’ed dollar in the savings bank at Sacramento, and that I hev saved up, dollar be dollar, in the last twenty years, a-working hard an’ the—Regiment hard, and a-starving and a-stinting of meself to do it! And since here we have come to this Silver Moon Mine it hev been all loss and no gain! And as I said before, we’d ’a’ starved to death ef it hadn’t been for Longman and his gun. And now he is going back on us!” concluded Dandy in an injured tone and with a look of reproach at the giant.

“I should be sorry to do that,” said Longman, stroking his long, yellow beard. “But, Dandy, why won’t you go with me? I will gladly take you. You are alone here and growing old. Have you no natural longings to see your native country? Come! come along with me!”

“Why can’t you stay here? How do you know but to-morrow the stroke of a pick may strike a vein of solid silver running down to the very middle of the earth?” demanded Dandy.

“Ah, that’s it! Delusive hope has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has led you on from post to pillar for twenty years of unsuccess.”

“Well, after working twenty years for almost nothing, you wouldn’t have a man miss the chance of turning up a fortune with the very next stroke of his pick—a fortune that would pay him for all he has suffered—would you?”

“No, certainly not, if such luck were probable. But, Dandy, my friend, your pick has never struck a vein, and I think it never will. Be sensible. Draw your money from the savings bank, and come home to England with me. That sum will be a fortune to you in England, and set you up in any light business you may like; or buy you a small annuity, sufficient for your comforts for the rest of your life. Think of it, Dandy,” said Longman, with kindly interest in the lonely man.

“What makes you so hot-foot all of a sudden to go back to England?” demanded Dandy. “A great, strapping, very strapping young fellow like you to leave the grand field of enterprise to go back to England?”

Longman sighed and asked in his turn:

“What brought you here, Dandy?”

“Well, I s’pose it was the goold.”

“Ay, man, the gold—the gold fever. I have nothing to say against it, because it has, on the whole, enriched and blessed the world; or, at least, I hope and believe so. But you, to come out here to the gold country at forty years of age, and to spend twenty years of life as hard as the life of a convict, in the pursuit of an ignis-fatuus that always eluded you, still under the delusion that the next stroke of your pick may discover a vein, is to have lost so much of your life! Think of what I have said, Dandy, and redeem and enjoy the rest.”

“I’ll think of it, Maister Longman. But ye hevn’t answered my question. What brought yerself out? Not the goold fever, I’ll be bound. I hev never seed ye handle a pick or shool.”

“No, not the gold fever. I was never fond of digging or delving, or any sort of hard work. That was my ruin, Dandy,” said Longman with a deep sigh.

“Ruin!” exclaimed old Andrew, looking at the speaker from head to foot. “Well, then, ye are the foinest spacimin of a well-presarved ruin as ever I seed in my loife.”

“My hatred of steady work made me an outcast from my home and an exile from my country, Dandy,” gravely replied the hunter.

“A great, tall, strong fellow like you to be lazy!” exclaimed Dandy.

“No, not lazy; but averse to steady, hard, confining work,” said Longman.

“An’ for that same did the feyther of ye turn ye adrift, me poor Sam?” inquired Mike, striking into the talk.

“No, not my father—he was dead; but my mother did.”

“Your mither! Hivenly mither av us all!” exclaimed Mike, stupidly staring at the hunter.

“I deserved it, Michael,” said the hunter.

“Och, thin, tell us all and about it, Sam, dear,” said Mike sympathetically.

And Longman briefly told his little story.

“You see, my father was a small farmer at Chuxton, in the North Riding of Yorkshire. I do not remember him, though I hope some day to make his acquaintance in the upper world. He left this one when I was a very young child—the first and only child,” he began.

“‘The only son of his mother, and she a widow?’ Ye’ll be looked after, Sam, be the Lord Himsilf, or ilse all the howly fathers have taiched me is not true,” put in Mike.

“Our neighbors used to say that my mother spoiled me. I have often heard them say it to her before my face when I was a bairn.”

“And, no doobt, they telled the truth,” exclaimed Dandy.

“And what would the mither say to that?” inquired Mike.

“She would only draw me to her side and kiss me, to comfort me for the mortification of hearing such words. But you were right, Dandy. The neighbors did tell the truth. My poor, widowed young mother did spoil her only child in her excessive fondness for him.”

“Well, it was naterel,” admitted Dandy.

“I grew up a very idle and headstrong boy, fonder of consorting with gamekeepers, and even with poachers, than of working on our farm. I think if I could have been taken on as an assistant by some gamekeeper, who would have given me plenty to do among guns and game, I might have been contented to stay at home; but I could get no such place. Besides, my work was badly wanted on the farm. We were not able to hire laborers. My mother, myself and one boy were expected to do everything; but I neglected my part,” said Longman with a deep sigh.

No one made any reply.

“Mother bore with me very patiently for all the years I was growing; but by the time I was twenty years old, and as strong and tall for that age as if I had been twenty-five instead, and when the farm had been growing from bad to worse for years, my poor mother frequently lost her temper and scolded me—scolded me, a man, whom she had never scolded as a boy.”

“And, faith, ye desarved it, hinny,” said Dandy.

“Yes, I know I did. But one thing I can remember with satisfaction: bad as I was, I never gave my mother what she would have called ‘the back answer.’ I never in my life spoke an undutiful word to my mother.”

“Good for ye, Sam!” exclaimed Mike.

“When her words were very sharp and bitter, and I could stand them no longer, I used to take my hat and walk out, and never come back till night. And she—poor mother!—she would have a nice, hot supper waiting for her prodigal son, with some extra luxury that she could ill afford added to the feast.”

“An’ she was a good craychur, be that same token,” exclaimed Mike.

“Yes, she was good—very good—but I tired her beyond her patience. One day the crisis came; the rent was behindhand; the bailiff was threatening; there seemed danger of an eviction. Then my mother, in her grief and anger, turned on me, said that if it had not been for my worthlessness the farm would have been prosperous. She had said that so often before that the words had lost all significance to me. But she ended in saying this:

“‘If it hadn’t been for you, Samson, I shouldn’t ha’ been brought to this disgrace and poverty. The cost of keeping you in idleness would have paid an able-bodied farm laborer, who would have kept the place in order. And now I tell you, if you can’t work here, you had better go and find employment somewhere else to suit you.’”

“Faix, it was harrd on ye,” said Mike.

“It was, though she did not mean it. She was half crazy with the trouble that I might have warded off from her. But, boys,” added Longman solemnly, “her words fell on me stinging, burning, smarting, humiliating as a lash laid on a naked back. Without a word I took up my hat and walked out of the house, as I had often done before on other but less bitter occasions; only this time I did not return. That was five years ago. I have never seen my mother since.”

A solemn silence fell on the trio.

Presently old Dandy inquired:

“An’ where did ye go thin? Ye couldn’t hev hed mooch money in yer pocket, if there was none to pay the rint.”

“No, I had not a shilling. I walked into Chuxton, sold my silver watch for all it would bring, and then took a third-class ticket in the cheap parliamentary train to London, shipped as an able-bodied seaman on board the Auro, bound from St. Katherine’s Docks to the Golden Gate.”

“So it was for goold ye kem, after all,” said Dandy.

“Not at all. I never went near the mines in search of gold. I drew my pay at ’Frisco, bought a couple of guns, a lot of ammunition, some boots, and struck into the wilderness, where there was plenty of game and no game laws.”

“An’ how hev ye thriven? Ye see, I niver knowed ye afore we met in the woods last summer,” said Dandy.

“I have done well. I have been an industrious hunter. I have supplied forts, post agencies, miners’ camps and military caravans with game. I have saved more money than you have, Dandy; and I am going home to old England—on a visit, mind you, not to stay—I wouldn’t stay there on any terms, unless some one would make me head keeper on some estate where there is plenty of game. Even that would be a poor substitute for the grand, free life of the hunter in these wilds. But, Mike, why do you look at me in that strange way?” Longman inquired of the Irish boy, who had been sitting with his elbows on his knees, and his head held between the palms of his hands, gazing silently and steadfastly into the face of the hunter.

“Yis, I’m lookin’ at ye; I’m observin’ ye, Misther Longman. That’s so! That’s a fact there’s no denyin’,” replied Mike, without removing his gaze, which was becoming embarrassing, if not offensive, to the good-natured hunter.

