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   :PG.Id: 37476
   :PG.Title: Jessie Graham
   :PG.Released: 2011-09-18
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: Mary Meehan
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :PG.Credits:
   :DC.Creator: Mary J. Holmes
   :MARCREL.ill:
   :DC.Title: Jessie Graham
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1878

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JESSIE GRAHAM
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   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
   almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
   re-use it under the terms of the `Project Gutenberg License`_
   included with this eBook or online at
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      Title: Jessie Graham
      
      Author: Mary J. Holmes
      
      Release Date: September 18, 2011 [EBook #37476]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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      \*\*\* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JESSIE GRAHAM \*\*\*

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      Produced by Roger Frank, Mary Meehan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.

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   | OR,
   | LOVE AND PRIDE.

   | By MARY J. HOLMES

   | 1878

----

.. contents:: CONTENTS
   :depth: 1
   :backlinks: entry

----


CHAPTER I.—THE INMATES OF THE FARM-HOUSE.
=========================================


Old Deacon Marshall sat smoking
beneath the maple tree which he had
planted many years before, when he was
scarcely older than the little girl sitting on the broad
doorstep and watching the sun as it went down
behind the western hills. The tree was a sapling
then, and himself a mere boy. The sapling now was
a mighty tree, and its huge branches swept the gable
roof of the time-worn building, while the boy was a
gray-haired man, sitting there in the glorious sunset
of that bright October day, and thinking of all which
had come to him since the morning long ago, when,
from the woods near by, he brought the little twig,
and with his mother's help secured it in its place,
watching anxiously for the first indications of its
future growth.

Across the fields and on a shady hillside, there
were white headstones gleaming in the fading sunlight.
He could count them all from where he sat,—could
tell which was his mother's, which his father's,
and which his fair-haired sister's. Then there came a
blur before his eyes, and great tears rolled down his
furrowed cheek, as he remembered that in that yard
there were more graves of his loved ones than there
were chairs around his fireside, even though he
counted the one which for years had not been used,
but stood in the dark corner of the kitchen, just
where it had been left that dreadful night when his
only son was taken from him. On the hillside there
was no headstone for that boy, but there were two
graves, which had been made just as many years as
the arm-chair of oak had stood in the dark corner, and
on the handsome monument which a stranger's hand
had reared, was cut the name of the deacon's wife and
the deacon's daughter-in-law.

Fourteen times the forest tree had cast its leaf
since this last great sorrow came, and the old man
had in a measure recovered from the stunning blow,
for new joys, new cares, new loves had sprung into
existence, and few who looked into his calm, unruffled
face, ever dreamed of the anguish he had suffered.
Time will soften the keenest grief, and in all the town
there was not apparently a happier man than the
deacon; though as often as the autumn came, bringing
the frosty nights and hazy October days, there
stole a look of sadness over his face, and the pipe, his
never-failing friend, was brought into requisition
more frequently than ever.

"It drove the blues away," he said; but on the
afternoon of which we write, *the blues* must have
dipped their garments in a deeper dye than usual, for
though the thick smoke curled in graceful wreaths
about his head, it did not dissipate the gloom which
weighed upon his spirits as he sat beneath the maple,
counting the distant graves, and then casting his eye
down the long lane, through which a herd of cows
was wending its homeward way. They were the
deacon's cows, and he watched them as they came
slowly on, now stopping to crop the tufts of grass
growing by the wayside, now thrusting their slender
horns over the low fence in quest of the juicy cornstalk,
and then quickening their movements as they
heard the loud, clear whistle of their driver, a lad of
fourteen, and the deacon's only grandson.

Walter Marshall was a handsome boy, and none
ever looked into his frank, open face, and clear, honest
eyes, without turning to look again, he seemed so
manly, so mature for his years, while about his slightly
compressed lips there was an expression as if he
were constantly seeking to force back some unpleasant
memory, which had embittered his young life and
fostered in his bosom a feeling of jealousy or distrust
of those about him, lest they, too, were thinking of
what was always uppermost in his mind.

To the deacon, Walter was dear as the apple of his
eye, both for his noble qualities and the cloud of sorrow
which had overshadowed his babyhood. A dying
mother's tears had mingled with the baptismal waters
sprinkled on his face, and the first sound to which he
ever seemed to listen was that of the village bell tolling,
as a funeral train wound slowly through the lane
and across the field to the hillside, where the dead of
the Marshall family were sleeping. He had lain in his
grandmother's arms that day, but before a week went
by, a stranger held him in her lap, while the deacon
went again to the hillside and stood by an open grave.
Then the remaining inmates of the farm-house fell
back to their accustomed ways, and the prattle of the
orphan boy,—for so they called him,—was the only
sunshine which for many a weary month visited the
old homestead.

Since that time the deacon's daughter had married,
had wept over her dead husband, and smiled upon a
little pale-faced, blue-eyed girl, to whom she gave the
name of Ellen, for the sake of Walter's mother.

Aunt Debby, the deacon's maiden sister, occupied
a prominent position in the family, who prized her
virtues and humored her whims in a way which spoke
volumes in her praise. Although unmarried, Aunt
Debby declared that it was not her fault, and insisted
that her husband, who was to have been, was killed in
the war of 1812. Not that she ever saw him, but her
fortune had been told for fifty cents by one who pretended
to read the future, and as she placed implicit
confidence in the words of the seer, she shed a few
tears to the memory of the widower who marched
bravely to his death, leaving to the world four little
children, and to her a life of single-blessedness. For
the sake of the four children whose step-mother she
ought to have been, she professed a great affection for
the entire race of little ones, and especially for Walter,
whose father had been her pet.

"Walter was the very image of him," she said,
and when, on the night of which we are writing, she
heard his clear whistle in the distance, she drew her
straight-backed chair nearer to the window, and
watched for the first appearance of the boy. "That's
Seth again all over," she thought, as she saw him make
believe set the dog on Ellen, who had gone to meet
him. "That's just the way Seth used to pester
Mary," and she glanced at the meek-eyed woman,
moulding biscuits on the pantry shelf. As was usual
with Aunt Debby, when Seth was the burden of her
thoughts, she finished her remarks with, "Seth allus
was a good boy," and then, as she saw Walter take a
letter from his pocket and pass it to his grandfather,
she hastened to the door, while her pulses quickened
with the hope that it might contain some tidings of
the wanderer.

The letter bore the New York postmark, and
glancing at the signature, the deacon said:

"It's from Richard Graham," while both Walter
and Aunt Debby drew nearer to him, waiting patiently
to know the nature of its contents.

"There's nothing about my boy," the old man said,
when he had finished reading, and with a gesture of
impatience Walter turned away, saying to himself,
"I'd thank him not to write if he can't tell us something
we want to hear," while Aunt Debby went back
to her knitting, and the polished needles were wet as
they resumed their accustomed click.

"Mary," called the deacon, to his daughter, "this
letter concerns you more than it does me. Richard's
wife is dead,—killed herself with fashion and fooleries."

Advancing toward her father, Mary said:

"When did she die, and what will he do with his
little girl?"

"That's it," returned the father, "that's the very
thing he wrote about," and opening the letter a second
time, he read that the fashionable and frivolous Mrs.
Graham, worn out by a life of folly and dissipation,
had died long before her time, and that the husband,
warned by her example, wished to remove his daughter,
a little girl eight years of age, from the city, or
rather from the care of her maternal grandmother,
who was sure to ruin her.

It is true the letter was not exactly worded thus,
but that was what it meant. Mr. Graham had once
lived in Deerwood, and knew the old Marshall homestead
well,—knew how invigorating were the breezes
from the mountains,—how sweet the breath of the newly
mown hay, or soil freshly plowed,—knew how bracing
were the winter winds which howled around the
farm-house,—how healthful the influences within, and
when he decided to shut up his grand house and go to
Europe for an indefinite length of time, his thoughts
turned toward rustic Deerwood as a safe asylum for
his child. In the gentle Mary Howland she would
find a mother's care, such as she had never known,
and after a little hesitation, he wrote to know if at
the deacon's fireside there was room for Jessie Graham.

"She is a wayward, high-spirited little thing," he
wrote, "but warm-hearted, affectionate and truthful,—willing
to confess her faults, though very apt to do
the same thing again. If you take her, Mrs. Howland,
treat her as if she were your own; punish her when
she deserves it, and, in short, train her to be a healthy,
useful woman."

The price offered in return for all this was exceedingly
liberal, and would have tempted the deacon had
there been no other inducement.

"That's an enormous sum to pay for one little
girl," he said, when he finished reading the letter.
"It will send Ellen through the seminary, and maybe,
buy her a piano, if she's thinking she must have one to
drum upon."

"Piano!" repeated Walter. "I'll earn one for her
when she needs it. I don't like this Jessie with her
city airs. Don't take her, Aunt Mary. We have
suffered enough from the Grahams;" and Walter tossed
his cap into the tree, with a low rejoinder, which
sounded very much like "*darn 'em!*"

"Walter," said the deacon, "you do wrong to
cherish such feelings toward Mr. Graham. He only
did what he thought was right, and were your father
here now, he'd say Richard was the best friend he
ever had."

This was the place for Aunt Debby to put in her
accustomed "Seth allus was a good boy," while Walter,
not caring to discuss the matter, laughed good-humoredly,
and said:

"But that's nothing to do with this minx of a
Jessie. Why does he write her name s-i-e? Why
don't he spell it s-y-sy, and be sensible? Of course
she's as stuck up as she can be,—afraid of cows and
snakes and everything," and Walter sneered at the
idea of a girl who was afraid of snakes and everything.

"Yes," chimed in Ellen, who Aunt Debby said was
born for no earthly use except to "take Walter down."
"I shouldn't suppose you'd say anything, for don't you
remember when you went to Boston with Mr. Smith
to see the caravan, and stopped at the Tremont, and
when they pounded that big thing for dinner you were
scared almost to death, and hid behind the door
screaming, 'The lion's out! the lion's out! Don't
you hear him roar?'"

Walter colored crimson, and replied apologetically:

"Pshaw, Nell, I was a little shaver then, only ten
years old. I'd never heard a gong before, and why
shouldn't I think the lion out?"

"And why shouldn't Jessie be afraid of snakes if
she never saw one? She's only eight, and you were
ten," was the reply of Ellen, whose heart bounded at
the thoughts of a companion, and who had unwittingly
avowed herself the champion of the unknown
Jessie Graham.

"Hush, children," interrupted the deacon. "It
isn't worth while to quarrel. Folks raised in the city
are sometimes green as well as country people, and
this Jessie may be one of 'em. But the question
now is, shall she come to Deerwood or not?" and he
turned inquiringly toward his daughter. "Mary,
are you willing to be a mother to Richard Graham's
child?"

Mrs. Howland started, and sweeping her hand
across her face, answered: "I am willing," while
Aunt Debby, in her straight-backed chair mumbled:

"To think it should come to that,—Mary taking
care of his and another woman's child; but, law! it's
no more than I should have done if he hadn't been
killed," and with a sigh for the widower and his four
motherless offspring, Aunt Debby also gave her assent,
thinking how she would knit lamb's-wool stockings for
the little girl, whose feet she guessed were about the
size of Ellen's.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" cried Ellen, when it was settled,
"for now there'll be somebody to play with when
my head aches too hard to go to school. I hope she'll
bring a lot of dolls; and, Walter, you won't ink their
faces and break their legs as you did that cob baby
Aunt Debby made for me?"

When thus appealed to, Walter was reading for
himself the letter which had fallen at his grandfather's
feet, and his clear hazel eyes were moist with tears, as
he read the postscript:

"I have as yet heard nothing from Seth, poor fellow!
I hoped he would come back ere this. It may
be I shall meet him in my travels."

"He isn't so bad a man after all," thought Walter,
and with his feelings softened toward the father, he
was more favorably disposed toward the daughter's
dolls, and to Ellen's question he replied, "Of course I
shan't bother her if she lets me alone and don't put on
too many airs."

"I can't see to write as well as I used to," said the
deacon, after everything had been arranged, "and
Walter must answer the letter."

"Walter won't do any such thing," was the mental
comment of the boy, whose animosity began to return
toward one who he fancied had done his father a
wrong.

After a little, however, he relented, and going to
his room wasted several sheets of paper before he was
at all satisfied with the few brief lines which were to
tell Mr. Graham that his daughter Jessie would be
welcome at Deerwood. Great pains he took to spell
her name according to his views of orthography, making
an extra flourish to the "y" with which he finished
up the "Jessy."

"Now, that's sensible," he said. "I wonder Aunt
Debby don't spell her name b-i-e-by. She would, I
dare say, if she lived in New York."

Walter's ideas of city people were formed entirely
from the occasional glimpses he had received of his
proud Boston relatives, who had been highly indignant
at his mother's marriage with a country youth, the
most of them resenting it so far as to absent themselves
from her funeral. His lady grandmother, they
told him, had been present, and had held him for a
moment upon her rich black mourning dress, but from
that day she had not looked upon his face. These
things had tended to embitter Walter toward his
mother's family, and judging all city people by them,
it was hardly natural that he should be very favorably
disposed toward little Jessie. Still, as the time for
her arrival drew near, none watched for her more vigilantly
or evinced a greater interest in her coming than
himself, and on the day when she was expected, it was
observed by his cousin Ellen that he took more than
usual pains with his toilet, and even exchanged his
cowhide boots for a lighter pair, which would make
less noise in walking; then as he heard the whistle in
the distance, he stationed himself by the gate, where
he waited until the gray horses which drew the village
omnibus appeared over the hill. The omnibus itself
next came in sight, and the head of a little girl was
thrust from the window, a profusion of curls falling
from beneath her brown straw hat, and herself evidently
on the lookout for her new home.

"Curls, of course," said Walter. "See if I don't
cut some of 'em off," and he involuntarily felt for his
jack-knife.

By this time the carriage was so near that he vacated
his post, lest the strangers should think he was
waiting for them, and returning to the house, looked
out of the west window, whistling indifferently, and
was apparently quite oblivious of the people alighting
at the gate, or of the chubby form tripping up the
walk, and with sunny face and laughing round bright
eyes, winning at once the hearts of the four who, unlike
himself, had gone out to receive her.




CHAPTER II.—MR. GRAHAM AND JESSIE.
==================================


She was a little fat, black-eyed, black-haired
girl, with waist and ankles of no Lilliputian
size, and when at last Walter dared
to steal a look at her, she had already divested herself
of her traveling habiliments, and with the household
cat in her arms, was looking about for a chair which
suited her. She evidently did not fancy the high, old-fashioned
ones which had belonged to Deacon Marshall's
wife, for, spying the one which was never used,
and into which even Ellen dared not climb, she unhesitatingly
wheeled it from its place, and seated herself
in its capacious depths, quite as a matter of course.

A good deal shocked, and somewhat amused,
Walter watched her proceedings, thinking to himself:

"By and by I'll tell her that is father's chair, and
then she won't want to sit in it; but she's a stranger
now, so I guess I'll let her alone."

By this time the cat, unaccustomed to quite so
hard a squeeze as Jessie gave it, escaped from her lap,
and jumping down, Jessie ran after it, exclaiming:

"Oh, boy, boy, stop her!"

A peculiar whistle from Walter sent the animal
flying faster from her, and shaking back her curls,
Jessie's black eyes flashed up into his face, as she
said:

"You're the meanest boy, and I don't like you a
bit."

"Jessie," said the stern voice of her father, and
for the first time since his entrance, Walter turned to
look at him, and as he looked he felt the bitterness
gradually giving way, for the expression of Mr.
Graham's face was not proud and overbearing as he
had fancied it to be.

On the contrary, it was mild and gentle as a
woman's, while there was something in his pleasant
blue eyes which would prompt an entire stranger to
trust him at once. He had seen much of the world,
and of what is called best society, and his manners
were polished and pleasing. Still there was nothing
ostentatious about him, no consciousness of superiority,
and when Deacon Marshall, pointing to Walter,
said to him, "This is Seth's child," he took the boy's
hand in his own, and for a moment, stood gazing
down into the frank, open face, then pushing the
brown hair from off the forehead, he said:

"You look as your father did, when we were boys
together, and he was the dearest friend I knew."

"What made you turn against him then?" trembled
on Walter's lips, but the words were not uttered,
for Mr. Graham's manner had disarmed him of all
animosity, and he said instead:

"I hope I may be as good and true a man as I
believe him to have been."

For a moment longer Mr. Graham held the hand
in his, while he looked admiringly at the boy, who
had paid this tribute to one whom the world considered
an outcast, then releasing it, he turned away,
and Walter was sure that his eyes were moist with
something which looked like tears.

"I like him for that," was his mental comment, as
he watched Mr. Graham talking with his aunt of little
Jessie, who, when he bade her farewell,—for he went
back that night,—clung sobbing to his neck, refusing
to be comforted, until Walter whispered to her of a
bright-eyed squirrel playing in its cage up in the
maple tree.

Then her arms relaxed their grasp, and she went
with Ellen to see the sight, while Walter accompanied
Mr. Graham to the depot. There was a bond of sympathy
between the man and boy, and they grew to
liking each other very fast during the few moments
they talked together upon the platform of the Deerwood
station. Numerous were the charges Mr.
Graham gave to Walter concerning his little girl,
bidding him care for her as if she were his sister, and
Walter felt a boyish pride in thinking how well he
would fulfill his trust.

Mr. Graham could never tell what prompted him
to say it, but as his mind went forward to the future,
when Jessie would be grown, he said:

"She will make a beautiful woman, I think, and I
hope she will be as good and pure as beautiful, so that
her future husband, should she ever have one, will not
look to her in vain for happiness."

It might have been that Mr. Graham was thinking
of his own wife, and the little congeniality there had
been between them. If so, he hastened to thrust such
thoughts aside by adding, laughingly:

"Her grandmother is a remarkably scheming old
lady, and has already set her heart on William Bellenger,
or rather on his family; but I would rather
see her buried than the wife of any of that race."

Unconsciously Mr. Graham had wounded Walter
deeply, for in his veins the blood of the Bellengers
was flowing, and he did not care to hear another
speak thus disparagingly of a race from which his
gentle mother sprung, though he had no love for it
himself. William Bellenger was his cousin, and even
now he felt his finger tips tingle as he recalled the
only time they had met. It was on the occasion of
that first visit to Boston, to which Ellen had alluded.
His uncle's family were then boarding at the Tremont
and William was making a constrained effort to entertain
him in the public parlor, when he became so
frightened with the gong, mistaking it for a roaring
lion, and taking refuge behind the door as Ellen had
said. With explosive shouts of laughter William
repeated the story to all whose ear he could gain, and
Walter had never forgotten the sneering tone of his
voice as he called after him at parting:

"The lion's out! the lion's out!"

They had never seen each other since,—he hoped
they never should see each other again,—and though
sure that he disliked Jessie very much, he shrank even
from the thought of associating her with William
Bellenger, though he did not like to have Mr. Graham
speak so slightingly of him. Something like this must
have shown itself upon his face, for Mr. Graham saw
the shadow resting there and quickly divining the
cause, hastened to say:

"Forgive me, Walter, for speaking thus thoughtlessly
of your mother's family. I did not think of the
relationship. You are not like them in the least, I am
sure, for you remind me each moment of your father."

Around the curve the train appeared in view, but
Walter must ask one question of his companion, and
as the latter sprang upon the steps of the forward car,
he held his arm, and said to him entreatingly, as it
were:

"Do you think my father guilty?"

Oh, how Mr. Graham longed to say no to the impulsive
boy, whose handsome face looked up to him so
wistfully. But he could not, and he answered sadly:

"I did think so, years ago."

"Yes, yes; but now? Do you think so now?"
and Walter held fast to the arm, even though the train
was moving slowly on.

The ringing of the bell, the creaking of the machinery,
and the puffing of the engine increased each
moment; but above the din of them all Walter caught
the reply:

"I have had no reason to change my mind," and
releasing Mr. Graham, he sprang to the ground and
walked slowly back to the farm-house, his bosom swelling
with resentment, and his eyes filling with tears,
for upon no subject was the high-spirited boy so sensitive
as the subject of his father's honor.

"I'll never believe it till he himself tells me it is
true," he said, and then, as he had often done before,
he began to wonder if his father ever thought of the
child he had never seen, and if in this world they
would ever meet.

While thus meditating, he reached home, where
he found the entire family assembled around little
Jessie, who, with flushed cheeks and angry eyes, was
stamping her fat feet furiously, and, by way of variety,
occasionally bumping her hard head against the harder
door.

"What is it?" he asked, pressing forward until he
caught sight of the little tempest.

The matter was soon explained. Always accustomed
to her own way with her indulgent grandmother,
Jessie had insisted upon opening the cage
and taking the squirrel in her hands, and when her
request was refused she had flown into a most violent
passion, screaming for her father to come and take her
away from such dirty, ugly people. It was in vain that
they tried by turns to soothe her. Her spirit was the
ruling one as yet, and she raved on till Walter came
and learned the cause of her wrath.

"I can make her mind, I'll bet," he thought, and
advancing toward her, he said sternly: "Jessie!" but
a more decided stamp of the foot was her only answer,
and seizing her arm, he shook her violently,
while he said more sternly than before: "Stop,
instantly!"

Like coals of fire the black eyes flashed up into his,
meeting a look so firm and decided that they quailed
beneath the glance. Jessie had met her master, and
after a few hysterical sobs, she became as gentle as a
lamb, nestling so close to Walter, who had seated
himself upon the chintz-covered lounge, that he involuntarily
wound his arm around her, as if to make
amends for his recent harshness.

Jessie was as affectionate and warm-hearted as
she was high-tempered and rebellious. Her tears
were like April showers, and before Walter had been
with her one half hour, all traces of the storm had
disappeared, and in her own way she was cultivating
his acquaintance, and occasionally inflicting upon him
a pang by criticising some of his modes of speech.
Particularly was she shocked at his favorite expression,
"Darn it!" and looking wonderingly into his
face, she said:

"You mustn't use such naughty words. Nobody
but vulgar folks do that."

Walter colored painfully, and that night, in the
little diary which he kept, he wrote:

"Resolved to break myself of using the word
'darn;' not because a pert city miss wishes it, but because—"

He didn't know quite what reason to assign, so he
left the sentence to be finished at some future time.

In less than three weeks Jessie was the pet of the
household, not even excepting Walter, whose prejudices
gradually gave way, and who at last admitted
that she would be "a niceish kind of a little girl, if
she wasn't so awful spunky."

To no one of the family did Jessie take so kindly
as to him. He had been the first to conquer her, and
she clung to him with a childish, trusting love, whose
influence he could not resist. Naturally full of life
and fond of exercise, she was his constant companion
in the fields and in the woods, where, fearless of complexion
or dress, she gathered the rich butternuts, or
sought among the yellow leaves for the brown chestnuts
which the hoar frost had cast from their prickly
covering. She liked the country, she said, and when
her grandmother wrote, as she often did, begging her
to come back, if only for a week, she absolutely refused
to go, bidding Walter, who was her amanuensis,
say that she liked staying where she was, and never
meant to live in the city again. To Walter she was
of inestimable advantage, for she cured him of more
than one bad habit, both of word and manner, and
though he, perhaps, would not have acknowledged it,
he was very careful not to offend her ladyship by a
repetition of the offense, until at last his schoolmates
more than once called him stuck-up and proud, while
even Ellen thought him greatly changed.

And thus the autumn passed away, and the breath
of winter was cold and keen upon the New England
hills, while the grim old mountain frowned gloomily
down upon the pond, or tiny lake, whose surface was
covered over with a coat of polished glass, tempting
the skaters far and near, and bringing to its banks
one day Walter and Jessie Graham. It was in vain
that Mrs. Howland and Aunt Debby both urged upon
the latter the propriety of remaining at home and
knitting on the deacon's socks, just as gentle, domestic
Ellen did. Jessie was not to be persuaded, and,
wrapped in her warm fur cape and mittens, she went
with Walter to the pond, receiving many a heavy fall
upon the ice, but always saying it was no matter, particularly
if Walter were within hearing. The surest
way to win his favor, she knew, was to be brave and
fearless, and when, as the bright afternoon drew to
its close, some boy, more mischievous than the rest,
caught off Walter's cap and sent it flying toward the
southern boundary of the pond, she darted after it,
unmindful of the many voices raised to stay the rash
adventure.

"Stop, Jessie! stop! The deep hole lies just
there!" was shouted after her. But she did not hear;
she thought only of Walter's commendation when she
returned him his cap, and she kept on her way, while
Walter, with blanched cheek, looked anxiously after
her, involuntarily shutting his eyes as the dreadful cry
rose upon the air:

"She's gone! she's gone!"

When he opened them again the space where he
had seen her last, with her bright face turned toward
him, was vacant, and the cold, black waters were
breaking angrily over the spot where she had stood,
Walter thought himself dying, and almost hoped he
was, for the world would be very dreary with no little
Jessie in it; then as he caught sight of the crimson
lining to Jessie's cape fluttering above the ice, and
thought of her father's trust in him, he cried, "I'll
save her, or perish too!" and rushed on to the
rescue.

There was a fierce struggle in the water, and the
ice was broken up for many yards around, and then,
just as those who stood upon the shore, breathlessly
awaiting the result, were beginning to despair, the
noble boy fell fainting in their midst, his arms clasped
convulsively around Jessie, whose short black curls
and dripping garments clung tightly to her face and
form. Half an hour later and Deacon Marshall,
smoking by his kitchen fire, looked from the western
window, and, starting to his feet, exclaimed:

"Who are all those people coming this way, and
what do they carry with them? It's Walter,—it's
Walter!" he cried, as the setting sun shone on the
white face, and hurrying out, he asked, huskily, "Is
my boy dead?"

"No, not dead," answered one of the group, "his
heart is beating yet, but she——" and he pointed to
little Jessie, whom a strong man carried in his arms.

But Jessie was not dead, although for a long time
they thought she was, and Walter, who had recovered
from his fainting fit, was not ashamed to cry as he
looked upon the still white face and wished he had
never been harsh to the little girl, or shaken her so
hard on that first day of her arrival at Deerwood.
Slowly, as one wakes from a heavy slumber, Jessie
came back to life, and the first words she uttered
were:

"Tell Walter I did get his cap, but somebody took
it from me and hurt my hand so bad," and she held up
the tiny thing on which was a deep cut made by the
sharp-pointed ice.

"Yes, darling, I know it," Walter whispered, and
when no one saw him he pressed his lips to the
wounded hand.

This was a good deal for Walter to do. Never
had he called any one darling before, never kissed
even his blue-eyed cousin Ellen, but the first taste
inspired him with a desire for more, and he wondered
at himself for having refrained so long.

"Will she live?" he asked eagerly of the physician,
who replied:

"There is now no reason why she should not," and
Walter hastened away to his own room, where, unobserved,
he could weep out his great joy.

Gradually, as the days went by, Jessie comprehended
what Walter had done for her, and her first
impulse was that some one should write to her father,—somebody
who would say just what she told them
to, and as Aunt Debby was the most likely to do this,
the poor old lady was pressed into the service, groaning
and sweating over the task.

"And now, pa," Aunt Debby wrote, after telling of
the accident, "Walter must be paid, and I'll tell you
how to pay him. I heard him one night talking with
his grandpa about going to school and college, and his
grandpa said he couldn't, they were not worth enough
in the whole world for that. Then Walter said he
should never know anything, and cried so hard that I
was just going to cry too, when I fell asleep and forgot
it. You are rich, I know, for one of ma's rings
cost five hundred dollars, and her shawl a thousand,
and I want you to send me money enough for Walter
to go to college. It will take a lot, I guess, for I heard
him say he'd only studied the things they learn in district
schools; but you have got enough. Let me give
it to him with my own hands, because he saved me
with his, will you, father? Walter is the nicest kind
of a boy."

The letter was sent, and in course of time there
came a response with a draft for two thousand dollars,
the whole to be used for the noble lad who had saved
the life of the father's only child. Wild with delight
Jessie listened while Aunt Debby, the only one in the
secret, spelled out the words, then seizing the draft,
she hastened out in quest of Walter, whom she found
in the barn, milking the speckled cow. Running up
to him she cried:

"It's come,—the money! You're going to school,—to
college, and to be a great big man like father.
Here it is," and thrusting the paper into his hand she
crouched so near to him that the milk-pail was upset,
and the white drops spattered her jet black hair.

At first Walter could not understand it, but Jessie
managed to explain how she had asked her father for
money to pay for his education.

"Because," she said, "if it hadn't been for you I
should have been a little dead girl now, and the boys,
next winter, would have skated right over me lying
there on the bottom of the pond."

Walter's first emotion was one of joy in having
within his reach what he had so greatly desired, but
considered impossible. Then there arose a feeling
of unwillingness to receive his education from Mr.
Graham, to whom they were already indebted. It
seemed too much like charity, and that he could not
endure. Still he did not say so to Jessie,—he would
wait, he thought, until he had talked with his grandfather.
Greatly surprised, Deacon Marshall listened
to the story, saying, when it was finished:

"You'll accept it, of course."

"No, I shan't," returned Walter. "We owe Mr.
Graham now more than we can ever pay, and I would
rather work all my life on the old homestead than be
dependent on his bounty. You may send it back to
your father," he added, giving the draft to Jessie.
"Tell him I thank him, but I can't accept his favor."

