Mr. Claghorn's Daughter.

BY HILARY TRENT.

Copyright, 1903, by J. S. Ogilvie Publishing Company

All Rights Reserved.

New York:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY,
57 Rose Street.

CONTENTS

[PREFACE.]
[CHAPTER I. A Philosopher and a Marchioness]
[CHAPTER II. Two Pagans Discuss Fish, Paris and the Higher Criticism]
[CHAPTER III. A Cousin in the Coils of the Great Serpent]
[CHAPTER IV. The Diversions of the Claghorns]
[CHAPTER V. How a Pagan Philosopher Entered the Service of the Church]
[CHAPTER VI. Art, Diplomacy, Love and Other Things]
[CHAPTER VII. A Conference of Spinsters Concerning a Runaway Damsel]
[CHAPTER VIII. A Maiden Fair, a Modern Early Father and a Theologian]
[CHAPTER IX. The Advantages of Treading the Borderland of Vice]
[CHAPTER X. A Youth of Promise, a Female Politician, and a Yellow Man]
[CHAPTER XI. The Devil Walks To and Fro in Hampton]
[CHAPTER XII. Her Eyes Grew Limpid and Her Cheeks Flushed Red]
[CHAPTER XIII. Whereat Cynics and Matrons May Smile Incredulous]
[CHAPTER XIV. In the White House—A Damsel or the Devil, Which?]
[CHAPTER XV. Sur le Pont d'Avignon on y Danse, on y Danse]
[CHAPTER XVI. Warblings in the White House and Snares for a Soul]
[CHAPTER XVII. The Secret of Her Heart Was Never Told by Her to Him]
[CHAPTER XVIII. A Lover Writes a Letter]
[CHAPTER XIX. A Kiss that Might Have Lingered on His Lips While Seeking Entrance at the Gate of Heaven]
[CHAPTER XX. A Dishonest Veiling of a Woman's Heart]
[CHAPTER XXI. A Man About to Meet a Maid]
[CHAPTER XXII. Man Walketh in a Vain Shadow]
[CHAPTER XXIII. A Parson Treads the Primrose Path in Paris]
[CHAPTER XXIV. To Him I will be Henceforth True in All Things]
[CHAPTER XXV. Mrs. Joe on Clerical Bumptiousness and Mrs. Fenton's Shoulders]
[CHAPTER XXVI. Introduces Dr. Stanley, Satan and the Prayer Meeting of Matrons]
[CHAPTER XXVII. The Music of the Chorus of the Anguish of the Damned]
[CHAPTER XXVIII. Cursing and Beating Her Breast, She Falls Upon the Grave]
[CHAPTER XXIX. Dr. Stanley Discourses Concerning the Diversions of the Saints]
[CHAPTER XXX. Startling Effect of Dr. Burley's True Meaning]
[CHAPTER XXXI. He Clasped Her Lithe Body with a Clutch of Fury]
[CHAPTER XXXII. A Pæan of Victory Hymned in Hell]
[CHAPTER XXXIII. A Delectable Discussion in Which a Shakesperian Matron is Routed]
[CHAPTER XXXIV. When Manhood is Lost Woman's Time is Come]
[CHAPTER XXXV. A Bottle of Champagne]
[CHAPTER XXXVI. She Cried Aloud She Was a Guilty Creature]
[CHAPTER XXXVII. A Golden Bridge for Passage Across an Abyss of Shame]
[CHAPTER XXXVIII. The Ruins of Her Air Castles Lay Around Her]
[CHAPTER XXXIX. Voidable Vows of Turks (and Others)]
[CHAPTER XL. Her Face Was the Mirror of Her Pleasant Dreams]
[CHAPTER XLI. Her Guilty Conscience Cried, "Behold Your Handiwork"]
[CHAPTER XLII. I Will Never Leave Him, So Help Me God!]
[CHAPTER XLIII. Money, Heaps of Money]
[CHAPTER XLIV. Wedding Bells]

PREFACE.

Some readers of this novel will charge the author with the crime of laying a sacrilegious hand upon the Ark of God; others will characterize his work as an assault upon a windmill.

I contend (and the fact, if it be a fact, is ample justification for this book) that The Westminster Confession of Faith has driven many honest souls to the gloom of unbelief, to the desperate need of a denial of God; and that to-day a very large number of the adherents of that Confession find it possible to maintain their faith in God only by secret rejection of a creed they openly profess.

Take from that Confession those Articles which give rise to the dilemma which confronts the wife and mother of this story, and nothing is left. The articles in question are the essential articles of the Confession.

He who can in honesty say of The Westminster Confession of Faith: "This is my standard: by this sign I shall conquer," he, and he only, has the right to condemn my purpose.

Hilary Trent.

Mr. Claghorn's Daughter

CHAPTER I.

A PHILOSOPHER AND A MARCHIONESS.

Mr. (by preference Monsieur) Beverley Claghorn, of the Rue de la Paix, Paris, was a personage of some note in that world in which he had lived for many years. His slightly aquiline nose and well-pointed moustache, his close-cropped grizzled hair, his gold-rimmed pince-nez, his hat, his boots—his attire as a whole—successfully appealed to a refined taste. The sapphire, encircled by tiny diamonds, which adorned his little finger, beautiful to the common eye, was, in the eye of the connoisseur, a rare and exquisite gem. Except as to an inch or two of stature, the outward man of Monsieur Claghorn left nothing to be desired; while as to his intellectual calibre, he to whom it was best known regarded it with respect, even with admiration; his moral deportment had never occasioned scandal; with the goods of this world he was liberally endowed. As a philosopher (for he affected that character) he should have been a contented man; being human, as philosophers must be, he was not. As against the advantages indicated, Monsieur had grievances incompatible with contentment. He was nearer sixty than forty, which was one cause of sorrow; another was that, in spite of the effort of years, he had not in fact become a Parisian. He had succeeded in approaching the type very nearly; nevertheless, though his card might proclaim him "Monsieur" and imply its owner to the Gallic manner born, the truth remained that he was not so born. His language, by dint of effort, aided by native talent, had become almost as easy and as idiomatic as the enunciations of those who formed the world in which he dwelt, yet he was poignantly aware that therein was still to be detected an echo of the twang of his youth and of his native tongue. His surname, too, as a stumbling block to his friends, was a source of vexation. Had he been born a Dobbins, a mere apostrophe would have made him a d'Obbins and content. But the uncompromising appellation of his ancestors refused to lend itself to a fraud, though venial, and even ennobling, and thus remained a source of repining; a gentle regret that his cognomen was not more fitting to his environment. But as to his name received in baptism, therewith was connected a grief so deep and a dread so great, that it was, perhaps, the most baleful of his closeted skeletons. Fortune having so far enabled Monsieur to hide the sorrow connected with his Christian name, let us also leave the matter to fortune.

To enumerate all the grievances of our philosopher would be a tedious task, but there was one of such magnitude that it may be regarded as the great grievance of his existence. This was Christianity.

That earnest conviction of the truth of orthodox Christianity should incite to propagandism is easily comprehensible. A reasonable sinner will not complain of the believer's desire to save errant souls; indeed, he may well be amazed that the believer engages in any other occupation. But why the rage for proselytizing should inspire the non-believer is less obvious. Why should the heathen rage because the zealot is deluded by hope and his eyes deceived by the cheering illusions offered by faith? If the rough road of the Christian wayfarer, its gloomy valleys and dark caverns are smoothed and illumined by the cheering light of conviction, why should the skeptic object, and beckon the fervent pilgrim from his chosen path to that broader and more alluring road selected by himself? Can it be that, like a boy who fears the coming darkness, the skeptic craves companionship, suspecting hobgoblins after sunset?

Monsieur Claghorn was indignant that the world, as he knew it, either professed a more or less orthodox belief in God, or cared nothing about the matter. Both attitudes aroused his ire.

"My dear Claghorn," urged his connexion, the Marquise de Fleury, "why not leave these matters to Père Martin, as I do? I assure you it is comforting," and the little matron shrugged her rather sharp shoulder-blades and nestled more snugly in the corner of her blue-silk sofa.

"It is degrading to the intellect."

"Ah! The intellect—I have none; I am all soul."

"You—the brightest woman in Paris!"

"Too broad, mon ami. Exaggeration destroys the delicate flavor of a compliment."

"Louise, you are in a bad humor. Evidently, you don't like your gown."

"The gown is ravishing, as you should have seen before this. It is you, my friend, who are angry. To what end? Angry at nothing? That is foolish. Angry at something? Considering that that Something is God——"

"There you have it,—fear. Women rule men through their passions; and priests rule women through their fears."

"Eh bien! Have it so. You deny God. It is daring—splendid—but what do you gain, what do you gain, mon ami?"

"I deny your impossible God, and in so doing, I retain my self-respect."

"A valuable possession, doubtless. Yet the fact remains that you fight windmills, or you fight the power that loosens the hurricane. Futile warfare!"

Monsieur shrugged his shoulders. A woman's argument is rarely worthy the attention of a philosopher.

"Behold," continued the little Marquise, "behold Père Martin. He is good; he is wise. What has he to gain? Only heaven. He sacrifices much on earth—pleasure, dignity, power——"

"He has more power than a king——"

"Listen, my friend, and do not interrupt. If he has power over me and such as I—which is what you mean—he uses it discreetly, kindly. I enjoy life, I hope for heaven. You enjoy life, of heaven you have no hope. Which of us is wise?"

"You believe because you think it safer."

"Dame, mon ami! It costs nothing."

"It is cowardly."

"Ah, well, my friend, I am a coward. Let us discuss something less gruesome. This charming Natalie! You will let her come to me, now that she is to leave the barbarians?"

"I, too, am a coward. I fear Père Martin."

"Believe me, my friend," said the Marquise, more seriously than she had yet spoken, "you do wrong. Women need religion. They must adore; they must sacrifice themselves to the object of their worship. As a rule they have a choice. They may worship God or they may worship Love. To one or the other they will devote themselves or miss their destiny. Which is less dangerous?"

"There is danger everywhere," replied the philosopher, discontentedly. "But, indeed, Louise, this matter is more serious to me, the unbeliever, than to you, the Christian. You Latins do not comprehend the reverence we of a different race assign to principle. I think it wrong, immoral, to expose my daughter to an atmosphere of falsehood."

"Monsieur, you are unjust to us Latins; and worse, you are impolite."

"I am serious. I think Christianity the curse of mankind."

"And you object to it. That is magnanimous."

"Natalie has been left in total ignorance of all religion."

"Charming—but hardly de rigueur for a de Fleury."

"She is a Claghorn."

"An excellent thing to be; enviable indeed, my dear,—in America. But she will be a Parisienne; we hope a de Fleury, of a house by inheritance religious. The wife of the Marquis de Fleury must uphold the family traditions. Do you not see, my friend, that it is thirty generations of nobles that insist."

Monsieur Claghorn, though in doubt as to God, believed in the generations. He had long looked forward to the time when his daughter should be united to the last scion of this ancient race. True, the title was in these days purely ornamental; but, though a philosopher, he was not of that unwise class which can see no value in adornment. He suspected that the noble Marquis, whose coronet he craved for his daughter, as well as his mama, the little lady to whom he was talking, were in truth as much interested in the material as in the spiritual attributes of the future mother of the race, but he was also aware that there were other influences to be considered.

"Perhaps Père Martin is even more insistent than the thirty generations," he suggested.

"Even so, my friend; when Père Martin insists it is my conscience that insists."

"After all, Louise, this discussion is premature. Adolphe is still at St. Cyr, Natalie at school——"

"But to-day we prepare for to-morrow. Adolphe will soon be a lieutenant, your daughter a woman. Let her come to me. Our prayers, those of Père Martin and mine, cannot harm her."

"Assuredly not, still——"

"But my good pagan, do you intend to refuse? Is it worth nothing to your daughter to be introduced by the Marquise de Fleury?"

It was worth so much that M. Claghorn had no intention of refusing. "And Adolphe?" he asked.

"Will remain at St. Cyr. Fear nothing, my friend. I shall do nothing in that matter without consulting you."

"You are always kind. It shall be as you wish." And then, after some further indifferent conversation, the Marquise was by M. Claghorn handed to her carriage for a promenade in the Bois; while the philosopher, after that act of courtesy, left her to visit La Duchesne, a fashionable seeress, who prophesied as to the course of stocks.

CHAPTER II.

TWO PAGANS DISCUSS FISH, PARIS AND THE HIGHER CRITICISM.

It was midsummer. The Marquise was in Brittany, Monsieur in Germany; or, as Madame de Fleury patriotically expressed it, among the barbarians, he having penetrated into barbaric wilds in order to reclaim his daughter, whose education, for the past two years, had been progressing under barbaric auspices.

There is, not far from Heidelberg, and in that part of the country of the barbarians known as the Odenwald, a quaint village called Forellenbach; and hard by the village, which is clustered against a steep hill-side, there dashes in cascades that foam and roar, a stream, from the dark pools whereof are drawn trout, which, by the excellent host of the Red-Ox are served hot, in a sauce compounded of white wine and butter; and these things render the place forever memorable to him who loves fish or scenery, or both.

Monsieur Claghorn and his daughter were seated in the garden of the Red-Ox. They had arrived at the inn in a carriage, being on their way to Heidelberg. From Natalie's school they had journeyed by rail to Bad Homburg; and from that resort, having despatched the girl's maid ahead by train, they had commenced a mode of travel which Natalie secretly hoped would not end as soon as had been originally anticipated; for the trip thus far had been the most delightful experience of her life.

There were reasons for this delight besides the joy derived from driving in pleasant weather, over smooth roads, through curious villages, beside winding rivers whose vineclad hills echoed the raftsman's song; beneath the trees of many a forest, passing often the ruins of some grim keep, which silently told to the girl its story of the time that, being past, was a time of romance when life was more beautiful, more innocent, less sordid than now. Not that Natalie knew much of the unpleasing features of modern life, or of any life (else had her self-made pictures of other days borne a different aspect), still the past had its attraction for her, as it has for all that love to dream; and from her Baedeker she had derived just enough information to form the basis of many a tender scene that had never taken place, in days that never were or could have been. Her dreams were not wholly of the past, but of the future as well; all impossible and as charming as innocence and imagination could paint them. School was behind her, her face toward France, a home fireside, liberty and happiness for all time to come. No vision of the days in which she had not lived could be more alluring than the visions of the days in which she was to live, nor more delusive.

Beverley Claghorn looking upon his daughter, perhaps, also saw a visionary future. He loved her, of course. He respected her, too, for had not her mother been of the ancient House of Fleury? It was no ignoble blood which lent the damask tint to cheeks upon which he gazed with complacent responsibility for their being. The precious fluid, coursing beneath the fair skin, if carefully analyzed, should exhibit corpuscles tinged with royal azure. For, was it not true that a demoiselle of her mother's line had been, in ancient days, graciously permitted to bear a son to a king of France, from which son a noble House had sprung with the proud privilege of that bar sinister which proclaimed its glory? These were facts well worthy to be the foundation of a vision in which he saw the maid before him a wife of one of the old noblesse; a mother of sons who would uphold the sacred cause of Legitimacy, as their ancestors (including himself, for he was a furious Legitimist) had done before them. It would solace the dreaded status of grandfather.

"What are you thinking of, Natalie?" he asked in French.

"Of many things; principally that I am sorry he showed them to us."

"The trout?"

"Yes, I am so hungry."

"They have sharpened your appetite. They are beautiful fish."

"I'm glad they haven't spoiled it. Why, papa, they were alive! Did you see their gills palpitate?"

"They are very dead now."

"And we shall eat them. It seems a pity."

He laughed. "Grief will not prevent your enjoyment," he said; "you will have a double luxury—of woe, and——"

"You are ashamed of my capacity for eating, papa. It is very unromantic."

Papa smiled, raising his eyelids slightly. He seemed, and in fact was, a little bored. "Haven't we had enough of this?" he asked.

"But we haven't had any yet."

"I don't mean trout—I only hope they won't be drowned in bad butter—I mean of this," and he lazily stretched his arms, indicating the Odenwald.

She sighed. Her secret hope that the journey by carriage might be extended further than planned was waning. "I was never so happy in my life," she exclaimed. "I shall never forget the pine-forests, the hills, the castles; nor the geese in the villages; nor the horrible little cobblestones——"

"Nor the sour wine——"

"That is your French taste, papa. The vin du pays is no better in France. The wine is good enough, if you pay enough."

"The Lützelsachser is drinkable, the Affenthaler even good," admitted Monsieur, indulgent to barbaric vintage; "but think of yesterday!"

"Think of an epicure who expected to get Affenthaler in that poor little village! They gave you the best they had."

"Which was very bad." He laughed good-naturedly. "I dread a similar experience if we continue this method of travel."

"I could travel this way forever and forever!" She sighed and extended her arms, then clasped her hands upon her breast. It was an unaffected gesture of youth and pleasure and enthusiasm.

It made him smile. "Wait until you have seen Paris," he said.

"But I have seen Paris."

"With the eyes of a child; now you are a woman."

"That is so," somewhat dreamily, as though this womanhood were no new subject of reverie. "I am eighteen—but why should Paris be especially attractive to a woman?"

"Paris is the world."

"And so is this."

"This, my dear——" the remonstrance on his lips was interrupted by the arrival of the fish.

They were very good: "Ravissant!" exclaimed Natalie, who displayed a very pitiless appreciation of them. "Not so bad," admitted papa.

"And so I am to stay with my cousin, the Marquise," said the girl, after the cravings of an excellent appetite had been satisfied. "Papa, even you can find no fault with this Deidesheimer," filling her glass as she spoke.

"With your cousin for a time, anyhow. It is very kind of her, and for you nothing better could be wished. She sees the best world of Paris."

"And as I remember, is personally very nice."

"A charming woman—with a fault. She is devout."

"I have known some like her," observed Natalie. "There was Fräulein Rothe, our drawing-mistress, a dear old lady, but very religious."

"I hope none of them attempted to influence you in such matters," he said, frowning slightly.

"No. It was understood that you had expressly forbidden it. I was left out of the religious classes; they called me 'The Pagan.'"

"No harm in that," commented Monsieur rather approvingly.

"Oh, no! It was all in good-nature. The Pagan was a favorite. But, of course, I have had some curiosity. I have read a little of the Bible." She made her confession shyly, as though anticipating reproach.

"There is no objection to that," he said. "At your age you should have a mind of your own. Use it and I have no fear as to the result. My view is that in leaving you uninfluenced I have done my duty much more fully than if I had early impressed upon you ideas which I think pernicious, and which only the strongest minds can cast aside in later life. What impression has your Bible reading left?"

"The Jews of the Old Testament were savages, and their book is unreadable for horrors. The Gospel narratives seem written by men of another race. The character of Jesus is very noble. He must have lived, for he could not have been invented by Jews. Of course, he was not God, but I don't wonder that his followers thought so."

"He was a Great Philosopher," answered Monsieur Claghorn with high approval. "The incarnation of pure stoicism, realizing the ideal more truly than even Seneca or Marcus. And what of the literary quality of the book?"

"The gospels are equal to the Vicar of Wakefield or Paul and Virginia. As to the rest," she shrugged her shoulders after the French fashion—"Revelation was written by a maniac."

"Or a modern poet," observed the gentleman.

Now while these latest exponents of the Higher Criticism were thus complacently settling the literary standing of Luke and John, placing them on as high a level as that attained by Goldsmith and St. Pierre, the man smoking and the girl sipping wine (for the fish had been devoured and their remains removed), two persons came into the garden. They carried knapsacks and canes, wore heavy shoes, were dusty and travel-stained. The elder of the pair had the clerical aspect; the youth was simply a very handsome fellow of twenty or thereabout, somewhat provincial in appearance.

Beverley Claghorn glanced at the pair, and with an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, which, if it referred to the newcomers, was not complimentary, continued to smoke without remark. The girl was more curious.

"They are English," she said.

"Americans," he answered, with a faint shade of disapproval in his tone.

"But so are we," she remonstrated, noting the tone.

"We can't help it," he replied, resenting one of his grievances. "You can hardly be called one."

"Is it disgraceful?"

"Not at all; but I don't flaunt it."

"But, papa, surely you are not ashamed of it?"

"Certainly not. But it is a little tiresome. Our countrymen are so oppressively patriotic. They demand of you that you glory in your nativity. I don't. I am not proud of it. I shouldn't be proud of being an Englishman, or a Frenchman, or an Italian, or——"

"In fact, papa, you are not proud at all."

"Natalie," proceeded the philosopher, not noticing the interruption, "one may be well-disposed toward the country of one's birth; one may even recognize the duty of fighting, if need be, for its institutions. But the pretence of believing in one's country, of fulsome adoration for imperfect institutions, is to welcome intellectual slavery, to surrender to the base instinct of fetichism."

"Like religion," she said, recognizing the phrase.

"Like religion," he assented. "You will find when you are as old as I am that I am right."

"Yet people do believe in religion. There's Fräulein Rothe——"

"Natalie, no reasoning being can believe what is called Christianity, but many beings think that they believe."

"But why don't they discover that they don't think what they think they think?"

"There's nothing strange in that. When they were young they were told that they believed, and have grown up with that conviction. The same people would scorn to accept a new and incredible story on the evidence which is presented in favor of the Christian religion."

The girl sighed as though the paternal wisdom was somewhat unsatisfactory. Meantime the slight raising of Monsieur's voice had attracted the attention of the dusty wayfarers who, in default of other occupation, took to observing the pair.

"She is very pretty," said the youth.

The elder did not answer. He was intently scrutinizing Beverley Claghorn. After a moment of hesitation he surprised his companion by rising and approaching that person with outstretched hand.

"I cannot be mistaken," he exclaimed in a loud, hearty voice. "This is a Claghorn."

"That is my name," replied the would-be Gallic owner of the appellation in English. "I have the honor of seeing——" but even as he uttered the words he recognized the man who was now shaking a somewhat reluctant hand with gushing heartiness.

"I am Jared. You remember me, of course. I see it in your eyes. And so this is really you—Eliphalet! 'Liph, as we called you at the old Sem. 'Liph, I am as glad to see you as a mother a long-lost son."

"And I," replied the other, "am charmed." He bore it smiling, though his daughter looked on in wonder, and he felt that the secret of his baptism had been heartlessly disclosed.

"This," said Jared, "is my son, Leonard," and while the son grew red and bowed, the clergyman looked at the girl to whom his son's bow had been principally directed.

"My daughter, Natalie de Fleury-Claghorn," said her father. "My dear, this is my cousin, Professor Claghorn, whom I have not seen for many years."

"Not since we were students together at Hampton Theological Seminary," added Jared, smilingly. He habitually indulged in a broad smile that indicated satisfaction with things as he found them. It was very broad now, as he offered his hand, saying, "And so you are 'Liph's daughter, and your name is Natalidaflurry—that must be French. And your mother, my dear, I hope——"

"My wife has been dead since my daughter's birth," interrupted Monsieur, "and I," he added, "long ago discarded my baptismal name and assumed that of my mother."

"Discarded the old name!" exclaimed the Reverend Jared, surprised. "Had I been aware of that, I surely would have given it to Leonard. I regarded it, as in some sort, the property of the elder branch. Surely, you don't call yourself Susan?"

"My mother's name was Susan Beverley; I assumed her family name." The philosopher uttered the words with a suavity that did him credit. Then, apologetically, and in deference to his cousin's evident grief: "You see, Eliphalet was somewhat of a mouthful for Frenchmen."

"And so the old name has fallen into disuse," murmured Jared regretfully. "We must revive it. Leonard, upon you——"

But Leonard had taken Natalie to look at the cascades.

So, lighting fresh cigars, the two former fellow-students commenced a revival of old memories. Their discourse, especially on the part of the clergyman, contained frequent allusion to family history, which to the reader would be both uninteresting and incomprehensible. But, since some knowledge of that history is requisite to the due understanding of the tale that is to be told, the respected personage indicated is now invited to partake of that knowledge.

CHAPTER III.

A COUSIN IN THE COILS OF THE GREAT SERPENT.