“But why? What’s the matter?” demanded Longman, shifting his position so as to get out of the range of Mike’s eyes’ fire.

“What is the matther? Och! he ax what is the matther! Haven’t ye just telled us how ye ran away fram yer poor withowed mither in her throuble, an’ nivir wint back to ax how she windded through it? An’ ye ax me what’s the matther?” exclaimed Mike with much excitement.

“But, Mike, she turned me out of doors.”

“No, she didn’t, Misther Longman. Not aven on your own showin’, which was like to be in your own favor. She upbreeded you for idleness an’ neglect av dooty. An’ she was right! An’ she told yer if ye couldn’t worruk on the farrm ye’d betther go and worruk somewheres else. An’ she was right again, so she was.”

“Well, she was right; and I took her at her word and left to work somewhere else.”

“Yis; an’ ye were the vagabond av the worruld for doin’ that same, Misther Longman. Sure ye knew she nivir meant it, an’ yez leaving must ha’ broke her heart, and yez her onliest one in the worruld.”

“What would you have had me to do, Mike?” inquired Longman very patiently.

“What wad I hev had ye to do, is it? Why, to hev gone to worruk on the farm and mindded yer ways from that hour, and hed the rint reddy on pay day. That’s what I wud hev had ye to do, Misther Longman. I nivir hed a mither; me and me twin swishter, Judy, was orphint childer—born so—and nivir knowed a mither. But if I hed hed a mither, and she had got mad at me and put me out av the front door, I’d ’a’ kem in at the back one. I wud nivir hev deserted me own mither—nivir! But I nivir hed a mither, and thim as has blessings nivir vally thim. I’m spaking me mind, Misther Longman, and ye may dooble me oop and fling me over the bank and brek me neck at the bottom of the gulch if ye like, for ye’re twice as big and strong as meself, but I’m bound to spake me mind!” exclaimed the Irish boy excitedly, digging his hands in his trousers pockets and straightening himself up.

“Give me your hand, Mike. You are a brave, true young fellow, and all that you say is right. Now, then, I must tell you that I have not neglected my mother. I wrote to her before I sailed from London, telling her where I was going. I also wrote to her from ’Frisco. I have written to her from every available point where I have taken up my abode. But I have never had an answer to any letter. She must have discarded me, and perhaps married again, for she was a comely woman, only thirty-eight years old, when I left her.”

“Did it nivir occur till ye that the letthers might be lost in a wild, onsartin part uv the worruld like this?” inquired Mike.

“Yes, I have thought of that. And lately—I don’t know why—the thought has grown upon me that my poor mother may be lonely and pining for her prodigal son. I cannot get rid of that thought. It haunts me day and night. That is why I have made up my mind to go home and make friends with my mother.”

“As if she ivir was anything else but frinds wi’ ye, Sam, darlint!” broke in Mike. He had stopped calling his comrade “Misther Longman.”

“I didn’t mean that exactly. I meant to make it all up with her, and to her, if I could. To give her all the money I have saved, to make her comfortable for life; and then come back to the free woods and the free game.”

“Less ye could win to a keeper’s place in the owld counthry,” put in Mike.

“Yes; but that’s a dream,” laughed Longman.

“Aven so, it’s a dhrame that may kem as thrue as me own swishter Judy’s dhrame about her swateharrt that brought her all through the Black Woods to find him at last.”

“I don’t in the least see how my dream—which was not even a dream, but a passing thought of a bare possibility—can come true,” laughed Longman.

“Then I’ll tell you!” exclaimed Mike. “Ye know Ran, whose life ye saved?”

“Why, of course!” exclaimed Longman in surprise at the vain question.

“Well, I only wanted to mind ye of him. Ye know he has kum into a great estate?”

“Of course, I have heard that, too.”

“Very well, thin. He’s going to live on it. And if ye be in England, and wanting av a keeper’s place, what more natural than Misther Hay should pit you over his own kivvirs? You thet saved his life!”

“But, of course, the estate has a gamekeeper already.”

“Tare an’ ’ounds, man, and supposin’ an’ if it has! Misther Hay wud kape two keepers before he’d lave you out’n the cold!” indignantly exclaimed Mike.

“I know he would do all he possibly could for any of us. But it is time enough to think of all that when we get to England,” said Longman.

“And are you bent on going, Mr. Longman?” inquired Andrew Quin.

“‘Bent on’ it, Dandy? I can’t help it. Something is drawing me. I feel it all the time.”

“On a visit?”

“On a visit for the present.”

“Then I go with you, sir, and come back with you, if I feel like it—though it is giving up the chance of a grand future.”

“But it is making reasonably sure of enjoying the rest of your days, Dandy.”

“Well, mates, if you’ll both be laving, it’s meself that will go wid you. The ould fort will be right on our road, and I can shtop there to see me swishter Judy, and then I’ll go back to Grizzly. Grizzly ain’t no great shakes; but for a steady-going old mining camp, that will nivir promise to mek a man a millingnaire, nor yet starve him to death, but sorter keep him a-going on fair hopes and fair profits, why, thin, give me ould Grizzly!”

“Good for you, Mike, my bold boy! We shall be glad to have your company, even as far as the fort, if no further,” said Longman, clapping his young comrade on the shoulder.

“Well, now, boys,” said Andrew, “I hev hed twenty years’ experience in these regions, where both of you are, relatively speaking, newcomers. And I tell you, airly as it is in the season, there’s snow not far off, and if so be we are bound to start, we had better be off to-morrow. What do you say?”

“I’m riddy,” said Mike.

“And you, Mr. Longman?”

“I agree with you.

“‘Laugh those who can! Weep those who may!

Southward we march by break of day!’”

CHAPTER VI
AT THE FORT

It was a glorious November morning, not yet cold in the latitude of the fort. Though there was a large wood fire in the sitting-room of the colonel’s quarters, the front windows were open, admitting the fresh air as well as the bright sunshine.

The colonel’s wife sat in her sewing-chair beside her work-stand at some little distance from the open window and nearer the fire, engaged in making a frock for one of her younger girls.

Judy sat at the window with a book in her hand, dividing her attention between the open page and the open view.

There was no one else in the room. The colonel and his eldest son, “Jim,” were at the adjutant’s office. All the younger children were in the schoolroom under the charge of their eldest sister, “Betty,” who was their teacher.

Judy had been three months separated from her brother, and from her betrothed, and under the exclusive care of Mrs. Moseley. Quick, witty, imitative and anxious to improve, Judy had made rapid advances. She had recovered all the half-forgotten book knowledge taught her at the convent school, and had progressed considerably beyond that. Hearing only good English spoken about her, she had gradually dropped her sweet dialect, which both Col. Moseley and Mr. Jim declared to be a lost charm, and only occasionally, under emotion or excitement, she would suddenly fall into it again. She was also better dressed than formerly; though again the colonel and his son declared not so picturesquely.

Mrs. Moseley had judiciously expended a portion of the money left by Mike for the benefit of his sister, and her short, red skirt and black jacket had given place to a brown dress with white cuffs and collars, exchanged on Sundays for a fine, dark blue one with embroidered frills.

The mail came twice a week to the fort, and every mail brought Judy two or more letters from Ran; for he wrote nearly every day. The desire to answer all Ran’s letters was a great spur to improvement in Judy, who, showing all her compositions to Mrs. Moseley, begging her to correct the spelling, grammar and punctuation, and then carefully studying these corrections before making the clean copy that finally went to her betrothed, made greater progress in her education than she could have accomplished under any other circumstances.

Ran kept her advised of everything that happened to him, and his latest communications assured her that his cause was going on swimmingly, though, of course, there were, necessarily, “law’s delays.”

To corroborate this, Mrs. Moseley received occasional letters from her old schoolmate, Mrs. Samuel Walling, who gave her chapter after chapter of what she called this romance in real life; how much the hero of it was admired by all to whom she had introduced him; how from his dark beauty and grace he was dubbed the Oriental Prince; how he was taken up by every one in society except the Vansitarts, who, in the interests of their late governess and favorite, and with idiotic obstinacy, disallowed a claim that every one else was forced to admit; last of all, how young Randolph Hay had discovered a lovely cousin, and sole surviving relative, in Palma Hay Stuart, the only child of his late Uncle James Jordan Hay, and the wife of Cleve Stuart, a man of fortune from Mississippi.