"Oh, Walter!" and climbing into a chair, for
Walter was standing up, Jessie wound her arms
around his neck and poured forth a torrent of entreaties
which led him finally to waver, and at last to
decide upon accepting it, provided Mr. Graham would
allow him to pay it back as soon as he was able.

To this Mr. Graham, who was immediately written
to upon the subject, assented, for he readily understood
the feeling of pride which had prompted the
suggestion.

"I do not respect you less," he wrote to Walter in
reply, "for wishing to take care of yourself, and the
time may come when the money so cheerfully loaned
to you now will be sorely needed by me and mine.
Until then, give yourself no trouble about it, but devote
all your energies to the acquirement of an education.
Were my advice asked in reference to a college,
I should tell you Yale, but you must do as you
think best. I shall need a partner by-and-by, perhaps,
and nothing could please me more than to see the
names of Graham and Marshall associated together in
business again. God bless your father, wherever he
may be."

This letter touched the right chord, and often in
his sleep Walter saw the sign whose yellow letters
read "Graham & Marshall," and the junior partner of
this firm sometimes was himself, but oftener a mild-faced
man wearing the sad, weary look he always saw
in dreams upon his father's face. The day would
come, too, he said, when the honor of the Marshall
name would be redeemed, and he looked eagerly forward
to the time when he was to enter as a student
the Wilbraham Academy, where it was decided that
he should fit himself for college.

Very delightful was the bustle and confusion attendant
upon the preparations in the deacon's household,
the entire family entering into the excitement
with a zest which told how much the boy was beloved.
Every one wished to do something for him, even to
little Jessie, who, having never been taught to do a
really useful thing until she came to Deerwood,
worked perseveringly, but with small hope of success,
upon a pair of socks like those which Ellen had knit
for the deacon the winter before. But alas for Jessie!
knitting was not her forte, and Walter himself
could not forbear a smile at the queer-looking thing
which grew but slowly in her hands. At last, in despair,
she gave it up, and one night, when no one was
near, threw it into the fire.

"I must give him something for a keepsake," she
thought, and remembering that he had sometimes
smoothed her hair as if he liked it, she seized the
shears, and cutting from her head the longest, handsomest
curl, gave it to him with the explanation
that "her father had taken a lock of her hair when he
went away, and perhaps he would like one too."

Affecting an indifference he did not feel, Walter
laughingly accepted a gift which in future years
would be very dear to him, because of the fair donor.

The bright April morning came at last on which
Walter left his home, and with tearful eyes the family
watched him out of sight, and then, with saddened
hearts, went back to their usual employments, feeling
that the sunshine of the house had gone with the
stirring, active boy, who, in one corner of the noisy
car, was winking hard and counting the fence posts as
they ran swiftly past, to keep himself from crying.
Anon this feeling left him, and with the hopefulness of
youth he looked eagerly into the far future, catching
occasional glimpses of the day which would surely
come to him when the names of Graham and Marshall
would be associated together again.




CHAPTER III.—EIGHT YEARS LATER.
===============================


It is the pleasant summer time, and on the
college green groups of people hurry to
and fro, some seeking their own pleasure
beneath the grateful shade of the majestic elms, others
wending their way to the hotel, while others still are
hastening to the Center Church to hear the valedictory,
which rumor says will be all the better received
for the noble, manly beauty of the speaker chosen to
this honor. Flushed with excitement, he stands before
the people, his clear hazel eye wandering uneasily
over the sea of upturned faces, as if in quest of one
from whose presence he had hoped to catch his inspiration.
But he looked in vain. Two figures alone
met his view,—one a bent and gray-haired old man
leaning on his staff, the other a mustached, stylish-looking
youth of nearly his own age, who occupied a
front seat, and with his glass coolly inspected the
young orator.

With a calm, dignified mien, Walter returned the
gaze, wondering where he had seen that face before.
Suddenly it flashed upon him, and with a feeling of
gratified pride that it was thus they met again, he
glanced a second time at the calm, benignant expression
of the old man, who had come many miles to hear
the speech his boy was to make. In the looks of the
latter there was that which kindled a thrill of enthusiasm
in Walter's frame, and when at last he opened his
lips, and the tide of eloquence burst forth, the audience
hung upon his words with breathless interest,
greeting him at the close with shouts of applause
which shook the solid walls and brought the old man
to his feet. Then the tumult ceased, and amid the
throng the hero of the hour was seen piloting his aged
grandfather across the green to the hotel.

"I wish your father was here to-day," the deacon
said, as they reached the public parlor; but before
Walter could reply he saw approaching them the
stranger who had so leisurely inspected him with his
quizzing-glass, and who now came forward, offering
his hand and saying, laughingly:

"Allow me to congratulate you upon having become
yourself a *lion*."

It did not need this speech to tell Walter that his
visitor was William Bellenger, and he answered in the
same light strain:

"Yes, I'm not afraid of the lion now;" "nor of the
baboon, either," was his mental rejoinder, as he saw
the wondrous amount of hair his cousin had brought
back from Europe, where for the last two years he had
been traveling.

William Bellenger could be very gracious when he
tried, and as his object in introducing himself to Walter's
notice was not so much to talk with him particularly,
as to inquire after a certain young girl and
heiress, whose bright, sparkling beauty was beginning
to create something of a sensation, he assumed a
friendliness he did not feel, and was soon conversing
familiarly with Walter of the different people they
both knew, mentioning incidentally Mr. Graham, the
wealthy New York banker, whom he had met in
Europe, for Mr. Graham had remained abroad six
years. From him William had heard the warmest
eulogies of Walter Marshall, and there had been
kindled in his bosom a feeling of jealous enmity,
which the events of the day had not in the least
tended to diminish. Still if his cousin had not interfered
with him in another matter of greater importance
than the being praised by Mr. Graham and the
people, he was satisfied, and it was to ascertain this
fact that he had followed young Marshall to the hotel.

Before going to New Haven William had called
at the home of Jessie's grandmother in the city, to inquire
for the young lady. The house was shut up
and the family were in the country, the servant said,
who answered William's ring, but the sharp eyes of
the young man caught the outline of a figure listening
in the upper hall, and readily divining who the
figure was, he answered:

"Yes, but Mrs. Bartow is here. Carry her my
card and say that I will wait."

The name of Bellenger brought down at once a
bundle of satin and lace, which Jessie called her
grandmother, and which was supposed to be showing
off its diamonds at some fashionable hotel, instead of
fanning itself in the back chamber of that brownstone
front. From her William learned that Jessie
was in Deerwood, and would probably attend the commencement
exercises at Yale, as a boy of some kind,
whom Mr. Graham had taken up, was to be graduated
at that time. To New Haven, then, he went, examining
the books at every hotel, and scanning the faces
of those he met with an eager gaze, and at last, as he
became convinced she was not there, he determined to
seek an interview with his cousin, and question him
of her whereabouts. After speaking of the father as
a man whose acquaintance every one was proud to
claim, he said, quite indifferently:

"By the way, Walter, his daughter Jessie is in
Deerwood, is she not?"

"Yes," returned Walter; "she has been there for
some weeks. She lived with us all the time her father
was in Europe, except when she was away at school,"
and Walter felt his pulses quicken, for he remembered
what Mr. Graham had said of Mrs. Bartow's
having set her heart on William as her future grandson.

William knew as well as Walter that Jessie had
lived at Deerwood, but he seemed to be surprised, and
continued:

"I wonder, then, she is not here to-day. She must
feel quite a sisterly interest in you," and the eyes, not
wholly unlike Walter's, save that they had in them a
sinister expression, were fixed inquiringly upon young
Marshall, who replied:

"I did expect her, and my cousin too; but my
grandfather says that Ellen was not able to come, and
Jessie would not leave her."

"She must be greatly attached to her country
friends," returned William, and the slight sneer which
accompanied the words prompted Walter to reply:

"She is attached to some of us, I trust. At all
events, I love her as a sister, for such she has been to
me, while Mr. Graham has been a second father. I
owe him everything——"

"Not your education, certainly. You don't mean
that?" interrupted William, who had from the first
suspected as much, for he knew that Deacon Marshall
was comparatively poor.

Walter hesitated, for he had not yet outlived the
pride which caused him to shrink from blazoning it
abroad that a stranger's money had made him what he
was. Deacon Marshall, on the contrary, had no such
sensitiveness, and observing Walter's embarrassment,
he answered for him:

"Yes, Mr. Graham did pay for his education, and
an old man's blessing on his head for that same deed
of his'n."

"Mr. Graham is very liberal," returned William,
with a supercilious bow, which brought the hot blood
to Walter's cheek. "Do you go home immediately?"
he continued, and Walter replied:

"My grandfather has a desire to visit Medway, in
Massachusetts, where he married his wife, and as I
promised to go with him in case he came to New
Haven, I shall not return to Deerwood for a week."

Instantly the face of William Bellenger brightened,
and Walter felt a strong desire to knock him down
when he said:

"Allow me, then, to be the bearer of any message
you may choose to send, for I am resolved upon seeing
Miss Graham, and shall, accordingly, go to Deerwood.
She will need a gallant in your absence, and
trust me, I will do my best, though I cannot hope to
fill the place of a *lion*."

Involuntarily Walter clenched his fist, while in the
angry look of defiance he cast upon his cousin, the impudent
William read all the withering scorn he felt
for him. Ay, more, for he read, too, or thought he
did, that the beautiful Jessie Graham, whose father
was worth a million, had a warm place in the young
plebeian's heart, and this it was which brought the
wrathful scowl to his own face as he compelled himself
to offer his hand at parting.

"What message did you bid me carry?" he asked,
and taking his extended hand, Walter looked fiercely
into his eyes as he replied:

"None; I can tell her myself all I have to say."

"Very well," said William, with another bow, and
stroking the little forest about his mouth, he walked
away.

"I don't put much faith in presentiments," said the
deacon, when he was gone, "but all the time that
chap was here I felt as if a snake were crawling at my
feet. Believe me, he's got to cross my path or yourn,
mebby both," and the deacon resumed his post by the
window, watching the passers-by, while Walter hurriedly
paced the floor with a vague, uneasy sensation,
for though he knew of no way in which the unprincipled
Bellenger could possibly cross his grandfather's
path, he did know how he could seriously disturb himself.

Not that he had any confessed hope of winning
Jessie Graham. She was far above him, he said. Yet
she was the one particular star he worshiped, feeling
that no other had a right to share the brightness with
him, and when he remembered the shady, winding
paths in the pleasant old woods at Deerwood, and the
long afternoons when Ellen would be too languid to
go out, and William and Jessie free to go alone, he
longed for his grandfather to give up his favorite
project and go back with him to Deerwood. But
when he saw how the old man was set upon the visit,
wondering if he should know the place, and if the
thorn-apple tree were growing still where he sat with
Eunice and asked her to be his wife, he put aside all
thoughts of self, and went cheerfully to Medway,
while his cousin, with an eye also to the shadowy
woods and the quiet mountain walks, was hurrying on
to Deerwood.




CHAPTER IV.—JESSIE AND ELLEN.
=============================


It was a glorious afternoon, and not a single
feathery cloud flecked the clear blue of the
sky. The refreshing rain of the previous
night had cooled the sultry August air, and all about
the farm-house the grass had taken a brighter green
and the flowers a brighter hue. Away to the westward,
at the distance of nearly one-fourth of a mile,
the woods were streaked with an avenue of pines,
which grew so closely together that the scorching rays
of the noontide sun seldom found entrance to the velvety
plat where Walter had built a rustic bench, with
Jessie looking on, and where Jessie and Ellen now
were sitting, the one upon the seat and the other on
the grass filling her straw hat with cones, and talking
to her companion of the young graduate, wondering
where he was, and if he didn't wish he were there
with them beneath the sheltering pines.

Eight years had changed the little girls of nine
and eight into grown-up, graceful maidens, and though
of an entirely different style, each was beautiful in her
own way, Jessie as a brunette, and Ellen as a blonde.
Full of frolic, life and fun, Jessie carried it all upon
her sparkling face, and in her laughing eyes of black.
Now, as of old, her raven hair clustered in short, thick
curls around her forehead and neck, giving her the
look of a gypsy, her father said, as he fondly stroked
the elfin locks, and thought how beautiful she was.
Five years she had lived in Deerwood, and then, at
her father's request, had gone to a fashionable boarding-school,
for the only child of the millionaire must
have accomplishments such as could not be obtained
among the New England mountains. No process of
polishing, however, or course of discipline had succeeded
as yet in making her forget her country home,
and when Mr. Graham, whose business called him
West, offered her the choice between Newport and
Deerwood, she unhesitatingly chose the latter, greatly
to the vexation of her grandmother, who delighted in
society now even more than she did when young. If
Jessie went to Deerwood she must remain at home,
for she could not go to Newport alone, and what was
worse, she must live secluded in the rear of the house
for Mrs. Bartow would not for the world let her fashionable
acquaintances know that she passed the entire
summer in the city. She should lose *caste* at once,
she thought, and she used every possible argument to
persuade Jessie to give up her visit to Deerwood, and
go with her instead. But Jessie would not listen.
"Grandma could accompany old Mrs. Reeves," she
said, "they'd have a splendid time quarreling over
their respective granddaughters, herself and Charlotte,
but as for her, she should go to Deerwood;" and she
accordingly went there, and took with her a few city
airs and numerous city fashions.

The former, however, were always laid aside when
talking to Ellen, who was by some accounted the more
beautiful of the two, with her wealth of golden hair,
her soft eyes of violet blue, and her pale, transparent
complexion. As gentle and quiet as she was lovely,
she formed a striking contrast to the merry, frolicsome
Jessie, with her darker, richer style of beauty,
and neither ever appeared so well as when they were
together. In all the world there was no one, except
her father, whom Jessie loved as she did Ellen Howland,
and though, amid the gay scenes of her city
home, she frequently forgot her, and neglected to send
the letters which were so precious to the simple country
girl, her love returned the moment the city was
left behind, and she breathed the exhilarating air of
the Deerwood hills.

She called Walter her brother, and had watched
him through his college course with all a sister's pride,
looking eagerly forward to the time when he would
be in her father's employ, for it was settled that he
was to enter Mr. Graham's bank as soon as he was
graduated. And as on that summer afternoon she sat
upon the grassy ridge and talked with Ellen of him,
she spoke of the coming winter when he would be
with her in the city.

"It will be so nice," she said, "to have such a
splendid beau, for I mean to get him introduced right
away. I shall be seventeen in a month, and I'm coming
out next season. I wish you could spend the winter
with me, and see something of the world. I mean
to ask your mother. Father will buy your dresses to
wear to parties, and concerts, and the opera. Only
think of having a box all to ourselves,—you and I and
Walter, and maybe Charlotte Reeves once in a great
while, or cousin Jennie. Wouldn't you love to go?"

"No, not for anything," answered Ellen, who
liked early hours and quiet rooms, and always experienced
a kind of suffocation in the presence of fashionable
people, and who continued: "I don't believe
Walter will like it either, unless he changes greatly.
He used to have a horror of city folks, and I do believe
almost hated *you* before you came to Deerwood,
just because you were born in New York."

"Hated *me*, Ellen!" repeated Jessie. "He shook
me, I know, and I've been a little afraid of him ever
since, but it did me good, for I deserved it, I was such
a high-tempered piece; but I did not know he hated
me. Do you suppose he hates me now?" and Jessie's
manner evinced a deeper interest in Walter than she
herself believed existed.

Ellen saw it at once, and so did the man who for
the last ten minutes had been watching the young
girls through the pine tree boughs. William Bellenger
had reached Deerwood on the afternoon train,
and gone at once to the farm-house, whose gable roof,
small window panes, and low walls had provoked
a smile of derision, while he wondered what Jessie
Graham could find to attract her there. Particularly
was he amused with the quaint expressions of
Aunt Debby, who, in her high-crowned cap, with
black handkerchief smoothly crossed in front, and her
wide check apron on, sat knitting by the door, stopping
occasionally to take a pinch of snuff, or "shoo"
the hens when they came too near.

"The gals was in the woods," she said, when he
asked for Miss Graham, and she bade him "make
Ellen get up if he should find her setting on the damp
ground, as she presumed she was. Ellen was weakly,"
she said, "and wasn't an atom like Walter, who was
as trim a chap as one could wish to see. Did the
young man know Walter?"

"Oh, yes," returned William. "He is my cousin."

"Your cousin!" and the needles dropped from the
old lady's hands. "Bless me!" and adjusting her
glasses a little more firmly upon her nose she peered
curiously at him. "I want to know if you are one of
them Bellengers? Wall, I guess you do favor
Walter, if a body could see your face. It's the fashion,
I s'pose, to wear all that baird."

"Yes, all the fashion," returned William, who was
certainly good-natured, even if he possessed no other
virtue, and having asked again the road to the woods,
he set off in that direction.

Following the path Aunt Debby pointed out, he
soon came near enough to catch a view of the white
dress Jessie wore, and wishing to see her first, himself
unobserved, he crept cautiously to an opening
among the pines, where he could see and hear all that
was passing. Jessie's sparkling, animated face was
turned toward him, but he scarcely heeded it in his
surprise at another view which greeted his vision. A
slender, willowy form was more in accordance with
Will's taste than a fat chubby one, and in Ellen
Howland his idea of a beautiful woman was, if possible,
more than realized. She was leaning against a
tree, her blue gingham morning gown,—for she was an
invalid,—wrapped gracefully about her her golden
hair, slightly tinged with red, combed back from
her forehead, her long eyelashes veiling her eyes of
blue, and shading her colorless cheek, while her lily-white
hands were folded together, and rested upon
her lap.

"Jupiter!" thought William, "I did not suppose
Deerwood capable of producing anything like that.
Why, she's the realization of what I've often fancied
my wife should be. Now, if she were only rich I'd
yield the black-eyed witch of a Jessie to my milksop
cousin. But, pshaw! it shan't be said of me that I
fell in love at first sight with a vulgar country girl.
What the deuce, they talk of Walter, do they! I'll
try eavesdropping a little longer," and bending his
head, he listened while their conversation proceeded.

He heard what Ellen said of Walter; he saw the
startled look upon the face of Jessie as she exclaimed,
"Does he hate me now?" and in that look he read
what Jessie did not know herself.

"The wretch!" he muttered, between his teeth;
"why couldn't he take the other one? I would, if the
million were on her side," and in the glance he cast on
Ellen there was more than a mere passing fancy.

She must have felt its influence, for as that look
fell upon her she said:

"It's cold,—I shiver as with a chill. Let's go back
to the house," and she arose to her feet, just as the
pine boughs parted asunder, and William appeared
before them.

"Mr. Bellenger!" Jessie exclaimed. "When did
you come?"

"Half an hour since," he returned, "and not finding
you in the house I came this way, little thinking I
should stumble upon two wood nymphs instead of
one," and again the peculiar glance rested upon Ellen,
who had sunk back upon her seat, and whose soft eyes
fell beneath his gaze.

The brief introduction was over, and then Ellen
rose to go, complaining that she was cold and tired.

"We will go, too," said Jessie, putting on her hat,
when Mr. Bellenger touched her arm, and said in a low
voice of entreaty:

"Stay here with me."

"Yes, stay," rejoined Ellen, who caught the words.
"It is pleasant here, and I can go alone."

So Jessie stayed, and when the slow footsteps had
died away in the distance William sat down beside
her, and after expressing his delight at meeting her
again, said, indifferently as it were:

"By the way, I have just come from New Haven,
where I had the pleasure of hearing the charity boy's
valedictory. It is strange what assurance some people
have."

"Charity boy!" repeated Jessie; "I thought
Walter Marshall was to deliver the valedictory."

"And isn't he a charity scholar? Don't your
father pay his bills?" asked William, in a tone which
Jessie did not like.

"Well, yes," she answered, "but somehow I
don't like to hear you call him that, because——" she
hesitated, and William's face grew dark while waiting
for her answer, which, when it came, was, "because
he saved my life;" and then Jessie told her companion
how, but for Walter Marshall, she would not
have been sitting there that summer afternoon.

"Was Walter's speech a good one?" she asked,
her manner indicating that she knew it was.

Not a change in her speaking face escaped the
watchful eye of William, and knowing well that insinuations
are often stronger and harder to refute than
any open assertion, he replied, with seeming reluctance:

"Yes, very good; though some of it sounded
strangely familiar, and I heard others hinting pretty
strongly at plagiarism."

This last was in a measure true, for one of Walter's
class, chagrined that the honor was not conferred
upon himself, had taken pains to say that the valedictory
was not all of it Walter's,—that an older and
wiser head had helped him in its composition. William
did not believe this, but it suited his purpose to
repeat it, and he watched narrowly for the effect.
Jessie Graham was the soul of truth, and no accusation
could have been brought against Walter which would
have pained her so much as the belief that he had been
dishonorable in the least degree.

"Walter would never pass off what was not his
own!" she exclaimed. "It isn't like him, or like any
of the Marshall family."

"You forget his father," said the man beside her,
carelessly thrusting aside a cone with his polished
boot.

"What did his father do?" Jessie asked in some
surprise, and her companion replied:

"You astonish me, Miss Graham, by professing
ignorance of what Walter's father did. You know, of
course."

"Indeed I do not," she returned. "I only know
that there is something unpleasant connected with
him,—something which annoys Walter terribly, but I
never heard the story. I asked my father once and he
seemed greatly agitated, saying he would rather not
talk of it. Then I asked Ellen, but if she knew she
would not tell, and she evaded all my questioning, so
I gave it up, for I dare not ask Deacon Marshall or
Walter either. What was it, Mr. Bellenger?"

William understood just how proud Jessie Graham
was, and how she would be shocked at the very idea
of public disgrace. Once convince her of the parent's
guilt, and she will sicken of the son, he thought, so
when she said again, "What was it? What did Mr.
Marshall do?" he replied:

"If your father has kept it from you, I ought not
to speak of it, perhaps; but this I will say, if Seth
Marshall had his just deserts, he would now be the
inmate of a felon's cell."

"Walter's father a felon!" Jessie exclaimed,
bounding to her feet. "I never thought of anything
as bad as that. Is it true? Oh! is it true?" and
in the maiden's heart there was a new-born feeling,
which, had Walter been there then, would have
prompted her to shrink from him as if he, too, had
been a sharer of his father's sin.

"You seem greatly excited," said William. "It
must be that you are more deeply interested in young
Marshall than I supposed."

"I am interested," she replied. "I have liked him
so much that I never dreamed of associating him with
dishonor."

"Why need you now?" asked the wily Will.
"Walter had nothing to do with it, though, to be
sure, it is but natural to suppose that the child is
somewhat like the father, particularly if it does not
inherit any of its mother's virtues, as Walter, I suppose,
does not. He is a Marshall through and
through," and William smiled exultingly as he saw
how well his insinuation was doing its work.

"Tell me more," Jessie whispered. "*What* did
Mr. Marshall do?"

"I would rather not," returned William, at the
same time hinting that it was something she ought
not to hear. "If your father had good reason for
keeping it from you, so have I. Suffice it to know
that it killed his young wife, my father's sister, and
that our family since have scarcely recognized Walter
as belonging to us. It wasn't any fault of mine," he
continued, as he saw the flash of Jessie's eyes, and
readily divined that she did not wish to have Walter
slighted. "I cannot help it. Our family are very
proud, my grandmother particularly; and when my
aunt married a poor ignorant country youth, it was
natural that she should feel it, and when the disgrace
came it was ten times worse. There is such a thing
as marrying far beneath one's station, and you can
imagine my grandmother's feelings by fancying what
your own father's would be if you were to throw
yourself away upon—well, upon this Waiter, who
may be well enough himself, but who can never hope
to wipe away the stain upon his name," and William
looked at her sideways, to see the effect of what he
had said.

Jessie Graham was easily influenced, and she attached
far more importance to William's words than
she would have done had she known his real design;
so when he spoke of her marrying Walter as a preposterous
and impossible event, she accepted it as such,
and wondered why her heart should throb so painfully
or why she should feel as if something had
been wrested from her,—something which, all unknown
to herself, had made her life so happy. She
had taken her first lesson in distrust, and the poison
was working well.

For a long time they sat there among the pines,
not talking of Walter, but of the city and the wondrous
sights which Will had seen in his foreign
travels. There was something very soothing to Jessie
in William's manner, so different from that which
Walter assumed toward her. Like most young girls
she was fond of flattery, and Walter had more than
once offended her by his straightforward way of telling
her faults. William, on the contrary, sang her
praises only; and, while listening to him, she wondered
she had never thought before how very agreeable
he was. He saw the impression he was making,
and when at last, as the sun was nearing the western
horizon, she arose to go, proposing that they should
take the Marshall grave-yard in their route, he assented,
for this, he knew, would keep him longer with
her alone.

"Your aunt is buried here," Jessie said, as they
drew near to the fence which surrounded the home of
dead; "that is hers," and she pointed to the monument
gleaming in the sunlight.

"Do you bury your bodies above the ground?"
asked William, directing her attention to the flutter of
a blue morning dress, plainly visible beyond the taller
stone.

"Why, that is Ellen!" cried Jessie, hurrying on
until she reached the gate, where she stopped suddenly,
and beckoned her companion to approach as
noiselessly as possible.

Ellen also had come that way, and seating herself
by her grandmother's grave, had fallen asleep, and
like some rare piece of sculpture, she lay among the
tall, rank grass—so near to a rose tree that one of the
fading blossoms had dropped its leaves upon her face.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Jessie said to her companion,
who replied; "Yes, wonderfully beautiful," so
loud that the fair sleeper awoke and started up.

"I was so tired," she said, "that I sat down and
must have gone to sleep, for I dreamed that I was
dead, and that the man who came to us in the pines
dug my grave. Where is he, Jessie!"

"I am here," said William, coming forward, "and
believe me, my dear Miss Howland, I would dig the
grave of almost any one sooner than your own. Allow
me to assist you," and he offered her his hand.

Ellen was really very weak, and when he saw how
pale she was he made her lean upon him as they
walked down the hillside to the house. And once,
when Jessie was tripping on before, he slightly
pressed the little blue-veined hand trembling on his
arm, while in a very tender voice he asked if she felt
better. Ellen Howland was wholly unaccustomed to
the world, and had grown up to womanhood as ignorant
of flattery or deceit as the veriest child. Pure
and innocent herself, she did not dream of treachery
in others. Walter to her was a fair type of all mankind,
and she could not begin to fathom the heart of
the man who walked beside her, touching her hand
more than once before they reached the farm-house
door.

They found the supper table neatly spread for five,
and though William's intention was to spend the night
at the village hotel, he accepted Mrs. Howland's invitation
to stay to tea, making himself so much at home,
and chatting with all so familiarly, that Aunt Debby
pronounced him a clever chap, while Mrs. Howland
wondered why people should say the Bellengers of
Boston were proud and overbearing. It was late that
night when William left them, for there was something
very attractive in the blue of Ellen's eyes, and
the shining black of Jessie's, and when at last he left
them, and was alone with himself and the moonlight,
he was conscious that there had come to him that day
the first unselfish, manly impulse he had known for
years. He had mingled much with fashionable ladies.
None knew how artificial they were better than himself,
and he had come at last to believe that there was
not among them a single true, noble-hearted woman.
Jessie Graham might be an exception, but even she
was tainted with the city atmosphere. Her father's
purse, however, would make amends for any faults
she might possess, and he must win that purse at all
hazards; but while doing that he did not think it
wrong to pay the tribute of admiration to the golden-haired
Ellen, whose modest, refined beauty had impressed
him so much, and whose artless, childlike
manner had affected him more than he supposed.
"Little Snow-Drop" he called her to himself, and sitting
alone in his chamber at the hotel, he blessed the
happy chance which had thrown her in his way.

"It is like the refreshing shower to the parched
earth," he said, and he thought what happiness it
would be to study that pure girl, to see if, far down
in the depths of her heart, there were not the germs of
vanity and deceit, or better yet, if there were not
something in her nature which would sometime respond
to him. He did not think of the harm he
might do her. He did not care, in fact, even though
he won her love only to cast it from him as a useless
thing. Country girls like her were only made for
men like him to play with. No wonder then if in her
dreams that night Ellen moaned with fear of the
beautiful serpent which seemed winding itself, fold on
fold, about her.

Jessie, too, had troubled dreams of felon's cells, of
clanking chains, and even of a gallows, with Walter
standing underneath beseeching her to come and share
the shame with him. Truly the serpent had entered
this Eden and left its poisonous trail.

For nearly a week William staid in town, and the
village maidens often looked wistfully after him as he
drove his fast horses, sometimes with Jessie at his side,
and sometimes with Ellen, but never with them both,
for the words he breathed into the ear of one were not
intended for the other. Drop by drop was he infusing
into Jessie's mind a distrust of one whom she had
heretofore considered the soul of integrity and honor.
Not openly, lest she should suspect his motive, but
covertly, cautiously, always apparently seeking an
excuse for anything the young man might hereafter
do, and succeeding at last in making Jessie thoroughly
uncomfortable, though why she could not tell. She
did not blame Walter for his father's sins, but she
would much rather his name should have been without
a blemish.

