Medoline Selwyn's Work.

CHAPTER I.

MRS. BLAKE.

The cars were not over-crowded, and were moving leisurely along in the soft, midsummer twilight. At first, I had felt a trifle annoyed at my carelessness in missing the Express by which I had been expected; but now I quite enjoyed going in this mixed train, since I could the better observe the country than in the swifter Express. As I drew near the end of my journey, my pulses began to quicken with nervousness, not unmixed with dread.

Captain Green, under whose care I had been placed when I left my home for the last eight years, had concluded, no doubt very wisely, that I could travel the remaining few miles through quiet county places alone. This last one hundred and fifty miles, however, had been the most trying part of the whole journey. My English was a trifle halting; all our teachers spoke German as their mother tongue at the school, and the last two years I was the only English-born pupil. Captain Green was an old East Indian officer, like my own dead father, and very readily undertook the care of a troublesome chit of a girl across the ocean, in memory of the strong friendship subsisting between himself and my father, now long since passed to other service than that of Her Gracious Majesty. The Captain was a very silent man, and therefore not calculated to help me to a better acquaintance of any language, while he did not encourage me to make friends with my traveling companions. The journey had been therefore a very quiet one to me, but I had found it delightful. I had, like most of our species, an innate love of the sea; and the long, still hours as I sat alone gazing out over the restless waters, have left one of the pleasantest of all the pictures hanging in memory's halls.

As I did not wish to be taken, even by the chance traveling companions of a few hours, for other than an English or American girl, I resolved to speak fewest possible words to any one on the journey; and when the conductor came for my ticket, I repressed the desire to ask him to tell me when my own station would be reached, and merely shook my head at the news agents who were more troublesome, if possible, than the dust and smoke which poured in at doors and windows. Captain Green had telegraphed my guardian the hour at which I would arrive, but I got so interested watching the busy crowds on the streets from my hotel window that, for a while, I forgot that I too needed a measure of their eager haste, if I were soon to terminate this long journey over land and sea. I was beginning to fear, at last, after the cars had been in motion some hours, that I might have passed my station; so I concluded to have my question carefully written down, and the next time the conductor came near me hand it to him. I had not long to wait, and giving him the slip of paper, I murmured "Please."

He read, and then looking at me very intently said:

"Are you a foreigner?"

"Oh, no; English," I said, blushing furiously.

"Why don't you speak then, when you want anything? That's what we're here for."

I bowed my head quite proudly and said, "Will you please, then, answer my question?"

"We won't be there for an hour or more. Are you not the young lady Mrs. Flaxman is expecting?"

"I am Mr. Winthrop's ward. I do not know any Mrs. Flaxman."

"Oh, it's all the same. She lives with him; is a cousin, or something connected with him. He is away now; left a month ago for the Pacific coast."

He was sitting now quite comfortably in the next seat.

"You needn't have any more anxiety about the stopping places," he continued, very cordially; "I will look after you, and see that you get safely home, if there's no one there to meet you. Most likely they expected you by the morning's Express." Then he inquired about my luggage, examining my checks and keeping up a running stream of conversation which I seemed compelled to answer. After the rigid exclusion of my school life, where we were taught to regard all sorts of men with a measure of wholesome dread, I scarce knew whether to be proud of my courage in being able to sit there, with such outward calmness, or ashamed of my boldness. If I could only have consulted one of the teachers just for a moment it would have been such a relief; but presently the train stopped, when he left my side, his seat to be immediately occupied by an elderly woman with a huge covered basket. After considerable difficulty she got herself and basket bestowed to her satisfaction just before the cars got in motion. She moved uneasily on the seat, looking around on all sides a trifle nervously, and then in an awed whisper said to me, "Don't the cars go all to smash sometimes?"

"Not many times," I tried to say reassuringly.

"I wan't never in 'em afore, and wouldn't be now, only my son Dan'el's wife's took oncommon bad, and he thinks I can cure her."

She remained quiet a while, and then somewhat reassured began to grow curious about her traveling companions.

"Have you cum fur?" she asked.

I explained that I had come a good many miles.

"All alone?"

"Only from New York."

"Going fur?"

"To Cavendish."

"Did you say Cavendish?"

"Yes."

"Be you a furriner?"

"No, I am English;" I felt my color rising as I answered.

"Well, you speak sort o' queer, but my old man was English, too, a Norfolk man, and blest if I could understand quarter he said for ever so long after we got keeping company. I used to say yes to everything I didn't understand when we was alone, for fear he might be popping the question; but laws, I knew well enough when he did ask."

She fell into an apparently pleasant reverie, but soon returned to the actualities of life.

"You're not married, surely."

I answered in the negative with fewest possible words.

"Got a young man, though, I'll warrant; such a likely girl."

"I do not understand what you mean," I answered with considerable dignity, glad to let her know that her own English was not perfect.

"You must have been riz in a queer place not to know what likely is. Why, it's good-looking; and anybody knows you're that. But I suppose you didn't have much eddication, they mostly don't in England; my man didn't know even his letters; but I have pretty good book larnin' and so we got on all right," she continued, with a retrospective look on her not unkindly face.

"Who might your folks be in Cavendish?" she asked, after a few moments of welcome silence.

"I have no relatives there," I answered, I am afraid, rather ungraciously.

"Going as governess or nurse girl to some of the aristocracy there? You don't look as if you ever did much housework, though."

"I am going to Mr. Winthrop's."

"Deu tell! Why, I lived with his mother myself, when I was a widder first."

Then she relapsed into another eloquent pause of silence, while possibly in her dim way she was reflecting how history repeats itself. But coming back to reality again, and scanning me more closely than ever, she asked, "Are you going there to work?"

My patience was getting exhausted, and it is possible there was a trace of petulance in my voice as I said, "No, I am Mr. Winthrop's ward."

"Deu tell! What is that?"

"He is my guardian."

"Why, he is a young man for that. I thought they got elderly men."

"My father held the same relation to him."

She was some time taking in the idea, but she said at last, "Oh, I see."

I took a book from my satchel and began reading; but she did not long permit me to enjoy it; her next remark, however, riveted my attention.

"I wonder if your name isn't Selwyn."

"Yes."

"Deary me, then I have seen your pa and ma long ago at Oaklands; that's the Winthrop's place."

"Please tell me about them. I never saw them after I was ten years old. I was sent from India, and then they died."

I spoke with a slight hesitancy, having first to translate my sentences, as I still thought, in German.

"Well, I wan't much acquainted with 'em. Housemaids ain't in general on friendly terms with the quality, but your ma was so kind to us servants, I've always remembered her. Mrs. Winthrop sot a sight by her."

"What was that?" I asked, much mystified.

"Oh, she liked them better'n most."

"Do you recollect their appearance?"

"Yes; your father was a soldier-like, handsome looking man, very tall and pretty stern. Your ma minded me of a flower, she was so delicate. They wan't long married then, but my, they was fond of each other! Your father just worshipped her. I heard Mrs. Winthrop say he had a hard time to get her. Your ma's folks didn't want her to marry a soldier. She was an only child, and they lived in England. The Winthrops were English, too, as well as your father."

It was my turn now to fall into a reverie at the strangeness of circumstances, thus causing me to meet this plain, old body, and learning from her incidents about my own dead parents I might otherwise never have known; besides she told it in such a realistic way that, in some mysterious fashion, like mind reading, I seemed to see it all myself through her clear eyes.

"Have you many brothers and sisters?"

"My mother had four children; but the others died in infancy."

"You look rugged as most young ladies."

"Do you mean healthy?"

"Well, yes; you have a clear complexion and rosy cheeks."

"They were extremely careful of our health at the school where I have been for the last eight years. That was the reason my father sent me there. He had heard how remarkably healthy their pupils were."

"'Twan't in this country, or you'd speak more nateral like."

"No, it was in Brussels."

"Oh, yes; in England, I suppose."

"No, on the continent of Europe; a city in Belgium, the capital."

"And you've talked a furrin tongue, then."

"Yes, several; but the German is the only one I speak quite correctly."

"Bless your heart, you'll soon talk fast enough in English. Your voice is very sweet; it minds me of your ma's. And it 'pears to me you speak better already."

I was beaming on the good woman now.

"Will you remain long in Cavendish?" I ventured on a question or two myself.

"It'll depend on Dan'el's wife. He wants me to come and live with 'em, but I hain't much hankering for darters-in-law, and I reckon we'd be better friends furder apart. However I'll stay till she gets well; it costs so for hired girls."

"May I come and see you?" I asked.

"Bless your dear heart, I'll be proud to have you come."

"Will you please tell me your name and what street you live on?"

"Oh, the streets don't amount to much in Cavendish. My name is Betsy Blake; just inquire for Dan'el Blake on the Mill Road; he works in Belcher's steam mill. Laws, how quick the time has gone! I thought for sure I'd be amost scart to death; and I've hardly once thought of getting smashed since I sot down here first; and now we're just into Cavendish."

I glanced through the window, and my heart throbbed joyously; for there, stretching so far away I could see no further shore, lay the beautiful ocean. No matter now what might be my home in this strange, new country. With my passion for the sea, and it so near, I could not be utterly desolate. To sit on these cliffs, reddening now in the sunset and watch the outgoing tide, sending imaginary messages on the departing waves to far-off shores, would surely, to some extent, deaden the sense of utter isolation from the world of childhood and youth. Mrs. Blake shook my hand warmly, repeating again the invitation to visit her at Daniel's, while she gathered up her huge basket and started for the door with the cars still in motion. I sat watching from the window the groups of people waiting for the incoming train as we stopped at the station. A few carriages were there, but none of them had come for Mrs. Blake. A strong limbed man, with a dejected face, relieved her of the basket and then hurried away, she rapidly following. I felt sorry for them, and was speculating what news Daniel had brought of his sick wife, quite forgetting for the time that I too had need to be astir. The conductor, however, soon reminded me of the fact as he announced briskly that a carriage was in waiting for me.

"They will send down bye-and-bye for your luggage; it's only a one-seated affair outside."

I followed him to the carriage; a bright faced young fellow was holding a spirited horse; from his bearing I instantly set him down as something more than a servant.

"Here, Flaxman, is your charge," the conductor remarked, as he assisted me into the carriage.

"Miss Selwyn, I presume," the young man said, politely, as he disentangled one hand from the reins to grasp mine. The horse started off on a biasing canter, much to my amusement.

"You are not afraid, I hope," my companion said, a trifle anxiously.

"Not afraid, but amused; your horse goes so oddly; but I am not accustomed to their ways." I added, fearing my remark might give offence.

"Faery and I are very good friends, and understand each other thoroughly; but strangers usually get alarmed."

My knowledge of quadrupeds was so limited I thought it safest to remain silent.

Presently we passed the Blakes, I longed to relieve Daniel of his heavy basket; for even he seemed to stagger beneath its weight.

"I was speaking with that woman on the train. She comes to attend her son's wife, who is sick."

"Oh, the Blakes, then. She won't have much to do, Dan's wife died to-day; poor beggar, he looks heartbroken."

"Your wife may be dead some day; then you will know how dreadfully he feels," I said, hotly. The flippant tone in face of such sorrow distressed me. He gave me a merry look as he said: "There are always plenty left to replace the lost ones. A wife is far easier got than a horse; one like Faery, for instance."

I shut my mouth firmly and turned my head away to watch the white sails idly mirrored, in the still waters, I knew he was furtively watching me, and this alone held back my tears, as I thought of poor Blake's desolate hearthstone, as well as my own heart's loneliness in this wide continent of strangers.

"Mr. Winthrop regretted being away when you arrived, but he expected us to be kind to you; so we must not quarrel first thing." My companion said, with entire change of tone.

"I quarrel pretty easily," I stammered, "my temper is very abrupt."

"Most of us have quick tempers; but, I think, you, at least, have a generous one."

Then I recollected abrupt was not a very suitable word to couple with temper. Taken altogether, I found this drive home with Faery and her master anything but enjoyable.

CHAPTER II.

OAKLANDS.

Faery's head was turned at last from the wide, dusty street into an imposing gateway, which lead through an avenue bordered thickly with evergreens mostly pine and hemlock. "These trees look a trifle hot in summer; but they are a capital protection in a winter's storm, I assure you," my companion said with an apologetic air.

I could think of no suitable reply; so merely said, "yes."

"It's a tradition among their acquaintances that the Winthrops believe in getting the very best possible good out of everything."

"Have they succeeded?"

"Better than the generality of folks; but they have come pretty near extinction, at least on this side the water. Mr. Winthrop is the last of his race."

"Has he no children?"

"He is a bachelor."

"But he may have children and a wife some day."

"You will probably be his heir, if he does not marry, I believe he is your heir by your father's will, in case you die without heirs."

I laughed merrily. "He will outlive me probably. What good would his money do me if I were old, or maybe dead?"

"Your children might enjoy it."

I wondered was it customary in this country to speculate on such remote possibilities, but said nothing. We soon reached the house, which stood on ground elevated to command a magnificent view of the sea, the distant headlands, and a wide stretch of hill and dale. The house itself reminded me more of old world buildings than any I had yet seen in America; and, on the spot, I took a fancy to it, and felt that here I could easily cultivate the home feeling, without which I should still be a wanderer on the earth. Mrs. Flaxman was standing to receive me as I ascended the granite steps that led to the main entrance. The great stone house had wings at either end while deep breaks in the heavy masonry of the walls occurred at regular intervals, and heavy pillars of granite made a massive background for this fair, slight woman as I looked at her.

"I will commit Miss Selwyn to your care, mother, while I take a little longer drive with Faery," my companion said, graciously.

"I will accept your trust with a great deal of pleasure, Hubert," she said, receiving me with a cordiality that warmed my heart. "You are very welcome home. At least, I hope you will feel at home here."

"I have no other, now that I have left school," I said, gravely.

"Young ladies do not often waste much sentiment on their boarding-school home, so I think we shall succeed in making you content here with us at Oaklands."

"I have always been accustomed to find my own sources of content. We were left at school to amuse ourselves or not, as we willed."

"But I hope we shall not be so indifferent to your pleasure. Mr. Winthrop is not much of a society man, but we still see a good many visitors."

The main entrance of the house was finer than anything I had remembered to have seen, and at first I felt quite oppressed by the grandeur of my surroundings; but when Mrs. Flaxman had conducted me to my own room, its dainty furnishings and appointments made it appear to me, after the plain accommodations of the school, a perfect bower for any maiden. I went to one of the deep windows and looked out over the splendid stretch of land and sea scape spread before me. Drawing a long sigh of perfect content, I exclaimed: "I know I shall be happy here. How could I help it, with such pictures to look at?"

"If you admire the scenery so much at first, what will your sensations be when you have grown intimate with its beauty? Nature enters into our humanity like human acquaintances."

"What do you mean?" I asked, much mystified.

"There are some places like some people—the more we study them the more they are admired, we are continually discovering hidden beauties. But you must study nature closely, at all hours and seasons, to discover her subtle charms."

"Won't you teach me what you have learned?"

"If I can do so I shall be glad; but I think we must each study her for ourselves. She has no text books that I have ever seen."

"I wonder do we all see things alike? Does that sea, now a sheet of rose and amethyst, and the sky that seems another part of the same, and the green trees, and hills, and rocks, look to you as they do to me?"

"Not yet, my child. When you have studied them as long, and have the memories of years clustering around each well-remembered spot, they may look the same to you as they now do to me; but not till then," she added, I fancied a little sadly.

"Probably I shall enjoy this exquisite view better without the memories; they usually hold a sting."

"That depends on the way we use life. To live as God wills, leaves no sting for after thought."

"Not if death comes and takes our loved ones? How alone I am in the world because of him."

"There are far sadder experiences than yours. Death is not always our worst enemy; we may have a death in life, compared with which Death itself is an angel of light."

"Oh, what a strange, sad thing life is at the best! Is it worth being born and suffering so much for all the joy we find?"

"No, indeed, if this life were all; but it is only the faint dawn of a brighter, grander existence, more worthy the gift of a God."

"But we must die to get to that fuller, higher life;" I said, suddenly remembering poor Blake's dead wife.

She smiled compassionately.

"It is hard convincing you young people that even death may be a tender friend, a welcome messenger. But we won't talk in this strain any longer, I scarce know why we drifted into it. I want your first impressions of home to be joyous, for they are apt to haunt us long after we make the discovery that they were not correct."

"I wonder if you are not something of a philosopher? I never heard any one talk just like you."

"Certainly not anything so formidable, and learned as that. I am only a plain little woman, with no special mission except to make those around me happy."

"That is a very beautiful mission, and I am sure you meet with success, which is not the fate of every one with a career."

"Ah, if you begin praising me I must leave; but first let me tell you dinner will be served at six. Mr. Winthrop is a great student, and is already, for so young a man, a very successful author; and he likes dinner late so as to have all the longer time for hard work. The evenings he takes for light reading and rest."

I must confess I was beginning to get afraid of my guardian. I expected to find him in manners and appearance something like our school professors, with a tendency to criticise my slender literary acquirements.

However I proceeded with my toilet quite cheerfully, and was rather glad than sorry that I had found him absent from Oaklands; but after I left my room and wandered out into the dim, spacious hall and down the long stairway, the heavy, old-fashioned splendors of the house chilled me. How could I occupy myself happily through the coming years in this great, gloomy house? I vaguely wondered, while life stretched out before my imagination, in long and tiresome perspective.

With no school duties to occupy my time, my knowledge of amusements, needlework, or any other of the softer feminine accomplishments, exceedingly limited, I was suddenly confronted with the problem how I was to fill up the days and years with any degree of satisfaction. Hitherto every thought had been strained eagerly towards this home coming. After that fancy was a blank. Now I had got here, what then? I had been a fairly industrious pupil and graduated with commendable success; but it had been a tradition at our school that once away from its confinement, text-books and the weariness of study were at an end. I went out on the lawn, and was standing, a trifle homesick for the companionship of the merry crowd of schoolmates, when a side glance revealed to me an immense garden, such as I had often seen, but not near enough to sufficiently enjoy. I soon forgot my lonely fancies as I strayed admiringly through the well kept walks, amid beds of old-fashioned sweet smelling flowers, which now-a-days are for the most part relegated to the humble cottages; but farther on I discovered the rarer plants of many climes, some of them old acquaintances, but others utter strangers, only so far as I could remember some of them from my lessons in botany. Still stretching beyond on the hill side I saw the vegetable and fruit gardens. Huge strawberry beds attracted me, the ripe fruit I found tempting; but feeling still a stranger, the old weakness that comes down to us from Mother Eve to reach forth and pluck, was restrained. "What a perfect Eden it is!" I could not help exclaiming, though no ears save the birds, and multitudinous insects existences, were within reach of my voice, and probably for the latter, any sound I could make would be as unheard by them as the music of the spheres must be to me until another body, with finer intuitions to catch such harmonies, shall be provided. Ere the dinner bell rang I found a new wonderland of beauty reaching away beyond me. To watch from early spring till winter's icy breath destroyed them, these multiplied varieties of vegetable life gradually passing through all their beautiful changes of bud and blossom, and ripened seed or fruit would be a training in some respects, equalling that of the schools. What higher lessons in botany I might take, day by day exploring the secrets of plant life! I went back to the house in a happier mood than I had left it. At the dinner table I expressed, no doubt with amusing enthusiasm, my gladness at this garden of delight.

"You should become a practical botanist, Miss Selwyn. But then your heart might prove too tender to tear your pets to pieces in order to find out their secrets."

"I did not know my heart was specially tender."

"I only judged so from your sympathy for the Blakes. Only think, mother, Miss Selwyn was prophesying the time when I should be mourning over a departed wife."