Much of this information—all of it, in fact, except that which concerned his “lionizing”—Ran had faithfully imparted to Judy. And she rejoiced in his present prosperity and future prospects.

Judy had but one source of anxiety—her Brother Mike! Three letters she had received from him since he took leave of her in September; but these had reached her at intervals of a week or ten days apart, and since the last of these three, two months had passed and she had heard nothing.

There were times when she grew very much distressed, and felt almost sure that the party of adventurers to which Mike belonged had been massacred.

On this splendid November morning Judy, sitting at the window, with her grammar in hand, was more than usually downcast.

First, there was the news that had come to her from her betrothed, that he was to sail for England about the first of December with Mr. Will Walling, to go through certain forms, preliminary to taking possession of the Hay estate and ousting the present usurper; his absence must be indefinite; but he would return as soon as possible—he hoped in two months’ time at the furthest. That news depressed the girl very much; but that was not all. The mail that brought Ran’s letter brought none from Mike. It was at least her twentieth disappointment, but she felt it as bitterly as if it had been her first.

“What is the matter, Judy?” at length inquired the colonel’s wife, noticing the dejected countenance of her protégée.

“Oh, ma’am, it’s about Mike! I am sure the Indians must have—— Oh, ma’am, I can’t spake it!” the girl answered, breaking off with a sob.

“My poor child, there is really no cause for such keen anxiety. Your brother and his party have gone far beyond the mail route in their search for silver. He cannot send a letter to you from his present camp, except by the chance of some one returning toward the mail routes. Be patient and hopeful, Judy.”

“I do try, ma’am; but it is awful to lose one’s brother in such a—void!”

“There is no void in which any creature can be lost, Judy; for the Creator is everywhere, and He is our Father as well, and none of His children can stray out of His presence. It must be dreadful to have any beloved one disappear mysteriously, but it is certain that the Lord knows where he or she is, and will take care of His child, living or dead!”

“I believe that, ma’am,” said Judy, trying to rally her spirits.

She returned to the study of her book; but her thoughts were too distracted for concentration, and her eyes wandered from the page to the open window. The great gates of the fort were directly in front of the colonel’s quarters and about a hundred yards distant.

Presently Judy, looking out toward them, dropped her book, started up and exclaimed:

“Why! What!”

And then she stopped and gazed through the window.

“What is it, my child?” inquired the lady.

“A strange officer, ma’am, and several strange soldiers coming in at the gate.”

Mrs. Moseley laid down her work and came and joined Judy at the window.

A small troop of horsemen, about ten men in all, with an officer at their head, marched through the gate, wheeled to the right, and rode up to the adjutant’s quarters, where they all dismounted.

The officer, attended by an orderly, went into the office.

The men remained outside, standing by their horses.

“What does it mean, ma’am, do you think?” inquired Judy.

“I don’t know. It may be some small reinforcement on their way to some other fort. We shall hear when the colonel comes in.”

As the lady spoke the orderly came out of the adjutant’s office and spoke to the dismounted men, who immediately dispersed, leading their horses away.

The two women stood a few minutes longer at the window, and then, as there was nothing more to be learned by looking out, each returned to her employment.

Even after that, Judy continued to glance from her lesson in syntax, through the open window that commanded the great gates and a broad sweep of the fort grounds; but nothing occurred to reward her vigilance or satisfy her curiosity.

At length she grew tired of watching, and gave her undivided attention to her lesson.

Two hours passed, and the colonel might have been seen coming from the adjutant’s office to his own quarters, with a brisk step and a radiant face, with full twenty years taken off his fifty.

“Good news, Dolly, my dear!” he said, bursting into the sitting-room. “Good news! Dispatches from Washington. Call all the children together to hear the good news.”

“Go, Judy, dear, and bring them,” exclaimed Mrs. Moseley in eager anticipation.

Judy flew to do her bidding, and soon the room was filled with the progeny of the military patriarch.

“Where’s Jim?” demanded the colonel, looking around.

“Here I am, father,” said the eldest son, entering the room at that moment.

“And Betty?”

“Here, father, behind you. So close to you that you can’t see me!”

“And Baby Lu?”

“Right there between your feet, father. If you look down you will see her.”

“Hadn’t you better call the roll, dad? Then you will be sure that we are all here!” cried Master Clin.

“Hold your tongue, you young scamp, and listen!” exclaimed the colonel, laughing. Then turning to his wife gravely, almost tearfully, he said:

“Dolly, my dear, it has come at last! It has been a long time coming. I have got my promotion and six months’ leave!”

Mrs. Moseley jumped from her chair.

“Oh, Moses! Moses! I am so glad! So thankful! I never expected it in our lifetime—never! I looked that we should live and die among the frontier forts, with no change but from one to another. Oh, thank Heaven! Thank Heaven!”

“Maj. Lawson will succeed me in command here. Capt. King, who brought the dispatches, remains here with the ten new recruits who are to take the places of as many of our soldiers whose terms of service are drawing to a close. There, children, there is my good news. Now be off with you and rollic over it!” he added, turning to the young people.

“Oh! father dear, are we really going East? Really going to the cities and to civilization?” breathlessly demanded Betty, thinking this news much too good, too wonderful to be true.

And the faces of all the other children eagerly seconded their elder sister’s question.

“Really and truly, my dear ones. And my pleasure in going is immeasurably heightened by the joy the anticipation of the change gives you all. Now run away; I wish to speak to your mother,” he said, smiling on them.

“Tell us one thing, dad, do!” said Master Clinton.

“Well, what is it, my boy?”

“When are we going?”

“In a very few days. I cannot tell you yet what day. Now run away.”

The boy scampered off, and his army of brothers and sisters followed him.

Judy also would have left the room, but Mrs. Moseley stopped her.

“Stay, my dear girl. We only sent the children away that they might give vent to their joy in the open air, as you hear them doing. Now, Moses!” said the lady.

“Well, my dear, it is only this: King will dine with us to-day, and I have invited Lawson, and Hill, and Perry to meet him. Is it too late to make some suitable addition to our family spread?” anxiously inquired the colonel.

“Oh! no, not if we put back the dinner an hour. There is a fine haunch of venison, a buffalo tongue, and a bunch of prairie fowl that I have just bought from an Indian. And then I will open my preserve jars in honor of the occasion, though I did not intend to touch them until Christmas.”

“You are a tower of strength, Dolly, my dear, but we shall not be here at Christmas. Now I have something to do over at the office. I will be back with King a little while before dinner,” concluded the colonel as he left the room.

“What is the matter, Judy? You look very grave, my dear,” said Mrs. Moseley, who was at last at leisure to observe her protégée.

“Oh, ma’am!” said the girl in a broken voice, being almost in tears; “oh, dear, ma’am, it is not that I am not glad and thankful for the good fortune that has come to you and the dear colonel and the childer——”

“Children, Judy.”

“Yes, ma’am, children, to be sure, only sometimes I do forget.”

“Well, you were saying——”

“Yes, ma’am, I was saying I am glad and thankful to the Lord and all the saints for the blessing and the prosperity that have come to you; but, but, but——”

“But what, Judy?”

The girl did not answer, but burst into tears and sobbed aloud.

“Judy! Judy! Judy! What is all this? Are you crying because you are doubtful of what is to become of you?” tenderly inquired the lady, laying her hand on the girl’s curly, dark hair.

“It’s the parting with yeez a’, ma’am! And the thought what will I do at all, at all, when ye lave this! Oh, sure it is a silfish wretch that I am to be graiving for meself, instid of rejoicing with yeez!” wept the girl, backsliding hopelessly into her dialect.

“Judy, dear, do you think we would leave you behind? No, dear, not one of us would think of such a cruel thing. We must take you with us, Judy, my poor child!”

“Oh, ma’am, sure and it’s a hivinly angel av goodness ye are and always was, and meself always said it. And I’d go with you, willing, and glad, and grateful, only there’s me poor Mike. If Mike should write to me, or come to see me, what wud he do not to find me?”