Gradually the brightness of Jessie's face gave way
to a thoughtful, serious look, her merry laugh was
seldom heard, and she would sit for hours so absorbed
in her own thoughts as not to heed the change which
the last few days had wrought in Ellen, too. Never
before had the latter seemed so happy, so joyous, so
full of life as now, and Aunt Debby said the rides
with Mr. Bellenger upon the mountains had done her
good. William had pursued his study faithfully, and,
in doing so, had become so much interested himself
that he would have asked Ellen to be his wife had she
been rich as she was lovely. But his bride must be
an heiress; and so, though knowing that he could
never be to Ellen Howland other than a friend, he led
her on step by step until at last she saw but what he
saw, and heard but what he heard. He was not deceiving
her, he said, sometimes when conscience
reproached him for his cruelty. She knew how widely
different their stations were; she could not expect
that one whom half the belles of Boston and New
York would willingly accept could think of making
her his wife. He was only polite to her, only giving
a little variety to her monotonous life. She would
forget him when he was gone. And at this point he
was conscious of an unwillingness to be forgotten.

"If we were only Mormons," he thought, the last
night of his stay at Deerwood, when out under the
cherry trees in the garden he talked with her alone,
and saw the varying color on her cheek, as he said,
"We may never meet again." "If we were only
Mormons, I would have them both, Nellie and Jessie,
the one for her gilded setting, the other because——"

He did not finish the sentence, for he was not willing
then to acknowledge to himself the love which
really and truly was growing in his heart for the fair
girl beside him.

"But you'll surely come to us again," Nellie said.
"Jessie will be here. You'll want to visit her," and a
tear trembled on her long eyelashes.

"I can see Jessie in the city, and if I come to
Deerwood it will be you who brings me. Do you
wish me to come and see you, Nellie?" and the dark,
handsome face bent so low that the rich brown hair
rested on the golden locks of the artless, innocent girl,
who answered, in a whisper,

"Yes, I wish you to come."

"Then you must give me a kiss," he said, "as a
surety of my welcome, and when the trees on the
mountain where we have been so happy together are
casting their dense leaves in the autumn, I will surely
be with you again."

The kiss was given—not one—not two—but many,
for William Bellenger was greedy, and his lips had
never touched aught so pure and sweet before.

"I wouldn't tell Walter that I'm coming," he
said, "for he does not like me, I fancy, and I cannot
bear to have him prejudice you against me. I
wouldn't tell my mother either, or any one——"

"Not Jessie?" Ellen asked, for she had a kind of
natural pride in wishing her friend to know that she,
who never aspired to notice of any kind, had succeeded
in pleasing the fastidious William Bellenger.

"No, not Jessie," he said, "because,—well, because
you better not," and knowing well his power over the
timid girl, he felt sure that his wishes would be regarded,
and with another good-by, he left her.

He had hoped that Jessie would be induced to accompany
him to New York, and as there was a secret
understanding between himself and Mrs. Bartow, the
old lady had written, entreating her granddaughter to
return with William.

"You have stayed in the country long enough,"
she wrote, "and I dare say you are as sunburnt and
freckled as you can be, so pray come home. Everybody
is gone, I know, and New York is just like
Sunday, while I stay like a guilty thing in the rear of
the house, to make folks think I'm off to some watering
place. I wouldn't for the world let old Mrs.
Reeves know that I have been cooped up here the
blessed summer. It's all owing to your obstinacy, too,
and I think you ought to come back and entertain me.
Mr. Bellenger will attend to you, and you couldn't
ask for a more desirable companion. Old Mrs. Reeves
says he is the most eligible match in the city, his
family are so aristocratic. There isn't a single mechanic
or working person in the whole line, for she
spent an entire season in tracing back their ancestry,
finding but one blot, and that an unfortunate marriage
of a Miss Ellen Bellenger with some ignorant country
loafer she met at boarding-school, and who she says
was hung, or sent to State prison, I forgot which. I
am sorry she discovered this last, as in case you cut
out Charlotte, and of course you will, it will be like
the spiteful old wretch to blazon it abroad, though
William ain't to blame, of course."

"I wonder I never told grandma that Walter was
connected with the Bellengers," Jessie thought, as she
finished reading this letter, which came to her the
night when William, beneath the cherry trees, was
whispering words to Ellen which should never have
been spoken. "It's probably because I've not been
much with her of late, and she never seemed at all interested
in him, except indeed, to say that pa ought to
get him a situation in a grocery, or something to pay
him for saving my life. I wish she wasn't so foolishly
proud," and as Jessie read the letter again, she felt
glad that her grandmother did not know how nearly
Walter Marshall was connected with the man who
"was hung, or sent to State prison."

Gradually, too, there arose before her mind the
whole array of her city friends, with old Mrs. Reeves
and Charlotte at their head, and the idea of having
Walter with her in the city the coming winter was
not as pleasant as it once had been. Her grandmother
might find out who he was; William would
tell, perhaps, and she could not bear the thought of
seeing him slighted, as he was sure to be if the tide,
of which the old lady Reeves was the under-current,
should set in against him.

"I've half a mind to go home," she thought, "before
anything definite is arranged, and persuade father
to secure Walter just as good a situation in some other
place where he won't be slighted."

This allusion to her father was a fortunate one, for
in her cool moments of reflection there was no one
whose judgment Jessie regarded so highly as her
father's. He knew Walter,—he respected him, too,
and had often spoken with pleasure of the time when
he would be with him.

"People dare not laugh if father takes him up,"
she thought, while something whispered to her that
she, too, could, if she would, do much toward helping
Walter to the position in society he was fitted to
occupy. "I won't go," she said, at last. "I'll stay
and see Walter again, at all events, though I do wish
Will hadn't told me about his speech, and his father,
too. I mean to ask him some time to tell me the exact
truth." And having reached this resolution Jessie
sat down and wrote to her grandmother that she
could not come yet, she was so happy in the country.

This she intended taking to William in the morning,
for she had promised to meet him at the depot
and see him off. "I shall be rather lonely when he is
gone," she thought, and walking to the window of her
room, she wondered if Charlotte Reeves would succeed
in winning William Bellenger.

"Her grandmother will strain every nerve," she
thought, "but by just saying a word I can supplant
her, I know, else why has he stayed here a whole
week? Nell, is that you?" and Jessie started as the
young girl glided into the room, her face unusually
pale, and her whole appearance indicative of some
secret agitation. "Where have you been?" asked
Jessie, "and who was it that shut the gate?"

"Where? I didn't hear any gate," Ellen replied,
trembling lest she should betray what she had been
forbidden to divulge.

Had she confessed it then it would have saved her
many a weary heartache, and her companion from
many a thoughtless act, but she did not, and when
Jessie, caressed her white cheek, and said laughingly,
"Has my prudish Nell a secret love affair?" she made
some incoherent answer, and, seeking her pillow, lived
over again the scene in the garden, blushing to herself
as she recalled the dark face which had bent so near
to hers, and the tender voice which had whispered in
her ear the name so recently given to her. "Little
Snow-Drop," he called her when he bade her adieu,
and the moon went down behind the mountain ere she
fell asleep thinking of that name and the time when
the forest tree would cast its leaf and he be with
her again.




CHAPTER V.—WALTER AND JESSIE.
=============================


"So you won't go with me," William said to
Jessie, next morning, when she met him
at the depot and gave him the note
intended for her grandmother.

"No," she replied. "The city is dull as yet, and
I'd rather remain here with Ellen."

"Oh, yes, Ellen," and William spoke quite indifferently.
"Why didn't she come to bid me good-by?"
and he looked curiously at Jessie to see how much she
knew.

But Jessie suspected nothing, and replied at once:

"She has a headache this morning and was still in
bed when I left her."

The heartless man was conscious of a pleasurable
sensation,—a feeling of gratified vanity,—for he knew
that headache was for him. But he merely said:

"Tell her that I'm sorry she's sick; she is a pleasant,
quiet little girl, quite superior to country girls in
general."

"There's the train," cried Jessie, and in a moment
the cars rolled up before them.

"It will seem a young eternity until you come
home," said William, clasping Jessie's hand. "Good-bye,"
he added, as "all aboard" was shouted in his
ear, and as he turned away his place was taken by
another, who had witnessed the parting between the
two, and at whom Jessie looked wonderingly, exclaiming:

"Why, Walter, I didn't expect you to-day."

"And shall I infer that I am the less welcome from
that?" the young man asked, for with his inborn
jealousy, which no amount of discipline could quite
subdue, he thought he detected in Jessie's tone and
manner something cold and constrained.

Nor was he wholly mistaken, for Jessie did not
feel toward him just as she had done before. Still
she greeted him cordially,—thought how handsome he
was, and came pretty near telling him so,—but told
him instead, that she thought he resembled his cousin
William. This brought the conversation to a point
Walter longed to reach, and as they walked slowly
towards home he questioned her of William,—asking
when he came, and if she had seen much of him previous
to his visit there.

"I saw him almost every day before he went to
Europe," she replied. "You know he lives in New
York now, and grandma thinks there's nobody like
him."

"Yes," returned Walter, "I remember your father
told me once that she had set her heart upon your
marrying him."

"People would think it a splendid match," returned
Jessie, a little mischievously, for as she had
known that William disliked Walter, so she now felt
that Walter disliked William, and she continued:
"Charlotte Reeves would give the world to have him
spend a week in the country with her," and the saucy
black eyes looked roguishly up at Walter, who
frowned gloomily for an instant, and then rejoined:

"Shall I tell you what your father said about it?"

"Yes, do. I think everything of his opinion."

"He said, then, that he would rather see you
buried than the wife of any of that race," and Walter
laid a great stress upon the last two words.

For a time Jessie walked on in silence, then stopping
short and looking up from under her straw hat,
she said:

"Ain't *you* one of that race?"

"I suppose I am," answered Walter, smiling at
a question which admitted of two or three significations.

Jessie thought of but one. Her father liked
Walter very much, even though his mother was a
Bellenger; consequently it must be something about
William himself which prompted that remark, and as
Jessie usually echoed her father's sentiments, she felt,
the old disagreeable sensation giving way, and before
they reached the farm-house she was chatting as
gayly with Walter, as if nothing had ever come between
them.

That night Walter and Jessie sat together in the
little portico, which was securely shaded from the sun
by Aunt Debby's thrifty hop vines. Walter was telling
Jessie of his recent visit, and how his grandfather
cried when he stood in the room where he was married
nearly fifty years before.

"I supposed old people outlived all their romance,"
said Jessie, adding laughingly, as she plucked the
broad green leaves growing near her head, "I don't
think I could love any body but father fifty years,—could
you?"

"It would depend a good deal upon the person I
loved," returned Walter, and the look he gave Jessie
seemed to say that it would not be a hard matter to
love her through all time.

Jessie saw the look, and while it thrilled her with
a sudden emotion of pleasure, it involuntarily reminded
her of what William had said of the valedictory,
and abruptly changing the conversation she
said:

"Mr. Bellenger told me your speech was very
good. May I see it for myself?"

Walter was a fine orator, and knew that the favor
with which his speech had been received was in a
great measure owing to the manner in which it was
delivered. He was willing for Jessie to have heard it,
but he felt a natural reluctance in permitting her to
read it. Jessie saw his hesitancy, and it strengthened
the suspicion which before had hardly existed.

"Yes, let me see it," she said. "You are surely
not afraid of me!" and she persisted in her entreaties
until he gave it into her hands, and then joined his
grandfather, while she returned to her room, and
striking a light, abandoned herself to the reading of
the valedictory; and as she read it seemed even to her
that she had heard some portion of it before.

"Yes, I have!" she exclaimed, as she came upon a
strikingly expressed and peculiar idea. "I have read
that in print," and in Jessie's heart there was a sore
spot, for the losing confidence in Walter was terrible
to her. "He is not strictly honorable," she said, and
laying her face upon the roll of paper, she cried to
think how she had been deceived.

The next morning Walter was not long in observing
her cold distant manner, and he accordingly became
as cold and formal toward her, addressing her
as Miss Graham, when he spoke to her at all, and
after breakfast was over, going to the village, where
he remained until long past the dinner hour, hearing
that which made him in no hurry to return home and
make his peace with the little dark-eyed beauty.
Everybody was talking of Miss Graham's city beau,
who had taken her to ride so often, and who, when
joked by his familiar landlord, had partially admitted
that an engagement actually existed between them.

"So you've lost her, sleek and clean," said the
talkative Joslyn to Walter, who replied that "it was
difficult losing what one never had," and said distinctly
that "he did not aspire to the honor of Miss
Graham's hand."

But whether he did or not, the story he had
heard was not calculated to improve his state of mind,
and his dejection was plainly visible upon his face
when he at last reached home.

"Jessie was up among the pines," Aunt Debby
said, advising him "to join her and cheer her up a
bit, for she seemed desput low spirited since Mr.
Bellenger went away."

Had Aunt Debby wished to keep Walter from
Jessie, she could not have devised a better plan than
this, for the high spirited young man had no intention
of intruding upon a grief caused by William Bellenger's
absence, and hour after hour Jessie sat alone
among the pines, starting at every sound, and once,
when sure a footstep was near, hiding behind a rock,
"so as to make him think she wasn't there." Then,
when the footstep proved to be a rabbit's tread, she
crept back to her seat upon the grass, and pouted because
it was not Walter.

"He might know I'd be lonesome," she said, "after
receiving so much attention, and he ought to entertain
me a little, if only to pay for all father has done for
him. If there is anything I dislike, it is ingratitude,"
and having reached this point, Jessie burst into tears,
though why she should cry, she could not tell.

She only knew that she was very warm and very
uncomfortable, and that it did her good to cry, so she
lay with her face in the grass, while the rabbit came
several times very near, and at last fled away as a
heavier, firmer step approached.

It was not likely Jessie would stay in the pines all
the afternoon, Walter thought, and as the sun drew
near the western horizon, he said to his grandfather:

"I will go for the cows to-night just as I used to
do," and though the pasture where they fed lay in the
opposite direction from the pines, he bent his footsteps
toward the latter place, and came suddenly upon Jessie,
who was sobbing like a child.

"Jessie," he exclaimed, laying his hand gently
upon her arm, "what *is* the matter."

"Nothing," she replied, "only I'm lonesome and
homesick, and I wish I'd gone to New York with Mr.
Bellenger."

"Why didn't you then?" was Walter's cool reply,
and Jessie answered, angrily:

"I would, if I had known what I do now."

"And pray what do you know now?" Walter
asked, in the same cold, calm, tone, which so exasperated
Jessie that she replied:

"I know you hate me, and I know you didn't write
all that valedictory, and everything."

"Jessie," Walter said, sternly, "what do you mean
about that valedictory. Come, sit by me and tell me
at once."

In Walter's voice there was a tone which, as a
child, Jessie had been wont to obey, and now at his
command she stole timidly to his side upon the rustic
bench, and told him all her suspicions, and the source
from which they originated.

There was a sudden flash of anger in Walter's eye
at his cousin's meanness, and then, with a merry laugh,
he said:

"And it sounded familiar to you, too, did it?
Some parts of it might, I'll admit, for you had heard
them before. Do you remember being at any examination
in Wilbraham, when I took the prize in composition,
or rather declamation? It was said then
that my essay was far beyond my years, and I am
inclined to think it was; for I have written nothing
since which pleased me half so well. I was appointed
valedictorian, as you know, and in preparing my oration
I selected a few of those old ideas and embodied
them in language to suit the occasion. I am hardly
willing to call it plagiarism, stealing from myself, and
I am sure you would never have recognized it either
if Mr. Bellenger had not roused your suspicions. Is
my explanation satisfactory?"

It was perfectly so, for Jessie now remembered
where she had heard something like Walter's valedictory,
and with her doubts removed she became much
like herself again, though she would not admit that
William's insinuations were mere fabrications of his
own. He never heard it before, she knew, but some
of Walter's old Wilbraham associates might have
been present and said in his hearing that it seemed
familiar, and then it would be quite natural for him to
think so too.

Walter did not dispute her, but said:

"What else did my amiable cousin say against
me?"

Clasping her hands over her burning face, Jessie
answered faintly:

"He told me that your father had done a horrible
thing, though he didn't explain what it was. I knew
before that there was something unpleasant, and once
asked father about it, but he wouldn't tell, and I want
so much to know. What was it, Walter?"

For a moment Walter hesitated, then drawing
Jessie nearer to him, he replied:

"It will pain me greatly to tell you that sad story,
but I would rather you should hear it from my lips
than from any other," and then, unmindful of the
cows, which, having waited long for their accustomed
summons, were slowly wending their way homeward,
he began the story as follows:

"You know that old stone building on the hill
near the village, and you have heard also that it was
a flourishing high school for girls. There one pleasant
summer my mother came. She was spending several
months with a family who occupied what is now
that huge old ruin down by the river side. Mother
was beautiful, they say, and so my father thought,
for every leisure moment found him at her side."

"But wasn't she a great deal richer than he," Jessie
asked, unconscious of the pang her question inflicted
upon her companion, who replied:

"Yes, he was poor, while Ellen Bellenger was rich,
but she had a soul above the foolish distinction the
world will make between the wealthy and the working
class. She loved my father, and he loved her. At
last they were engaged, and then he proposed writing
to her parents, as he would do nothing dishonorable;
but she begged him not to do it, for she knew how
proud they were, and that they would take her home
at once. And so, in an unguarded moment, they went
together over the line into New York, where they
were married. The Bellengers, of course, were fearfully
enraged, denouncing her at once, and bidding
her never cross their threshold again. But this only
drew her nearer to her husband, who fairly worshiped
her, as did the entire family,—for she lived in the old
gable-roofed house,—and was happy in that little
room which we call yours now. Father was anxious
that she should have everything she wanted, and it is
said was sometimes very extravagant, buying for her
costly luxuries which he could not well afford."

"But *my* father," said Jessie. "What had he to
do with it?"

"Everything," returned Walter, with bitterness.
"Old Mr. Graham had a bank in Deerwood. Your
father was cashier, while mine was teller, and in consideration
of a large remuneration, performed a menial's
part, such as sweeping the rooms, building the
fires in winter, and of course he kept the keys. They
were great friends, Richard Graham and Seth Marshall,
and people likened them to David and Jonathan.
At last one of the large bills my father had made
came due, and on that very night the bank was robbed
of more than a thousand dollars."

"Oh, Walter, how could he do it?" cried Jessie,
and Walter replied:

"He didn't! He was as innocent as I, who was
then unborn. Listen while I tell you. There was in
town a dissipated, good-natured fellow, named Heyward,
who had sometimes taught singing-school, and
sometimes fiddled for country dances. No one knew
how he managed to subsist, for he dressed well, traveled
a great deal, and was very liberal with his money,
when he had any. Still none suspected him of dishonesty;
he did not know enough for that, they said.
Everybody liked him, and when on that night he came
to our house, apparently intoxicated, and asked for a
shelter, grandfather bade him stay, and assigned him
a back room in which was an outer door. In the
morning he was, or seemed to be, still in a drunken
sleep. Your father brought the news of the robbery,
and while he talked he looked suspiciously at mine,
especially when my mother said innocently:

"'The burglars must have tried this house, too,
for I woke in the night, and finding my husband gone,
called to him to know where he was. Presently he
came in, saying he thought he heard a noise and got
up to find what it was.'

"When she said this Mr. Graham changed color,
and pointing to my father's shoes, which stood upon
the hearth, he asked:

"'How came these so muddy? It was not raining
at bedtime last night.'

"This was true. A heavy storm had arisen after
ten and subsided before twelve, so that the shoes must
have been worn since that hour, as there was fresh
dirt still upon them. The robber had been tracked to
our door, while there were corresponding marks from
our door to the bank. My father's shoes just fitted in
these tracks, for they measured them with the wretched
man looking on in a kind of torpid apathy, as if utterly
unable to comprehend the meaning of what he saw;
but when Richard, his best friend, whispered to him
softly, 'Confess it, Seth. Give up the money and it
won't go so hard against you,' the truth burst upon
him, and he dropped to the ground like one scathed
with the lightning's stroke. For hours he lay in that
death-like swoon, and when he came back to consciousness
he was guarded by the officers of the law.
They led him off in the care of a constable, he all the
time protesting his innocence, save at intervals when
he refused to speak, but sat with a look upon his face
as if bereft of reason.

"The examination came on, and the upper room,
where the court was held, was crowded to overflowing,
all anxious to gain a sight of my father, though they
had known him from boyhood up. Grandpa was
there, and close behind sat or rather crouched my
wretched mother. She would not be kept back, and
with a face as white as marble, and hands locked
firmly together, she sat to hear the testimony. Once
the counsel for my father thought to clear him by
throwing suspicion upon Heyward, who with a most
foolish expression upon his face had declared that he
heard nothing during the night. People would rather
it had been he than Seth Marshall, and the tide was
turning in favor of the latter when Richard Graham
was called to the stand. He was known to be my
father's dearest friend, and the audience waited
breathlessly to hear what he would say. He testified
that, having been very restless, he got up about two
o'clock in the morning, and as his window commanded
a full view of the bank, he naturally looked in that
direction. The moon was setting, but he could still
discern objects with tolerable distinctness, and he saw
a man come out of the bank, lock the door, put the
key in his pocket, and hurry down the street. My
father then wore a light gray coat and cap of the
same color, so did this man, and thinking it must be
he, Mr. Graham called him by name; but if he heard
he did not stop. Mr. Graham then remembered that
the day before my father had procured some medicine
for my mother, and had forgotten to take it home.
This threw some light upon the matter, and thinking
that mother had probably been taken suddenly ill and
my father had gone for the medicine, Mr. Graham retired
again to rest, and gave it no further thought
until the robbery was discovered.

"'Do you believe the man you saw leaving the
bank to have been the prisoner?' asked the lawyer,
and for an instant Mr. Graham hesitated, for with the
white stony face of his early friend upturned to his
and the supplicating eyes of the young wife fixed
upon him, how could he answer yes? But he did,
Jessie,—he did it at last. He said, 'I do,' and over
the white face there passed a look of agony which
wrung a groan even from your father's lips, while the
pale young creature not far away rocked to and fro in
her hopeless desolation."

"Oh, Walter, Walter!" cried Jessie, "don't tell
me any more. I see now so plain that fair girl-wife
crouching on the floor and my father testifying
against her. How could he?"

Walter had asked himself that question many a
time, and his bosom had swelled with resentment at
the act; but now, when Jessie, too, questioned the
justice of the proceeding, he answered:

"It was right I suppose,—all right. Mr. Graham
believed that to which he testified, and when he left
the stand he wound his arms around my father's neck
and said:

"'God forgive me, Seth, I couldn't help it.'"

"But he could," said Jessie; "he needn't have
told all he knew."

Walter made no reply to this; he merely went on
with his story:

"Then the decision came. There was proof sufficient
for the case to be presented before the grand
jury, and unless bail could be found to the amount of
one thousand dollars, my father must go to jail, there
to await his trial at the county court, which would
hold its next session in three weeks. When the decision
was made known, my father pressed his hands
tightly over his heart for a moment, and then he
clasped them to his ears as the deep stillness in the
room was broken by the plaintive cry:

"'Save my husband, somebody. Oh, save my darling
husband!'

"The next moment my mother fell at his feet, a
crushed, lifeless thing, her hair falling down her face
and a blue, pinched look about her lips, while my
father bent over her, his tears falling like rain upon
her face. Everybody cried, and when the question
was asked, 'Who will go the prisoner's bail?' your
father answered aloud:

"'I will.'"

"Oh, I am so glad!" gasped Jessie, while Walter
continued:

"With Mr. Graham for security, they let my poor
father go home; but a mighty blow had fallen upon
him, benumbing all his faculties; he could neither
think, nor talk, nor act, but would sit all day with
mother's hands in his, gazing into her face and whispering
sometimes:

"'What will my darling do when I am in State
prison?'

"Such would be his fate, everybody said. It
could not be avoided, and in a kind of feverish
despair he waited the result. Your father was with
him often, 'keeping watch,' the villagers said; but if
so, he was not vigilant enough, for one dark, stormy
night, the last before the dreadful sitting of the court,
when the wind roared and howled about the old farm-house,
and the heavy autumnal rain beat against the
windows, my father drew his favorite chair, the one
which always stands in that dark corner, and which
none save you has ever used since then, he drew it, I
say, to my mother's side, and winding his arms about
her neck, he said:

"'Ellen, do you believe me guilty?'

"'No, never for a moment,' she replied, and he
continued:

"'Heaven bless you, precious one, for that. Teach
our child to think the same, and give it a father's
blessing.'

"My mother was too much bewildered to answer,
and with a kiss upon her lips, my father turned to his
father and standing up before him, said:

"'I know what's in your heart; but, father, I
swear to you that I am innocent. Bless me, father—bless
your only boy once more.'

"Then grandpa put his trembling hand upon the
brown locks of his son and said:

"'I would lay down my life to know that you are
not guilty; but I bless you all the same, and may God
bless you too, my boy!'

"In the bedroom grandmother lay sick, and kneeling
by her side, my father said to her:

"'Do you believe I did it?'

"'No,' she answered faintly, and without his asking
it, she gave him her blessing.

"He kissed his sister,—kissed Aunt Debby, and
then he went away. They saw his face, white as a
corpse, pressed against the window pane, while his
eyes were riveted upon his beautiful young wife,—then
the face was gone, and only the storm went sobbing
past the place where he had stood. All that night the
light burned on the table, and they waited his return,
but from that hour to this he has not come back. He
could not go to prison, and so he ran away. Mr.
Graham paid the bail, and was heard to say that he
was glad poor Seth escaped. I did not quite understand
the matter when I was a boy, and I almost
hated your father for testifying against him, but I
know now he did what he thought was right. It is
said he loved my Aunt Mary, Ellen's mother, and that
she loved him in return, but after this sad affair there
arose a coolness between them. He went to New
York and married a more fashionable woman, while
she, too, chose another."

"Did they ever find the money?" Jessie asked,
and Walter replied:

"Never, though Aunt Debby says that Heyward
indulged in a new suit of clothes soon after, and gave
various other tokens of being abundantly supplied.
No one knows where he is now, for he left Deerwood
years ago."

"And your mother," interrupted Jessie, "tell me
more of her."

The night shadows were falling, and she could not
see the look of pain on Walter's face as he replied:

"For a few days she watched to see father coming
back, for suspense was more terrible than reality, and
those who were his friends before said his going off
looked badly. From Boston her proud relatives sent
her a double curse for bringing this disgrace upon
them, and then she took her bed, never to rise again.
The first October frosts had fallen when they laid me
in her arms and bade her live for her baby's sake.
But five days after I was born she lay dead beneath
that western window where you so often sit. Then
the proud mother relented and came to the funeral,
but she has never been here since. Your father was
present, too,—he bought the monument; he cried over
me, and wished that he could fill my father's place."

"I wish he could, too," cried the impulsive Jessie,
"I wish you were my brother," and she involuntarily
laid her hand in his. "Have you never heard from
your father?" she asked, and Walter replied:

"Only once. Six months after mother died he
wrote to Mr. Graham from Texas, and that is the very
last. But, Jessie, I shall find him. I shall prove him
innocent, and until then there will always be a load in
my heart,—a something which makes me irritable,
cross and jealous of those I love the best, lest they
should despise me for what I cannot help."

"And is that why you speak so coldly to me sometimes
when I don't deserve it?" Jessie asked, twining
her snowy fingers about his own.

Oh, how Walter longed to fold her in his arms
and tell her how dear she was to him, and that because
he loved her so much he was oftenest harsh with
her. But he dared not. She would not listen to such
words, he knew. She thought of him as her brother,
and he would not disturb the dream, so he answered
her gently:

"Am I cross to you, Jessie? I do not mean to be,
and now that you know all, I will be so no longer.
You do not hate me, do you, because of my misfortune?"

"Hate you, Walter! Oh, no! I love,—I mean
I like you so much better than I did when I came up
here this afternoon and cried with my face in the
grass. I pity you, Walter, for it seems terrible to
live with that disgrace hanging over you."

Walter winced at these last words, and Jessie, as
if speaking more to herself than him, continued:

"I hope Will won't tell grandma who you are, for
she is so proud that she might make me feel very uncomfortable
by fretting every time I spoke to you.
Walter," and the tone of Jessie's voice led Walter to
expect some unpleasant remark, "you know father
has intended to have you live with us, but if William
tells grandma, it will be better for you to board somewhere
else,—grandma can be very disagreeable if she
tries, and she would annoy us almost to death."

Jessie was perfectly innocent in all she said, but in
spite of his recent promise Walter felt his old jealousy
rising up, and whispering to him that Jessie
spoke for herself rather than her grandmother.
With a great effort, however, he mastered the emotion
and replied:

"It will be better, I think, and I will write to your
father at once."

Jessie little dreamed what it cost Walter thus deliberately
to give up seeing her every day, and living
with her beneath the same roof. It had been the
goal to which he had looked forward through all his
college course, for when he entered on his first year
Mr. Graham had written:

"After you are graduated I shall take you into
business, and into my own family, as if you were my
son."

And Jessie herself had vetoed this,—had said it
must not be.