"You must not mind Hubert, Miss Selwyn. He is a sad tease, as we all find to our sorrow. He has not had brothers or sisters since his childhood to teach him gentleness."

"Only children are apt to be not very agreeable companions. We had some unpleasant specimens at school."

"That is too hard on both of us, Miss Selwyn," he said; "but I must prove to you that I, at least, am a beautiful exception to the general rule."

For the first time I looked up at him closely, and was struck with the handsome merry face.

"With a very little effort you could make yourself very agreeable, I am sure," I said, with all seriousness.

Even Mrs. Flaxman could not conceal her amusement at my remark.

"It is so refreshing to meet with such a frank young lady," Hubert said, with downcast eyes. I had a suspicion he was laughing at me. Presently he glanced at me, when I found the fun in his eyes contagious, and, though at my own expense, indulged in a hearty laugh.

"I wish you would tell me when I make myself ridiculous. I do not understand boys' natures. I scarce remember to have spoken a dozen consecutive sentences to one in my life. All our Professors were more or less gray, and they every one wore spectacles."

"They must been an interesting lot," Hubert said, with a lack of his usual animation. When I was longer with him I discovered that the open space in his armor was to be regarded a boy.

"But, no doubt they were all young and mischievous once. The soberest horse in Belgium frisked around its mother in its colthood, no doubt."

"You will see plenty of poor horses in America," Mrs. Flaxman said. "Faery is by no means a typical horse."

"Faery's master loves her. That makes a world of difference with the ownership of other things than horses."

"Really, Miss Selwyn, you can moralize on every subject, I believe, with equal ease."

"He is making fun of me again, I presume," I said, turning to Mrs. Flaxman. "When I talk a longer time with you English-speaking people, I shall not be so open to ridicule. Some day, Mr. Hubert, I may meet you in Germany, and then I shall be able to retaliate."

"Before that time comes you will be generous enough to return good for evil."

"And when shall you get your punishment then?"

"Maybe never. I find a good many evil-doers get off scot free in this world."

"But there are other worlds than this, my son," his mother said, with such sweet seriousness that our badinage ceased for that evening.

CHAPTER III.

ESMERELDA.

The next morning I was early astir. I was eager to explore the grounds around Oaklands, as well as the beaches and caves where the waves penetrated far under the rocks at high tide. The grounds I found very extensive—in places almost like some of the old English parks which I had seen on my visits there to distant relatives during the holidays. It was pleasant to think while wandering under the trees, and over the splendid wastes of flowers, and ornamental shrubs, and trees, that in this wide, vast America no one need be defrauded of his portion of mother earth by this immense flower garden; since there was more than sufficient land for every anxious toiler. To me there was an exceeding luxury in this reflection; for often on those lovely Kentish estates where I had visited, my heart had been grieved by the extremes of wealth and squalor. Pinched-faced women and children gazing hungrily through park gates at the flowers, and fountains, and all the beauty within, while they had no homes worthy the name, and alas! no flowers or fountains to gladden their beauty hungered hearts. My friends used to smile at my saddened face as I looked in these other human faces with a pitying sense of sisterhood, that was strange to them; but they humored my desire to try and gladden these lives so limited in their happy allotments, by gifts of rare flowers and choice fruits. But I used to find the old-fashioned flowers, that the gardeners grumbled least over my plucking, were the most welcome.

At luncheon I came in, my hair sea-blown from my visit to the rocks, and my face finely burnt by the combined influence of wind and sun. I expressed to Mrs. Flaxman a desire to visit my new acquaintance on the Mill Road. I noticed a peculiar uplifting of the eyebrows as I glanced towards Hubert.

"It will be something entirely new in Mill Road experience to have a friendly call from one of our Cavendish élite."

"Why, Hubert," his mother remonstrated, "it is not an unusual thing for our friends to visit the poor and sick on the Mill Road, as well as in the other humbler districts."

"Doubtless, but in much the same fashion as Queen Elizabeth used to visit her subjects—mere royal progresses, more bother than blessing. Miss Selwyn, I fancy, will go there in a friendly sort of way, that even Dan will appreciate."

"Oh, thank you, Hubert; but possibly, if I quite comprehended your meaning, I should be more provoked than complimented."

"Well, if I was one of the poor ones I would like your visits best. I would be willing to dispense with the dignity for sake of the friendliness that would recognize that I too had a common brotherhood with the highest as well as the lowest."

"Ah, I comprehend your meaning now, and I won't get angry with you. I think I must be a changeling, in spirit probably; there could be no mistake, I presume, in my physical identity, but my heart always claims kindred most with the lean, hungry faces."

"You could soon make my eyes watery, I do believe," Hubert said, with a gentleness that surprised me.

I saw Mrs. Flaxman quietly drying her eyes and wondered why my few, simple words should touch their tear fountain.

Towards evening I started on my walk to the Mill Road. The gardener had very graciously allowed me to gather some flowers to take with me. These I had arranged with some wet mosses I found in the woods that morning; and begging a nice little basket from the housekeeper, had them very daintily arranged. When I came downstairs equipped for my walk, I found a very stylish young lady standing in the hall beside Mrs. Flaxman.

"Esmerelda will show you the way. I scarcely feel equal for such a walk this hot day, and I know you will kindly excuse me."

"Oh certainly; it would trouble me to have you walk any distance when you look so frail."

"I am not frail, dear; but I have got into an idle habit of taking my outings in the carriage; and so walking soon tires me."

I turned towards the young lady, who in a very graceful, dignified way seemed to be awaiting my pleasure. I could not believe she was a servant, and felt quite shabby when I compared my own costume with hers.

When we were walking down the avenue I ventured a remark or two on the beauty of the place; but she answered me with such proud reserve I suddenly relapsed into silence which remained unbroken until we reached Mrs. Blake's door. While I stood knocking at the front door Esmerelda slipped around to the back of the cottage where a rough, board porch served as entrance for every day occasions. Mrs. Blake met me with genuine cordiality, and then led me into a close smelling room. The floor was covered with a cheap carpet, a few common chairs, a very much worn horse-hair sofa, and a table covered with a very new, and very gay-looking cloth, comprised the furnishing, with the exception of walls decorated with cheap chromos in the most wonderful frames I ever saw,—some of them made of shells, some of leather, some of moss, and others simply covered, with bright pieces of chintz. I longed to arrange them in more orderly fashion. They were hanging crooked or too close together, not one of them in a proper way I decided, as I took a swift survey of the room. But presently my gaze was arrested, and all thought of pictures hung awry ceased; for there, in a darkened corner of the room, I traced the rigid outlines of a human figure concealed beneath a sheet.

"You brought these to put round the corpse?" Mrs. Blake questioned, suddenly bringing me back from my startled reverie.

"Yes, if you would care for them."

She lifted them out of the basket with a tenderness that surprised me, and placed them in water; she sat looking at them intently.

"Do you admire flowers?" I asked.

"Oh, yes; but they're useless things, I s'pose. No good once they're wilted."

"But they are perfect while they last."

"Yes, and I allus feels sorry for the poor things, when I see 'em put round a corpse and buried in the ground; may be they have more feeling than we allow for."

She spoke so sadly, I felt my eyes moisten; but whether it was out of pity for the flowers, the poor dead woman lying opposite, or my friend Mrs. Blake, who seemed strangely subdued, I could not tell.

"She was gone when I got here," she said, nodding her head at the corpse. "Dan'el's terrible cut up; it minds me so of the time we lost our first baby. I had to do everything then and I've got to do the same now."

"I presume she was a very good wife."

"I don't know. Men generally frets hardest after the uselessest ones. I s'pose it's because they're easy-going and good-natured; but laws, I mustn't be hard. Mother-in-laws don't see with their children's eyes. I often think, in some ways, 'twould be best for one generation to die off afore the next takes their place. It's a mercy we don't live like they did in the first of Bible times. For poor women folk's life ain't much after fifty any way, specially if they're depending on their children. Hard work, shoved in a corner, and the bite you eat begrudged you."

"Surely you don't speak from experience," I gasped, quite horrified.

"Me? Oh, no. I've managed better'n most in my way of life. I help, instead of getting help. But I'm not thinking of myself all the time. I see other women's hardships, and pity 'em too."

She turned the conversation abruptly by asking:

"Would you like to see the corpse?"

I certainly wished to see almost anything on earth rather than that; but, lest I should be offending the proprieties, I followed her and stood beside the still, outstretched form. She turned down the sheet when, for an instant, my head swam; and then I shut firmly my eyes and stood until I concluded the ghastly spectacle was hidden behind the sheet. Mrs. Blake's voice caused me to open my eyes with a start.

"Be you faint?"

I crossed the room directly, and sat down before I replied.

"Certainly not; but the sight was a painful one."

"I know there's a sight of difference in corpses. Perfessors of religion make the peacefullest."

"Was she not one?"

"Well, no; and she was took so bad she hadn't time to perfess. Beside Dan'el tells me she suffered uncommon till the very last breath, that makes her look more distressin' than she would."

"Is he a professor?"

"No, my family didn't seem to lean that way. But my! they was a sight better'n some that did let on they was very good."

"He will become a Christian now, surely."

"Tain't likely. One soon forgets the feelins death leaves, and then we all look for a quiet spell afore we die." I felt as if skeleton fingers were clutching at my vitals; and altogether terrified I rose to go.

"The funeral will be to-morrow at two o'clock; perhaps you wouldn't mind coming?"

"If you would like me to attend, I will do so."

"I don't know why it is, but seems to me it would be a comfort to have you. Quality always could touch my heart better'n my own kind."

"You may be reckoned among that class in the next world."

She stood in the doorway, her eyes turned wistfully towards the setting sun. "I hain't thought much about that world. I know it's a mistake to live as I've done."

I wished so much I could recommend her to a better way of life; but remembering that I too was living only for this world, I could say nothing.

Pressing her hand gently I turned to leave, when I saw Esmerelda coming out of the door after me.

The rigid form I had looked at and Mrs. Blake's words had softened my heart; so I tried once more to chat pleasantly with my escort; but probably she had not got the same lesson as I, for she put on as many airs as before. When I met Mrs. Flaxman I inquired what Esmerelda's position was in the household. To my astonishment she said:

"She is the chambermaid."

"But is she a lady?"

"Every one that can dress becomingly claims that title with us; I presume Esmerelda with the rest."

"But her mother?" I left the sentence unfinished.

"Lives on Mill Road and takes in washing."

"Don't you think it is wiser to keep servants in their proper place as they do in Europe? One is not in danger there of mistaking maid for mistress."

"Ah, that is a problem for wiser heads than ours to solve. Each system has its grievances; if human nature had not suffered so severely from the original transgression I should favor the American plan."

"But it has fallen, and requires generations of training to fit one for such assumption of dignity."

"Even so, we come on debatable ground. Where do you find longer lines of trained generations than in those Royal families that cost you so much to support, and what do many of them amount to? How many of them would it take to make one Lincoln? He was a peasant's son, as they reckon rank."

"But there are not many Lincolns; and I fear we can find a good many Esmereldas."

"She is a very good chambermaid. What fault do you find with her?"

I smiled, though utterly discomfited.

"A fault one cannot easily forgive. She impresses me with her own superiority, especially in the matter of dress."

"Yes, our shop and servant girls are usually good artists in the matter of personal attire; but I usually find the really clever ones are the poorest dressers."

"Is not that the case with others than they? Persons who have more enduring objects of contemplation than personal attire do not bestow enough time on how they shall robe themselves to excel in dressing artistically."

"I know that; but since Eve's fig-leaf invention the matter of dress has been an absorbing one for nearly every generation."

"In the main; but there have been beautiful exceptions all down the long stream of the ages. I met some literary women the last time I was visiting in England, and their minds seemed so far superior to their bodies, or the clothes they wore, that ever since I have been ashamed of myself when I get particularly interested in what I am to wear."

"You are young, my child, to begin to philosophize on the matter of clothes. You have read Sartor Resartus?"

"Oh, yes, and I want to be something better than a mere biped without feathers."

"To want is the first step toward the accomplishment. I think you will suit Mr. Winthrop after he gets to know you, if ever he does," she added, after a pause.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FUNERAL.

The next morning I went in search of Mrs. Flaxman. I found her busy superintending, along with the housekeeper, some extensive pickling and preserving operations. I hesitated at first in making my request; I wanted her to accompany me to the funeral.

"I promised Mrs. Blake to go to her daughter's funeral to-day, and I should so much like to have you go with me," I said.

"If you would like my company, your liking shall be gratified, my dear."

"But you looked tired, and it is such a hot day."

"I shall want folk to come and get me safely planted away some day, and we can take the carriage. Thomas will be glad to go; at least he always wants to attend funerals. Such persons usually are fond of the mild excitement attendant on such gatherings."

I went in search of Thomas, who was with coachman and gardener, having a lad to assist him in both occupations. He assured me that work was very pressing, and it would be at considerable personal sacrifice if he went. The stable boy, a red-haired, keen-faced youth standing by, gave a quizzical look, which I interpreted as meaning that Thomas wished to conceal the fact that he was very glad indeed to go to Mrs. Daniel Blake's funeral. At the appointed hour I found myself in a carriage drawn by a pair of horses fully as handsome, but much more sedate than Faery. "Why, this is positively luxurious," I exclaimed, leaning back in the very comfortable carriage. Mrs. Flaxman smiled serenely.

"My dear, it is a luxury you may every day enjoy. I am not inclined for carriage exercise—a walk has greater charm for me save when I am tired."

"If you had walked all your life—only enjoying a carriage at brief intervals during the holidays, you would enjoy this drive, I am sure."

"Your life is not a very long affair, my child. At your age, no doubt, I thought as you now do. I believe God intended that youth and age should see this world through different eyes."

Mrs. Flaxman, I was finding, had a way of setting me thinking about serious things, and yet the thoughts were mainly pleasant ones. She was different from any one I ever knew. I found her presence so restful. I had the impression that some time in her life she had encountered storms, but the mastery had been gained; and now she had drifted into a peaceful harbor. Looking back now over longer stretches of years and experiences than I then had, I can recall a few other persons who impressed me in a similar fashion. But they were rare and beautiful exceptions to the scores, and even hundreds of average human folk whom I have known.

After we had driven some distance, Thomas turned to inquire if we were going to the grave.

"It is a shady drive good part of the way; trees on one side and the water's edge bordering the other. Perhaps we might as well go."

"They'd take it very kind of you, ma'am, I am sure," Thomas responded, although her remarks were addressed to me. Evidently he was very willing to exercise the horses, notwithstanding his press of work.

We sat in the carriage at the door of Daniel's cottage. The house seemed full, and quite a crowd were standing outside.

"They have shown the poor thing a good deal of respect," Mrs. Flaxman whispered to me as she glanced at the numerous assemblage.

Suddenly, on the hush that seemed to enfold everything, there broke weird, discordant singing—women's voices sounding high and piercing, the men's deeper and more melodious. The hymn they sang was long, and the air very plaintive, bringing tears to my eyes, and causing the strange, oppressed feeling of the preceding day to return. When the singing ceased I noticed the men removing their hats, and a moment after a stentorian voice speaking loudly. I glanced around amazed, but Mrs. Flaxman noticing my surprise, whispered, "It is prayer."

If the singing made me nervous the prayer intensified the feeling. In the hot, midsummer air, so still the leaves scarce rippled on the trees, I could, after a few seconds, distinguish every word the man uttered. Accustomed to the decorous prayer of the German pastors our teachers had taken us to hear, this impetuous prayer to the Deity awed me. He talked with the invisible Jehovah as if they two were long tried friends, between whom there was such perfect trust; whatever the man asked the God would bestow. First there was intercession, pleading for forgiveness for past offences, and for restraining grace for future needs. Afterward he spoke of Death, the common inheritance of each of us, and the pain his entrance had caused in this home, and then followed thanksgiving that through Christ we could conquer even Death himself. I shall never forget the triumphant ring in that man's voice as he passed on to the joy of those who, trampling on Death, have passed safely within the light of God.

"If one of the old masters had heard that man's prayer to-day, he would have set it to some grand music. It reminds me of a Te Deum or oratoria," I said to Mrs. Flaxman, when the benediction was pronounced. The tears were in her eyes, but her face was shining as if some inner light were irradiating it.

"Did you ever hear so impetuous a prayer?" I asked.

She answered my question by asking another:

"Did you not like it?"

"I think it frightened me. The clergyman seemed to be talking to some one right beside him."

"Is not all prayer that—talking, pleading with a God nigh at hand?"

I did not reply. My eyes were fastened on the crowd now issuing from the cottage door; the coffin, carried by men, came first, the people pressing hurriedly after—among them one whom I instinctively felt to be the clergyman—a thick-set man with hair turning white, and a most noble, benignant face. As the procession formed he took his place at the head; Daniel and his mother climbing into a wagon directly behind the hearse; the former looked utterly broken down, as if the light of his eyes had verily been quenched.

The procession then moved slowly along, and in a short time we turned out of the Mill Road, and into a beautiful shady street along the water's edge. I watched the sunlight on the shimmering waters, and far across, where one of the wooded headlands looked down into the sea, the green trees made such a picture on the water that, in watching this perfect bit of landscape, I found myself forgetting the solemn occasion, and the sorrowing heart of the solitary mourner, while I planned to come there the very next day with my sketch book, and secure this gem to send to my favorite teacher as a specimen of my new surroundings. And then fancy got painting her own pictures as to what my work in this new life with its greatly altered meaning should be, and before we had reached the grave's edge I had mapped out my ongoings for a long stretch of the future, and that in such eager, worldly fashion that I almost forgot that at the end of all this bright-hued future there lay for me, as well as for Daniel Blake's wife, an open grave. My busy thoughts were recalled by hearing the penetrating voice of the preacher saying "dust to dust, ashes to ashes," with the remainder of the beautiful formula used by many of the churches in planting the human germ. A glance around revealed Daniel Blake leaning in the very abandonment of grief on a tombstone at the grave's side, and looking down into the coffin that was rapidly disappearing under the shovelfuls of clay. A keen sense of my own heartlessness in feeling so happy within touch of such woe came over me, while a vague wonder seized me, if some other careless-hearted creatures might not be planning their joys some day in presence of my breaking heart.

CHAPTER V.

A NEW ACCOMPLISHMENT LEARNED.