“My girl, we would leave word with the adjutant to forward any letters that might come for you, and if your brother should appear in person, to tell him where you were to be found. There! will that do? And remember we are going to New York, and you will see Ran before he sails for England. Come, now! will that do?” archly inquired the colonel’s wife.

“Oh, yis, ma’am! Yis, sure!” exclaimed Judy, her eyes sparkling through her tears. “And sure meself will be the thankful craychur!”

“Creature, Judy.”

“So it is! Creature, ma’am, thank you, and I will learn after a while.”

Mrs. Moseley then left the sitting-room and went to the kitchen to give directions to the soldier’s wife who filled the place of her cook.

Judy laid aside her book and began to put the room in order for the visitors.

Punctually at about fifteen minutes before the dinner hour the colonel came in with Capt. King, a fine, tall, stalwart-looking man with dark complexion, black hair and mustache, and about thirty-five years of age. He introduced the strangers to Mrs. Moseley, who received him cordially, and to “Miss Man,” who only bowed.

They were soon joined by the major, the adjutant and the surgeon, and then all went in to dinner. Judy scarcely opened her lips in speech during the meal, for fear of falling into her dialect. The impromptu dinner party passed off very successfully, and the evening passed gayly.

The next day being Tuesday, preparations for leaving the fort were commenced by the colonel and his family.

They fixed the ensuing Monday for their departure.

Mrs. Moseley, in the midst of her packing, found time to write to her friend, Augusta Walling, announcing their return to the East, and asking her to find a large furnished house suitable to their large family and moderate income, somewhere in an inexpensive suburb of New York, and to have it ready for them to enter on their arrival, to save the cost of going to a hotel with their numerous party.

Every one was happy except Judy, who was grieving to go away without having heard from her missing brother, even though she was going where she would be sure to meet her betrothed.

With distressful anxiety she watched for the one remaining mail that would come in before they would leave the fort.

Thursday, the next mail day, came and brought her letters from Ran, telling her of the progress of his business and the passing of his time, and that he had at length secured apartments in the same building with his cousins, and had left his hotel to establish himself there until he should sail for England.

Judy was satisfied so far as her lover was concerned; but she was so bitterly disappointed and distressed at not getting any news of her brother by this last mail that she felt as if her last hope for him had died out, almost as if she might mourn him as dead, and she went away to her own tiny room to have her cry out by herself.

Then she wrote a long letter addressed to her brother, in which she explained to him the necessity of leaving the fort with the colonel’s family, and begging him to write to her or come and see her.

This she placed in the adjutant’s hands, begging him to give it to Mike if he should come to the fort.

By Friday night all the preparations for departure were completed. It had been a heavy week’s work to get ready a family of fifteen for a removal and a long journey, but the task was finished at last, and the colonel said:

“We may now take two Sabbaths’ rest, the Jewish and the Christian, before setting out on our pilgrimage.”

And that night the whole family went to bed tired enough to enjoy the two days’ rest to come.

The next day—Saturday—was a beautiful day, clear, and bright, and mild. Fine fires were burning in all the fireplaces, but all the windows were open.

Mrs. Moseley was distributing to the few soldiers’ wives that were in the camp many household articles that she would not want. Also she was receiving informal visits from officers’ wives, who were sorry to have her leave the fort.

Judy, having nothing on earth to do, was walking up and down on the piazza of the colonel’s quarters, thinking of her brother, Mike, and his too probable fate.

On this day, people were coming in and going out of the fort gates continually; but Judy took no notice of them.

Presently there came through the gates another troop—not a troop of horse as on the preceding Monday, but a very small troop on foot, consisting of some half a dozen of the most ragged, dirty, forlorn and Heaven-forsaken looking tramps that Christian eyes ever beheld.

Judy, pacing up and down the piazza, never saw them. She was muttering to herself:

“I know he is dead, but I shall never know how he died, or where he died, or how much he might have suffered before he died. And this will be a sorrow to me worse than death itself! A life-long sorrow that even me darlint Ran can nivir comfort me for.”

“Judy!”

A familiar voice called in her ear, a hard hand clapped her on the shoulder.

She sprang as if she had been shot, gazed for an instant as if she had gone mad, and then, with a great cry, flung herself in her brother’s arms.

Mike was worn out with his wearisome tramp, so he sat down on one of the wooden benches, drew his sister on his knees, and held her to his bosom, where she lay sobbing in a great paroxysm of emotion.

Her cry had brought Mrs. Moseley and several other members of the family to the door. They saw Mike sitting there with his sister’s face hidden on his bosom. Mike lifted his old rag of a hat to the lady, who smiled and returned into the house with all who had followed her to the door. She would not disturb such a joyful meeting. She was as much delighted as surprised that it had come so opportunely.

It was some time before Judy was composed enough to speak. And even then her first utterances were incoherent ejaculations of thankfulness, delight and affection. At length she said, falling into her old dialect:

“It’s an answer to prayer! It’s a blissing come down from the Mither av Hivin. Oh, sure me harrt was breaking in me brest to lave this, an’ yoursilf away, and me unbeknownst of whativir hed become av ye!”

“Wheriver were ye going, Judy?” he asked.

“Oh, sure ye didn’t know! How should ye?” she said. And then she told him the situation, and inquired, in her turn, how it was that he came so happily to see her, before her departure.

“That Silver Moon Mine was jist the most misfortunate ventur’ as ivir was made! Iviry one of the bhoys as went from Grizzly have come back, hed to, ilse we wud ha’ perished in the snow there, this winter. What a differint climit this is! Why, it’s almost like simmir here compared to there. So we’s all going back to slow and sure old Grizzly. All, lasteways, ixcipt Longman and Dandy, who are going back to the ould counthry.”

“Oh, Mike, are you going back to Grizzly?”

“Yis, sure! Where ilse wud I go?”

“Oh, Mike, don’t let us be parted! Go with me to New York! Ran is going to England about the first of December; wouldn’t you like to see him once more before he goes?”

Mike hesitated, then he said slowly:

“Sure, and I wud like to go with ye, Judy, and I wud like to see Ran, but——”

“Oh, don’t say but, Mike. Draw out the bit of money ye left in the savings bank at ’Frisco, and come with us.”

“Yis, but what the divil will I do before I get to ’Frisco without a cint av money or a dacint suit av clothes?”

“Oh—I’ll—I’ll—I’ll spake to the colonel’s leddy!” said Judy, springing up impulsively and running into the house to lay the case before her benefactress.

Mrs. Moseley was all sympathy and kindness, and soon devised a plan by which Mike should have an outfit and transportation to San Francisco, where he might draw his savings from the bank, and repay all advances.

That day and the next, through the kindness of the colonel and his officers, the footsore, starved and wearied tramps were fed and rested at the fort.

On Monday the determined miners went on their way to Grizzly, well provided with food and drink for their journey through the woods.

At the same time a train of ambulances and army wagons, containing the colonel and his numerous family, the discharged soldiers, with Longman, Mike, Dandy and much goods, filed out of the fort gates and took the road to St. Agnetta, where they were all to take the train to San Francisco, en route for New York.

CHAPTER VII
A GLAD SURPRISE

“I have found them, ma’am! I have found them! And they are charming—charming!” exclaimed Ran Hay with boyish exultation, bursting into Mrs. Samuel Walling’s parlor with the freedom of an inmate on the morning succeeding his meeting with Cleve and Palma Stuart.

“Sit down, you excitable fellow, and tell me whom you have found. Is it Sir John Franklin and his crew, or is it Mr. Livingstone?” inquired the lady, rising and giving her hand to the visitor.

“Neither, ma’am; though I would give my life to find either if it were possible. But I have found my own dear cousins!” replied Ran, dropping into a chair.

“Your Uncle James Jordan’s children? Those whom you advertised for?”

“His daughter, ma’am; his sole surviving child, Palma, and her husband, Cleve Stuart, who is the only son and sole heir of the late John Stuart, a rich planter of Mississippi. They are a charming young couple, only a few months married.”

“Cleve Stuart?” said Mrs. Walling, musing.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why, I know him! He used to be a devoted admirer of Lamia Leegh. We all thought that it would certainly be a match. But I fancy she discarded him in favor of the wealthier suitor, your treacherous traveling companion, Gentleman Geff, the rival claimant of Haymore.”