For an instant Walter felt that he would not go to
New York at all; but when he saw how closely Jessie
nestled to his side, and heard her say, "You can come
to see me every day, and when I am going to concerts,
or the opera, I shall always send word to you
by father," he rejected his first suspicions as unjust.

She was not ashamed of him,—she only wished to
screen him from her grandmother's ill nature, and,
winding his arm around her, he said:

"You are a good girl, Jessie, and I'm glad you
think of me as a brother."

But he was not glad. He did not wish her to be
his sister, but he tried to make himself believe he did,
and as in the pines where they sat it was already very
dark, he proposed their returning home. Jessie was
unusually silent during the walk, for she was thinking
of Walter's young mother, and as they passed the
grave-yard in the distance, she sighed:

"Poor dear lady! I don't wonder you are often
sad with that memory haunting you."

"I should not be sad," he returned, "if I could
bring the world to my opinion; but nearly all except
Aunt Debby believe him guilty."

"Does my father?" asked Jessie, and as Walter
replied, "Yes," she rejoined: "Then I'm afraid I
think so too, for father knows; but," she hastily
added, as she felt the gesture of impatience Walter
made, "I like you just the same,—yes, a great deal
better than before I heard the story. It isn't as bad
as I supposed, and I am so glad you told it. Will
Bellenger won't make me distrust you again."

By this time they had reached the house, where
the deacon sat smoking his accustomed pipe, and saying
to Walter as he entered:

"Where are the cows you went after more than
three hours ago?"

Walter colored, and so did Jessie, while the matter-of-fact
Aunt Debby rejoined:

"Why, Amos, the cows is milked and the cream is
nigh about riz."

That night, after all had retired except the deacon
and Walter, the former said to his grandson:

"What kept you and Jessie so late?"

"I was telling her of my father, and why he went
away," returned Walter.

The deacon groaned as he always did when that
subject was mentioned,—then after a moment he
added:

"I am glad it was no worse,—that is, I'm glad you
are not betraying Mr. Graham's trust by making love
to his daughter."

Walter was very pale, but he did not speak, and
his grandfather continued:

"I am old, Walter, but I have not forgotten the
days when I was young; and remembering my disposition
then, I can see why you should love Jessie
Graham. God bless her! She's worthy of any man's
best love, and she's wound herself round my old heart
till the sound of her voice is sweet to me almost as
Ellen's; but she isn't for you, Walter. I know Mr.
Graham better than you do. He's noble and good,
but very proud, and the daughter of a millionaire
must never marry the son of a poor——"

"Don't!" cried Walter, catching his grandfather's
arm. "I understand it all,—I know that I am poor,
know what the world says of my father, and I will
suffer through all time sooner than ask the bright-faced
Jessie to share one iota of our shame. But
were my father innocent, I would never rest until I
made myself a name which even Jessie Graham would
not despise, for I love her, grandpa,—love her better
than my life," and as after this confession he could
not look his grandfather in the face, he stared hard at
the candle dying in its socket, as if he would fain read
there some token that what he so much desired would
one day come to pass.

And he did read it too, for with a last great effort
the expiring flame sent up a flash of light, which shone
on Walter's face and that of the gray-haired man regarding
him with a look of tender pity. Then it
passed away, and the darkness fell between them just
as the old man said, mournfully:

"There is no hope, my boy,—no hope for you."




CHAPTER VI.—OLD MRS. BARTOW.
============================


The good lady sat in her chamber wiping
the perspiration from her ruddy face, and
occasionally peering out into the pleasant
street, with a longing desire to escape from her
self-imposed prison, and breathe the air again in her
accustomed walks. But this she dared not do, lest it
should be discovered that she was not away from
home and enjoying some little pent-up room in the
third story of a crowded hotel. Occasionally, too,
she thought with a sigh of the clover fields, the
fresh, green grass and shadowy woods, where Jessie
was really enjoying herself, without the trouble of
dressing three times a day, and then swelling with
vexation because some one else out-did her.

"If she don't come with William, I mean to go
down there and see what this family are like that she
makes such a fuss about," she said. "Marshall? Marshall?
The name sounds familiar, but it isn't likely I
ever knew them. If I supposed I had, I wouldn't stir
a step."

At this point in her soliloquy a servant appeared,
saying "Mr. Bellenger wished to see her," and putting
in her teeth, for it tired her to wear them all the time,
and adjusting her lace cap, the old lady went down to
meet the young man, who had just returned from
Deerwood. Numberless were the questions she asked
concerning her granddaughter. Was she well? was
she happy? was she sun-burned? were her hands
scratched with briers? and what kind of people were
these Marshalls?

To this last William hastened to reply:

"Clever country people, very kind to Jessie, and
well they may be, for if I've the least discernment,
they hope to have her in their family one of these
days."

"What can you mean?" and the old lady's salts
were brought into frequent use, while William, in his
peculiar way, told her of Walter Marshall, who he
said "was undoubtedly presuming enough to aspire to
Jessie's hand."

"What, that boy that Richard educated?" Mrs.
Bartow asked, growing very red and very warm
withal.

"Yes," returned William; "but the fact of his
being a charity student is not the worst feature in the
case. It pains me greatly to talk upon the subject,
but duty requires me to tell you just who Walter is,"
and assuming a half-reluctant, half-mortified tone,
Will told Mrs. Bartow how Walter was connected
with himself and the "terrible disgrace" of which she
had written to Jessie in her last letter.

For a moment the old lady fancied herself choking
to death, but she managed at last to scream:

"You don't say that he has dared to think of
Jessie, the daughter of a millionaire, and the granddaughter
of a——"

She was too much overcome to finish the sentence,
and she sank back in her chair, while her cap-strings
floated up and down with the rapid motion of her fan.

"I'll go for her at once," she said, when at last she
found her voice. "I'll see this Mr. Impudence for
myself. I'll teach him what is what. Oh, I hope
Mrs. Reeves won't find it out. Don't tell her, Mr.
Bellenger."

"I am as anxious to conceal the fact as you are,"
he replied, "for he, you know, is a relative of mine,
although our family do not acknowledge him." And
having done all he came to do, the nice young man
departed, while the greatly disturbed lady began to
pack her trunk preparatory to a start for Deerwood.

In the midst of her preparations she was surprised
by the unexpected return of Mr. Graham, to whom she
at once disclosed the cause of her distress, asking him
"if he wished his daughter to marry Walter Marshall,
whose father was a——"

She didn't quite know what, for William had not
made that point very clear.

"I do not wish her to marry any one as yet,"
returned Mr. Graham, at the same time asking if
Walter had proposed, or shown any signs of so doing.

"Of course he's shown signs," returned Mrs. Bartow,
"but I trust Jessie has enough of the Stanwood
about her to keep him at a proper distance."

"Enough of the what?" asked Mr. Graham, with
the least possible smile playing about his mouth.

"Well, enough of the Bartow," returned the lady.
"The very idea of receiving into our family a person
of his antecedents!"

In a few words Mr. Graham gave her his opinion
of Walter Marshall, adding:

"I do not say that I would like him to marry Jessie,—very
likely I should not,—and still, if I knew
that she loved him and he loved her, I should not
think it my duty to oppose them seriously, though I
would rather, of course, that the unfortunate affair of
his father's had never occurred."

This was all the satisfaction Mrs. Bartow could
gain from him, and doubly strengthened in her determination
to remove Jessie from Walter's society,
she started the next morning for Deerwood, reaching
there toward the close of the day succeeding Jessie's
interview with Walter in the pines.

"Not this tumble-down shanty, surely?" she said
to the omnibus driver when he stopped before the
gate of the farm-house.

"Yes'm, this is Deacon Marshall's," he replied, and
mounting his box again he drove off, while she went
slowly up the walk, casting contemptuous glances at
the well-sweep, the smoke-house, the bee-hives, the
hollyhocks, poppies and pinks, which, in spite of herself,
carried her back to a time, years and years and
years ago, when she had lived in just such a place as
this, save that it was not so cheerful or so neat.

Aunt Debby was the first to spy her, and she called
to her niece:

"Why, Mary, just look-a-here! There's a lady all
dressed up in her meetin' clothes, a-comin' in. I wish
we had mopped the kitchen floor to-day. There, she's
gone to the front door. I presume the gals has littered
the front hall till it's a sight to behold."

Mrs. Bartow's loud knock was now distinctly heard,
and as Mrs. Howland had not quite finished her afternoon
toilet, Aunt Debby herself went to answer the
summons. Holding fast to her knitting, with the ball
rolling after her, and Jessie's kitten running after that,
she presented herself before her visitor, courtesying
very low, and asking if "she'd walk into the t'other
room, or into the kitchen, where it was a great deal
cooler."

Mrs. Bartow chose the "t'other room," and taking
the Boston rocker, asked "if Miss Graham was staying
here?"

"You mean Jessie," returned Aunt Debby. "It's
so cool this afternoon that she's gone out ridin' hossback
in the mountains with Walter and Ellen. Be
you any of her kin?"

"I'm her grandmother, and have come to take her
home," answered the lady, frowning wrathfully at the
idea of Jessie's riding with Walter Marshall.

"I want to know!" returned Aunt Debby.
"We'll be desput sorry to lose her jest as Walter has
come home, and he thinks so much of her, too."

Mrs. Bartow was too indignant to speak, but Aunt
Debby, who was not at all suspicious, talked on just
the same, praising first Walter, then Ellen, then Jessie,
and then giving an outline history of her whole
family, even including Seth, who she said "allus was
a good boy."

If Aunt Debby expected a return of confidence
she was mistaken, for Mrs. Bartow had nothing to say
of her family, and after a little Aunt Debby began to
question her. Was she city-born, and if not, where
was she born?

"That red mark on your chin makes me think of
a girl, Patty Loomis by name, that I used to know in
Hopkinton," she said, and the mark upon the chin
grew redder as she continued: "I did housework
there once, in Squire Fielding's family, and this Patty
that I was tellin' you about done chores in a family
close by. She was some younger than me, but I remember
her by that mark, similar to your'n, and because
she was connected to them three Thayers that
was hung in York State for killin' John Love. There
was some han'some verses made about it, and I used
to sing the whole of 'em, but my memory's failin' me
now. I wonder what's become of Patty. I haven't
thought of her before in an age. I heard that a rich
old widder took her for her own child, and that's all I
ever knew. She was smart as steel, and could milk
seven cows while I was milkin' three. There they come,
on the full canter of course. Ellen 'll get her neck
broke some day," and greatly to the relief of Mrs. Bartow
she changed the conversation from Patty Loomis
and the three Thayers who were hung, to the three
riders dashing up to the gate, Jessie a little in advance,
with her black curls streaming out from under her
riding hat, and her cheeks glowing with the exercise.

"Why, grandma!" she exclaimed, as holding up
her long skirt, she bounded into the house, and nearly
upset the old lady before she was aware of her presence.
"Where in the world did you come from?
Isn't it pleasant and nice out here?" and throwing off
her hat, Jessie sat down by the window to cool herself
after her rapid ride.

"Why, grandma, you are as cross as two sticks,"
she said, when Aunt Debby had left the room, and
grandma replied:

"That's a very lady-like expression. Learned it
of Mr. Marshall, I suppose."

"No, I didn't," returned Jessie. "I learned it of
Will Bellenger when he was here. It's his favorite
expression. Did he bring you my note?"

"Certainly; and I've come down to see what the
attraction is which keeps you here so contentedly."

"Oh, it's so nice," returned Jessie, and Mrs. Bartow
rejoined:

"I should think it was. Who ever heard of a bed
in the parlor now-a-days?" and she cast a rueful glance
at the snowy mountain in the corner.

"That's a little out of date, I know," answered
Jessie; "but the house is rather small, and they keep
the spare bed in here for such visitors as you are.
The sheets are all of Aunt Debby's make, she spun
the linen on a wheel that treads so funny. Did you
ever see a little wheel, grandma?"

The question reminded Mrs. Bartow of Patty Loomis
and the three Thayers, and she did not reply
directly to it, but said instead:

"What did you call that woman?"

"Aunt Debby Marshall, the deacon's sister," returned
Jessie, and Mrs. Bartow relapsed into a
thoughtful mood, from which she was finally aroused
by hearing Walter's voice in the kitchen.

Instantly she glanced at Jessie, who involuntarily
blushed; and then the old lady commenced the battle
at once, telling Jessie plainly that "she had come
down to take her home before she disgraced them all
by suffering a boy of Walter Marshall's reputation to
make love to her."

"Walter never thought of making love to me,"
returned the astonished and slightly indignant Jessie;
"and if he had it wouldn't have been anybody's business
but mine and father's. He isn't a boy, either.
He's a splendid-looking man. Pa thinks the world of
him; and he knows, too, about that old affair, which
wasn't half as bad as Will and Mrs. Reeves seem to
think. Walter told it to me last night up in the
pines, and I'll tell it to you. It wasn't murder nor
anything like it. Now, even I shouldn't wish it said
that any of my friends were hung."

"Hung!" repeated the old lady. "Who said
anybody's friends were hung? It's false!" and the
red mark around the lip wore a scarlet hue.

"Of course it's false," answered Jessie. "That's
what I said. Nobody knows for certain that he stole,
either," and forgetting her own belief, founded on her
father's, Jessie tried to prove that Seth Marshall was
as innocent as Walter himself had declared him to
be.

"Whether he's guilty or not," returned Mrs. Bartow,
"you are going home, and you're to have nothing
to say to Walter. It would sound pretty, wouldn't it,
for Mrs. Reeves to be telling that Jessie Graham
liked a poor charity boy?"

Jessie was proud, and the last words grated harshly,
but she would stand by Walter, and she replied:

"Mrs. Reeves forever! I believe you'd stop
breathing if she said it was fashionable. I wonder
who she was in her young days. Somebody not half
so good as Walter, I dare say. I mean to ask Aunt
Debby. She has lived since the flood, and knows the
history of everybody that ever was born in New England,
or out of it either, for that matter."

Mrs. Bartow was not inclined to doubt this after
her own experience, and as in case there was anything
about Mrs. Reeves, she wished to know it, she secretly
hoped Jessie would carry her threat into execution.
Just then they were summoned to supper, and following
her granddaughter into the pleasant sitting-room,
Mrs. Bartow frowned majestically upon Walter, bowed
coldly to the other members of the family, and then
took her seat, thinking to herself:

"The boy has a little of the Bellenger look, and, if
anything, is handsomer than William."

The tea being passed, with the biscuit and butter
and honey, and the cheese contemptuously refused by
the city guest, Jessie said to Aunt Debby:

"Did you ever know anybody by the name of
Gregory? That was Mrs. Reeves' maiden name,
wasn't it, grandma?"

Mrs. Bartow nodded, and Aunt Debby, after withdrawing
within herself for a moment, came out again
and said:

"Yes, I knew Tim and Ben Gregory in Spencer.
Ben was the best of the two, but he wa'n't none too
likely. He had six boys, and Tim had six gals."

"What were their names?" asked Jessie, and Aunt
Debby replied:

"There was Zeruah, and Lyddy, and Charlotty——"

"That'll do!" cried Jessie, her delight dancing in
her eyes. "What was their father, and where are the
girls now?"

"Their father was a tin peddler, and what he
didn't get that way folks said he used to steal, though
they never proved it ag'in him. Charlotty and I was
'bout of an age."

"I knew she was older than she pretended,"
thought Mrs. Bartow, and in her joy at having probably
discovered her dear friend's genealogy, she took
two biscuits instead of one.

"She worked in Lester factory a spell, and then,
after she was quite along in years, say thirty or more,
she married somebody who was a storekeeper, and
went somewhere, and I believe I've heard that she
finally moved to New York."

"Can't you think of her husband's name," persisted
Jessie, and Aunt Debby replied:

"Twan't very far from Reed, but it's so long ago,
and I've been through so much since, that I can't
justly remember."

Neither was it necessary that she should, for Mrs.
Bartow and Jessie were satisfied with what she could
remember, and nothing doubting that Charlotte
Gregory was now the exceedingly aristocratic and
purse-proud Mrs. Reeves, whose granddaughter was a
kind of rival to Jessie, they returned to the parlor,
Mrs. Bartow repeating at intervals:

"A tin peddler and a factory girl, and she holding
her head so high."

"She's none the worse for that, if she'd behave
herself, and not put on such airs," said Jessie. "I
wouldn't wonder if some of my ancestors were tinkers
or chimney sweeps. I mean to ask Aunt Debby.
Let's see. Your name wasn't really Martha Stanwood,
was it? Weren't you an adopted child?"

"Jessie!" and in the startled lady's voice there
was such unmitigated alarm and distress that Jessie
turned quickly to look at her. "Do let that old crone
alone. If there's anything I hate it's a person that
knows everybody's history, they are so disagreeable,
and make one so uncomfortable, though I'm glad to
be sure, that I've found out who Mrs. Reeves was.
Just to think how she talks about high birth and all
that,—born in a garret, I dare say."

"She don't put on a bit more than you do," said
the saucy Jessie, thinking to herself that she would
some time quiz Aunt Debby concerning her grandmother's
past.

That night, after Jessie had retired, Mrs. Bartow
asked for a few moments' conversation with Walter, to
whom she had scarcely spoken the entire evening
Quick to detect a slight, he assumed his haughtiest
bearing, and rather overawed the old lady, who fidgetted
in her chair, and pulled at her cap, and then began:

"It is very unpleasant for me to say to you what I
must, but duty to Miss Graham, and justice to you,
demands that I should speak. From things which I
have heard and seen, I infer that you,—or rather I'm
afraid that you,—in short, it's just possible you are
thinking too much of Miss Graham," and having
gotten thus far, the old lady gave a sigh of relief,
while the young man, with a proud inclination of the
head, said coolly:

"And what then?"

This roused her, and muttering to herself, "Such
impudence!" she continued:

"I should suppose your own sense would tell you
what then! Of course nothing can ever come of it,
for even were you her equal in rank and wealth, you
must know there is a stain upon your name which
must never be imparted to the Grahams."

"Madam," said Walter, "you will please confine
your remarks to me personally, and say nothing of my
father."

"Well, then," returned the lady. "You, personally,
are not a fit husband for Jessie."

"Have I ever asked to be her husband?" he said.

"Not in words, perhaps, but you show it in your
manner both to me and others, and this is what
brought me here. Jessie is young and easily influenced,
and might possibly, in an unguarded moment,
do as foolish a thing as your mother did."

There was a feeling of intense delight beaming in
Walter's eyes, for the idea that Jessie could in any
way be induced to marry him was a blissful one; but
it quickly passed off as Mrs. Bartow continued:

"It would break her father's heart should she thus
throw herself away, while you would prove yourself
most ungrateful for all he has done for you."

This was touching Walter in a tender point, and
the pride of his nature flashed in his dark eyes as he
replied:

"Let me know Mr. Graham's wishes, and they
shall be obeyed."

"Well, then," returned the lady, "I asked him if
he would like to have his daughter marry you, and he
replied—" she hesitated before uttering the falsehood,
while Walter bent forward eagerly to listen. "He
said he certainly would not, and with his approbation
I came down to remove her from temptation."

Walter was very white, and something like a
groan escaped him, for he felt that Jessie was indeed
wrested from him, and he began to see that he had
always cherished a secret hope of winning her some
day. But the dream was over now. She, he knew,
would never disobey her father, while he himself
would not return the many kindnesses received from
his benefactor with ingratitude.

"Tell Mr. Graham from me," he said at last,
almost in a whisper, "that he need have no fears, for
I pledge you my word of honor that I will never ask
Jessie Graham to be my wife, unless the time should
come when I am by the world acknowledged her
equal, and when I promise this, Mrs. Bartow, I tear
out, as it were, the dearest, purest affection of my
heart, for I do love Jessie Graham; I see it now as
clearly as I see that I must kill that love. Not because
you ask it of me, Madam," and he assumed a
haughty tone, "but because it is the wish of the best
friend I ever knew. He need not fear when I am
with her in New York. I will keep my place, whatever
that may be, and when I call on Jessie, as I shall
sometimes do, it will be a brother's call, and nothing
more. Will you be satisfied with this?"

"Yes, more than satisfied," and Mrs. Bartow
offered him her hand.

He took it mechanically, and as he turned away
the lady thought to herself:

"He is a noble fellow, and so handsome, too, but
William looks almost as well. Didn't he give it up
quick when I mentioned Mr. Graham. I wonder if
that was a lie I told. I only left off a little, that was
all," and framing excuses for her duplicity, the old
lady retired for the night.

They were to leave in the morning, and Jessie
seemed unusually sad when she came out to breakfast,
for the inmates of the farm-house were very dear to
her.

"You'll come to New York soon, won't you?" she
said to Walter, when, after breakfast, she joined him
under the maple tree.

At the sound of her voice he started, and looking
down into her bright, sunny face, felt a thrill of pain.
Involuntarily he took her hand in his, and said:

"I have been thinking that I may not come at
all."

"Why, Walter, yes you will; father will be so
disappointed. I believe he anticipates it even more
than I."

"But your grandmother," he suggested, and Jessie
rejoined:

"Don't mind grandma; she's always fidgetty if
anybody looks at me, but when she sees that we really
and truly are brother and sister, she'll get over it."

There was a tremulous tone in Jessie's voice, as she
said this, and it fell very sweetly on Walter's ear,
for it said to him that he might possibly be something
more than a brother to the beautiful girl who
stood before him with blushing cheeks and half-averted
eyes.

"Jessie, Jessie!" called Mrs. Bartow from the
house, and Jessie ran in to finish packing her trunks
and don her traveling dress.

Once, as Aunt Debby slipped into her satchel a
paper of "doughnuts and cheese, to save buying a
dinner," Jessie could not forbear saying:

"Oh, Aunt Debby! I think I know that Charlotty
Gregory, who used to live in Leicester. She's
Mrs. Reeves now, and the greatest lady in New York;
rides in her carriage with colored coachman and footman
in livery, wears a host of diamonds, and lives in
a brownstone house up town."

"Wall, if I ever," Aunt Debby exclaimed, sitting
down in her surprise on Mrs. Bartow's bonnet.
"Reeves was the name, come to think. Drives a nigger,
did you say? She used to be as black as one herself,
but a clever, lively gal for all of that. With her
first earnin's in the factory she bought her mother a
calico gown, and her sister Betsey a pair of shoes."

"Betsey," repeated Jessie, turning to her
grandmother, "that must be Mrs. Reeves' invalid sister,
whom Charlotte calls Aunt Lizzie. Very few people
ever see her."

"Wa'n't over bright," whispered Aunt Debby,
continuing aloud: "How I'd like to see Miss Reeves
once more. Give her my regrets, and tell her if I
should ever come to the city I shall call on her; but
she mustn't feel hurt if I don't. I'm getting old fast."

Jessie laughed aloud as she fancied Mrs. Reeves'
amazement at receiving Aunt Debby's regrets, and as
the omnibus was by that time at the door, she
hastened her preparations, and soon stood at the gate,
bidding her friends good-by. For an instant Walter
held her hand in his, but his manner was constrained,
and Jessie bit her lip to keep back the tears which
finally found a lodgment on Ellen's neck. The two
young girls were tenderly attached, and both wept
bitterly at parting, Jessie crying for Ellen and
Walter, too, and Ellen for Jessie and the man whom
she, ere long, would meet.

"What shall I tell Will for you?" Jessie asked,
leaning from the omnibus and looking in Ellen's face,
which had never been so white and thin before.

From the maple tree above her head a withered
leaf came rustling down, and fell upon Ellen's hair.
Brushing it away, she answered mournfully:

"Tell him the leaves are beginning to fade."

"That's a strange message for her to send, but she
speaks the truth," Walter thought, and after the
omnibus had rolled away, and he walked slowly to the
house, he felt that for him more than the leaves were
fading,—that the blossoms of hope which he had nurtured
in his heart were torn from their roots, and
dying beneath the chilly breath of fashion and caste.




CHAPTER VII.—HUMAN NATURE.
==========================


It was the night of Charlotte Reeves' grand
party, which had been talked about for
weeks, and more than one passer-by
paused in the keen February air to look at the brilliantly-lighted
house, where the song, the flirtation,
the dance, and the gossip went on, and to which, at a
late hour, Mrs. Bartow came, and with her Jessie
Graham. Walter accompanied them, for Mr. Graham
had asked him to be their escort, and Walter never
refused a request from one who, since his residence in
the city, had been to him like a father rather than a
friend.

Mr. Graham had evinced much surprise when told
that Walter would rather some other house should be
his home, but Jessie, too, had said that it was better
so, and looking into her eyes, which told more tales
than she supposed, Mr. Graham saw that Walter was
not indifferent to his only child, nor was he displeased
that it was so, and when Walter came to the city he
found to his surprise that he was not to be the clerk,
but the junior partner of his friend, who treated him
with a respect and thoughtful kindness which puzzled
him greatly. Especially was he astonished when Mr.
Graham, as he often did, asked him to go with Jessie
to the places where he could not accompany her.

"He wishes to show me," he thought, "that after
what I said to Mrs. Bartow, he dare trust his daughter
with me as if I were her brother," and Walter felt
more determined than ever not to betray the trust,
but to treat Jessie as a friend and nothing more.

So he called occasionally at the house, where he
often found William Bellenger, and compelled himself
to listen in silence to the flattering speeches his cousin
made to Jessie, who, a good deal piqued at Walter's
apparent coldness, received them far more complacently
than she would otherwise have done, and so the
gulf widened between them, while in the heart of each
there was a restless pain, which neither the gay world
in which Jessie lived, nor yet the busy one where
Walter passed his days, could dissipate. He had absented
himself from Jessie's "come-out party," and
for this offense the young lady had been sorely indignant.

"She wanted Charlotte Reeves and all the girls to
see him, and then to be treated that way was perfectly
horrid," and the beautiful belle pouted many a day
over the young man's obstinacy.

But Charlotte Reeves did see him at last, and
when she learned that he was Mr. Graham's partner,
and much esteemed by that gentleman, she partially
took him up as a card to be played whenever she
wished to annoy William Bellenger, who kept an eye
on her in case he should lose Jessie. The relationship
between the two was not known, for Walter had
no desire to speak of it, and as William vainly fancied
it might reflect discredit on himself, he, too, kept
silent on the subject, while Mrs. Bartow, having received
instructions both from Jessie and her father,
never hinted to her bosom friend and deadliest enemy,
Mrs. Reeves, that the young Marshall whom Charlotte
was patronizing, and who was noticed by all for his
gentlemanly bearing and handsome face, was in any
way connected with the Bellenger disgrace.

After her return from Saratoga, Mrs. Reeves had
been sick for several months, and at the time of the
party was still an invalid, and claimed the privilege of
sitting during the evening. Consequently Mrs. Bartow
had not yet found a favorable opportunity for
wounding her as she intended doing, and when, on the
evening of the party, she entered the crowded rooms,
she made her way to the sofa, and greeting the lady
with her blandest words, told her how delighted she
was to see her in society again, how much she had
been missed, and all the other compliments which
meant worse than nothing. Then taking a mental inventory
of the different articles which made up her
dear friend's dress and comparing them with her own,
she set her costly fan in motion and watched to see
which received the more attention,—Charlotte Reeves
or Jessie. The latter certainly looked the best, as,
arm in arm with Walter, she walked through the parlor,
oblivious to all else in her delight at seeing him
appear so much like himself as he did to-night.

"It's such a pity he's poor," said Mrs. Reeves, as
he was passing. "Do you know I think him by far
the most distinguished looking man in the room,
always excepting, of course, Mr. Bellenger," and she
nodded apologetically to a little pale-faced lady sitting
beside her on the sofa.

This lady she had not seen fit to introduce to her
dear friend, who had scanned her a moment with her
glass, and then pronounced her "somebody." Twice
Walter and Jessie passed, stopping the second time,
while the latter received from her grandmother the
whispered injunction "not to walk with him until
everybody talked."

"Pshaw!" was Jessie's answer, while Mrs. Reeves
slyly congratulated Mr. Marshall on his good luck in
having the belle of the evening so much to himself,
and as they stood there thus the face of the little
silent lady flashed with a sudden light, and touching
Mrs. Reeves when they were gone, she said:

"Who was that young man? You called him
Marshall, didn't you?"

"Yes, Walter Marshall, and he is Mr. Graham's
partner. You know of Mr. Graham,—people call him
a millionaire, but my son says he don't believe it."

This last was lost upon the little lady, who cared
nothing for Mr. Graham, and who continued:

"Where did he come from?"

"Really, I don't know. Perhaps Mrs. Bartow can
enlighten you," and Mrs. Reeves went through with a
form of introduction, speaking the stranger's name so
low, that in the surrounding hum it was entirely lost
on Mrs. Bartow, who bowed, and briefly stated that
Walter was from Deerwood, Mass.

The lady's hands worked nervously together, and
when Walter again drew near, the white, thin face
looked wistfully after him, while the lips moved as if
they would call him back. He was disengaged at last.
Jessie had another gallant in the person of William
Bellenger, Mrs. Bartow's fan moved faster than before,
and Mrs. Reeves was about to make some remark
to her companion, when the latter rose, and crossing
over to where Walter stood, said to him in a low,
pleasant voice:

"Excuse me, Mr. Marshall, but would you object
to walking with me,—an old lady?"