Professor and the Reverend Jared Claghorn has already intimated that the name Eliphalet was an honored one in the family. An Eliphalet Claghorn had been a man of mark among the Pilgrims. His eldest son had borne his parent's name and had succeeded to the clerical vocation; an example which he had imposed upon his own first-born, and thus became established the custom of giving to a son of each Eliphalet the name of his father, in the pleasing hope that he who bore the revered appellation might be called to serve in the Lord's fold, as shepherd of the flock; which hope had generally been realized. In due course that Eliphalet who was destined to beget Beverley had been called, had answered the summons, and at the birth of his only son, had, with confident expectation of a similar call to the latter, named his name "Eliphalet."

In time the call was heard. The youth, fully assured that he, like the ancestral Eliphalets, would find his field of labor in the vineyard of God, had gone so far in acceptance of his solemn duty as to enter the well-known Theological Seminary at Hampton, there to fit himself for the only future he had ever contemplated.

Then a shock had come,—a great legacy from one of two California brothers, both long given up as dead. From the moment this fortune came into his possession, the father of Beverley Claghorn, always a stern and gloomy man, the product of a ruthless creed, knew no day of peace. He craved worldly distinction—not the pleasures which beckoned his son—with a craving which only a starved nature with powers fitting to the world can know. On the other hand, a rigid sense of duty, perhaps, too, the gloomy joy of martyrdom, urged him to reject a temptation which he persuaded himself was offered by the Prince of Darkness. He remained outwardly true to his duty, an unhappy soldier at the post assigned him, and died as his fathers had died, in the odor of sanctity; in his heart hankering to the last for the joys offered by the world to him who has wealth, and to the last sternly rejecting them.

Secretly, though with bitter self-condemnation, he had approved his son's renunciation of the theological course. Not with his lips. It was impossible for him, stubbornly believing, as he had always believed, though now with the frequent doubts and fears of the new standpoint he occupied, to openly approve the intentions displayed by the youth. Yet he acquiesced in silence, secretly hoping to see the son, who had commenced the study of the law, a power in the State. That he was never to see, and it was well that he died before the renegade Eliphalet had extinguished such hope by voluntary exile.

Beverley's history, or at least that portion of it which he chose to impart, was told in reply to the eager questioning of Jared. Perhaps he was not sorry that his old fellow-student should note his air of man of fashion and aristocrat, and he set forth the renown of the de Fleury lineage, innocently shocking his cousin by explaining the meaning and glory of that bar sinister, which he himself revered.

Jared, on his part, narrated at much greater length than his auditor sympathetically appreciated, the history of his own life. He, too, had married brilliantly—a Morley, as he informed his cousin, and one who, dying, had left him well endowed with this world's goods, and it may be that it was by reason of this fact, as well as because of superior attainments, that the speaker had developed into a teacher in that same seminary where the two had been fellow-students.

"Yes," he said in a tone of satisfaction, "I hold down the chair of Biblical Theology in Hampton. You would hardly recognize the old Sem, El—Beverley."

"I suppose not. I shall make a flying trip there some day."

"A flying trip! Surely you don't intend to abandon your country forever?"

"Not unlikely. You see, I am more of a Frenchman than anything else, and my daughter is quite French."

"She speaks English?"

"Oh, as to that, as well as anybody. She has been largely educated in England. But her relatives, I mean those that she knows, look upon her as belonging wholly to them, and——"

"I trust she is not a Romanist, Cousin."

"You mean a Catholic. Make your mind easy; she is not."

"I truly rejoice to hear it," exclaimed Jared with fervor. "But I might have known," he added apologetically, "that a Claghorn would not suffer the perversion of his child." Whereat Monsieur changed the topic.

Meanwhile, the young ones of the party had gone to investigate an echo in a glen hard by, directed thereto by the host of the Red-Ox. They were conducted by a stolid maiden, told off for that purpose, a fact which Monsieur Claghorn, from his place in the garden, noted with satisfaction.

Freed from the restraint of the presence of the philosopher, whose raiment and bearing had inspired him with awe, Leonard's engaging simplicity and frank manner added to the favorable impression of his beautiful face.

The charms of nature about them were attractive to both and it was easy to become acquainted, with so much of interest in common. The girl's enthusiasm, somewhat dampened by the philosopher, returned in the presence of a sympathetic listener, and she told the tale of their wanderings, concluding by expressing the opinion that Germany must be the most delightful of all countries.

"This part is fine," said Leonard. "But wait until you see the Black Forest."

"I hope to see it when we leave Heidelberg. Is the wine good?"

"I don't know," was the answer. "I didn't drink any wine."

"It must be very bad if you wouldn't drink it," she observed despondently. "Papa scolds about the wine of the Bergstrasse, which, for my part, I find very good. Then, at the better inns one isn't confined to the vintage of the neighborhood."

"Surely, you don't drink wine!" exclaimed Leonard.

"Not drink wine! What should I do with it?"

"It biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder," he quoted gravely, not at all priggishly. He was sincere in his confidence in Solomon, and his surprise and sorrow were honest.

"Wine does!" she laughed. "I never knew that before. Don't Americans drink wine?"

"Some do," he admitted. "Our best people do not drink. We think the example bad."

"Par example! And how do your best people manage at dinner?"

"With water."

"Decidedly, I should not like dining with your best people."

"But, Cousin Natalie—that is a very pretty name;" here he blushed engagingly—"wine makes one drunk."

"Certainly, if one gets drunk."

"Then, how can you drink wine?"

The question and the serious manner of its asking were incomprehensible to the girl, who laughed at the incongruity of the ideas suggested by drinking wine on the one hand, and getting drunk on the other. Then the subject was dropped; perhaps they recognized that it was enveloped in clouds of misunderstanding which were impenetrable.

The glen in which dwells the echo of Forellenbach is like a roofless cave, or a great well with a side entrance. Its floor being wet, Natalie remained at the entrance, trusting there to hear whatever might be worth hearing. Leonard passed into the well.

He looked back. She stood in the light, smiling upon this new-found cousin, who had such strange ideas as to wine, but withal, her eyes were kindly. If either had any premonition of the future, it must have been false or partial, or they had not faced each other smiling. He had intended to shout aloud her pretty name and thus to test the echo; but instinct warned him that this was hardly fitting. So, perhaps, with a vague desire to connect her with the trial, he compromised, and the word he shouted was "Claghorn."

It was returned to him in various modulations from all sides. The effect was startling, but even more so were the words that fell upon his ear as the echoes died away: "Who are you, and what do you want?"

The question came from above. Leonard, looking upward, saw the face of a youth who, from the top of the cliff, was peering down. Upon the head of this person, rakishly worn, was a blue cap, braided with silver and red velvet. The face had penetrating eyes, rather stern, and a mouth shaded by a dark moustache. The question was repeated, it seemed to Leonard truculently: "What do you want?"

The words were German, but easily understood. Leonard answered in English: "I don't want you."

"Then, why did you call me?" Now the words were English and the tone awakened Leonard's resentment. "Do you suppose that every one that tries the echo is calling you?" he asked.

"You called me. Why?"

Leonard labored under the disadvantage of hearing all that was said repeated many times. It was irritating; nor was the tone of the other pacific. It was even war-like. "I didn't address you," he said. "I do now: Be silent!"

The other laughed. "Bist ein dummer Junge, my son," he said. "I suppose you are a student. Get your card."

He disappeared, evidently with a view of intercepting Leonard who, emerging from the cave, met him almost at Natalie's side.

The newcomer was surprised to see the girl. "I beg your pardon," he said, removing his cap; then, aside to Leonard: "I will accept your card on another occasion, if you prefer. You are a student of Heidelberg, I suppose?"

"I am a student, certainly, of Hampton, in the United States. I have no card. My name is Claghorn."

The sternness of the newcomer gave place to astonishment. "I beg your pardon, and your sister's," he said, glancing at Natalie. "My name happens to be the same. Naturally, I supposed——"

"The place seems to be alive with Claghorns," exclaimed Leonard.

"And since you are from Hampton, I believe we are related," continued the newcomer. "Cousins, I suppose. You can't be Professor Claghorn?"

"I can be, and am, his son," laughed Leonard. "You are the third cousin I have found to-day."

By this time the two elders had joined the party. Monsieur Claghorn had deemed it advisable, for his daughter's sake, to follow her footsteps. The Reverend Jared, accompanying him, heard Leonard's words. "A cousin!" he exclaimed, looking inquiringly at the stranger who made the claim, and ready gushingly to welcome him.

"I think so," answered the stranger, smiling. "My father was Joseph Claghorn, of San Francisco."

"He's your first cousin, 'Liph," exclaimed the Reverend Jared, hesitating no longer, but grasping the unoffered hand of the son of Joseph. Then he added in an awestruck voice, "You must be the owner of the Great Serpent?"

"I am in its coils," replied the young man with a half sigh.

"Wonderful!" ejaculated Jared, and then glibly plunged into a genealogical disquisition for the general benefit, the result of which was that Claghorn, the son of Joseph, and in the coils of the Great Serpent, stood demonstrated as the first cousin of Beverley, the second of Natalie, the third of himself and the fourth of Leonard. The professorial fluency had the good effect of creating enough hilarity to dissipate constraint; and its cordiality embraced all present in a circle of amity, whether they would or not.

But there was no indication of reluctance to cousinly recognition. Monsieur saw sufficient comedy in the situation to amuse him, nor was he oblivious of the fascinations of the Great Serpent, which reptile was a mine, known by repute to all present, and the source of Monsieur's wealth, for that inheritance that had changed the course of his life had been thence derived. The dead brother of the now dead Eliphalet had left his share of the mine to Joseph, his partner, but had divided his savings between Eliphalet and a sister, Achsah by name. The son of Joseph, and owner of the Great Serpent, must be in the eyes of anybody the acceptable person he was in the eyes of Monsieur Claghorn, the more so as he was thoroughly presentable, being handsome, well dressed, and with rather more of the air of a man of the world than was usual in one of his years, which might be twenty-one.

"We have not learned your Christian name," said Jared, after acquaintance had been established and the youth had been duly informed of much family history. "I hope your parents named you Eliphalet," glancing, not without reproach, at the actual owner of that appellation.

"They spared me that infliction," answered the newcomer, laughing, "though they hit me pretty hard. My name is Mark"; then, perhaps noting the faint flush upon the cheek of one of the members of the group, "I beg pardon; I should have been more respectful of a respectable family name, which may be borne by some one of you."

"Nobody bears it; you are to be congratulated," observed Monsieur firmly. The Reverend Jared looked grieved, but said nothing.

Mark Claghorn informed his auditors—there was no escaping the examination of the Professor—that he was a student at Heidelberg, that his mother sojourned there with him, that she was a widow, with an adopted daughter, a distant connexion, named Paula; and having learned that the entire party was bound for that city he expressed the hope that all these wandering offshoots of the Claghorn family might there meet and become better acquainted.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DIVERSIONS OF THE CLAGHORNS.

A good-humored widow, fair, and if mature, not old, and with the allurement of the possession of boundless wealth; two lovely maids; a brace of well-disposed young men, of whom one was strikingly beautiful and guileless, the other less comely as less innocent, yet in these respects not deficient, and the heir of millions; finally, a genial theologian and a philosopher, summer and Heidelberg—given these components and it must be confessed that the impromptu reunion of the Claghorns promised present enjoyment and gratifying memories for the future. The various members of the clan acted as if they so believed and were content. There were moments, indeed, when the genial Jared was moved to bewail the absence of Miss Achsah Claghorn, as being the only notable member of the family not present. The philosopher admitted a youthful acquaintance with the lady in question, who was his aunt, and echoed the Professor's eulogy, but evinced resignation. To the others, except to Leonard, who had evidently been taught to revere Miss Achsah, she was personally unknown, hence the loss occasioned by her absence was by them unfelt.

"She is greatly exercised just now," observed Jared, "by an event which possesses interest for all of us, and which ought to especially interest you, 'Liph."

"Salvation for the heathen by means of moral pocket handkerchiefs?" drawled the philosopher, secretly annoyed by the clergyman's persistent use of his discarded Christian name.

"She says a sacrilegious scheme; nothing short of the desecration of your namesake's grave," retorted the Professor.

The party was grouped on the great terrace of the castle, against the balustrade of which the clergyman leaned as he addressed his audience with somewhat of the air of a lecturer, an aspect which was emphasized by his use of a letter which he had drawn from his pocket, and to which he pointed with his long forefinger.

"You are all doubtless aware," he observed, "that Miss Achsah is the sister of the late Reverend Eliphalet Claghorn, father of our cousin and friend here present" (indicating Monsieur, who bowed to the speaker), "and, as the sister of your deceased husband, Mrs. Joseph, she is your sister-in-law."

The lady smilingly assented to a proposition indisputable, and which probably contained no element of novelty to her; while Jared informed Mark and Natalie that the writer of the letter in his hand was aunt to the youth and great-aunt to the maiden. "She is also cousin to me, and in a further remove to Leonard," and having thus defined the status of Miss Claghorn, he proceeded to explain that he had reminded his hearers of the facts for the reason that the matter concerning which the lady's letter treated was of interest to all present, "except to you, my dear," he added sympathizingly to Paula, "you not being a Claghorn."

"We compassionate you, Mademoiselle," observed the philosopher to the damsel, "and I am sure," he added in a lower tone, "you are sorry for us." To which, Paula, who did not quite understand the philosopher, responded only with a smile and a blush.

"Miss Achsah's letter," continued the Professor, ignoring the by-play, and addressing Mrs. Joe, is dated two months since, and runs thus:

"'I wrote in my last of the strange events taking place in Easthampton. At that time there were only rumors; now there are facts to go upon. The tract given by our ancestor to the Lord is at this moment the property of a New York lawyer. You know that I long ago tried to buy the tomb and was refused. The trustees assure me that it will not be desecrated, that the purchaser promised of his own accord that the sacred dust should not be disturbed. I told them that they might advantageously take lessons in reverence from the lawyer, so there is a coolness between the trustees and myself.' (I am really very sorry for that," muttered the reader parenthetically)——

"As I understand," interrupted Mrs. Joe, "the land was owned by the Seminary, and the Seminary which is now in Hampton was to have been built upon it. Is that what my sister-in-law means by saying it was given to the Lord?"

"Her view is not exactly correct," replied the Professor. "I am myself one of the trustees. Possibly, Eliphalet Claghorn hoped that the Seminary would eventually be erected upon the land he gave toward its foundation. Evidently his successors, the fathers of the church, preferred Hampton to Easthampton."

"In those days Easthampton was a busy mart of trade—they do say the slave trade," observed the philosopher. "Hampton, as a secluded village, not liable to incursions of enslaved heathen, godless sailors or godly traders, was better fitted for pious and scholastic meditation, and——"

"Now the conditions are reversed," interrupted Jared; "Hampton is a considerable city, Easthampton a quiet suburb."

"Does Miss Achsah say what the lawyer intends to do with his purchase?" asked Mrs. Joe.

"No doubt he represents a concealed principal," suggested the philosopher, "probably a rival institution—a Jesuit College."

Jared turned pale. "You don't really suppose, 'Liph—but, no! I am sure my co-trustees could not be taken in."

Mrs. Joe cast a reproachful glance at the philosopher. "Miss Achsah would surely have detected a Jesuit plot had there been one," she observed encouragingly. "But why is she so indignant?"

"She has long wanted to purchase the ground about the tomb," replied Jared. "Naturally, she feels aggrieved that it will come into the hands of a stranger. The trustees, to my knowledge, tried to retain it, with the rest of the waste ground, and to sell only the old wharves and houses, but the lawyer insisted; in fact, paid a high price for the waste land which includes the grave."

"Mysterious, if not Jesuitical," murmured Beverley; but the clergyman affected not to hear.

"Has Miss Achsah no knowledge of the intentions of the purchaser?" asked the lady.

"This is what she says," answered the Professor, consulting the letter:

"'The trustees conceal the purpose for which the land is wanted, but I forced the information from Hacket when I informed him that, if I so desired, I could give the management of my affairs to young Burley. At this, Mr. Hacket came down from his high horse and informed me in confidence that the lawyer is to build a grand residence at the Point, and will spend an immense amount of money. All of which is not reassuring, if true. Although the place has been shamefully neglected, I was always glad to know that the Tomb was there, solitary amid the crags; only the sea-roar breaking the silence. I suppose there will be other sounds now, not so pleasant to think about.'"

"Well," observed Mrs. Joe, after a pause, "let us hope that Miss Achsah will be reconciled after the lawyer's plans are more fully developed. He seems to be willing to respect the tomb."

"What is this tomb?" asked Natalie.

"The Tomb of Eliphalet Claghorn, the first of your race in the New World," explained the Professor reverently, and not without a reproachful glance at the philosopher, who had too evidently left his daughter in ignorance of much family history.

"He came over in the Mayflower," observed Leonard in a low tone to Natalie; and then, to his surprise, found it necessary to explain his explanation, for which purpose, in company with the girl he strolled away.

They paused at a little distance, and leaning upon the stone balustrade, looked down upon the town or at the plain beyond, or across the Neckar at the hills of the Philosophenweg. Here Leonard told his foreign cousin the story of the first Eliphalet.

"A strange story," was her comment.

"A noble story," he corrected.

"All sacrifice is noble. I know a woman in extreme poverty who gave ten francs to regild a tawdry statue of the Virgin."

"Deplorable!" exclaimed Leonard severely.

"Pitiful, rather. Consider what the sum was to her! The needs she sacrificed—and for what?"

"Sacrifice wasted, and degradingly wasted."

"Wasted, doubtless; but why degradingly?"

"Granted that your poor woman was sincere"—which, however, the speaker seemed to grant but grudgingly—"the sacrifice was still degrading in that it was made to superstition."

She smiled. "What would my poor woman say of Grandfather Eliphalet?"

"It's a question, you see, of the point of view," observed Mark, who had sauntered to where they stood.

"It's a question of truth and falsehood," retorted Leonard a little stiffly, and not best pleased with the interruption of the tête-à-tête.

"Do you know the truth?"

"God is truth."

"A truly theological elucidation," said Mark.

"What do you say, Cousin Natalie?" asked Leonard wistfully.

She had been gazing across the plain at the towers of Ladenburg, gleaming in the glow of the setting sun. "Can anybody say?" she answered. "Look at the plain," she added, stretching forth her hand, "these battered walls, the city at our feet. How often have they been scorched by fire and soaked in blood; and always in the cause of that truth which so many said was false!"

"Rather, because of the schemes of ambitious men," said Leonard.

"The pretext was always religion. Priests always the instigators of the wars," said Mark.

"Priests, yes, I grant you——"

"I include those of the Reformation. The bloodiest history of this place is its history since the Reformation. The source of its horrors was religion, always religion."

"For which reason," retorted Leonard, "you would blame religion, rather than the men who made it a cloak to ambition."

"One asks: What is religion?" said Natalie. "Catholics say of Frederick, who reigned here, that he was led by ambition to his fall; Protestants, that he fell a glorious sacrifice in the cause of truth. Who shall judge?"

"False ideas of duty lead to perdition," said Leonard sententiously.

"Which would seem to demonstrate that Frederick was in the wrong," observed Mark. "That may be so, but it hardly lies in the mouth of a student of Hampton."

"Of course, I know that Frederick was the Protestant champion," said Leonard, annoyed; "but——"

"Yet he lost his cause! How can one know—how do you know the truth?" The girl looked up with an eager expression as she asked the question.

"I know because I feel it," he answered in a low tone. They were solemn words to him, and as he uttered them a longing to show truth to this fair maid arose within him.

"And if one does not know, one cannot feel," murmured Natalie sadly. "Catholics, Jews, Protestants, all feel and all know——"

"That the others are all wrong," interjected Mark.

Meanwhile, the others of the party were approaching, the Professor expatiating to Paula anent the glories of the Claghorn race; not such glories, as he pointed out, as those of which they saw the evidences in the effigies of warriors and carved armorial bearings; but higher glories, humble deeds on earth, of which the story illuminated the celestial record. The dissertation had been commenced for the general weal, but the widow and the philosopher had gradually dropped behind, leaving Paula alone to derive benefit from the lessons drawn by Cousin Jared from the Claghorn history as contrasted with that of the rulers of the Palatinate.

CHAPTER V.

HOW A PAGAN PHILOSOPHER ENTERED THE SERVICE OF THE CHURCH.

"I fear you do not sympathize with Miss Achsah," observed the widow to her companion.

"In her solicitude for the tomb of Grandfather Eliphalet? No. Reverence for my ancestor has diminished with age; my excellent aunt, as befits a lady, remains ever young and romantic."

"She ought to appreciate the lawyer's declared intention to respect the grave."

"Handsome of the lawyer, who, du reste, seems an anomaly."

"How so?"

"He pays an extravagant price for a dreary desert. He volunteers to keep a stranger's tomb in repair——"

"Suppose I were to tell you that I am the lawyer who is to build the handsome residence."

"I should feel honored by your confidence, and unreservedly put my trust in your motives, because they are yours."

"But you are not surprised?"

"Rather deeply interested, and no less solicitous."

"Why solicitous?"

"Because of the incongruity you present as a resident of Easthampton. That little town is not merely the sepulchre of Eliphalet Claghorn, but the grave of mirth and the social graces. Can I contemplate the possibility of your interment without sorrow?"

The gentleman's tone had lapsed into tenderness; the lady smiled. "I believe you have not seen the place for many years," she said.

"Nothing has prevented my doing so except my recollection of its attractions."

"The ground I intend for a residence," said the lady, "has great natural advantages. It faces the ocean, has noble trees——"

"And crags and boulders, a most desolate spot."

"Which a handsome house will adorn and make beautiful. We must live somewhere. If we leave California, what better place can we choose than the old home of my son's race, where his name has been honored for generations? In that region he will not be a new man."

"An old one, assuredly, if he remains there. But he will flee from the home of his ancestors. The place is sunk in somnolence; one of those country towns that the world has been glad to forget. Rotting wharves, a few tumbledown warehouses, and three or four streets, shaded by trees so big that even the white houses with their green blinds look gloomy."

"The wharves and warehouses are mine, and are to be pulled down. I like the shady streets and the white houses."

"And their inmates?" The philosopher shuddered.

"The Claghorn paragon, Miss Achsah, lives in one of them."

"Ah, Miss Achsah! You do not know Miss Achsah; she superintended my boyhood."

"The result is a tribute to her excellence."

The gentleman bowed. "She is a good woman—the personification of Roman virtue, adorned with the graces of Calvinism—but, my dear Cousin" (the lady was his aunt, if anything), "I put it to you. Is not personified virtue most admirable at a distance?"

The lady laughed. "Possibly. But I do not expect to be reduced to virtuous society only, even if I am fortunate enough to prove acceptable in the eyes of Miss Claghorn. Our Professor assures me that the Hampton circle is most agreeable; and Hampton and Easthampton are practically one."

"And what a one!" The philosopher shrugged his shoulders in true Gallic fashion. "Madame, Hampton is the home of theology—and such theology! It is filled with musty professors, their musty wives and awkward and conceited boys, in training to become awkward and conceited men. Remember, I was one of the horde and know whereof I speak. Think seriously, my dear Cousin, before you expose so beautiful a girl as Mademoiselle Paula, not to speak of yourself, to such an environment."

The lady remained unmoved, though the gentleman had pleaded eloquently. "You are prejudiced," she answered. "Confess that there is no more agreeable man than our Cousin Jared; and if his son is a fair specimen of Hampton students, they must compare favorably with any others."

"Which would not be saying much. Jared is, doubtless, a good fellow, amenable once, but now encrusted with frightfully narrow views. As to young Leonard, his extraordinary good looks and amiability render him exceptional. It is really a pity that he can't be rescued," and the speaker sighed.

A sigh born of a sincere sentiment. Monsieur was at bottom good-natured, and it affected him disagreeably to see unusual graces doomed to a pulpit or a professorial chair. It was a sad waste of advantages fitted for better things. To dedicate to Heaven charms so apt for the world, seemed to him foolish, and to the devotee unfair. He felt as may feel a generous beauty whose day is past, and who contemplates some blooming maid about to enter a nunnery. "Ah! Si la jeunesse savait," he murmured.