“If she did she made a miserable mistake. But I do not think she did. I don’t believe she ever had the chance. I cannot fancy Stuart ever having been enslaved by any woman before his lovely wife, to whom he is perfectly devoted!” replied Ran.

“Ah! well, I may have been mistaken. He was very much in society. So was Miss Leegh. They were frequently together. But tell me how you found them.”

“Through that advertisement, of course.”

“Oh, yes, I know. But how?”

“Well, Stuart answered my advertisement by coming in person to my hotel; finding me out, he left a note with his address, asking me to call there. I got that note when I came in, and immediately started out to see my cousins. I found them in an elegant little flat, their rooms almost as charming as themselves. I spent the afternoon with them, dined with them, went to the theater with them, supped with them, and only left them in the ‘wee sma’ hours’ of the morning. And I could not sleep for happiness in the thought of having found my kindred, and such delightful kindred! Then as soon as possible this morning I came to tell you the good news.”

“I am very glad to hear it, Mr. Hay! I have lost sight of Mr. Stuart for the last six months.”

“That is just as long as they have been married. They were married on the first of May last, and spent the whole season at some place up the Hudson, and have only been in town for a few weeks. And I do not think she knows a soul here!” said Ran with a pleading look in his soft, dark eyes that said as plainly as words could have spoken:

“Won’t you please to take the dear little one under your wing?”

Mrs. Walling replied just as if he had spoken his plea.

“Yes, certainly, I will call on Mrs. Stuart with great pleasure if you will give me her address.”

“When? Oh, when?” demanded Ran with more eagerness than politeness. And then suddenly remembering himself he said: “Oh, I beg pardon.”

“Why, any time—this week, to-morrow, to-day, if you like. Yes, to-day, it will be just as convenient as any other day. Will you escort me, Mr. Hay?” said the lady.

“Oh, with the greatest pleasure and gratitude, ma’am. You are very kind.”

Mrs. Walling touched a bell, which brought a servant to the room. She ordered her carriage to be brought to the door, and then turning to young Hay, said:

“If you will remain here until I put on my bonnet and wraps I will not keep you long.”

Ran rose and bowed, and Mrs. Walling left the room.

Twenty minutes later Ran handed the lady into her carriage, entered after her, and gave the order:

“To the Alto Flats.”

The truth is that Mrs. Samuel Walling was impelled by curiosity as well as by neighborly kindness in thus promptly going to call on Mrs. Cleve Stuart.

A half hour’s drive brought them to the flats.

Leaving Mrs. Walling in the carriage, but taking her card, he entered the office of the house and gave it, with his own, to the janitor’s boy, who took them upstairs.

In five minutes the boy came down and reported that Mrs. Cleve Stuart was at home, and would the gentleman and lady come up?

Ran returned to the carriage, assisted Mrs. Walling to alight, and conducted her into the house; they entered the elevator and were soon “landed” at the door of the private hall leading into the Stuarts’ suite of apartments.

The boy opened the parlor door and they entered.

Palma, neatly dressed in her well-worn, best suit of crimson cashmere, with its narrow, white frills at throat and wrists, and her curly, black hair lightly shading her forehead, arose from her chair and came forward with shy grace to receive her visitors.

“This is Mrs. Samuel Walling, dear Cousin Palma. She does me the honor to be my good friend. Mrs. Walling, my cousin, Mrs. Cleve Stuart,” said Ran, going through the introduction as well as he could.

Palma put out her hand shyly, half in doubt whether she should do so or not, and murmured:

“I am very happy to see you, madam.”

But Mrs. Walling took her hand with a frank and cordial smile and said:

“I am delighted to know you! I should have recognized you without an introduction, anywhere, from your likeness to your cousin here! Why, you might be twins.”

In a few minutes the three friends were seated and talking as freely as if they had known each other all their lives.

Evidently the two women were mutually pleased with each other.

While they conversed Cleve Stuart came in from his daily, fruitless quest after employment.

He looked surprised and pleased to see Mrs. Walling with his wife, and warmly shook hands with her, expressing his satisfaction at meeting her again after so long an interval of time.

“It was your own fault, Mr. Stuart. You should have sent an old friend your wedding cards,” said the lady, laughing.

“We had none, madam. My little girl was an invalid, and our wedding was a very quiet one at Lull’s, where I had taken her for a change of air,” replied Stuart.

“I will not excuse you, sir. On your return to the city with your sweet, young wife, you should have sent me your address, that I might have called sooner. I hold that you have deprived me of some weeks’ enjoyment I should otherwise have had in the acquaintance of Mrs. Cleve Stuart.”

“Then I have no more to say, dear madam, but to throw myself upon your mercy,” replied Stuart as he seated himself near the group.

“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Walling, turning to Palma, “we must make up for lost time by becoming at once very intimate friends. Now, will you come and take tea with me to-morrow at six o’clock? Not a fashionable tea, dear child, at which hundreds of people sip Oolong or Gunpowder out of dolls’ china cups, but a real unfashionable tea party of ten or a dozen intimate friends, who assemble at ‘early candle-light,’ and sit comfortably down to a long table—a custom of my grandmother’s that I loved in my childhood, and brought with me from old Maryland to this city, and indulge in whenever I can with some of my friends. Will you come, you and Mr. Stuart, dear?”

“With much pleasure, thank you, ma’am,” replied Palma, speaking for both.

“I want you to meet my friend, Mrs. Duncan, and one or two other good people.”

“Thank you very much, madam,” said Palma shyly.

“She will be glad to make friends among your friends, Mrs. Walling, for she is almost a stranger here,” added Stuart.

“Very well, then, to-morrow afternoon, at six o’clock,” concluded the lady, and she arose to take her leave.

Ran shook hands with his cousins and escorted Mrs. Walling back to her carriage, and would have bid her good-by at the door, but that the lady said:

“Come in here, Mr. Hay. I want to have more talk with you.”

Ran obeyed.

When they were seated and were well on their way along the avenue Mrs. Walling said:

“I have heard from our friends at the fort but once since your arrival, Mr. Hay! The letter of introduction you brought is the last, except a card, I have had from Mrs. Moseley, and never has so long an interval passed without hearing from her.”

“And you answered her last letter, dear madam?”

“Of course I did, immediately, and have written one or two since. Have you heard from them, Mr. Hay?”

“Not for two weeks! And I should be very anxious if I did not know that they must have written. The mails in that unsettled region are very irregular, often delayed and sometimes lost. That condition of affairs out there explains an apparent silence that might otherwise make me seriously anxious. We shall get letters by and by, Mrs. Walling, for every mail is not lost.”

“Well, I hope they got my letters.”

“They must have received every one, though we have got none,” replied Ran.

When the carriage drew up before the Walling house and Ran had helped the lady to alight and escorted her to her own door, he would have taken leave, but she insisted that he should enter with her and remain for dinner.

There he spent the evening, after dinner taking a hand in a rubber of whist with Mrs. Walling and the two Messrs. Walling.

That same night Mr. Samuel Walling left by the late train for Washington to see the British minister. He expected to be back in three days.

The next morning Mrs. Walling sent out her few invitations to intimate friends for her entertainment. It was only under certain conditions that the lady could indulge in the practical reminiscence of her childhood, represented by this old-fashioned tea party, which, when it occurred, always superseded the late dinner; and the first of these conditions was the absence of her husband, who could never give up a dinner for a tea, no matter how abundantly the table for the latter might be spread.

Mr. Walling’s journey to Washington furnished her opportunity on this occasion. So, early in the morning, she sent out about half a dozen little cocked-hat notes of invitation to some of her old friends not among the most fashionable of her acquaintances. And all who were disengaged accepted at once. Among these was good little Mrs. Duncan, and old Mrs. Murphy, and Miss Christiansen—all pleasant people.

At six o’clock her guests began to arrive—only eight in number, including the hostess. Six of these were ladies, the only gentlemen present being Mr. Cleve Stuart, Mr. Randolph Hay and Mr. Roger Duncan.

The elegant and luxurious “tea” was as abundant and varied as any dinner need be, and much more dainty than any dinner can be. It was not a full dress party, nor a ceremonious occasion; so both before and after tea there was some card playing and much gossip.