Walter started, and looking earnestly into the
dark eyes, which were full of tears, offered her his
arm, and the two were soon lost amid the gay
throng.

"Who is she? I didn't understand the name,"
Mrs. Bartow asked, her lip dropping suddenly, as Mrs.
Reeves replied:

"Why, that's the honorable Mrs. Bellenger, returned
from a ten years' residence abroad."

"Mrs. Bellenger," Mrs. Bartow repeated. "Is it
possible? I have always had a great desire to make
her acquaintance. How plain, and yet how elegantly
she dresses."

"She is not the woman she used to be," returned
Mrs. Reeves. "She is very much changed, and they
say that during the last year of her sojourn in London
she spent her time in distributing tracts among the
poor, and all that sort of thing. I wonder what she
wants of Mr. Marshall. Wasn't it queer the way she
introduced herself to him?"

"Very," Mrs. Bartow said; but she thought, "not
strange at all," and she was half tempted to tell her
friend the relationship existing between the two.

This she would perhaps have done had not Mrs.
Reeves at that moment directed her attention to William
and Jessie, saying of the former that he seemed
very unhappy.

"The fact is," she whispered, confidentially, "he
never appears at ease unless he is somewhere near
Charlotte. I think he monopolizes her altogether too
much. I tell her so too. But she only laughs, and
says he don't go with her any more than with Jessie
Graham, though everybody knows he does. He likes
Jessie, of course, but Charlotte is his first choice," and
the old lady glanced complacently toward the spot
where her sprightly granddaughter stood surrounded
by a knot of admirers, each of whom had an eye to
her father's coffers as well as to herself.

"The wretch!" thought Mrs. Bartow. "Just as
though William preferred that great, long-necked
thing to Jessie; but I'll be even with her yet. I'll be
revenged when Mrs. Bellenger comes back," and the
fan moved rapidly as Mrs. Bartow thought how crest-fallen
her dear friend would be when she said what
she meant to say to her.

Meantime Mrs. Bellenger had led Walter to a little
ante-room where they would be comparatively free
from observation, and sitting down upon an ottoman,
she bade him, too, be seated. He complied with her
request, and then waited for her to speak, wondering
much who she was, and why she had sought this interview
with him. As Mrs. Reeves had said, Mrs. Bellenger
had for the last ten years resided in different
parts of Europe. She had gone there with her husband
and only surviving daughter, both of whom she
had buried, one among the Grampian Hills, and the
other upon the banks of the blue Rhine. Her youngest
son, who was still unmarried, had joined her there,
but he had become dissipated, and eighteen months
before her return to America she had lain him in a
drunkard's grave. With a breaking heart she returned
to her lonely home in London, dating from that hour
the commencement of another and better life, and now
there was not in the whole world an humbler or more
consistent Christian than the once haughty Mrs. Bellenger.
Many and many a time, when away over the
sea, had her thoughts gone back to her youngest born,
the gentle brown-eyed Ellen, whom she had disowned
because the man she chose was poor, and in bitterness
of heart she had cried:

"Oh, that I had her with me now!"

Then, as she remembered the helpless infant which
she had once held for a brief moment upon her lap,
her heart yearned toward him with all a mother's love,
and she said to herself:

"I will find the boy, and it may be he will comfort
my old age."

On her return to Boston she went to the house of
William's father, but everything there was cold and
ostentatious. They greeted her warmly, it is true,
and paid her marked attention, but she suspected they
did it for the money she had in her possession, for the
family was extravagant and deeply involved in debt.
Once she asked if they knew anything of Ellen's child,
and her son replied that he believed he was a clerk of
some kind in New York, but none of the family had
ever seen him save Will, who had met him once or
twice, and who spoke of him as having a little of the
Bellenger look and bearing.

Then she came to New York and found her grandson
Will, who was less her favorite than ever when
she heard how sneeringly he spoke of Walter. From
his remarks, she did not expect to meet the latter
at the party, but she would find him next day, she
said, and when he entered the room she was too much
absorbed in her own thoughts to notice him, but when
he passed her with Jessie she started, for there was in
his face a look like her dead daughter.

"Can it be that handsome young man is Ellen's
child?" she said, and she waited anxiously till he
appeared again.

He stopped before her then, and with a beating
heart she listened to what they called him, and then
asked who he was.

"It is my boy,—it is," she murmured between her
quivering lips, and as soon as she saw that he was free
she joined him, as we have seen, and led him to another
room.

For a moment she hesitated, as if uncertain what
to say, then, as they were left alone, she began:

"My conduct may seem strange to you, but I cannot
help it. Twenty-five years ago a sweet girlish
voice called me mother, and the face of her who called
me thus was much like yours, young man. She left
me one summer morning, and our house was like a
tomb without her; but she never came back again,
and when I saw her next she lay in her coffin. She
was too young to be lying there, for she was scarcely
twenty. She died with the shadow of my anger resting
on her heart, for when I heard she had married
one whom the world said was not her equal, I cast her
off, I said she was not mine, and from that day to this
the worm of remorse has been gnawing at my heart,
for I hear continually the dying message they said she
left for me: 'Tell mother to love my baby for the
sake of the love she once bore me.' I didn't do it. I
steeled my proud heart even against the little boy.
But I'm yearning for him now,—yearning for that
child to hold up my feeble hands,—to guide my trembling
feet and smooth my pathway down into the valley
which I must tread ere long."

She paused, and covering her face, wept aloud.
Glancing hurriedly around, Walter saw that no one
was very near, and going up to her, he wound his arm
round her, and whispered in her ear:

"My mother's mother,—my grandmother,—I never
expected this from you."

Before Mrs. Bellenger could reply, footsteps were
heard approaching, and William appeared with Jessie.
He had told her of his grandmother's unexpected
arrival that morning, and when she expressed a wish
to see her, he started in quest of her at once. He
knew that he was not a favorite with her, but she
surely would like Jessie, and that might make her
more lenient toward himself; so he had sought for
her everywhere, learning at last from Mrs. Bartow
that she had gone off with Walter.

"Upon my word," he thought, "he has commenced
his operations soon," and a sudden fear came over him
lest Walter should be preferred to himself by the rich
old lady.

And this suspicion was not in the least diminished
by the position of the parties when he came suddenly
upon them.

"He is playing his cards well," he said, involuntarily,
while Jessie was conscious of a feeling of
pleasure at seeing Walter thus acknowledged by his
grandmother.

With a tolerably good grace, Will introduced his
companion, his spirits rising when he saw how pleasantly
and kindly his grandmother received them both.
Once, as they stood together talking, Mrs. Bellenger
spoke of Deerwood, where her daughter was buried,
and instantly over William's face there flitted the
same uneasy look which Mrs. Reeves had seen and
imputed to his desire to be with Charlotte.

"Have you heard from Miss Howland recently?"
he asked Walter, who replied:

"I heard some three weeks since, and she was then
about as usual. She is always feeble in the winter,
though I believe they think her worse this season than
she has ever been before."

William thought of a letter received a few days
before, the contents of which had written the look
upon his face which Mrs. Reeves had noticed, and
had prompted him to ask the question he did.

"Poor Ellen!" sighed Jessie. "I fear she's not
long for this world."

"What did you call her?" Mrs. Bellenger asked,
and Walter replied:

"Ellen, my mother's namesake, and my cousin."

"I shall see her," returned the lady, "for I am
going to Deerwood by-and-by."

William was going, too, but he would rather not
meet his grandmother there, and he said to her, indifferently,
as it were:

"When will you go?"

"In two or three weeks," she answered, and satisfied
that she would not then interfere with him, he
offered Jessie his arm a second time and walked away,
hearing little of what was passing around him, and
caring less, for the words "Oh, William, I am surely
dying! Won't you come?" rang in his ears like a
funeral knell.

For a long time Mrs. Bellenger talked with
Walter, asking him at last of his father, and if any
news had been heard of him.

"It does not matter," she said, when he replied in
the negative. "I have outlived all that foolish pride,
and love you just the same."

Her words were sweet and soothing to Walter, and
he did not care much now even if William did keep
Jessie continually at his side, walking frequently past
the door where he could see them. Once, as they
passed, Mrs. Bellenger remarked:

"Miss Graham is a beautiful young woman. Is
she engaged to William?"

"No, no! oh, no!" and in the voice Mrs. Bellenger
learned all she wished to know.

"Pardon me," she continued, taking Walter's
hand, "pardon the liberty, but you love Jessie
Graham," and her mild eyes look gently into his.

"Hopelessly," he answered, and his grandmother
rejoined:

"Not hopelessly, my child; for as one woman can
read another, so I saw upon her face that which told
me she cared only for you. Be patient and wait," and
with another pleasant smile she arose, saying to him,
laughingly: "I am going to acknowledge you now.
You say they do not know that my blood is flowing in
your veins," and she passed again into the crowd, who
fell back at her approach, for by this time every body
knew who she was, and numerous were the surmises
as to what kept her so long with young Marshall.

The matter was soon explained, for she only
needed to say to those about her, "This is my grandson,—my
daughter Ellen's child," for the news to
spread rapidly, reaching at last to Mrs. Reeves, still
seated on her throne. Greatly she wondered how it
could be, and why William had not told her before;
then, as she remembered her investigations with regard
to the Bellengers, she added what was wanting to
complete the tale, leaving out the robbery, and merely
saying that Mr. Marshall's poverty had been the chief
objection to his marriage with Miss Ellen Bellenger.
This she did because she knew that, with his grandmother
for a prop, Walter could not be trampled
down, and she meant to be the first to hold him up.

In the midst of a group of ladies, to whom she was
enumerating Jessie's many virtues, Mrs. Bartow heard
the news, and answered very carelessly:

"Why, I knew that long ago. Mr. Marshall is a
fine young man," and as she spoke, she wondered if
he would share with William in his grandmother's
property.

"Even if he does," she thought, "William will
have the most, for his father is very wealthy,—then
there is the name of Bellenger, which is something,"
and having thus balanced the two, and found the
heavier weight in William's favor, she looked after
him, as he led Jessie away to the dancing-room, with
a most benignant expression, particularly as she saw
that Mrs. Reeves was looking at him too.

"I wonder what she thinks now about his wishing
to be with Charlotte?" she thought, and she longed
for the moment when she could pay the lady for her
ill-natured remarks.

By this time Mrs. Bellenger had returned to her
seat by Mrs. Reeves, and thinking this a favorable
opportunity, Mrs. Bartow took her stand near them
and began:

"By the way, Mrs. Reeves, did you ever know any
one in Leicester, Massachusetts, by the name of Marshall—Debby
Marshall, I mean?"

Mrs. Reeves started, with a look upon her face as
if that which she had long feared and greatly dreaded
had come upon her at last. Then, resuming her composure,
she repeated the name:

"Debby Marshall?—Debby Marshall? I certainly
do not number her among my acquaintances."

"I knew it must be a mistake," returned Mrs.
Bartow, "particularly as she was malicious enough to
say that your father was a tin peddler."

"A tin peddler!" gasped Mrs. Reeves, making
a furious attack upon her smelling salts. "I believe
I'm going to faint. The idea! It's perfectly preposterous!
Where is this mischief-maker?" and the
black eyes flashed round the room, as if in search of
the offending Aunt Debby.

"Pray don't distress yourself," said the delighted
Mrs. Bartow. "Of course it isn't true, and if it were,
it's safe with me. I met this woman last summer in
Deerwood, when I went down for Jessie. I chanced
to mention your name, as I frequently do when away
from you, and this Debby, who is an old maid, seventy
at least, said she used to know a factory girl,—Charlotty
Ann Gregory, of about her age, who married a
man by the name of Reeves, a storekeeper, she called
him. It's a remarkable coincidence, isn't it, that there
should be two Charlotte Ann Gregorys, with sister
Lizzies, and that both should marry merchants of the
same name and come to New York. But nothing is
strange now-a-days, so don't let it worry you. This
old Debby is famous for knowing everybody's history."

Like a drowning man, Mrs. Reeves caught at this
last remark. If Debby Marshall knew everybody's
history, she of course knew Mrs. Bartow's, and the
disconcerted lady hastened to ask:

"Where did you say she lived?"

"In Deerwood, with her brother, Deacon Amos
Marshall, about half a mile from the village," returned
the unsuspecting Mrs. Bartow.

Silently Mrs. Reeves wrote the information upon
the tablets of her memory, and then, in a low voice of
entreaty, said to her friend:

"You know it is all false, as well as you know that
there are, in this city, envious people who would delight
in just such scandal, and I trust you will not repeat
it."

"Certainly,—certainly," said Mrs. Bartow, but
whether the certainly were affirmative or negative was
doubtful.

Mrs. Reeves accepted the latter, and then turned
to Mrs. Bellenger to remove from her mind any unpleasant
impression she might have received. This,
however, was wholly unnecessary, for Mrs. Bellenger
was too much absorbed in her own reflections to hear
what Mrs. Bartow had been saying, and to Mrs.
Reeves' remark, "I trust you do not credit the ridiculous
story," she answered:

"What story? I heard nothing."

Thus relieved in that quarter, Mrs. Reeves became
rather more composed, and for the remainder of the
evening addressed Mrs. Bartow as "my dear," complimenting
her once or twice upon her youthful looks,
and saying several flattering things of Jessie.




CHAPTER VIII.—A RETROSPECT.
===========================


The flowers in the garden and the leaves on
the trees were withered and dead. The
luxuriant hop-vine, which grew about the
farm-house door, had yielded its bountiful store, and
loosened from its summer fastening trailed upon the
ground. The cows no longer fed among the hills, the
winter stores had been gathered in, there was a thin
coating of ice upon the pond, and a dark, cold mist
upon the mountain. There was a pallid hue upon
Ellen's cheek, and a look of strange unrest in her eyes
as day after day, all through the autumn time, she
watched for the coming of one who had said, "I will
be with you when the forest casts its leaf."

The time appointed had come, and the brown
leaves were "heaped in the hollow of the wood" or
tossed by the autumn wind, and the pain in Ellen's
heart grew heavier to bear, as morning after morning
she said:

"He will come to-day," and night after night she
wept at his delay.

But there came a day at last, a bright November
day, when she saw him in the distance, and with a cry
of joy she buried her face in the pillows of the lounge,
saying to her mother:

"I am faint and sick."

She lay very white and still, while kind Aunt
Debby chafed her clammy hands, and when they said
to her, "Mr. Bellenger is here," she simply answered,
"Is he?" for she had never told them that she expected
him.

He said he was passing through the town, and for
old acquaintance sake had stopped over one train, and
the unsuspecting family believed it all, and when he
said that Ellen stayed too much indoors, that a ride
would do her good, they offered no remonstrance, but
wrapping her up in warm shawls sent her out with
him upon the mountain, where he told her how,
through all the dreary months of his absence, one face
alone had shone on him, one voice had sounded in his
ear, and that the voice which now said to him so
mournfully:

"I almost feared you had forgotten me, and it
seemed so dreadful after all were gone, Walter, Jessie,
and everybody. Forgive me, William, but when I
remembered Jessie's sparkling beauty and knew she
was a belle, I feared you would not come."

William Bellenger was conscious of a pang, for he
knew how terribly he was deceiving the trusting girl
sitting there upon the rock beside him, the color coming
and going upon her marble cheek, and a tear dimming
the luster of her eyes. On his way thither he
had resolved to rouse her from the dream, to tell her
she must forget him, but when he looked upon her
unearthly beauty, and saw how she clung to him, he
could not do it. So when she spoke of Jessie as one
who might rival her, he said:

"Yes, Miss Graham is charming, but believe me,
Nellie, I can love but one, and that one you."

The bright round spot deepened on her cheek, and
William felt for an instant that had he the means, he
would bear the poor invalid away to a sunnier clime,
and by his tender care nurse her back to health. But
he had not. There were bills on bills which he could
not pay. His father, too, was straitened, for old Mr.
Bellenger had left his entire fortune by will to his
wife, who had refused to sanction the reckless extravagance
of her son's family. A rich bride, then, must
cancel William's debts, and as Ellen was not rich, he
dared not talk to her of marriage, but whispered only
of the love he felt for her. And Ellen grew faint and
chill listening to this idle mockery, for the November
wind blew cold upon the bleak mountain side. It was
in vain that William wrapped both shawl and arm
about her, hugging her closer to him until her golden
hair rested on his bosom. He could not make her
warm, and at last he took her home, telling her by the
way that he would come again ere long and stay with
her a week.

"I will explain to your mother then," he said,
"and until that time you'd better say nothing of
the matter, lest it should reach the ears of my proud
family. I would write to you, but that would create
surprise. So you'll have to be content with knowing
that I do most truly love you."

And Ellen tried to be content, though after he was
gone she cried herself to sleep, and for a time forgot
her wretchedness. She had taken a severe cold upon
the mountain, and for many weeks she stayed indoors,
thinking through all the long winter evenings of
William, and wishing he would come again, or send
her some message.

At last, as her desire to see him grew stronger, she
resolved to write and bid him come, for she was
dying.

"I know that it is so," she wrote. "I see it in the
faces of my friends, I hear it in my mother's voice, I
feel it in my failing strength. Yes, I am surely dying,
won't you come? It is but a little thing for you, and
it will do me so much good. Do you really love me,
William? I have sometimes feared you didn't as I
loved you. I sometimes thought you might be glad
when the grass was growing on my grave, because you
then would have no dread lest your proud relatives
should know how you paused a moment to look at the
frail blossom fading by the wayside. If it is so, William,
don't tell it to me now; let me die believing that
you really do love me. Come and tell me so once
more, let me hear your voice again; then when I am
dead, and they go to lay me down in the very spot
where you found me sleeping that summer afternoon,
you needn't join the mourners, for the world might ask
why you were there. But when I'm buried, William,
and the candles are lighted in my dear old home, then
go alone where Nellie lies. It will make you a better
man to pray above my grave, and if you know in your
secret heart that you have been deceiving me, God
will forgive you then. I am growing tired, William,
there's a blur before my eyes and I cannot see. Come
quickly, William, do."

This letter Ellen carried to the office herself, for
she sometimes rode as far as the village with her
grandfather, and thus none of the family knew that it
was sent, or guessed why, for many days, her face
grew brighter with a joyous, expectant look, which
Aunt Debby said "came straight from Heaven." The
letter reached William just as he was dressing for
Charlotte Reeves' party, and tearing open the envelope,
he read it with dim eye and quivering lip, for
the writer had a stronger hold on his affections than
he had at first supposed.

"I will go and see her," he said to himself, "though
I can carry her no comfort unless I fabricate some lie.
Poor, darling Nellie! It will not be a falsehood to
tell her that I love her best of all the world, even
though I cannot make her my wife. Perhaps she
don't expect me to do that," and crushing into his
pocket the letter, stained with Nellie's tears and his,
he went, as we have seen, to the house of festivity,
mingling in the gay scene, and letting no opportunity
pass for showing to those around that Jessie Graham
was the chosen one, though all the while his thoughts
were away in Deerwood, where the dying Nellie
waited so anxiously his coming, and whither in a few
days he went, taking care to say to Jessie that he was
going into the country, and might possibly visit the
farm-house before he returned.




CHAPTER IX.—NELLIE.
===================


The winter sun was setting, and its fading
light fell upon the golden hair and white,
beautiful face of Nellie, who lay upon the
lounge in the room where Walter's mother died, and
which Jessie now called hers. She was weaker than
usual, and the hectic spot upon her cheek was larger
and brighter, while her eyes shone like diamonds as she
looked wistfully in the direction of the village, where
the smoke of the New York train was slowly dying
away.

"Mother," she said at last, "isn't the omnibus
coming over the hill?"

"Yes," Mrs. Howland answered. "Possibly it is
Walter, though I did not tell him in my last how
weak you are, as you know you bade me not, lest he
should be unnecessarily alarmed."

Ellen knew it was not Walter, and the spot on her
cheek was almost a blood-red hue when she heard the
dear familiar voice, and knew that William had come.

"Mother," she said faintly, "it's Mr. Bellenger,
and you must let me see him alone,—all the evening
alone;—will you? It's right," she continued, as she
met her mother's look of inquiry. "I'll explain it,
perhaps, when he's gone."

In an instant the truth flashed upon Mrs. Howland,
bringing with it a feeling of gratified pride that the
elegant William Bellenger had condescended to think
of her child. She did not know the whole. She could
not guess how thoroughly selfish was the man who
was deliberately breaking her daughter's heart, or she
would not have left them to themselves that long winter
evening, saying to her father and Aunt Debby,
when they questioned the propriety of the proceeding:

"He wants to tell her of Walter and Jessie, I suppose,
and the fine times they have in the city."

This satisfied Aunt Debby, but the deacon was not
quite at ease, and more than once after finishing his
fourth pipe, he started to join them, but was as often
kept back by some well-timed remark addressed to
him by Mrs. Howland; and so William was left undisturbed
while he poured again into Ellen's ear the
story of his love, telling her how inexpressibly dear
she was to him, and that but for circumstances which
he could not control, he would prove his assertion
true by making her at once his wife. Then the long
eyelashes drooped beneath their weight of tears, for
there flitted across Ellen's mind a vague consciousness
that if these circumstances existed when he first talked
to her of love, he had done very wrong. Still she
could not accuse him even in thought, and she hastened
to say:

"I don't know as I really ever supposed that you
wished me to be your wife; and if I did it don't matter
now, for I am going to die; death has a prior
claim, and I never can be yours."

He held her hot hand in his,—felt the rapid pulse,—saw
the deep color on her cheek,—the unnatural luster
of her eye,—and felt that she told him truly. And
thinking that anything which he could say to comfort
and please her would be right, he whispered:

"I hope there are many years in store for you. If
I should take you to Florida as my wife, do you think
you would get well?"

She had said to him that it could not be,—that
death would claim her first, but now that he had asked
her this, all the energies of life were roused within
her, and her whole face said yes, even before the
answer dropped from her pale lips.

"Oh, William, dear, are you in earnest? Can I
go?" and raising herself up, she wound her arms
around his neck so that her head rested on his bosom.

And William held it there, caressing the fair hair,
while he battled with all his better nature, and tried
to think of some excuse,—some good reason for retracting
the proposition which had been received so differently
from what he expected. He thought of it at
last, and laying his burden gently back upon her pillow,
he answered mournfully:

"Forgive me, darling. In my great love for you
I spoke inadvertently. I wish I were free to do what
my heart dictates, but I am not. Listen, Nellie, and
then you shall decide. Perhaps you have never heard
that Jessie and I were long ago intended for each
other by our parents?"

William's voice trembled as he uttered this falsehood,
but not one-half as much as did the young girl
on the lounge.

"No," she answered faintly; "Jessie never told
me."

"Some girls are not inclined to talk of those they
love," said William, and fixing her clear blue eyes on
him, Ellen asked:

"Does Jessie love you, William?"

"And suppose she does?" he replied; "suppose
she had always been taught to look upon me as her
future husband? Suppose that even when I first came
here there was an understanding that, unless Jessie
should prefer some one else, we were to be married
when she was eighteen, and suppose that since we
have been so much together as we have this winter,
Jessie had learned to love me very much, and that my
marrying another now would break her heart, what
would you have me do? I know you must think it
wrong in me to talk of love to you, knowing what I
did, but struggle as I would, I could not help it. You
are my ideal of a wife. I love you better than I do
Jessie,—better than I do any one, and you shall decide
the matter. I will leave Jessie, offend her father, and
incur the lasting displeasure of my own family, if you
say so. Think a moment, darling, and then tell me
what to do."

Had he held a knife at her heart, and a pistol at
her head, bidding her take her choice between the
two, he could scarcely have pained her more. Folding
her hands together, she lay so still that it seemed almost
like the stillness of death, and William once
bent down to see if she were sleeping. But the large
blue eyes turned toward him, and a faint whisper met
his ear:

"Don't disturb me. I am thinking," and as she
thought the cold perspiration stood in the palms of
her hands and about her mouth, for it was like tearing
out her very life, deciding to give William up,
and bidding him marry another, even though she
knew she could never be his wife.

Jessie Graham was very dear to the poor invalid,
as the first and almost only girl friend she had ever
known. Jessie had been kind to her, while Mr.
Graham had been most kind to them all. Jessie
would make William a far more suitable wife than
she could. His proud relatives would scoff at her,
and perhaps if she should live and marry him he
might some day be sorry that he did not take the
more brilliant Jessie. But was there any probability
that she could live? She wished she knew, and she
said to William:

"Do people always get well if they go to
Florida?"

"Sometimes, darling, if the disease is not too far
advanced," was the answer, and Ellen went back to
her reflections.

Her disease was too far advanced, she feared, and
if she could not live, why should she wish to trammel
William for so short a time, even if there were no
Jessie, and would it not be better to give him up at
once? Yes, it would, she said, and just as William
began a second time to think she had fallen away to
sleep she beckoned him to come near, and in a voice
which sounded like the wail of a broken heart, she
whispered:

"I have decided, William. You must marry Jessie,—but
not till I am dead. You'll love poor me till
then, won't you?" and burying her face in his bosom,
she sobbed bitterly. He kissed her tears away; he
told her he would not marry Jessie, that she alone
should be his wife; and when she answered that it
must not be, that at the longest she could live but a
short time, he felt in his villainous, selfish heart that
he was glad she was so sensible. He had told her no
lie, he thought. He had merely supposed a case, and
she, taking it for granted, had deliberately given him
up. He could not help himself, for had she not virtually
refused him?

By such arguments as these did the wicked man
seek to quiet his guilty conscience, but when he saw
how much it had cost the young girl to say what she
had said, he was half tempted to undeceive her, to tell
her it was all false, that story of himself and Jessie,—but
gold was dearer to him than aught else on earth,
and so he did not do it. He merely told her that so
long as she lived he should love her the best, but advised
her not to talk with Jessie on the subject, as it
would only make them both unhappy.

"You may tell your mother that I love you, but I
would say nothing of Jessie, who might not like to
have the matter talked about, as it is not positively
settled yet, at least not enough to proclaim it to the
world."

Like a submissive child, Ellen promised compliance
with all his wishes, and as the deacon by this
time had declared "there was no sense in them two
staying in there any longer," he appeared in the door,
and thus put an end to the conversation.

All the next day William stayed, improving every
opportunity to whisper to Ellen of his love, but the
words were almost meaningless to her now. She
knew that she loved him; she believed that he loved
her, but there was a barrier between them, and when
at night he left her, she was so strangely calm that he
felt a pang lest he might have lost a little of her love,
which, in spite of his selfishness, was very dear to him.
After he was gone, Ellen told her mother of their
mutual love, which never could be consummated, because
she must die; but she said nothing of Jessie,
and the deluded woman, gazing on her beautiful
daughter, prayed that she might live, and so one day
grace the halls of the proud Bellengers. After this
there often came to the farm-house dainty luxuries for
the invalid, and though there was no name, Ellen
knew who sent them, and smiling into her mother's
face would say:

"Isn't he good to me?"

At last the stormy March had come, and one night
a lady stood at the farm-house door, asking if Deacon
Marshall lived there.

"I have no claim upon your hospitality," she said,
"but a mother has a right to visit her daughter's
grave and the home where her daughter died."

It was Mrs. Bellenger, but so changed from the
haughty woman who years ago had been there, that
the family could scarcely believe it was the same.
It is true they had heard from Walter of his grandmother's
kindness, and how the effect of that kindness
was already beginning to be apparent in the treatment
he received from those who before had scarcely
noticed him, but they could not understand it until
they saw the lady in their midst, affable and friendly
to them all, but especially to poor sick Nellie, to whom
she attached herself at once. Very rapidly each grew
to liking the other. Mrs. Bellenger, because the gentle
invalid bore her daughter's name; and Nellie, because
the lady was William's grandmother, and sometimes
spoke of him. For many days Mrs. Bellenger
lingered, for there was something very soothing in
the quiet of the farm-house, and very attractive about
the sick girl, who once as they sat together alone,
opened her whole heart and told the story of her
love.

"It surely is not wrong for me to confide in you,"
she said, "and I must talk of it to somebody."

Mrs. Bellenger had heretofore distrusted William,
but the fact that he had won the love of so pure a
being as Ellen Howland changed her feelings toward
him, and when the latter said, "He spoke of taking
me to Florida," she thought at once that her money
should pay the bills, and that she too would go and
help her grandson nurse the beautiful young girl back
to life and strength. This last she said to Ellen, who
answered mournfully:

"It cannot be, for I have given him up to Jessie,
whose claim was better than mine," and then she repeated
all that William had said to her.

"It doesn't matter," she continued. "I can't live
very long, and Jessie has been so kind to me that I
want to give her something, and William is the most
precious thing I have.

"It hurt me to give him up. But it is best, even
if there were no Jessie Graham. His parents are not
like you; they might teach him in time to despise
me, and I'd rather die now."

Mrs. Bellenger turned away to hide her tears, and
could William have seen what was in her heart,—could
he have known how easily Ellen's wasted hand
could unlock her coffers and give him the money he
craved, the proud house of Bellenger would have
mourned over a second *mesalliance*.

For nearly two weeks Mrs. Bellenger remained in
Deerwood, and then, promising to come again ere
long, returned to the city, where rumor was already
busy with the marriage which the world said was soon
to take place between William Bellenger and the
beautiful Miss Graham.