I was rapidly attaining the comfortable home feeling at Oaklands, which makes life in castle or hut a rapture. There were so many sources of enjoyment open to me. I had a more than usual love for painting, and had for years prosecuted the art more from love than duty. My last teacher, an old German Professor, exacting and very thorough, had been as particular with my instruction as if my bread depended on my proficiency. I thanked him now in my heart when I found myself shut out from other opportunities for improvement than what, unaided, I could secure. There were special bits of landscape I loved to sketch over and over again; these I would take to Mrs. Flaxman, or Reynolds, the housekeeper, to see if they could recognize the original of my drawing; but even Samuel, the stable-boy, could name the spot at sight. His joy was unbounded, but scarcely excelled my own when I succeeded in making a water-color sketch of himself, the hair a shade or two less flame-colored than was natural, and which even Hubert pronounced a very fair likeness. Then in the large, stately drawing-room, some of whose furnishing dated back a century or more, stood a fine, grand piano. Here I studied over again my school lessons, or tried new ventures from some of the masters. What dreams I had in that dim room in the pauses of my music; peopling that place again with the vanished ones who had loved and suffered there my own dead parents among the rest, whose faces looked down at me, I thought tenderly, from the walls where their portraits hung in heavy carved frames, of a fashion a generation old. There was about my mother's face a haunting expression, as of a well known face which long afterward looked out at me one day from my own reflection in the mirror and then, to my joy, I discovered I was like her in feature and expression. In the library too, whose key Mr. Winthrop had left with Mrs. Flaxman for my use, I found an unexplored wonderland. My literature had chiefly consisted of the text book variety, and if I had possessed wider range, my time was so fully occupied with lessons I could not have availed myself of the privilege; but now, with what relish I went from shelf to shelf, dipping into a book here and another there, taking by turns poetry, history, fiction, and biography, Shakespeare and Milton had so often perplexed me in Grammar and analysis, that I left them for the most part severely alone; but there were others, fresh and new to me as a June morning, and quite as refreshing: Hubert used sometimes to join me, but we generally disagreed. I had little patience with his practical criticisms of my choicest readings, while he assured me my enthusiasm over my favorite authors was a clear waste of sentiment. Mrs. Flaxman was, in addition to all this, adding to my fund of knowledge the very useful one of needlework, and was getting me interested not only in the mysteries of plain sewing, but brought some of her carefully hoarded tapestries for me to imitate—beautiful Scriptural scenes that sent me to the Bible with a critical interest to see if the designs were in harmony with its spirit. Then too I used to spend happy hours exploring garden, field and forest, for Oaklands embraced a wide area, making acquaintance with the gentle Alderneys, and Jerseys, who brought us so generously their daily offering, as well as the many other meek, dumb creatures whom I was getting to care for with a quite human interest. The seashore too had its constantly renewed fascinations which drew me there, to watch its tireless ebb and flow, or the busy craft disappearing out of sight towards their many havens around the earth. Stories I had for the seashore, and others for the woodland and gardens which I carried on in long chapters, day after day, until sorrowfully I came to the end, as we must always do to everything in this world.

My heroes and heroines were all singularly busy people, carrying on their loves and intrigues amid restless activities, and living in the main to help others in the way of life rather than, like myself, living to themselves alone. Altogether I did not find a moment of my sixteen hours of working life each day any too long, and opened my eyes on each morning's light as if it were a fresh creation.

Then, in addition to all these, there were solemn, stately tea drinkings among the upper ten of Cavendish society, but usually I found them a task—the music was poor, the conversation almost wholly confined to local affairs, and the only refection of a first-class nature was the food provided. Cavendish ladies were notable housewives, and could converse eloquently on pickling, preserving, baking and the many details of domestic economy, while as regarded the fashions, I verily believe they could have enlightened Worth himself on some important particulars. I used to feel sadly out of place, and sat very often silent and constrained, thinking of my dearer, and more satisfying companionships of books, and sea, and flowers, and the fair face of nature generally, and wondering if I could ever get, like them, absorbed in such humble things, getting for instance my pickles nicely greened, and of a proper degree of crispness, and my preserves, and jellies prepared with equal perfection for diseased and fastidious palates. "Why can't they talk of their minds, and the food these must relish, and assimilate, instead of all the time being devoted to the body; how it must be fed and clothed?" I asked, with perhaps too evident contempt, of Mrs. Flaxman, one evening as we drove home under the midnight stars, after one of these entertainments.

"My child, it is natural that people should talk on subjects that most interest them. Not every one has vision clear enough to penetrate beyond the tangible and visible."

"Then, in what are the Cavendish aristocracy better than Mrs. Blake, and that class? Even she talks sometimes to me about God and the soul. She says she and Daniel think a great deal about these of late."

"God only knows; they may be far better in His sight than any of us," Mrs. Flaxman said, wearily.

"Not any better than you, dear friend," I said, clasping the little, thin hand in mine.

"Yes, better, if they are doing more for others than I, sacrificing their own ease and pleasure, which, alas, I am not doing."

"How can you say that, when you are making home, and me so happy? I want to grow to be just such a woman as you."

"Alas, child, you must take a higher ideal than I am to pattern after, if your life is to be a success."

"Mrs. Blake tells me of a good man living on the Mill Road, who is blind and thinks a great deal. He says none of us can tell what our lives seem like to the angels, and that many a one will get an overwhelming surprise after death; some who think they are no good in the world, mere cumberers of the ground, will find such blessed surprises as they wander through the Heavenly places."

"That is very comforting, dear, if we could only hope to be among those meek ones."

"He told Mrs. Blake she might be one of God's blessed ones if she wished—that any sincere soul was welcomed by Him."

"Surely you did not need to go to Mrs. Blake to learn that?"

I was silent, perhaps ashamed for Mrs. Flaxman to know how very dense my ignorance was respecting these mysteries of our holy religion. As the weeks went by my friendship for Mrs. Blake strengthened. I kept her little cottage brightened with the old-fashioned blossoms that she loved best. "They mind me so of when I was a child, and the whole world seemed in summer time like a great garden. We lived deep in the country, just a little strip of ground brought in from the woods, and all round our little log house was the green trees," she said one day, the pleasant reflective look that I liked to see coming into her kind, strong face. I used to sit and listen to her homely, uncultivated speech, and wonder why I liked her so much better than my natural associates. She was so real, I could not imagine her trying to appear other than she was. Some way she seemed to take me back to elementary things, like the memories of childhood or the reading of the Book of Genesis. Then she had so changed Daniel's cottage—newly papered, whitewashed and thoroughly cleansed with soap and water, it seemed one of the cosiest, homeliest places I ever saw. I only went in the afternoons, and her housework then was always done; but she was never idle. I used to watch her knitting stockings of all sizes with silent curiosity; but one day I asked who a tiny pair of scarlet ones was for. "Mrs. Larkum's baby. The poor things are in desperate trouble," she replied.

"But do you knit for other folks?"

"Yes, fur some. Them I jest finished is fur one of the Chisties' down the lane. Any size from one to ten fits there."

"Are they able to pay you?" I ventured to inquire.

"I don't ginerally knit for folks as can pay. It's a pity for little feet to go bare because the mother was thriftless or overworked."

I watched the busy fingers a little sadly, comparing them with my own daintily gloved hands, that had never done anything more useful than to hold a text book, or sketch, or practice on the ivory keys, while those other hands often tired, calloused with hard usage, had been working unselfishly through the years for others.

"I wish you would teach me to knit," I said one day, seized with a sudden inspiration.

"'Twould be a waste of your time. Folks like you don't wear home-knit stockings."

"Oh, yes they do. Pretty silken hose is quite the fashion; but I hire mine knitted."

"Then what makes you want to learn?"

"Do you not think it is my duty to work for the poor, and helpless as well as yours?"

"I won't allow but what it is; but laws! rich folk can't pity the poor, no more'n a person that's never been sick, or had the tooth-ache, can pity one who has."

"The stockings would be just as warm, though, as if I knew all about their sorrows."

"I reckon they'd feel better on some feet if they know'd your white hands knit 'em."

"If there would be any added pleasure to the warmth of the socks then you will surely teach me."

"I'll be proud to do it; but child, I'm afeard you are making me think too much of you. Byem-bye when you get interested in other things, you won't care to set in my kitchen, and listen to an old-fashioned body like me, droning away like a bee in a bottle."

"Do you think it is necessary to trouble about something that may never come to pass? I think I shall always enjoy hearing you talk. Listening to you seems like watching the old-fashioned flowers nodding their heads in the drowsy summer air. I like the rare flowers, too, with long names and aristocratic faces; but I don't think I shall ever like them so well as to forget the happy fancies their humble relations bring."

"Thank you, dearie. I guess you'll allays keep a warm place in your heart for the old-fashioned folks as well as the posies."

"Now that we have that matter settled, suppose I begin the knitting," I said, without any further attempt at convincing Mrs. Blake of my unalterable regard.

She got me the yarn and needles and I straightway proceeded to master another of the domestic sciences. I was soon able to turn the seam, and knit plain; but was forced to stop very often to admire my own handicraft. However, I got on so readily that she allowed I could undertake a child's sock. I wanted it to look pretty as well as to be comfortable, and not fancying Mrs. Blake's homespun yarn, I started out to the store to get some better suited to my liking.

When I returned, Mrs. Blake exclaimed at the size of my bundle, assuring me that it would supply me with work for months.

"I'm surprised you wan't ashamed to carry such a big parcel," she said admiringly.

"It did not occur to me to be ashamed."

"One never knows who they may meet though."

"It was nothing to be ashamed of."

"I s'pose not; but quality has such queer notions."

"I do not wish to be quality if that is the case; I want to be a sensible woman, and a useful one," I said, as I proceeded to wind my yarn from Mrs. Blake's outstretched arms. In a short time I had the pleasure of seeing a pretty little sock evolving itself out of the long strand of yarn. Mrs. Blake finding me anxious to be helpful to her poor neighbors, began unfolding histories from time to time, as I sat in her tidy kitchen, that to me seemed to rise to the dignity of tragedies. Sometimes I begged to accompany her to these sorrowful homes. The patience under overwhelming sorrow that I saw at times, gave me new glimpses into the possibilities of human endurance, and my sympathies were so wrought upon, I set about trying to earn money myself to help alleviate their wants, while a new field of work stretched out before me in bewildering perspective; and sometimes I wished I too had a hundred hands, like a second Briareus, that I might manufacture garments for half-clad women and children.

CHAPTER VI.

MR. WINTHROP.

That evening, my first knitting lesson ended, on returning to Oaklands a surprise awaited me. As I was walking briskly up the avenue towards the house I met Hubert with Faery coming to bring me home.

"Mr. Winthrop has come, and is inquiring very particularly where you are in hiding, and I believe my poor mother is afraid of telling him an untruth, for she hurried me off very unceremoniously after you," Hubert said, as he reined up Faery for a moment's conversation.

"You need have no fears for her; she would go to the stake rather than tell a lie."

"Or betray a friend," Hubert said, with a meaning smile. "Remember Mr. Winthrop is very fastidious about his associates. Your friend Mrs. Blake, in his eyes, has only a bare right to exist; to presume on his friendship, or that of his ward, would be an unpardonable sin."

"I must hasten to your mother's relief," I said, with a little scoffing laugh. I paid very little heed just then to Hubert's remarks—later I found he had not greatly overstated my guardian's exclusiveness. Wishing to gain my room and make some additions to my toilet before meeting Mr. Winthrop, I chose a side entrance, taking a circuitous path through the shrubbery, if possible to reach the house unseen.

The door opened into a conservatory, and I had just slipped in stealthily when I found myself face to face with a gentleman whom I knew on the instant was my guardian. There was such an air of proprietorship about him, as he stood calmly surveying nature's beautiful products in leaf and bud and blossom. He glanced down at me—possibly taking me at first for one of the maids—then looking more keenly he bowed rather distantly. I returned the salutation quite as coldly, and was making good my flight when his voice arrested my steps. "Pardon me," he said, in a finely modulated and very musical voice, "is this not Miss Selwyn?" I turned and bowing said, "My guardian, I think."

"I am glad we were able to recognize each other." I looked into his face. The smile was very winning that greeted me, otherwise I thought the face, though handsome, and unusually noble looking, was cold, and a trifle hard in expression.

"I am glad to welcome you to Oaklands, though late in being able to do so. I hope you have not found it too dull?"

"Oh no, indeed—there is so much to interest one here after city life, I am glad at each new day that comes."

He looked surprised at my remark, and instantly I bethought myself of the character for fastidiousness which Hubert had given him, and resolved to be less impulsive in expressing my feelings.

"You must make society for yourself then in other than the human element. I cannot think any one could rejoice, on waking in the morning, merely to renew intercourse with our Cavendish neighbors."

I looked up eagerly—"Then you don't care for them, either?"

"Ah, I see it is not from your own species you draw satisfaction."

"But you have not answered my question."

There was a gleam of humor swept over the face I was already finding so hard to read.

"I am not well enough versed in Cavendish society to give a just opinion—probably you have already drank more cups of tea with your friends than I have done in ten years. Let me hear your verdict."

"Our Deportment Professor assured us it was exceedingly bad form to discuss one's acquaintance—you will please excuse me."

I was already getting afraid of my guardian. But, from childhood, there was a spice of fearlessness in my composition that manifested itself even when I was most frightened. Again I glanced into his face—he was regarding me with a peculiar intentness, as if I were some new plant brought into the conservatory from an unknown region, and he was trying to classify me. I could see no trace of warm, human interest in his gaze.

"That was a rather mutinous remark to bestow so soon upon your guardian," he said, in the same even voice.

"I am very sorry," I murmured, now thoroughly ashamed of myself.

"We will make a truce not again to discuss our acquaintances; but that interesting subject eliminated from conversation, there would be a dearth left with a goodly number of our species."

"I do not care for the tea parties here, Mr. Winthrop. I am not interested in the things they talk about." I said, with a sudden burst of confidence.

"You have broken our compact already. A woman cannot hold to a bargain, I am informed."

"I had not promised," I said, proudly.

"Then I am to infer you are an exception, and would hold to your promises, no matter how binding."

"I am the daughter of a man; possibly I may have inherited some noble, manly properties." My temper was getting ruffled.

"Yes, Nature plays some curious freaks occasionally," he said in a reflective way, as if we were discussing some scientific subject.

"You will please excuse me. Dinner will be announced shortly, and I must remove my wraps," I said, very politely.

He bowed, and I gladly escaped to my own room, feeling more startled than pleased at my first interview with Mr. Winthrop.

The dinner bell rang, and I hastened down to be in my place at the table before Mr. Winthrop entered. I opened the door of the pretty breakfast parlor where dinner had been served ever since I came to Oaklands, but the room was silent and empty.

I turned, not very gladly to the great dining-room, which I had somehow fancied was only used on rare occasions. Opening the door I saw the table shining with silver and glass, while Mrs. Flaxman stood surveying the arrangements with an anxious face. "Shall we always dine here?" I asked anxiously.

"Always when Mr. Winthrop is at home; our informal dinners in the cosy breakfast-room are a thing of the past."

"But this seems so formal and grand I shall never enjoy your delicious dishes any more, with Hubert adding to their piquancy with his sarcasms, and witticisms."

"Oh, yes, dear, you will; one gets used to everything in this world, even to planning every day for several courses at dinner," she said with a sigh.

"I wonder why it is necessary to go to so much trouble just for something to eat, when it's all over in a half hour or so, and not any more nutritious than food plainly prepared?"

"The Winthrops have always maintained a well-equipped table. Our Mr. Winthrop would look amazed if we set him down to one of our informal dinners."

"I think he would enjoy them if he once tried them," I said, as I slipped into the place Mrs. Flaxman appointed. A few seconds after Mr. Winthrop entered, followed immediately by Hubert who was quite metamorphosed from the gay, scoffing youth into a steady-paced young man. As the dinner progressed I no doubt looked my surprise at the change; but a meaning glance at Mr. Winthrop was Hubert's mute reply.

While Mr. Winthrop's attention was taken up with his dinner, I took the opportunity of studying more closely this man to whom my dead father had committed so completely the interests and belongings of his only child. The scrutiny was, in some respects, not greatly reassuring. I had noticed as we stood near each other in the conservatory that he was a large man, tall, broad-shouldered and muscular. The face, though handsome, had a cold, stern look that I felt could look at me pitilessly if I incurred his displeasure. But there was also an expression of high, intellectual power; an absorbed, self-contained look that seemed to set him apart from others as one who could live independently, if necessary, of the society of his fellow men. I should like to be his friend, was my thought, as finding that Hubert was watching me, I turned my attention to my neglected dinner. Mrs. Flaxman in her gentle fashion kept the conversation from utterly flagging, although we none of us gave her much help. Unasked she gave a pleasant account of the happenings at Oaklands, the ongoings of his human and dumb dependents; how the Alderneys at her suggestion had been transferred to richer pasturage, and the consequent increase in cream; the immense crop of fruit and vegetables, so much more than they could possibly require, and would it be best to sell the overplus?

"Why not give it to the poor?" I said, eagerly.

"Would that pay, do you think?" Mr. Winthrop inquired, giving me at the same time a curiously intent look.

"The poor would thank you."

"How do you know there are any?"

"I have met a good many myself. I dare say there are others I know nothing about."

He turned a keen look at Mrs. Flaxman; I saw her face flush; probably he noticed it as well as I. Then he said, quite gravely:—

"You shall have all the surplus for your needy acquaintances; only you must superintend the distribution. I firmly believe in giving philanthropists their share of the labor."

The color flamed into my face, I could hardly repress the retort:—"Why do you spoil the grace of your gift so ungraciously?" but I left the words unsaid until he left the room, when I relieved my feelings much to Hubert's amusement, who brightened greatly once the door was closed upon him and we were alone.

"I could like that man better than any one I know if he hadn't such a beastly way of conferring favors. Once I get earning money I shall pay him every cent that I have cost him," Hubert said vindictively.

"Including Faery and the choice cigars?" his mother asked, with a sad little smile.

Hubert flushed. "What are they to one of his means?"

"But if you pay him some day it will take you so much longer to pay for them," I said, surprised he had not remembered this.

"I can't part with Faery. Youth is such a beggarly short affair, if one can't have pleasure then, when will they get it?"

"I should think it was high-priced pleasure if I had to take it on those terms."

"You have no idea what prices men are willing to pay for what they desire. Faery even with my means would seem a mere bagatelle to most young fellows of my set."

"I would really like to know what your means are," his mother said, playfully.

"Principally my profession, when I get it; capital health, and a world full of work to be done by some one. I shall stand as good a chance as any one to get my share of the world's rewards for good work accomplished."

"Bravo, Mr. Hubert. I only wish I was a boy so I might go to work too," I cried.

"Hush, the master will hear you. I told you he was fastidious about ladies' deportment. Even the housemaids and cook catch the infection. I certainly pity his poor ward."

"Please do not waste pity on me; if Mr. Winthrop is not nice, I shall go to Boston or New York and teach German in some boarding-school."

A low, long whistle was his only reply.

"Hubert, have you forgotten yourself? Mr. Winthrop will think we have got demoralized."

"Forgive me, mother mine, but Miss Selwyn astounded me. Fancy her working for her bread."

"And liberty," I said, merrily.

"You have got an instalment of that already, permission to dispense the fruit and vegetables. The work has been given as a punishment for making acquaintance with common people."

"That will be a pleasure; see what I am already doing for some of them." I took my forgotten knitting work from my pocket.

"I deeply regret I must so soon leave Oaklands. I really think you will make things livelier here than they have been since Mr. Winthrop was a lad. Just for one moment, mother, try to imagine his disgust when he finds his high-bred ward knitting socks for Dan Blake's little monkeys."

"Dan Blake has no children, Hubert," his mother said, gravely; "and I am not going to trouble myself about what may never happen. It is not necessary for Mr. Winthrop to know how his ward spends her spare time and pocket money."

"But he would as soon think of exchanging civilities with his own dumb animals as with those folk on the Mill Road; and, yet, right under his nose these little arrangements getting manufactured! It is carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance."

"Is that a specimen of your college conversation, Hubert? If so, you might better remain at Oaklands."

"Surely, mother; you don't expect us to talk like a sewing society or select gathering of maiden ladies," Hubert said with some disgust. "Fancy a lot of young fellows picking and choosing their words as if they were a company of prigs."

"If every word we utter continues to vibrate in the air until the final wreck of matter, as some scientists suppose, surely we can't be too careful of our words, my son."

"If we believe all the nonsense those chaps who are continually meddling with nature's secrets tell us, we should sit with shut lips and folded hands lest we would destroy the equilibrium of the universe, or our own destiny. There is any quantity of bosh let loose on poor, long-suffering humanity, and labeled Science."

"That comes with bad grace from an embryo scholar. If I were you I would throw education 'to the dogs' and take things on trust like Thomas, or the Mill Road people," I said, jestingly.