"You will not resolve without deliberation," he pleaded, having rendered to Leonard's fate the passing tribute of a sigh. "I dare not venture to beg you to wait until after your winter in Paris, but——"

"But, Monsieur, my resolve is fixed, though known only to you. Work is already commenced. But I must request you to keep the secret from all, including my son. I wish to surprise him."

"Your success is certain. It would be presumptuous to further combat your plans; especially"—with a graceful inclination—"since you disarm me by honoring me with your confidence."

"I have a reason for that," she said frankly. "I want your aid."

"In self-immolation! Even in that I am at your service."

"My purpose can be explained in a few words," she said, indicating a chair near the balustrade, into which the philosopher gracefully sank, after bowing the lady into one beside it. "I wish to build a grand house. My son's importance in the world is an attribute of his wealth. This is not a fact to flaunt, but is to be considered, and one by which I am bound to be influenced in contemplating his future."

"A great aid, Madame, in right conduct."

"My son will find it a great responsibility."

"Inheriting, as he does, your sense of duty," suggested the philosopher.

"Precisely. Now, I have planned a career for Mark."

There was a faint movement as of a fleeting smile behind Monsieur's well-trimmed moustache. The sharp-eyed lady noticed it, but was not disconcerted.

"I recognize the possibility of my plans coming to naught," she said. "That need not prevent my attempt to realize them. I see but one career open to my son; he must become a statesman."

"In Easthampton?"

"In the United States. It is his country. Pardon me," seeing him about to interpose. "It is not on this point I ask the aid you are willing to accord. That refers to my contemplated operations in Easthampton. It happens, however, that my son's future will depend, in no small measure, upon the enterprises in question. His great need will be identification with local interests, to which end a fixed habitation is necessary. I wish to build a house which will attract attention. To put it bluntly, I intend to advertise my son by means of my house."

"You will extort the sympathetic admiration of your compatriots."

"I shall not be as frank with them as with you. You will know that mere display is not my object."

"Yours merits admiration, even while it extorts regret."

"And now you see why Easthampton is peculiarly adapted to the end in view. No man can point to Mark Claghorn and ask, 'Who is he?' His name was carved in that region two centuries since."

"But you and your son are, I believe, liberal in your religious views. The Claghorns——"

"Have always kept the faith—with one notable exception"—the philosopher bowed acceptance of the compliment—"but I object to being called liberal, as you define the term; we are Catholics, that is to say, Anglicans."

"Humph!" muttered the philosopher dubiously.

"And I intend," pursued the lady, "to proclaim my creed by an act which I know is daring, but which will have the advantage of rooting my son and his descendants in the soil of Easthampton. I intend to build, to the memory of my husband, a High-Church chapel, a work of art that shall be unequalled in the country."

"Daring, indeed! Rash——"

"Not rash; but were it so, I should still do that which I have planned. My husband longed to return to the home of his boyhood, had fully resolved on purchasing the Seminary tract. He shall sleep where his ancestor sleeps." She turned her head to conceal a tear; the philosopher turned his to conceal a smile.

"In this pious and appropriate design, my dear Cousin," he murmured——

"I shall have your sympathy; I was sure of it. I want more; I want your aid."

In view of its wealthy source the suggestion was not alarming. The gentleman promised it to the extent of his poor powers, intimating, however, that connubial fidelity might conflict with maternal ambition, a result which he deprecated as deplorable.

Mrs. Joe had, she said, fully considered that possibility. "Suppose you are right," she answered to the philosopher's argument, "even if Hampton is the home of bigotry, boldness always commands sympathy. My chapel will lend importance to a town which mourns a lost prestige. It will be talked about from one end of the State to the other; and I intend that the Seminary shall be my right hand, the Church—my church, my left——"

"And both hands full!"

She blushed. "Of course, I shall use my advantages. The Seminary is the centre of much religious effort, which, as a Christian, I shall be glad to aid. It is the centre of influence, which I hope to share. Under my roof the representatives of differing creeds shall meet in harmony and acquire mutual respect. Should it happen that my son be politically objectionable because of my chapel—why, in such a condition of affairs the liberalism that is always latent where bigotry flourishes would spring to his aid, and find in him a leader."

"Madame!" exclaimed the gentleman, "you will win."

"I hope so," she replied, pleased at the admiration she had extorted. "And now, you shall be told how you can aid me. Paris is an art centre; there are to be found the people I shall need in regard to my plans concerning the chapel. I am resolved that this shall be so noble an edifice that the voice of detraction shall never be heard. Next winter we shall meet in Paris. Will you, so far as may be, prepare the way for my access to the places and people I desire to see?"

"Assuredly. I shall enter upon the task assigned me with admiration for your plans and sincere devotion to your interests," Thus, with his hand upon his heart and with an inclination of true Parisian elegance, the philosopher entered the service of Mrs. Joe, and of the Church.

CHAPTER VI.

ART, DIPLOMACY, LOVE AND OTHER THINGS.

Thus in amity dwelt the Claghorns, employing the summer days in innocent diversion. Many were the expeditions to points of interest; to Neckarsteinach and the Robbers' Nest, to the village of Dilsberg, perched upon the peak which even the bold Tilly had found unconquerable in peasant hands; to Handschuhsheim, where sleeps the last of his race, the boy-lord slain in duel with the fierce Baron of Hirschhorn, who himself awaits the judgment in the crypt of St. Kilian, at Heilbronn, holding in his skeleton hand a scroll, telling how the Mother's Curse pursued him to where he lies; to the Black Forest, now so smiling, but which Cæsar found dark, cold and gloomy, with its later memories of ruthless knights whose monuments are the grim ruins that crown the vineclad hills, and with present lore of gnomes and brownies. In these simple pleasures youth and maiden, philosopher, theologian and worldly widow joined with the emotions befitting their years and characteristics. To Natalie it was a time of intense delight, shared sympathetically by Paula, but more serenely. Mark enjoyed keenly, yet with rare smiles and with an underlying seriousness in which an observer might have detected a trace of the trail of the Great Serpent. Leonard, seldom absent from the side of his French cousin, delighted in the novel scenes and the companionship, but at times was puzzled by Natalie's capacity to live in a past that, as he pointed out, was better dead, since in its worst aspect it had been a time of barbarism, in its best of fanaticism. He could not understand the longing and liking for a day when if knights were bold they were also boorish, when if damosels were fair they were also ignorant of books, and perchance of bathtubs. He stared in innocent wonder at Natalie's exclamation of deprecation and Mark's harsh laugh when he pointed out such undeniable facts. To him Hans von Handschuhsheim, lying dead upon the steps of the Church of the Holy Ghost, his yellow locks red with blood, and the fierce Hirschhorn wiping his blade as he turned his back upon his handiwork—to Leonard this was a drunken brawl of three centuries since, and it grieved him to see in Natalie a tendency to be interested in the "vulgar details of crime." He knew that the girl lived in the gloom of irreligion (he was not aware that she dwelt in the outer darkness of ignorance), and he sighed as he noted one result of her unhappy lack; and he never knelt at his bedside forgetful of the fact, or of his duty in relation thereto.

As to the elders of the party, they enjoyed the present after the fashion of those whose days of dreaming have passed. Cousin Jared's broad smile of satisfaction was only absent when, in the heat of disputation, the philosopher was especially sacrilegious or aggravating, and even so, it was easily recalled by the tact of the widow, much of whose time was spent in keeping the peace between the two fellow-students of bygone years. As for the philosopher, he secretly pined for the Boulevard, though he, too, found distraction, one favorite amusement being to disturb the usual serenity of Paula by cynical witticisms, totally incomprehensible to the simple maiden.

The day of separation came at length, the first to depart being the mature and the budding theologian. Adieux were interchanged at the railway station, and many hopes as to future meetings were expressed, as well as satisfaction that chance had brought about a reunion so unexpected. No doubt these expressions were sincere, yet it is possible that as to clergyman and philosopher, each recognized in secret that their real adieux had been uttered years before. Under the circumstances, and with Mrs. Joe as a new link, the old chain had served; but at heart the two were antagonists; the chain was worn out.

"Not altogether a bad sort, Jared," observed M. Claghorn, as he walked from the station and by the side of Mrs. Joe along the Anlage.

"A thoroughly good fellow."

He smiled. It was faint praise. He said to himself complacently that she would not characterize himself as "a good fellow," whereas, the politician at his side, however she might have described her companion, regarded the departed Jared as of greater value to her plans, which had not been confided to him, than could be the philosopher in whom she had confided.

The two girls and Mark, following their elders, also interchanged views concerning the travelers. The verdict as to Cousin Jared, though less irreverently expressed, was similar to that enunciated by the widow. The good-hearted theologian had won the regard of all.

"And as for Leonard," observed Paula, "he is the handsomest boy I ever saw."

"And as amiable as beautiful," averred Natalie.

"As well as a little—shall we say 'verdant'?" suggested Mark. But the girls either denied the verdancy, or, if they admitted the charge in part, maintained it was an added excellence.

Meanwhile, the travelers contemplated one another from opposite sides of their railway carriage, the consciousness of leaving a strange world and re-entering their old one already making itself felt. To the elder man the change was neither startling nor very painful, but to Leonard it was both. He did not try to analyze his feelings, but there was a dead weight at his heart, a sorrow heavier than the natural regret at parting. It was long before he spoke. "I am so glad that our cousin, Natalie, though French, is not Catholic," he said, at length.

"I fear she is worse," was the answer.

"What could be worse?"

"Total unbelief," replied his father solemnly; and the weight at Leonard's heart grew heavier.

During the short remainder of M. Claghorn's stay at Heidelberg—already prolonged far beyond the original intention—it was arranged that he should select for the widow suitable quarters for her winter establishment at Paris; and so willing was the gentleman to be of service, that, to his great satisfaction, he received carte blanche for the purpose, and, Natalie accompanying him, departed with the resolve that the owners of the Great Serpent should be lodged in accordance with the just demands of that magnificent reptile, having in view, among other aspirations, the dazzling of the House of Fleury by the brilliance of the House of Claghorn.

As to those other aspirations, enough to say that they were by no means compatible with the loyalty he had professed for the pious plans of Mrs. Joe. He had not forgotten that the noble arms of the Marquise de Fleury were open to receive his daughter; but under existing conditions he was willing to be coy. He remembered with satisfaction that he had not irrevocably committed himself to a matrimonial alliance which still possessed attractions: though in the presence of the dazzling possibilities now offered, it behooved him to avoid precipitation. And so reasonable was this position that he did not hesitate to disclose it to the Marquise, simultaneously exculpating himself and assuaging the lady's resentment by dangling before her the glittering possibilities presented by Paula Lynford, whom he, with politic inaccuracy, described as the actual daughter of Mrs. Claghorn, hence inferentially a co-inheritor, with Mark, of the golden product of the Great Serpent.

"Tiens, Adolphe!" exclaimed the lady to her son, after having listened to the entrancing tale told by the philosopher, "Heaven has heard my prayers," and she repeated the unctuous story.

"Over a million of dot! It is monstrous, mama."

"For these people a bagatelle. Their gold mine yields a thousand francs a minute."

"These incredible Americans!"

"There is also a son, one Marc, about your age——"

"Aha, I see! M. Claghorn destines Natalie——"

"Precisely."

The little lieutenant wagged his head. It was the tribute to a dying love. From infancy he had been taught by his mama that in Natalie he beheld the future mother of the de Fleurys. Since infancy he had seen her but rarely, and on such occasions, being admonished by his mama, had concealed his passion from its object; but thus repressed, it had bubbled forth in other channels. He had written and declaimed sonnets; he had shed tears to a captured photograph of Natalie in pantalettes. The gusts of consuming passion which, in the presence of his amis de college, had swept sirocco-like across his soul, had extorted the sigh of envy and the tear of sympathy; from other friends, notably from Celestine, Claire and Annette, these manifestations had extorted shrieks of laughter, which, however, had moved him, not to indignation, but to pity, for in these damsels he saw but butterflies of love, unable to comprehend a grande passion.

It was, then, not without a fitting and manly sigh that the Marquis de Fleury surrendered the love of his youth in obedience to his mama and the motto of his house, which was "Noblesse Oblige," and, having procured from Natalie a photograph of Paula, he did homage before it as to "la belle Lanforre" in person, besides altering an old sonnet which had already seen service, and finding that Lynford, or as he would have it, "Lanforre," rhymed sufficiently well with Amor.

Meanwhile, the philosopher having diplomatically engaged the services of the Marquise, the noble lady proceeded to perform with zeal the task assigned her. La belle France, home of romance and last citadel of chivalry, is also business-like, and its sons and daughters of whatever rank are deft manipulators of the honest penny. In negotiating for the luxurious apartment of a diplomat about to proceed to Spain for a sojourn of some months, and in dealing with furnishers of all description, from laundry to livery men, the noble lady provided herself with pocket-money for some time to come; a seasonable relief to the over-strained resources of the House of Fleury.

"Tiens," exclaimed Adolphe to his mama, Mrs. Claghorn being already installed in the diplomatic quarters, "this desire of Madame Zho to inspect churches—how do you explain it?"

"She is dévote. Doubtless she has sinned. She wishes to erect in her own country an expiatory chapel."

Which explanation, evolved from information derived from the philosopher, aided by the speaker's fancy, elucidated the mystery contained in the patronymic "Lanforre," borne by Paula. "Sans doute," mused the Marquise, "la mère, being American, was divorcée. The daughter is the child of the first husband." Which theory sufficed until the later arrival of Mark, who, as being palpably older than Paula, drove the lady to evolve another, which, fortunately, in the interest of harmony, was not confided to "Madame Zho," but which not only explained, but demanded the expiatory chapel.

Mrs. Claghorn threw herself into her pious work with a zeal which extorted the approbation of the Marquise, who, as we know, was herself a religious woman, but which to the philosopher was less admirable, since it interfered with deep-laid plans with which it was incompatible. He was somewhat consoled, however, by the fact that the lady's course facilitated an intimacy which was favorable to the realization of less secret hopes; wherefore he vied with the Marquise in forwarding the pious cause of the widow by surrounding that lady with an artistic host, whereof the members received comforting orders for plans and paintings, designs and drawings, and were refreshed by a golden shower whereof the Marquise had her quiet but legitimate share.

The philosopher contented himself with the post of chief adviser and sole confidant of the beneficent lady. For, though her intention to erect a chapel could not be concealed, the locality of the realization of her plans remained a secret, and was, in fact, privately regarded by Mark,—where the philosopher hoped it would remain,—as poesy hath it, in the air.

Meanwhile, the comparative freedom of intercourse which reigned among the younger members of the party was approved by the Marquise as an American custom sanctioned, under the circumstances, by heaven, as an aid in its answer to her prayers; but the little lieutenant, like a dog that has slipped its leash, was puzzled by an unaccustomed liberty, and found himself unable to conduct himself gracefully in a novel role. He knew that the joyous freedom befitting intercourse with Claire and Celestine was not the tone for present conditions, but for similar conditions he knew no other. If, after preliminary negotiation on the part of his elders, he had been introduced into the presence of the object of his love, himself clad en frac, and had found his adored robed in white and carefully disposed upon a fauteuil—with the properties thus arranged, he felt he could have borne himself worthily as one acceptable and with honorable intentions. But thus to be allowed to approach the object of a passion (which, he assured his mama, was now at a white heat), to converse familiarly, surrounding ears being inattentive and surrounding eyes uninterested; to be expected to interchange views freely pronounced by lips such as he had supposed were silent until unsealed by matrimony—these things puzzled and embarrassed him. Perhaps it was fortunate that such attempts as he made to tell his love were not understood by the object of his devotion. Paula's understanding of French, though it had achieved plaudits and prizes at school, did not suffice for the purpose, and the lieutenant was innocent of any modern language other than his own, while against his frequent efforts of an ocular character Paula's serenity was proof, though occasionally disturbed by the manifestations of that which she supposed was a severe nervous disorder of the eyes of her companion, and for which she pitied him; and, as to the sonnet which he slipped into her hand, it being beyond her construing powers, she handed it to Mrs. Joe, who read it and laughed.

But though she laughed at a production designed to draw tears, but for it, she had probably paid little heed to an occurrence which about this time attracted her attention.

She was in the Church of St. Roch, Paula at her side, and, near at hand, Mark and Natalie. St. Roch is an ancient and gloomy edifice, and the lady had found no suggestions for her chapel in its sombre interior. She turned to leave, when her attention was arrested by a tableau. Natalie's hand rested upon Mark's shoulder, and both stood as if transfixed, and gazing at something which Mrs. Joe could not see.

Had it not been for the sonnet and the reflections to which it had given rise, she would have at once admitted the palpable fact that the girl, absorbed by that upon which she gazed, was oblivious of the touch with which she had involuntarily arrested the steps of her companion. With head bent forward, her faculties were enchained by that which she saw with eyes in which wonder, compassion and wistful yearning were combined.

It was a young woman upon whom the girl's rapt gaze rested. She had been kneeling at the grating of a confessional from which the priest had just departed. A smothered cry, and the abandon with which the penitent had thrown herself upon the stone floor of the mural chapel, had attracted Natalie's attention, and unconsciously she had laid her hand on Mark's shoulder to arrest steps which might disturb that which, at first supposed to be devotion, was quickly recognized as the agony of grief.

For a moment the observers thought the woman had fainted, so still she lay after that smothered cry, and Natalie had taken a step forward to lend aid, when a convulsive shudder shook the prostrate form, and then the woman rose to her knees. Dry-eyed, her long, black hair hanging in disorder, her white face and great, dark eyes gleaming from beneath heavy brows and long silken lashes, she knelt, holding high a photograph upon which she gazed, a living statue of woe.

Mark was hardly less moved than Natalie, but more quickly remembered that he, at least, had no business with this sorrow. As he moved, the unconscious hand of his companion fell from his shoulder, and in the same moment the mourner rose and her eyes met Natalie's.

Dignified by grief, she was a majestic woman, and handsome; probably handsomer in her disorder than under the aspect of every day. Perhaps she instantly read the sympathy in the eyes, no less beautiful than her own, which were turned upon her.

"You suffer!" exclaimed Natalie involuntarily.

"And you rejoice," replied the other, indicating Mark.

"I have but this." She displayed the colored photograph she had held toward heaven. A startled exclamation broke from Mark, as he looked.

"He is dead," said the woman. "To-day was to have been our wedding day, and he is dead." The tears welled up in the listeners' eyes; the speaker was tearless, but the silent sympathy impelled her to go on.

"Three months we lived together," she continued, with Gallic frankness as to domestic details. "His father refused consent, but to-day, his birthday, he would have been free: he is dead. His mother pities me," the woman went on. "She has known love. She promised consolation in confession—as if a priest could know!"

"Yet they say that in religion," Natalie commenced timidly——

"There is but one religion—Love!" interrupted the other. "You will know. He"—her glance indicated Mark—"will be your teacher."

Mark glanced hastily at his cousin. She seemed oblivious of the woman's words. He moved further away. After awhile Natalie slowly followed; the woman left the church.

"Did you notice," asked Mark, as Natalie rejoined him, "how strikingly that portrait resembled Leonard?"

She made no answer. Other words than his were ringing in her ears: "There is but one religion—Love! He will be your teacher," and even while she sorrowed for the sorrow she had witnessed, a strange thrill passed through her—was it pain, was it joy?

The party left the church. Natalie sought the side of Mrs. Joe, leaving Mark to walk with Paula. The elderly lady asked her who was the person with whom she had talked. Natalie replied that the woman's name was Berthe Lenoir, and that she wished to be the speaker's maid, and she narrated some part of the history that had been briefly told to her.

"But, my dear," was the comment, "your father must make inquiry as to her fitness."

"That, of course," was the answer, and then she was silent. Within a week Berthe Lenoir entered her service, a woman, who by reason of her capacity, soon gained the general approval; and for other reasons, the special approval of a lover of the beautiful. "Her eyes," observed the lieutenant, "are the eyes which shape destinies."

Meanwhile, other eyes, belonging to one who believed it in her power to shape destinies, were watchful. Mrs. Joe had long since resolved that to be an American statesman, Mark needed an American wife, and since she had herself trained one for the position, she had no desire to see her labors rendered fruitless. It had needed merely the opening of her eyes to enable her to discern that there were other schemes worthy of her attention, besides that one of the philosopher, of which she herself was the object, and which, though the gentleman had supposed it hidden, had been patent to the lady, serving to amuse while it benefited her. She promptly averted the danger to her plans by confiding to the Marquise her intentions with regard to Mark and Paula. The noble lady regarded such matters as entirely controllable by parental edict, and at once resumed negotiations with the philosopher, who, in the belief that surrender of his hopes in regard to his daughter would tend to further those he cherished in respect to himself, acquiesced gracefully in the inevitable; and there being no ground for further delay, the de Fleury-Claghorn treaty was duly ratified, to remain, however, a secret for the present from all the juniors of the party, except from the lieutenant, whom it was necessary to inform of the need of a re-transference of his affections. He submitted with sorrow. The charms of Paula had, as he confided to his mama, made an impression on his heart which only active service could efface. As to resisting destiny, it never entered his thoughts. Paula was for Mark, Natalie for him. There might be consolation. "With such wealth," he suggested, "they will surely add to her dowry."

"Let us hope so," replied the Marquise. "Our Cousin Beverley will do what is possible. Meanwhile, be as charming as possible to Madame Zho and to Marc, who will have it all."

"Such luck is iniquitous! Well, since my marriage is deferred, you will consent that I go to Africa. Love is denied me; I must seek glory. Tiens, je suis Francais!"

Long before this, Mrs. Joe had exacted from Mark a promise to study at the University with reasonable diligence. The promise had been kept. A new semester was about to commence; he was anxious to take the doctoral degree, hence it was necessary for him to return to Heidelberg. He hardly regretted it. Of late, constraint had seemed to pervade the intercourse which had been hitherto so unrestrained, and, above all, Natalie had been unusually reserved. It was not without some regret that he departed, yet on the whole content to return to Burschenfreiheit and fidelity to the creed whose chief article is disdain of philistinism.

Mrs. Joe was glad to see him depart before she left for America, where the surprise intended for him was progressing. But it might take more time to build a house than make a Doctor of Civil Law; the question was how to prevent his premature home-coming.

"I will keep him," said the philosopher, in answer to her confidence as to her misgivings. "He has promised to visit me when he leaves the University. When I get him I will hold him."

The lady looked at the gentleman questioningly.

"Do not doubt my good faith," he murmured.

"And you will come with him to America," she suggested. "Perhaps you can induce the Marquise. And the little soldier—surely, he will brave the seas if your daughter does so!"

"An invasion by the Gauls. Why not? I for one shall be enchanted to see the result of your energy and taste."

"And Natalie shall see the Tomb in which she is so deeply interested, while you lay your homage at the feet of Miss Achsah and so fulfill a long-neglected duty."

"And at the feet of the chatelaine of Stormpoint. I am impatient for the day." And it was so arranged, and the lady, declining the proffered escort of Monsieur, left Paris for Havre, accompanied by Paula.

"A good fellow!" she thought, as she leaned back in the coupé, applying to the philosopher that very term which he had flattered himself she would not apply, "but too anxious to believe that I am his cousin and not his aunt."

CHAPTER VII.

A CONFERENCE OF SPINSTERS CONCERNING A RUNAWAY DAMSEL.

Five years have passed since the Claghorn reunion at Heidelberg. The Professor and philosopher have journeyed to that world concerning which one of the two claimed certain knowledge, and which the other regarded as unknowable. Thither we cannot follow them, but since men do not live for a day, but for all time, we shall doubtless come upon indications that the lives of these two, the things they said and did, are forces still. Meanwhile, we must concern ourselves with the living, and of those with whom we have to do, no one is more noteworthy than Achsah Claghorn.

Miss Claghorn was, as the representative of an ancient and very theological family, a citizen of no little note in Easthampton, the shady and quiet suburb of the city of Hampton. Her spotless white house was large; its grounds were, compared with those of her neighbors, large; the trees in the grounds were very large; the box-plants were huge of their kind. Miss Achsah herself was small, but by reason of her manner, which was positive and uncompromising, impressive. She lived as became her wealth and position, comfortably and without undue regard for conventionalities. She could afford so to live and had been able to afford it for many years; ever since she had shared with her brother, the Reverend Eliphalet, the bounty left to them by that other and younger brother who had died in California. On the receipt of that bounty she had retired from her position as schoolmistress, had bought the large, white house, and, together with Tabitha Cone, had undertaken to live as she pleased, succeeding in so doing more satisfactorily than is usual with those fortunate enough to be able to make similar resolves. Perhaps this was because her desires were more easily attainable than the desires pertaining to such conditions usually are.