CHAPTER X.—A DISCLOSURE.
========================


Much surprise was expressed, and a good
deal of interest manifested, when it was
known that the handsome house up-town
which had recently been bought by a stranger it was
said, and elegantly furnished, was the property of
Mrs. Bellenger, who, not long after her return from
Deerwood, took possession of it, and made it also the
home of Walter Marshall. The latter was now
courted and admired as a most "delightful young
man," and probably the principal heir of the rich old
lady, who did not hesitate to show how greatly she
preferred him to her other grandson, William. Even
Mrs. Reeves was especially gracious to him now, saying
she believed him quite as good a match as Mr.
Bellenger, who was welcome to Jessie Graham if he
wanted her. And it would seem that he did, for almost
every evening found him at her side, while
Walter frequently met them in the street, or heard of
them at various places of amusement.

Still Jessie was very kind to him whenever he
called upon her, unless William chanced to be present,
and then she seemed to take delight in annoying
him, by devoting herself almost entirely to one whom
he at last believed was really his rival. This opinion
he expressed one day to his grandmother, who had
come to the same conclusion, and who as gently as
possible repeated to him all that Ellen had told her.
It was the first intimation Walter had received that
William Bellenger had pretended to care for his
cousin, and it affected him deeply.

"The wretch!" he exclaimed. "He won Ellen's
love only to cast it from him at his will, for he never
thought of making her his wife."

Then, as his own gloomy future arose before him,
he groaned aloud, for he never knew before how dear
Jessie was to him.

"It may not be so," his grandmother said, laying
her hand upon his head. "I cannot quite think Jessie
would prefer him to you, and she has known you
always, too. Suppose you talk with her upon the subject.
It will not make the matter worse."

"Grandmother," said Walter, "I have promised
never to speak of love to Jessie Graham until I am
freed from the taint my father's misfortune has fastened
upon my name, and as there is no hope that this
will ever be, I must live on and see her given to another.
Were my rival anybody but William, I could
bear it better, for I want Jessie to be happy, and I
believe him to be—a villain, and I would far rather
that Jessie would die than be his bride."

Walter was very much excited, and as the atmosphere
of the room seemed oppressive, he seized his hat
and rushed out into the street, meeting by the way
William and Jessie. They were walking very slowly,
and apparently so absorbed with themselves, that
neither observed him till just as he was passing, when
Jessie looked up and called after him:

"Are you never coming to see me again?"

"I don't know,—perhaps not," was the cool answer,
and Walter hastened on, while William, who
never let an opportunity pass for a sly insinuation
against his cousin, asked Jessie if she had not observed
how consequential Walter had grown since his
grandmother took him up and pushed him into society.
"Everybody is laughing about it," said he, "but that
is the way with people of his class. They cannot bear
prosperity."

"I think Walter has too much good sense," Jessie
replied, "to be lifted up by the attentions of those
who used to slight him, but who notice him now just
because Mrs. Bellenger likes him. There's Mrs.
Reeves, for instance,—it's perfectly sickening to hear
her talk about 'dear Mr. Marshall,' when she used to
speak of him as 'that poor young man in Mr. Graham's
employ.' Charlotte always liked him."

This last was not very agreeable to Will, for in
case he failed to secure Jessie, Charlotte was his next
choice.

Money he must have, and soon too, for there was
a heavy burden on his mind, and unless that burden
was lifted disgrace was sure to follow. Twice
recently he had written to his father for money and
received the same answer:

"I have nothing for you; go to your grandmother,
who has plenty."

Once he had asked Mrs. Bellenger for a hundred
dollars; but she had said that "a young man in perfect
health ought to have some occupation, and as he had
none he had no right to live as expensively as he
did."

Several times he had borrowed of Walter, making
an excuse that he had forgotten his purse, or "that
the old man's remittances had not come," but never
remembering to pay or mention it again. In this
state of affairs it was quite natural that he should be
looking about for something to ease his mind and fill
his pocket at the same time. A rich wife could do
this, and as Jessie and Charlotte both were rich, one
of them must come to the rescue. Jessie's remark
about Charlotte disturbed him, and as he had not of
late paid her much attention, he resolved to call
upon her as soon as he had seen Jessie to her own
door.

Meanwhile Walter had gone to his office, where he
found upon the desk a letter in his grandfather's
handwriting, and hastily breaking the seal, he read,
that he must come quickly if he would see his cousin
alive. The letter inclosed a note for Jessie, and
Walter was requested to give it to her so that she
might come with him.

"Poor Ellen talks of Jessie and Mrs. Bellenger all
the time," the deacon wrote, "and perhaps your
grandmother would not mind coming too. She
seemed to take kindly to the child."

Not a word was said of William, for Ellen would
not allow her mother to send for him.

"It would only make him feel badly," she said,
"and I would save him from unnecessary pain." So
she hushed her longing to see him again and asked
only for Jessie.

"I will go to-morrow morning," Walter thought,
and as Mr. Graham was absent for a day or two he
was thinking of taking the note to Jessie himself,
when William came suddenly upon him.

"Well, old fellow," said he, "what's up now?
Your face is long as a gravestone."

"Ellen is dying," returned Walter, "and they
have sent for me."

"Ellen dying!" and the man, who a moment
before had spoken so jeeringly, staggered into a chair
as if smitten by a heavy blow.

"I did not suppose he cared so much for her,"
thought Walter, and in a kinder tone he told what he
knew, and passing William the note intended for
Jessie, he bade him take it to her that night, and tell
her to meet him at the depot in the morning. "And
William," said Walter, fixing his eye earnestly upon
his cousin, "what message shall I take to Ellen for
you? or will you go too?"

For a moment William hesitated, while his better
nature battled with his worse, urging him to give up
the game at which he was playing, and comfort the
dying girl he had so cruelly deceived, and acknowledge
to the world how dear she was to him; then, as
another frightful thought intruded itself upon him, he
murmured, "I can't, I can't," and with that resolution
he sealed his future destiny. "No, I cannot go," he
said, and thrusting the note into his pocket went out
into the open air, a harder man, if possible, than he
had been before. "Jessie must not go to Deerwood
if I can prevent it," he thought to himself. "Nellie
may tell her all, and that would be fatal to my
plans."

So he resolved not to call at Mr. Graham's that
night, and in case an explanation should afterward
be necessary, he would say that he had sent the
note by a boy, who, of course, had neglected to
deliver it.

Accordingly the next morning Walter and his
grandmother waited impatiently for Jessie at the
depot, and then, when they found she was not coming,
took their seats in the cars with heavy hearts, for
both knew how terrible would be the disappointment
to Ellen, who loved Jessie Graham better almost than
herself.

----

"Where's Jessie? Didn't I hear her voice in the
other room?" the sick girl asked, when, one after the
other, Mrs. Bellenger and Walter bent over her pillow
and kissed her wasted face.

"She isn't here," said Walter, and the color faded
from Ellen's face as she replied:

"Isn't here? Where is she, Walter?"

He answered that he did not see her himself, but
had sent the message by William, and at the mention
of his name the blood came surging back to the pallid
cheeks.

"William would carry the note, I know," she said,
"and why does she stay away when I want so much
to see her before I die?" And turning her face to the
wall, she wept silently over her friend's apparent
neglect.

"Walter," said Mrs. Bellenger, drawing him aside,
"it may be possible there is some mistake, and Jessie
does not know. Suppose you telegraph to her father
and be sure."

Walter immediately acted upon this suggestion,
and that evening as Jessie sat listlessly drumming her
piano, wondering why Walter seemed so changed, and
wishing somebody would come, she received the telegram,
and with feverish impatience waited for the
morning, when she set off for Deerwood, where she
was hailed with rapture by Ellen, who could now only
whisper her delight and press the hands of her early
friend.

"Why didn't you come with Walter?" she asked,
and Jessie replied:

"How could I, when I knew nothing of his coming?"

"Didn't William give you a note?" asked Walter,
who was standing near, and upon Jessie's replying
that she had neither seen nor heard from William, a
sudden suspicion crossed his mind that the message
had purposely been withheld.

No such thought, however, intruded itself upon
Ellen; the neglect was not intentional, she was sure;
and in her joy at having Jessie with her at last, she
forgot her earlier disappointment. Earnestly and
lovingly she looked up into Jessie's bright, glowing
face, and, pushing back her short black curls, whispered:

"Darling Jessie, I am glad you are so beautiful, so
good."

And Jessie, listening to these oft-repeated words
did not dream of the pure, unselfish love which
prompted them.

If Jessie were beautiful and good, she would make
the life of William Bellenger happier than if she were
otherwise; and this was all that Ellen asked or
wished.

Hidden away in a little rosewood box, which Jessie
had given her, was a blurred and blotted letter, which
she had written at intervals, as her failing strength
would permit. It was her farewell to William, and
she would trust it to no messenger but Jessie.

"Tell them all to go out," she said, as the shadows
stretched farther and farther across the floor, and she
knew it was growing late. "Tell them to leave us together
once more, just as we used to be."

Her request was granted, and then laying her hand
upon her pillow, she said:

"Lie down beside me, Jessie, and put your arms
around my neck while I tell you how I love you. It
wasn't my way to talk much, Jessie, and when you
used to say so often that I was very dear to you, I
only kissed you back, and did not tell you how
full my heart was of love. Dear Jessie, don't cry.
What makes you? Are you sorry I am going to
die?"

A passionate hug was Jessie's answer, and Ellen
continued:

"It's right, darling, that I should go, for neither
of us could be quite happy in knowing that another
shared the love we coveted for ourselves. Forgive
me, Jessie, I never meant to interfere, and when I'm
dead, you won't let it cast a shadow between you that
he loved me a little, too."

"I do not understand you," said Jessie, "I love
nobody but father,—no man, I mean.

"Oh, Jessie, don't profess to be ignorant of my
meaning," said Ellen. "It may be wrong for me to
speak of it, but at the very last, I cannot forbear
telling you how willingly I gave William up to
you."

"*William!*" Jessie exclaimed. "I never loved
William Bellenger,—never *could* love him. What
do you mean!"

There was no color in Ellen's face, and she trembled
in every limb, as she answered, faintly:

"You wouldn't tell me a lie when I am dying?"

"No, darling, no," and passing her arm around
the sick girl, Jessie raised her up, and continued,
"explain to me, will you? for I do not comprehend."

Then as briefly as possible Nellie told the story of
her love, and how William had said that Jessie stood
between them.

"If it is not so," she gasped, "if he has deceived
me, don't tell me. I could not endure losing faith in
him. Don't, don't," she continued, entreatingly, as
Jessie cried indignantly:

"It is false,—false as his own black heart! There
is no understanding between our parents. I never
thought of loving him. I hate him now, the monster.
And you are dying for me, Nellie, but he killed you,
the wretch!"

Jessie paused, for there was something in Nellie's
face which awed her into silence. It was as white as
ashes, and Jessie never forgot its grieved, heart-broken
expression, or the spasmodic quivering of the lips,
which uttered no complaint against the perfidious
man, but whispered faintly:

"Bring me my little box, and bring the candle,
too."

Both were brought, and taking out the letter so
deeply freighted with her love, the sick girl held it in
the blaze, watching it as it blackened and charred, and
dropped upon the floor.

"With that I burned up my very heart," she said,
and a cold smile curled her lips. "The pain is over
now. I do not feel it any more."

Then, taking a pencil and a tiny sheet of note
paper from the box, she wrote:

"Heaven forgive you, William. Pray for pardon
at my grave. You have much need to pray."

Passing it to Jessie, she said:

"Give this to William when I am dead; and now
draw the covering closer over me, for I am growing
cold and sleepy."

Jessie folded the blanket about her shoulders and
chest, and then sat down beside her, while the family,
hearing no sound, stole softly across the threshold
into the room where the May moonshine lay; where
the candle burned dimly on the table, and where the
light of a young life flickered and faded with each
tick of the tall old clock, which in the kitchen without
could be distinctly heard measuring off the time.

Fainter and fainter, dimmer and dimmer, grew the
light, until at last, as the swinging pendulum beat the
hour of midnight, it went out forever, and the moon-beams
fell on the golden hair and white face of the
beautiful dead.




CHAPTER XI.—THE NIGHT AFTER THE BURIAL.
=======================================


Down the lane, over the rustic bridge
beneath the shadow of the tasseled pines
and up the grassy hillside, where the headstones
of the dead gleamed in the warm sunlight, the
long procession wended its way, and the fair May
blossoms were upturned, and the moist earth thrown
out to make room for the fair sleeper, thus early gone
to rest.

Then back again, down the grassy hillside, under
the tasseled pines, and up the winding lane the
mourners came, and all the afternoon the villagers
talked of the beautiful girl,—but in the home she had
left so desolate, her name was not once mentioned.
They could not speak of her yet, and so the mother
sat in her lonely room, rocking to and fro, just as she
used to do when there was pillowed on her breast the
golden head, now lying across the fields, where the
dim eyes of the deacon wandered often, as the old
man whispered to himself.

"One grave more, and one chair less. Our store
grows fast in Heaven."

For once Aunt Debby forgot to knit, and the kitten
rolled the ball at pleasure, pausing sometimes in
her play, and looking up in Jessie's face, as if to ask
her the reason of its unwonted sadness, and why the
hug and squeeze had been so long omitted.

To Walter, Ellen had been like a sister, and he
went away to weep alone, while Mrs. Bellenger, not
wishing to intrude on any one, withdrew to the quiet
garden, and so the dreary afternoon went by, and
when the sun was set and the moon was shining on
the floor of the little portico the family assembled
there, and drawing a little stool to the deacon's side
Jessie laid her bright head on his knee.

The moonlight fell softly on her upturned face,
heightening its dark, rich beauty, and Walter was
gazing admiringly upon her, when a sound in the distance
caught his ear, and arrested the attention of all.

It was the sound of horse's feet, and as the sharp
hoofs struck the earth with a rapidity which told how
swiftly the rider came, Jessie's heart beat faster with
a feeling that she knew who the rider was. He passed
them with averted face, and they heard the clatter
of the iron shoes, as the steed dashed down the
lane, over the rustic bridge, and up the grassy hillside.

Jessie had not told the family the story which
broke poor Nellie's heart, for she would not inflict an
unnecessary pang upon the mother, or the grandfather,
but she wanted Walter to know it, and as the
sound of the horse's feet died away in the distance,
she said to him:

"Will you walk with me, Walter? It is so light
and pleasant."

It seemed a strange request to him, but he complied
with it, and as if by mutual consent, the two
went together, toward the grave, whither another had
preceded them.

In the city William had heard of the telegram sent
to Jessie, and with a feeling of restless impatience, he
at last took the cars, as far as the town adjoining
Deerwood, where he stopped and heard of Ellen's
death. He heard, too, that she was buried that very
afternoon, and his pulses quickened with a painful
throb, as as he heard the landlord's daughter, who had
attended the funeral, telling her mother how beautiful
the young girl was, all covered with flowers, and
how Miss Graham from New York cried when she
bent over the coffin.

He would see her grave, he said, he would kiss the
earth which covered her, and so when the "candle was
lighted in her dear old home," he came, a weary,
wretched man, and stood by the little mound. He
had almost felt that he should find her there, just as
she was that August afternoon, when she lay sleeping
with the withered roses drooping on her face.

She had told him of this hour, and bidden him
pray when he stood so near to her, but he could not,
and he only murmured through his tears:

"Poor Nellie. She deserved a better fate. I wish
I had never crossed her path."

There were voices in the distance, and not caring
to be found there, he knelt by the pile of earth, and
burying his face in the dust, said aloud:

"I wish that I were dead and happy as you are,
little Snow Drop," then leaving the inclosure, he
mounted his horse, and rode rapidly off, just as Walter
and Jessie came up on the opposite side.

"That was William Bellenger," Jessie cried. "I
thought so when he passed the house, and I wanted so
much to see him here by Ellen's grave."

"William Bellenger," Walter repeated. "Do you
know why he was here?"

"Yes, I do," Jessie answered, "and I wanted to
reproach him with it. Walter, William Bellenger is a
villain!

"Sit down with me," she continued, "here, beside
your mother's grave, and Nellie's, and listen while I
repeat to you what Nellie told me just before she
died."

He obeyed, and in a voice of mingled sorrow and
resentment, Jessie told him of the falsehood which
had been imposed upon the gentle girl lying there so
near them.

It would be impossible to describe Walter's anger
and disgust, as he listened to the story of Ellen's
wrongs.

"The wretch! He killed her!" he exclaimed,
"killed her through love for him, and her unselfish
devotion to you."

"But he *did* love her," interposed Jessie, "or he
had never been here to-night."

Walter could not comprehend a love like this. It
was not what he felt for the dark-haired girl at his
side, and in his joy at finding that she, too, thoroughly
despised one whom he had feared might be his rival,
he came near telling her so, but he remembered in
time the promise made to Mrs. Bartow, and merely
said:

"Forgive me, Jessie. I have fancied you loved
this rascally fellow, and it made me very unhappy, for
I knew he was unworthy."

"Are you not sometimes unreasonably suspicious
of me?" Jessie asked, and Walter replied:

"If I am, it is because,—because,—I would have
my sister happy, and now that Nellie is dead, you are
all I have to love."

It surely was not wrong for him to say so much,
he thought, and Jessie must have thought so too, for
impulsively laying her hand in his, she looked up into
his face and answered:

"There must never be another cloud between us."

For a long time they sat together among the
graves, and then, as it was growing late, they retraced
their steps toward the farm-house, where only Mrs.
Bellenger was waiting for them, the others having retired
to rest.

To her, with Jessie's consent, Walter told what he
had heard, but not till Jessie had left them for the
night. Covering her face with her hands, Mrs. Bellenger
groaned aloud at this fresh proof of William's
perfidy.

"There is one comfort, however," she said, at last,
"Jessie is not bound to him," and she spoke hopefully
to Walter of his future.

"It may be," he said, "but my father must first
be proved innocent. I am going to find him, too,"
and then he told his grandmother that Mr. Graham
had long contemplated sending him to California on
business connected with the firm. "Next September
is the time appointed for me to go, and something
tells me that I shall find my father in my
travels."

Then he told her that if he could arrange it, he
should spend several weeks at home, as the family
were now so lonely, and as Mrs. Bellenger was herself,
ere long, going to Boston, she offered no remonstrance
to the plan.

The moon by this time had reached a point high
up in the heavens, and bidding him good night she
left him sitting there alone, dreaming bright dreams
of the future, when the little hand which not long ago
had crept of its own accord into his own, should be
his indeed. But what if it should never be proved
that his father was innocent? Could he keep his
promise forever? He dared not answer this, but
there swept over him again, as it had done many
times of late, the belief that ere a year had passed,
Seth Marshall would stand before the world an
honored and respected man. Until that time he was
willing to wait, he said, and the moon had long since
passed the zenith and was shining through the
western window into the room where Jessie Graham
lay sleeping ere he left his seat beneath the vines and
sought his pillow to realize in dreamland the happiness
in store for him.




CHAPTER XII.—A CRISIS.
======================


The next morning, Mrs. Bellenger, Jessie
and Walter returned to the city, the latter
promising his family that he would if
possible obtain leave of absence from his business for
several weeks, and be with them in the first stages of
their bereavement.

To this plan Mr. Graham made no objection, and
without seeing William, who chanced to be out of
the city, Walter went back to Deerwood, while his
grandmother also started on her projected visit to
Boston.

Lonely indeed was Walter's life at the farm-house,
and not even the cheering letters of Mr. Graham,
which always contained a pleasant message from
Jessie, had the power to enliven his solitude. He had
tasted of the busy world, and a life of inactivity
could not satisfy him now. So he wrote at last to
Mr. Graham, asking why he could not start at once
for California, instead of waiting until September.

With a father's ready tact, Mr. Graham understood
exactly the nature of Walter's feelings toward
his daughter, and as Mrs. Bartow had told him of
the young man's promise, he watched him narrowly
to see how well it would be kept.

"He is a noble fellow," he thought, "and he shall
not wait for what may never be. I am sure Jessie
loves him quite as much as he does her, and I will
bring them together in my own way, and when
September comes he shall not go to California alone;" so
in reply to Walter's letter, he wrote: "You can go
at once if you like, though I have in mind a pleasant
surprise if you will wait until autumn," and as he
wrote his own heart grew young and warm again,
with fancying Walter's joy when he should say to
him, "I know your secret, and you need not wait.
Jessie loves you. Take her and be happy."

And as thoughts of his own daughter's possible
bridal suggested to him another, he dipped his pen a
second time, and added as a postscript:

"There is a rumor of a marriage to take place
before long, and Jessie, I dare say, will wish you to be
present, so perhaps you'd better wait."

Over the postscript Walter lingered long and
anxiously. Was Jessie to be the bride? It would
seem so, and yet there was madness in the thought.
Once he resolved to go and see, and this he would
perhaps have done had not the next mail brought him
a confirmation of his fears. It was from his cousin,
and read as follows:

    ":small-caps:`Dear Walt`:—You will be greatly surprised, I
    dare say, to hear that I have caught the bird at last,
    and the tenth of July, at eleven A. M., will see us
    one. It is sudden, I know; but all the better for that.
    She wanted to wait until fall and have a grand smash-up,
    but I, with her grandmother to back me, insisted
    upon its taking place immediately, and in a quiet way.
    We shall be married in church, and then go off to
    some watering-place. Her father does the handsome
    thing, and comes down with a cool 50,000 on her
    bridal day, but that's nothing for a millionaire. I'm
    more obliged to you, Walt, than I can well express
    for not interfering. At one time I was deuced
    jealous, but you behaved like a gentleman, and left
    me an open field, for which I thank you, and cordially
    invite you to the wedding.

    "By the way, Jessie says you know about that
    unfortunate affair with poor Nellie. Believe me,
    Walt, I loved that girl, and even now the thought of
    her takes my breath away; but she was too poor.
    Isn't it lucky Jessie is rich? You ought to see how
    delighted my grandmother-elect is with the match.
    But time hastens, and I must finish. Remember, July
    10th, hour 11, from —— Church. Adieu.

.. class:: right

    ":small-caps:`Bill Bellenger`."

For a time after reading the letter Walter sat
powerless to act or think. Then the storm burst upon
him with overwhelming fury, and he raved like one
bereft of reason. Jessie was lost to him forever, and,
what was worse than all, she had proved herself
unworthy of esteem by her heartless treachery. How
could she so soon forget the little grave on the hillside?
How could she plight her faith to one whom,
only a few weeks since, she had denounced so
strongly? Was there no truth in woman? Were
they all as false as fair? Yes, they were, he said;
and he laughed bitterly as he thought how, hereafter,
he should hate the entire sex. Walter was growing
desperate, and, in his desperation, he resolved to put
the width of the western hemisphere between himself
and the fickle Jessie Graham. He could go to California
now as well as later, and he determined to start
for New York that night. So with a hurried good-by
to his family he left them, and scarcely knowing
whether he were dead or alive, he took the express
for the city.

It was morning when he reached there, and the
Wall street thunder had already commenced. His
first business was to ascertain that a vessel would sail
that day for California,—his next to call on Mr.
Graham and make the necessary explanations.

Mr. Graham was not at the office,—he was sick,
the clerk said, and as Walter had neither the time nor
the inclination to go all the way up-town to find him,
he sat down and wrote to him what he would have
said.

He was going to California, and the reason why he
went Mr. Graham could perhaps divine; if not, Walter
would tell him frankly that he could not stay in
New York and see a man of William Bellenger's
character married to the girl he loved better than he
loved his life.

"I understand the business on which I am going
thoroughly, I believe," he added in conclusion; "but
if there is anything more which you wish to say, you
can write it by the next steamer, and your directions
shall be attended to most strictly."

This letter he left for Mr. Graham, and when the
night shadows fell again on Deerwood, where in the
large old kitchen the family talked of him, he sat
upon the upper deck, listening, with an aching heart,
to the surging of the waves, as they dashed against
his floating home.




CHAPTER XIII.—EXPLANATIONS.
===========================


After Jessie's return to the city, several
days had elapsed ere she met with William;
and when at last she did, he saw at
once that there was a change in her demeanor,—that
she was unusually reserved; but this he hoped might
arise from the sad scene through which she had
recently passed, and as he was fast nearing a point
when something must be done, he resolved upon a
decisive step.

His attentions to Jessie must have prepared her
for a proposal, he thought, and as it would be better
for him to know his fate at once, so that in case she
refused him, he could look elsewhere for aid, he determined
to improve the present opportunity, which,
so far as outward circumstances were concerned,
seemed propitious.

Mr. Graham was away, and Mrs. Bartow kindly
absented herself from the room, as was her custom
when William was present. The night was rainy,
too, and they would not be liable to interruption.
Accordingly when Jessie spoke to him of Nellie's
death, and gave him the note which had been entrusted
to her, he drew his chair to her side, and, after
a few preliminary coughs, plunged at once into business,
and made her a formal offer of himself, saying
that he knew he was very faulty, but she could mould
him as she pleased, and make him a good and useful
man.

With a cold, haughty look upon her face, Jessie
Graham listened to him until he finished, and then
said:

"You astonish me more than I can express, for if
you do not respect yourself, I hoped you had too much
respect for me to offer me a hand reeking, as it were,
with the blood of sweet Nellie Howland. I know it
all,—know the lie you imposed upon the poor, weak
girl, whose only fault was loving you too well. And
now do you think I would marry you? I have never
seen the hour when I would have done so,—much less
will I do it now. I despise you, William Bellenger,—despise
you more than I can tell."

She ceased speaking, but her eyes never for a
moment left the white face, which had grown whiter
as she proceeded, and which was now almost livid
with chagrin, disappointment and rage.

"I have nothing to offer which can extenuate my
sin toward Nellie," he answered, at last, "though I
did love her,—better than I love you,—but for certain
reasons, I preferred that you should be my wife.
You refuse me, and I know well to whom I am
indebted for the good opinion you are pleased to
entertain of me; but I warn you now, fair lady, that
my precious cousin is no better than myself."

"Hush!" interrupted Jessie. "You are not to
speak of Walter in that way. Shall I consider our
interview at an end?"

She spoke with dignity, and motioned him toward
the door.

"Jessie," he stammered, as he started to leave the
room, "I'll admit that I'm a wretch, but I trust that
you will not think it necessary to repeat this to everybody."

"I have no desire to injure you," she answered,
and walking to the window she stood until she heard
him leave the house; then her unwonted calmness
gave way, and she burst into a flood of tears, sometimes
wishing she had spoken more harshly to him,
and again regretting that she had been harsh at all.

She might have spared herself this last feeling,
for at that moment the man she had discarded was
pouring into the ear of Charlotte Reeves words similar
to those he had breathed to her not an hour before.
And Charlotte, knowing nothing of Nellie,—nothing
of Jessie, save that the latter had been a dreaded
rival, said *yes* to him, on condition that her father's
consent could be won.

This last was an easy matter; for Mr. Reeves, who
scarcely had an identity save that connected with his
business, answered that in this thing Charlotte would
do as she pleased, just as she did in everything else,
adding in a kind of absent way:

"I always intended giving her fifty thousand the
day she was married, and after that my duty will be
done."

William could scarcely refrain from hugging his
prospective father-in-law, but he wisely withheld the
hug for the daughter, who, while he was closeted
with the father, ran with the news to the grandmother.

The next morning, as Jessie sat at her work, she
was surprised at a call from Charlotte, who, seating
herself upon the sofa began at once to unfold the
object of her visit.

"She was engaged, and Jessie could not guess to
whom if she guessed a year."

"William Bellenger," Jessie said at once, her lip
curling with scorn, and her cheek growing slightly pale.

"You wicked creature," exclaimed Charlotte,
jumping up and giving her a squeeze. "What made
you think of him? I always supposed he would marry
you, and used to be awful jealous. Yes, it's William.
He came in last night and as pa chanced to be home
in his room, the whole thing was arranged at once.
I wanted so badly to wait till fall, and have a grand
affair, but William is in such a hurry, and says it will
be so much nicer to be a bride and belle, too, at Newport
or Nahant, that I gave it up, and we are to be
married the 10th of July, and go right off. Won't it
be fun? I'm going to employ every dressmaker in
the city, that is, every fashionable one. Father gave
me a thousand dollars this morning to begin my shopping
with," and the thoughtless light-hearted Charlotte
clapped her hands and danced around the room
in childish delight.

"Shall I tell her? Ought I to tell her?" Jessie
thought, looking into the bright face of the young
girl.

Then as she remembered how really good-natured
William was, and that after all he might make a kind
husband, she resolved to throw no cloud over the
happiness of her friend, and congratulated her as cordially
as it was possible for her to do. But Charlotte
detected the absence of something in her manner, and
imputing it to a feeling of chagrin at having lost Mr.
Bellenger, she soon brought her visit to a close,
and hastened home, telling her grandmother that she
believed Jessie Graham was terribly disappointed, for
she was as white as a ghost, and could scarcely keep
from crying.

Meantime William, in a most singular state of
mind, tried to play the part of a devoted lover to
Charlotte,—avoided an interview with Jessie,—received
quite indifferently the congratulations of his
friends, and spent the remainder of his time in hating
Walter, who, he believed, stood between him and
Jessie Graham, just as he was sure he stood between
him and his rich grandmother.