Mr. Stuart and Mr. Duncan, with Miss Christiansen and Mrs. Murphy, sat down to a rubber of whist. Mrs. Walling, Mrs. Duncan, Mrs. Stuart and Mr. Hay sat near each other in a group and gossiped with all their might and main.

Mrs. Duncan was the principal talker; and after telling many a spicy but harmless bit of news, she took up the story of her protégée, Jennie Montgomery, and soon interested all her hearers in it. The facts were new to them all except to herself and Mrs. Murphy.

“What puzzled me about the young thing was this: That while she had lost every particle of respect and affection for her would-be murderer, she persisted in shielding him from justice. Now, I can understand a woman shielding a criminal whom she has loved, and still loves; but I cannot understand her protecting an assassin who has aimed at her life, and whom she fears and abhors!”

Then Palma’s eyes began to sparkle. She had her little story to tell, too. And she wanted to tell it.

“Do you know,” she said, as soon as she could slip into the busy conversation—“do you know that my husband was arrested by mistake for Capt. Kightly Montgomery, and held for a murderous assault, until he could prove his identity by competent witnesses?”

The ladies, startled by this information, made little, low exclamations of surprise.

“Your husband was one of the witnesses, Mrs. Walling,” continued Palma, pleased with herself that she could contribute some little item of interest to the conversation.

“Oh, yes! I think I remember hearing something about some one being arrested by mistake, charged with something or other, and Mr. Walling being called as a witness to prove the accused to be some other than the man wanted; but, really, now, there are so many sensational items in the daily papers that one shoves the other from the memory. So it was Mr. Cleve Stuart, was it? Pleasant for him,” said Mrs. Walling.

“And it was really your husband, Mrs. Stuart, who was taken to the woman’s ward of the hospital to be identified by Jennie Montgomery! I heard all about it at the time, but I had forgotten the name of the gentleman who had been arrested by mistake,” said Mrs. Duncan, taking a good look at Stuart, who was in a fine light for the view, seated at the card table immediately under a chandelier. “And there certainly is a very striking likeness between him and the miniature of the young woman’s murderous husband,” she concluded.

And then all the other ladies turned and gazed at Stuart, who was blissfully unconscious of the severe scrutiny.

“But though there is a striking likeness, there is also a very great difference,” resumed Mrs. Duncan. “But you can see for yourselves. By the merest chance I have that miniature in my pocket.”

“Oh, do let us see it, dear Mrs. Duncan, do!” pleaded Palma, eager to behold the likeness that had led to her husband’s false arrest.

“Yes, my dear; but first let me tell you how I happen to have it in my possession, and also to have it with me here. Mrs. Montgomery spent the last ten days of her stay in the city in my house. The miniature which had been found in her possession when the police searched her room, and had been used in the vain effort to trace her assailant, was at length restored to her. And to show how entirely she had ceased to care for the man who tried to murder her, she actually forgot his picture, and left it behind in her bureau drawer. I never chanced to find it until this morning; and as I was coming out, I thought I would do it up and send it out to her by mail. So I put it in a small box, directed and sealed it and put it in my pocket with the intention of posting it, and then—forgot all about it until now. Now you shall see it.”

She drew a small pasteboard box from her pocket, broke the seals, opened it and took out a small morocco case, which she also opened and handed to Palma.

“There is a slight resemblance. Only a very slight one. I do not see how any one could mistake this sinister-looking face for a miniature of Mr. Stuart. Now, do you, Mrs. Walling?” said Palma with an aggrieved air as she passed the picture to her friend and hostess.

“There is a very wonderful likeness to my eyes, my dear, in features, hair, complexion and all—except expression.”

“And expression is everything. I see scarcely any likeness myself,” persisted Palma.

“Will you allow me to look at it?” Ran inquired.

Mrs. Walling placed it in his hand.

“Now, do you see any likeness between that ill face and Cleve’s?” inquired Palma, appealing to her cousin.

“Not the least!” exclaimed Ran on the first cursory glance at the miniature. Then holding it closer and gazing more attentively he exclaimed suddenly:

“Why, I know this fellow! It is Gentleman Geff, as he appeared when he first came to Grizzly, before he shaved his mustache off and let his beard grow! It’s Gentleman Geff!”

“‘Gentleman Geff!’” echoed all the ladies, except Mrs. Walling, who took the picture and gazed at it in silence for a moment, and then, returning it, said:

“Yes! I see now! So it is! Though the full beard made so great a difference that even the likeness did not occur to me. Excuse me one moment, friends. I will return directly.” And she hastily left the room.

Ran could scarcely get over his astonishment at his discovery. Gentleman Geff, the very fine dude who had seemed too dainty for any of the rudenesses of life, yet who had treacherously shot him in the woods, robbed him of his documents, and possessed himself of his estates, was also the man who had attempted the murder of his own wife and feloniously married another woman!

“But who is Gentleman Geff?” inquired Palma, Mrs. Duncan and Miss Christiansen, in a breath.

“Please wait a little, ladies, until the return of Mrs. Walling. Perhaps she will inform you, or allow me to tell you, who he is,” said Ran respectfully, and even deprecatingly.

Mrs. Walling returned with what might be called Mr. Walling’s professional photograph album in her hand.

She opened it at a certain page and pointed out a face and said:

“Look at that and compare it with the miniature, and then tell me if the two are not likenesses of the same person, notwithstanding the difference made by the mustache on one face and the full beard on the other.”

She had handed the two pictures first to Palma, who gazed for a moment, and then nodded assent, and passed them around to her companions.

“But who is the man?” inquired Mrs. Duncan, while Palma and Miss Christiansen seconded the question by their eager looks.

“Friends, he was one of Messrs. Wallings’ clients, but is so no longer. He has managed to deceive two astute lawyers, to impose upon society, to get hold of a name and an estate that does not belong to him, and to marry the most beautiful woman in the country and take her off to Europe in triumph, while his own deserted wife and child, whom he believed he had safely disposed of by murder, sailed with him in the same ship, unsuspected by him, unsuspicious, also, it seems, of her faithless, murderous husband’s presence there. He is an adventurer of many aliases, a gambler, a forger, a swindler, a perjurer, a bigamist and an assassin.”

Mrs. Walling paused a moment to look upon her shocked audience, and then continued:

“That is the man. What his name is I cannot tell you. We knew him as Mr. Randolph Hay, of Haymore. You have all heard of him under that name, and the éclat of the splendid festivities at the Vansitart mansion on the occasion of his marriage with Miss Leegh has scarcely died away. Jennie Montgomery knew him as Capt. Kightly Montgomery; my young friend, Mr. Hay, knew him as Geoffrey Delamere, Esq.; and gamblers of Grizzly Gulch as Gentleman Geff.”

She paused again to mark the effect of her words.

But no one spoke; the women were shocked into silence and pallor. At length, however, Ran murmured:

“This is too horrible!”

“You know that the man whom society has been lionizing for the last six months is a fraudulent claimant of the Haymore estate; you should also know that this gentleman here, whom I introduced to you as simply Mr. Hay, is really the true Randolph Hay, of Haymore, and a few weeks at furthest will see him invested with his manor.”

Mrs. Duncan and Miss Christiansen both turned to congratulate Ran, who laughed and blushed like a girl at the honor due him.

“Four by honors and six by tricks, and we have beat the rubber!” exclaimed Mr. Roger Duncan, rising in triumph from the whist table and breaking in upon the gravity of the circle collected around the fire.

No one of that circle thought of speaking to the others of their discovery through the miniature and photograph.

And soon the company broke up.

CHAPTER VIII
UNEXPECTED ARRIVALS

From this day forth the life of Cleve and Palma changed. They made friends and went much into company through the introductions of Mrs. Walling. They were young and innocently fond of gayety, and they were led on by Ran, who was liberally supplied with money advanced by his solicitors, and who, from being a daily visitor at their apartments, had at last taken up his abode under the same roof for the sake of being nearer to them until he should sail for England, accompanied by Mr. William Walling.

Unfortunately, neither Randolph Hay nor the Wallings suspected the impoverished condition of their new friends, else they would not have tempted or led the young pair into a way of life so much above their means.