The position of Tabitha Cone was nominally one of dependence, but, with a praiseworthy desire to rise superior to such a status, Tabitha persistently strove to rule her benefactress, which attempts were met with frequent rebellion. Miss Achsah was, at least intermittently, mistress of her own house; and both ladies had a lurking consciousness that she, Achsah, to wit, had reserves of strength which would enable her to become so permanently, if she were to develop a serious intention to that end. Both ladies, however, shrank from a struggle with that possible termination, much enjoying life as they lived it, and with no desire to terminate an invigorating and pleasing warfare.

For the rest, Miss Claghorn permitted no slurs to be cast upon her companion, except such as she herself chose to project. "Tabitha Cone and I sat on the same bench at school; together we found the Lord. I knew of no difference between us in those days; I know of none now, except that I had a rich brother."

"I am sure, Miss Claghorn, I quite agree with your view," observed Paula, to whom the words were addressed.

"Which I hope is a satisfaction to you," replied the lady, her manner indicating complete indifference as to the fact. "If that is so, why do you object to my consulting Tabitha Cone about this letter?" looking over her spectacles at the pretty face.

"I hoped that my plan would meet your views, and then such consultation would perhaps be unnecessary, and—and——"

"And?" echoed Miss Achsah in an uncompromising tone, and regarding her visitor still more sharply.

"You know, Miss Claghorn, you sent for me, and were kind enough to say you desired my advice——"

"Information, not advice."

"Don't you think Tabitha Cone will derive a wrong impression if she reads that letter?" continued the persistent Paula, "Is that quite fair?"

"Tabitha Cone understands English—even Ellis Winter's—he says plainly enough that the girl is an atheist——"

"Not that, Miss——"

"A heathen, then—a damned soul" (Paula started palpably). "Splitting hairs about terms don't alter the essential fact."

"Nobody can deplore the truth more than I; but to risk its being made a subject of gossip——"

"Tabitha Cone is not given to tattle. She may gossip with Almighty God about this matter. She has known Him for many years."

Paula shuddered. To know Omnipotence in this blunt fashion grated on her nerves. "I have humbled myself many times and sought her eternal welfare in prayer," she said.

"I hope your condescension may ultimately benefit her," snapped the old lady. "I can't say I have noticed any change, certainly no change for the better."

"I referred to Natalie."

"Oh, and so that is the way to pronounce the outlandish name. My nephew Eliphalet's mother's name was Susan; my own name has been in the family two hundred years—well, and if Ellis Winter is right, your humblings seem to have done but little good. Perhaps those of the despised Tabitha Cone may have more effect, even if unaccompanied with flummery——"

"Miss Claghorn, you are not generally unjust."

"Never. But I get tired of millinery in religion. Ah! if only you would humble yourself—but there! I suppose you intone the prayer for your daily bread. Pah!"

Paula rose majestically.

"Sit down, child; I didn't mean to offend you. (The Lord has infinite patience and pity, and so for imbeciles, I suppose)" she said parenthetically and in a subdued tone, which was not heard by the visitor, who sat down, having an object in being both meek and persistent, a fact of which Miss Claghorn was aware. It was a sore temptation to let Paula have her wish, but, all the while she knew she must finally resolve to do her duty. It was that knowledge which gave acrimony to her speech.

"Paula," she said, "I ought not to have asked you to come here about this matter. I knew what you would desire and hoped you would be able to persuade me; I ought to have known myself better. I must do my duty; she must come to me."

"But, dear Miss Claghorn——"

"She is a Claghorn, and—dreadful as it is—a heathen as well, and alone in the world. I must do my duty; it is not easy, I assure you."

Paula quite believed this, and the belief did not add to her hope of success. When Miss Claghorn desired to do things which, in the eyes of others, were better left undone, she was apt to see her duty in such action. It was equally true that her duty being visible, she would do it, even if disagreeable. But the duty now before her was, for many reasons, very disagreeable, indeed, and strictly just as she was, she was but human, and the righteous indignation she felt for her own vacillation fell naturally in part upon Paula.

"At least do not let that letter prejudice you," urged Paula. "She is a sweet girl, as good as gold."

"Very likely. Gold is dross. Good girls do not deny their Maker."

This was indisputable. Paula sighed. "I am very sorry we cannot have her," was all she said.

Miss Claghorn looked at her thoughtfully and with some inward qualms at her own harshness. There was an opportunity to seasonably drop a word which for some time she had been considering as ready to be dropped, and which, if heeded, might have some consolation for the girl before her.

"You can have her—on one condition. Come now, Paula!"

"What is that?" asked the girl, hope in her eyes; some misgiving, too, for there was that in Miss Claghorn's expression which aroused it.

"Stop your shilly-shally with that little milliner-man, Arthur Cameril, and marry him. Then Natalie can pay you a good long visit."

This was more than a Christian ought to bear. Paula could do her duty, too.

"Miss Claghorn, Father Cameril has taken the vow of celibacy. The fact is well known. I am contemplating the same. I wish you good-morning," and so Paula majestically sailed away.

"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Miss Achsah, as her visitor let herself out of the front door; and then, not disturbed, but in the belief that she had performed another disagreeable duty, she commenced the re-perusal of a letter in her hand. Which letter was as follows:

"Dear Miss Claghorn—Your grand-niece, Natalie, has arrived in this country. She naturally at once communicated with me, and I find her situation somewhat perplexing. To speak frankly, she has run away from home. It was her father's wish that she remain in the household of the Marquise de Fleury, and she has lived with that lady since Mr. Claghorn's death. But it seems that for some time past the guardian has tried to induce the ward to marry against her inclinations.

"I think there can be no doubt that the influences brought to bear on your grand-niece amounted to persecution, and I am disposed to regard her action as justified, having received from the Marquise (who was apprised of her destination by your niece) a letter, written in such a tone as to leave no doubt in my mind that the statements made to me by Miss Natalie are correct.

"The plan of your grand-niece is to live independently in this country. For the present this would be most imprudent. She is very young, and though by no means inexperienced in the ways of the world, is very foreign. She is quite resolute in her determination, and is aware that her property, in my charge, aside from some French possessions, is ample for her support. Do not gather that she is not amenable to advice, or is inclined to be obstinate. This is not the case, but she has evidently had an unpleasant experience of guardianship, and is quite resolved under no circumstances to permit any disposition of herself matrimonially. This resolve is the foundation of her intention to remain independent, an intention which no doubt will be easily combated with her advance in knowledge of our American customs in this regard.

"It would be unfair, having shown you the only shadows connected with Beverley's daughter, were I to withhold the commendation justly due her. With such acquaintance as I had formed with her on the occasion of my visit to France, I gathered a good opinion of one whom, indeed, I only knew as a child. That opinion has been strengthened by occasional correspondence and by the personal observation of the last fortnight. She seems to be a charming girl, remarkably beautiful, with a mind of her own, and, doubtless, a will of her own; nevertheless, a person that would be an acquisition in any household. Were I blessed with a domestic circle, I should be well content to have Miss Natalie enter it; but, as you know, I am not so fortunate.

"I hesitate to mention one other detail, yet feel that you ought to be fully informed; and while I can, believe me, appreciate the standpoint from which you will regard that which I have to disclose, I beg you to take a charitable view of a matter which, to one of your rooted and cherished convictions, will be of transcendent importance. It is that your grand-niece is in religion a free-thinker, and rejects the Christian faith.

"To you, as the representative of the Claghorn family, a family which for generations has upheld the standard of purest orthodoxy, this information will come as a shock. Yet when I assure you that Miss Natalie's views (such as they are) are probably held rather from a sense of filial duty and affection than from conviction, the facts will, I am sure, appeal to your compassion, as well as to that stern sense of duty and justice so admirably exhibited in your life. For many years I have been aware that the late Beverley had trained his daughter in accordance with a theory which repudiated tenets sacred in your eyes. My only reason for never imparting the fact to you was because the knowledge could only be a grief to one who held the Claghorn traditions in reverence. The interest you occasionally displayed concerning one who had chosen to be an exile was, I believe, always satisfied as far as in my power, except as to this one particular. I regret now that I withheld a knowledge which circumstances have made important. I did wrong, but I need not ask you not to connect my wrong-doing with the claims of your grand-niece.

"Kindly consider this letter carefully and let me hear from you soon. Perhaps an invitation to spend a part or all of the coming summer with you would lead to an easy solution of the difficulties presented. Your grand-niece is at present staying with my friend, Mrs. Leon, who will be pleased that she remain; but I foresee that the young lady herself will object to that.

"With regards to Miss Cone, believe me,

"Respectfully yours, Ellis Winter."

CHAPTER VIII.

A MAIDEN FAIR, A MODERN EARLY FATHER AND A THEOLOGIAN.

Paula emerged from the White House in an un-Christian frame of mind. The fact might to an ordinary sinner seem pardonable, and Paula herself, though by no means an ordinary sinner, thought so, too. "Impertinent bigot!" In these unusually emphatic words she mentally expressed her opinion of Achsah Claghorn.

From several points of view Paula was not an ordinary sinner. Externally, she was a very pleasing one, being in all things alluring to the eye. So nicely adjusted were her physical proportions that it could not be said that she was either tall or short, plump or meagre. A similar neutrality characterized the tints of her skin and hair. Her cheeks were never red, yet never pale; the much-used adjective "rosy" would not properly describe the dainty tinge that, without beginning or end, or line of demarcation, redeemed her face from pallor. Her nose was neither long nor short, upturned or beak-like, and while no man could say that it was crooked and remain a man of truth, yet would no truth-lover say that it was straight. In all respects a negative nose, in no respect imperfect. Her skin, ears, neck, hands, feet—all were satisfying, yet not to be described by superlatives. Her hair was neither chestnut nor yellow, nor quite smooth nor kinky, but in color and adjustment restful; her eyes were nearly violet, and their brows and lashes just sufficiently decided to excite no comment. Paula's mouth was perhaps the only feature which, apart from the charming whole, demanded notice, and he who noticed sorrowed, for it was a mouth inviting, yet not offering kisses.

It is believed that it will be admitted that outwardly Paula Lynford was not an ordinary sinner. Nor was she such as to the inner being, if she herself could be believed; for at this period of her existence she was accustomed to introspection, and that habit had disclosed to her that she was very bad, indeed, "vile," as she fondly phrased it, or in moments of extreme exaltation, "the vilest of the vile."

A serene consciousness of vileness was a recent growth in her bosom. Father Cameril (so known to a very small but devoted band of worshippers—to the world at large, the Reverend Arthur Cameril) was fond of dwelling upon human and his own vileness, and his adorers desired to be such as he. Nor did the Reverend Father deny them this delight, but rather encouraged their perception of the unworthiness indicated by the unpleasant word which had been caught from him by the dames and damsels who rejoiced in him and in their own turpitude. Father Cameril was, in a very limited circle, quite the rage in the vicinity. Since his advent spiritual titillation had been discovered in candles, attitudes, novel genuflexions and defiance of the Bishop, a wary old gentleman, who was resolved to evade making a martyr of Father Cameril, being, from long observation, assured that sporadic sputterings of ultra-ritualism were apt to flicker and die if not fanned by opposition. The good Father, meanwhile, unaware that the Bishop had resolved that no stake should be implanted for his burning, whereby he was to be an illumination to the Church, tasted in advance the beatitude of martyrdom, and reveled in mysterious grief and saint-like resignation and meekness, and while hopefully expectant, he added to his inner joys and the eccentricity of his outward man by peculiar vesture of the finest quality, beneath which the fond and imaginative eyes of his followers saw, as in a vision, a hair shirt. He was known to aspire to knee-breeches, and was hopefully suspected of considering a tonsure as a means of grace and a sign of sanctity. His little church, St. Perpetua, the new and beautiful edifice erected by Mrs. Joseph Claghorn, of Stormpoint, in memory of her husband (an offence in Miss Claghorn's Calvinistic eyes, and regarded askance by Leonard), was crowded every Sunday at Mass, a function which was also celebrated daily at an hour when most people were still abed; Paula always, the night watchman, about going off duty occasionally, and three elderly ladies, blue and shivering, in attendance. Father Cameril was Miss Claghorn's special aversion. Tabitha Cone found in him much to admire. He was a good little man, inordinately vain, somewhat limited in intellect, and unconscious of wrong-doing. He prayed that the Church might be led from the path of error in which she obstinately chose to remain, and, by canonizing Henry VIII, display works meet for repentance; in which case he would hesitate no longer, but return home, that is, to the maternal bosom of Rome, at once.

As Paula saw the good Father coming down the street, holding in his yellow-gloved hand a bright-red little book, the redness whereof set off the delicate tint of the glove, while its gilded edges gleamed in the sunlight, she was more than usually conscious of the vileness which should have been meekness, even while her anger grew hotter at the insult offered by Miss Claghorn to the natty little man approaching, "like an early Father," she murmured, though any resemblance between the Reverend Arthur in kid gloves and ætat 28, and Polycarp, for instance, was only visible to such vision as Paula's.

"You seem disturbed," he said, as the two gloved hands met in delicate pressure, and he uttered the usual sigh.

"A cherished hope," she answered, her clear violet eyes bent downward, "has been dashed."

"We must bear the cross; let us bear it worthily. I have been pained at not seeing you at confession, Paula. You neglect a means of lightening the burden of the spirit."

"My cousin objects, Father. I owe her the obedience of a daughter."

"You owe a higher obedience"—here his voice had that tone of sternness always sweet to the meek ears of his followers. "Nevertheless," he added, "do not act against her wish. I will, myself, see Mrs. Claghorn. Meanwhile, bear your burdens with resignation, always remembering the weakness, yea, the vileness of the human heart."

"I strive," said Paula, looking very miserable and unconsciously taking an illustration from a heavily-laden washerwoman passing, "not to faint by the wayside, but the load of life is heavy."

"But there are times when the heart's vileness is forgotten, the soul rises above its burdens and feels a foretaste of the life to come," interrupted Father Cameril a little confusedly as to the senses of the soul. "Try to rise to those heights."

"I do. May I ask your special intercession for a soul in darkness? One that I had hoped to gain."

"Hope on and pray. I shall not forget your request. The name is——"

"Natalie, the daughter of Mr. Beverley Claghorn. You have heard us mention them. Mr. Claghorn is dead. Until now she has lived in France, where she was born. I hope to see her soon at Easthampton."

"At Stormpoint! How pleasant for you! Paula, we shall rescue this dear child from the errors of a schismatic mother. I feel it here," and the Reverend Arthur indicated his bosom.

Paula recognized in the schismatic mother the Roman Catholic Church. She felt it sinful to leave Father Cameril in ignorance of the facts. She felt it unkind to her friend to disclose them. She could sin, if hard pushed; she could not be unkind. She concealed the unbelief.

"We knew them some years since in Europe," she said. "I mean Mr. Claghorn and Natalie. She is a sweet girl; but she will visit at Miss Claghorn's."

The Reverend Arthur's face fell. Above all earthly things he dreaded sinners of the type of Achsah Claghorn. "The situation will be difficult," he murmured. "But truth will prevail," he added, more cheerily. "Truth must prevail."

Which assurance made the girl uncomfortable, because she knew that his prayers and his labors would be directed against mere schism, whereas the case required the application of every spiritual engine at command.

So that she was not sorry that he left her, after presenting her with the little red book and urging her to read the same.

Stormpoint was not inaptly named. A huge crag jutting out into the sea, whose waves, ever darting against its granite sides, rolled off with a continuous muffled bellow of baffled rage, which, when the storm was on, rose to a roar. A cabin had once stood on the bluff, which, tradition asserted, had been the home of the first Eliphalet Claghorn, whose crumbling tomb, with its long and quaint inscription, was hard by. The Reverend Eliphalet slept quiet in death, but the howl of the storm and the roar of the waves must have kept him awake on many a night in life. Even the stately castle erected by Joseph Claghorn's widow often trembled from the shock of the blast. The region about was strewn with huge boulders, evidences of some long-past upheaval of nature, while among the crags great trees had taken root. The landscape was majestic, but the wind-swept soil was barren, and the place had remained a waste. Only a fortune, such as had been derived from the Great Serpent, could make the Point comfortable for habitation. But the task had been accomplished, and Stormpoint was the second wonder of Easthampton, the first being the wonderful chapel, St. Perpetua.

Paula gloried in Stormpoint. Not for its grandeur or the money it had cost, but because she loved the breeze and the sea and the partial isolation. Even now, as she ascended the bluff by a side path, rugged and steep, and commenced to smell the ocean and feel its damp upon her cheek, the Reverend Arthur Cameril seemed less like an early Father, and his lemon-colored kids less impressive.

On hearing her name called and looking up, she smiled more brightly and looked more beautiful than she had yet looked that day, though, from the moment she had emerged from her morning bath of salt water she had been beautiful. "Aha! Leonard, is that you?" she exclaimed.

"Where have you been?" asked Leonard, as he reached her side.

"At Miss Claghorn's. She sent for me."

Leonard's eyes opened wide. "Cousin Achsah sent for you! What for?"

"She will tell you."

"And you won't. Well, I must wait. What have you there?" taking the little red book from her hand. "'The Lives of the Hermits!' Oh, Paula; you had better read the 'Lives of the Laundresses'; these were a very dirty set."

"Leonard! How can you? A clergyman, a professor of theology!"

"Oh, I've no objection to them except that," he answered, "and I wouldn't mention their favorite vanity if they had not so reveled in it and plumed themselves upon it. Paula, Paula," he added, more seriously, "Father Cameril gave you that."

He was vexed, perhaps jealous of Father Cameril, though if so, he was unconscious, ascribing his vexation to a different source. He had a hearty contempt for the silly flummery, as he mentally described it, practised by Father Cameril, and he hated to know that Paula was enticed by it. She understood and was neither without enjoyment of his vexation nor resentment that he would not express it in words. She would have liked him to forbid the reading of the little book. It would have been a sign of steadfastness to disobey; it might have been a greater pleasure to obey.

"Well, read the book, if you can stomach it," he said. "I doubt if you will derive any benefit. I must be going. When you and Cousin Achsah take to plotting, I must investigate. Good-bye."

"Leonard, did you know that Natalie is in New York, that she has come to America to live?"

"Natalie in New York! Your news amazes me. She will come here, of course?"

"Not to Stormpoint," she answered regretfully. "To your cousin's, Miss Claghorn."

He looked his surprise. "To live there! That surely will never do."

"Oh, Leonard, I am so glad you agree with me. I tried to persuade Miss Claghorn to let her come to us. Think of it! Alone with those two old women and their quarrels. That gloomy house! It's dreadful!"

"It certainly will not do for Natalie," he observed, thoughtfully. "I wish, Paula, my cousin had consulted me rather than you."

"Why, Leonard! You don't suppose I did not urge all I could?"

"That's just it. Cousin Achsah is, of her kind, a very fine specimen, and I am her favorite and bound to respect and love her, as I do—but a nature like hers and one like yours are antagonistic."

"Then, since you respect and—and——"

"And love her, you think I don't respect and love you; but you know better, Paula."

She blushed at the snare the echo of his words had led her into. He was not so conscious. "As I remember Natalie," he said, "she was amiable and nice in all points—still she and my cousin——"

"They will be absolutely incomprehensible to each other," said Paula. "Do try and have her consent to let Natalie come to Stormpoint."

"I will do what I can. Has Mrs. Joe invited her?"

"She will be only too glad as soon as she knows. But the matter has been placed in such a light by that tiresome Mr. Winter—but there, you will find out everything from your cousin. Do what you can."

"I will. What happy days they were, those days in Heidelberg."

The violet eyes were tender with reminiscence, the pretty mouth seductive. "They were the happiest of my life," she said.

"And of mine," echoed Leonard, as he walked off, having seen neither mouth nor eyes, but a vision of the past.

CHAPTER IX.

THE ADVANTAGES OF TREADING THE BORDERLAND OF VICE.

Among the diversions indulged in at Heidelberg, during the accidental reunion of the Claghorns, there had been one particularly affected by Professor and philosopher. The early education of these two had been identical; their later training had progressed on widely diverging lines. The Reverend Jared had continued in the path in which his footsteps had been placed in childhood, while Beverley had wandered far. Yet, being by inheritance as nearly alike as may be two who, descended from a common ancestor, partake of marked ancestral traits, agreement between them in reference to a matter wherein their views clashed was impossible; which fact had sufficed to lend a charm to disputation.

A favorite theme of discussion had been discovered in the serious problems connected with the training of youth. The clergyman had a son who embodied his theories; the philosopher was the father of a daughter educated upon a plan of his own. Each was paternally satisfied with results so far, and each hoped for further development equally gratifying.

The philosopher preached from a text which may be briefly stated in the words of the proverb, which informs us that "Familiarity breeds contempt." He would apply this maxim to evil and use knowledge as the shield of youth. Whereas the Professor, relying upon the truth contained in the adage, "Ignorance is bliss," and maintaining that modified bliss in this world and perfect bliss in the world to come are the proper objects of man's endeavor, logically contended that ignorance of evil, a thing in its nature sure to breed sorrow, was to be encouraged.

"The true way to appreciate the dangers which must inevitably beset youth is to become familiar with them. Distance lends enchantment. That closer inspection of vice which may be derived from acquaintance with its borderland, wherein the feet of the novice may be taught to tread warily, will result in indifference, if not disgust. As long as there is ignorance there will be curiosity, which is more dangerous than knowledge." Thus had spoken the philosopher. To which the Professor had replied: "Yet I will not assume that you wish your daughter to tread the borderland of vice?"

"Certainly I do; limiting her steps to the borderland of the vices to which she is to be exposed. I admit that a man cannot, as readily as a woman, take cognizance of such vices. It is my misfortune and my daughter's that her mother died at her birth; but I have endeavored to make her superior to the glaring defects of her sex. She is not petty. She yearns neither for bonnets nor beatitudes. Without attempting, in the ignorance inseparable from my sex, to instruct her in detail, I have always had in view the enlargement of her mind."

"By educating her as a Frenchwoman!"

"Pardon me, no. Much as I admire the French, I do not approve their system of female education, which, by the way, resembles the course you have pursued with your son. I do not question its frequent excellent results, nor can I question its failures. My daughter's schooling has been only partially French. Travel and indiscriminate reading—I have largely relied on these."

"I am willing to admit, Cousin, that the apparent results in those matters which you deem of most importance ought to be gratifying. It is no exaggeration to say that my young cousin is a charming girl. But her life has not been lived."

"No. Therefore, we cannot fairly speculate as to the outcome. Meanwhile, as far as my system has reached, it is gratifying, as you confess."

"The same can be said of mine."

"Doubtless. But has your son's life been lived? Thus far, you have as much reason for satisfaction as I have. I hope that you will never be compelled to admit that innocence, based on ignorance, is a weak barrier to oppose to the inevitable temptations which beset young men."

"Innocence fortified by religious principle, early instilled," had been the solemn reply.

M. Claghorn understood the solemnity and braved the possible results of a confession which he was willing to make rather than be further exposed to the occasional somewhat annoying admonitory tone of his companion.

"I am a living example of the futility of that contention," he answered. "I do not wish to be understood as admitting that I have been unduly addicted to vice, which would not be true; but I have tasted of forbidden fruit. I found it unsatisfactory. I base my theory on careful observation and some personal experience."

Cousin Jared groaned inwardly, but made no answer. Exhortation was on his tongue's end, but, as the philosopher had desired, he recognized its futility.

Indulgence in wine was one of those vices which the Reverend Jared had found reprehensible, a practice which it grieved him to observe was permitted by the lax views of all those Claghorns, except himself and Leonard, who were sojourning together. It is not to be assumed that these people indulged in unseemly intoxication. Of so untoward a result the Professor had no fear. He objected to wine-drinking as offering an evil example. The fact that in so doing he discredited the first miracle of his Saviour was a difficulty easily surmounted by a nimble theologian.