"I'll torment him while I can," he thought. "I'll
make him think for a time, at least, that Jessie is
lost," and sitting down he wrote the carefully-worded
letter which had sent Walter so suddenly from home.
"There," said he, as he read it over, "he can infer
what he pleases. I don't say it's Jessie I'm going to
marry; but he can think so, if he likes, and I don't
envy him his cogitations."

William could not have devised a way of wounding
Walter more deeply than the letter had wounded
him, or of affecting Jessie more sensibly than she was
affected, when she heard that Walter had gone to
California.

"Not gone!" she cried, when her father brought
to her the news. "Not gone, without a word for me.
Oh, father, it was cruel! Didn't he leave a message
for you?"

"Yes, read it if you choose," and Mr. Graham
passed to her the letter which had greatly puzzled
him.

Was it possible he had been deceived? Was it
Charlotte Reeves, and not his daughter, whom Walter
Marshall loved? It would seem so, and yet he could
not be so mistaken; Walter must have been misinformed
as to the bride. Jessie, perhaps, could explain;
and he stood watching her face as she read the
letter.

At first it turned very red, then spotted, and then,
as the horrible truth burst upon her, it became as
white as marble, and stretching out her arms she
moaned:

"Oh, father, I never thought that he loved Charlotte
Reeves. I most wish I were dead;" and with
another cry, Jessie lay sobbing in her father's arms.
Very gently he tried to soothe her; and then, when
she was better, laid her upon the sofa, and kneeling
beside her, kissed away the tears which rolled down
her cheeks so fast.

She had betrayed her secret, or rather it had been
betrayed to herself, and winding her arms around her
father's neck, she whispered:

"I didn't know that before I,—that I,—oh, father,—I
guess I do love Walter better than I supposed;
and I guess I thought that he loved me. You won't
tell anybody, will you?" and she laid her burning
cheek against his own.

"Jessie," he said, "I have known for a long
time that you loved Walter Marshall. Once I
believed that he loved you. I believe so still.
There is surely some mistake. I will inquire of
William."

Mr. Graham did not know why he should seek for
an explanation from William Bellenger, but he could
think of nothing else, and after Jessie was somewhat
composed, he sought an interview with that young
man, asking him if he knew of any reason why his
cousin should start so suddenly for California, without
a word from any one.

"I should suppose he might have waited until after
your marriage with *Miss Reeves*?" and Mr. Graham
fixed his eyes upon Will, who colored slightly as
he replied:

"Oh, yes, I wrote to him about it, and invited him
to be present."

Mr. Graham was puzzled. If William wrote as he
said, Walter could not have been deceived, and he
wended his way homeward, quite uncertain how to act.
At last, he decided that as he must write to Walter by
the next steamer, he would take particular pains to
speak of Charlotte as having been the bride, and this
might, perhaps, bring Walter back sooner than was
expected. Still he would not tell this to Jessie, lest
she should be disappointed, and day after day her face
grew less merry than of old, until at last the kind-hearted
Charlotte, who watched her narrowly, threw
her arms around her neck, and said to her, entreatingly:

"What is it, Jessie? Did you love William,
and does it make you so unhappy to have him marry
me?"

"No, no," and Jessie recoiled from her in horror.
"I never loved William Bellenger,—never saw the
day when I would have married him,—never, as I
live!" and she spoke so indignantly that Charlotte, a
little piqued, replied:

"Don't scream so loud, if you didn't. I only
asked you because I knew something had ailed you
ever since I was engaged. Others notice it too;
and, if I were you, I'd try to appear cheerful, even if
I did not feel it."

Greatly as Jessie was annoyed, she resolved to act
upon this advice, for she would not have people think
that she cared for William Bellenger. So she roused
herself from the state of listless indifference into
which she had fallen, and Charlotte Reeves no longer
had reason to complain of her dullness, or non-appreciation
of the bridal finery, which was so ostentatiously
displayed, and which greatly annoyed Mrs.
Bartow.

This lady was secretly chagrined at what she considered
Charlotte's good luck, and at Mrs. Reeves'
evident exultation, and she took great pains to let the
latter know that she did not care and on the whole
was glad William was going to do so well. Jessie
would never have accepted him, even if she had had
a chance; and for the sake of dear Mrs. Bellenger
she was pleased to think the Reeves family was so
respectable. Of course she never did believe that
ridiculous story about the tin-peddler, and she
couldn't see who had reported it. She had been
asked about it, two or three times, and had always
told exactly how the story originated, and said it was
not true.

This speech she made in substance several times to
Mrs. Reeves, when that lady was congratulating herself
upon her granddaughter's brilliant prospects, and
insisting that "Jessie was a year the oldest; basing
her assertion upon the fact that she bought her
camel's hair shawl so many years ago, and Jessie was
born that very day."

"And I," retorted Mrs. Bartow, "remember
that my daughter Graham's silver tea-set was sent
home the morning after Jessie was born, and that
has the date on it, so I can't be wrong. And another
thing which makes me sure, is that a raw country
girl we had just hired insisted that it was tin, saying
her father was a peddler, and she guessed she
knew."

At the mention of tin of any kind, Mrs. Reeves
always seemed uneasy; and as Mrs. Bartow frequently
took occasion to name the offensive article in
her hearing, she resolved at last to steal a day or so
from the excitement at home, and see if she too,
could not find a weapon with which to fight her
friend.

Accordingly, one morning, when Mrs. Bartow
called to tell her that "people said William Bellenger
would drink and gamble too," she was informed that
the lady was out of town, and so she contented herself
with repeating the story to Charlotte, adding that she
didn't believe it herself and she wondered why people
would talk so.

Charlotte wondered too, and said that those who
repeated such scandal were quite as bad as the originators,
a remark in which Mrs. Bartow fully concurred,
saying, "if there was anything she despised it was a
talebearer."

The next day about one as she sat with Jessie in her
little sewing-room, Mrs. Reeves was announced, and
after a few preliminary remarks, began:

"By the way, my dear Mrs. Bartow, I have been
to Springfield, and remembering what you said about
that woman in Deerwood, I thought I'd run over there
and see her just to convince her that she was mistaken
in thinking she ever knew me or my father."

"Yes, yes. It's pretty warm in here, isn't it?
Jessie, hadn't you better go where it is cooler?" said
Mrs. Bartow, and Jessie replied:

"I am not uncomfortable, and I want to hear about
Deerwood. Isn't it a pleasant old town?" and she
turned to Mrs. Reeves, who answered:

"Charming! and those Marshalls are such kind,
worthy people. But what an odd specimen that Aunt
Debby is; and what a wonderful memory she has,
though, of course, she remembers some things which
never could have been, for instance——"

"Jessie, will you bring me my salts, or will you go
away, it's so close in here," came faintly from the distressed
lady, who had dropped her work, and was nervously
unbuttoning the top of her dress.

"Do you feel choked?" asked Mrs. Reeves, while
Jessie answered:

"I'll get your salts, grandma; but I don't wish to
go out, unless Mrs. Reeves has something to tell which
I must not hear."

"Certainly not," returned Mrs. Reeves. "It's
false, I'm sure, just as false as that ridiculous story
about the tin peddler and factory girl. I convinced
Aunt Debby that she was wrong. It was some other
Charlotte Gregory she used to know."

"Of course it was; I always said so," and a violent
sneeze followed the remark and a too strong inhalation
of the salts.

"As I was saying," persisted Mrs. Reeves, "Aunt
Debby knows everybody who has lived since the flood,
and even pretended to have known you, after I told
her your name was Lummis, before you were adopted
by Mrs. Stanwood."

"Oh, delightful," cried Jessie. "Do pray give us
the entire family tree, root and all. Was grandma's
father a cobbler, or did he make the *tin things* yours
used to *peddle*?" and the saucy black eyes looked
archly at both the ladies.

"I don't know what her father was," said Mrs.
Reeves, "but Aunt Debby pretends that Martha
Lummis,—Patty, she called her——"

"That's the name in the old black book, grandma,
that you said belonged to a friend," interrupted
Jessie, and while grandma groaned, Mrs. Reeves continued:

"Said that Patty did housework in Hopkinton,
and I believe could milk *seventeen* cows to her
one!"

"Oh," said Jessie, "how I wish I could milk. It's
such fun. I did try once, but got the tiniest stream,
and Walter said I'd dry the cows all up. I wish you
could hear *him* when he first begins. It sounds like
hail stones rattling on the *tin pail*. Did yours sound
so, grandma, and did you buy the pail of Mr.
Gregory?"

Mrs. Reeves, by this time, began to think that
Jessie might be making fun of her, and smothering
her wrath, she proceeded:

"I shouldn't care anything about the housework or
the milking, but I'll confess I *was* shocked, when she
spoke of——"

"I certainly am going to faint, Jessie, do go
out," gasped the white figure in the rocking chair,
while Jessie rejoined:

"I don't see how my going out can help you."
Then crossing over to her grandmother, she whispered,
"Brave it out. *Don't* let her see that you
care."

Thus entreated Mrs. Bartow became somewhat
composed, and her tormentor went on:

"This Patty Lummis, Aunt Debby said, was
blood relation to *three Thayers*, who were hung
some years ago for murdering *John Love*, or some
such name. I remember hearing of it at the time,
but did not suppose I knew any of their relatives."

"Horrid!" cried Jessie, and then, as she saw how
white her grandmother was, she added quickly:

"And didn't she say too, that the Gregorys *ought*
to have been hung if they weren't?"

"Such impertinence," muttered Mrs. Reeves, while
Jessie rejoined:

"There are very few families, which, if traced to
the fountain head, have not a halter, or a peddler's
cart, or a smell of tallow, or shoemaker's wax——"

"Or a woollen factory, Jessie. Don't forget
that," suggested Mrs. Bartow, and Jessie added,
laughingly:

"Yes, a woollen factory, and as you and grandma
do not belong to the few who are exempt from a stain
of any kind, if honorable work can be called a stain,
I advise you to drop old scores, and let the past be
forgotten."

"I'm sure I'm willing," sobbed Mrs. Bartow. "I
never did tell that ridiculous story to but one, and
she promised not to breathe it as long as she
lived."

"And will you take it back?" chimed in Mrs.
Reeves.

"Ye-es. I'll do everything I can toward it," answered
the distracted old lady. "I couldn't help
those *Thayers*. I never saw them in my life, and they
were only second cousins."

"*Fourth* to you, then," and Mrs. Reeves nodded
to Jessie, who replied:

"I don't care if they were *first*. Everybody
knows me, and my position in society does not depend
upon what my family have been before me, but upon
what I am myself. Isn't it so, father?" and she
turned to Mr. Graham, who had just entered the
room.

"I don't know the nature of your conversation,"
he replied, "but I overheard your last remarks, and
fully concur with you, that persons are to be respected
for themselves and not for their family; neither are
they to be despised for what their family or any member
of it may do."

There was a tremor in his voice, and looking at
him closely, Jessie saw that he was very pale, and
evidently much agitated.

"What is it, father?" she cried, forgetting the
*three Thayers* and thinking only of Walter. "What
has happened?"

Mr. Graham did not reply to her, but turning to
Mrs. Reeves, he said:

"Excuse me, madam, but I think your duty calls
you home, where poor Charlotte needs your sympathy."

"Why *poor* Charlotte?" replied Jessie, grasping
his arm. "Is William sick or dead?"

"He has been arrested for forgery. I may as
well tell it first as last," and the words dropped slowly
from Mr. Graham's lips.

"*Forgery!* William arrested! It's false!" shrieked
Mrs. Reeves, and the salts which Mrs. Bartow had used
so vigorously a little time before changed hands,
while Jessie passed her arm around the lady to keep
her from falling to the floor. "It's false. He never
forged. Why should he? Isn't he rich, and a Bellenger?"
she kept repeating, until at last Mr. Graham
answered:

"It is too true, my dear madam, that for some
time past Mr. Bellenger has been engaged in a systematic
course of forging, managing always to escape
detection, until now, it has been clearly proved against
him, and he is in the hands of the law."

There was no reason why Mrs. Reeves, at this
point, should think of Walter, but she did, and fancying
that her auditors might possibly be drawing comparisons
between the two cousins she said:

"It's the *Marshall* blood with which he is tainted."

"Marshall blood!" repeated Jessie, indignantly.
"I'd like to know by what chemical process you have
mingled the Marshall blood with William Bellenger's."

Mrs. Reeves could not explain. She only knew
that she was completely overwhelmed with surprise
and mortification, and she seemed so bewildered and
helpless that Mr. Graham ordered his carriage, and
sent her to No.—, whither the sad news had preceded
her, and where Charlotte lay fainting and moaning in
the midst of her bridal finery, which would never be
worn. She had noticed William's absence from the
house for the last twenty-four hours, and was wondering
at it, when her father, roused by the shock from
his usual state of quiet passiveness, rushed in, telling
her in thunder tones that her affianced husband had
been guilty of forging Graham & Marshall's name,
not once, not twice, but many times, until at last he
was detected and under arrest.

"He'll go to State prison, girl—do you hear? To
State prison! Why don't you speak, and not sit staring
at me with that milky face?"

Poor Charlotte could not speak, but she fainted
and fell at the feet of her father, who became himself
at once, and bending kindly over her brought her
back to life. It was not that Charlotte loved William
so very much. It was rather her pride which was
wounded, and she moaned and wept until her grandmother
came, and with her lamentations and reproaches,
so wholly out-did all Charlotte had done,
that the latter grew suddenly calm, and without a
word or a tear, sat motionless, while the old lady
raved on, one moment talking as if they were all going
to prison together, and the next giving Charlotte
most uncomfortable squeezes to think she was not the
wife of a forger after all.

----

The *three Thayers* were for the time forgotten,
and when at Charlotte's request Jessie came to see
her, accompanied by her grandmother, Mrs. Reeves
kissed the latter affectionately, whispering in her ear:

"We'll not mind the past, for the present has
enough of trouble and disgrace."

Great was the excitement among William's friends,
the majority of whom turned against him, saying
"they expected it and knew all the time that something
was wrong."

Mr. Graham stood by and pitied the cowed and
wretched young man, and pitied him all the more that
his father kept aloof, saying:

"He's made his bed and he may lie in it."

At the first intimation of the sad affair, Mrs. Bellenger
hastened home, but neither her money nor her
influence, and both were freely used, could disprove
the guilt of the young man, who awaited his trial in a
state of mind bordering on despair.

Only once did he speak of Charlotte, and that on
the day which was to have seen her his bride. Then,
with Mr. Graham, he talked of her freely, asking what
effect it had on her, and appearing greatly agitated
when told that she was very ill, and would see none of
her friends but Jessie.

"God bless her,—Jessie, I mean," he said, "and
bless poor Lottie, too. I am sorry I brought this
trouble upon her. I thought to pay the notes with
her money, and I resolved after that to be a better
man. I am glad Nellie did not live to see this day.
Do you think that up in Heaven she knows what I
have done and prays for me still?"

Then, as talking of Nellie naturally brought Walter
to his mind, he confessed to Mr. Graham how his
letter had sent his cousin away.

"I thought once to win Jessie for myself," he said,
"and so I broke poor Nellie's heart. I purposely
withheld the note the deacon sent to Jessie, bidding
her come ere Nellie died. And this I did, because I
feared what the result might be of Jessie's going
there. But my sin has found me out, and I shall
never cross Walter's path again; it's Jessie he loves;
tell her so, and bring the light back to her eyes, which
were heavy with tears when I saw her last."

Mr. Graham did tell her, and when next she went
to the chamber where Charlotte lay sick of a slow
fever, there was an increased bloom upon her cheek
and a brighter flash in her dark eye, while from her
own great happiness she strove to draw some comfort
for her friend, who would suffer no other one of her
acquaintance to approach her.

Jessie alone could comfort her, Jessie alone knew
what to say, and the right time to say it, and when at
last the trial came, and the verdict of "guilty" was
pronounced, it was Jessie who broke the news as
gently as possible to the pale invalid.

Locked in each others' arms they wept together;
the one, tears of pity; the other, tears of regret and
mortification over the misguided man whose home for
the next five years would be a dreary prison.

There was no going to Saratoga that summer, no
trip to Newport; and when the gay world congregated
there asked for the sprightly girl who had been
with them the season before, and for the old lady who
carried her head so proudly and sported such superb
diamonds, the answer was a mysterious whisper of
some dire misfortune or disgrace which had befallen
them, and then the dance and the song in which
Charlotte had ever been the first to join, went on the
same as before.

Gradually as Charlotte recovered her strength and
her spirits, she began to wish for some quiet spot
where no one knew her, and remembering dear old
Deerwood, now a thousand times more dear since she
knew of Walter's love, Jessie told her of its shadowy
woods, its pleasant walks, its musical pines with the
rustic seat beneath, and Charlotte, pleased with her
rural picture, bade her write and ask if she could come.

So Jessie wrote, and in less than one week's time
two girls walked again upon the mountain side, or
paused by the little grave where Nellie was buried.
Upon the bank close to the mound a single rose was
growing,—the last of the sisterhood. It had been late
in unfolding its delicate leaves, and when at last, it
was full blown, Jessie picked it, and pressing it carefully,
sent it with the message, "it grew near Nellie's
grave," to the weary man whose life was now one of
toil and loneliness.




CHAPTER XIV.—THE STRANGER NURSE.
================================


The regular boarders at the —— Hotel were
discussing their dinner with all the haste
and greediness which characterizes their
Eastern brethren. The first and second courses had
been removed, and the merits of the dessert were about
to be tested when for a moment the operation ceased,
while the operators welcomed back to their midst a
middle-aged man, who for a few weeks had been
absent from the city.

That Captain Murdock was a general favorite,
could readily be seen by the heartiness of his greeting
from his friends, and that he was worthy of
esteem, none knew better than the hundreds of poor
and destitute who had often been relieved and comforted
by his well-filled purse, and words of genuine
sympathy. Possessed of unbounded wealth, he scattered
it about him with no miserly hand, and many a
child of poverty blessed him for the great good done
to him.

"Well, captain," said one of the boarders, "glad
to see you back. We've been mighty lonesome
without you. Found your room occupied, didn't
you?"

"Yes," returned the man addressed as captain,
"the landlord tells me he took the liberty to put the
young man in there because the house was so full.
Of course, he couldn't know that he would be too sick
to vacate the premises in the morning; but it's all
right. I, who have slept so often on the ground, don't
mind camping on the floor now and then."

Here a dozen voices interposed offering him a part
or the whole of their rooms, but the good-natured
captain declined them all, saying "he should do very
well, and perhaps the young man would not be sick
long. Did they know where he came from? Was he
a stranger or a resident in California?"

A stranger, they replied, adding that he came
from New York about two weeks before, and had almost
immediately been taken sick, and that was all
they knew about him.

Dinner being over, Captain Murdock went up to
his room, not to see the sick man particularly, but because
he wished to remove to another apartment a
few articles which he would probably need.

Walter, for it was he, was sleeping, while near him,
in an arm-chair, dozed the old crone who had been
hired to nurse him. One glance at the former convinced
the captain that he was poorly cared for and
must necessarily be very uncomfortable. Still he
might not have interfered, had not the sick man
moaned uneasily in his sleep, and turning on his side,
murmured the name of *father*.

Never had Captain Murdock been thus addressed,—no
infant arms had ever twined themselves around his
neck,—no sweet voice called him *father*,—and yet this
one word thrilled him with an undefinable emotion,
awakening at once within his bosom feelings of tender
pity for the sick man, who seemed so young and helpless.

"Poor boy," he whispered, "he is dreaming of his
home away in the East, and of the loved ones who
little know how much he needs their care," and advancing
toward the bedside, he adjusted the tumbled
pillows, smoothed the soiled spread, pushed back the
tangled hair from the burning forehead, and was turning
away when Walter awoke, and fixing his bright
eyes upon him, said faintly, "Don't go."

Thus entreated the captain sat down beside him,
while the old nurse roused up, exclaiming:

"Sakes alive, captain! is that you? Ain't you
feared the fever's catching? He's got it mightily
in his head, and keeps a goin' on about Jessy,
his brother, I guess, or some chap he know'd at
home."

At the mention of Jessie, Walter turned his eyes
again upon the captain, and said.

"Jessie's married. Did you know it?"

"Yes, I know it," answered the captain, thinking
it best to humor the whim. "Whom did she
marry?"

"William," was the reply, "and I loved her so
much."

At this point the nurse arose, saying:

"Bein' you're here, I'll go out a bit," and she left
the room.

Walter looked uneasily after her, and when she
was gone, said:

"Lock the door, and keep her out. Don't let her
come back. She's one of Macbeth's witches, and
makes one think of Jessie's grandmother, who won't
let me talk of love to Jessie, until I am—well, no
matter what. Do you know my father?"

"No," and the captain shook his head mournfully,
while Walter continued:

"Are you anybody's father?"

"I don't know," and the voice was sadder than
when it spoke before.

"I'm looking for my father," Walter said, "just
as Telemachus looked for his. Do you know
Ulysses?"

The captain had heard of Ulysses, and the mention
of him carried him back to an old stone house on
the hill, where he had read the wonderful adventures
of the hero.

"Well," Walter continued, "I am hunting for my
father, and Jessie cried up in the pines when I told
her about him, and how her father testified against
him. Do you know Mr. Graham?"

"Who?" screamed the captain, bounding to his
feet, and bending so near to Walter that his hot
breath stirred the thick brown hair. "Do I know
whom?"

But Walter refused to answer, or even to speak;
the captain's manner had startled him, or it may be
there was something in the keen eye fixed so earnestly
upon him, which held him speechless.

For a moment the two gazed fixedly at each other,—the
old man and the young,—the latter with a
bright, vacant stare, while the other sought for some
token to tell him that it was not without a reason his
heart beat so fast with a hope of he scarcely knew
what.

"I will inquire below," he said at last, as he
failed to elicit any information from Walter, and
going to the office, he turned the leaves of the
register back to the day when he had left three
weeks before.

Then with untiring patience he read on and on,
read Jones and Smith, and Smith and Brown, some
with wives and some without, some with daughters,
some with sisters, and some alone, but none as yet
were sent to No. 40. So he read on again and then at
last he found the name he sought,—\ :small-caps:`Walter Marshall`.

"Thank God! thank God!" he uttered faintly,
and those who heard only the last word thought to
themselves:

"I never knew the captain *swore* before."

With great effort he compelled himself to be calm,
and when at last he spoke none detected in his voice
a trace of the shock that name had given him, bringing
back at once the gable-roofed farm-house far
away, the maple tree where his name was cut, the
brown-haired wife, the stormy night when the wind
rushed sobbing past the window where he stood and
looked his last on her, the mother long since dead, and
the father who believed him guilty.

All this passed in rapid review before his mind, and
then his thoughts came back to the present time, and
centered themselves upon the restless, tossing form
which, up in No. 40, had said to him:

"Do you know my father?"

"What is it, captain?" the landlord asked. "Your
face is white as paper."

"I am thinking," and the captain spoke naturally,
"I am thinking that I will take care of that young
man. I find I know his people, or used to know them,
rather. Dismiss that imbecile old woman," and having
said so much he left the room and fled up the stairs
seeing nothing but that name as it looked upon the
page,—\ :small-caps:`Walter Marshall`.

He repeated it again and again, and in the tone
with which he did so there was a peculiar tenderness,
such as mothers are only supposed to feel toward their
children.

"Walter Marshall,—my boy,—Ellen's and mine,"
and over the boy, which was Ellen's and his, the man,
old before his time, bent down and wept great teardrops,
which fell upon the white handsome face, which
grew each moment more and more like the young girl
wife, whose grave the broken-hearted husband had
never looked upon.

"Why do you cry?" asked Walter, and the captain
replied:

"I had a son once like you, and it makes me cry
to see you here so sick. I am going to take care of
you, too, and send that woman off."

"Oh! will you?" was Walter's joyful cry, "and
will you stay until I find my father?"

"Yes, yes, I will stay with you always," and again
Seth Marshall's lips touched those of his son.

"Isn't it funny for men to kiss men?" Walter
asked, passing his hand over the spot. "I thought
they only kissed women, girls like Jessie, and I don't
kiss her now. I haven't since she was a little thing
and gave me one of her curls. It's in my trunk, with
a lock of mother's hair. Did you know *mother*,
man?"

"Yes, yes, oh, Heaven, yes," and the man thus
questioned fell upon his knees, and hiding his face in
the bed-clothes, sobbed aloud.

His grief distressed Walter, who, without understanding
it clearly, felt that he was himself in some
way connected with it, and laying his hand upon the
gray hair within his reach, he smoothed it caressingly,
saying:

"Don't cry. It won't do any good. I used to
cry when I was a boy and thought of poor, dear
father."

"Say it again. Say, 'poor, dear father,' once
more," and the white, haggard face lifted itself slowly
up and crept on until it lay beside the feverish one
upon the pillow.

Thus it was the father met his son, and all
through the afternoon he sat by him, soothing him to
sleep, and then bending fondly over him to watch
him while he slept.

"He is some like Ellen," he whispered, "but more
like me, as I was in my early manhood, and yet, as he
lies sleeping, there is a look about him that I have
often seen on Ellen's face when she was asleep.
Darling wife, we little thought when we talked together
of our child, that the first time I beheld him
would be beneath the California skies, and he a
bearded man."

Then, as he remembered what Walter had said of
the hair, he opened the lid of the trunk, and hunted
until he found Jessie's raven curl, and the longer,
browner tress. He knew in a moment that it was
Ellen's hair,—and kissing it reverently he twined it
about his fingers just as he used to when the soft eyes
it shaded looked lovingly into his.

"Walter's is like it," he said, stealing to the bedside,
and laying it among the brown locks of his son.
"Bless my boy,—bless my boy!" and going back
again, he placed the lock of hair beside this jet black
ringlet wondering who Jessie was, and why she had
married another.

It was growing dark when Walter awoke, but
between himself and the window he saw the outline
of his friend, and knowing he was not alone, fell
away again to sleep, resting better that night than he
had done before since the commencement of his illness.

For many days Captain Murdock watched by him,
and when at last the danger was passed, and Walter
restored to consciousness, he was the first to know it,
and bending over him he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving
for the restoration of his son.

"Who are you?" Walter asked after objects and
events had assumed a rational form. "Who are you,
and why have you been so kind to me, as I am sure
you have?"

"I am called Captain Murdock," was the answer
"This is my room; the one I have occupied for a long,
long time. I left the city some weeks ago on business
and during my absence you came. As the house was
full the landlord put you in here for one night, but in
the morning you were too ill to be moved. You have
been very sick, and as your nurse was none of the best,
I dismissed her and took care of you myself, because
if I had a son in a strange land I should want some
one to care for him, and I only did what your father
would wish me to do. You have a father, young
man?"

The question was put affirmatively, and without
looking at the eyes fixed so intently upon him, Walter
colored crimson as he replied:

"I hope I have, though I don't know. I never
saw him except in dreams."

Captain Murdock turned toward the window for a
moment, and then in a calm voice continued:

"I will not seek your confidence. You said some
strange things in your delirium, but they are safe with
me,—as safe as if I were the father you never saw.
This came for you some days ago," and he held up
Mr. Graham's letter, the sight of which had wrung a
cry of pain from his own lips, for he knew whose hand
had traced the name that letter bore.

"And has anybody written to the people at home?"
Walter asked, and Captain Murdock replied:

"Yes, the landlord sent a few lines, saying that
you were ill, but well cared for. He directed to
'Walter Marshall's Friends, Deerwood, Mass.,' for by
looking over your papers, we found your family lived
there. A grandfather, perhaps, if you have no father?"
and Seth Marshall waited anxiously for the answer
which would tell him if his aged sire were yet numbered
among the living.

In his ravings Walter had never spoken of him,
and the heart, not less a child's because its owner was
a man, grew faint with fear lest his father should be
dead. Walter's reply, however, dissipated all his
doubt.

"Yes, my grandfather lives there, but this is not
from him," and breaking open the envelope, Walter
read what Mr. Graham had written, heeding little
what was said of business, scarcely knowing, indeed,
that business was mentioned at all, in his great joy at
finding that Charlotte and not Jessie was William's
chosen bride.

"He deceived me purposely," he thought, and
then, as he realized more and more that Jessie was not
married, he said aloud, "I am so glad, so glad."

"You must have good news," the captain suggested,
and Walter answered:

"Yes, blessed news," then as there came over him
a strong desire to talk of the good news with some
one, he continued:

"Tell me, Captain Murdock, have I talked of
Jessie Graham?"

The captain started, for he had not thought of
Jessie as the daughter of Richard Graham.

"Yes," he answered, "you said that she was
married."

"But she isn't," interrupted Walter. "It was a
lie imposed upon me by that false-hearted William
Bellenger."

"You spoke of him, too," said the captain, "and
I fancied he might be your cousin. You see I am
tolerably well posted in your affairs," and the pleasant
smile which accompanied these words, disarmed
Walter at once from all fear that his secrets would be
betrayed.

"What else did you learn?" he asked, and the
captain replied:

"There is some trouble about your father. He
robbed a bank, didn't he?" and there was a strange
look in the keen eyes which did not now rest on
Walter's face, but sought the floor as if doubtful of the
answer.

"Never, never!" Walter exclaimed, with an
energy which brought the blood to his pale cheek,
and tears to the eyes riveted upon the carpet. "He
never did that."

"He has been proved innocent, then?" and in the
voice which asked the question there was a trembling
eagerness.

"Not proved so to the world, but I need no
proof," returned Walter. "I never for a moment
thought him guilty."

Then after a pause, he added. "I have, I see,
unwittingly divulged much of my family history,
and lest you should have received a wrong impression,
I may as well confess the whole to you, but
not now, I am too much excited, too tired to talk
longer."

He was indeed exhausted, and for several hours he
lay quite still, saying but little and thinking happy
thoughts of home and *Jessie*, who Mr. Graham wrote,
"mourned sadly over his absence."

Suddenly remembering the message he had left,
and which would seem to say he loved Charlotte
Reeves, he bade the captain bring to him pen and
paper, and with a shaking hand he wrote to Mr.
Graham:

"I am getting better fast, thanks to Captain
Murdock, who, though a stranger, has been the
best of friends, and kindest nurse. Forgive me,
Mr. Graham. I thought the bride was Jessie.
Don't hate me, I could not help it, and I had
learned to love her before I heard from Mrs. Bartow
that you would be displeased. I will overcome
it if I can, for I promised the grandmother I would
not talk of love to Jessie, until my father was
proved innocent."

This was all he had strength to write, and when the
letter was finished, he relapsed into a thoughtful, half
dreamy state, from which he did not rouse for a day
or two. Then, with strength renewed, he called the
captain to him, and bidding him sit down beside him,
told him the whole story of his life, even to his love
for Jessie Graham,—which he must not tell until his
father were proved innocent.

There was a smothered groan in the direction
where Mr. Marshall sat, and inwardly the unfortunate
man prayed:

"How long, dear Lord, oh, how long must thy servant
wait?"

"Mr. Graham may release you from that promise,"
he said, "and then you surely would not hesitate."

"Perhaps not," Walter answered, for in spite of
what Mrs. Bartow had said, he, too, entertained a
secret hope that Mr. Graham would in some way
interfere for him.

"What would be the result if your father should
return to Deerwood?" Captain Murdock asked.
"Would they proceed against him?"

"Oh, no! oh, no;" said Walter. "It was so long ago,
and everybody who knew him speaks well of him now.
I have often wished he would come home, and when I
was a little boy, I used to watch by the window till it
grew dark, and then cry myself to sleep. Did I tell
you his arm-chair stands in the kitchen corner now
just where he left it that night he went away! It was
a fancy of grandpa's that no one should ever sit in it
again, and no one has, but Jessie. She would make
a playhouse of it, in spite of all we could say. I
wish you could see Jessie and grandfather and
all."

The captain wished so, too, and in his dreams
that night, he was back again by the old hearth
stone, sitting in the chair kept for him so long,
and listening to his father's voice blessing his long-lost
son.

All this might be again, he said, when he awoke
but his young wife, whose face he saw, just as it
looked on her bridal day, would not be there to meet
him, and the strong man wept again as he had not
done in many years, over the blight which had fallen
so heavily upon him.

Rapidly the days and weeks went by, and then
there came letters both from Mr. Graham and Mrs.
Bellenger, telling how the wedding song had been
changed into a wail of sorrow, and that the elegant
William Bellenger was branded as a villain. Mr.
Graham, too, spoke of Jessie, saying toward the
close:

"You told me no news, dear Walter, when you
said you loved my daughter. I knew it long ago and
I have watched you narrowly, to see if you were
worthy of her. That I think you are, I prove to you
by saying, that to no young man of my acquaintance,
would I entrust her happiness so willingly as to you,
and had you talked to me freely upon the subject,
you would not, perhaps, have been in California now.
Your remark concerning Mrs. Bartow reminded me of
what she once told me, and when I questioned her
again upon the subject, demanding to know the truth,
she confessed the falsehood she imposed on you, by
saying I did not wish you to marry Jessie. I can find
nothing to excuse her save her foolish pride, which
will probably never be subdued. Still she is your
stanch friend now, just as she is poor William's bitter
enemy. You have said you would not talk of love to
Jessie until your father was proved innocent. This,
my dear Walter, may never be, even if he is living,
which is very doubtful. So why should you hesitate.
You have my free consent to say to her whatever you
think best to say. She is in Deerwood, now, with
poor Lottie, who is sadly mortified at what she considers
her disgrace. I am doing what I can for William,
so is his grandmother; but his father refuses to
see him or even hear his name spoken. Unfortunate
Will, he seems penitent, and has acknowledged everything
to me, even the wicked part he acted toward
you, by deceiving you. I thank Heaven every day
that Jessie's choice fell on you, and not on him."

This letter made Walter supremely happy, and to
Captain Murdock, in whom he now confided everything,
he told how, immediately on his return to
New York, he should ask the young lady to be
his wife.

"And would you like your father to come back
even though his guilt could not be disproved?" the
captain asked, and Walter answered:

"Yes, oh, yes; but I'm afraid he never will.
Poor father, if I could once look upon his face."

"You shall—you do!" sprang to the lips of Captain
Murdock, but he forced the wild words back, and
going away alone, he prayed, as he often did, that the
load he had borne so long might be lifted from his
heart, and that the sun of domestic peace, which had
early set in gloom, might shine upon his later life.




CHAPTER XV.—GLORIOUS NEWS.
==========================


There was a package for Walter, who had
now been some months in California,—a
package of letters and papers both,—and
with a beating heart he sat down to read, taking Mr.
Graham's letter first, for that might have a message
from Jessie.

It was glorious news which the letter contained,
and it wrung a cry of delight from Walter, which
was heard by the captain, who turned to see what it
was that thus affected his companion.

"Listen, Captain Murdock," Walter exclaimed,
"listen to this. *My father is proved innocent. Heyward
was the robber,—he came back and confessed it
the night before he died*, and——"

He did not finish the sentence, for, like a wild beast
startled from its lair by a sudden fright, Captain Murdock
bounded to his side, and, snatching the letter
from him, devoured its contents at a glance then
striking his hands together, he fairly screamed:

"Thank God! the year of jubilee has come,—the
day I've waited for so long!"

Earnestly and half fearfully Walter gazed up into
the marble face, and into the eyes that burned like
coals of fire, seeing in them now, for the first time, a
look like his grandfather. Then a suspicion of truth
burst upon him, and springing up he caught the gray-haired
captain by the arm, demanding faintly:

"Who are you? Tell me, or I shall die."

"I am your father, boy," and, opening his arms,
the father received to his embrace his fainting son.

The news and the surprise combined were too
much for Walter, and for some little time he lay upon
the bed, whither his father had borne him, unconscious
of the caresses, the words of love, the whispered
blessings showered on him by one who felt now that
he trod a different earth, and breathed a different
air from what he had done for twenty-four long
years.

"*Father*,"—how like music that word sounded in
his ear when Walter said it at last, and how it wrung
tears from eyes which, until recently, were unused to
weep.

"Say it again, my son. Call me father often.
'Tis the name I've thirsted for, but never expected to
hear," and the strong man, weak now as a woman,
kissed lovingly the face of the handsome boy.

"Read it aloud," Walter said, pointing to the
crumpled letter lying on the floor.

Mr. Marshall complied, and read in tremulous
tones how Ralph Heyward, after an absence of
eighteen years, had again asked shelter at the farm-house,
saying he was tired and sick. His request was
granted, and when the morning came he was too ill to
leave his bed, but lay there for many days, kindly
cared for by the deacon, to whom he made a full
confession of his guilt, saying that *he*, and not Seth
Marshall, robbed the Deerwood Bank; that it was
what he intended to do when he came there that
night, feigning drunkenness the better to cover his
design.

He knew that Seth kept the keys in his pocket,
and when sure that the household were asleep, he
arose, and putting on his victim's coat, cap and shoes,
left the house stealthily, committed the theft, hid the
money, and then as cautiously returned to his room,
and was settling himself a second time into an apparently
drunken sleep, when he heard some one up,
looking, as he supposed, for the cause of the disturbance
he had made in accidentally upsetting a chair as
he left Seth Marshall's room. Then he was still
again until the morning came, and the arrest was
made.

At the examination, when he saw the terrible
anguish of the young wife, he was half tempted to
confess, but dared not, for fear of what might follow;
so he kept his own counsel, and for a few years remained
in the vicinity of Deerwood, hoping to hear
something of the man he had so wronged, and then he
went away to the West, wandering up and down with
that burden of guilt upon his soul, until at last, knowing
that he must die, he returned to Deerwood, and
seeking out the farm-house, asked permission to lay
his head again beneath its hospitable roof. This done,
he acknowledged to the father how he had sinned
against the son, and after making an affidavit of his
guilt, died a penitent and, it was to be hoped, a better
man.

"And now," wrote Mr. Graham in conclusion, "I
wish I could convey to you some little idea of the
present excitement in Deerwood. Everybody is talking
of the disclosure, and of your father, who, were
he here, would be a greater lion even than Lafayette
in his day. And I wish that he were here. Poor
Seth! God forgive me that I testified against him.
I verily believed him guilty up to the hour when Heyward
proved him innocent. Oh, if he only could
come back to me again, and to the home where your
aged grandfather prays continually that his sun may
not go down until he has seen once more the face of
his boy. Poor old man, it is a touching sight to see
his lips move continually, and hear the words he
whispers: 'God send him back, God send him back.'
You know Aunt Debby always said, 'Seth allus was a
good boy;' she repeats it now with ten-fold earnestness,
as if it were a fact in which everybody concurred.
It may be that your father is dead, and if so he cannot
return; but if still living, I am sure we shall see
him again, for I shall take means to have the story
inserted in the papers far and near, so that it will be
sure to meet his eye.

"Meanwhile, Walter, come home as soon as you
are able to bear the journey. We want you here to
share in our great joy. Leave the business, if it is
not arranged, and come. We are waiting anxiously
for you, and none more anxiously than Jessie. She
has been wild with delight ever since I told her your
father was innocent. Mrs. Bellenger, too, shares the
general joy, and were yourself and your father here
our happiness would be complete."

"We will go, too," cried Walter, "you as Captain
Murdock at first, to see if they will know you. Oh, I
wish it were now that we were there," and Walter's
dark eyes danced as he anticipated the meeting
between the deacon and his son.

"Yes, we will go," Mr. Marshall answered, and
then, after looking over the papers which Mr. Graham
had sent, and which contained Heyward's confession,
he sat down by Walter and told of his wanderings
since that dreadful night when he left his home,
branded as a thief and robber. "But first," said he,
"let me tell you how I chanced to run away. I
should never have done it but for Mr. Graham, who
begged and entreated me to go."

"Mr. Graham!" exclaimed Walter. "Why, he, I
thought, was your bail."

"So he was," returned the father, "but he wished
me to come away for all that. He would rather lose
all his fortune, he said, than know I was in prison,
and sent there on his testimony. So he urged me to
leave, contriving a way for me to do so, and even
carrying me himself, that stormy night, many miles
from Deerwood. I dreaded the State prison. I
believe I would rather have been hung, and I yielded
to his importunities on one condition only. I knew
his father would be very indignant, and that people
would censure him severely, too, if it were known he
was in my secret, and, as I would not have him
blamed, I made him promise to me solemnly that he
would never tell that he first suggested my going and
then helped me away. He has kept his promise, and
it is well. I have ample means, now, for paying him
all I owe, and many a time I have thought to send it
to him, but I have been dead to all my friends so long
that I decided to remain so. I wrote to him from
Texas, asking for you all, and learning from him of
Ellen's death, and of your birth. You were a feeble
child, he said, and probably would not live. I had
never seen you, my son, and when I heard that my
darling was gone,—my mother, too,—and that my
father and best friend still believed me guilty, I felt a
growing coldness toward you all. I would never
write home again, I said. I would forget that I ever
had a home, and for a time I kept this resolution,
plunging into vices of every kind,—swearing, gambling,
drinking——"

"Oh father,—father!" said Walter, with a shudder.
"You do not tell me true."

"It's all true, my boy, and more," returned the
father, "but I was overtaken at last, by a terrible
sickness, the result of dissipation in New Orleans. A
sister of charity saved my life, and opened my heart
to better things. Her face was like Ellen's, and it
carried me back to other days, until I wept like a little
child over my past folly. From that sick bed, I
arose a different man, and then for years I watched
the Northern papers to see if they contained anything
like what we have just read. But they did not, and I
said I cannot go home yet. I sometimes saw Mr.
Graham's name, and knew that he was living, but
whether you were dead or alive I could not even
guess. Here, in California, where I have been for the
last ten years, I have never met a single person from
the vicinity of Deerwood. At first I worked among
the mines, amassing money so fast as even to astonish
myself. At length, weary of the labor, I left the
mines and came to the city, where I am known as
Captain Murdock, the title having been first given to
me in sport by some of my mining friends. Latterly
I have thought of going home, for it is so long since
the robbery, that I had no fears of being arrested, and
I was about making up my mind to do so, when
chance threw you in my way, and it now remains for
you to say when we both shall start."

"At once,—at once," said Walter, who had listened
intently to the story, giving vent to an occasional exclamation
of surprise. "We will go in the very next
steamer. I shall not have a chance to write, but it
will be just as well. I wish to see if grandpa or Mr.
Graham will recognize you."

Mr. Marshall had no objections to testing the recollections
of his father, and he readily consented to
go, saying to his friends that as New England was his
birthplace he intended accompanying his young
friend home.

"I can write the truth back to them," he thought,
"and save myself much annoyance."

Thus it was arranged, and the next steamer for
New York which left the harbor of San Francisco,
bore on its deck the father and his son, both eager
and expectant and anxious to be at the end of the
voyage.




CHAPTER XVI.—THANKSGIVING DAY AT DEERWOOD.
==========================================


The dinner table was nicely arranged in the
"best room" of the farm-house, and Jessie
Graham, with a happy look on her bright
face, flitted in and out, arranging the dishes a little
more to her taste, smoothing the snowy cloth, pausing
a moment before the fire blazing so cheerfully upon
the hearth, and then glancing from the window, across
the frozen fields to the hillside where a new grave had
been made since the last Thanksgiving Day.

"Dear Ellen!" she sighed, "there is no plate for
her now,—no chair." Then, as she remembered an
absent one, dearer far than Ellen, she thought, "I'll
make believe *he's* here," and seeking Mrs. Howland,
who was busy with her turkey, she said: "May I
put a plate for Walter? It will please him when he
hears of it."

"Yes, child," was the ready answer, and Jessie
was hastening off, when a feeble voice from the
kitchen corner where the deacon sat, called her
back:

"Jessie," the old man said. "Put Seth's arm-chair
next to mine. It is the last Thanksgiving I
shall ever see, and I would fancy him with me once
more," and as Jessie turned toward the place where
the leathern chair stood, she heard the words:

"God send him back,—God send him back."

"It is the deacon's wish," she whispered to her
father, who, with Mrs. Bellenger, was also spending
Thanksgiving at the farm-house, and who looked up
surprised, as Jessie dragged from its accustomed post,
the ponderous arm-chair, and wheeling it into the
other room, placed it to the deacon's right.

The dinner was ready at last, and Mrs. Howland
was only waiting for the oysters to boil, before she
served them up, when Jessie gave a scream of joy,
and dropping the dish of cranberries she held, ran off
into the pantry, where, as Aunt Debby affirmed, she
hid herself in the closet, though from what she was
hiding it were difficult to tell. There was surely
nothing appalling in the sight of *Walter*, who, alighting
from the village omnibus, now stood upon the
threshold, with Captain Murdock.

They had stayed all night in the city, where
Walter had learned that Mr. Graham, Jessie and his
grandmother, had gone to Deerwood to spend
Thanksgiving Day.

"We shall be there just in time," he said to his
father, when at an early hour they took their seat in
the cars; but his father paid little heed, so intent was
he upon noting the changes which more than twenty
years had wrought in the localities with which he was
once familiar.

As the day wore on, and he drew near to Deerwood,
he leaned back in his seat, faint and sick with
the crowd of memories which came rushing over
him.

"Deerwood!" shouted the conductor, and looking
from the window, he could scarcely believe it possible
that this flourishing village was the same he had
known among the hills. When he went away *one*
spire alone pointed heavenward, now he counted *four*,
while in the faces of some who greeted Walter
again he saw the looks of those who had been boys
with him, but who were fathers now to these grown-up
young men.

"I am old," he sighed, and mechanically entering
the omnibus, he folded his arms in moody silence, as
they rattled down the street. But when the brow of
the hill was reached, and Walter said: "See, father,
there's our orchard," he started, and looked, not at
the orchard, nor at the gable roof now fully in view,
nor at the maple tree, but down the lane, along the
beaten path, to where a tall monument gleamed white
and cold in the gray November light.

"That's her's,—that's mother's," Walter said, following
the direction of his father's eyes; then fearing
that his father, by his emotions, should betray
himself too soon, he arose and sat by him, taking his
hand, and saying tenderly:

"Don't give way. You have me left, and grandpa,
and Aunt Mary, and Jessie,—won't you try to be
calm?"

"Yes, yes," whispered the agitated man, and with
a tremendous effort he was calm, as, standing in the
well-remembered kitchen, he waited till the noisy
outburst had somewhat subsided, and Walter been
welcomed home.

But not a single thing escaped the notice of his
keen eyes, which wandered round the room taking in
each familiar object, and noticing where there had
been a change.

There was none in Aunt Debby, he said,—wrinkled,
gray, slight and straight as her high-backed
chair,—just as he remembered her years ago,—just so
she was now—her kerchief crossed as she wore it then,—her
spectacles on her forehead,—her apron long,
and meeting almost behind, and on the chair-post her
satin bag with the knitting visible therefrom. She
was the same, but the comely matron Walter called
Aunt Mary, was she the blooming maiden he had left
so long ago, and the elegant-looking stranger, with
the unmistakable city polish, was that his early
friend? It took him but an instant to think all this,
and then his eyes fell upon the old man by the fire,—the
man with the furrowed cheek, the bowed form,
the silvery hair and shaking limbs,—who, like some
giant oak which has yielded to the storms of many a
winter, sat there the battered wreck of a once noble
man. That was his father, but he would not call him
so just then, and when Walter, turning at last, said:
"This is Captain Murdock, the kind friend who took
care of me," he went forward, taking first Aunt
Debby's hand, then his sister Mary's, then Mr.
Graham's, and now there was a slight faltering of
manner, while his eyes sought the floor, for they
could not meet the gaze fixed so curiously upon
him.

"Grandpa, this is Captain Murdock," said Walter,
while Captain Murdock advanced a step or so and
took the shriveled hand, which had so often rested
fondly on his head.

Oh, how Seth longed to kiss that feeble hand; but
he dared not, and he was glad that Walter, by his
loud, rapid talking, attracted the entire attention,
leaving him to sit down unobserved, when the meeting
between himself and Mrs. Bellenger was over.
At her he had looked rather inquisitively, for she
was his Ellen's mother, and his heart yearned toward
her for the sake of his gentle wife.

Meanwhile Walter, without seeming to do so,
had been watching for somebody, who, behind the
pantry door, was trying to gain courage to come
out.

"I'll look at him, anyway," she said, and Walter
glanced that way just in time to see a profusion of
raven curls and a shining, round black eye.

"Jessie," called Mr. Graham, who saw them too,
"Jessie, hadn't you better come out and gather up
the cranberries you dropped so suddenly when the
omnibus drove up?"

"Father, how can you?" and the young lady
immediately appeared, and greeted Walter quite
naturally.

He evidently was embarrassed, for he hastened to
present her to Captain Murdock, who, feeling, intuitively,
that he beheld his future daughter-in-law, took
both her soft chubby hands in his and held them
there, while he said, a little mischievously:

"I have heard much of you, Miss Jessie, from my
so—, my friend, I mean," he added, quickly, correcting
himself, but not so quickly that Jessie did not
detect what he meant to say.

One by one she scanned his features, then the deacon's,
then Walter's, and then, with a flash of intelligence
in her bright eyes, turned to the latter for a
confirmation of her suspicions. Walter understood
her meaning, and with an answering nod, said softly:

"By and by."

"The dinner will be cold," suggested Mrs. Howland,
and then the deacon rose, and leaning on his
cane, walked into the adjoining room, when he took
his seat at the head of the table.

"There's a chair for you," Jessie said to Walter
who, following the natural laws of attraction, kept
close to her side. "There's one for *you* and him, too,
my old playhouse," and she pointed to the leathern
chair.

"Sit here, Captain Murdock,—here," said Walter,
hurrying on as he saw Mrs. Howland giving the stranger
another seat than that.

"Walter," and there was reproach in the deacon's
voice, "not in your father's chair."

"Yes, grandpa," said Walter, "Captain Murdock
has been a father to me,—let him sit there for
once."

So Captain Murdock sat there, his heart throbbing
so loudly that Jessie, who was next to him, could hear
it beat, and see his chin quiver, when the voice nearly
eighty years old, was asking God's blessing on their
Thanksgiving Dinner; thanking God for returning
their boy to them, and finishing the prayer with the
touching petition: "Send the other back! oh, send
the other back!"

Owing to the presence of the captain, who was
considered a stranger, not a word was spoken of Seth,
until they arose from the table, when Walter, unable
longer to keep still, said:

"And so my father is free from all blame?"

Involuntarily Jessie went up to him and put her
arm in his, waiting breathlessly for what would follow
next.

"Yes, Walter," returned the deacon, "my Seth is
innocent. Heaven bless him wherever he may be,
and send him to me before I die, so I can hear him say
he didn't lay it up against me,—my hardening my heart
and thinking he was guilty. Poor Seth, poor Seth!
I'd give my life to blot out all the past and have him
with me just as he was before he went away."

Captain Murdock was standing with his face to
the window, but, as the deacon ceased speaking, he
turned, and going up to him, placed his hand on
either shoulder and looked into his eyes.

The movement was a most singular one, and to
Mr. Graham, who knew that there must be a powerful
motive for the action, there came a suspicion of the
truth; but none to the old man, whose eyes fell
beneath the burning gaze riveted upon him.

"Who are you?" he asked in a bewildered tone,
"why do you look at me so hard? He scares me;
Walter, take him away."

"Grandpa, don't you know him?" and Walter
drew near to them, but not until the old man's ear
had caught the whispered name of "*Father*."

Then, with a scream of joy, he wound his feeble
arms round the stranger's neck.

"Seth, boy, darling, Walter, am I going mad, or
is it true? *Is it Seth?* Is it my boy? Tell me,
Walter," and releasing their grasp, the shaking
hands were stretched supplicatingly toward Walter,
who answered:

"Yes, grandpa. *It's Seth.* I found him, and I
have brought him home."

"Oh, Seth, Seth," and the hoary head bowed itself
upon the neck of the stranger, while the poor old man
sobbed like a little child. "I didn't expect it, Seth,
though I've prayed for it so hard. Bless you, bless
you, boy, I didn't mean to go against you. I would
have died at any time to know that you were innocent.
Forgive me, Seth, because I am so old and
weak."

"I do forgive you," answered Seth. "It's all forgotten
now, and I've come home to stay with you
always till you die."

There was a hand laid lightly on Seth's shoulder,
and turning, he looked into the face of Mr. Graham,
which quivered with emotion, as he said:

"I, too, have need of your forgiveness."

"None, Richard, none," and locked in each other's
arms, the friends long parted cancelled the olden
debt, and in the heart of neither was there a feeling
save that of perfect love.

Long and passionately Mrs. Howland wept over
her brother, for his return brought back the past, and
all that she had suffered since the night he went
away.

Aunt Debby, too, was much affected, but did not
omit her accustomed "He allus was a good boy."

Then Mrs. Bellenger approached, and offering her
hand, said to him very kindly:

"You are dear to me for Ellen's sake, and though
I never saw you until to-day, my heart claims you for
a child. Shall I be your mother, Mr. Marshall?"

He could only reply by pressing the hand she extended,
for his heart was all too full for utterance.

"Let me go away alone," he said at last, "to weep
out my great joy," and opening the door of what
was once his room, he passed for a time from their
midst.

The surprise had apparently disturbed the deacon's
reason, for even after his son had left him he continued
talking just the same: "Poor Seth,—poor child,
to think your hair should be so gray, and you but a
little boy."

Then, when Seth returned to them he made him
sit down beside him, and holding both his hands,
smiled up into his face a smile far more painful than
tears would have been.

"Seth's come home. Did you know it?" he
would say to those around him, as if it were to them
a piece of news, and often as he said it, he would
smoothe the gray hair which seemed to trouble him so
much.

Gradually, however, his mind became clearer, and
he was able to understand all that Seth was telling
them of his experience since the night he went
away.

At last, just as the sun was setting, Mr. Marshall
arose, and without a word, passed into the open air.
No one watched him to see whither he went, for all
knew that before he returned to them he would go
down the lane, along the beaten path, to where the
moonlight fell upon a little grave.

It was long before he came back, and when he did,
and entered the large kitchen, two figures stood by
the western window, and he thought the arm of the
taller was thrown about the waist of the shorter,
while the face of the shorter was very near to
that of the taller. Advancing toward them and
stroking the dark curls, he said, half playfully, half
earnestly:

"I believe that as Mr. Marshall I have not greeted
Jessie yet, so I will do it now. Are you to be my
daughter, little girl?"

"Yes, she is," answered Walter, while Jessie
broke away from them, and was not visible again that
night.

But when, at a late hour, Mrs. Bellenger left the
happy group still assembled around the cheerful fire,
and sought her room, from the depths of the snowy
pillows, where Jessie lay nestled, there came a
smothered voice, saying, half timidly:

"This is the nicest Thanksgiving I ever had, and I
shall remember it forever."




CHAPTER XVII.—CONCLUSION.
=========================


Four years have passed away since that
Thanksgiving dinner, and for the deacon,
who, then, did not expect to see another,
there seem to be many yet in store. Hale, hearty
and happy, he sits in his arm-chair, smoking his accustomed
pipe; and when the villagers, who come often
to see him, tell him how the old farm-house is
improved, and how they should scarcely know it, he
always answers:

"Yes, Seth has good taste, and Seth is rich. He
could buy Deerwood, if he tried. He built those
new houses for the poor down there by the river; he
built the factory, too, and gives them all employment.
Seth is a blessed boy."

Others, too, there were, besides the deacon, who
called Seth Marshall blessed, and never since his
return had a voice been raised against him.

After becoming somewhat accustomed to his new
position as a free and respected man, his first wish
was to modernize the farm-house a little more according
to his ideas of taste and comfort. Once he
thought to build a splendid mansion near by, but to
this suggestion the father said:

"No; I like the old place best. The new house
might be handsomer, but it would not be the one
where you and I, and all of us were born, and your
mother died. Wait till I'm dead, and then do as you
please."

And so Seth is waiting, and as he waits he sets out
trees and shrubbery, and beautifies a plot of ground,
on which he will sometime erect a dwelling as a summer
residence for his son, who lives in the city, and
calls Mrs. Bartow grandma.

When the first Christmas snows were falling after
his father's return, Walter made Jessie his bride, and
there now plays at his fireside a chubby, black-eyed
boy, whom they call Graham Marshall, and who
spends more time in Deerwood than he does in New
York. Quite as old as the hoary man in the corner,
who sometimes calls him Walter, but oftener Seth, he
"rides to Boston" on the deacon's knee, pulls the deacon's
beard, wears the deacon's glasses, smokes a stick
of candy, and spits in imitation of the deacon, and
then falls away to sleep in the deacon's lap,—the two
forming a most beautiful picture of old age and infancy
together.

At Mr. Graham's house, there is a beautiful six-months'
baby, whose hair looks golden in the sunlight,
and whose eyes of blue are much like those of Ellen
Howland. They call her Nellie, and in all the world
there is nothing one-half so precious as this child
to the broken, melancholy man, who often comes to
see her, and when no one can hear him, whispers
sadly:

"Sweet Nellie,—darling Nellie,—little snow
drop!" But whether he means the infant in the crib,
or the Nellie dead long ago, is difficult to tell.

For eighteen months he toiled inside the prison
walls, and then the powerful influence of Mr. Graham,
Seth Marshall and Walter combined, procured him a
pardon. An humbled and a better man, he would not
leave the city. He would rather remain, he said, and
live down his disgrace, than have it follow him as it
was sure to do. So he stayed, accepting thankfully a
situation which Walter procured for him, and Mrs.
Bellenger, when she saw that he was really changed,
gladly gave him a home with herself, for she was
lonely now that Walter was gone.

Old Mrs. Reeves was very much astonished that
the Grahams and Marshalls should make so much of
one who had been in State prison, and said:

"She was glad that Charlotte had married a
Southern planter and gone to Mississippi, as there
was no knowing what notions might have entered her
brain."

Every summer there is a family gathering of the
Grahams and Marshalls with Mrs. Bellenger and
Mrs. Bartow at Deerwood, where the deacon seems as
young and happy as any of them. And now, where
our story opened we will bring it to a close, at the
farm-house where the old man sits smoking in the
twilight with his son and grandson, and great-grandson
around him,—representatives of four generations,
with a difference of nearly eighty years between the
first and fourth.

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