As it was, their scanty little fund had to be drawn upon for such additions to Palma’s toilet, and even to Cleve’s, in the way of nice boots and fresh gloves, that seemed really indispensable to them when they went out in the evening. Had Palma even suspected their own poverty she would not have gone anywhere if it cost money to go there. But, unsuspicious as she was, believing, as she did, that her husband was in very easy circumstances, she went out a great deal; and Cleve, seeing how much she enjoyed society, had not the heart to check her enjoyment by telling her the truth.

Only gloves and boots and car fare her pleasures cost them. She had two dresses, the crimson cashmere, much worn, but carefully preserved, and often cleaned and repaired for continual use by the careful hands of Mrs. Pole. This was her dress for dinners and afternoon teas. Her white India muslin—her confirmation robe, and afterward her wedding suit—was now her only evening dress. Neither of these were at all stylish, but they were neat and clean; and then her boots and gloves were perfectly fitting, fresh and faultless.

Every day Cleve went forth to seek employment, and every night returned disappointed to find himself poorer by the day’s expenditures than he had been the day before.

Everything was going out and nothing coming in; and yet he shrank from saying to Palma:

“We cannot afford another pair of new gloves even, dear,” or to do anything but smile in her face when she would only ask him to go with her to a lunch party at Mrs. Duncan’s, or to a five-o’clock tea at Miss Christiansen’s.

If Ran had only known their straits as he bounded daily up and down the stairs, too full of life and energy to avail himself of the elevator, how gladly, how joyously, would he have poured into his cousin’s lap wealth from his own abundant means, nor ever dreamed of offering offense in proffering what he himself, in their reversed circumstances, would have been frankly willing to receive from them.

But he knew nothing, suspected nothing, of their poverty; and even if he had known, and had offered to give assistance, Cleve Stuart, in his spirit of pride or independence, would have refused it.

Ran held firmly to his purpose of giving his cousin a fair share of their grandfather’s estate, as soon as he himself should be put in lawful possession, which was only a question of a few weeks’ time; but he said nothing more about it to either Palma or Cleve. He thought they understood his intentions, and believed in them, and that it would be in bad taste to refer to them again. Besides, he did not suspect how dark the future looked to one of them at least, and what a source of anxiety it was.

What the young pair really thought of their cousin’s offer to share, was just this—that it had been made, not from a delicate sense of justice that would stand the test of time and opportunity, but from a sudden impulse of generosity that might yield to cool afterthought. Neither of them placed much reliance on the offer, especially as they had repudiated it at the time, and Ran had never renewed it.

The day for young Hay’s departure for England was at length fixed. He was to sail on the second of December. It had been first suggested that Mr. Samuel Walling should attend him to England, and introduce him personally to the London solicitors of the Hays of Haymore; but, as usual, Mr. Will put in his plea of overwork, brain exhaustion, want of change, and so on, and, as usual, his claim was allowed, and it was decided that he should accompany the young heir.

The aged priest, Father Pedro de Leon, having under oath testified to the identity of Randolph Hay, had bidden an affectionate good-by to his pupil and returned to his flock in San Francisco.

It was remarkable that while Mr. Sam Walling, the head of the firm of Walling & Walling, took all the heaviest responsibilities, did all the hardest work, seldom left his desk during the office hours, and never left the city except on business, Mr. Will, the junior partner, required all the relaxation in frequent visits to Newport and Saratoga during the summer months, and Washington and even Savannah during the winter season. And now it seemed absolutely necessary that Mr. Will should have a sea voyage to restore the shaken equilibrium of his overtasked mind and body.

“That’s just it!” Mrs. Walling said one day to Ran when speaking of the trip to England. “Our firm, as a firm, is always full of work, yet manages to have a good deal of play also; only Sam takes the work and Will the play.”

As the month of November drew to a close and the day of his departure came near, Ran grew more and more uneasy. He had not heard a word from Judy for more than three weeks, though in that time he had written so many letters; nor had Mrs. Walling lately heard from Mrs. Moseley.

Ran was not of a temperament to borrow trouble. Quite the contrary; he always looked on the bright side. He was willing to make every allowance for the well-known uncertainty of the mails in those unsettled regions guarded by the frontier forts; but still it seemed strange and alarming that for a month past no mail had come safely through contingent dangers.

His greatest anxiety now was that he should have to sail for Europe without having heard from Judy.

He confided his trouble to Cleve and Palma, with whom he now spent every evening whenever they were at home.

One evening, about a week before he was to sail, he was sitting with Cleve and Palma in their tiny parlor.

Cleve had been reading aloud, but laid down his book on the entrance of Ran. Palma was knitting a woolen wristlet, the last of four pair that she had been making for Cleve and Mrs. Pole, and she continued to knit after greeting her cousin.

Ran brought a chair to the little table at which the other two sat, threw himself into it, sighed and said:

“This is Saturday night, the twenty-fifth, and in one week from to-day, on Saturday, the second of December, I must sail for England.”

“Yes, Cousin Randolph, I know. And I am very sorry it should be necessary that you should have to go—very. But you will soon return,” sympathetically replied Palma.

“It is about Judy,” frankly exclaimed Ran. “I have not had a letter from her for nearly a month.”

“But you yourself have told us of the uncertainty of the mails.”

“Yes, and that might have been an explanation, and therefore a kind of comfort, for failing to get a single letter in time. But when three or four that I should have got have failed to come, it is strange and alarming.”

Neither Cleve nor Palma found anything to answer to this. They knew and felt that it was both “strange and alarming.”

“Let us hope that you will get a letter within a few days,” at length ventured Stuart.

“Why, you may get one even to-morrow,” hopefully exclaimed Palma.

“Oh, yes! And I may have to sail for England in the most agonizing anxiety as to Judy’s fate!” said Ran with a profound sigh.

“But there is no reason for such an intense anxiety. She is in excellent hands,” said Palma.

“Oh! but when I came away there was a talk of the intended rising of the Indians! Good Heaven! the fort may have been stormed and all hands massacred for all I know!” exclaimed the youth, growing pallid at the very thought.

“Randolph!” cried Palma in horror.

“Nothing of that sort could have happened without our having heard of it before this. The authorities at Washington would have received the news, and it would have been in all the papers. Some survivor would have escaped to the nearest telegraph station and sent the message flying to Washington,” said Cleve.

“Oh, yes—certainly. But I never thought of that! It is a real relief to me! I hope I may get a letter before I go! If I do not, and could have my own way, I would sacrifice the passage and wait here until I could hear from Judy. But Mr. Walling says it is absolutely necessary that I should go no later certainly than the day set for sailing.”

“But if a letter should come we will immediately send it after you,” said Palma.

“Thank you, cousin, dear; I know that you will do all that you can. Well, I have learned one lesson from all this,” said Ran so solemnly that both his companions looked up inquiringly, and Palma asked:

“What is it, Cousin Randolph?”

“It is this: If Heaven ever should bring my dear Judy and myself together again I will never part with her—no, never while we both shall live! Nothing shall ever part us again except the will of Heaven!”

“But how about school and college that was to have prepared you both for the sphere of life to which you are called?” Palma inquired with some little amusement.

“Oh, bother that! It was all the nonsense about ‘the sphere of life to which we are called’ that parted Judy and me! And it shall never part us again! We will go to school and college, but we need not part and live in school and college. We will marry and go to housekeeping in some city where there are educational advantages. I will attend the college courses. Judy shall have teachers at home. And so we will live until we are polished up bright enough to show ourselves to my grandfather’s neighbors and tenants at Haymore. Then we will settle there for good, and no one will ever know that the successors of Squire Hay were first of all a pair of little ragamuffins and ignoramuses from a California mining camp! Yes, that is what I will do, and no prudence, and no policy, and no consideration for ‘that sphere of life to which we are called,’ nor for anything else but Judy herself, shall influence me! When we meet again we shall be married out of hand and nothing but death shall part us! When we meet again! But when will that be? Ah, me!” sighed poor Ran.

There came a rap at the door, and the “boy” put in his head and said:

“The lady and ge’men would come up, sir, which they said there wasn’t no call to send up no card,” then withdrew his head and ran away.

The three cousins looked up to see a tall, martial-looking man with a gray mustache, and clothed in a military overcoat and fatigue cap, enter the room with a slender, graceful girl, in a long gray cloth ulster and a little gray plush hat, hanging on his arm.