"I want to know for myself; and so not get cheated by every crank who airs his theories."

"But, Hubert, to come back to the original dispute, if the atmosphere does not hold our every foolish or necessary word, they are permanently recorded in another place by a pen that never writes falsely, or misses a single sentence. How many pages have you got written there, I wonder, that if it were possible you would gladly obliterate with your heart's blood one day."

"Mother, you are worse than the scientists; at least more terrifying. Do you know, Miss Selwyn, when I was a little chap she had me persuaded to be a missionary to Greenland, or the South Pole. I had made up my mind to choose the very worst possible place, so as to have all the greater reward."

"What has changed your mind?"

"Natural development, I expect. Mother is a very sweet and gentle woman, but I am sorry to say she is a crank, if there was ever one."

"Why, Hubert, you amaze me," I said, smiling. "I thought she was as near perfection as any one I ever knew. Excuse me expressing myself so openly," I said, bowing to Mrs. Flaxman; "but won't you tell me what her tendency to insanity is; for I believe cranks are a species of madmen, if I rightly understand what the word implies."

"Over religiosity. Why, really, she used to make me long for martyrdom when I was a child."

"I did not think a person could so soon outgrow early piety," I said, dryly.

Hubert colored and said very little more about his mother's early lessons after that to me; but I could see that his strange indifference respecting those subjects she held as most important of anything within reach of humanity pained her deeply.

CHAPTER VII.

EXAMINATION.

Directly Mr. Winthrop had attended to matters at once claiming his attention on his return, he began to investigate my daily avocations. I showed him the work already accomplished, so far as it could be seen—the knitting certainly excepted. My sketches in water colors and oils I brought out rather timidly for his inspection. Mrs. Flaxman had told me how severe he was in his criticisms on careless work, and possibly all through my painting the thought what he might say of what I was doing had a strong influence on the quality of my work. In some respects, no doubt, it helped me to paint more carefully and copy more closely from nature; but, on the other hand, imagination and freedom were restrained; and it is possible I might have better satisfied him with what I had accomplished if I had never once thought about his opinion as I worked. As I carried them into the library that bright early autumn morning, I felt a shrinking at submitting my pictures, in their imperfection, to unsympathetic eyes, much as a mother might feel at bringing a deformed child to a baby show; but I had also a measure of satisfaction, since I could prove to my guardian that I had not been idle, when I spread before him copies, more or less defective, of views from his own grounds. The servants had watched them grow under my pencil and brush with an interest almost equalling my own; and it was amusing the eagerness which even Thomas evinced to be painted into a picture, spoiling it very much, to my mind, by insisting on having on his Sunday clothes.

Mr. Winthrop glanced at them with some surprise as he saw the goodly heap; then he said: "I will only look to-day at what you have done since coming here. Mrs. Flaxman tells me you have accomplished a good expenditure of paint."

"I have only brought those, sir, I did not suppose you cared to examine my school work."

"Some other time I may do so; but do you say all these have been done since you came here?" He picked one up, not noticing apparently my reply, and recognizing the view, instantly his face brightened.

"Ah, you have shown taste in this selection; it is one of my favorite views. I am glad you prefer nature to mere copying from another's work which is like accepting other men's ideas, when one is capable of originating them of one's own." He looked at it closely and for some time in silence, then with no further word of praise he criticised it mercilessly, while he pointed out fault after fault. I could only acquiesce in the correctness of his criticisms, and only wondered I should have been so blind as to permit such glaring faults to creep into my work. Of the many scores of drawing and painting lessons I had previously taken, not any twelve of them, to say the least, had widened my knowledge of art as this hour spent with my guardian over that first picture had done. I looked at him with a provoked sort of admiration, surprised that one who knew so well how nature should be imitated, did not, himself, attempt the task, and angry both with him and myself that I was being subjected to such humiliation, while I listened to him as he convinced me the picture I thought so good was a mere daub. I was wise enough, and proud enough too, not to make any sign that I was undergoing torture, and with stoical calmness permitted him, without a single remonstrance, to examine every picture there, even the one containing Thomas in his Sunday suit, as he stood surveying with idealized face, a superb patch of cabbages.

"Fancy has run riot with you there entirely; if the gardener were surveying his sweetheart in the church choir he might have some such seraphic expression, but it is utterly thrown away on those vegetables; his face and his broadcloth coat are in perfect harmony," Mr. Winthrop said, with even voice, as he held aloft the picture that all the other members of his household had so greatly admired.

"You think, then, the time spent in these has been quite wasted?" I tried to say calmly.

"A genuine artist, no doubt, would say without a moment's hesitation that the paint was thrown away. As for the time, he would probably say a young girl's time was of little consequence in any case. I am not an artist, and do not value paint at a high figure; so I most decidedly affirm that you made an excellent use of the paint. Labor conscientiously spent in decorating a barn door is well employed. The door may not be much the better, but the person who tries to improve its appearance with painstaking care is benefited."

"Then I may conscientiously continue decorating canvas, or at least trying to do so."

"I should certainly desire and advise you to do so; but instead of covering so many, if you would take time and talent in elaborating one picture, I would be better pleased."

He laid the pictures to one side. "We will continue this study more exhaustingly in the future; to-day I want to speak of other things. You have made use of my library, Mrs. Flaxman also informs me. Will you please tell me what books you have been reading?"

I went to the shelves and took down the books I had spent most time over, a good many were novels; and on these I felt certain I could pass a fairly good examination, since I had read some of them with absorbed interest; novels of all kinds were, for the most part, forbidden mental food at school, and therefore, when opportunity offered, I dipped into them with the keener avidity. But my mind was healthy enough to crave more solid food than fiction alone, and I was glad to be able to hand my guardian a volume or two of Carlyle's Frederick, Froude's Cæsar, Motley's Rise of the Dutch Republic, and a couple of volumes of Bancroft's History of the United States.

"Have you read all these since you came to Oaklands?" he asked, with evident surprise.

"I skipped some of the dull passages; the 'dry-as-dust' parts of which I found a few even in Carlyle."

"Could you stand an examination, think you, in each or any of them?"

"I am willing to try," I said, seating myself on the opposite side of the table with folded hands, and possibly a martyrlike air of resignation.

"Since you are so willing we will take Froude's Cæsar to-day; let me hear you give a digest of the entire book."

My eyes sparkled; for this was the last volume I had read, and the author had infused into my mind a strong leaven of his own hero-worship for the majestic Cæsar. I was surprised at the ease with which I repeated chapter after chapter of those stirring incidents, while with his stern, inscrutable face, my guardian turned the leaves to follow me in my rapid flight from tragedy to tragedy in those stormy times.

He laid the book down without comment, and, glancing at the remainder of the pile paused a moment, and then said: "I will defer the criticisms on these to some other day. Your memory as well as vocal organs will be fatigued."

I meanwhile resolved to consult those books again before the further examination should take place.

"You have practised every day on the piano in addition to your other work; may I ask how long a time you allowed yourself?"

"At least an hour, sometimes when it was wet or unpleasant out of doors I took longer time. Never more than three hours, I believe."

"We will take an hour or two after dinner over your music, after this once a week, we will spend a short time in reviewing what you read."

A new anxiety seized me at this promised ordeal. I fancied examinations and I had said good-bye forever when I left the school-room.

"I trust you will not think me severe if I insist on thoroughness in everything. I am wearied seeing so much good money and time wasted on young girls! With the majority of them, once they have left their teacher's side, all their interest in further mental culture is at an end."

"Some great writers say that our schooling is simply to train the mind to work, fitting it, so to speak, with necessary tools like a well-equipped mechanic."

"But if the tools are never utilized, what good are they merely to lie and rust?"

"Who can affirm positively that they are never utilized? Even the shallowest boarding-school Miss may carry herself more gracefully in society than one of your usefulest women—Mrs. Blake, for instance."

"How do you know anything about Mrs. Blake?" he asked abruptly.

"I met her on the train when I came here and she talked some time with me."

"It is not usual for persons in your position to permit such liberties."

"I thought in America all were reckoned equal."

"You are not an American."

"Shall I return then to Europe? I could always travel first-class, and so be safe from vulgar intrusion."

"Until your majority your father decided that your home was to be here after you left school."

"At what age do I attain my majority?" I asked eagerly.

"Are you tired of Oaklands?" His eyes were watching me intently.

"Never, until to day." I faltered, exceedingly frightened, but forced to tell the truth.

He turned over the leaves of the Cæsar for a few seconds, in silence, then he said in quite gentle tones:—

"You are tired; we will leave books for another day."

I bowed, but dared not trust myself to speak lest I might reveal that my tears were struggling to find vent, and began gathering up my sketches. He took up a view of Oaklands over which I had lingered lovingly for a good many hours, adding what I fondly thought were perfecting touches and said:—

"I should like to keep this, if you will give it to me."

My heart instantly grew lighter, so that I was able to say quite calmly that he was very welcome to it. This, however, was the only compliment he paid me for the work over which I had been expending so much time and effort during the past few months; but I had done the work much in the same fashion that the birds sing—from instinct.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. LARKUM.

Hubert left for college before the time came around for the distribution of our ripened fruit, and vegetables, for which fact I was very glad. I knew the task was going to be no easy one, with Mr. Winthrop silently, and no doubt sarcastically, watching me; and Hubert's good humored raillery would in no wise lighten my cares.

Mrs. Flaxman counseled me as wisely as she knew, but Mrs. Blake was my greatest help in the matter. Mr. Winthrop had not discovered, or if he had, did not interfere with my continued friendship for that worthy woman; so in my present perplexities I came to her for advice and consolation.

She promised to notify all her poor acquaintances when they were to come for their share of our gifts; she assured me there was already considerable interest, as well as surprise, awakened by the expectation of such a gathering at Oaklands.

For several days I watched Thomas and Samuel storing away such vast quantities of fruit and vegetables, that I concluded we could safely stand siege for a good many months, but I ruefully determined there would be little remaining for me to distribute. But one bright morning, just in range with my own windows, I saw the gardener nailing up some wooden booths, and when completed, they began to pour in great basketfuls of all sorts of vegetables, and afterward in separate booths, apples, pears, and plums. I slipped out before Mr. Winthrop was astir and inquired of Thomas if these were for my Mill Road pensioners.

"Yes, ma'am, that they are; and did I ever think I'd live to see this day?"

"Why, Thomas, are you not willing to share your bountiful harvest with those who have none?"

"Indeed I am. It's that makes me so glad this morning. I had that good-for-nothing Sam up at four o'clock, helping me saw the boards to build them bins to put the garden sass in. He reckoned you'd a much sight better have been staying in them foreign parts than be giving decent folks such bother. I give him a clip on the ear that made him howl in earnest, I can tell you. I says to him, says I, 'Why, one would think you was one of the aristocracy yourself to hear you talk so indifferent like about the poor folk. There's Miss Selwyn, with full and plenty, and see how she works for them; you'd ought to be ashamed of yourself,' I says to him."

"But I hope you won't punish the poor fellow on my account again—won't you please give him a holiday soon, for getting up to work so early this morning?"

"I'll see about it; but he gets holidays right along; he's nothing but a plague."

I saw poor Sam scuttling around a large apple tree quite within hearing of the gardener's voice, and concluded he was another instance of listeners never hearing any good of themselves. I did very little work or reading that day, but watched from the shelter of my window curtains the slowly accumulating pile. Samuel, I noticed, seemed to work with unusual cheerfulness, and even the gardener himself did not empty his basket any oftener than his well-abused help. Mr. Winthrop passed once or twice, and seemed to give directions. I fancied he glanced up to my window as he stood watching them empty their baskets. At luncheon he said:—

"Your pensioners may come this afternoon, and carry away their produce."

"I will let them know immediately."

"Will you go and tell them yourself?" he asked, rather sternly.

"I can do so with all safety; they are perfectly harmless." I gave him a mutinous look, but my heart fluttered; for, in spite of myself, I was very much afraid of my guardian.

"You must not go about from house to house peddling your generosity," he said, sarcastically.

"It is your generosity, Mr. Winthrop," I said gravely; "besides, I do not go to their houses at all. I have only to acquaint Mrs. Blake that your gift is ready for distribution."

"One of the servants will go to Mrs. Blake. You will need all your strength to maintain the proprieties when your ragged crowd comes."

"Have you ever seen the Mill Road people?" I asked abruptly.

"Probably on the streets sometimes; but are they a very distinguished looking crowd, that you ask?"

"No, but they are human beings just like ourselves, created in God's image as clearly as the President of these United States, and some of them fulfilling the end for which they were made quite as acceptably, perhaps."

"The President would, no doubt, feel flattered to have his name so coupled."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Winthrop, I had forgotten your Presidents conquered the high position they fill, and are not born to it like mere puppets."

"You will compare your humble friends with European Royalties then, I presume."

"Oh, any one dropping into a soft nest prepared for them by others will do just as well," I said, not very politely.

Mrs. Flaxman looked on helplessly as she sat nervously creasing her napkin; then with a sudden look of relief she said: "Shall I despatch Esmerelda to the Mill Road? They will have little enough time to get all that heap of good things carried away before night."

Mr. Winthrop signified his willingness, and as she was leaving the room Mrs. Flaxman, by a look, summoned me to follow her. Once outside she said in her gentle way:—"I would not get arguing with Mr. Winthrop if I were you. He is a good deal older, and, pardon me, a good deal wiser; and while he never seems to lose his own temper he very easily makes others lose theirs."

"I will try not to," I said, very humbly, for now that my temper had calmed I realized that I had been very foolish in saying what I did. I went sorrowfully to my room, and, taking my knitting work, I sat down in my easy chair where I could watch them working busily at the vegetables. But there came so many desolate, homesick fancies to keep me company, that pretty soon my eyes were so blinded with tears I could scarcely see the enlivening prospect under my windows. Ashamed of my weakness I set myself resolutely to thinking of Daniel Blake and his heavy, sad life; of the poor barefoot children, and tired mothers on the Mill Road; and of all the sadder hearts than mine should be, until the sultry, still air, and monotonous click of the knitting needles overcame my heartaches, and I went fast asleep. A knock at the door startled me. Hastily opening it, I met Esmerelda, who had come to announce the arrival of her neighbors.

"There's a good lot of them coming, and they look as frightened, and foolish as so many dogs that's been caught sheep killing. I declare I pity them."

"Where is Mr. Winthrop?" I gasped.

"Oh, you may be certain he's not far off; it's just death to him having so many of them poor wretches coming around his place. I can't think why he lets them."

"I will be there presently, Esmerelda," I said, turning away. It was certainly not my place to allow her to stand there gossiping about her employer.

I did not wait to brush my rumpled hair or bestow more than a passing glance in the mirror, where I caught sight of a pair of wide, frightened eyes and an unusually pale face. Mr. Winthrop was waiting for me in the hall. In my excitement I still held in my hand the little sock I had been knitting. He glanced at it curiously, but made no mention of it.

"Your pensioners have come—a beggarly looking crowd."

"Are there many?"

"Not more than a dozen. You will have to negotiate with Thomas to get your gifts carted home. Their baskets will hold only a tithe of what you have to donate."

"May I tell him to get the horses?"

I looked up at him, I dare say, appealingly; for I felt quite overwhelmed with care. He smiled grimly.

"You may order all the servants to go to work—anything to get that crowd away."

"Don't you feel sorry for them, Mr. Winthrop?" I pleaded. "Just think how hard it is to be poor, and to come to you with a basket for vegetables."

"Yes, that last must be the bitterest drop in their misery," he said, sarcastically. We were walking slowly around to the garden, but our progress was much too swift for my courage. I would gladly have walked the entire length of Cavendish to have escaped what had now become a very difficult task. I resolved on one thing, however; not to be drawn into any further conversation with Mr. Winthrop, nor allow him to entrap me in his merciless way again.

A bend in the garden walk brought me face to face with the Mill Road people; the crowd consisted principally of women and boys; only a man or two condescending to come with their baskets; or it may be they thought the loss of a half day in the Mill would be poorly compensated by the garden stuff they would get. Mrs. Blake was there,—a crape veil hanging sideways from her bonnet, which I took as a mark of respect for Daniel's wife. She carried no basket; and, from the compassionate look on her face, I concluded she came with the hope to lighten my task, if possible. I went directly to her, and shook her hand as cordially as if she had been one of our bluest blooded Cavendish aristocracy. I saw her cast a half frightened glance at Mr. Winthrop, but my fearless manner seemed to reassure her, as she soon regained her customary coolness of demeanor. I nodded cordially to the rest of the group who all seemed just then to be gazing at me in a very helpless manner. I endeavored to comport myself as the easy hostess dispensing the hospitalities of my home to a party of welcome visitors; but with Mr. Winthrop watching my every movement I found the task to do so herculean. The gardener stood watching the crowd in a helpless way, apparently as uncertain what to do first as any of them. I looked towards Mr. Winthrop; but he seemed deeply interested, judging from his attitude and expression, in tying up a branch of an overburdened pear tree; but he kept his face turned steadily towards me all the time, I could not help observing.

"What shall I do?" I whispered to Mrs. Blake.

"Tell them to come forred and fill their baskets."

I cleared my throat, and stepping up to the gardener said: "If you will please come now, we will fill your baskets."

At first no one moved; then a delicate, pretty looking woman, with red-rimmed eyes and a baby in her arms came timidly forward.

"What would you like best?" I asked.

"Oh, I can't tell; they all look so good."

"We are going to send all of this that is left around to your homes in a wagon."

"I might take some of these," she said, pointing longingly to the apples and pears. The baby was stretching its pinched little arms out to them, and cooing in a pitiful, suppressed way, as if it realized it and must be on its good behavior. I took the little creature in my arms; its clothes were clean, but so thin and poor, my heart ached, while I looked at them. I gave it my watch, which it carried with all speed to its mouth; but a soft, delicious pear which I picked from the very limb Mr. Winthrop had been supporting, caused it to drop the watch indifferently.

"Don't you feel sorry for this little crumb of humanity?" I impulsively asked, forgetting too speedily my determination not to converse with him more than was really necessary.

"Did Madame Buhlman give you lessons in philanthropy along with drawing and music?"

"Oh no, indeed; but I hope God has. I don't want my heart to be a rock like"—and then I shut my mouth and with moist eyes and flushed face turned abruptly from him.

I swallowed down my tears, but my heart was too sore to play any longer with the baby, so I slipped it back into its mother's arms, who had got her basket filled and was ready to start for home; a neighbor's lad had come to carry it for her, and with quite a cheerful face she bade me good-bye. The rest of my crowd had got their baskets filled, and paused with longing eyes regarding the heaps that still remained. I made their faces grow suddenly much brighter as, with a slight elevation of voice, I said: "Thomas will carry the rest of these vegetables around for you with the horses. You will please stand at your doors, and, as he drives along, come out for it." There was a subdued murmur of thanks, and then they started homewards. Mrs. Blake waited a few moments behind them to look around the old place where she had spent so many days, and shook hands with Thomas who remembered her very distinctly.

"It's odd doings for Oaklands having yon crowd come with their baskets," he said, grimly; "the young miss be like to turn things topsy-turvey."

"It's high time somebody did; what kind of reckonins will folks have bime-by, of all their riches, and overplus, and so many of their own kind of flesh and blood going hungry and naked?"

"Their reckonins be none in my line. I sees to the roots and posies, that they thrive; and there my work ends."

"Yes, posies are fed and sheltered, and little human creeturs like the widow Larkum's there can starve for all the great folks cares. Deary me! it's a terble onjointed sort of world; seems to me I could regilate things better myself. Well, a good afternoon, Mr. Prime."

"Good afternoon," Mr. Prime coldly responded. Plainly he did not enjoy Mrs. Blake's freedom of speech. I felt my trespasses against Mr. Winthrop were already so great I could scarcely increase them by leaving Mrs. Blake abruptly, so I walked with her through the old gardens, where she had many a time, no doubt, dreamed her dreams long before my spirit got started on its long voyage through time and the eternities. I accompanied her all the way to the gate, listening sadly while she told me for the second time the sorrowful story of the widow Larkum, whose baby I had just been fondling. "Ever since her man fell on the circular saw and got killed, she's been crying more or less. Her eyes look as if they'd been bound in turkey red; and I tell her she'll be blind soon as well as her father; but, laws! when the tears is there, they might as well come. It's their natur, I s'pose, to be a droppin'."

"What is to support them?" I asked.

"I guess the parish, but my! they dread it. I believe Mr. Bowen would be the happiest man in town if the Lord would send his angels for him; he's about the best Christian I ever sot eyes on."

"I think I can help them. Does it cost very much to keep a family."

"It depends on how they're kept. A trifle would do them. She's that savin', the hull of 'em don't cost much more'n a hearty man."

"I will tell, Thomas, to leave plenty of his vegetables with her; and, in the meantime, will you please tell her that I will help to keep the wolf from her door?"

"Indeed, I will, and be glad to. I can do a little myself; so you won't have all to do; and then she is right handy with her needle. My! I feel a burden lifted already. I couldn't help frettin' as well as her, though, she's no more to me than any other body."

"God has given you the heart that feels another's woes. Every one don't have that blessed gift."

"I expect not; or if they do, it's not minded. Seems to me the master looked none too well pleased along wi' us bein' there to-day." She looked at me keenly; but I was not going to make my moan even to this true-hearted friend.

"I hope this act of kindness may leave him so happy that he will give me leave to give away all the unused stuff I see going to waste about the place," I said, a trifle hypocritically.

"He's never knew what want is; and any way his heart's not over tender naterally; but there, young women can do most anything with men folks when they're good-lookin' and have nice ways wi' 'em. There's a sight of difference wi' girls. Some of 'em without any trouble get right into a man's heart, and they'll go through fire and water to please 'em; and others may be just as good-lookin' and they have hard work to get any man to marry 'em. I've wondered more'n a little about it, but it's a mystery." She turned her kindly wrinkled face on me and said, "You're one of them kind that can just wind a man round your finger, and I'm looking for better days at Oaklands. My! but you could do lots of good, if you got him on your side."

"Oh, Mrs. Blake, you don't know anything about it, but you are to be disappointed I am sure. But I can do something without any one's help. Good-bye."

She took my hand, holding it for some time in silence; then she said softly: "Dear; you can get into other folk's hearts beside the men's."

CHAPTER IX.

AN EVENING WALK.

Thomas got his garden stuff distributed satisfactorily. "It would done your heart good to see how pleased the Larkums was over their share: I give 'em good measure, I tell you," he informed me that evening, as I made an errand to the stables in order to interview him.

"That Mr. Bowen, her blind father, he come out too, and I've not got better pay for anything for years than what he give me," Thomas continued solemnly.

"What did he give, you?" I asked.

"Well I can't just go over his words, but it minded me of the blessing the preacher says over us before we go out of church, only this was all just for you and me."

"You have found to-day that it is more blessed to give than to receive."

"That Mrs. Blake wan't far astray; but there, I wouldn't let on to the likes of her that Mr. Winthrop might do more for them. Anyway there's no one gives more for the poor in the parish, nor anything nigh as much; only its taxes, and one don't get credit for them."

"It is only for want of thought, Thomas. He has never been among the poor, to see their wants and sufferings."

"But what makes you think, and the rest all forget?"

"I expect it is because my memory is better. I could always remember my lessons at school better than the most of the pupils."

"Ah, Miss, there's more than the memory. I wish there was more rich folks like you; it would be a better world for the poor."

His words startled me, the thought had never before occurred to me that I might be rich. I went to my room, and, with more than my usual care, dressed for dinner. Compared with Esmerelda's, my gowns were getting shabby, and old-fashioned; and I concluded if I had means of my own, it was time to treat myself charitably as well as my poor acquaintances. The dinner bell rang at last, and I went down with some trepidation to meet my guardian. My conscience confronted me with my repeated words of insubordination during the day, commanding me to apologize for my rudeness; but instinct with a stronger voice counselled silence. As we took our seats at dinner, Mrs. Flaxman, I thought, with a worried expression was furtively regarding us; but she kept silent. With a good-humored smile Mr. Winthrop turned to me, saying: "Your crowd did not fall to quarrelling over the spoil, I hope."

"I wish you could have seen how good-humored they were on leaving. I think they would have talked above their breath only they were afraid."

"You did not strike me as looking particularly formidable. Indeed, I quite pitied you; for you seemed the most frightened, nervous one in the lot."

"They were not afraid of me. Even the widow Larkum's baby cooed softly until you were out of sight."

"It must be a child of amazing intelligence."

Mrs. Flaxman, looking more anxious than ever interjected a remark, not very relevantly, about the prospect of our early winter; but Mr. Winthrop allowed her remark to fall unheeded.

"You seem particularly interested in that tender-eyed widow and her infant. Is it long since you made their acquaintance?"

"I cannot say that I am even now acquainted with her." I answered politely.

"I should judge you had a weakness for widows. Mrs. Blake seems on very cordial terms with you."

"I would take just as much interest in your widow, Mr. Winthrop, if she was poor and sorrowful. The wheel of fortune may make a revolution some day, and give me the opportunity."

He really seemed to enjoy the retort which fell uncontrollably from my lips.

"Allow me to thank you beforehand for your kind offices to that afflicted individual; though the prospect for their being required is not very good at present."

"Mrs. Fleming has sent invitations for a garden-party," Mrs. Flaxman interposed desperately. "I think Mr. Winthrop had better permit you to go to New York for some additions to your toilet."

"I will accompany her myself; she might get entangled with widowers on her next trip."

"Not if they are as provoking as the unmarried," I murmured below my breath; but he seemed to catch my meaning.

"They understand the art of pleasing your sex amazingly. I believe you would find them more fascinating than Mrs. Blake, or your new friend, the widow Larkum."

I felt too sorrowful to reply, and my temper had quite expended itself. I waited until he arose from the table and then followed him into the library. He looked surprised, but very politely handed me a chair. I bowed my thanks, but did not sit down; I stood opposite him with only the study table between us. I was nervous, and half afraid to ask my question, but summoning all my courage I broke the silence by saying:—"Mr. Winthrop, will you please tell me if I am rich or poor?"'

"That is a comparative question," he answered with provoking coolness. "Compared with Jay Gould or Vanderbilt, I should say your means were limited; but, on the other hand, to measure your riches with your widowed friends, most persons would allow your circumstances to be affluent."

"But have I any money left after my board and other expenses are paid?"

He smiled sarcastically. "I do not take boarders; it has never been our custom at Oaklands."

I was getting angry and retorted:—"I shall not eat any man's bread without paying for it, if he were a hundred times my guardian."

"But if you had no money wherewith to pay him; what then?"

"I have an education; with that surely I can earn my living as well as Esmerelda. My knowledge of French and German will help me to a situation, if nothing else."

"If I say you must not leave here; that I will not permit my ward to work for her living?" he questioned.

"If I resolve to be independent, and earn something beside, to help the poor, can you compel me to a life of ease and uselessness?"

"Ah, I see what is troubling you—the widows are on your mind. A gracious desire to help them has caused this mercenary fit. I am glad to inform you that there is a snug sum lying at your bankers in your name. When you come of age you will know the exact amount."

"You will pay for my board and expenses out of it," I said, rather incoherently; "and then, if there is any left, may I have it to lay out as I choose?"

"I do not care to assume the rôle of a hotel-keeper, so we will compromise matters. You can name whatever sum you choose for your board, and I will give it to you in quarterly instalments for your pensioners."

I was silent for a few moments, perplexed to know what answer to give. If he were to take from my own income the sum I might mention if I accepted his terms, would I not still be a debtor to his hospitality? I spoke at last, knowing that his eyes were reading my face. "Could I not first pay you all that I really cost you, and then if there was any money left, have that to expend just as I choose?"

"I have hitherto allowed you a certain sum for pocket money. I limited the supply, because, as a school-girl, I believed too much would be an injury. Since, however, you are now a young lady grown and gifted with highly benevolent instincts, I will increase your spending money to any reasonable sum you may name."

"Will it be my own money?"

"Certainly; I shall not exercise the slightest supervision over the way you spend it, so long as your Mill Road friends do not get quarreling over the division of it."

"You do not understand my meaning. Will it be the money my father left me?"

"I cannot promise it will be just the same. No doubt that has passed through scores of hands since then; in fact, it may be lying in the bottom of the sea. I did not expect you would be so exact in money matters, or I might have been more careful."

"Mr. Winthrop, why do you so persistently misconstrue my meaning?" I said, desperately. He looked down more gently from his superior height into my troubled face, and the mocking gleam faded from his eyes.

"Why are you so scrupulously, ridiculously insistent in maintaining such perfect independence? Can you not believe I get well paid for all you cost me, if we descend to the vulgarity of dollars and cents, in having a bright, original young creature about the house with a fiery, independent, nature, ready to fight with her rich friends for the sake of her poor ones?"

"I wish we could be friendly, Mr. Winthrop," I half sobbed, with an impulsive gesture stretching out my hands, but remembering myself, as quickly I drew them back, and without waiting for a reply fled from the room. Once in the hall I took down my hat from the rack and slipped out into the night, my pulses throbbing feverishly, and with difficulty repressing the longing to find relief in a burst of tears. The short twilight had quite faded away into starlight, but the autumn air was still warm enough to permit a stroll after nightfall. When I grew calm enough to notice whither my feet had strayed, I found myself on the Mill Road. Instinctively I felt I should not go so far from home in the darkness unattended; but I was naturally courageous as well as unconventional, and the desire was strong on me to tell Mrs. Blake my good news. I got on safely until Daniel Blake's light was in sight, when, just before me, I heard rough voices talking and laughing. I turned and was about fleeing for home, when a similar crowd seemed to have sprung up, as if by magic, just behind me. In my terror I attempted to climb a fence, but fence-climbing was a new accomplishment, and in my ignorance and fright, I dragged myself to the top rail and then fell over in a nerveless heap on the other side. The crowd were too self-absorbed to notice the crouching figure divided from them by a slight rail fence, and went shouting on their way until stopped by the other crowd. I waited until they had got to a safe distance, when I arose and sped swiftly along over the damp grass until another fence intercepted my progress; when fortunately I remembered that just beyond this fence was a low marshy field, with deep pools of water. By some means I again got over the fence, bruising my fingers in the effort. The voices were growing fainter in the distance, and now with calmer pulses, I proceeded on my way to the Blakes'. But a new alarm awaited me; for I recollected Daniel would be at home now, and Tiger, his constant companion, would be somewhere in his vicinity. The dog was a huge creature, capable of tearing me to pieces in a very short time if he was so inclined. Folding my arms tightly in the skirt of my dress, I presently heard Tiger approaching, giving an occasional savage growl. I called him to me with as much simulated affection in the tones of my voice as I could command, and walked straight for the kitchen door. I put my hand on the latch, not daring to hesitate long enough to knock, when he caught my sleeve in his teeth. Half beside myself with terror, I called to Mrs. Blake, and in a second or two the door opened and Daniel was peering out curiously into my white face. The light from the lamp in his hand shone full on the dog holding my sleeve in his white, long teeth. Daniel's slow brain scarce took in the situation, but his mother, who sat where she could look directly at us, caught up the tongs and gave Tiger a blow he probably remembered to his dying day. He dropped my dress and slunk silently away into the darkness. Instantly I felt sorry for him. "Won't you call him back," I cried. "He thought he was doing his duty, and he took care not to put his teeth in my arm."

"It seems to me your heart is a leetle too tender of the brute; he might have skeered you to death," Daniel said, as he went out after his dog to see how heavy damage the tongs had inflicted.

"I should not have come here so late; it was I and not the dog who was to blame," I gasped, as I sank into Mrs. Blake's rocking-chair.

"I've wanted Daniel to put the critter away; he's been offered fifty dollars for him, but he's kind of lonesome, and refuses the offer."

Mrs. Blake was looking at me closely. I knew she was curious to know what brought me there at that unusual hour, so I hastened to explain, and asking her would she go with me to the Widow Larkum's while I told her of the help I expected to afford, and also of my mishaps on the way there.

"Not to-night, dearie. These roads ain't none too safe after night for women folks. It's a mercy you tumbled over the fence. My! what would Mr. Winthrop say if he knowed?" she questioned solemnly.

"But he will never know, if I can get back safely."

"Dan'el and me'll go with you, and take Tiger and the lantern. They're all afraid of the dog, if I haven't lamed him."

She went to the door and called Daniel. He came in presently, with Tiger limping after him.

"You give him an unmerciful blow; a leetle more and he'd never barked again."

"Bring him in and I'll give him a bone and rub the sore place with liniment."

"Let me feed him," I begged. "I want to make friends with him."

"You'd best not put your hands on him. He don't make free with strangers."

I took the bone; to my regret it was picked nearly bare, and I idly resolved Tiger should have a good solid dinner the next day, if he and I survived the mishaps of the night.

"Poor fellow! I am very, very sorry I have caused you so much pain," I said, giving him the bone and patting his huge head fearlessly.

"Look out!" Daniel said, warningly.

"You needn't be afeard," his mother said. "Tiger knows quality."

Whether he was as knowing in this respect as she asserted, he gnawed his bone and let me stroke his shaggy coat, while Mrs. Blake bathed his bruised back.

"There, he'll be all right now in no time; and Dan'el, you get the lantern and we'll go back to Oaklands with Miss Selwyn."

Daniel got up wearily, and did as his mother bade. After his hard day's work in the mill he would willingly, no doubt, have been excused escorting damsels in distress to their homes.

Mrs. Blake soon came out of her room with her bonnet and shawl on—the former one without a veil, which she excused on the ground that dew took the stiffening out of crape—"Leastways," she added, "the kind I wear." Tiger followed us, and more in mercy to him than the tired Daniel, I insisted on going home alone once we had got beyond the precincts of the Mill Road. I met with no further adventure, and reached my own room in safety, fondly hoping no one in the house was aware of my evening's ramble, and one that I determined should never be repeated. My cheeks burned even after my light was extinguished, and my head throbbed on the pillow at Mr. Winthrop's biting sarcasm if he knew the risk I had just run from bipeds and quadrupeds, with Daniel Blake, his mother and dog as body-guard past the danger of Mill Road ruffianism.

CHAPTER X.

A HELPING HAND.

The following morning I went down to breakfast with some trepidation, and feeling very much like a culprit. Mrs. Flaxman came into the room first, and in her mild, incurious fashion said: "We were hunting for you last evening. Mr. Winthrop wished to see you about something."

I did not reply, neither did she inquire where I had bestowed myself out of reach of their voices. I felt certain Mr. Winthrop's curiosity would be more insistent, and was quite right in my conjectures. He came in as usual, just on the minute, and seating himself, went through with the formality of grace; but before our plates were served, he turned to me and rather sternly said: "Are you in the habit of going out for solitary night rambles?"

"I never did but once," I faltered, too proudly honest to give an evasive answer.

"That once, I presume, occurred last night?"

"Yes."

"Strictly speaking, it wanted just five minutes to nine when you slipped stealthily into the side entrance."

I sat, culprit-like, in silence, while his eyes were watching me closely.

"Don't you think two hours a long time to be loitering about the garden in the dark?"

"You must not be too hard on Medoline," Mrs. Flaxman interposed. "It is an instinct with young folk to stray under the starlight and dream their dreams. No doubt we both have been guilty of doing it in our time." I flashed Mrs. Flaxman a look of gratitude, and wondered at the naïve way she counted Mr. Winthrop with herself, as if he too had arrived at staid middle-agehood.

"Dreaming under stars and wandering around in attendance on widows are two very different occupations," he said, quietly, and without a break in his voice asked Mrs. Flaxman what he should help her to. I swallowed my breakfast—what little I could eat—with the feeling that possibly each succeeding mouthful might choke me; but full hearts do not usually prove fatal, even at meal time.

I arose from the table as soon as Mr. Winthrop laid down his napkin, and was hastening from the room when I heard him move back his chair; and, swift as were my movements, he was in the hall before I had reached the topmost step of the staircase.

"Just one more word, please," I heard him say. I turned around, resolved to take the remainder of my lecture from a position where I could look down on him. He held out a parcel, saying: "Will you come and get this, or shall I carry it to you?"

I descended without replying, and held out my hand for the roll. He took hold of my hand instead. The firm, strong grasp comforted me, though I expected a severer lecture than I had ever received before in all my life. I looked up at him through tear-filled eyes when he said, in a strangely gentle voice for the circumstances:

"I saw you coming along the Mill Road last night with the Blakes and their lantern. Why were you there so late?"

"I wanted so much to tell the widow Larkum I was in a position now to help her."

He was silent for awhile; then he said:

"I am glad you did not try to mislead me at the breakfast-table. I could not easily have forgiven such an act. Next to purity, I admire perfect truth in your sex."

"Mr. Winthrop, you will believe me that I never went out of our own grounds after night before alone, and I never will, if I live for a hundred years."

"Pray do not make rash promises. I only claim obedience to my wishes until you are of age. I will accept your word until that date, and shall not go in search of you along the Mill Road, or any other disreputable portion of the town again. Your mother's daughter can be trusted."

I tried to withdraw my hand, in order to escape with my tear-stained face to my own room, quite forgetting the parcel I had come down the stairway for.

"We start for New York this afternoon. Mrs. Flaxman accompanies us. She will be congenial society for you, having been a widow for nearly a score of years."

"I do not care particularly for widows. It is the poor and desolate I pity."

"Well, here is the first instalment of widows' money. I give it to you quarterly, purely from benevolent motives."

"Why so?" I asked, curiously.

"If you received it all at once Mill Road would be resplendent with crape and cheap jewelry."

"I suppose I must thank you," I said, hotly; "but the manner of the giving takes away all the grace of the gift."

"You express yourself a trifle obscurely, but I think I comprehend your meaning," he said, without change of voice. If I could have seen his eyes flash, or his imperturbable calm disturbed, my own anger would have been less keen.

"May I go now?" I presently asked, quite subdued; for he had fallen into a brown study, and was still holding my hand.

"Yes, I had forgotten," he said, turning away, and a moment after entered the library and shut the door. I went in search of Mrs. Flaxman, whom I found still in the breakfast-room, and in a rather nervous condition, busy about the china, which she rarely permitted the servant to wash.

"Shall we stay long in New York?" I asked, very cheerfully, the fifty dollars I held in my hand, and the easy way I had got off with Mr. Winthrop, making me quite elated.

"One can never tell. Mr. Winthrop is very uncertain; we may return in a day or two, or we may stay a fortnight."

"You are not anxious to go?" I questioned, seeing her troubled face.

"Not just now, in the height of the pickling and preserving season. Reynolds has excellent judgment, but I prefer looking after such things myself."

She looked wistfully at me while she dried her china. "May I help you, Mrs. Flaxman? It never occurred to me before that I might share your burdens. I should learn to have cares, as well as others."

"I always like to have you with me, dear. Sometimes I try to make myself believe God has given you to me, instead of my own little Medoline."

"Had you a daughter once?"

"Yes; and, like yourself, named after your own dear mother."

"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, and you never told me. Was she grown up like me?"

"She was only six years old when she died, just a month after her father; but the greater grief benumbed me so I scarce realized my second loss until months afterward."

"Is it so terrible, then, to lose one's husband?"

"It depends greatly on the husband."

"The widow Larkum cries constantly after hers, but he was bread-winner, too. A hungry grief must be a double one."

"Did Mr. Winthrop say anything further to you about being out last night?"

"A little," I replied, with scarlet cheeks; "but he will never do so again. I shall not give him cause to reprove me."

"That is the most lady-like course. You are no longer a little girl, or a school-girl either."

I wiped my plates in silence, but my mortification was none the less intense. I realized then, more keenly than ever, that I must preserve the proprieties, and confine myself to the restrictions of polite society. The breezy, unconventional freedom Mrs. Flaxman had for those few months permitted me had been so keenly enjoyed. I fretted uneasily at the forms, and ceremonies of artificial life, while the aboriginal instincts, which every free heart hides away somewhere in its depths, had been permitted too full development.

The china cleansed, and put away, I stood surveying the shining pieces that comprised our breakfast equipage, and like the tired clock in the fable, thought wearily of the many hundred times Mrs. Flaxman had washed those dishes; of the many thousand times they, or others, would go through the same operation, until Mrs. Winthrop's sands of time had all run out, and Oaklands gone to decay, or passed into other hands.

"Isn't it tiresome work washing dishes—the same yesterday, to-day and fifty years hence? I wish I had been created a man; they don't have such sameness in their work."

"Are you sure, dear? Fancy a bookkeeper's lot, or a clerk's reckoning up columns of figures so like there is not a particle of variety; not a new or thrilling idea in all their round of work from January to December, unless we except a column that won't come right. That may have a thrill in it now and then, but certainly not a joyous one. After we return from New York, if you pay attention to a clerk's work in the stores we visit, you will acknowledge a lady's household tasks delightful in comparison. The farmer's life has the most variety, and comes nearest to elementary things and nature's great throbbing vitals; but as a rule they are a dissatisfied lot, and unreasonably so, I think."

"Come to look at things generally, it's a very unsatisfactory sort of world, anyway. I think it's affairs might just as well get wound up as not. There have been plenty of one variety of beings created, I should think, to fill up lots of room in the starry spaces, and there are so many to suffer forever."

"It is hardly reverent, dear, for us to criticise God's plans. It is His world, and we are His creatures; and we may all be happy in Him here, and there be happy with Him forever. Besides, life does not seem monotonous when we are doing His will."

"But I know so few who are doing His will save you, and that poor blind Mr. Bowen. I read my Bible every day, and sometimes I get thinking over its words, and I reckon there will only be one here and there fit to enter Heaven. All our friends nearly would be terribly out of place to be suddenly transplanted to the Heavenly gardens. What could they talk about to the shining ones? The fashions, and social gossips, and fancy work and amusements would all be tabooed subjects there, I expect."

"You do not know many people yet. I thank God there are thousands longing to serve Him. I think, dear, you must have a touch of dyspepsia this morning; your thoughts are so morbid."

"Oh no, indeed; I am quite well. But shall we see any of those people you describe in New York?"

"If we stay long enough, doubtless we shall. I have a few rare friends there whose friendship often gives me the feeling of possessing unlimited riches."

"I wish I had such friends," I exclaimed, with sudden longing. "You and the Mill Road folk are the only ones I have on this side the ocean, and the most I care much for on the other already think in another language from mine."

"Yours will not be a friendless life, I feel certain. I see elements in your impulsive nature that must attract those who love the true and unselfish."

"Oh, Mrs. Flaxman, what a delicious compliment to give me, just when I was most discouraged about myself! Mr. Winthrop finds me such a nuisance, and all your pretty and elegant lady friends I know care so little for me that I can't but believe that I am a poor specimen, although you speak so kindly."

"You will be wise to learn the art of not thinking much about your merits. I find these the happiest lives who live most outside of self; and they are the most helpful to others."

"But we have mainly to do with ourselves. How can we help wondering if our particular barque on the voyage of life is to be a success or not?"

"It lies with ourselves whether it is or no."

"But persons like Mrs. Larkum and the Blakes, how can they have a successful voyage, when they are so poor and lowly?"

"You must get the thought out of your mind that being poor and humble makes any difference in God's sight. When Christ visited our planet his position was as lowly as the Blakes; his purse as empty as the widow Larkum's. We are such slow creatures to learn that character itself is the only greatness in God's sight. Our ancestry and rent roll are the small dust of the balance with Him."

"But Mr. Winthrop thinks most of those things—the ancestry and wealth."

"We must not sit in judgment on any one's thoughts, and we must not take any man's gauge of character in the abstract as the correct one; only take the word of God."

I went out into the sunshine to think over Mrs. Flaxman's little lecture; a good deal comforted with the reflection that Mrs. Blake might have more weight in the balances of Heaven than I had thought. The garden was looking very shabby—its splendid midsummer glory had only a few flowers left to show what had been there, and these only the thick-petaled, substantial blossoms as free from perfume as the products of the vegetable garden. I grew melancholy. A premonition of my own sure coming autumn season, towards the end of life, was forecasting its cold shadow over the intervening years which made the November sunshine grow dim; and I gladly re-entered the house. I went very meekly to the library-door and tapped. Quite a long pause, and then I heard my guardian's study door which opened into the library, shut; and a second after he stood before me. I thought he gave me a surprised glance, since it was only the second time I had come into his presence there unsummoned.

"May I take some of the money you gave me this morning to Mrs. Larkum, before I leave for New York?"

"If you have time. Usually it takes ladies some hours to prepare for a journey such as you have before you to-day."

"I am sorry to say I am not a regulation lady. I can get ready in half an hour."

"That is a quality in your sex that will cover a multitude of sins."

"I am glad you have at last found something good in me," I said, sorrowfully.

"You must not personally apply every generalization your friends may make in their conversation."

"Then you give me permission to go?"

"It strikes me you are rushing to the other extreme. I have never interfered with your rambles, except at unseemly hours. Mill Road at mid-day is quite safe for the most unconventional young lady in Cavendish."

I bowed my thanks, and turning away heard the library door shut. I could fancy the expression on my guardian's face as he returned to his books. But, as I put on my wraps, my heart grew lighter although Mr. Winthrop's last observation made me wince. I took a crisp ten dollar bill. Surely, I reflected, that could not be a dangerous sum to entrust the widow with, considering that she had a helpless father, and half-clad children to look after. I took the kitchen on my way and begged a generous slice of meat from the cook to carry to Tiger.

"Most like they'll have their own dinner off it first; they'll think it a sin to give such meat to a dog," I heard her mutter as I left the kitchen. On my way I met Emily Fleming and Belle Wallace. They laughingly inquired where I was going with my bundles; but I assured them it was an errand of mercy, and could not therefore be explained. Miss Emily's plump features and bright black eyes took a slightly contemptuous expression as she assured us I was rapidly developing into a Sister of Charity.

"Better be that than an idler altogether like the rest of us," the more gentle natured Belle responded.

"If you are getting into a controversy I will continue my journey," I said, nodding them a pleasant good morning and going cheerfully on my way, thinking of Tiger's prospective gratification, coupled with that of the widow Larkums.

Going first to the Blakes, I found Tiger stretched out on the doorstep. He wagged his tail appreciatively, but did not growl as I stroked his shaggy coat.

Examining him by daylight, I saw that he was a fine specimen of his species. Daniel explained to me afterward that he was a cross between a St. Bernard and Newfoundland—a royal ancestry, truly, for any canine, and unlike human off-shoots from the best genealogical trees, quite sure of inheriting the finest qualities of his ancestors. I went into the house, the dog limping after me. Mrs. Blake heard my voice and came in in some alarm. She looked surprised to see me sitting by the table with Tiger's massive head in my lap, while I unrolled the meat. She also stood watching, and when the juicy steak was revealed, her own eyes brightened as well as Tiger's. "I haven't seen such a piece of meat in many a day. It minds me so of Oaklands."

"I got it from cook for Tiger," I explained. "It is clean—perhaps you would like a few slices off it."

"I would, indeed. Its a shame to give a brute such victuals."

"Poor Tiger, he deserves something good, after the way he was punished on my account." She brought a knife and plate saying: "We can share wi' each other; I don't want to rob even a dog of his rights." I turned the meat over and found a bone which I cut off and gave him, and then, giving the remainder to her to put out of Tiger's way, I stipulated that he was to have all the scraps that were left. Then I informed her of my gift from Mr. Winthrop, or rather loan, and of the sum I purposed giving Mrs. Larkum.

"Did Mr. Winthrop give you all that money for poor folks?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"Well, I've heard he never give anything except through the town council. I've heard he was uncommon free in that way. But, laws! I reckoned the first time I seen you that you'd be able afore long to wind him around your finger. Fine manners and a handsome face, with a good heart, soon thaws out a bachelor heart."

"You were never more mistaken in your life, Mrs. Blake."

"May be so," she said, as if quite unconvinced.

I turned the conversation rather abruptly:—

"Will ten dollars be too much to entrust Mrs. Larkum with at once?"

"Dear heart, you might give her fifty, if you had it. She'd be jest as saving of it as—well as I'd be myself, and I call myself next door to stingy."

"I am so glad; one likes to know the most will be made of what they give."

"If you don't mind, I'll put on my shawl and go with you."

"I was going to ask you to do so."

"I'll jest set on the pot for Dan'el's dinner first. Twelve o'clock soon comes these short days." Mrs. Blake threw a faded woolen shawl over her head, and taking a short path across the field we started for Mrs. Larkum's, Tiger limping after us.

I thought Mrs. Blake's snug kitchen quite a nest of comfort after I had taken a survey of the Larkum's abode.

One roughly plastered room with two little closets at one side for bedrooms had to serve for home for five souls.

I felt a curious, smothered sensation at first, as I looked on the desolate surroundings—the pale, sad-faced mother, the blind grandfather, and ragged children. A dull fire was smouldering in the cooking stove, and beside it sat the grandfather, the baby on his knee, vainly trying to extract consolation from its own puny fist. As I looked at him closely I saw that Mr. Bowen had an unusually fine face—not old looking, but strangely subdued, and chastened. I fancied from his countenance, at once serene and noble, that he had beautiful thoughts there in the darkness and poverty of his surroundings. Mrs. Larkum was mending a child's torn frock, her eyes as red and swollen as ever. Her face brightened, however, when we went in. Mrs. Blake assured me afterward it would be better than medicine to them having one of the quality sit down in their house, I took the baby from its grandfather, and soon the little one was cooing contentedly in my arms, getting its fingers and face nicely smeared with the candies I had brought it. I divided the supply with the two other little ones—the eldest going direct to his grandfather, and dividing his share with him. I noticed that the gift was thankfully received, but placed securely in his pocket; no doubt to be brought out a little later, and divided with the others. I glanced at the blind man's clothing. Clean it certainly was; in this respect corresponding with everything I saw in the house; but oh, so sadly darned, and threadbare. Still, he seemed like a gentleman, and I fancied he shrank painfully within himself as if one's presence made him ill at ease. I resolved to say very little to him on this first visit, but later on try to find the key to his heart. I contented myself with the use of my eyes, and playing with the baby, leaving the two widows to indulge in a few sighs and tears together. My own tears do not come very readily, and it makes me feel cold hearted to sit dry-eyed while other eyes are wet. As I sat quietly absorbing the spirit of the place, my eyes rested on a shelf containing the few cheap dishes that served their daily food. Instantly the desolate fancies I had a few hours before indulged came forcibly to mind. I thought what would it be to cleanse the remains of meagre repasts from these coarse cups, and plates, through days and years, with no glad hopes or joyous fancies to lighten the toil! I was growing desolate hearted myself, and concluded my widowed friend had sighed and wept long enough; so returning the little charge to its grandfather, I went to Mrs. Larkum's side, and slipped the note into her hand, at the same time saying good-bye, and motioned to Mrs. Blake to come home. She arose very reluctantly, being unwilling to miss her friend's surprise and satisfaction. I too was constrained to look at her as she unfolded the note. A flush swept over her face as she saw the number, and handing it back to me, she said:—

"You have made a mistake, and given me the wrong bill."

"Oh no, indeed. I got it on purpose for you."

"But it is ten dollars. Surely you did not mean that."

"Mrs. Blake said you would know how to lay out fifty very wisely," I said, with, a smile.

Her tears, always so convenient, began to flow afresh. Turning to her father she said with a sob, "Father, your prayers are getting answered. The Lord, I believe, will provide."

I saw him gather the baby close to his heart, and then with a gesture of self command he seemed with difficulty to restrain his own emotion. "The Lord reward the giver," he murmured in a low voice; but some way it gave me the feeling that I had suddenly received some precious gift.

"When that is gone I shall have some more for you," I promised.

"Oh, before all this is used up, I must try to get earning myself. But this, with all those vegetables you gave me yesterday, will give me such a start. I will buy a whole barrel of flour, it spends so much better—and get some coals laid in for winter. They are the heaviest expense."

"Yes," I said, impulsively, "and flannels for the children. It will be so much better than crape."

"Crape!" she ejaculated. "I don't need crape for my husband. I have too much mourning in my heart to put any on outside."

I meant some day, when I felt pretty courageous, to repeat her words to Mr. Winthrop. Once outside, I found the glorious expansion of sky and horizon very grateful after the narrow limits of the little cottage. At luncheon Mr. Winthrop asked if I had paid my visit yet to Mill Road. I acknowledged, with a slight crimsoning of cheek, that I had conveyed to Mrs. Larkum a small sum of money.

"No doubt she will have a crape weeper as long as the widow Blake's."

"I did not think you noticed the trivialities of women's attire so minutely."

"I do not as a rule; but in the case of your intimate friends, it is natural I should endeavor to discover their especial charms."

"Mrs. Larkum said she was going to lay out the money I gave her chiefly in flour and coals. I suggested flannel would be much better also to buy than crape. She said she had no need to put on mourning; she already wore it in her heart."

"She is a very sensible woman," my guardian replied.

Then I described, as minutely as I could and with all the pathos I could command, the grim surroundings of this poor family—the grandfather, with his serene, sightless face and strangely deep trust in Providence; the clean, but faded, worn garments they all had on—not one of them, apparently, possessed of a decent suit of clothes; and then their horror of help from the town. Mrs. Flaxman wiped her eyes sympathetically when I repeated the grateful words my gift had evoked, and said with trembling voice: "It just seems as if the Lord sent you there, Medoline."

"Do you think the Ruler of this vast universe has leisure or inclination to turn his gaze on such trivialities? No doubt suns and systems are still being sent out completed on their limitless circles. To conceive their Creator turning from such high efforts to send Medoline with a ten dollar bill to the Larkums, to my mind borders on profanity," Mr. Winthrop said, with evident disgust.

"The infinitely great and infinitely small alike receive His care. Perhaps it required stronger power from God to make you give me the money and then to make me willing to carry it to them, than it does to create a whole cluster of suns and planets. I think our wills limit God's power more than anything he ever created, except Satan and his angels."

"You are quite a full-fledged theologian, little one. I am surprised you do not engage more heartily in home mission work."

"I must first learn to show more patience at home."

He did not make any reply; but as we were speeding on our way that afternoon in the cars, he came to my side and handed me a small roll of bills.

"Would you like to buy that widower friend of yours a warm suit of clothes for the winter? Mrs. Flaxman will show you a suitable furnishing establishment. Philanthropists must do all sorts of things, as you will find."

"You are very kind after all, Mr. Winthrop. I wish I could tell you how grateful I am. Please forgive all my rude speeches—I hope I will never get provoked with you again."

"I most certainly hope you will. A little spice adds greatly to the flavor of one's daily food."

He walked away; and first counting my gift, I found, to my surprise, that it amounted to fifty dollars. I opened my little velvet satchel—my traveling companion for many a weary mile—and laid it safely in one of the pockets. I had plenty of leisure that afternoon for fancy to paint all sorts of pictures. Mr. Winthrop was at the farther end of the car, with a group of friends he had met; and Mrs. Flaxman, a nervous traveler at the best, was trying to forget the discomforts of travel as she sat with her easy-chair wheeled into a sheltered corner, sleeping as much as possible. I watched the rapidly disappearing views from my windows, some of them causing pleasant thoughts, and sometimes re-touching memories so remote they seemed like experiences of another existence, which my soul had known before it came under its present limitations. There were cottages that we flew past, reminding me of the Larkum abode; these I kept wearily peopling with white, sightless faces, and hungry, sad-faced women and children.

When at last my own thoughts were beginning to consume me, Mr. Winthrop came and sat near me.

"Is a journey in the cars equal to an hour spent with your widows?" he asked.

"I have enjoyed the drive. One sees so much that is new, and is food for thought, only the mind gets wearied with such swift variety."

He was silent for some time, then, with a complete change of topic he said,

"I have been glad to hear you practicing so industriously on the piano. Some day you may have a more appreciative audience than Mrs. Flaxman and myself."

"It has helped to occupy my time. I do not know that much else has been accomplished."

"That is not a very wise reason for so occupying your time."

"One must get through it some way. In pleasant weather, getting acquainted with nature, in field and garden and by the seashore, was my favorite pastime."

"It is an indolent way to seek the acquaintance of so profound a mistress:—merely sunning one's self under the trees, or listening to the monotonous voice of the sea, sitting on the rocks."

"In what better way could I discover her secrets?"

"Following in the steps of those who have made her in her varying forms a life long study, and who have embalmed their discoveries in books."

"But I am young yet, and I need first to discover if I have tastes for such pursuits."

"A youthful Methusaleh might make that objection; but your years are too few to pause while making a selection."

"At first when I came to Oaklands, I was perplexed to know how the long days and years were to be occupied."

"Have you since then found for yourself a career?"

"I am finding an abundance of work, if I only am willing to do it."

"You must not get so absorbed in deeds of charity that you forget the duties belonging to yourself and position. Oaklands may not always be your home, with its pastoral enjoyments. You should endeavor to fit yourself for wider and higher spheres of action."

"In the meantime, however, my life must be got through some way. If I can help others to be happier, surely my time cannot be quite wasted; and I may the easier render my final account."

"Ah, that's a perplexing question—our final settlement for the deeds of this life."

I looked my surprise at his tone of voice.

"You have not learned yet, Medoline, to doubt. Very well, never begin. It's horrible having no sure anchor to hold by when death forces one into unknown oceans, or shipwrecks with annihilation."

"Death never can do that, if we trust in Christ, who turned our last enemy into a blessed angel."

"Your faith is very beautiful, and is, no doubt, sufficient for your utmost intellectual needs; and by all means hold to it as you would to your life."

"I think it is the same that St. Paul, and Martin Luther, and John Milton, and a thousand, yes a million other noblest intellects, held firmly. Surely it will serve for me."

"You are satisfied, then, to think with the crowd?"

"Yes, until something more reasonable is given me than God's word and revealed religion. But, Mr. Winthrop, I am only a heard believer. I am not a Christian, really."

"If I believed the Bible as you do, I would not risk my soul one half hour without complying with every command of the Scriptures. You who so firmly believe, and yet live without the change of heart imperatively demanded by the Bible, are the most foolhardy beings probably in the entire universe."

"Are we any more foolish than those who dare to doubt with the same evidence that we possess?"

"Possibly not; but I think you are."

I was silent; for there came to me a sudden consciousness that Mr. Winthrop was right. I had no doubts about the great truths of our religion; and what excuse then could I offer for not accepting them to the very utmost of my human need?

CHAPTER XI.

CITY LIFE.

In the late evening the lights from the restless, crowded city began to twinkle in the distance, and shortly another living freight was borne safely within its shelter. Mr. Winthrop had met a friend who came into the car, a station or two back, and had grown so absorbed in conversation that he paid no heed to the people hurrying out into the night. Mrs. Flaxman was aroused by the commotion and glanced around uneasily, but did not like to interrupt Mr. Winthrop's eager conversation. Besides, she comforted herself with the belief that our train would probably lay in New York for the night. At last Mr. Winthrop came to escort us out. "I believe we have no time to spare. I did not notice that we had reached our terminus."

"It is no use denying the fact; men are greater talkers than women," I remarked seriously.

"Why so?" he asked, pausing with satchel suspended, awaiting my answer.

"Why, no two women on the continent would get so absorbed in each other as to forget they had reached their journey's end, and had need to be in a hurry."

"Probably not; their topics would be too trivial to claim so much attention."

I found the reply unanswerable, and hastened after Mrs. Flaxman, who was already out of sight. When we reached the door the cars were in motion.—"What shall we do?" I cried, anxiously. "I could never get off while the cars were moving." I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Flaxman's scared face as we went past.

"Leave me and go to Mrs. Flaxman. A man can jump easily, I am sure," I pleaded, finding that we were moving out of the station, and actually on the road again.

"And what will you do?" he asked very calmly.

"I have plenty of money in my pocket, and can pay my way back by the next train," I said, hurriedly.

"You would travel alone at midnight to save Mrs. Flaxman a trifling anxiety?"

"I won't be frightened, and she will be so worried there, all alone among strangers," I pleaded.

"Mrs. Flaxman knows our hotel. She will be safe when she reaches there, which will be in a few minutes now. So you need not be troubled about her. I shall not leave you," he said, decidedly.

We went back into the car, which was nearly empty; but, some way, I felt as content and safe as if we had joined Mrs. Flaxman at the hotel. Mr. Winthrop sat near, but he did not seem in a mood just then for conversation. I think he felt chagrined at his carelessness, but I was wicked enough to enjoy it. I leaned my head back against my easy-chair and furtively watched my guardian, as he sat writing in a large blank book which he took from his pocket after awhile. I had never before had such opportunity to study, in repose, the strong, intellectual face. As I watched the varying moods of his mind, while he thought and wrote, it reminded me of cloud-swept meadows on a summer's day—the sunshine succeeding the shadow. I fancied that the mask which conceals the workings of the spirit life became partly transparent and luminous, and I seemed to see poetic fancy and noble thoughts weaving their wondrous webs back somewhere in the fastnesses of the soul. And then I glanced around at the other occupants of the car; and, fancy being alert, all their faces reminded me of so many masks, with the real individual sheltered behind in its own secure fastness, and all the while industriously weaving the web of life; always vigilant, ever throwing the shuttle; whether wisely or foolishly, only the resultant action could determine. But the faces grew indistinct; the steady movement back and forth of the writer's hand no longer interested me, for I was asleep. I do not know how long I had slept. My hat had slipped to the floor; my heavy coils of hair, usually difficult to keep in proper control, had unloosened by the constant motion of the car and fallen in heavy rings about my shoulders. I opened my eyes suddenly to find that my guardian had put away his writing, and was standing near, regarding me, I fancied, with a look of displeasure.

"I did not mean to fall asleep," I faltered, while I quickly coiled up my hair, and put on my hat.

"It is my fault you slept in this public place. I had forgotten about you."

I looked at him with an admiration almost amounting to awe, thinking how engrossed he must have become in his own thoughts to have forgotten me so perfectly; and then I speculated on the irony of fate in placing one so unconventional as I under the care of a man so exceedingly fastidious.

I was standing beside him. In my excitement, when awakening, I had started to my feet, but with difficulty maintained my position; for my head was dizzy with the sudden start from sound sleep, together with the unaccustomed hour for traveling. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was past midnight. I think Mr. Winthrop noticed my weariness, for he said, rather grimly:

"It is too bad, having you out late two nights in succession."

I remembered his gift for Mr. Bowen, and was silent.

"At the next station we will be able to change cars for New York. The conductor tells me we shall only be compelled to wait a short time."

"I will rest then until we get there," I said, no doubt very wearily, for I felt not only dizzy, but slightly faint, and sank into my chair. He looked down at me, and then said, in more gentle fashion than he had ever before addressed me:

"I am very sorry, Medoline, to have caused you so much needless fatigue."

I quite forgot my weariness then. It was so comforting to know he could acknowledge regret for anything, and that his heart was not made of flint, as, unconfessed to myself, I had partly imagined.

I looked up brightly. "I do not know if I am not rather glad than sorry that we have shown ourselves such forgetful travelers. It will be something unusual to remember."

"That is a very kindly way to look on my forgetfulness—rather, I should say, stupidity." He sat down then, and the short remaining distance we passed in silence.

We were both very prompt in responding to the summons given by the conductor when our station was reached. The waiting-room was well lighted and warmed, and a welcome odor of food pervaded the air. I resolved to make a little foray on my own account, to secure, if possible, a bit of luncheon; but, after seeing me comfortably seated by a hot stove, Mr. Winthrop left, only to return in a few moments with the welcome announcement that refreshments were awaiting us. I expressed my surprise that food should be in readiness at that unseasonable hour.

"Oh, I telegraphed an hour ago to have it prepared," he replied.

"Then I was sleeping a good while," I said, ruefully.

"An hour or two. I only wakened you in time to collect yourself for changing cars."

"And you have not slept at all?"

"Scarcely. I do not permit myself that luxury in public."

I was silenced, but not so far crushed as to lose my appetite. A cup of tea, such as Mrs. Flaxman never brewed for me, effectually banished sleep for the rest of the night. The journey back was tiresome, the car crowded, and the long night seemed interminable. I was wedged in beside a stout old gentleman, whose breath was disagreeably suggestive of stale brandy, while a wheezy cough disturbed him as well as myself. He looked well to do, and was inclined to be friendly; but his eyes had a peculiar expression that repelled me. Mr. Winthrop had got a seat some distance behind me. By twisting my neck uncomfortably, I could get a reassuring glimpse of his broad shoulders and handsome face. At last he came to me. I half rose, for my aged companion was making me nervous with his anxiety for my comfort.

"We will go into the next car; it may not be so crowded," he said, taking my satchel. Fortunately we found a vacant seat; and I began to feel very safe and content with him again at my side.

"I do not think your late traveling companion could have been a widower, or you would not have been so eager to get away. The look of appeal on your face, when I got an occasional glimpse of it, was enough to melt one's heart."

I laughed in spite of myself. "It never occurred to me to ask, but he certainly is not a woman hater," I said, with a flush, as I mentally recalled some of his gracious remarks. I made my replies in brief and stately dignity; or at least as much of the latter as I could command, but he was not easily repulsed. Feeling so secure and sheltered now, my thoughts went out to the unprotected of my sex cast among the evil and heartless, to fight their way purely amid bleakness and sin. I shuddered unconsciously. Mr. Winthrop turned to me.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"Oh, no, I was only thinking," I stammered.

"I would cease thinking if the thoughts were so blood-curdling. May I ask what they were?"

"I was pitying poor girls who have to make their way alone in this wicked world."

He was silent for some time, and then said gravely: "Your instincts are very keen. That gray-haired gentleman happens to be a person I know something about, and his very presence is enough to contaminate."

I was amazed that he so easily understood my meaning. The sun was reddening the sky, which seemed so pure and still compared with the sinful, noisy city that, for an instant, a homesick longing seized me to escape to its clear, beautiful depths. When we reached the hotel I was cold, and feeling very cheerless; but a comfortable looking maid, not half so overwhelming as our Esmerelda, conducted me to a pleasant room, and soon had a bright fire burning, and a cozy breakfast spread on a little table just in front of the grate. I was not hungry, but I took the cup of hot chocolate Mr. Winthrop had ordered, and nibbled a bit of toast; and then, drawing an easy-chair in front of the fire, soon fell into a luxurious sleep, from which I did not waken for several hours. The maid came in occasionally to replenish the fire, but her light movements did not disturb me. Afterward I found the hotel was not a public one, but a private affair, patronized mainly by a number of old families whose parents and children had come and gone for nearly half a century. The room I occupied, Mrs. Flaxman told me, was the very one my own dear mother had occupied as a bride; and hence Mr. Winthrop had secured it for me. It was the best in the house, I found later on. That evening, after I had wakened refreshed, and eager to see and hear all that was possible in this new wonderland, Mrs. Flaxman, still a little nervous after her journey and anxiety on my account, came and sat with me; and to atone for keeping me in the house, told me stories of that beautiful, far-away time when she had seen my mother in that same room in the first joy of wifehood, and described my father as the proud, happy bridegroom, gazing with more than a lover's fondness on the beautiful girl who had left all for him, and yet in the renunciation had found no sacrifice. She described the rich silken gown with its rare, old lace, and the diamonds she wore at her first party in New York. "Mr. Winthrop has them, your mother's diamonds and all her jewelry. In being an only child like yourself, she inherited all her own mother's. They are all safely stored at his bankers, and I think he means to give them to you soon, or at least a part of them."

"I did not know I had any except what I brought with me from school," I said, with a shade of regret to be so long in ignorance of such a pleasant fact. Mrs. Flaxman smiled as she asked:

"Did you never hear your schoolmates talk of the family plate and jewelry?"

"Oh, yes; there were a few stupid ones who had very little brains to be proud of; so they used to try and make up for the lack by telling us about such things; but we reckoned a good essay writer worth a good deal more than these plate owners."

"There must have been great changes since I was at school. I believe the rising generation is developing a nobler ambition than their predecessors possessed."

"I should hope so," I said, with girlish scorn; "as if such mere accidents as birth and the ownership of plate and jewelry could give one higher rank than intellect. Why, I believe that is the scarcest thing in all the universe."

"It does seem ridiculous," Mrs. Flaxman said reflectively, "but it is hard escaping from the spirit of the age in which we live. It would be easy to hold such things lightly in those heroic days in Greece when Lycurgus cheapened the gold and things the masses held most precious."

"One can have a little republic in their own soul as well as Lycurgus, and indulge unforced in high thinking. I think that would be really more creditable than if every one agreed to do so by act of senate."

"It would be a grand thing for every one to get the dross all burned away from their nature and only have the pure gold left."

"Don't you think, Mrs. Flaxman, with a good many people, after the burning process, there would be so little left it would take a whole flock of them to make a decent sized individual?"

She laughed softly. "I never thought of it in that way. I am afraid now I will get to undressing my acquaintances, to try and find out how much that will be fit to take into higher existences they have in their composition."

"Mr. Winthrop is a very uncomfortable sort of person to live with, but I think he will have more noble qualities to carry somewhere after death than the average of my acquaintances. What a pity it is for such splendid powers of mind to be lost! He has the materials in him to make a grand angel."

Mrs. Flaxman looked up quickly.

"You cannot think it is his ultimate destiny to be lost?" she questioned.

"He doesn't believe in the Bible. What hope can he have that we will ever get to heaven?"

"A multitude of prayers are piled between him and perdition. His mother was a saintly character, whose dying breath was a prayer for him; and there are others who have taken his case daily to the mercy seat for years."

"I wish I had some one to pray for me," I said rather fretfully.

"My dear, I do not know any one who has more leisure to pray for themselves than you have."

I was surprised to hear her speak so lightly on such a solemn subject; but as I thought the matter over afterward, I could but acknowledge that she had answered me just as I deserved.

CHAPTER XII.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

Mrs. Flaxman's fears were realized. She was detained from her pickles and preserves for over a fortnight; but the days spent then in the city were an entirely new revelation of life to me. Mr. Winthrop had a circle of literary friends, who seemed determined to make his stay so pleasant that he would not be in a hurry to return to the solitude of Oaklands. When I saw his keen enjoyment of their society, and the many varied privileges he had in that brief period—musical, artistic, and literary, I was filled with surprise that he should make his home at Oaklands at all, and expressed my wonder to Mrs. Flaxman.

"Oh, he often goes away—sometimes to Europe, and sometimes to the great American centres of thought and life; then he comes home apparently glad of its quiet and freedom from interruption. I think he uses up all the raw experiences and ideas he gets when away."

I thought her reply over, and wondered if it was the usual habit of literary people to go out on those foraging expeditions and bring back material to be used up in weeks of solitude. We were either out among friends, at concerts, lectures, evening gatherings, or else receiving Mr. Winthrop's particular friends at our hotel, every evening. I enjoyed those evenings at home, I think, the very best of all. We sat late, supper being served about midnight—a plain, sensible repast that, with a man of Mr. Winthrop's means, might certainly betoken high thinking. However, the intellectual repast served to us reminded me of the feasts of the gods, or even better, in old Homeric times. There were condensed thoughts that often kept me puzzling over their meanings long after their words had died on the air. Mrs. Flaxman sat, a mostly silent listener, but in no wise showing weariness at the lateness of the hour, or mental strain imposed in following such abstract lines of thought. I too listened silently, save in reply to some direct remark, but with pained, growing thoughts, that often left me utterly weary when the little company dispersed. I would often stop listening and fall into vague, hopeless speculations as to the number of centuries that must elapse before I could overtake them. Saddest fancy of all was that my powers might be too limited even to do this. Our daylight hours were, in great measure, passed in making and receiving calls from Mrs. Flaxman's friends, who seemed very quick to find out she was there, and in visiting the huge dressmaking and dry goods establishments which she patronized. I found it quite difficult, at times, to reconcile the fact that those we met by day were, in the main, created in the same mental likeness as those I listened to with such admiration in the evening. I used to close my eyes at times and fancy the old heathen, mythology to be true, and that the gods were actually revisiting the earth, and bringing with them the high conceptions from Olympus, I was able more clearly than ever to recognize how high were Mr. Winthrop's ideals, so far as this world goes, of human excellence and, with deepest humiliation, remembered how far I must have come short of his lowest standards. I went to Mrs. Flaxman with this new and painful discovery, and as usual, she brought her consolation.

"Very few can hope to attain such excellence of culture and intellect as these men possess. You and I ought to be grateful to our Creator if he has given us brain power sufficient to appreciate and comprehend their words. I know it has given Mr. Winthrop deep satisfaction to see you so interested in their conversation."

"How do you know that?" I asked, pleased at her words.

"I look at him sometimes while you get so absorbed listening that you seem to forget everything; and I see the gratified expression of his face while he watches you. I know it would be a disappointment to him if you should develop into a fashionable, feather-headed woman."

"Or a widow-helping philanthropist," I said, laughing.

"Of the two, he would prefer the latter."

"But neither would be his ideal."

"I am not altogether certain of that; but I do know he holds in strong dislike a woman who simply exists to follow the fashions, no matter how attractive she may be."

"I am ashamed to say I like getting new things, especially when they are becoming," I said, a little shamefacedly.

"I am sure you would get tired of a perpetual round of new hats and frocks, and trying them on, I am not apt to be mistaken in a person."

"But it is vastly easier to think of harmonious colors and combinations of dry goods, than it is to puzzle over those knotty subjects we listen to here in the evening, or to translate Chopin or Wagner, or the other great masters."

"But once mastering any of these, the pleasure arising therefrom gives satisfaction to a noble cast of mind that a whole gallery of Worth's choicest costumes could not produce."

"Solomon said: Much study is a weariness of the flesh."

"Solomon was an intellectual dyspeptic. But granting that it is a weariness, it is something that pays well for the weariness."

"If all the world were to come to Mr. Winthrop's way of thinking, it would be a sad thing for the dressmakers."

"Not necessarily. They would still be needed, but they would do the thinking about what would best suit the style of their respective customers; and the latter would be left free of that special task, to devote their minds to their own interior furnishing."

"Ah, you describe a second Utopia, or the golden age. A few in each generation might reach that clear, chill region of sublime thought; but the rank and file of womankind, and perhaps of mankind, would despise them as cranks."

"But if they had something vastly better than the respect of the careless and uncultured, need they mind what these would say?"

"Possibly not; but in most women's hearts there is an innate love of adornment, and the art they will not relegate very willingly to others."

"I did not think you cared so much for dress."

"You and Mr. Winthrop are putting the strongest temptations in my way, and then expect that I shall calmly turn my dazzled eyes inwards upon the unfurnished, empty spaces of my own mind."

"You seemed to care almost too little for elegance of attire, I thought."

"What the eyes do not see the heart never longs for. But glossy velvets, shimmering silks, with colors perfected from the tints of the rainbow; laces that are a marvel of fineness and beauty; and gems that might dazzle older heads than mine, thrown recklessly in my way, could any young creature fond of pretty things turn away from them, with the indifference of a wrinkled philosopher? I should have staid at Oaklands, and saved my money for the Mill Road folk."

"You must have the temptation, if you are to have the credit of overcoming it."

"Is there not a wonderful petition left for us by One who knows all things? 'Lead us not into temptation.'"

"I do not think this is a parallel case. God's way with His people, ever since Eve was denied the fruit in Eden, has been to prove them by temptation. His promise that there shall, with the temptation, be a way of escape, is what we need to claim."

"My way of escape will be to go back to Oaklands, where an occasional tea party will be the most dangerous allurement to vanity in my way."

"But you will not always remain there. Mr. Winthrop will not be so remiss in his duty as your guardian as to bury you there. Marriage, and a judicious settlement in life, are among the probabilities of your near future."

My cheeks crimsoned; for marriage was one of the tabooed subjects of conversation at Madame Buhlman's. Only in the solitude of our own rooms did we dare to converse on such a topic. But no doubt we wove our romances as industriously, and dreamed our dreams of the beautiful, impossible future stretching beyond our dim horizons, as eagerly as if we had been commanded to spend a certain portion of each day in its contemplation.

Mrs. Flaxman noticed my embarrassment, and, after a few moments said:—"Perhaps the fairy prince has already claimed his own."

I laughed lightly, but still felt ill at ease as I said: "I have never met him, and begin to doubt if he has an existence."

"He is sure to come, soon or late; probably too soon to please me. I shall miss you sadly when you go away from us."

I knelt beside her chair, a lump gathering in my throat, and my slow coming tears ready to drop.

"I do not know why you should miss me, but it makes me so glad to hear you say so. I have no one to really love me in the wide, wide world, that is, whose love I can claim as a right, and sometimes the thought makes me desolate."

She sat for awhile silently stroking my hair.

"I do not think yours will be a desolate, or lonely life, Medoline. It is only the selfish who are punished in that way. The blessing of those about the perish will overtake you, making the shadowy places in your life bright."

"But there are no perishing ones conveniently near for me to save. I am of little more use in the world than a humming bird."

"Already some of the Mill Road folk have been comforted by you. You remember it is recorded of the Mary of Bethany; 'She hath done what she could.' For that act of gratitude to the Master, her memory will be cherished long after the sun is cold. We do not know if somewhere all our minutest acts of unselfishness are not recorded, to be met with one day with glad surprise on our part."

"I would rather be so remembered," I said with eager longing, "than to be a Cleopatra or Helen of Troy."

"In what way is that?" Mr. Winthrop asked, as he stood looking down at me from behind Mrs. Flaxman's chair. I sprang to my feet in consternation. "We did not hear you enter," I faltered, very much ashamed to be found in such a childish attitude.

"I know that, since I would not have been just now admitted to your confidence."

I wheeled him up an arm chair, and stirred the fire very industriously, hoping thereby to divert his attention. He sat down quietly. His massive head laid back against the rich, dark leather seemed to bring the features out in stronger relief; the fire light falling uncertainly on his face, but enabling me to note distinctly its expectant look. I went to the window and stood for sometime watching the passers by in the street, thinking thus to pass away the time until Mr. Winthrop should forget to further question me; but he suddenly startled me by coming towards the window where I stood, and saying:

"You have not answered my question."

"The remark was only intended for Mrs. Flaxman's ears, and was of no importance, any way."

"Mrs. Flaxman then will enlighten me as to the bent of your ambition," he said, quite too authoritatively for my liking, and turned towards her.

"Our conversation drifted to personal endeavor. We were talking of many things, when Medoline, just as you came in, expressed the wish to be helpful to others rather than to shine in cold and stately splendor."

"Ah, yes. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were excellent illustrations of the splendor. I am glad she is able to avail herself of her classical studies in conversation."

I looked mutely at Mrs. Flaxman, but she was gazing intently into the burning coals, with a slight flush on her face, caused, I knew, by Mr. Winthrop's words. A few moments after I glanced at my guardian. His eyes were closed, the lines of his face looked hard and stern. I wondered if it never softened even in sleep, or did it always wear that look that some way brought to my mind the old Vikings of the frozen north.

Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the concert. Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and would not accompany us.

"I thought you particularly admired Beethoven's Ninth Symphony," I exclaimed, with surprise.

"I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer gives them great praise. I would as soon hear that Larkum baby crowing as to hear such a masterpiece mangled."

"Some passages will be well rendered, surely."

"What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord? I shall expect, however, a full account of the performance from you."

"I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in Belgium. I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after."

"And why not?"

"It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far beyond my powers to master."

His face softened, while he arose from his chair and came a few steps nearer to me.

"Only one or two human beings, so far as we know, have had musical powers equal to Beethoven. Most men are satisfied if they can perform harmoniously his creations."

"I could never do that. I might by years of hard study get so far as to strike the correct notes, but the soul and expression would elude me, simply because I have not brain power sufficient to comprehend them. A thrush would be foolish to emulate the nightingale."

"Yes but some one might be gladdened by its own simple note," he said, gently.

I was silent, while his words sank comfortably in my heart.

Looking up, at last, I caught his eye.

"I will try to be satisfied with my thrush's note, and make the best of it."

"That is right, but make sure that you are not any better song bird than the thrush, before you rest satisfied with its simple accomplishment."

Very earnestly and sincerely I promised him to do my best, and then followed Mrs. Flaxman from the room. Our escort proved to be Mr. Bovyer, a grave man, not so young as Mr. Winthrop, and who had a genuine passion for classic music. I fancied from his name and partiality for German composers that he must be either directly or remotely of Teutonic origin. Beethoven was his great favorite. He averred that the latter had penetrated further into the mysteries of music than any other human being. He seemed transformed while we sat listening to the great waves of harmony bewildering our senses; for, notwithstanding Mr. Winthrop's prophecy, the concert was a success. He had a stolid face. One might take him almost for a retired, well-to-do butcher; but when the air was pulsating with delicious sounds, his face lighted up and grew positively handsome.

"I wonder how you will endure the music of the immortals, that God listens to, if you get with the saved by and bye?" I said, impulsively.

He shook his head doubtfully, but gave me at the same time a look of surprise.

"I do not ask for anything better than Beethoven," he replied quietly.

Some way I felt saddened. The Creator was so much beyond the highest object of his creative skill, even though that is or might be one so gloriously endowed as Beethoven; it seemed strange that a thinking, intellectual being would grasp the less when he might lay hold on the greater. I glanced around on the gay, richly-dressed throng—pretty women in garments as harmonious in form and color almost as the music that was thrilling at least some of us; some of them fair enough, I fancied, to be walking in a better world than ours; then, by some strange freak of the imagination, I fell to thinking of the poverty and sorrow, and breaking hearts all about us, until the music seemed to change to a minor chord; and away back of all other sounds I seemed to hear the sob and moan of the dying and broken-hearted. Perhaps some new chord had been touched in my own heart that had never before responded to human things; for in spite of myself I sat and wept with a full, aching heart. I tried to shield my face with my fan and at last regained my composure, and tried, in sly fashion, to dry my eyes with the bit of lace I called my handkerchief, and which I found a very poor substitute for the substantial lawn hitherto used. At last I regained my composure sufficiently to look up, when I found Mr. Bovyer regarding me keenly. He glanced away, but after that his manner grew sympathetic, and on our way home he said,

"I am glad to know you can understand great musical conceptions."

"I found it very, very sad. I scarce ever realized how much pain there might be in this world, as for a little while I did to-night."

"The tears were sorrowful then, and not glad?" he said, gently.

"My tears are always that. I cannot conceive a joy so great as to make me weep."

"Your heart is not fully wakened yet, some day you will understand; but be thankful you can understand a part. Not many at your age feel the master's touch so keenly." When we said good-night, he asked permission to call next day. I waited for Mrs. Flaxman to reply, and turned to her, seeing she hesitated. She smiled and I could see answered for me.

"We shall be happy to see you. Mr. Winthrop receives his friends, I believe, to-morrow evening." As we went to our rooms she said:—"Won't it be wonderful if you have captivated Mr. Bovyer's heart?—I am sure Mr. Winthrop considered him a safe escort, so far as love entanglements were concerned."

"That old man thinking of love! He looks as if he thought much more of his dinner than anything else."

"Probably he does bestow some attention on it; but he is not old, at least not more than six and thirty. Beside he is a very clever man—a musical critic and good writer; in fact, one of Mr. Winthrop's most intimate friends."

"That, I presume, speaks volumes in his favor," I said, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm in my voice.

"Yes; Mr. Winthrop is an unerring judge of character; that is, of late years."

"Well, I would nearly as soon think of marrying Daniel Blake as this Mr. Bovyer. I have never been in love, but I have an idea what it is," I said, following Mrs. Flaxman to her room.

"But Mr. Bovyer might teach you. Did you ever read Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream?"

"Oh, yes; and of Titania and Bottom of course, but that was only a dream—Mr. Bovyer is a very solid reality. But I must not stay here gossiping. Mr. Winthrop will be waiting for my description of the music."

I slipped into my own room to lay aside my wraps, still smiling over Mrs. Flaxman's childish ideas respecting Mr. Bovyer in the rôle of a lover, and also a little troubled about the wording of the report I was expected to give. His smile would be more sarcastic than ever, if I confessed my tears; and, alas, I had but little other impression to convey of the majestic harmonies than one of profound sadness. I glanced into my mirror; the picture reflected back startled me. In the handsome gown, with the same gems that had once enhanced my mother's charms, the transformation wrought was considerable; but my eyes were shining with a deep, unusual brilliancy, and a new expression caused by the influences of the evening had changed my face almost beyond my own recognition. I went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book. I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my presence. I went to the fireside. On the mantle I noticed, for the first time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so mournfully in my ears. I took it in my hand and went nearer the light, soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my guardian over his book. When I looked at him his book was closed, and his eyes regarding me attentively.

"Do you recognize the face?"

"Oh, yes. I wonder he looks like other men."

"Why should he look differently?"

"Because he was different. I wonder what his thoughts were when he was writing that symphony?" I held the bust off reflectively.

"Did you enjoy your evening's entertainment?"

"Yes and no,—I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop. Please don't ask me to describe it."

"I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer—he could tell me better than you. He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a fear he sees too far beneath our mask."

"I don't want to see him any more then," I said impetuously.

"Why not?"

"I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than you do, Mr. Winthrop."

"How do you know that I object?"

"Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?"

"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way—meant humanity at large, rather than my own individual self."

"Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?" I said, taking a step nearer, and looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally penetrating.

"No, Medoline. You, least of any one I know," he said, quietly. I looked at him with surprise—perhaps a trifle grieved.

"Does that offend you?" he asked after a pause.

"It wounds me; for I am your friend."

"I am glad of that, little one."

"Glad that you have given me pain?" I asked, with an odd feeling as if I wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.

He left his chair and came to my side.

"Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline? I meant that it gave me pleasure that you were my friend. I did not think that you cared for me."

"I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard on me. I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one else, scarcely, to love." I was beginning to think I must either escape hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes, which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my tears.

"I did not think I was hard on you," he said, gently. "I have been afraid lest I was humoring your whims too much; but unselfishness, and thought for the poor, have been such rare traits in the characteristics of my friends, I have not had a heart hard enough to interfere with your instincts."

Here was an entirely new revelation to me; I bethought me of Mrs. Flaxman's remark a short time before, and repeated it to him.

"I do not think I shall ever have paternal feelings towards you, Medoline, I am not old enough for that. Tell Mrs. Flaxman, if she speaks that way again, I am not anxious for her to fasten in your heart filial affection for me."

"But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?" I pleaded.

"Quite as much," he said, with emphasis. I forgot my tears; for some way my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary incumbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing harmonies of Beethoven's majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away in their still depths again.

CHAPTER XIII.

ALONE WITH HIS DEAD.

At breakfast Mr. Winthrop was more insistent in his curiosity about the concert of the previous evening. Mrs. Flaxman assured him that we were all agreeably disappointed in our evening's entertainment.

"Mr. Bovyer was especially charmed with Medoline's appreciation of his favorite composer. He asked permission to call on her to-day."

He gave me a keen glance, saying: "I hope you did not grow too enthusiastic. One need not hang out a placard to prove we can comprehend the intricate and profound."

Mrs. Flaxman answered hastily for me.

"No, indeed; she was too quiet; and only Mr. Bovyer and myself detected the tears dropping behind her fan. But Mr. Bovyer seemed gratified at the meaning he read from them."

My face was burning; but after a few seconds' silence I stole a glance at Mr. Winthrop. He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and Beethoven's Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening, when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests. As usual, I sat a silent listener, comprehending readily a good many things that were said; but some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth. I found Mr. Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his phlegmatic appearance, surprised me. He seemed thoroughly acquainted with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop listened to his remarks with deference. Before the evening closed Mr. Winthrop asked him for some music. He complied so readily that I fell to contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends' desire for music, and their own vanity at the same time. I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling back into his favorite position in his arm-chair—his head thrown back and eyes closed. Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding her eyes from the light. I discovered afterward it was merely a pretext to conceal the emotion Mr. Bovyer usually awakened when she listened to his music.

His first touch on the piano arrested me, and I turned around to watch his face. I recognized the air—the opening passage from Haydn's Creation. I was soon spellbound, as were all the rest. Mrs. Flaxman laid down her fan; there were no melting passages to bring tears in this symphony, descriptive of primeval darkness, and confusion of the elements, the evil spirits hurrying away from the glad, new light into their native regions of eternal night—the thunder and storm and elemental terrors. Presently I turned to Mr. Winthrop. He was sitting erect in his chair, his eyes no longer closed in languorous enjoyment; when suddenly the measure changed to that delicious passage descriptive of the creation of birds. Mr. Bovyer's voice was a trifle too deep and powerful for the air, but it was sympathetic and rarely musical.

He ended as abruptly as he began and glided off into one of those old English glees,—"Hail, Smiling Morn."

Presently turning around he asked: "Are you tired?"

"We have failed to take note of the flight of time; pray go on," Mr. Winthrop urged.

"What do you say, Miss Selwyn?"

"I would like if you could make Mr. Winthrop cry. If you tried very hard, you might touch his fountain of tears."

"Bravo! I will try," he exclaimed amid the general laugh. He touched the keys, and then pausing a moment, left the instrument.

"I am not in the mood to-night for such a difficult task. I may make the attempt some stormy winter's night at Oaklands. I believe I have a standing invitation there," he said, joining us around the fire.

Mr. Winthrop threw me an amazed look, but instantly recovering himself he said heartily:—"The invitation holds good during the term of our natural lives. The sooner it is accepted the more delighted we shall be."

Mr. Bovyer bowed his thanks, and coming to my side asked if I would care to attend another concert the following evening.

"It depends on what the music is to be. I am not so sensitive as Mr. Winthrop to a few false notes now and then. The composer has more power to give me pain than the performers, I believe."

"I should say, then, that your comprehension of music was more subtle than his."

"I do not pretend to compare myself with Mr. Winthrop in any way. It would be like the minnow claiming fellowship with the leviathan."

Mr. Winthrop suggested very politely:—

"Humility is becoming until it grows abject."

"Your guardian is an incorrigible bachelor. Ladies do not get the slightest mercy from him," Mr. Bovyer remarked.

"I have ceased to look for any," I said, with an evenness of voice that surprised me.

"I am glad to find myself in such good company," Mr. Winthrop said, with a graceful bend of the head, which included each of his guests in the list of single blessed ones.

"Are you all going to be old bachelors?" I asked, forgetting myself in the surprise of the moment.

"I am not aware that we are all irrevocably committed to that terrible fate," Mr. Bovyer said, as he united in the general smile at my expense.

"It might be more terrible for some of your wives than if you remained single. I think some persons are fore-ordained to live single." I looked steadily in the fire lest my eyes might betray too much.

"Do you imagine those blighted lives are confined solely to one sex?" Mr. Winthrop blandly inquired.

"Oh, no; nature does not confine her oddities to one sex; but a woman can better conceal the lack of a human heart and sympathies."

"You mean they are better actresses?"

"Yes, I think so."

"I must tell you, gentlemen, this little ward of mine is a natural philanthropist. You would be amazed to see how she sympathizes with widows and the broken-hearted of both sexes. I have been forced to limit her charities to a certain yearly amount lest her husband may one day call me to account for her wasted means."

"It is the most beautiful trait in womankind." Mr. Bovyer responded, heartily, just as a passionate retort had sprung to my lips. The second's interruption gave me time to regain my self-control; but the color flamed over brow and cheek as I rose and walked to the farther end of the room and stood turning over the leaves of a book lying on the table. I could still hear what was said and was surprised that Mr. Winthrop turned the conversation so cleverly into other channels. It was growing late, and before long the guests retired. Mr. Bovyer, as he shook hands with me, said: "You have not answered my question yet. Will you come to the Philharmonic to-morrow evening?"

I looked to Mr. Winthrop for a reply.

"I think you must deny yourself that pleasure, as we shall probably go home to-morrow."

"So soon?" I asked with surprise.

"The time I limited myself to expired yesterday. We can return this winter, and complete any unfinished business or pleasure that you now leave undone."

"My business is finished. It happens to be a pleasure to return to Oaklands."

I murmured my thanks to Mr. Bovyer, and withdrew the hand he was still holding.

When we were at last alone, Mrs. Flaxman drew her chair near the fire and settling back comfortably as if she were in no hurry to retire, said very seriously:—"This is unexpected—our going home to-morrow."

"I am afraid Bovyer is about making an ass of himself. Strange what weaknesses come over strong men sometimes! He was the last I should have expected such a thing from," Mr. Winthrop said.

"Was it fear of this that sends you home so abruptly?" Mrs. Flaxman asked, with a look of amusement.

"One reason."

"He would be a very good parti; only a little too old, perhaps."

"What are you thinking of? I shall not let that child get entangled for years." He said, almost angrily.

"What has Mr. Bovyer done?" I inquired, a good deal mystified.

"You are too young to have everything explained. I want you to keep your child's heart for a good many years yet."

"What a pity young people cannot keep the child's heart until they get some good out of life. Not begin at once with its storms and passions," Mrs. Flaxman remarked, in a moralizing tone.

"Do you mean falling in love, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"Possibly that was what I meant, but it is to be a tabooed topic with you for some years yet, Mr. Winthrop decides."

"You have been unusually fortunate in that respect, Mr. Winthrop. I used to think every one fell in love before they came to your age." Mrs. Flaxman glanced at him with a pained, startled look which I did not understand. I noticed that his face though grave was unruffled; but he made me no reply.

I could not explain the reason, but I felt grieved that I had made the remark, and slipped quietly out of the room without my usual good-night.

The next day we left for home. Mr. Winthrop was not fortunate in meeting friends; so he sat beside us. I would have preferred being alone with Mrs. Flaxman, without the restraint of his society. We had not been able on that train to secure a parlor car, for which I was very glad. There seemed more variety and wider types of humanity in the plainer car, and I liked to study the different groups and indulge in my dreams concerning them. My attention was suddenly attracted, at a station we were approaching, by a hearse and funeral procession apparently waiting for us. The cars moving along presently hid them from my view, and my attention was suddenly distracted from this melancholy spectacle by the unusual circumstance of a man coming alone into the car with an infant in his arms. The cars scarcely paused, and while I watched to see the mother following her baby the brakeman came in with an armfull of shawls, satchels, and baskets. The baby soon began to cry; when it was pitiful to watch the poor fellow's futile efforts to hush its wailings, while he tossed over the parcels apparently in search of something; but the baby's cries continued to increase in volume, and the missing article, whatever it was, refused to turn up.

Mr. Winthrop cast a look on it that might have annihilated a much stronger specimen of humanity; but the father, as I supposed him to be, intercepted the wrathful gaze, and his face, already sorrowful looking, became more distressed than ever.

I waited impatiently for some older woman to go to his relief; but men and women alike seemed to regard the little waif with displeasure; so at last slipping swiftly out of my seat lest Mr. Winthrop might intercept me, I went straight to the poor fellow's relief.

"What is the matter with the baby?" I asked, as sympathetically as I could.

"He is hungry, and they have taken his food by mistake, I am afraid, to the baggage car."

"May I take care of him while you go for it?"

"If you only would, I would be so grateful."

I sat down and he put the bit of vocality in my arms, and then hastened after its dinner. I glanced towards Mr. Winthrop. I fancied that his face expressed volumes of shocked proprieties; so I quickly withdrew my gaze, since it was not at all comforting, and devoted myself exclusively to the poor little baby. Its clothing had got all awry, its hands were blue with cold, and the tears from its pretty, blurred eyes were running in a copious stream. I dried its face, took off its cap and cloak, and got its garments nicely straightened out, and then to complete the cure, for want of something better, gave it my long suffering watch to nibble. The little creature may have recognized the soothing effect of a woman's hands, or it may have been the bright tick, tick which it was gazing at now with pleased expression, and with its untutored tongue was already trying to imitate. What the cause was I could not say; but when the father returned, silence reigned in the car so far as his offspring was concerned. His face brightened perceptibly. "It does seem as if a baby knew a woman's touch," he said, with such a sigh of relief.

"They know when their clothes are comfortable and their hands warm."

"His mother always attended to him. He and I were only playfellows."

"Where is his mother now?" I asked, no longer able to restrain my curiosity.

"In the freight room." His eyes filled with tears.

"Was it her coffin I saw in the hearse awhile ago?"

"Yes."

"Oh I am so sorry;" and I too burst into tears. He busied himself getting a spirit lamp lighted, and soon the baby's milk was simmering, and almost before good humor had been restored throughout the car the baby had comfortably dined, and gone off into a refreshing slumber. I made him a snug little bed out of rugs and shawls, and laid him down in blissful unconsciousness of the cold, still form, even more unconscious than he, in the adjoining freight room.

The passengers as well as Mr. Winthrop had been watching me curiously, and my sudden burst of tears had mystified them.

Once the baby was nicely settled to its nap I returned to my seat. Mrs. Flaxman eagerly asked why there was no woman to look after the baby. I saw Mr. Winthrop listening, as if interested also in the strange phenomenon of a man in attendance alone on an infant.

"The mother is in the freight room."

"What?" Mrs. Flaxman asked, looking a trifle alarmed.

"She is in her coffin." My lip trembled, and with difficulty I restrained my tears once more.

Medoline Selwyn's Work

Medoline Selwyn's Work.

BY MRS. J. J. COLTER.

BOSTON:IRA BRADLEY & CO.COPYRIGHT, 1889.

INDEX.