"You are so fierce about wine that one would think you had a personal hatred toward liquor," Beverley had said to him laughingly.

"I have, 'Liph. Jeremiah Morley——" He said no more, remembering who Jeremiah Morley had been.

"It is fanaticism, Jared; absolutely incomprehensible. Your son, even though a clergyman, must live in the world. I don't say make him worldly, but don't let him remain in complete ignorance. He is a handsome fellow, amiable, intelligent—really too good for a parson."

"Which you intended to be; which your father, grandfather and great-grandfather were."

"Don't think I depreciate them. But your boy is hardly formed on the Claghorn pattern. He has probably more of the Morleys. His mother must have been a very beautiful woman, if he resembles her."

"As good as she was beautiful," sighed the widower. "Yes, Leonard resembles the Morleys—the best of them."

And so the discussion had terminated. It has been recorded here to indicate paternal views as to the education of youth. In the practice of the views he held, Professor Claghorn had been ably seconded by an excellent and pious wife, and had he been alive to see the result in the young man who had just left Paula Lynford, he must assuredly have observed the proved soundness of his theories and practice.

CHAPTER X.

A YOUTH OF PROMISE, A FEMALE POLITICIAN AND A YELLOW MAN.

Paula watched Leonard until he disappeared. Then she sighed. Long ago Beverley Claghorn had paid a similar tribute to the charms which extorted the sigh. In Paula's eyes the attractions which pertained to Leonard were lost in the sect to which he belonged. As a priest of the Church (it was thus that she put it) he would have been externally perfect, his physical excellence of unspeakable value to the cause of pure truth, while his conception of the priestly role would have been even nobler than that of Father Cameril. Leonard would have been no meek saint, but a saint militant, and long ere this the Bishop would have been down upon him, to the episcopal discomfiture.

If Paula grieved that Leonard labored under the disadvantage of the rigid practice of his denomination as to vesture and pulpit accessories, to those by whom such disadvantages were unrecognized his personality was no less persuasive of his fitness for noble deeds. As a rising theologian and young teacher of the divine science, he was, to those who watched his course, of excellent promise; destined to be a defender of that ancient creed which of late had been often attacked by able, if deluded, foes. To him orthodoxy looked with confidence, as to one who, when the day of battle came, would valiantly assail the enemies without, and confound the machinations of those within the household of faith. A worthy successor of his father, Professor Jared Claghorn, and to be greater, as better equipped to meet skeptical reasoning with reason clarified by faith; to demonstrate that the eye of the philosopher is but a feeble instrument for scrutiny of the works of God.

He was not ignorant of the general estimate or of the hopes of his elders, and had long been accustomed to fit himself for the position he was destined to fill, but of these aspirations he was oblivious as he walked slowly toward the town. He had never forgotten his father's words as to Natalie's unbelief. They were part of the memory of her, and now that memory was reawakened, and the words sounded again in his ears. He was deeply stirred by the knowledge that an errant soul was about to enter the inner circle of his life. He saw the hand of Providence in the fact; it was for this that she had not been turned from infidelity to error. She would not find the way to heaven by the dim rays of the obscured light of Romanism, but by the purer light of a reformed and vitalized religion, and to him was to be given the glory of being heaven's instrument. He was ambitious; his eyes had long been set on such earthly honors as come to theologians; he was prepared to welcome the theological storm of which the forecasts were already visible to those of clear perception, such as his own. In that impending struggle he knew that he would bear himself worthily, yet no glory that he could rightly anticipate therefrom seemed now so pleasing, nor awakened more fervent hope than that just born within him, the hope of rescuing a single soul. That glory would transcend all other, for though from men his work might be hidden, in the eyes of God he would be a faithful and worthy servant, and would hear from heaven the inaudible words, "Well done."

Exaltation such as this had long been rare with Leonard, whose mind of late had been fascinated rather by the mysteries of doctrine than warmed by religious fervor; and he was himself surprised that this ardent desire for a soul should enchain him; but he was gratified. To save souls was the ultimate object of his teaching; he was glad of this evidence that he had not forgotten it.

It may be that other thoughts, memories of bygone days, arose in his mind. Perhaps he recalled the beauty that had so attracted him in the garden of the Red Ox. There may have been some stirring of the blood of youth, which of late had sometimes coursed tingling through his veins; sometimes when he held Paula's hand, or noted the peachy velvet of her cheek, the clear depths of her eyes. But, if it were so, he was unconscious.

Meanwhile, Paula, who in the face of Miss Claghorn's fiat, still hoped to rescue Natalie from the impending horrors of the White House, turned toward the mansion. Her main reliance lay in anticipating the summons of Miss Achsah by an urgent invitation from the mistress of Stormpoint, to which end it was essential to seek that lady without further delay. Suddenly, as she hurried on, an exclamation of annoyance escaped her, and her steps were arrested by the sight of an ancient and mud-encrusted buggy which stood near that entrance to the house toward which her own steps were tending. She recognized the equipage of Mr. Hezekiah Hacket, and recent observation had taught her that when Mr. Hacket's carriage stopped that way, the lady of Stormpoint was not accessible to persons of minor distinction.

Aside from her general disapproval of Mr. Hacket, whose buggy, beneath its coating of mud, was yellow, and who was himself a yellow man, with teeth, hair, eyes and skin all of that unattractive hue, and unlovely in consequence of his pervading tint, Paula had no reason, so far as she knew, to resent Mr. Hacket's presence, except that it interfered with access to Mrs. Joe. Had she been aware of that which was transpiring in that apartment of the mansion which was devoted to business of state, she would have known that the visit of the gentleman was to have an important bearing upon her wish to deprive Miss Achsah of the opportunity to convert her erring grand-niece to Calvinism; which dark design Paula, since her meeting with Father Cameril, suspected.

Hezekiah Hacket, externally no more noteworthy than any very ordinary man and brother, was, in fact, an important personage in that region where Mrs. Joseph Claghorn had replanted the California branch of the family tree, intending that it should flourish and mightily expand. The shrewd lady of Stormpoint had quickly discovered that Mr. Hacket, the man of business of the Seminary, as well as of everybody that required the services of a man of business, possessed a sphere of influence eminently worthy of cultivation by political aspirants; and in all the region round about there was no such aspirant whose ambition soared as high as hers. In a realm largely dominated by a theological seminary, the existence of the political potentate called "Boss" was ignored and the word was seldom heard; but Mr. Hacket was the thing, and, all unconscious, the Seminary voted as its political guardian wished. Not the Seminary only; as the investor of the funds of others, this personage controlled the sources of power, and while deftly avoiding concentration of the secret antagonism which he knew existed against himself, by never exposing himself to the vengeance of the ballot, Mr. Hacket named the candidates for office—not infrequently those of opposing sides, so that in close elections, when a rolling wave of reform rendered the outlook uncertain, as in those not close, he remained the winner. Financially, he was strictly, though only legally, honest. Politically, he was a rogue. He was a pious man, though without a conscience and without belief. His industry was untiring. The lady of Stormpoint disliked him, at times to the point of loathing, and she courted him and smiled upon him.

"I sent for you," she said, on his appearance at Stormpoint, and offering a fair hand and an agreeable smile, both of which Mr. Hacket pretended not to see, it being his pleasant way to rule by insolence—if possible, by cringing if need were—"because in a few months my son will return home."

Mr. Hacket smoothed his yellow jaws with a freckled hand, and replied, "Just so," while the lady, who secretly desired to shake him, smiled yet more agreeably.

"Before he left home the last time," she continued, seeing that her visitor intended to remain dumb, "he had made many acquaintances. This was in accordance with your advice. What is he to do now?"

"Make more acquaintances."

"That, of course. I want him to enter the next Legislature."

Mr. Hacket had not decided that the desire expressed by the lady was his own, but he was shrewd enough to know that, crude as her ideas might be, and defective her knowledge of things political, she had the energy to attain her desire in the end, if seconded by the efforts of her candidate. He hated innovation, but he was aware that the Great Serpent held potentialities which he must not antagonize. It was not possible for him to be pleasing to Mrs. Joe, nor for her to be pleasing to him; but it was prudent to seem sympathetic. He essayed it, awkwardly enough.

"You know," he said, "your son is young and his only merit is money."

She flushed; but she knew he could not help being insolent in the presence of grace, comeliness and luxury, and all these were before him. "You mean it's the merit by which he's best known. Let it serve until others become apparent."

"It'll go far, but some it makes mad. I have an idea your son isn't over-warm in the matter."

"He didn't seem so. He wasn't aware that I am serious, and I said but little to him. Then the country was very new to him, and the people. He'd been long in Europe; his position was difficult." She had realized much more keenly than Mr. Hacket that Mark had only followed her urgency in that matter of making acquaintance because he had wished to please her. She was sure that there had been some hidden cause for indifference other than distaste for the task she had set him, and had brooded not a little over possibilities. But she was sanguine by nature; and since no love-tale had come to her ears (and she had her observers and reporters) she had concluded that, whatever the cause of his indifference, her son would become sufficiently ardent in the furtherance of her plans, when once they were more fully disclosed to him, and he had become aware that his mother had set her heart upon a political career for him. At present he probably regarded her wishes as merely a passing whim, and she knew that he was ignorant of her consultations with Mr. Hacket.

"Positions are apt to be difficult," observed the gentleman. "However, it's much too soon to discuss nominations. He'll have a year before him."

"He must have the Seminary," she said, "when the time comes."

"When the time comes," he echoed. He did not intend to commit himself, but he was becoming each moment more convinced that the lady knew her value and wished him to perceive the fact. It was equally evident that she duly appreciated his own; was, in fact, afraid of him, a pleasing assurance, which would have been yet more delightful if the gentleman, simultaneously with the recognition of this truth, had not also recognized a less agreeable fact, namely, that he was also afraid of her; sufficiently so to make it advisable that she understand he was not trifling with her. Such advice as he might give must seem reasonable, and must go beyond the suggestion of making acquaintances.

"You're working the Sem. all right," he said as graciously as he could. "Keep it up, but don't overdo it. How's Miss Achsah feel?"

"Friendly to Mark, I'm sure; not unfriendly to me, though——"

"Though your church sticks in her—is hard to swallow. I'm not surprised at that. St. Perpetual's——"

"Is there and beyond discussion."

"I always believe in looking over the whole field. St. Perpetual covers a good deal of it; so does Miss Achsah, and——"

"I had no idea that my sister-in-law is a political factor."

"Her's is, or wants to be."

"Well, let us conciliate Miss Achsah, if necessary. We're on fair terms——"

"Next time the Bishop comes here, invite her to dinner with him."

"She'll decline."

"What if she does? You always had the Professor, and she'll see that you look on her as his successor."

He rose, as if to go, but hesitated. Not because of any delicacy about volunteering the counsel that hovered on his lips, but in doubt whether it might not be well to permit her to injure her aspirations as much as she could. The certainty that she was, if she cared to be, too influential to offend him, determined him. He felt, with a sigh, that the time might come when he might be compelled to share his power; better that than risk losing it.

"I was in New York this week and saw Ellis Winter," he said. "Ellis told me that 'Liph Claghorn's daughter is in this country. He seemed to think you might invite her here."

"I intended to do so."

"Don't. She's French and, I suppose, a Romanist. Winter was close-mouthed, but I could see there was something. There's talk enough about idolatry and St. Perpetual's. I happen to know that Miss Achsah wants her, too, to convert her."

"Really, Mr. Hacket——"

"Good-bye," he said. "I've acted on the square. There's more in the matter than you think."

After his departure the lady of Stormpoint spent a few moments of indulgence in silent indignation; but when Paula came and preferred the request for that urgent invitation to Natalie, which was to circumvent the designs of Miss Claghorn, she found the lady inclined to recognize the claims of that person. Nevertheless, she promised to send the invitation, and did so that afternoon.

CHAPTER XI.

THE DEVIL WALKS TO AND FRO IN HAMPTON.

The ancient city of Hampton and its Theological Seminary are well known. To the wanderer under the elms of the quaint old town there is imparted an impression of cleanliness and a serene complacency, derived, doubtless, from the countenances of the many who, clad in sombre vesture and clean linen, pass and repass in the quiet streets. No man can be long in Hampton without feeling the theological influence; unconsciously the wayfarer adopts the prevailing manner, becomes deliberate in his walk and grave of aspect; his moral tone acquires rigidity, his taste severity; he inwardly rejoices if clad in fitting black and secretly covets gold-rimmed spectacles.

The best hotel, facing the Square, has the Hampton air, being even severely theological in aspect. Ordinary commercial travelers prefer "The United States," also a grave hostelry, though less austere in tone; but some descend at "The Hampton," reverend appearing gentlemen these, with white chokers conspicuous, and dealing in churchly wares and theological publications.

In this house Leonard had lived since his father's death had made the old home desolate, being, by reason of his personal as well as his professional attributes, a guest of note; and here there happened to him one day a new and strange experience.

He was breakfasting, later than his usual hour, when he became conscious of the scrutiny of the strangest eyes he had ever seen—eyes belonging to a woman, who, plainly clad in traveling attire, faced him from an adjacent table where she sat, with another woman, whose back was toward Leonard.

The gaze, though fixed, was not in appearance intentionally bold. The woman's eyes, dreamy, languishing, seemed to sink into his own, as though seeking what might be in the depths they tried to penetrate. It was as though, for them, the veil behind which man hides his inner self was lifted, and a sense of pleasure stole over him and willingness to surrender to this scrutiny; withal a shrinking from disclosure of that which he instinctively felt was unknown, even to himself. It required some effort to rise and leave the room.

An hour later, while waiting for the time of his morning lecture, and hardly freed as yet from the sensation resulting from his breakfast experience, while sitting in the spacious hall of the quiet house, he suddenly became aware of drapery, and looking up, encountered the eyes again; not as he had been seeing them since he had escaped them, but again bodily where they belonged, under the heavy brows of a dark-faced, large, and rather handsome woman.

"Pardon," she said in musical tones, and with a scarce perceptible smile at the ruddy flush which mantled his face. "Est ce Monsieur Claghorn?"

"Surely," exclaimed Leonard, "this is not——"

"The maid of Mademoiselle Claghorn," she replied, still in French. "The clerk indicated you as Monsieur——"

"Certainly. Your mistress——"

"This way, Monsieur." She led him toward the parlor, and had his ears been keen enough, he might have heard her murmur: "Il est adorable."

Natalie had been, in Leonard's eyes, a very beautiful girl, and he found her now a very beautiful woman. She was tall, dark, slender and indescribably graceful, as well as with the nameless manner, born with some and never in perfection acquired, of exceeding yet not obtrusive graciousness. Had she been born a duchess, she could not have had a better manner; had she been born a washerwoman, it would have been as good, for it was born, not made. The mere beauty of her face was hardly remembered in contemplation of qualities apparent, yet not wholly comprehensible. Ordinarily serene, if not joyous in expression, there was an underlying sadness that seldom left it. Perhaps she still grieved for the father she had lost; perhaps, unconsciously, she craved the love or the religion which the Marquise had said a woman needs.

The travelers were on their way to Easthampton, having arrived in the night train from New York. On learning that less than an hour's drive would bring her to the home of Miss Claghorn, Natalie declined Leonard's escort. "I wish to see my grand-aunt alone," she explained. "She has written a most kind invitation——"

"Which I hope you will accept, Cousin."

"Which I greatly desire to accept, but——"

"If for any reason," he interrupted, "you should decide not to accept Cousin Achsah's invitation, I know that at Stormpoint——"

"I have letters from both Mrs. Joe and Paula; but my first duty, and my inclination as well, take me to my father's aunt."

Though he had at first agreed with Paula that residence with Miss Achsah would not "do" for Natalie, he saw the fitness of her decision. She recognized her own status as a Claghorn and appreciated the Claghorn claim upon her. "I am glad you feel so," he said. "You will discern Cousin Achsah's real excellence beneath an exterior which, at first sight, may seem unpromising. She is not French, as you will soon discover, but as for true kindness——"

She interrupted with a laugh. "You and Mr. Winter are both eloquent in apologizing for my grand-aunt's sort of kindness, which, it seems, differs from the French variety."

"We only mean she will seem to you undemonstrative. She is very religious."

"That does not alarm me; everybody is—except myself," and now her laugh had a cadence of sadness.

It touched him. He knew the task laid out for him by Providence, and he felt that he ought to say a fitting word. But all the time he knew that the eyes of the maid were upon him. The knowledge made him appear somewhat constrained—he who ordinarily had an ease of manner, which was not the least of his charms.

"They are well at Stormpoint, of course?" questioned Natalie. "Mrs. Joe and Paula?"

"Perfectly. You will be charmed with their home. Mrs. Claghorn has transformed a desert. The sea——"

"Paula sent me some views, and better, an appreciative description. I should think they would never wish to leave it—none of them?" She looked inquiringly at him.

"As to that," he laughed, "Mrs. Joe flits occasionally; and, of course, Paula with her. But they are becoming more and more content to remain at home. Mrs. Joe is quite a public character."

"A chatelaine—the head of the house?" Again her eyes questioned more insistently than her lips.

"Quite so," was the answer. "Mark's a rover. He's in Russia."

A sigh of relief—or regret? It was quickly checked. Leonard noticed her pallor. "You are tired," he said. "Why not rest for an hour or two here? If you will do so, I can myself drive you to Easthampton. Just now I must attend to my class at the Seminary."

But she would not wait for his escort; so he procured a conveyance, and surmising that, under the circumstances, the maid was an embarrassment, he suggested providing her with a book and the hospitality of his sitting-room, and having seen his cousin depart, he conducted Mademoiselle Berthe to his room and handed her a volume of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," which the maid accepted graciously.

"There," he said pleasantly, and in his best French, "you can look out of the window or read, as you please. I hope you will not find the time long."

She smiled in reply. Her penetrating eyes sought that other self within him, which leaped to the call and looked out of his eyes into hers. For a moment only. His gaze dropped. Wondering, he found himself trembling.

"I—I shall look in in an hour, to see if you want anything."

"Monsieur is very good," murmured Berthe. They were not far apart; her hand touched his. She looked downward.

"Good-bye," he said abruptly.

She watched him crossing the square toward the Seminary. There was a half smile upon her lips. "He is adorable," she murmured again. "Ah! I thought so," as Leonard, now some hundred yards away, looked back.

When he had disappeared she lazily inspected her surroundings, noting the various objects with faint interest. "Son père," she muttered as her glance fell upon the portrait of Professor Jared Claghorn. But she examined more minutely that of his mother. "Belle femme," was her comment, and though her eyes wandered from the picture, they often returned to it, verifying the close resemblance between it and the occupant of the room. "Ah-h!" she exclaimed, throwing up her arms, and then letting them fall listlessly, "Qu'il est beau!"

Then she tried to doze, but without much success, twitching nervously and occasionally muttering impatiently; and, at length, she rose from her chair and began to deliberately inspect the various objects lying on table or mantel. Everything that was purely ornamental she scrutinized with care, as though she would read the reason of its being where she found it. There was a peculiar expression of veiled anger in her eyes while thus engaged, and once the veil was momentarily lifted and anger was visible. Nevertheless, she laughed a moment after and replaced the object, an ivory paper cutter, where she had found it. "T'es bête," she muttered.

But soon her dark eyes flashed actual rage. She had taken a prettily bound book of poems from the table, where it had been thrown, as if but recently read. She turned the pages, half carelessly, yet with a sharp eye, to see if there were any marked passages. She found one or two such, and it would have been diverting, had there been a spectator present, to note her perplexed attempts to read Mrs. Browning. But the language was beyond her powers, and she was about impatiently to replace the book when she noticed the fly-leaf, whereon in a neat, clear hand was written the inscription, "Leonard, from Paula." She stared at these innocent words with a glare that under no circumstances could have been regarded as amusing. Finally, she tore the leaf from the book and flung the book itself disdainfully from her. Then she crumpled the leaf in her hand, threw it into the waste basket, and deliberately spat upon it.

Which strange proceeding perhaps soothed her irritation, for she lay back in her chair, and after breathing hard for a little while, was soon sleeping peacefully.

Meantime, while Mademoiselle slept the sleep of one who has spent the night in travel, Leonard lectured, but less fluently than was usual. A man out of sorts is not an uncommon circumstance, and though his flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and occasional bungling speech were sufficiently remarkable in one ordinarily engrossed with his subject, nothing was said to further disturb his equanimity.

The lecture over, he walked across the square, less equable in spirit than he had been in the class-room; for there he had striven to retain his grasp of the topic in hand; now he was under no restraint and could surrender himself to contemplation—of what?

Of the stirring touch of a woman's hand, of the vision of a new world, a glimpse of which he had caught in the greedy depths of a woman's eyes. Even now he was hurrying to see these things again, while he was angry that they drew him back.

He overcame the attraction, and deliberately sat down upon a bench. He watched a little girl playing about, and might have remained watching had not the devil, who sometimes walks to and fro and up and down in Hampton, intervened.

The child was suddenly struck by a ball, batted by an urchin, who, on seeing what he had done, incontinently took to his heels. She fell, stunned, almost at Leonard's feet. The impact of the ball had seemed frightful, and for a moment Leonard thought she was killed.

The hotel was across the street. He carried her thither, intending to summon a physician, but on seeing some returning signs of animation, he took his burden to his room and laid her on the bed.

Berthe, her nap over, had witnessed the scene in the park. She heard Leonard lay the child on the bed in the chamber adjoining the room in which she sat, and was instantly by the bedside with her traveling bag, from which she produced restoratives. She gave her whole attention to the sufferer, while he looked on, pleased with these gentle ministrations.

"It may be a bad hurt," said Berthe, undoubted pity in her tone. "The brain may be injured."

"I will call the doctor,'" he said.

The doctor was at hand, his room being on the same corridor. His opinion was that no serious damage had been done. "Let her rest awhile. If she seems unusually drowsy, let me know," with which words and a glance at Mademoiselle, he returned to his room.

Berthe knelt beside the child, who was growing alarmed as her intelligence became normally acute. The Frenchwoman prattled soothingly, and Leonard stooped to add some words of encouragement. He stroked the child's hair, and his hand met the soft hand of Berthe and was enclosed within it. He trembled as she drew him downward, and a sob escaped him as his lips met hers and lingered on them in a rapturous kiss.

CHAPTER XII.

HER EYES GREW LIMPID AND HER CHEEKS FLUSHED RED.

When the carriage, which was to convey her to Easthampton, had started, Natalie commenced the re-perusal of Miss Claghorn's invitation, which ran thus:

"My Dear Grand-niece—I address you thus, for though I have never seen you, yet you are of my kindred, and all who bear your name must be dear to me. Your father was so in his youth, and if, in later years, he neglected, if he did not forget, the ties of kinship and of country, I nevertheless mourned for him, even though sensible that all things are ordered by the Lord of heaven and earth and that human regret is useless, and, if unaccompanied with resignation, sinful. Mr. Winter writes me that you are friendless. I offer that which you can justly claim from me—my friendship and a home. As far as earthly cares are concerned, I am willing to relieve you of those incident to your situation. This is plainly my duty, and for many years I have striven, with God's help, to perform with a cheerful spirit that which I have been called upon to do.

"It is this habit which impels me here to refer to your views concerning man's duty toward his Maker. I do not, because conscientiously I cannot, agree with those who profess tolerance in these matters. There should be no tolerance of sin. If we would worthily follow in the steps of Him who died that we might live, we must hate the devil and his children in the same measure that we love our Father and his children. Whose child are you?

"This is a solemn question. I urge you to seek its answer at the Throne. If you will do this, my hope will be mighty. Should you be tempted to resent my solicitude, remember that my religion is a part of my nature, the only part meriting your respect, and that it requires of me that which I have written, as well as much more not set down here, but of which I hope I shall see the fruits. Come to me as soon as possible, and be assured of a welcome. Achsah Claghorn."

The girl smiled, though sadly, as she read this letter. She did not resent the fact that it was confessedly inspired solely by a sense of duty; she rather admired the writer for the uncompromising statement; nor was she offended at the sermon contained in the epistle, or inclined to treat it lightly. It is not probable that the writer of the letter believed that her exhortation would sink deeply in the heart of an "atheist," she being probably unaware that some who know not God crave a knowledge which they find nowhere offered.

The drive was long, the horse sleepy, the driver willing that his steed should doze, while his passenger paid by the hour, for which reason he had chosen the longer road by the sea.

She looked out upon the water with a gaze of longing, as though there might arise from out the solitary deep a vision which would solve that great mystery, which for Miss Claghorn and such as she, was no mystery, but wherein most of us grope as in a fog. But, as to other yearning eyes, so to hers no vision was vouchsafed; though had her sight been strengthened by experience, she might have seen, symbolized in the waters, the life of man. For, against the shore the fretful waves were spent and lost in sand, whereof each particle was insignificant, but which in the mass absorbed the foaming billows, as the vain aspirations of youth absorb its futile energies. Beyond was the green water, still tireless and vexed, and then the smoother blue, as it neared the sky-line, undisturbed, until afar the waters lay at rest in hopeless patience, and the heavens came down and hid the secret of what lay beyond.

But, if youth looked with the eyes of age, there were no youth. She was not yet to know lessons which must be hardly learned, and it was not that one offered by the waters that she saw as she looked out upon the ocean. Far beyond the horizon, in a distant land, her eyes beheld the garden of a village inn where sat a girl, prattling with her father and commenting upon two dusty strangers, who in their turn were eyeing the maid and her companion curiously. She saw the cave, heard Leonard shout the name—and then Mark Claghorn stood before her—as he then had stood, in the jaunty cap and ribbon which proclaimed him "Bursch"; one of those lawless beings of whom she had heard much school-girl prattle. Even then she had contrasted the handsomer face of the simple-minded boy beside her with the harsher and more commanding features of this newcomer. And her fancy wandered on through pleasant German saunterings and Parisian scenes among the churches—to the day when Berthe Lenoir had said that Mark would be her teacher in the lore of love; and she knew that, in the moment of that saying, she had learned the great lesson, never to be forgotten.

She had cherished the secret without hope or wish that he should share it, for she knew that so sweet a thing could live in no heart but her own; and she had not been ashamed, but had been proud of this holy acquisition hidden in her heart of hearts. Her eyes grew limpid and her cheeks flushed red as she recalled how the shrine of her treasure had been profaned by the hand of one that might have known, but had disdained its worth. In the Church of St. Roch the three who had been present when love was born were again alone together. Berthe was now her maid, and Mark, his university days past, was a daily visitor at her father's house.

The scene was clear before her as he pointed to the maid, out of earshot, and gazing carelessly at the worshippers. "Has she forgotten—so soon?" he said. "Are women so?"

She had not answered. Forgotten! Who could forget?

"I have not forgotten. I often come here, Natalie."

She had had no words. What was it that had so joyously welled up within her and overflowed her eyes and closed her lips?

"I was to be your teacher, Natalie."

She looked into his eyes, and from her own went out the secret of her soul into his keeping; and she had been glad, and the gloomy church had been aglow, and as they passed out the sun shone and the heavens smiled upon a new world; for she had never seen it thus before.

That was the short chapter of the history of her love. There had been no other. He had ravished her secret that he might disdain it, and next day had said a stern good-bye, spoken as though forever.

Yet she had dared to come here, though now the impulse was strong upon her to turn and flee from a region where he might be met. It was but an impulse; for either she must come among these her relatives or return to throw herself into the arms of the vacuous hussar who loved her dowry, or failing that, into the strife and importunity from which she had escaped. Resentful pride, too, came to her aid, bidding her not flee from him who had disdained her love, though even so she knew that that which had been born within her had been so fondly cherished, had grown so mighty, that in the heart it filled there was no room for pride to grow with equal strength.

She turned again to the letter in her hand. Her unbelief had never stilled the longing to believe, and now, in the hunger of her soul, the yearning was strong. But, she asked herself, What was belief? There was much glib talk of faith, but what was faith? Could one have faith by saying that one had it? Was conviction mere assertion? The letter advised her to seek enlightenment at the Throne of God. What meaning could the words have except that she was to crave that which she had ever craved? Her soul had always cried aloud for knowledge of God. Could it be that formal words, repeated kneeling, would compel heaven to give ear? Was it thus that people experienced what they called religion? Was it so that Miss Claghorn had found it?

Such musings came to an end with her arrival at the White House. She had announced her coming by letter, wherefore Tabitha Cone, recognizing the identity of the visitor and mentally pronouncing her a "stunner," ushered her into the gloomy parlor, and informed Miss Claghorn that "'Liph's daughter" awaited her.

"I decided to call in person before accepting your kind invitation," said the visitor.

"I learn from Ellis Winter that you need a home," replied Miss Achsah, a little stiffly, but rather from awe of this blooming creature than from dislike.

"I am grateful for your offer of one; but in fairness, I thought you should know my reasons for leaving France, and essential that you should justify me."

Miss Claghorn assented not ungraciously. The frank demeanor of her visitor pleased her. "A Claghorn," was her mental comment, as Natalie told her story more in detail than Mr. Winter had done.

"You see," she added to her narrative of the matrimonial pursuit of the gallant de Fleury, "he is not a man that I could like, but my cousin——"

"You mean this French Markweeze?"

Natalie nodded. "She is a sweet woman, and undoubtedly believed herself right in the matter. Then it was, doubtless, a very serious disappointment. Lieutenant de Fleury is her son; they are comparatively poor; I am not—and so—and so——"

"You were quite right to run away," snapped Miss Achsah, with the emphasis born of indignation at this attempt to coerce a Claghorn.

"It must not be forgotten that, from her point of view, my cousin was justified in expecting me to carry out a promise made by my father. It was this that made her so persistent and induced her to attempt measures that were not justifiable. To her I must seem ungrateful for much kindness." The girl's eyes glistened with tears. In fact, this view of her conduct, which was doubtless the view of the Marquise, affected her deeply. She did not state, though aware of the fact, that her own income had, during her residence with her French guardian, been mainly used to sustain and freshen the very faded glory of the house of Fleury.

"Well, my dear," was the comment of Miss Claghorn, "I have listened to your story and justify your course; and now I repeat my invitation."

Had Tabitha Cone seen the gracious manner of the speaker she would have been as surprised as was the lady herself. But in the presence of this beautiful face, the evident honesty of the narration of the tale she had heard, the underlying sadness beneath the serene expression, it would have needed a harder nature than Miss Claghorn's to be anything but gracious. But she flushed with self-reproach when Natalie touched upon what she had for the moment completely forgotten.

"But," exclaimed Natalie, "I have not answered the question in your letter. The matter of religion, I was led to believe, would be to you most important. It is to so many; the Marquise, Père Martin, Mrs. Leon—have all been grieved—I am an infidel."

The coolness with which this statement was made shocked her auditor even more than the fact. The perplexed smile upon the girl's face; the yearning look, that seemed to recognize something wanting in her, some faculty absent which left her without a clew to the cause of the successive shocks emanating from her—these things, if only dimly appreciated by Miss Claghorn, were sufficiently apparent to make her feel as though a weight had fallen upon her heart. "Oh, my child, that is an awful thing to say!" she exclaimed.

The way the words were uttered showed that all the tenderness, long hidden, of the speaker's nature was suddenly called to life. No exhortation ever heard by Natalie had so affected her as this outburst of a hard old woman. She seized the other's hand, murmuring, "Dear Aunt!" She pitied, even while she envied, the victim of superstition, as the God-fearing woman pitied the errant soul. Neither understood the source of the other's emotion, but they met in complete sympathy. The elder woman pressed the hand that had grasped her own, and leaning toward her grand-niece, kissed her affectionately. What old and long-dried springs of feeling were awakened in the withered breast as the oldest descendant of the Puritan preacher yearned over the youngest of the line? Who shall tell? Perhaps the barren motherhood of the ancient spinster was stirred for once; perhaps the never-known craving for a mother's love moved the younger one. For a time both were silent.

"Come to me to-day, at once," whispered Miss Achsah, blushing, had she known it, and quivering strangely.

The heartiness of the invitation troubled the visitor, whose answer was less gracious than a chief characteristic required. "I will come to-day," she answered. "Let it be understood as a visit only." Then she went out, and in the lumbering carriage was driven back to Hampton.

Miss Claghorn watched her from the window. Gradually she was recovering herself and secretly feeling mightily ashamed, yet pleased, too. Tabitha came in.

"Well?" she asked.

"Well," echoed Miss Claghorn, acidly.

"What are you going to do?"

"Pray," replied the lady, as she ascended the stairs.

"Must have forgot it this morning," was Miss Cone's mental comment.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHEREAT CYNICS AND MATRONS MAY SMILE INCREDULOUS.

When Natalie returned, Leonard was occupying his old seat in the Square, a different man from the man she had met in the earlier morning. He had been shocked, grieved, even terrified, and above all ashamed; yet joy mingled with his grief, and his consciousness of new manhood was not without its glory; and, withal, his breast was filled with a flood of tremulous tenderness for the woman, and a longing for her forgiveness. His emotions were sufficiently confusing to be vexing, and he had striven to give the matter a jaunty aspect. Young men will be young men, even when students of divinity, and he had heard more than one tale of kisses. He had not much liked such tales, nor the bragging and assumption of their tellers; still, a few hours since, he would have seen no great offense in kissing a pretty woman; but a few hours since he had not known anything about the matter. He was sure now that the rakes of his college days, the boasters and conquerors, had been as ignorant as he. Otherwise they could not have told of their deeds; the thing he had done he could tell no man.

And so, though he had but kissed a woman, he felt that kissing a woman was a wonderful thing; and he failed in the attempt to look upon the matter airily, as of a little affair that would have in the future a flavor of roguishness. It was not a matter to be treated lightly; his grief and the stabs of conscience were too sharp for that—yet he had no remorse. He was not minded to repeat the act; he had fled from such repetition, and he would not repeat it; neither would he regret it. It should be a memory, a secret for hidden shame, for hidden pride, for grief, for joy.

He intercepted Natalie as she descended from the carriage, and, in a brief interview in the hotel parlor, learned of her intention to return at once to Miss Claghorn. The carriage was waiting, there was no reason for delaying her departure; there was nothing to do but to call the maid, and he dispatched a servant to do that. He volunteered to see to the immediate transmission of the luggage of the travelers to Easthampton, and made thereof an excuse for leaving before the maid reappeared; and when once without the hotel door, and on his way to the station, he breathed a sigh as of one relieved of a load.

Some days passed and Leonard had not appeared at Easthampton. One morning he received the following note from Paula:

"Dear Leonard—I suppose you are very busy in these last days of the term, and we all excuse your neglect of us. I shall be at the Hampton station on Thursday, having promised to see Natalie's maid (who don't speak English) on the evening train for New York. Perhaps you can meet me and return with me to dinner. Cousin Alice hopes you will."

He was careful not to find Paula until the train had gone, and he had assured himself that Berthe was among the passengers. Then he appeared.

"Why, Leonard," exclaimed Paula, "have you been ill?" The tone was full of concern. He shrank as if he had been struck.

"No," he said; "a little anxious—troubled."

"Over your freckled, gawky, thickshod theologues; what a pity you're not in the Church!"

This kind of outburst on the part of the speaker usually made Leonard laugh. To-night his laugh sounded hollow. "I suppose your Episcopalian students wear kids and use face powder," he said.

"There's no harm in kid gloves; inner vileness——"

"Is very bad, Paula; we'll not discuss it."

They walked across the Square, on the other side of which she had left the carriage. She looked up to his face to seek an explanation of the irritation discoverable in his tone; she noted that his hat was drawn down over his eyes in a way very unusual. They walked on in silence. "You will come with me?" she asked, when they had reached the carriage.

"Not to-night. You are right, I am not very well; it is nothing, I will come out this week. Has Natalie discharged her maid?"

"Not for any fault. Mrs. Leon was very glad to get Berthe, and as Natalie is situated——"

"I see. I hope she is comfortable with Cousin Achsah."

"They hit it off astonishingly well. The fact is, nobody could help loving Natalie—I am surprised that you have not been to see her."

"I know I have seemed negligent. I have a good excuse. Where, in New York, does Mrs. Leon live?"

"At the Fifth Avenue Hotel," she replied, wondering at the question.

"Well," he said, after a pause, and treating her answer as though, like his question, it was of no real interest. "I must not keep you here. You don't mind going home alone?"

"I should be glad of your company; aside from that, I don't mind."

"Then, good-bye," touching her hand for an instant. "Make my excuses to Mrs. Joe; I have been really very busy. Home, James." He closed the carriage door and walked rapidly away, leaving Paula vexed, to sink back in the soft seat and to wonder.

He walked across the Square to the region of shops and entered a large grocery store—at this time of day, deserted. "Could you give me a bill for fifty dollars?" he asked of the cashier.

"I believe I can, Professor," replied the official, drawing one from the desk, and exchanging it for the smaller bills handed him by Leonard, who thanked him and went out. That night he enclosed the single bill in an envelope, and addressed it to Mademoiselle Berthe, in care of Mrs. Leon.

As he could have told no man why he had done this, so he could not tell himself why. Cynics and matrons may smile incredulous, but the kiss he had given and received had wrought an upheaval in this man's soul. He who defers his kissing until he has reached maturity has much to learn, and if the learning comes in a sudden burst of light in still and quiet chambers, that have until now been dark, the man may well be dazzled.

He did not think her sordid. He hoped she would understand that he sent her that which he believed would be of use to her. But when, a week later, he received a little box and found within it an exquisite pin, which he, unlearned in such matters, still knew must have cost a large part of the sum he had sent her, he was pleased, and a thrill passed through him. Like him, she would remember, nor in her mind would there be any thought but one of tenderness for a day that could never come again. It would be a fair memory that would trouble him no more, but would remain forever fair, of her who had opened to him the portals of a new and beautiful world.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE WHITE HOUSE, A DAMSEL OR THE DEVIL—WHICH?

When Paula had said to Leonard that Natalie and Miss Claghorn "hit it off astonishingly well," she had fairly indicated the harmonious relations prevailing at the White House, as well as the general astonishment that the elder lady had so graciously received a religious outcast. It was true that Miss Achsah's innate benevolence was habitually shrouded in uncompromising orthodoxy, a tough and non-diaphanous texture, not easily penetrable by futile concern for souls preordained to eternal death; but Natalie was of her own blood, one of a long line of elect; furthermore, she had not been seduced by the blandishments of the Great Serpent, but had cast her lot, where it truly belonged, among Claghorns; and, finally, the oldest bearer of that name was doubtless influenced by the fact that the girl was motherless and friendless, and that she herself, paying the penalty of independence, was, except as to Tabitha Cone, with whom she lived in strife, alone.

Miss Cone also approved of the visitor. This had been originally an accident. Like the rest of the little world interested, Tabitha had supposed that Miss Claghorn's reception of a foreign and atheistical daughter of Beverley Claghorn would be as ungracious as was compatible with humanity; wherefore Tabitha had been prepared, for her part, to be extremely affable, foreseeing, with joy, many a battle with her benefactress wherein she would have an ally; but, taken unawares, by the time she had grasped the unexpected situation, she had become too sincere in her admiration to change her role. She chose, however, to announce an estimate of Natalie's character differing from that of Miss Claghorn. "She's a Beverley down to her shins," was Miss Cone's verdict.

"As much of a Beverley as you are a Claghorn," was Miss Achsah's tart rejoinder.

"Which, thank the Lord, I'm not. One's enough in one house. For my part, I don't admire your strong characters."

"So that your admiration of Natalie is all pretense. I'm not surprised."

"She strong! Poor dove, she's Susan Beverley to the life." Which may have been true, though dove-like Natalie was not.

Miss Claghorn made no reply except by means of a contradictory snort.

"Now," gravely continued the inwardly jubilant Tabitha, "I call Paula Lynford a strong character. There's a girl that'll get what she's after."

Something ominous in the manner of the speaker arrested the sneer on its way. "What do you mean?" asked Miss Achsah.

"What do all girls want—though, to be sure, you've had no experience," observed Tabitha (who had once contemplated marriage with a mariner, who had escaped by drowning)—"a husband."

Miss Claghorn laughed. "Very likely. But Paula's husband will need a dispensation—from the Pope, I suppose—since he calls himself a Catholic."

Tabitha echoed the laugh, less nervously and with palpable and unholy enjoyment. "You mean her cap's set for Father Cameril. She's been throwing dust in your eyes. She's after a minister, sure enough, but not that one."

"What do you mean, Tabitha Cone?" The tone of the question usually had the effect of cowing Tabitha, but the temptation was too strong to be resisted.

"I mean Leonard Claghorn."

Miss Achsah gasped. "You slanderous creature," she exclaimed, "Leonard will never marry a mock-papist—demure puss!"

"Leonard'll marry to suit himself, and not his forty-fifth cousin." And with this Tabitha escaped, leaving a rankling arrow.

As an "atheist," Natalie was a surprise to both inmates of the White House. Their ideas of atheistic peculiarities were probably vague, but each had regarded the arrival of the unbeliever with dread. Tabitha had foreboded profanity, perhaps even inebriety, depravity certainly, and she had been quite "upset," to use her own expression, by the reality. Miss Claghorn, with due respect for family traits, had never shared Tabitha's worst fears, but she had anticipated a very different kind of person from the person that Natalie actually was. She had pictured a hard, cynical, intellectual creature, critical as to the shortcomings of creation, full of "science," and pertly obtrusive with views. She had feared theological discussion, and though convinced that her armory (comprised in Dr. Hodge's "Commentary on the Confession of Faith") was amply furnished to repel atheistic assault, yet she dreaded the onset, having, perhaps, some distrust of her own capacity for handling her weapons.

But the atheist was neither scientific nor argumentative. She was so graceful, so amiable, in short, so charming, that both old women were quickly won; so gay that both were surprised to hear their own laughter. Sufficiently foreign to be of continual interest, and so pleased and entertained with her new surroundings that they would have been churlish indeed not to accept her pleasure as flattering to themselves.

At times, indeed, both had misgivings. The devil is abroad, and it was conceivable that in the form of this seductive creature he had audaciously invaded the White House for prey, such as rarely fell into his toils; but each spinster was too sure of her own call and election to fear the enemy of souls on her individual account, and Miss Claghorn doubted whether even the temerity of Satan would suffice for the hopeless attempt to capture an orthodox Claghorn; and this assurance aided the belief that Natalie, herself of the elect race, was neither the devil's emissary, nor in the direful peril that had been feared. She might think herself an infidel, but her time was not yet come, that was all.

"I am sure she has workings of the spirit," she observed to Tabitha. "She's not always as lighthearted as you think."

"I don't happen to think it. A good deal of that's put on."

"Everybody don't experience grace as early as you and I."

"Specially not in Paris," assented Miss Cone.

"She was surely guided of the Lord in leaving the influence of Romanism to——"

"'Cording to your view she hasn't escaped yet; there's St. Perpetua——"

"She's too true a Claghorn to be led into that folly."

"I don't know," observed Miss Cone meditatively, "that the Claghorns are less foolish than other people. There was 'Liph, her father; 'n there's Lettie Stanley—then your brother. St. Perpetua's his monument, you know."

"Joseph would never have approved St. Perpetua. If he'd been a Catholic, it wouldn't have been an imitation."

"His wife ought to know the kind of monument he would have liked. I've known the Claghorns long enough to know——"

"You've known some of 'em, to your eternal welfare, Tabitha Cone."

"I'm not aware that the family was consulted when my election was foreordained. You think well of 'em, and I won't deny their good qualities—but I guess the Almighty didn't have to wait until their creation to manage."

"You seem very sure of election. I hope you are not to be disappointed, but you might accept the fact with some humility."

"Your brother, Natalie's grandfather, had a license to preach—I'm not aware that you have—he taught me that the fact was to be accepted with joy and gladness."

"Joy and gladness are not inconsistent with humility."

"I'm not denyin' your right to be joyful, but your right to preach."

"Tabitha Cone, you'd try the patience of a saint!"

"If I had the opportunity!" And so, with whetted swords they plunged into the fray.

The newcomer was graciously welcomed at Stormpoint, though Paula bewailed her selection of abode, tending, as it did, to frustrate certain plans, which were to result in alluring Natalie to the sheltering arms of St. Perpetua. Paula was confident of the courage of Father Cameril, but even a brave man may hesitate to pluck a jewel from the den of a lion, and she knew that to such a den the good Father likened the home of Miss Claghorn.

But Mrs. Joe approved Natalie's choice. "Miss Achsah's her blood relation," she said.

"What is blood? An accident. Friendship is born of sympathy," protested Paula.

"And since that is the basis of our friendship," observed Natalie, "you will understand that when my grand-aunt offered me a home on the ground of duty, I also recognized a duty."

"A home on the ground of duty," repeated Paula, with as near an approach to a sneer as she was capable of effecting.

"Could she feel affection, who had never seen me? Remember, she stood in the place of mother to my father. I fear she had reason to believe that the fact had been forgotten."

Mrs. Joe nodded approval.

"Inclination would have led me to you," Natalie proceeded. "It may be, too, that I was influenced by the hope that I might, in some degree, brighten the life of an old woman who had outlived her near relations. I remembered how Cousin Jared, whom we all liked so well, reverenced her. And then, I approved her pride in the name. I, too, am a Claghorn."

"In short," commented Mrs. Joe, "you recognized a duty, as I believed you would, and you did right. Good will come of it," she added, "a bond between the houses."

Nevertheless, the lady's conscience was troubled. She was naturally candid and hospitable, yet in respect to Natalie, she had done violence to both attributes. In that invitation, sent in accordance with her promise to Paula, she had been careful to recognize the prior claim of Miss Claghorn, thus virtually indicating Natalie's proper course. It had been hard for her to close the gates of Stormpoint upon one whom she regarded with affection, yet Mr. Hacket's counsel had outweighed inclination. That gentleman was, indeed, teaching some hard lessons to the lady of Stormpoint. It was almost unbearable that this wooden and yellow man, who secretly aroused all the antagonism of which she was capable, should direct her domestic affairs; yet she bore it smilingly, as was seemly in a politician, whose skin may smart, but who must grin. For, Mr. Hacket's command was wise. To add an infidel to her household of religious suspects would be a rash act which Hampton might not forgive. She had no doubt that Natalie's unbelief would become known, and if it did not, the fact that she was French would presuppose Romanism, and excite comment. Were Stormpoint to harbor a Papist, one concerning whom there could be no saving doubt, such as existed for its present inmates, all her plans might be jeopardized. In the eyes of the descendants of the Puritans, the adherents of St. Perpetua would be convicted as followers of the scarlet woman, and if the red rag of Romanism were flaunted in seeming defiance, Mark's incipient career of statesmanship might meet with a serious check.

On the other hand, there was comfort in the thought that all unpleasant possibilities would be avoided by Natalie's sojourn with Miss Achsah. Infidel or Romanist, in whatever light regarded, the dwellers in Easthampton would know with approval that the competent owner of the White House had the stray sheep in charge, and would anticipate triumphant rescue of the endangered soul, providentially sheltered where food of life would be daily offered. There would be also general satisfaction that to Miss Achsah had been given a task worthy the exercise of those energies which, in the cause of truth, she was apt to exhibit in domestic circles not her own, to the great terror of the members thereof. Mrs. Joe, herself, could find occasion to evince commendation of the expected efforts of Miss Claghorn, and, while placating that lady, could emphasize her own Protestantism. In fact, several birds might be slain with this single stone.

CHAPTER XV.

SUR LE PONT D'AVIGNON ON Y DANSE, ON Y DANSE.

It was, perhaps, because she was conscience-stricken that Mrs. Joe essayed to make atonement to Natalie by being especially confiding with her. We know, also, that she saw an opportunity of strengthening those bonds between Stormpoint and the White House, which Mr. Hacket insisted it was advisable to make as close as possible; for it became day by day more evident that Miss Achsah had taken her new inmate into her heart of hearts; other motives there may have been; certain it is that next to her yellow adviser, whom she loathed with a deeper loathing each time that she saw him anew, she opened her heart to Natalie in regard to those cherished projects which concerned Mark.

"I want to see him famous," she said. "It will be harder for him than for others, because of this wretched money."

"He has more talent than most, and, I think, sincerity," replied Natalie, pausing on the last word.

The elder lady looked sharply at the speaker. The two were alone together; occasionally they could hear the strains of Paula's organ from the distant music-room. "You saw much of him after he left the University?" she questioned.

"Yes, he was with us constantly for a time." The widow had a fine sense of hearing, which she strained to the utmost to note what might be told in the tone that remained untold by the words. She was quite aware that Mark had been for weeks a daily visitor, if not an actual inmate, of the household of Beverley Claghorn. She had herself arranged that it should be so; but she had not then feared possibilities, which had engaged her thoughts a good deal since she had heard of the rupture between the Marquise and Natalie. The tone of the girl's voice told her nothing, and the eyes that met her own were serene.

"I wished Mark to remain abroad until Stormpoint was complete. I wished to surprise him, and impress him with the fact that I am in earnest, that this place is but a means to an end."

"It is a beautiful and a fitting home for what he is and aspires to be."

"It will help. What has he said to you about Stormpoint?"

"You forget that I have not seen him since he made its acquaintance."

"Surely he was not so neglectful as not to write!"

"He wrote to my father. I don't recall what he said about Stormpoint."

The eyes bent upon the girl, who looked steadily out of the window at the sea, were keen and questioning. "Pardon me, Natalie, I hope the breach between you and the Marquise is not irreparable," said the lady softly.

Natalie looked up smiling. "Indeed, I hope not. I am not angry with her, though she is with me."

"I can hardly be sorry that you disappointed her—I never fancied her lieutenant—but I was surprised. I had supposed the matter settled with your consent."

"My dear father, it seems, did so arrange it. I quite appreciate her standpoint and know that she has much to forgive. Naturally, she approves of the customs of her country. Unfortunately, I was not trained strictly à la mode Française."

"The French custom as regards betrothal is repulsive; but I supposed you were French—and——"

"I must have inherited independent views. I might have acquiesced had I not seen too much of Adolphe. You are not to think badly of him—only that he is unendurable."

"That is more damning than faint praise," laughed Mrs. Joe; "but I understand. Well, my dear, since you decline to become a 'female Markis,' as Mr. Weller has it, we must do as well for you as possible in a republic that offers no nobles."

"I am quite content with things as they are."

"That, of course, is eminently proper; but we are all slaves of destiny and there is one always possible to maidens. We shall select a permanent city home as soon as I can consult Mark; meanwhile we shall not spend our winters here; and in the winter Miss Achsah must reward our forbearance by surrendering you to us."

"I shall be glad to be with you and Paula sometimes; but, Mrs. Joe, you know I am only visiting my aunt. I intend to have a home of my own."

"That will come. Perhaps it will be with me for a time, if you can bear with another old woman. Mark and Paula will want their own establishment. Of course, they'll have Stormpoint."

She had sped her bolt. If it had been needless, it was harmless; if it had wounded, so much the more was it needed. But she felt mean—in the proper frame to meet Mr. Hacket, who was announced, to the relief of both.

The distant organ notes must have been pleasing to the ear, for, after Mrs. Joe had gone, Natalie sat long, listening and motionless; they must have been tender, for tears glistened in her eyes. When they ceased she rose and left the room and the house. In the grounds she found Paula, who said, "I came out at this moment, and saw that," pointing to the buggy; "then I knew that you would soon be here."

They strolled to a sheltered nook of the cliffside, and thence looked out upon the silver sea, peaceful under the summer sky.

"One could hardly believe that it could ever be angry," said Paula, "but you shall see it in fury; then it will be awful."

"It is awful now."

"Now!" exclaimed Paula. "Why, it is as serene as the sky above it."

"But think what it hides. Listen to the moan; see the swell of its heavy sighs."

"Natalie, I have discovered something!"

"Like Columbus," laughed Natalie.

"You are like the sea to-day. The surface wavelets laugh in the glint of the sun; but sadness is beneath. The sea hides sorrow; and you are so. You and Mark——"

And there she stopped. The other knew why. Paula was looking straight at her face, and she knew that her face had suddenly told a story.

"Does the sea remind you of Mark?" she asked in even tones, guarding her secret in her manner of utterance.

"Of both of you," answered Paula, who had quickly turned a somewhat troubled gaze upon the water. "Natalie," she added, rather hurriedly, "there is a balm for every sorrow, a sure one. That"—she slightly emphasized the word—"is why I thought of you in connection with Mark. Ah, if he were only religious!"

"Then he would be perfect, you think." She laughed, and Paula laughed, but the merriment seemed hollow.

"Nobody can be perfect," said Paula, after the pause which had followed the unmeaning mirth. She spoke in a low tone and timidly, but for that reason all the more engagingly; "but so far as perfection can be attained, it can only be with the aid of religion."

It was one of the words in season, which Natalie had become accustomed to hear from those about her, and which from this exhorter she always liked to hear. There was an atmosphere of calm about Paula and a serenity in her face which fascinated the unbeliever. And her admonitions, if timidly uttered, were sincere. It was as though the young preacher, though longing for a convert, feared to frighten the disciple away.

Natalie bent over and kissed the girl's cheek. "Is he unhappy? Mark, I mean."

"His life is evidence that he is not happy. He wanders aimlessly. Cousin Alice built Stormpoint for him, yet he leaves it."

"His large interests compel his wanderings."

"He has agents who make them unnecessary. Cousin Alice needs him."

"You would be glad to have him home?"

Paula looked up; her sparkling eyes answered the question. There was a pause.

"I hope he will come," said Natalie, after awhile, "and that you will have your wish."

"That he will become religious? I pray for it, so it must come."

Natalie took her hand and held it. "And you believe that religion insures happiness?" She was willing to hold on to this topic.

"I know it. The peace of God which passeth understanding. Do not turn from it, Natalie."

"I do not. I am not a scoffer. I think that I, too, could love God, only I am densely ignorant."

"But you can be enlightened. Father Cameril——"

Natalie smiled. "I hardly think he would be the teacher I would choose. I would prefer you."

"To enlighten your ignorance! I am myself ignorant. I believe—I know no more." This sounded prettily from pretty lips, and Paula was honest; but, as a matter of fact, she had some theological pretensions, a truth which she for the moment forgot.

"How is that possible?" asked the infidel. "I could believe, if I knew."

"We cannot understand everything."

"No—almost nothing, therefore——"

"We have a revelation."

"Which reveals nothing to me. I wish it did."

"Natalie, you demand too much. We are not permitted to know everything. We cannot be divine."

"And yet we can speak very positively; as if, indeed, we knew it all—some of us. But if nobody knows, nobody can be sure."

"I cannot argue; but I can tell you who tells me. God Himself. God speaks to the heart."

"Paula," cried the other, with startling earnestness, "I, too, have a heart. Teach me how to believe, and of all the wise you will be the wisest. Do I not know that life is barren? that the love of man cannot fill the heart? Ah! Paula, if that can do it, teach me the love of God!"

The tone rose almost to a cry. Paula was awed as a perception of the truth came upon her that here was a skeptic with religious longings greater than her own. "Natalie," she murmured, hiding her face on the shoulder of her companion, "we are told to ask. Pray, Natalie, to the One that knows it all."

"And will you pray for me?"

"I do."

"And do you pray for Mark?"

"Surely."

"And you know that my prayers will be answered?"

"I know it—in God's good time."

"I will pray, Paula."

They kissed one another, as though sealing a compact. No doubt Paula breathed a petition for her who, still in darkness, craved for light. Natalie prayed for the happiness of Mark Claghorn, and that she might forget him and resign him to the saint whose lips she pressed.

Then she went home. In the hall of the White House she met Tabitha. "Come!" she exclaimed, seizing that elderly damsel about the waist. "Dansons, Tabitha; hop, skip! Sur le pont d'Avignon on y danse, on y danse!" and she trilled her lay and whirled the astonished spinster around until both were breathless.

"My sakes! Have you gone crazy?" exclaimed Tabitha.

"Come to my senses!" replied Natalie, laughing merrily.

"I never saw you so French before," was Tabitha's comment.

CHAPTER XVI.

WARBLINGS IN THE WHITE HOUSE AND SNARES FOR A SOUL.

Achsah Claghorn, for many years lonely, with maternal instincts steadily suppressed, had found the first opportunity of a long life to gratify cravings of which she had been until now unconscious. Coyly, even with trembling, she sought the love of her grand-niece, being herself astonished, as much as she astonished others, by an indulgent tenderness seemingly foreign to her character. Grandmothers, though once severe as mothers, are often overfond in their last maternal role, and it may be that Miss Claghorn pleased herself by the fiction of a relationship which, though not actually existent, had some foundation in long-past conditions.

"Did your father never speak of me?" she asked.

"Often, Aunt. Especially of late years, after we had met Cousin Jared."

"But not with much affection?"

Natalie was somewhat at a loss. "He said you were his second mother," was her reply.

"Poor Susan—that was your grandmother, my dear. She was a gentle, loving creature. I think now, though perhaps I did not at the time, that 'Liph was lonely after she died. Ours was a dull house," she continued, after a pause. "Your grandfather lived more in heaven than on earth, which made it gloomy for us that didn't. Saints are not comfortable to live with, and 'Liph was often in disgrace. I hope I was never hard to a motherless boy, but—but——"

"I am sure you were not. My father never said so."

"Yet he forgot me. Perhaps it was pleasanter not to remember."

There was no reply to make. Natalie knew that her father had been so well content to forget his relatives that, until the unexpected meeting in Germany, her own knowledge of the Claghorns had been very vague.

"'Liph did write me when he married, even promised to come and see me, but he never came."

Miss Claghorn forgot the fact that in reply to her nephew's letter she had deplored his connection with Romanism and had urged instant attention to the duty of converting his wife. The philosopher may have justly enough felt that there could be but little sympathy between himself and one whose congratulations on his nuptials were in part a wail of regret, in part an admonitory sermon.

"You know, Aunt, he did intend to come."

"To see Mrs. Joe—well, no doubt he would have been glad to see me, too. I am sorry we never met after so many years."

Besides the tenderness displayed to Natalie alone, there were evidences of change in the mistress of the White House, apparent to all; and while these were properly ascribed to the new inmate, the fact that that influence could work such wonders excited surprise. The neighbors were astonished to behold the novel sight of perennially open parlor windows, and thought with misgiving upon the effect of sunshine on Miss Claghorn's furniture. At times strange sounds issued from the hitherto silent dwelling, operatic melodies, or snatches of chansons, trilled forth in a foreign tongue. "The tunes actually get into my legs," observed Tabitha to a neighbor. "The sobber de mong pare'd make an elder dance," an assertion which astonished the neighbor less than Miss Cone's familiarity with the French language. But comment was actually stricken dumb when both Miss Claghorn and Tabitha appeared in public with sprigs of color in their headgear and visible here and there upon their raiment.

"I believe you'd bewitch Old Nick himself," observed Tabitha.

"I have," replied Natalie. "He's promised me a shrub."

"I don't mean Nick that brings the garden sass," and the spinster groaned at the benighted condition of one so ignorant as to fail to recognize a familiar appellation of the enemy of souls. "You've worked your grand-aunt out of a horse."

"Your voice is that of an oracle, Tab, and I, who am stupid, do not understand."

"She's going to give you a horse."

"Then should you not rather say that I have worked a horse out of my grand-aunt? which is still oracular; wherefore expound, Tab."

"She told me herself. It's my belief she's in love with you. She'd give you her head, if you asked."

"She's given me her heart, which is better. And so have you; and you're both ashamed of it. Why is that, Tabby?"

"Well," replied Tabitha, making no denial, "you see we're not French—thank God! When we were young we were kept down, as was the fashion."

"I do not like that fashion."

"You'd like it less if you knew anything about it. It has to come out some time; that's the reason your songs get into my legs, and——"

"And?" questioningly, for Tabitha had paused.

"Well, your aunt was never in love—never had the chance, 's far's I know; but if she had, it had to be kept down—and now it comes out. Lucky it didn't strike an elder with a raft of children and no money."

"Much better that it has struck me than an elder—that will be a friar. I have no children, some money and a whole heart. But this tale of a horse?"

"Ever since you told us about ridin' in the Bawdy Bolone she's had Leonard on the lookout. He's found one over to Moffat's. She wants you to look at it before she buys."

"But——"

"I know—you've money of your own to buy horses. That's what she's afraid you'll say. You mustn't. She's set her heart on it."

The horse was accepted without demur, if with some secret misgiving as to adding a new link to the chain which was binding her to Easthampton; and it was peculiarly grateful. Ever since that day when Natalie had astonished Tabitha by improvising a waltz, her gaiety had been feverish, almost extravagant, the result of a craving for physical excitement; the desire to jump, to run, to leap, to execute for Tabitha's delectation dances which would have made Miss Claghorn stare. The horse in some degree filled the craving. She rode constantly, sometimes alone, galloping wildly in secluded lanes; sometimes sedately with Paula and an attendant; often with Leonard, an ardent equestrian, a fact not forgotten by the donor of the horse when the gift was made.

In the eyes of Miss Achsah, as in other eyes, Leonard embodied the finest type of the fine race to which he belonged, combining in his person physical graces not generally vouchsafed to these favorites of heaven, as well as those nobler attributes with which they had been so liberally endowed, and which rendered them worthy of the celestial preference. It was religious to believe that these graces of person and of manner were not given without a purpose, and aided by the same pious deduction which usually recognizes in similar charms a snare of Satan, Miss Claghorn beheld in this instance a device of Providence for winning a soul.

Besides the facilities for conversion thus utilized, Miss Achsah discerned other grounds for hope. In the frequent lapses into thoughtfulness, even sadness, on the part of the unbeliever, she recognized the beginning of that spiritual agitation which was to result in the complete submission of the erring soul to heaven; nor was she negligent in dropping those words which, dropped in season, may afford savory and sustaining food to a hungry spirit. Had Natalie displayed that mental agony and tribulation which naturally accompanies the fear of hell, and which is, therefore, a frequent preliminary terror of conversion, Miss Claghorn would have called in her pastor, as in physical ills she would have called in the doctor; but since Natalie displayed nothing more than frequent thoughtfulness and melancholy, and, as with some natures (and the lady knew it was true of the Claghorn nature) antagonism is aroused by over-solicitude, she easily persuaded herself that, for the present at least, the case was better in the competent hands of Leonard, to whom she solemnly confided it. She feared the treatment of a more experienced, yet perhaps harsher practitioner, whose first idea would be the necessity of combating Romanism. For the secret of Natalie's unbelief remained undisclosed, and Miss Claghorn dreaded such disclosure as sure to bring disgrace upon the family name. Finally, she had another reason, not the least important, for providing Leonard with the chance of winning that soul, which she hoped would become for him the most precious of the souls of men.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SECRET OF HER HEART WAS NEVER TO BE TOLD BY HER TO HIM.

"She must be warned from Father Cameril," said Miss Claghorn.

"Do you suppose he could influence her?" observed Leonard scornfully. "I shall not forget my duty, Cousin Achsah. Meanwhile, remember that she is a Claghorn. That means something."

"A great deal; still, there was her father—and Lettie Stanley——"

"I think you are rather hard on her. I believe that Mrs. Stanley is a good woman."

"Will goodness alone attain heaven?"

Leonard did not answer. Mrs. Stanley's chances of heaven had no great interest for him.

If he seemed somewhat less solicitous than Miss Claghorn had expected it was because already his musings were tending in a direction not theological. "How lovely she is!" This had been his thought on his first visit to Easthampton, while Natalie's little hand still lay in his in welcome. He noted, as he watched her afterward, the fitful sadness of her eyes, and longed to share her unknown sorrow. He saw the ripe red lips and his bosom glowed, his eyes grew dreamy and his cheeks flushed pink. He had never, so Paula averred, been as handsome as on that evening.

He was now a daily visitor, equally welcome at the White House or at Stormpoint, and the relations between the two establishments were such that a hope arose within the bosom of Mrs. Joe that she might be able to report to Mr. Hacket that Miss Claghorn had actually dined with the Bishop. She ventured to confide to Miss Achsah certain aspirations in regard to Mark, and her confidence was well received and her plans applauded. Miss Claghorn thought it fitting that Mark, who was nearer to her in blood than Leonard, should assume in worldly affairs that eminence which in higher matters would be Leonard's. It was plain that when the time came such influence as she possessed would be used in Mark's behalf, barring some untoward circumstance, which Mrs. Joe was resolved should not occur. And to prevent it she warned Father Cameril that his wiles were not to be practised upon Natalie. His prayers, her own and Paula's, she informed him, must, for the present, suffice. She was aware that Miss Claghorn had personally taken charge of a matter which, to do Mrs. Joe justice, she regarded as of supreme importance. But, St. Perpetua notwithstanding, her opinions were liberal. She supposed that good people went to heaven, and she was not sternly rigid in her definition of goodness. As to where bad people went, her ideas were vague. She did not question Miss Claghorn's Christianity, though she did not admire its quality, but she knew that on the first attempt to entice Natalie by the allurements presented by St. Perpetua, the bonds of amity now existing would be strained. She even went so far as to assure her sister-in-law that Father Cameril should be "kept in his place," an assurance which was accepted with the grim rejoinder that it were well that he be so kept.

Wherefore, it would seem that those exalted aspirations which had warmed Leonard's bosom, when he had learned from Paula that his French cousin was to be a resident of Easthampton, would be reawakened, and that he would gladly attempt their realization. Alas! other, and more alluring visions, engaged his senses.

To say that he had loved the maid, Berthe, is only to say that which would be true of any man of similar temperament under similar circumstances. The kiss of those lips, over which he had so rapturously lingered, had been his first taste of passion. It may be a sorrowful, but it is not a surprising, fact, that it should affect him violently and color his dreams of a sentiment hitherto unknown. He had taken a long step in a pathway which was to lead him far, though he was as ignorant of the fact as he was of the fact that, in this respect, his education had commenced unfortunately.

He was sufficiently a man of the world to be aware that the emotion in which he had reveled could have no satisfactory result. He would no more have considered the advisability of marrying Natalie's maid than would the Marquis de Fleury; and as to any other possibility, such as perchance might have occupied the mind of the noble Marquis, it never even entered his thoughts. In his ignorance he was innocent, and had he been less so, would still have possessed in the moral lessons of his training a sufficient safeguard. Yet the kiss was to have its results. Woman's lips would, to him, bear a different aspect from that of heretofore.

And so the days passed very happily, though Leonard's conscience often pricked him. Natalie's soul was still in danger.

"Cousin," he said one day—they were sitting among the trees of Stormpoint, the girl sketching, he watching her—"Do you——?" He stopped, blushing.

She thought the blush very engaging as she looked up with a smile. Women rarely looked upon the handsome, innocent face, except smilingly. "Do I what, Leonard?" she asked.

"Do you ever think of religion? I am a clergyman, Natalie."

"I think a great deal of religion." Her eyes fell before his. He had touched a secret corner of her heart, and at first she shrank; yet the touch pleased her; not less so because of his manner which, though he was secretly ashamed of it, was in his favor. It was not easy for him to discuss the topic with her, to play the role of teacher and enlarge upon a theme which was far from his thoughts. The fact lent him the grace of embarrassment, leading her to believe that the topic was to him a sacred one. Truly, her soul was burdened. Who more apt to aid her than this young devotee, who had consecrated a life to that knowledge for which she yearned?

"You know, Natalie, as a minister——"

"It is your duty to convert me," she interrupted, looking again upward, and smiling. "That is what Tabitha says."

"Perhaps Tabitha is right. I think I ought."

"Suppose you were to try, what would you have me do?"

What would he have her do? The man within him cried: "I would have you love me, kiss me, pillow my head upon your breast and let me die there!" But the man within him was audible only to him. "I would advise you to read"—he stopped. What he had been about to say was so utterly incongruous—to advise reading the Westminster Confession, when he longed to call upon her to read the secrets of his soul!

"I have read enough," she answered. "Lately I have done better"—she hesitated; he noted the flushed cheek and downcast eyes, the tremulous tone of her voice. She was affected, he believed, religiously. He remembered the day on the terrace of Heidelberg, when he had so yearned over the wandering soul, and again with his love—for he knew it was love, and always had been—was mingled the higher aspiration to reconcile the wayward spirit with its Maker. He would have taken her hand, but he felt tremulously shy. "What have you done?" he asked gently.

Much had been told her of the sweet relief of confession to a priest. Here was a confessor, sympathetic, she knew from his tone. Yet she had no sins to confess (belief in which incongruity demonstrates her state of darkness).

"I—have prayed," she said at length, and the shy admission seemed to create a bond between them. Another shared her confidence, and the fact lightened her spirit. She told herself it was so, and had it been true the future might have been brighter; but the real secret of her heart was never to be told by her to him. She looked up, a faint sheen of tears in her eyes, a smile upon her lips.

"Indeed, you have done better," he answered, the eyes and the smile summoning that inner man with a power hard to resist. "You need no guidance from me," he said huskily. "God bless and help you, Natalie!" He placed a trembling hand upon her head, as was seemly in a priest, and, turning abruptly, walked away.

"Ah!" she sighed, as she watched him. "There must be something in religion. Fräulein Rothe was right, and my dear father was wrong."

Thus Leonard's fears concerning Natalie's salvation were quieted. If she prayed, it was plain that she was called, and though her ears might still be deaf, she would hear in the appointed time.

Had he comprehended her utter misapprehension as to orthodox tenets, he might have been awakened to a stricter sense of duty. But this was his first heathen, and he is hardly to be blamed that he did not recognize the extent of her ignorance; or, in his lack of knowledge of humanity, at all to be blamed that he failed to discern the true nature of her religious cravings, alluring to her soul because her soul was hungry; for God, perhaps—for who shall say that God has no part in human love?—but not for Leonard's God. He had never been informed of the deceased philosopher's method of training, and would, certainly, have doubted its success had he known of it. That one could attain years of discretion in a Christian country, lacking even an elementary knowledge of Christian doctrine, would have been to Leonard incredible. He could not remember the time that he had not known that in Adam's fall we all fell, and that had there been no Atonement there would be no Salvation. For so much, and similar doctrinal essentials, he accorded Natalie full credit; and, since she had escaped the taint of Romanism, he felt that no real obstacle stood in the way of her growth in grace.

Meanwhile, Natalie had no more knowledge that, unless her name had been from before creation inscribed upon the roll of the elect, she must, for the glory of God, infallibly be damned, than has a Patagonian. She felt that outside of humanity there was something on which humanity must lean, and that it was God. Priests, sisters of charity and sweet girls like Paula knew about God, and all these had told her that the way to find out what they knew was to pray; and, in her outer darkness, she prayed, her prayers the prayers of a heathen; not heard in heaven, if we are correctly informed as to heaven's willingness to hear. Yet to her they brought some solace. And in her petitions for enlightenment of her ignorance, she besought happiness for others, not for Mark Claghorn only; henceforth she included the name of Leonard.

As for him, he was no longer haunted by troublesome recollections of Berthe. He thought of her, it is true, and with tenderness, though with a smile, and accusing himself of youthfulness. He was now sure that he had never seriously loved her. It had been a penchant, a petit amour—the Gallic flavor of the words was not altogether ungrateful—and the experience would have its uses. These things happened to some men; happy they who escaped them; a humdrum life was safer. Sinning was dangerous; to weaklings, fatal; such a one would have been burned in the ordeal of fire. He had escaped, nor had he any intention of being again taken unawares. He did not attempt to palliate the grave wrong of which he had been guilty; he would have resented such palliation on the part of an apologist. In certain sins there lurks a tinge of glory, and one has a right, accepting the blame, to appropriate the glory. But his resolve that the one misstep should be the last, as it had been the first of his life, was sternly made. He was strong now, and was glad to admit that much of his strength derived its power from a sweeter passion glowing in his bosom. His heart swelled with joy that he could love, feeling only such misgivings as lovers must. It was a sin to love and long for Berthe whom he wouldn't marry. To transfer to Natalie the love he had given to Berthe, to hunger and to burn, to feed his eyes upon the outward form, unheeding the fairer creature within, to revel in visions and forbidden dreams—this was love, this the lesson his carefully guarded life had prepared him to learn from wanton lips.

Who, being in love, has not shown himself to the loved one at his best? If he was unquiet within, he was sufficiently tranquil in manner to avoid any startling manifestation of ardor. If there was art in the graceful coyness of his approach, it was unconscious art. To Natalie he appeared with more alluring gentleness, and surer fascination, than the most practised veteran of love's battles. She had seen chivalrous elegance so studied as to charm by its seeming unaffectedness; but the most successful picture is not reality, and in Leonard she noted the nature superior to art; nature softened and adorned by demeanor graced and made tender by the inward tremors of love, as a rugged landscape is beautified by the mellow tint of a gray day.

Above all, though if this was known in secret it was unconfessed, was Leonard aided by that which was to be forever hidden in the woman's heart. There were rumors of Mark's return, rumors which agitated Natalie, strive as she might to look forward to that return without emotion. How could she leave the home where love had been so generously bestowed? Mrs. Joe would no longer be ashamed that she had given her warning—and Natalie had not been sorry to believe that the lady was ashamed—for she would know that it had been needed. And Miss Claghorn—how would she understand it? How Paula? Perhaps she saw, if but dimly yet, an escape from the perplexities which inspired the questions.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A LOVER WRITES A LETTER.

If a Parisian philosopher, animated by the love of that wisdom which is deducible by philosophic methods from the study of mankind, had emerged from his abode, on a certain summer evening, in quest of the solution of that great riddle, Why is this thus? and, seeking an answer, had scanned the visages of the passers upon the Boulevard, he would, perhaps, have noticed the face and bearing of a man who strolled alone and listless; and, it being a fine evening of early summer, at an hour when, philosophers having dined, are ruminative, he might have fallen into speculation, and asking himself the meaning of this man's face, would, perhaps, have deduced discontent, becoming habitual and tending toward cynicism; and if a philosopher of the weeping, rather than the laughing variety, he would have mourned over the atom of humanity, beneath whose careworn lines and shadows of dissatisfaction there lay forgotten noble promise. And, to sum up the philosophic conclusions (for, like other philosophers, our hypothetical lover of wisdom is growing tiresome) he, being aware of the cause of much mundane misery, might have decided that the man had lost money, and would have been wrong, for the man was one whom financial loss could hardly touch. The Great Serpent might refuse to yield for weeks, aye forever, and Mark Claghorn would have been content. In truth, its annual product was a burden heavier than he thought he ought, in fairness, to be called upon to bear. He liked companionship, being naturally well disposed toward his fellows, yet, as he said to himself, the loneliness of this evening stroll in the centre of mirth and good fellowship had its reason in his wealth. A man such as he, so he told himself, is forced, in the nature of things, to purchase all the joys of life, and being purchased they had but slight attraction for him; thus ordinarily he was solitary and somewhat given to brooding, though wise enough to utter no complaint on a score wherein he certainly would have found but slight sympathy.

He strolled on, paying little heed to any, except when occasionally the clank of a sabre or the faint jingle of a spur signified a cavalryman in the vicinity; then he would glance at the cavalryman, and with a quickly satisfied curiosity, pass on, listless as before.

He entered a cafe, and calling for a "bock," lit a cigar and proceeded to seek distraction in tobacco and beer, while looking over the pages of the "Vie Parisienne," but apparently found no amusement in that very Gallic periodical. At last he drew a letter from his pocket. "Little Paula," he muttered, as he opened the sheet, and his tone was kindly, if not tender. "I suppose, in the end, my mother will see the fulfilment of the wish she thinks so carefully concealed," he muttered, and then, as if to find encouragement to filial duty in the letter itself, he commenced to read, and was thus engaged when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and heard the exclamation, "Claghorn!" He looked up and, rising, accepted the outstretched hand of Adolphe de Fleury.

"I was not sure whether it was you or your ghost," said Adolphe. "When did you leave America?"

"Over a year since," replied Mark; then, unmindful of the look of surprise in the face of his companion, he added: "I hoped I might meet you. I am only here for a few hours, and the opportunity to congratulate you——"

"To congratulate! May I ask why I am to be congratulated?" interrupted the lieutenant.

"Usually a newly married man; or one about to be——"

"Claghorn, you can hardly—do you mean that you believed me married?"

"Married, or about to be. I heard from the Marquise while at St. Petersburg——"

"And I have suspected you! Know, my dear fellow, though I had rather you heard it from somebody else, that I am very far from married. I am jilted; abandoned by our fair but cruel cousin, who has fled from my mother's protection and taken refuge among the Yankees."

"Do you mean that Natalie is in America?"

"Just that, mon cher, and with her Berthe of the wonderful eyes."

Mark's innocence of all knowledge of the fact stated was evident in his face. He was astounded; at the same time a sense of joy swept across his soul. He looked hastily at his watch; it was too late to call upon the Marquise, unless, indeed, she had company, in which case he would not be able to see her alone. But, looking at his watch inspired him with an excuse to plead an appointment, which he did, and left his companion.

The next day he called upon Madame de Fleury, and on his return to his hotel, he wrote the following letter:

"My Dear Cousin Natalie—Last night I arrived here direct from St. Petersburg, being merely a bird of passage, and on my way to London. I had expected to be there by this time, but after meeting Adolphe de Fleury, I deferred my departure until I could see the Marquise. Doubtless, my letters in London will convey the information which has been imparted by her. To say that I was surprised to hear that you had gone to America hardly expresses my feeling; but surprise is cast into the shade by gratification. Now that your reasons for the step you have taken have been so freely disclosed to me by Madame de Fleury (who insisted upon reading to me passages from your letters), I hope you will not regard it as intrusive in me if I express my admiration of your independence and complete approbation of your conduct. You are in spirit a true American, and I congratulate both you and our country upon the fact. Do you remember the day I said 'good-bye' to you? Had you then any inkling of the true reason for my adieu? Your father had just informed me that since girlhood you had been the betrothed of Adolphe de Fleury. Monsieur Claghorn at the time assured me that had not this been the case I should have had his good wishes in regard to the aspirations I had just laid before him. I have never laid those aspirations before you, nor can I do so adequately in a letter; nor at this time, when so long a period has elapsed since I last saw you. What I have to say must be said in person, and so unsatisfactory is this method of addressing you on the subject that I may not send this letter.

"But, if you receive it, understand why I write it. It seems, perhaps, laughable—though it does not seem so to me—that I should be haunted by a terror which darkens the new hope that has arisen within me. You are thousands of miles away. True, it is not easily conceivable that you may become lost to me in so brief a residence in America, yet the idea is constantly with me. I blame that which I then believed the honorable reticence which I ought to maintain toward you after my interview with your father, and having heard his assurances of intentions, which I, of course, supposed were approved by you. Had I shown you the least glimpse of a sentiment which it cost me much to conceal, I might now be freed from the dread which oppresses me. I am even tempted to send you a telegraphic message; yet I picture you reading such a message and shrink from seeming ridiculous in your eyes. As to this letter, I am impelled to say as much as I have said while that which I desire to say is plainly enough indicated. I had supposed it possible to disclose and yet conceal it. But the letter is wiser than I intended it to be. My most ardent hope is that within a few days after its receipt you will listen to all that is here omitted.

"Faithfully,

"Mark Claghorn."

He sent the letter, unsatisfactory and feeble as he knew it to be. He chafed at the necessity of deferring his departure for America; but the Great Serpent was importunate, and even for love a man cannot disregard the claims of others. Engagements connected with the mine, made long since, must receive attention before he could leave Europe.

But, during the intervals of business, even pending its details, he was hourly tempted to send a dispatch and be ridiculous. But he refrained. He sailed for America four days after sending the letter. He had not been absurd; his dignity was saved. Who that is wise in a wise generation listens to intuitions?

CHAPTER XIX.

A KISS THAT MIGHT HAVE LINGERED ON HIS LIPS WHILE SEEKING ENTRANCE AT THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

At the foot of the cliff whereon Mrs. Joe had erected a monument to the Great Serpent in the form of a castle, the ocean beats in calm weather with a sullen persistence which increases with the rising wind from spiteful lashing into furious pounding against the unshaken crag, accompanied by a roar of futile rage. Stormpoint affords no nook of shelter for a distressed craft, and the rocks, submerged beneath the vexed waters, render the coast hereabout even more dangerous than does the sheer wall of stone which appals the mariner caught in the storm and driven shoreward. Once around the point, the little harbor of Easthampton offers safety, but it has happened that vessels, unable to weather Stormpoint, have been dashed against the rocks and human beings have been tossed about in the seething foam beneath the crags; or men have clung to wreckage in sight of wailing wives and mothers, and of children to be orphaned in the rush of the next black billow.

From the rocks hereabout no lifeboat can be launched at times when lifeboats are needed, therefore the coast-guard station is nearer the harbor, where there is a beach upon which the waves slide upward, spending their strength, and where even in the storm they can be ridden by resolute men; but no boat can live among the rocks in the raging waters beneath the cliff. And so, Mrs. Joe, with the approval of the authorities, had built on the ledge of the cliffside (enlarged and widened for the purpose) a house, in which were kept appliances for casting lines athwart wrecked craft. There were plenty to ridicule the benevolent lady, some on the score of the futility of preparing for an improbable disaster (less than a dozen ships had been lost there in a century; and probably not, in all that time, a hundred lives); others because while yet another ship might be driven thither, no human effort could then avert her doom. Mrs. Joe, notwithstanding these arguments, carried out her intention, and waited, hoping that she would never be justified by the event.

One day Natalie and Leonard were in the "wreck house," as the structure had come to be called; a high wind, constantly increasing, was blowing, and from their position they saw all the grandeur of the ocean, rolling in majesty toward the wall of rock, an assailing mass, seeming inspired with malevolent intelligence and boundless strength, but, caught by the sunken rocks, the onset would be broken, and, bellowing with rage, each mighty billow would recede, only to be followed by another, as angry and as awful of aspect as the last.

It was a sight before which human passion was cowed and human pride was humbled. As Leonard watched Natalie, silently contemplating the grandeur of the scene, her dark hair blowing back from the smooth white brow, beneath which eyes, as unfathomable as the ocean itself, looked yearningly out into the storm, he had a clear perception that the emotions he had harbored and nourished as to this woman were unworthy of the soul in her fathomless eyes. In the presence of nature, feebly stirred as yet, but with a promise of the mighty strength restrained, and perhaps, too, his nobler self responding unconsciously to the purity of the woman at his side, the grosser passion that had vexed him was subdued; desire for the woman was lost in desire to share the woman's heart.

The darkening heavens sinking into the gloom of the ocean, where in the distance the rolling masses of cloud and water seemed to meet, the roaring wind, the waves booming on the cliff, and the boiling cauldron of death beneath their feet—in the presence of these things words could not utter thoughts unutterable; they stood long silent.

"Who, then, is this, that He commandeth even the winds and the water, and they obey Him?" Leonard heard her murmur these words.

"Who, indeed?" he said. "How can man deny God in the face of this?"

"In the face of anything?"

"Or deny His Revelation? Natalie, it is true."

"Is it true?"

"As true as the waters or the sky—Natalie, Natalie, it is true."

His tone trembled with a tenderness deeper than the tenderness of passion. She looked and saw his eyes with a sheen of tears upon them; no gleam of earthly desire looked out of them, but the yearning for a soul. In the presence of the Majesty of God the nobler spirit had awakened and answered to the longing of the girl to know the secret of the waves, the rocks, the skies; the secret of herself and of the man beside her—the eternal truth, hidden always, yet always half revealed to questioning man.

"Religion is very dear to you, Leonard?"

"Dearer than all but God Himself. Dearer than riches, honors—dearer, Natalie, than the love I bear for you."

It was said without the usual intent of lover's vows, and so she understood it. She made no answer.

And then they saw a sight which made them forget all else—a fellow-creature, driving helplessly to destruction beneath their feet.

It was a lad, ignorant, it would seem, of the management of the frail vessel in which he was the sole passenger. Even in the hands of an experienced sailor the little boat, intended for smooth water only, would have been unsafe; now, unskilfully fitted with a mast and sail, managed by ignorant hands, and driven toward a coast that had no shelter, the storm rising each moment, the outlook was desperate for the voyager.

Leonard seized a trumpet from the appliances with which the wreck-house was furnished, and leaning far out of the window, bawled in stentorian tones, some order, which, whether heard by the boy or not, was unheeded. Indeed, the desperate situation seemed to have paralyzed him; he clung to the tiller with the proverbial clutch of the drowning man, utterly incapable of other action, if indeed other action could prevail.

Seizing a line, Leonard ran down the stairway to a platform built against the cliff and not many feet above the water. Natalie followed. The wind was rising every moment, the tide running higher with each succeeding wave, and now, as she noticed, even reaching the platform. Leonard noticed, too. "It is not safe here," he shouted to her, for the wind howled in their ears and the noise of the surge emulated the noise of the wind. At the same time he pointed to the stairway, signifying that she should return, but took no further heed of her. His one thought was to do the thing that would save the life in peril. She did not know what he was about to do, but watched him, ready to lend assistance, though without taking her eyes from the boy in the boat. Thus far it had escaped the sunken rocks, but it could not long escape the shore. The wind had blown the sail from its fastenings and it tossed upon the waves. Only the whirlpool formed by the sunken rocks and the sullenly receding waters, which had but a moment before been hurled against the cliff, stayed the wreck of the craft. It needed no experienced eye to recognize the imminence of the peril of the boy, and the sight of the solitary being, helpless and exposed to the rude mercy of the waves, was pitiful. Natalie wrung her hands and prayed in French, and while the infidel prayed the clergyman acted.

He had intended to cast the weighted end of the line across the boat and so give its passenger communication with the shore; even so, the case of the lad would have been but slightly bettered, since, though fast to the rope, to avoid being dashed against the rocks would be barely possible; but Leonard, almost in the act of throwing, saw that his intention was impracticable. He must wait until the boat had come a little nearer. Natalie, with alarm that was almost horror, saw him remove his coat and boots; she would have remonstrated, but she felt that remonstrance was useless. He stood a waiting hero, his whole being absorbed in the task before him. That task involved his plunging into the boiling surf, the very abyss of death. Who can say that some premonition of the future was not upon him, as, with uplifted head and watching eyes, he stood statue-like awaiting the supreme moment? Who knows but he was warned that better for him the whirlpool below than the woman at his side!

Keenly watching the boat, his hands had still been busy, and from the line he had fashioned a loop, which now he fitted over his head and beneath his armpits. The other end of the line he secured to a ring in the platform, and then, having said nothing to Natalie, but now taking her hand in his own, and holding it tightly, he waited.

Not long. As in a flash she saw the boat in fragments, the boy in the water, and in the same instant Leonard plunged in.

She seized the line, but let it have play. Leonard had reached the boy in one stroke, had him in his very grasp, when a huge receding wave tore them asunder, and both were lost to Natalie.

She pulled with all her strength. She knew that the boy was drowned and had no hope for Leonard; her hold of the rope aided in his rescue, as she was able to prevent his being carried away; but had it not been that the next wave swept him upon the platform, where he was instantly seized and dragged far backward by Natalie, who herself barely escaped being swept off, he must have been either drowned or dashed dead against the rocks.

For some minutes she believed him drowned. She had dragged him to a place of comparative safety and he lay quite still with his head in her lap. But after awhile he sighed and looked into her eyes, and at last sat up. "The boy?" he said.

"Gone," she sobbed.

After some moments he arose, and feebly enough, assisted her to rise, and they sat upon the stairway, and after awhile got into the wreck-house. Here Leonard knew where to find restoratives, as well as a huge blanket, in which he wrapped himself and Natalie.

And so they sat side by side, enveloped in one covering, both quite silent, until he said: "Natalie, I have been praying."

"Teach me, Leonard."

"While I live," he answered, and he turned his face and kissed her.

It was the second time that he had kissed woman, but this was a kiss that might have lingered on his lips while seeking entrance at the gate of heaven.

CHAPTER XX.

A DISHONEST VEILING OF A WOMAN'S HEART.

There was joy at Stormpoint. Before the eyes of Mrs. Joe there rose the vision of a senate spell-bound by the resonant voice of oratory, while in the same foreshadowing of the time to come Paula beheld Father Cameril triumphant over the Bishop and strong in reliance upon the stalwart arm of a soldier newly enrolled in the army of the Church Militant. Mark had returned, and it was while gazing upon his countenance that these seers saw their delectable visions and dreamed their pleasant dreams.

Upon this, the first evening of his return, the three sat together in the library of Stormpoint, Mark submitting, with that external grace which becomes the man placed upon a pedestal by worshipping woman, to the adoration of his mother and of Paula; the while secretly ungrateful and chafing because it was not possible to see Natalie before bedtime.

They had dined cosily together, and the wanderer had been treated as the prodigal of old, the substitute for fatted calf being the choicest viands procurable and the rarest vintage of the Stormpoint cellar; yet he had not enjoyed his dinner, being oppressed by vague forebodings; and it was irksome to feign a smiling interest where could be no interest until he had received an answer to his letter to Natalie. Naturally, he had inquired as to the welfare of all the Claghorns of the vicinity, and had expressed satisfaction at replies which indicated health and prosperity among his relatives.

"I would have asked them all to dinner," said Mrs. Joe, "but I knew that they would understand that we would be glad to have you to ourselves to-night. Leonard and Natalie are always considerate."

"Leonard was always a favorite of yours," observed Mark, who did not greatly relish this coupling of names, and who could hardly trust himself to discuss Natalie.

"A good young man," replied the lady. "He is almost one of us."

Mark looked quizzically at Paula, who blushed but said nothing. The blush was a relief to him. "He is a fine fellow," he said, heartily. "I have always believed in Leonard, though I don't admire his profession or his creed. But there are good men among theologians, and I'm sure he is one of them."

"But, my son," remonstrated Mrs. Joe, "that is not the way to talk of clergymen."

"Fie! mother. Would you deny that there are good men among the clergy?"

"Mark, you know I meant something very different. We only wish Leonard was in the Church."

"How can he be out of it, being a Christian?"

"There is but one Church," observed Paula gravely.

"The Holy Catholic Church," added Mrs. Joe.

"Which term you and Paula assume as belonging especially to your denomination," laughed Mark. "I doubt if even your own divines would be so arrogant. Mother, this young saint is evidently as intolerant as ever; and she is making you like herself," and he placed his hand, kindly enough, on the girl's shoulder.

Her eyes filled with tears. "Mark," she said, "you may laugh at me, but religion ought to be sacred."

"Both you and your religion ought to be, and are," he answered, and stooped and kissed her forehead; and, though she did not look up, for she dared not meet his eyes, he was forgiven.

The elder lady was surprised, but she noted Mark's action with high approval. Of all the hopes that she had woven round her son, that one which contemplated his marriage with Paula was supreme. She had trained the girl for this high destiny, though, true to her instincts, she had been as politic in this as in other objects of ambition, and neither of the two whose fortunes she intended to shape were in her confidence. She rightly divined that nothing would so surely incite to rebellion on the part of Mark as an open attempt to control him in a matter of this nature, and was wise enough to know that a disclosure of her hopes to Paula would place the girl in a false position, whereby she must inevitably lose that engaging simplicity which, aside from her beauty, was her greatest charm. The lady had, as we know, been compelled by the exigencies of policy to impart her cherished plan to more than one individual; and after she had done so to Natalie, she had been in terror until opportunity occurred to insure silence.

"You see, my dear," she had explained to Natalie, "he has not actually spoken. Paula, like any other girl so situated, knows what is coming, but of course——"

"Dear Mrs. Joe, I should not in any case have mentioned the matter."

"I ought to have been more reticent, but——"

"I am sure you did what you thought best," at which reply the lady's color had deepened and the subject was dropped.

Thus Mark's action rendered his mother happy, for, notwithstanding her sanguine disposition, she had often suffered misgivings. At times, during her son's frequent absences, her fears had risen high, and with each return home she watched him, narrowly scrutinizing his belongings, even going so far as to rummage among his letters, to discover if there existed any ground for fear. Her anxieties stilled and their object once more under the maternal eye, she was willing, since she must be, that he be deliberate in falling in love. She knew men thoroughly, so she believed, having known one a little, and was persuaded that the older he grew, the more certain was Mark to appreciate that highest womanly attribute so plainly discernible in Paula—pliancy. To man, so Mrs. Joe believed, that was the supreme excellence in woman. And there had been in Paula's reception of Mark's caress a certain coyness, becoming in itself, and which had lent an air of tenderness to the little scene. Paula had cast her eyes downward in that modest confusion proper to maidens and inviting to men; doubtless Mark would be glad to repeat a homage so engagingly received.

None of these rosy inferences were shared by Paula. During Mark's last sojourn at Stormpoint, which had been immediately after leaving France and constant intercourse with the household of Beverley Claghorn, she had made her own observations and drawn her own conclusions. Whatever the reason for Mark's action, she knew it portended nothing for her, and if she had received his fraternal kiss in some confusion, it was because she dreaded the possibility of sorrow in store for him, a sorrow connected with a secret confided to her within a few hours.

"Now that you are home again, Mark," said his mother, "I want your promise not to run away."

"You know men, mother; if I make a promise, I shall inevitably want to break it."

"But you wouldn't."

"Better not tempt the weak. Isn't that so, Paula?"

"Better not be weak."

"I am serious, Mark," said Mrs. Joe. "You must consider the future; you should plan a career."

"I have no intention of running away; certainly not to-night."

"Nor any night, I hope."

"You know," he said with some hesitation, "it is possible I may have to go to California."

"Nonsense! What is Benton paid for? I need you. We ought to select a city home, and I want your taste, your judgment."

"My dear mother, the city home will be yours. Why haven't you chosen one long since?"

"As if I would without consulting you!"

He smiled, but forebore to remind her that he had not been consulted with regard to Stormpoint. "Whatever is your taste is mine," he said. "These gilded cages are for pretty birds like you and Paula; as for me——"

"That's nonsense. I am willing to keep your nest warm, but——"

"If I were to consult my own taste, I would re-erect old Eliphalet's cabin and be a hermit."

"Mark, you actually hurt me——"

"My dear mother, you know I'm joking. About this house, then. New York, I suppose, is the place for good Californians."

"It would be pleasanter; but it might be policy to remain in the State."

He looked at her in wonder. "Why?" he asked.

"It was merely an idea," she replied, blushing, and secretly grieved that he did not understand. But it was no time to enter into those plans which were the fruit of many consultations with Mr. Hacket. "It's getting late; good-night, my dear boy. I know you'll try to please me." She kissed him, and, with Paula, left the room.

Left alone, he paced up and down the long room, nervously biting a cigar which he forgot to light. He knew he would be unable to pass in sleep the hours that must elapse before he could see Natalie. He was filled with forebodings; the vague fears which had tempted him to send an absurd telegraphic message to Natalie had troubled him since he had first recognized their presence and had grown in strength with each new day. He was unaware that presentiments and feelings "in the bones," once supposed to be the laughable delusions of old ladies and nervous younger ones, were now being regarded with respectful attention as a part of the things undreamed of in Horatio's philosophy; and, taking his attitude after the old fashion, he had reasoned with that being which man calls "himself," and, for the edification of "himself," had shown to that personage the childishness of indulging in vague and ungrounded fears. But without success. Philosophers have discovered that which old ladies always knew, that all explanations of the wherefore of these mental vagaries are unsatisfactory as long as the vagaries persist; and while they do, they vex the wise and foolish alike.

His musings were disturbed by the entrance of Paula, clad in a ravishing tea-gown, a dainty fragment of humanity. "Mark," she said, "what is the matter?" for she had been quick to notice and had been startled by the gloom of his face.

"Tired, Paula," and he smiled. Somehow Paula always made him smile.

"If I were tired, I would go to bed," she observed with a faint touch of sarcasm. "I won't advise bed to you, for I know that you do not credit me with much sense."

"Yet it is plain that you have more than I, since you have indicated the sensible course," he answered pleasantly. "That should be placing you in high esteem, since we all think well of ourselves."

"Forgive me," she said with real sorrow for her petulance, for which she perhaps could have given no reason; "but I have seen that you were troubled——"

"And like a dear little sister you overflow with sympathy. Was there ever anybody kinder or better than you? But the real fact is that I am simply tired—yet not sleepy."

"Well"—she sighed wistfully—"you will feel rested to-morrow. I came down to give you this from Natalie," handing him a note. "I would have waited until morning, but I——"