The three companions stared for a moment, and then Ran sprang up, overturning his chair in his haste, and rushed toward them, exclaiming:

“Col. Moseley! Judy! Oh, Judy!”

And in another instant Judy was pressed to his heart.

“Now, introduce us to your friends, Mr. Hay,” said the colonel, taking off his cap and bowing to the lady and gentleman, who had risen to their feet to receive the unknown and unexpected guests.

“Oh, pardon me,” exclaimed Ran, raising Judy, drawing her arm through his own and taking her up to his cousins.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stuart, this is Miss Judith Man, my betrothed. Judy, darling, these are my Cousin Palma and her husband,” he said.

It was to be thought that the young girl would have made her quaint, parish school courtesy; but she did not. She bowed, blushed and smiled very prettily. Cleve Stuart shook hands with her and said that he was very glad to see her. But Palma drew the girl to her bosom and kissed her, with a few murmured words of welcome.

Then Ran presented:

“Col. Moseley, Mrs. Stuart, Mr. Stuart.”

And all shook hands in the old-time, cordial manner.

And when all were seated, Col. Moseley in Ran’s vacated chair at the little table with Cleve and Palma, and Ran and Judy, side by side, on the little sofa near them, there came the natural question from Stuart:

“When did you reach New York, colonel?”

“At noon to-day,” replied Moseley.

“At noon to-day, and I see nothing of Judy until eight o’clock this evening!” exclaimed Ran.

“Patience, my dear fellow; I had to find you before I could bring her. I arrived, with a large party, at noon, as I said; took them all to an old-fashioned hotel downtown, where the prices are not quite ruinous; left them all there, and went to hunt up you at your hotel, found that you had left it, but could not find out where you had gone; went back to own place and dined with my family; after dinner went out to hunt up the Wallings, with the view of finding you, and also of finding the furnished house I had commissioned Walling to engage for me; looked in at the office first, but found no one there but the janitor cleaning up; office hours were over; Mr. Samuel Walling gone home to his dinner; got his address; went to the house; found Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Walling, who were as much amazed at seeing me as if I had been a ghost risen from the dead. In fact, they had not got my letter of advice, and, consequently, had not engaged any furnished house for my tribe. However, they insisted on making it all right for us. They told me where to find you, Hay; and then when I said I must go back to the hotel to pick up Judy, Mrs. Walling insisted on going with me to see her old schoolmate and dear friend, and she went with me. Well, in brief, when she met my wife, nothing would do but she must take her and all the girls home to her own house to stay until we can find a home for ourselves. I and the boys remain at the hotel. Judy is to join Mrs. Moseley and the girls at the Wallings’.”

“Indeed, then, Judy is to do nothing of the sort. Judy is to stay here with me. I am her natural protector under the circumstances,” said little Palma, drawing herself up with an assumption of matronly dignity that was very amusing to the colonel.

“Very well, my dear lady. It shall be as you please, or as Miss Judith pleases; only, I do not know how I shall face Mesdames Walling and Moseley without taking her to them.”

“I will write a note and relieve you of responsibility in the matter,” exclaimed Palma, rising and going toward a little writing-desk.

“But you have not consulted Miss Judith,” said the colonel.

“Oh, I know she will stay with us,” exclaimed Palma, going toward the girl and putting her arms around her neck and murmuring:

“You will stay with us, will you not, dear Judy? I may call you Judy, may I not? I have known you as Judy, and loved you as Judy, before I ever saw you. Shall I call you Judy?”

“Sure and ye may, ma’am!” exclaimed the girl with cordial impetuosity; but then, catching herself up suddenly, she blushed and added softly: “If you please, ma’am, I should like you to call me so.”

Palma smiled, kissed her forehead, and then went to her tiny desk and wrote the note to Mrs. Moseley.

The colonel had but little time to stay, and soon arose to say good-night.

“By the way,” he said, “I had almost forgotten. I am the bearer of an invitation for you all to come and dine with us at Mrs. Walling’s to-morrow, at seven.”

Palma looked at her husband, understood his eyes, and answered for both:

“Love to Mrs. Walling, and we will go with much pleasure.”

Col. Moseley shook hands all around, like the plain, old-fashioned soldier that he was, and then went away.

There remained Ran and Judy, sitting on the sofa, and Cleve and Palma at the table.

The lovers were comparing notes, giving in their experience of the time while they were separated, speaking in subdued tones that presently sank so low as to be quite inaudible to any other ears than their own; so it might be surmised that Ran was imparting to Judy his new scheme of life for the future.

The married pair at the table with the truest politeness ignored the presence of the just reunited lovers, and took up their occupations that had been interrupted by the visitors. Cleve opened his book and resumed his reading, but now in a lower tone, quite audible to Palma, but not disturbing to Ran or Judy. He was reading Marmion, the scene of the meeting between the pilgrim and the abbess on the balcony. But Palma, knitting mechanically, could not listen. She was seized with a terrible anxiety that filled her mind and crowded out everything else. She had, from the impulse of a warm heart, invited Judy to stay, and Judy was staying.

But where on the face of the earth was she to put Judy? They had in their doll’s house of a flat but four tiny rooms—parlor, kitchen and two bedrooms. What was to be done? How could she listen to the story the abbess was telling the pilgrim, and the minutes passing so rapidly, and bedtime coming on, and no bed to put her invited guest in? And there was Cleve utterly unconscious of her dilemma, although he knew as well as she did the extent—or rather limits—of their accommodation.

Cleve finished the canto and closed the book in complacent ignorance that Palma had not heard a word of it.

The clock on the mantel struck eleven. It was a cheap clock and it struck loudly.

Ran arose to bid good-night.

“I really ought to beg your pardon for keeping you up. But you will excuse me for this once,” he said.

“Why, certainly! Certainly! Don’t go yet. We shall not retire for hours. Oh, pray! pray! don’t go yet!” pleaded Palma with her curly hair fairly stiffening itself on end; for, when Ran had left, what, in the name of Heaven, was she to do with Judy? Take the girl in with herself and Cleve? Or lay her over Mrs. Pole on that narrow slab of a cot that could not hold two side by side?

Palma had got into a terrible dilemma which she feared, by the creepy coldness of her scalp, was going to turn her hair white!

She would have been very much relieved if—after the old-fashioned New England style—the betrothed lovers should sit up all night.

“Oh, do, do, do stay longer!” she still pleaded, looking beseechingly at Ran.

But Ran was looking at his sweetheart, and replied gravely:

“You are very kind! Too kind! And I thank you so much! But, even for Judy’s sake, I ought to go. She is very tired from her long journey. Good-night.”

And he turned to go, Judy following him to the door of the parlor, where, of course, they lingered over their adieus.

Then Stuart got a chance to speak apart with Palma. He looked into her dismayed face and broke into a little, low laugh.

“Oh! what in the name of goodness shall I do?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands and gazing appealingly up into his face.

Then he pitied her evident distress and answered:

“Why, dear, you will have to share your own bed with Miss Judy and give me a rug on the sofa.”

Her face brightened.

“Oh, Cleve!” she exclaimed, “you are an angel of light in a cutaway coat! You have saved my life—or reason!”

Then suddenly growing grave she added:

“But the little sofa is so short, and you are so long!”

“Now don’t look so distressed, dear. The inconvenience is nothing at all. And it is only for one night. To-morrow I will see the janitor and try to get a room for our little friend contiguous to our own, so that she may remain with us.”

Stuart spoke of incurring this additional expense with apparent cheerfulness, although his small funds were nearly exhausted, and his efforts to procure employment were quite fruitless.

But he said no more then, for Ran, who had lingered at the door over his last words with Judy, now kissed her good-night and went away, and the girl rejoined her friends in the little parlor.

CHAPTER IX
PALMA’S NEW FRIEND

“I will leave you for half an hour to make your arrangements,” said Stuart to his wife; and he left the room and went downstairs and out upon the sidewalk to take the air.

Judy had thrown herself into an easy-chair and stretched out her feet to the bright little fire.

Palma pushed the small sofa back against the wall, and then went into the bedroom, from which she brought a cushion and a rug. When she had arranged the sofa into a couch she turned and looked at her guest.

Judy was nodding.

Palma went and laid her hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and gently aroused her, saying: