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HILDA’S MASCOT
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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40620
   :PG.Title: Hilda’s Mascot
   :PG.Released: 2012-08-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :DC.Creator: Mary E. Ireland
   :DC.Title: Hilda’s Mascot
              A Tale of “Maryland, My Maryland”
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1902
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   :xl:`HILDA’S MASCOT`

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   :lg:`A Tale of “Maryland, My Maryland”`

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   :sm:`BY`

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   :lg:`Mary E. Ireland`

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   Halftones by Donald Gardner

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   The Saalfield Publishing Co.
   Chicago |bs4| AKRON, OHIO |bs4| New York

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   | Copyright, 1902
   |
   | BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY

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   | To
   | Her Dear Young Friend,
   |
   | MARY LOUISE GRAHAM,
   |
   | This story of “Hilda’s Mascot,”
   | companion to “Timothy and His Friends,”
   | is affectionately dedicated by
   |
   | The Author.
   |
   | Washington, D. C.

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.. contents:: Contents
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CHAPTER I—THE EBONY BOX
=======================

One evening many years ago a man, accompanied
by a girl and a boy, was passing slowly
along one of the streets of Baltimore that led to
an orphan asylum.

He was above medium height, and although
past thirty, was youthful, almost boyish in appearance,
with his fair complexion, blonde hair and
slight moustache; a handsome man save for the
pallor and attenuation of his clear-cut features
and the look of hopeless grief in his fine eyes.

His left hand, white and shapely, held that of
the little boy who was chatting merrily, and in
his right was a package—of which, though bulky,
he appeared as oblivious as though his hand were
empty.

Beside him walked the girl, whose watchful interest
in the package betokened ownership, though
intrusted for a time to another’s care, but for the
safety of which she was responsible.

She had the clear olive complexion, black hair
and the brilliant black eyes of the boy, but unlike
him, was thin and almost as pallid as the man.
But there was no lassitude in her movements; instead
they were full of energy, and her meagre
face, while intelligent and attractive, lacked repose
and the promise of patient endurance of life’s
trials and disappointments.

“We never were on this street before,” she commented,
after walking several squares in silence.
“Where are we going; tell me?”

There was no response, and she continued,
“Does mamma know that you are taking Horace
and me away from her? Why don’t you talk?”

A sigh, almost a groan, escaped the lips of the
man, and he whispered some words which the
children did not understand.

An angry flush arose to the girl’s face, and her
eyes sparkled with the tears that filled them.

“I won’t go one step further unless you tell me
where we are going,” she said, halting and stamping
her foot impatiently.

The man seemed to rouse from his abstraction
with effort, and in a voice scarcely audible to the
eager listener, replied, “We are going where you
will see many children, where you will have
enough to eat, a comfortable bed and good clothes;
you will have a much better home than the one
you are leaving.”

“But I have good clothes now and pretty ones,”
and she looked with an air of satisfaction upon
the package. “Will mamma come?”

The man trembled with suppressed emotion,
which was noticed by the boy, who looked up into
his face and waited for the answer.

“Your mother will be given a home where she
will suffer no more sorrow nor distress of body or
mind,” he answered, and again relapsed into silence
until they reached the asylum, were admitted
and stood in the presence of the matron.

“Have you brought these children for admission?”
she asked.

The man nodded; he could not summon voice
to speak.

“Where is your permit?”

For answer he turned as quickly as his weakness
would allow, placed the package upon a chair
and left the building.

“Well, this is a strange proceeding, I must say,”
commented the matron, looking from the window
at the retreating figure passing down the walk with
uncertain steps. “Is that man your father?”

Something in the tone and manner aroused the
quick temper of the girl and she refused to answer,
and silenced the boy by a look when appeal
was made to him.

“What is your name?” continued the matron,
turning again to her.

“Jerusha Flint.”

“How old are you?”

“Ten last June.”

“Is the boy your brother?”

“Yes.”

“What is his name and age?”

“Horace Flint, and six years.”

“Where is your mother?” was next asked.

“At home, sick.”

“Who sent you here?”

“Nobody; we came to have a good home and
plenty to eat. I have pretty clothes in there; I
helped mamma make them,” and she nodded complacently
toward the package on the chair.

“You helped indeed,” smiled the matron, glancing
down at the diminutive creature before her.

“I did help! I can sew!” cried Jerusha, trembling
with anger and weakness; “mamma taught
me, and says I sew well for a child. See, here
is my thimble,” and she took it from her pocket
and placed it upon her thin finger.

“Yes, for a child; we do not expect much from
a girl of ten. Let me see your clothes.”

This request brought a gratified smile to the
grave lips of the little girl; she untied the package
with deft fingers and took from it a pink cashmere
gown, soft and fine in texture, made in the latest
style and with artistic skill.

“Who gave you this lovely dress, child?”

“Mamma, I told you. We made it out of one
she wore at boarding-school, and this, and this,”
and she took up one of dark blue cashmere, and
one of crimson, both of the finest grade.

“But, child, these beautiful dresses will be of no
use here.”

“They *will* be of use,” cried Jerusha excitedly.
“I heard mamma say that if my grandfather
would take me to his home I would wear pretty
clothes like these every day.”

“But you are not at your grandfather’s; you are
in an orphan asylum, and must wear that uniform.”

“What is an asylum, and what is a uniform?”
was asked wonderingly.

“Come to the school-room and I will show you,”
and leading the way, she opened the door into a
large room where a number of children were
studying their lessons for the next day.

“Now you see the way the girls dress here, and
you will dress the same if you stay.”

“But I will not dress that way, and I will wear
my pretty dresses or I will not stay.”

“We will see first whether you can stay,” commented
the matron coldly. “In the meantime you
will remain in this room and listen to the children
during the half hour they study, then you can go
with them to the playground,” and she signalled
to one of the teachers to give the newcomer a
place.

That place was beside Diana Strong, an orphan
a few years older than Jerusha, and tall for her
age. She had flaxen hair, pale blue eyes, a
sallow complexion and a long upper lip, which,
however, did not conceal the large front teeth.
But withal, there was an expression in her plain
face of such genuine kindness and sympathy for
everybody and everything that all felt comfortable
in her presence.

The matron had in the meantime returned to
the reception-room and conducted Horace to the
boys’ department of the institution where, in a
short time, he was as much at home as if he had
known no other.

Investigations made the next day by the managers
gave, after strict research, confirmation that
Jerusha Flint and her brother were really objects
of charity. The mother had died a few days after
the little family of four had taken possession of
a miserable home, the children had been taken
away by someone, and the place was tenantless.
That was all the neighbors knew of the matter, so
nothing was left to do, even if otherwise desired,
but to keep them in the asylum.

A few evenings after this conclusion was
reached, the matron, in her quiet, comfortable
room, was about to enjoy her evening meal after
the labors of the day.

The children of all ages and sizes were in their
white-robed beds after their simple supper of bread
and milk, and were sleeping perhaps more sweetly
than if in more luxurious homes.

A tap upon the door was followed by the entrance
of an old friend, a trained nurse from one
of the city hospitals, who was cordially invited to
break bread with the hostess.

“I will,” she assented, “but first I must tell you
of this,” and she took from its wrappings an
ebony box of curious workmanship, inlaid with
pearl, beautiful in design and finish.

“Where did you get it?” asked the matron, taking
it in her hand.

“It was put in my care by a patient at the hospital
who said he had brought a girl here named
Jerusha Flint, and her brother Horace. He asked
me to bring it to you to keep safely and give it to
Jerusha when she is sixteen. He said she had
often been shown by her mother how to open it,
and would remember how it is done; you see it
has no key.”

“Did he say that he is the father of these children?”

“No. I have told you all that he said; for he
became delirious, and although he talked to himself
in a low tone or a whisper, there was nothing connected
enough to let us know who he is. All I can
say is that with his blonde hair, deep blue eyes and
tinge of color in his face, now that he has fever,
he is as handsome as a picture.”

“I wonder how long he will remain in the hospital?”

“Until he is carried out, if I am not greatly mistaken.
He has brain fever, his system is completely
run down and the doctors say that he has suffered
a severe nervous shock. There is no hope whatever
of his recovery.”

“Has he no friends, I wonder?”

“No one has called to see him. The doctor found
a letter in his pocket, addressed and sealed, but not
stamped. He asked me to write to the gentleman
whose name and address was upon it, and inform
him that a man who had taken two children named
Flint to an orphan asylum was lying at the hospital
dangerously ill. I did so, enclosing the letter, but
there was no reply to either.”

“In his delirious talk does he say nothing of his
past life?”

“Yes, he rambles on about an elopement, and of
disobedience to parents, and of the regret and misery
which was its punishment, and of his bringing
someone to poverty, and of a long, weary walk, and
of a terrible fright, and of a key, which is, I suppose
the one we found in his pocket; but he whispers
most of the time, and we cannot understand
him.”

The matron unlocked a drawer in her desk,
placed the box within, locked it, and then the two
sat down to the tea, toast and other edibles which
the maid placed upon the table.

“Do these Flint children fret much for their parents?”
asked the guest, as she sipped her tea.

“The boy is a cheery little soul, and has never
shed a tear; and I do not believe that the girl
grieves for them, although she has long spells of
crying in some corner away from the other children.
Once Diana Strong put her arm around her and
asked why she wept, and received a slap in the face,
and an angry request to attend to her own affairs.”

“Is Diana the girl who is intending to be a
trained nurse?”

“Yes, and if ever one was born to that calling
Diana is that one. She is gentle, patient, quiet,
watchful, can do with little sleep and is never happier
than when in the sick-room of the asylum waiting
upon someone that is ailing.”

“When will she begin her training?”

“When she is fourteen. As you know, the children
here do nearly all the work of the institution,
and in this way, beside getting a good common
education, they learn housework, cooking and sewing.
If the girls and boys show aptitude for any special
trade or occupation, they can leave the asylum at
the age of fourteen to learn it; the boys returning
here as their home until they are eighteen, and the
girls until they are twenty. That little Jerusha will,
I am sure, wish to learn dressmaking.”

“Is she fond of sewing?”

“Yes, and I never saw a child so adept with the
needle. The sewing teacher says she is a wonder.
She is fond of dress and has several beautiful
gowns which she says were made over for her by
her mother. Why she made three for a growing
girl is more than I can understand; it was a waste
of beautiful material; one at a time would have
been sufficient. They fit her to perfection; but the
clothes of the boy, while beautifully made, are ill-fitting
and of coarse material.”

“Was Jerusha willing to wear the uniform?”

“No; she refused to put it on and acted so about
it that she was not allowed to go out with the other
children upon their daily walk. Moreover, some
of the older ones have told her that only poor children
are here and she is ashamed of being with
them, but I earnestly hope she will outgrow the
feeling.”

In this she was mistaken. Jerusha did not outgrow
it; instead, the thought grew more intolerable
with every passing year. She shrank from the
sight of visitors, and refused to act as guide through
the great building, a duty which most of the orphans
considered a privilege and pleasure.

She formed an attachment for no one under the
roof, and saw Diana Strong depart for three years’
training in the hospital without one word or sign
of regret—Diana who had always stood her friend,
when through her violent temper and insubordination
she was in difficulty with the matron or her assistants.

Jerusha had inherited the haughty, imperious disposition
of her mother, her mother’s father, and her
mother’s grandfather, who, owing to an ebullition
of temper, was forced to flee from his native country
and seek refuge in America.

She, like her maternal ancestors, was impetuous
and irritable, resentful and unforgiving; therefore
it was a foregone conclusion that in her journey
through the world she would be held aloof by those
who might have been her friends, and her coldness,
want of affection and above all, her pride, kept her
aloof from those with whom she was compelled to
mingle. “Love thy neighbor as thyself,” was a
creed which she did not assimilate.

Horace was as different as if of another race.
He had inherited the easy-going nature of his father,
who had been the petted and only son in a luxurious
home. Therefore the asylum and everything
connected with it was, in his opinion, all that was
required to keep one happy and contented.

He considered it so superior to the home they
had left that he wondered at Jerusha’s dissatisfaction,
while she in turn was angry at his want of
pride and ambition. The large playground in fair
weather and the basement playroom when it
stormed were the dearest spots on earth to him.
He had plenty of playfellows, something never before
enjoyed, for his mother refused emphatically
to allow him to play with any children in the poor
neighborhoods where they were compelled to live;
all he knew of them was what he could see from a
window.

Years passed, and Jerusha looked forward
with impatience to the time when she could be self-supporting
and thus leave the asylum, and on the
day that she was fourteen she engaged herself as
apprentice to a fashionable modiste.

Her employer was more than pleased with her
skill, for even at that early age she could be trusted
to work without oversight, and resented any that
was not strictly necessary.

She was glad when Horace was at last old
enough to leave the asylum to learn the trade of
carpenter and locksmith, and they never met during
his apprenticeship that she did not urge him to be
diligent in learning all that was possible that he,
too, might be self-supporting and they could have a
home together.

There were two subjects which all who were acquainted
with Jerusha found it wise not to touch
upon if not wishing to have a scathing retort from
her satirical tongue.

One of these subjects was her early home and
parentage, and the other the asylum which had
fostered her helpless childhood, the home of which
she grew more and more ashamed as time passed on.
She never spoke of it of her own free will, and
dreaded Saturday evening when she must go there
to remain until Monday morning.

It was during one of these visits that her sixteenth
birthday dawned, and the matron gave her
the little ebony work-box.

Jerusha received it without betraying the least
surprise and restrained her impatience to open it
until she could be alone, and the matron was never
rewarded for her care of it by being told what it
contained. She did see, however, in the increased
haughtiness and arrogance of Jerusha the influence
exercised by its contents and wondered again and
again what it held, which induced her to keep herself
more than ever aloof from her and from every
inmate of the asylum.

To Jerusha’s deep chagrin the ebony box held no
money or valuables as she had hoped and expected
from the moment it was put in her hands. It held
neither more nor less than three letters, one of
them written by Mrs. Flint to her father, and returned
to her enclosed in his reply. The third letter
was addressed to Jerusha, and was written by
Mrs. Flint, telling her “poor, motherless little
daughter, Jerusha,” of her ancestry on both sides
of the house.

In this letter Jerusha was instructed to forward
the other two letters to her grandfather at the address
given, providing the time ever came that she
desired to do so.

Dating from the perusal of these epistles, Jerusha
refused to remain with the dressmaker, but making
of necessity a home of the asylum, she commenced
business for herself, finding no difficulty in
obtaining patrons, some of them being the best customers
of her former employer.

These ladies, appreciating her skill, solicited her
oversight of their toilets, and she went from one
aristocratic home to another, where her word was
law in regard to costumes.

Being recommended by these patrons to suburban
friends, she drifted to the village of Dorton, a few
miles out of Baltimore.

Thus while her city employers were at the seashore
and the mountains, Jerusha was summering
with four families in that picturesque part of Maryland,
plying her art with untiring fidelity.

Her favorite place of the four was “My Lady’s
Manor,” the handsome villa of Mrs. Farnsworth,
widow of Joshua Farnsworth. The next best was
“Friedenheim,” the country-seat of the Courtneys;
then in order came “Fair Meadow,” the fine farm of
the Merryman family, and lastly the colonial mansion
of Dr. Lattinger, in the village of Dorton.

Jerusha was industrious, capable, prompt and energetic,
but she was lacking in enthusiasm in regard
to her art. Many persons with but half her ability
had become originators of designs for costumes,
and in time owned large establishments which gave
employment to many helpers.

Jerusha craved no prominence in that line. It
was only the force of necessity that made her willing
to be self-supporting through the only work
she could do well. She was too impatient and irritable
to teach her craft to others. She could not
direct, nor could she endure to have about her, helpers
for whose mistakes she would be responsible.
She had felt herself alone all her life and expected
to remain so.

During these years Diana Strong had finished her
training as a professional nurse and was recommended
by the hospital physicians as one of the
best.

More than once she had charge of an invalid in
a wealthy home where Jerusha happened to be employed;
they took their meals at the same table,
but the subject of former acquaintance was a tabooed
theme with Jerusha, and Diana was too amiable
to go counter to her wishes.

Every season that Jerusha went to Dorton she
grew more anxious to abide there, and her gaze
rested frequently upon a deserted brown frame
dwelling of four rooms about a mile out of the
village. It had not been tenanted for years, and
was fast going to decay, but Jerusha saw that a few
dollars spent upon it would convert it into a home,
and a home was the greatest longing of her
heart.

She mentioned the subject to Horace several
times during his apprenticeship, but he evinced no
enthusiasm upon the subject. He was well satisfied
with Baltimore and his asylum acquaintances there,
and saw no need of change.

But, as was the rule where Jerusha was concerned,
she had her way, and after Horace was free
to go and she had secured employment for him
through her patrons at Dorton, they took up their
residence in the little brown house.

Jerusha had bargained that they should have it
rent free for three years providing they made all
necessary repairs. To this the owner agreed, and
also to allow them for a nominal rent the large plot
of ground back of it for a garden. At all leisure
times the saw and hammer of Horace could be
heard, paint and lime were not spared, and flowers
sprang up at the touch of Jerusha, who at last had
a home of her own.

The short distance from it to the railway station,
and the few miles of car ride to the city enabled
them to have employment at both ends of the line,
and if there was ever a moment in Jerusha’s life
when she could consider herself contented, it was
when after each day’s absence she came in sight of
the brown dwelling.

Seasons had come and gone, and Jerusha, who
never before had known attachment to person or
place, was one evening sitting with Horace on the
moon-lighted porch, after a busy day in the city.
She was discussing further improvements, the only
subject which was of interest to both, but to which
Horace that evening lent but an absent-minded attention.

“Jerusha,” he said, as he arose to retire, “I am to
be married to-morrow to one who was in the orphan
asylum with us. Her name, as you will remember,
is now Jennie Strong, and she is the widow
of Diana Strong’s brother. I shall bring her here.”

He closed the door and Jerusha was alone with
her astonishment and her anger.

CHAPTER II—HILDA’S AUNT ASHLEY
==============================

Miss Jerusha Flint was not the only one who appreciated
the home of Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, in
Dorton. Not only the villagers, but people of the
surrounding neighborhood had a warm feeling for
the genial and hospitable residents of the old colonial
mansion, which had been for generations in the
family of Mrs. Lattinger, and where she had lived
all her life. The Lattingers had also frequent visitors
from Baltimore, where the doctor had spent
the early years of his practice, some of them being
former patients who came out for the day for
change of air and scene.

One pleasant morning in June, Dr. Lattinger had
the unexpected pleasure of a visit from a former
college chum, a lawyer who had a short time before
bought one of the pretty suburban homes, and, as
was the doctor’s custom, he took him upon his round
among his patients.

“Yes, doctor,” commented the visitor, when about
noon they were returning to the village, on the same
drive upon which they had set out, but in an opposite
direction, “you are correct in your opinion
of this region of country; it is prosperous and beautiful.
There are so many picturesque spots. For
instance that cottage nearly covered with ivy, which
we are about to pass, is a picture in itself.”

“Yes, it is the home of an artist, Norman Ashley,
who, with his wife, came here from Baltimore that
he might have natural scenery for his pictures.
They are handsome young people and live an ideal
life.”

“That lovely little girl amid the roses on the
lawn is, I suppose, their daughter.”

“No, she is Hilda Brinsfield, the orphan niece of
Mr. Ashley.”

“Hilda Brinsfield!” echoed the gentleman in surprise.
“My wife and I were wondering only yesterday
what became of that sweet child after the death
of her lovely young mother.”

“Then you are acquainted with her parents?”
said Dr. Lattinger with interest.

“Only for the little time I have lived in my present
home. Her father, Rev. Freeman Brinsfield,
was pastor of our village church, his first charge. I
heard incidentally that his means had been exhausted
in his college and theological course, and he was
very grateful for the call. My friend also added
that he came of a long line of ministers, one or
more of them being pioneer missionaries. Little
Hilda is a child of prayer and has the promise of
being cared for.”

“She certainly has a happy home with the Ashleys,
who come as near idolizing her as Christian
people will allow themselves to worship anything
earthly. The three pass most of this beautiful June
weather in the open, Mr. Ashley taking his artist
equipments, Mrs. Ashley a book and a basket of
luncheon, and Hilda her doll and toys, and in the
shady woods or blossoming orchard they encamp.”

“Truly an ideal life; and now tell me who lives
in that handsome villa just above it, but on the
opposite side of the road?”

“That is the residence of Miss Anna Ashburton,
and is called ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ for as you probably
know, most country homes in ‘Maryland, My
Maryland’ have names, generally pretty well adapted
to their appearance. It was left to her by a
widow—Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth—who died a few
months ago. They were not the least related, but
loved each other as mother and daughter.”

“Had Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth no relatives to
whom she could leave her property, or who would
contend for it?”

“No, her only near relative—her sister—the widow
of the late Judge Lacy, of Springfield, Ohio,
is wealthy, has no children, and has no need of what
Mrs. Farnsworth gave to her foster daughter.”

“Miss Anna is elderly, I presume?”

“No, scarcely eighteen, is amiable and attractive,
finely educated, a musician and artist; an orphan
without a relative in the world, so far as is known.”

“But she does not live alone in that great mansion?”

“Yes, with the exception of a middle-aged woman—Miss
Jerusha Flint—who lived with her brother,
Horace, and his family in the brown cottage
we passed this morning, about a mile beyond the
other end of the village, and who was more than
gratified when Miss Anna invited her to make her
home at ‘My Lady’s Manor.’”

“They must live a lonely life there.”

“Not at all. Miss Anna is much beloved, and
has many visitors, not only from the neighborhood,
but from Baltimore. Moreover, the servants, who
have known and loved her from babyhood, have
their comfortable quarters back of the mansion, and
as Miss Anna’s library and sleeping-room windows
look directly down upon the doors of their cabins,
Lois, Phebe and Judy are at all hours of the day
and night within call.”

“It is not likely that Miss Anna, being young and
attractive, will remain long unmarried.”

“If the opinion of the neighborhood be correct,
she will in the near future bestow her hand and
heart upon Mr. Valentine Courtney—the brother-in-law
of our good pastor Rev. Carl Courtney, of
‘Friedenheim,’ the old homestead of the Courtneys.
He is a lawyer, has his office in Baltimore, but
makes his home at ‘Friedenheim.’ He is one of the
most useful and liberal members of his brother-in-law’s
church, and is in every respect an estimable
young man.”

“You say ‘brother-in-law’—and yet the Rev. Carl
is a Courtney.”

“Yes, he is a distant relative of his wife, and of
her brother, Valentine, and his home from childhood
has been at ‘Friedenheim,’ which was inherited
by Mrs. Courtney.”

“That walk upon the roof of Miss Anna’s villa
must give a fine view of the surrounding country.”

“Fine indeed, and it has a history, and a mystery.
About twenty-five years ago, Mr. Joshua Farnsworth
died there, it is believed, by an unknown
hand.”

“In what manner?” asked his visitor, full of interest.

“As I was informed by my wife and others of
the residents of the neighborhood, Mr. Farnsworth,
who was in his usual excellent health the evening
of his death, had gone to the village postoffice, and
while perusing a letter just received, a hand was
laid upon his shoulder by a stranger, who said in
a low tone, ‘Joshua!’

“Mr. Farnsworth turned very pale, the two went
out, and walked to ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ talking earnestly.
Later in the evening they were seen upon
the roof, seated upon the bench that lines the ironwork
balustrade, still engaged in earnest conversation,
and a few hours after, the villagers were
shocked to hear that Mr. Farnsworth was found
there, dead, and the stranger gone, no one knew
when nor where.”

“But was there no investigation as to the cause
of his death?”

“Yes, and the verdict at the inquest was death
from heart failure; but those who witnessed the
meeting at the postoffice, and the villagers who saw
them on the walk upon the roof believe that the
stranger took his life.”

“And you say that no one knew how and when
the stranger left the place?”

“No. Judge and Mrs. Lacy were visiting there
at the time. They and Mrs. Farnsworth had retired,
as had the servants, all the doors and windows
were locked for the night and the shutters closed;
and thus they were found when about midnight
search was made for Mr. Farnsworth. Not a footfall
had been heard, or sound of any kind giving
token of the departure of the stranger. It was, and
has remained a mystery.”

An elegant suburban home indeed was “My
Lady’s Manor”—a three-storied granite building,
light gray in color, with sea-green cornice and shutters
and partly screened by maple trees from the
road leading to Dorton.

From the walk upon the roof could be had a
charming view of woodlands, meadows, farmhouses,
country-seats, mill properties, the creek that flowed
past them, and villages; among them Dorton, with
its one church spire.

In the distance Baltimore’s monuments were
clearly discernible, the harbor with its forest of
masts, the Patapsco flecked with sails, Federal Hill
and Fort McHenry; all uniting in a varied and attractive
landscape.

Yes, “My Lady’s Manor” was one of the choice
places of the neighborhood, and Jerusha Flint felt
it a pleasant change to be the respected companion
of its young lady owner, and, having given up her
despised occupation, was blooming into youth and
beauty in the sunlight of a happy home.

Among Anna’s many acquaintances there was no
one whose friendship she prized more than that of
Mrs. Ashley. They were congenial in every way,
save that Mrs. Ashley, though but a few months
older, cared but little for society, where she would
have been such an ornament with her fine presence,
deep blue eyes, wealth of auburn hair and a complexion
of matchless fairness. The company of her
husband, Hilda and Anna was all she solicited, and
had but a speaking acquaintance with the people of
Dorton and its neighborhood, making no calls except
to “My Lady’s Manor” and “Friedenheim.”

The Civil War was darkening the land, and Norman
Ashley laid aside palette and brush to join in
the struggle between the blue and the gray.

He was not willing to leave his wife and Hilda
in the cottage without a caretaker, and as Providence
willed it, Diana Strong was indulging in a
respite from hospital work in the home of Mrs.
Horace Flint and was willing to assume the light
duty of housekeeper at the Ashley cottage.

Jerusha Flint was the negotiator in the affair, and
as she generally carried to a successful issue whatever
she undertook, Diana was duly installed and
Mr. Ashley went to join his regiment with the comforting
thought that his little family was in good
hands.

This separation was a terrible trial to the young
husband and wife, and Anna Ashburton was Mrs.
Ashley’s faithful friend and comforter. She had
also great affection for Hilda and would have her
for hours at a time at the villa, to the secret displeasure
of Jerusha, who had no love for any child,
much less for one connected in any way with Mrs.
Ashley, looked upon by Miss Flint as proud, cold
and self-sufficient.

Moreover, that grim tyrant, jealousy, had taken
possession of Jerusha, assuring her that it was a
blessed relief to the cultivated intellect of Anna
Ashburton to exchange for a time her dull companionship
for that of the cultured and accomplished
Mrs. Ashley.

The first time that Anna made an engagement
with Mrs. Ashley to gather wood flowers, she invited
Miss Flint to accompany them, but her courtesy
was rewarded by a haughty refusal and a scornful
flash of the black eyes.

Anna knew that this was not intended for her,
but for the waiting Mrs. Ashley down at the cottage,
who knew nothing of Jerusha’s feeling in
regard to her, nor did Anna think it kindness to
enlighten her.

On her part, Jerusha considered that in view of
the information contained in her mother’s letter in
the ebony box, she had a better right to be proud
than had Mrs. Ashley, and therefore would not
take a step out of her way to be in her company.

“Where did you first meet Mr. Ashley?” Anna
asked one summer afternoon while they were arranging
flowers under the shade of an oak tree,
while Hilda, who always accompanied them, was
busy gathering more.

“In a hail-storm in Ohio. Shall I tell you of it?”
she asked.

“Yes,” replied Anna gleefully, “the beginning being
so romantic, it cannot fail in interest.”

“Yes, a little romance and a great trial; for it
has partly estranged me from my sister and her
husband—Dr. Cyril Warfield—with whom I made
my home after the death of our parents.

“The estrangement is more my fault than theirs.
I should not have treated them with coldness and
reserve in return for their lightly expressed opposition
to my marriage,” and her beautiful eyes filled
with tears.

“I should not have mentioned the subject; please
do not continue it if it distresses you,” pleaded
Anna, her eyes filling in sympathy.

“I am glad you mentioned it. I have wished to
tell you of myself, but never felt sufficiently acquainted
until this summer, and you cannot realize
what your companionship has been to me since my
husband left for the battlefield.

“While our parents lived, they, with their three
children—Sarah, Herbert and I—resided in our old
homestead in Ohio, near the village of Woodmont,
a few miles from Springfield.

“Papa had intrusted the property for his children
to the hands of friends in whom he had confidence;
but through their failure we lost heavily, and when
the estate was closed there was but a remnant left
of what he intended for us.

“When Sarah, who is ten years older than I,
married Cyril, she went with him to the Warfield
homestead which adjoined our place, and there they
have lived happily. But Cyril is in feeble health and
Sarah is very anxious, fearing he will never be better.

“Herbert, with his share, bought the store of a
merchant in Woodmont and Sarah and Cyril took
me to their home where I was treated as tenderly
as are their two boys, Paul and Fred.

“One afternoon in June I had driven to the village
postoffice and was returning as quickly as possible,
for the appearance of the clouds betokened a
storm. I had passed a turn in the road when rain
came down in torrents, then hail fell fast, the wind
blowing it in my face, stunning and nearly blinding
me.

“The terrified pony ran. Then as the hail storm
increased in violence, she crouched down and I was
about to spring from the carriage when a hand restrained me.

“‘You are safer there,’ said Mr. Ashley, for it was
he who spread the carriage robe over the pony and
encouraged her to rise; then he stepped into the carriage,
took the lines from my trembling hands, and,
turning about, drove to the shelter of a large tree.
It was all the work of a moment, and he had scarcely
glanced at me until I spoke, thanking him for his
assistance.

“‘The storm will soon be over,’ he remarked in
response. ‘Will you allow me to see you safely
home? My name is Norman Ashley and my home
is in a village near Baltimore with my widowed sister,
Mrs. Brinsfield. I am an artist and, with several
of my fellow-artists, am traveling upon a
sketching tour. They have gone further west, I remaining
in Woodmont, having found some picturesque
views for sketching and putting later upon
canvas.’

“‘I do not wish to keep you so long in damp
clothing,’ I said.

“‘Oh, we tramps do not mind such trifles,’ he
replied lightly, and as soon as the hail ceased falling
we sped home.

“My sister and brother-in-law had been terribly
anxious and were rejoiced to see me unhurt. They
welcomed Mr. Ashley cordially, invited him to dine
with us the following day, and then Cyril’s farmer,
Ben Duvall, took him in the phaeton to Woodmont.”

“He came next day, I am sure,” smiled Anna.

“Yes, and the next and the next; and Dr. Warfield
and every member of the family enjoyed his
genial society. He brought his sketch book, and
every day that Cyril had leisure he took him to the
prettiest spots in the neighborhood, and at other
times Paul, Fred and I accompanied him in woodland
rambles and watched in surprise the quickness
and accuracy with which the scenes were sketched.

“His companions returned from their tour and
his stay in Woodmont was ended; and the morning
he called to say good-bye he presented sister
Sarah with a fine oil painting from one of the
sketches she had admired.

“He asked to correspond with me and letters
passed between us for more than a year. Through
the meeting in Springfield of a former classmate, a
resident of Baltimore, Cyril learned that Mr. Ashley
was a consistent church member, a Sabbath
school teacher and in every way an estimable young
man. Therefore the only objection that he and
sister Sarah made to our marriage lay in what Mr.
Ashley had considered it his duty to tell them, and
me, that his only means of maintenance was in the
sale of his paintings, and they feared that it was
an uncertain dependence.

“The following autumn we were married and he
brought me to his sister’s home near Baltimore.
She was the widow of a young minister and the
mother of our loved Hilda. She was in frail health,
but lingered until spring, and oh, Anna, during that
winter I learned how a Christian can meet death.
She had not reached her twenty-fifth year and her
callers from the city were principally her former
classmates, her church, Sabbath school, music and
art associates, and not one, I am sure, visited her
without being impressed and benefited by the sweet
serenity of her manner and the almost angelic expression
upon her lovely features. She was an embodiment
of gratitude to God who had answered
her prayers, that her life might be spared until her
brother married, and that his wife would be one
who would be willing to take her only child, her
beloved Hilda, and one to whom she would intrust
her. She blessed me with tears of joy that I proved
to be that one. She gave Hilda to me and I accepted
the charge, promising to do the same by her
that I would were she my own child.

“One sweet morning in May she was called to
come up higher, and a week or so later we left the
city and came to the cottage.”

“Thank you for telling me of yourself and those
near to you,” said Anna. “I feel that you and
Hilda are dearer to me than ever, and I have interest
in your sister, Mrs. Warfield, and her family.
Does she resemble you?”

“Yes, the description of one would answer for
both so far as appearance is concerned, but Sarah
is more practical than I; a noble, energetic, useful
woman; one to depend upon in every circumstance
in life and at the same time a loving wife, mother
and sister.”

“There comes Mr. Merryman’s errand boy, Perry,”
said Anna, as the boy came whistling across
the field on his way to “Fair Meadow” from Dorton.
“He has a letter; perhaps it is for one of us,
as he has come a little out of his way,” and both
arose as he came near.

“The postmaster gave me a letter for you, Mrs.
Ashley,” he said. “It has a black border and he
thought it might be one that you should have as
quickly as possible. I called at your house but you
were not in and I left it with Miss Diana Strong.
Was that right?”

“Perfectly right, Perry, and I thank you for your
kindness,” and the boy passed on with the mail for
the “Fair Meadow” home, whistling and halting
occasionally to pluck a flower.

“Oh, Anna,” said Mrs. Ashley anxiously, “I am
afraid that letter brings sad news of Dr. Warfield.
Will you stop with me and see?”

“Willingly; and I sincerely hope that your fears
will not be realized.”

The two ladies, followed by Hilda, hurried
through the meadow and up the road to the cottage,
where Anna listened to the reading of the missive
which gave the intelligence that Mrs. Warfield was
a widow and Paul and Fred fatherless.

Mrs. Ashley’s tears fell fast in sympathy for her
sister’s bereavement, and Anna wept with her and
stayed for a time to give what comfort was in her
power.

“I will write to Sarah this evening,” said Mrs.
Ashley, when Anna arose to go home; “I wish I
had written oftener and less reservedly while Cyril
lived. He was always kind to me and never knew
how much I appreciated his goodness. Oh, Anna,
will we never learn to be tender and considerate
with our fellow pilgrims? We never appreciate
them as we should until they are gone; or if we do
we never let them know it.”

CHAPTER III—“MY LADY’S MANOR” AND ITS MYSTERY
=============================================

During that one beautiful summer Anna Ashburton
remained in her childhood’s home and scarcely
a day passed that she and Mrs. Ashley did not
see each other or have an exchange of messages.

But one morning a lawyer from Baltimore visited
“My Lady’s Manor” on behalf of a client in California—Mr.
Reginald Farnsworth—who could
prove beyond doubt that he was the legal owner
of the property, being the only son and heir of
Joshua Farnsworth by a former marriage.

In vain Anna protested that she had never heard
of a former marriage; in vain the Courtneys, the
Merrymans, the Lattingers and other families who
had known the Farnsworths and whom Anna summoned
to her assistance, affirmed the same. The
lawyer produced a marriage certificate and letters,
which even their unwilling eyes could see were
genuine. The  signatures—“Joshua Farnsworth,”
were fac-similes of those in the foster father’s letters
to her foster mother, kept by Anna with reverent care.

To add to the proof already given, he brought
with him an old San Francisco newspaper in which
was a notice of the death of the wife of Joshua
Farnsworth, of that city, aged twenty-one years,
leaving an infant son, Reginald.

The conference ended for the time by the lawyer
giving Anna a letter from his client in which he explained
his reason for the delay in putting in his
claim for the property. He wrote that he was but
an infant when his father, Joshua Farnsworth, left
San Francisco; and it was not until he was almost
grown to manhood that he became anxious to know
if he was yet among the living. He had made all
inquiry and had advertised, but could gain no information,
and for years had given up the search. But
recently he had obtained the certain information
that his father had been the owner of “My Lady’s
Manor,” and he, Reginald Farnsworth, being the
only child and heir, now claimed it according to
law, his stepmother having only a life estate in it,
not having the right to give it to anyone.

He added that his wife had long wished to be
nearer her mother, who resided in Philadelphia.
Now the way was opened, and he requested Miss
Ashburton to vacate the premises as early as convenient.

“How did he learn all this?” asked Anna, as she
finished the letter.

“From me, and I obtained it incidentally from a
lawyer associate who had never heard me speak of
Mr. Farnsworth, therefore was unaware of my
knowing anyone of that name. He had visited a
physician of your village and was told the incidents
connected with this place. I wrote immediately to
Mr. Reginald Farnsworth and he in turn put the
case in my hands. I searched the land records of
Maryland and found that Joshua Farnsworth, of
San Francisco, had purchased a tract known as ‘My
Lady’s Manor,’ the date corresponding exactly with
the year of his leaving California.”

Anna Ashburton possessed a sense of honor above
wishing to retain what belonged to another, and
with bitter tears left “My Lady’s Manor” to go to
Mrs. Lacy in Springfield, and Jerusha returned to
the brown cottage and her occupation, and if she
grieved over the change her proud nature gave no
sign.

Mr. Reginald Farnsworth, apparently unconcerned
as to Anna’s future, took possession of “My
Lady’s Manor” with its spacious grounds, woodland,
meadows and orchards, having three experienced
men to cultivate it and three as efficient house
servants as could have been found in Maryland.

But his conscience troubled him. He had allowed
greed to influence him in depriving the defenceless
girl of the home which had been given her in the
belief that there was no other heir, and he had not
the excuse of straitened circumstances to warrant
the action.

One evening he had been directing the cutting
down of several fine maples which obstructed a
favorite view. They had been planted by his father
to shade a spring of clear, cool water, and, being
prized by her foster mother, were dear to Anna.

Feeling very weary after his walk, he went to
the library, and throwing himself upon a lounge,
fell asleep. When he awoke the moon was shining
brightly through the large windows, making every
object visible.

The voices of his wife and Mrs. Lattinger were
heard from the parlor, and had almost lulled him
again to slumber when he was conscious of a presence
in the room. Without stirring, he opened his
eyes, and passing him almost within touch was an
apparently old lady, a stranger to him.

She was short in stature and slender, her pale
face shaded by gray curls, and upon her bowed head
was a lace cap with long tabs of the same costly
material. Her dress was of soft black silken goods,
and a white kerchief, overlaid by one of black, was
crossed upon her breast.

Mr. Farnsworth’s first thought was that a caller
had come to the library for a book, but seeing him
sleeping was returning quietly without it. He was
therefore more than surprised to see her, after gliding
through the door, ascend swiftly the steps leading
to the attic.

He arose and followed, keeping her in view until
she reached a distant corner of the unfurnished back
room at the end of the dwelling, when, like a
shadow-picture, she disappeared.

Feeling bewildered, Mr. Farnsworth descended
to his bed-room adjoining the library, bathed face
and hands in cold water, arranged his attire, and
then sat down to reflect.

He was not superstitious, but he feared that his
conscience-stricken feelings had influenced his brain
and he had imagined what was not there to see.
Believing this, he joined the ladies in the parlor.

“You are not well, Reginald,” said his wife anxiously,
“you are looking very pale; I am afraid the
sun was too hot for you.”

“My husband has had several cases of prostration
from heat in the last few days,” remarked Mrs.
Lattinger, “and one of the men came near losing his
life from exposure to the sun.”

“How was he affected?” asked Mr. Farnsworth.

“He was at first unconscious, then delirious, imagining
he saw weird, spectral objects, causing him
fright and anxiety.”

Mr. Farnsworth breathed more freely upon hearing this.
It was not a figment of the brain caused
by an uneasy conscience as he had feared, but he
had suffered a slight sunstroke, and, believing this,
he became more tranquil.

Resolving not to expose himself to the heat of
the sun more than necessary, he decided not to mention
what he had seen to his wife, who was nervous,
nor to the servants, who were superstitious.

The figure he had seen corresponded in every detail
with the description of the late Mrs. Farnsworth,
as given that evening to his wife by Mrs.
Lattinger, and as it was the last thing he heard before
dropping asleep it was not surprising that in
his drowsy condition he should imagine he saw her.

“Lois,” he said one evening, halting at the door
of her cabin, “when is the best time to plant Lima
beans?”

“When de sign is in de arms, ’kase you wants de
vines to run up de poles and not bunch on de
ground,” she answered promptly.

“I mean the time in the month, Lois. I have no
belief in signs.”

“Culled folks is allus mighty keerful about de
signs, and de keerfulest ones has de best gardens.”

“What is the best time for beets and parsnips?”
continued Mr. Farnsworth, who, having always
lived in San Francisco, where he was a banker, had
but little knowledge of horticulture.

“When de sign is in de feet, kase you don’t want
’em to spindle up and be all top, but go down in de
ground and grow.”

“Have we cucumber seed, Lois?”

“Lots of ’em; ol’ misses allus let de fust big uns
ripen for seed. Dey is in de attic, hangin’ on de
rafters in de back room. Does yer want me to
fotch ’em down?”

“No, the ground is not ready. I will go up this
evening and look over all the seeds.”

After tea Mr. Farnsworth ascended to the attic
and stood at one of the front windows gazing out
over the beautiful neighborhood, the village of Dorton
and the distant city. He then went into the
back room where the seeds hung, each kind in its
little sack, tied and labeled by a careful hand.

The light being insufficient, he took the sacks into
the front room, made his selections and had
turned to put the remaining ones back upon their
hooks when in the door-way through which he must
pass stood the little old lady in the costume in which
he had first seen her. A tremor seized Mr. Farnsworth,
his heart throbbed, and his hands trembled
so much that the sacks dropped to the floor. He
stooped to recover them and when he arose the
figure had disappeared.

All was silent, the attic and stair-way could be
surveyed at a glance; there was not a living thing
to be seen.

Taking all the seeds with him, he went to the
garden, gave them to the men, and returned to the
parlor where were his wife and two callers, Mrs.
Courtney and Mrs. Merryman, whom he welcomed
and then took a seat upon a sofa in a distant corner
of the spacious parlor.

“I have been overseeing my gardening,” he remarked
languidly; “I think there is nothing more
interesting.”

“Yes, for those who understand it,” smiled Mrs.
Courtney. “Brother Valentine oversees our garden
and I know but little about the work of cultivating
the different vegetables. I never tried planting anything
except turnip seeds, and that was not a success.
The rule given me by a facetious friend was
to start out with half the quantity I considered
sufficient, to fall down and spill half, then sow half
of what remained; but with all these precautions
the turnips were so crowded that they were not
much larger than walnuts and it did not occur to me
to weed some of them out and give the others a
chance.”

This incident recalled others to the ladies and
Mr. Farnsworth was silent, pondering over the
event of his day.

The summer passed and one evening in early
autumn Mrs. Farnsworth accompanied Mr. and
Mrs. Merryman to a concert in the city. It being an
hour’s drive, they were not expected back until near
midnight, and after reading until weary, Mr. Farnsworth
turned the lamp flame low and lay down upon
the lounge in the library.

The house was still and he slept, but was awakened
by what appeared an ice-cold hand upon his
forehead. Startled, he sprang to his feet. The
little old lady, her hand raised in warning, glided
through the door and up the stair-way.

A cold moisture stood upon the forehead of Mr.
Farnsworth. He trembled and grew faint, and it
was with an intense sense of relief that he heard Mr.
Merryman’s carriage stop at the gate.

He hurried out to receive his wife and helped her
to alight. The four passed a few minutes in pleasant
conversation; Mr. and Mrs. Farnsworth thanked
their neighbors for their courtesy and kindness, then
the Merrymans proceeded on their short way down
the road and up their maple-lined lane to “Fair
Meadow.”

Mr. and Mrs. Farnsworth went to the parlor
where, in listening to an animated account of the
concert, Mr. Farnsworth’s spirits revived, but his
sleep that night was disturbed and he arose unrefreshed.

“Mrs. Lattinger’s little girls are coming to take
tea this evening,” remarked Mrs. Farnsworth cheerily
at breakfast a few mornings after, “and I gave
them permission to invite any playmates they wish
to accompany them.”

“That is all right,” replied her husband languidly.

“I have thought of several ways to entertain
them, among them to dress in my great-grandmother’s
wedding costume.”

The children came, the orchard was visited, the
dove-cotes, the fish pond and garden had a share of
their afternoon, then all returned to the parlor and
Mrs. Farnsworth quietly slipped away to the attic.

She had taken the ancient attire from the trunk
when she felt a presence near her, and turning, she
saw slowly receding toward the back room a pale
little lady with black gown, white kerchief and
dainty lace cap.

Uttering a piercing scream, Mrs. Farnsworth fell
to the floor in a swoon.

Children and servants flocked upstairs. One ran
for Mr. Farnsworth who, pale as the unconscious
woman at his feet, raised her in his arms and carried
her down to the library and placed her upon the
lounge.

One of the men-servants was sent to Dorton for
Dr. Lattinger, while the frightened Lois, Phebe
and Judy used the simple restoratives at command
to revive her.

“Mrs. Farnsworth has suffered a severe shock
to her nerves,” said the doctor as she showed signs
of consciousness. “Has she been frightened?”

“I think so, but no one saw her when she fainted.”

“Let all leave the room except the doctor and
yourself, Reginald,” said the lady tremulously. “I
wish to tell you something.”

Children and servants were sent below and with
convulsive sobs Mrs. Farnsworth told what she had
seen to the incredulous doctor and the believing
husband.

“I will not remain here another day,” she continued,
“I would go this very evening if I could!
Do not let us stay in this dreadful house, dear husband;
let us go to my mother in Philadelphia.”

To her infinite relief, Mr. Farnsworth did not
chide or attempt to reason her out of her wish. Instead,
he assured her that they would go on the
early train the next morning.

“Do not leave me, Reginald!” she cried excitedly
as Mr. Farnsworth was about to follow the doctor
from the room. “I cannot stay a moment alone.”

“No, dear, I will not go from the door; I am only
waiting for the soothing drops the doctor is preparing.”

“What do you think the vision was, doctor?” he
continued in a low tone.

“Only an optical illusion, caused, perhaps, by
stooping over the trunk. But she must have change;
take her to her mother as you promised.”

The next morning husband and wife were on
their way to Philadelphia, taking nothing but a few
household treasures prized by Mrs. Farnsworth, and
“My Lady’s Manor,” handsomely furnished, was
placed for lease or rent in the hands of an agent.

His advertisements spoke in glowing terms of
the place, and applications were numerous. The
most eligible of these was accepted and a family
who had never lived in the country took possession,
delighted with “My Lady’s Manor” and everything
connected with it.

In two weeks they were back in the city, declaring
they would not take the place as a gift and be
compelled to live there; the little old lady had paid
them two visits and they would not wait for a
third.

“My Lady’s Manor” was again upon the market
at reduced rent, and again a Baltimore family became
its occupants, but remained less than a week.

Mr. Reginald Farnsworth who, with his wife,
had returned to San Francisco, notified his agent to
make no further effort to rent the dwelling, but to
close it and put the keys in the care of the servants,
who were asked to remain in the quarters.

“My Lady’s Manor” had now furnished the
neighborhood with four items of discussion: “What
caused the death of Joshua Farnsworth?” “Who
was the stranger?” “How did he escape from the
roof?” “Why did the spectre represent Mrs. Farnsworth
instead of her husband?”

These questions could not be answered, and the
superstitious ones of the community avoided the
place after nightfall and in their vocabulary it was
spoken of as “the haunted house.”

CHAPTER IV—A VISIT TO FRIEDENHEIM
=================================

Anna Ashburton’s parting with her Dorton
friends, especially Mrs. Ashley, was a trial to her,
but their sympathy cheered and strengthened, and
in comparatively good spirits she set out for Springfield.

She felt self-condemned that she had been reluctant
to accept Mrs. Lacy’s offer of a home when she
saw the genuine pleasure with which she was welcomed
by the sister of her foster mother.

The young people of Mrs. Lacy’s large circle of
friends rejoiced that an amiable, attractive girl was
added to their list, and the festivities at the Lacy
mansion were a delight to all.

Mr. Valentine Courtney, Mrs. Ashley and other
intimate friends wrote to her in response to her letters,
telling of her safe arrival and cordial reception,
and congratulated her heartily upon having
another mother in Mrs. Lacy and pleasant companionship
in the young people of Springfield.

They kept her apprised of all the happenings in
Dorton and its neighborhood, told her of the grief
of Lois, Phebe and Judy who could not speak without
tears of the absence of their young mistress, but
of the spectre that had frightened the superstitious
from “My Lady’s Manor” they made no mention.

Had the apparition taken any other form than
that of Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth, they might have
mentioned it in a spirit of jesting; as it was, no one
in Dorton would thus wound her.

She was aware that Mr. Reginald Farnsworth
had remained but a few months at “My Lady’s
Manor,” but had heard that his wife insisted upon
going to Philadelphia, and from thence to California,
her widowed mother accompanying her.

That “My Lady’s Manor” was unoccupied she
attributed to a rich man’s indifference. That the
servants remained in their quarters was no surprise
to her, well knowing that Mr. Farnsworth could
find no better care-takers.

It was therefore a great surprise to her when one
day the Baltimore lawyer called to inform her that
Mr. and Mrs. Farnsworth asked her as a favor to
them to accept “My Lady’s Manor” as a gift.

It was not until she read their letter in which
they besought her pardon for the injustice done her,
that she realized that the dear home of her childhood
was restored to her, and with happy tears she
thanked the one who brought the good news to her.

Visits had been frequent between Anna and Mrs.
Warfield during the winter and early spring, Mrs.
Ashley being the tie that bound them in close friendship,
and Anna lost no time in going to the farmhouse
to impart the information that “My Lady’s
Manor” was again in her possession; and before she
left, it was decided that they would go to Dorton
the following week as a surprise to their Maryland
friends.

Mrs. Warfield was as eager for this visit as was
Anna; for Norman Ashley had fallen in battle, and
she hoped to bring her sister and Hilda Brinsfield
to make their home with her in the farmhouse.

Mrs. Lacy had never admired Anna more than
upon the morning she and Mrs. Warfield set out for
Maryland. The light of happiness beamed in her
brilliant eyes, for she was returning to her childhood’s
home, doubly prized because once lost and
mourned.

Mr. Valentine Courtney was on a business trip
to Europe, but she would visit his sister at “Friedenheim,”
see the places where he had been, would
again be with her loved Mrs. Ashley and Hilda,
see again the Lattingers and the Merrymans, sit
again in Dorton church, and walk again on the
banks of the clear flowing stream, the favorite walk
of the villagers.

Mrs. Warfield had reached the station at Springfield
and was waiting her arrival. Soon the Lacy
carriage drew up to the spot where she stood, the
footman opened the door, and Anna stepped out as
radiant as a May morning.

Together they entered the car, the whistle sounded,
they were on their way, and had nearly reached
the next halting place when there was a collision,
then wails of mortal pain and Mrs. Warfield knew
no more.

When consciousness returned she found herself
in the waiting-room of the depot, and near her lay
Anna Ashburton, dying, but rational, and dictating
to an attorney her wishes in regard to the disposal
of her property, Mrs. Warfield and others witnessing
her signature to the document written by him.

“My Lady’s Manor” was bequeathed to her intended
husband, Valentine Courtney, and the will
was given in charge of Mrs. Warfield to deliver to
Mrs. Lacy.

A few hours after the bright young life was ended
and Mrs. Warfield accompanied all that remained
of the lovely Anna Ashburton to the sorrow-stricken
home in Springfield.

Mr. Valentine Courtney was on the eve of returning
from London when Mrs. Lacy’s cablegram apprizing
him of the accident reached him and as soon
as he landed in America he went to her home. From
her he learned the details of the calamity; of the
will which had made him owner of “My Lady’s
Manor,” and of the illness of Mrs. Warfield; and
so far as Mrs. Lacy knew, no word of these things
had reached Dorton.

She was correct in this; no one there knew of the
intended visit of Anna Ashburton, and it was left to
Mr. Courtney to take the sad news to “Friedenheim.”

Only to the Rev. Carl and Mrs. Courtney did he
impart the information that “My Lady’s Manor”
had been restored to Anna Ashburton, and she had
bequeathed it to him.

His reticence was not owing to any wish to keep
it a secret, but the subject was painful to him; it
concerned no one but himself, and even in the home
circle was seldom mentioned. Beyond it, no one in
the neighborhood knew that Reginald Farnsworth
was not the owner of the property.

The place had lost all interest to Valentine Courtney;
the sight of it brought sad remembrance, and
for that reason he took up his residence in Baltimore,
making occasionally short visits to “Friedenheim.”

The first time he came out to remain over night
he brought with him Ralph and James Rivers, the
sons of a deceased college friend for whom he was
guardian.

This first visit was one long to be remembered by
the boys, everything was so new to them and enchanting;
their journey on the train and arrival at
Dorton Station, their walk in the glowing sunset
across the flowery meadow to “Friedenheim,” the
warm welcome to that beautiful home, the joyous
greeting of Roy and Cecil, the supper of fried chicken,
oysters, Maryland biscuits and waffles, and after
it, a visit to orchards, woods and brook, accompanied
by Mose, the colored waiter, and by the pet
dogs of Roy and Cecil; then their return to the
piazza, where sat the elders of the family, enjoying
the serene beauty of the evening. All was a delight
to the two city boys who had never had so many
pleasant things crowded into one evening.

They were on the piazza but a short time when
Mose, who had left them at the gate to go to his
place in the kitchen, came to the lattice and whispered
to Cecil, who happened to be nearest, “Ax
your mother if you can’t come out in de kitchen.
Aunt Kitty will give us roasted apples and cream,
and pop-corn, and Aunt Chloe will have molasses
candy for us, and bline Israel is comin’ and will
sing.”

“All right, I know she will let us,” was the response,
and Mose hurried back to give notice, that
preparations for the entertainment of the visitors
might be quickly commenced.

“Who is Aunt Kitty and Chloe and Israel?” inquired
James.

“Kitty is the cook and is Moses’ grandmother.
Chloe was our nurse, but is now helper in everything,
and Israel is an old man who goes from house
to house to saw wood. He lives in the alms-house
in winter and works all summer, and is the tallest
and blackest person I ever saw. He is blind, does
not know darkness from daylight, but sings. You
never heard such a grand voice as Israel has. Mamma
says it is so mournfully sweet that she feels like
weeping when she hears it.”

“Who else is out there?”

“No one but Uncle Andy; he is the oldest person
in the neighborhood. Papa and Uncle Val say that
he was the best servant on the place when able to
work.”

“What does he do now?”

“He brings in cobs and shells peas, and other light
work to help Kitty. He loves to count his coins, and
we all give him the new, bright pieces we get. He
sings hymns and nothing pleases him better than to
admire his coins and praise his singing.”

Mrs. Courtney gave consent and when the four
boys reached the kitchen there was a general stir
among their dusky entertainers until their guests
had the best places about the great stone-flagged
hearth, and although not more than two hours since
they had finished supper, the impromptu cookery
was relished.

In the most comfortable corner of the hearth sat
Uncle Andy, his white wool glistening in the firelight,
and which illumined every corner of the large
kitchen. It was the first hickory wood and cob
fire the boys had ever seen, and they admired it
greatly.

“We have told Ralph and James how well you
sing, Uncle Andy,” said Roy; “we told them you
are fond of music.”

“’Deed I is, honey; ’deed I is!” confirmed Andy
gleefully, “’kase dar is a promise, honey, dar suttinly
is a promise to dem dat likes music.”

“Won’t you sing something, Uncle Andy? We
all want to hear you.”

“Suttinly, honey, suttinly!” and leaning his head
upon the back of his high chair he sang a favorite
hymn, adding stanza after stanza of his own improvising,
and keeping time with his foot, Kitty, Chloe
and Mose joining in the chorus. The boys expressed
such genuine pleasure in the concert that
hymn followed hymn, Andy reviving the melodies
of his boyhood for their entertainment.

“Yes, honey, yes;” he commented after pausing
for breath, “music an’ love is what heaven is made
of; it wouldn’t be heaven widout music an’ love.”

“But there are people who don’t like music, Uncle
Andy,” remarked Roy.

“Den, honey, ol’ Andy wouldn’t gib much for
der chance for heaven, ’deed he wouldn’t, honey.
What’ll dey do because of de music if dey does git
to heaven? Mind I says *if*, honey; mind I says *if*.”

Before the magnitude of this query could be lessened,
a shuffling of feet was heard outside, followed
by a knock upon the door.

“It’s Israel!” ejaculated Mose jubilantly, “Marse
Merryman’s Perry said he had done sawed all their
wood, an’ he was gwine to bring him over here this
evenin’.”

He hurried to the door, and reaching out a helping
hand, brought the blind wood-sawer in triumph
to the hearth, followed by Perry, who was expected
by Mrs. Merryman to return home immediately, but
who remained all evening.

“These here two boys is our boys, Israel,” said
Mose, as master of ceremonies, “and these two other
boys is visitin’ us from Baltimore; and, boys, this
here man is bline Israel.”

“Dat is jist like you, Mose, ’mindin’ folks ob der
’flictions. What’s de use of sayin’ ’bline Isrel’!” rebuked
Uncle Andy.

“Israel don’t keer, he says so his own self,” replied
Mose nonchalantly.

“Of course I does, Brudder Andy,” said Israel,
towering above them and removing his pipe to his
left hand to give his right to the old man.

“Don’t let him off so easy, Brudder Isrel,” said
Andy, in high good humor, “or he’ll be sayin’ yer
is deaf an’ dumb.”

“Words speak louder dan actions, Brudder Andy,”
replied Israel, benignly.

“Take this chair, Israel,” said Roy, leading him
to one. “We staid here to see you and hear you
talk and sing.”

“Mighty kind in you, I’m shore, young marsters.”

“’Pears like ol’ times to see yer, Brudder Isrel,”
said Andy, preparing to fill his pipe. “Kitty done
say dis mornin’, she did, ‘whar’s Uncle Isrel, dat
he ain’t been round dis fall?’”

“It’s mighty comfotable here, Brudder Andy,
that is a fac’,” asserted Israel as Roy gently relieved
him of his cane and placed it in a corner.

“Put some more cobs on the fire, you Mose, and
hand Uncle Isrel a coal to light his pipe; it is done
gone out,” said Chloe, hospitably.

“Maybe the young marsters don’t like the smell
of the pipe?” suggested Israel, hesitating between
respect for them and his longing for a smoke.

“Oh, don’t mind us,” said the boys cordially, “we
want you to feel at home.”

“Dey is all well-mannered boys,” remarked Uncle
Andy complacently; “I has done a heap towards
trainin’ our two. I allus says, ‘Boys, let us ol’ culled
folks hab de dirty pipes, ’kase we can’t be spiled;
but don’t yer sile yer nice clean mouves wid no
whiskey nor terbaccy.’ An’ dey has promised; an’
ol’ Andy kin trust ’em.”

“Gabe promised too, but he smoked and chawed
all the same,” remarked Chloe as she took her pipe
and tobacco from her pocket.

“Oh, dat Gabe is a hippercrite, I allus knowd’d
dat; not like dese yer boys nohow,” replied Andy,
between puffs of his pipe.

“I ain’t never gwine to smoke,” interposed Mose,
not willing to be overlooked.

“Better wait ’till yer axed,” suggested Kitty.

“Well, how was dey gittin’ along in de porehouse
when yer lef’, Brudder Isrel?” inquired Andy.

“Oh, fust-rate, what is left of de old stock, but
dar is a heap of changes in the pore-house as well
as in other places, Brudder Andy. Some of the ol’
residenters have gone to dar long home, and dar
places are done filled. Gabe Websta was one of de
late arrivals.”

“What is dat?” cried Andy in amazement, while
Aunt Kitty and Mose gazed upon him in consternation,
and Chloe removed her pipe to listen. “Yer
suttenly don’t mean our Gabe Websta?” he questioned.

“I is sorry to inform you, Brudder Andy, that
Gabe is at this moment in the pore-house; he was
took up as a wagrant early this fall.”

“As a wagrant!” echoed Andy, rolling up his
eyes and shaking his frosty head. “Now ain’t it
too bad dat anybody dat had de raisen dat boy had
wid ol’ Marse Courtney, has done gone an’ disgraced
hisself?”

“You know that he never would work, Uncle
Andy,” remarked Kitty. “Ol’ missus used to say
that it was more bother to make Gabe work than
his work was wuth.”

“Dat boy was born on Christmas day, an’ has
been keepin’ Christmas ebber since,” commented
Andy; “he’d jist like to set by de cob fire all winter,
an’ go ter sleep in de sun all summer, an’ let de
hoein’ take keer of itself. I allus tole him dat his
laziness would done fotch him to jail, but I never
mistrusted dat he would stop at de pore-house on
his way.”

“Dar is wus places than the pore-house, Brudder
Andy,” remarked Israel with dignity.

“Dat’s so, Brudder Isrel; ’deed dat is jis’ so! I
is makin’ no deflections on de pore-house, but on
dat misable Gabe Websta. De pore-house is fur
’flicted pussons an’ dem dat is too ol’ ter work, not
for sich as Gabe.”

“Gabe says he is not able to work; he done says
he has the rheumatiz,” supplemented Israel.

“He allus had som’thin’ or ’nother all his days,
’cept on Sattuday afternoons an’ Sundays, an’ ’lection
days an’ Christmas week; at dem times Gabe
was allus in a good state ob health.”

“Maybe he has the rheumatiz for certain to pay
him up for play in’ ’possum so many times,” suggested
Chloe.

“Maybe Chloe is right, Uncle Andy,” interposed
Roy. “Let Israel, when he goes back, ask the overseer
to get a doctor to investigate.”

“If Gabe wants to stay in de pore-house dar had
better be no ’westigations,” said Uncle Andy with
energy. “He’ll get turned out fo’ shore; he can’t
fool dem doctahs like he fooled ol’ missus.”

“Gabe has had spells of rheumatiz afore, has he,
Brudder Andy?” asked Israel.

“Yes, every time dar was a big job ob work on
hand.”

“Ol’ missus used to send him to hunt eggs,” said
Chloe, “and he’d just lay down on the hay and go
to sleep. He’d go to sleep standin’ up keepin’ the
flies off the table, that Gabe would.”

“Nobody could do nothin’ wid dat boy noways,”
said Uncle Andy, reflectively; “he’ll hab to wait till
all de folks dat know him is gone dead afore he
plays dat game ob de rheumatiz an’ de pore-house.
Jis’ now he’s like de folks dat wear eye-glasses to
pop on an’ off as suits de ’casion; when he done gits
de rheumatiz right, he’ll be like de people dat wears
specs; dat means business.”

“Uncle Andy, won’t you sing, and let the others
join in the chorus?” asked Cecil. “It will be splendid
now that Israel is here.”

“To be shore we will sing, honey! What will you
hab?”

Before Cecil could make choice Uncle Andy
broke into that melody so dear to his race—“Roll,
Jordan, Roll,” and Israel’s deep, pathetic voice
thrilled the hearts of the city boys as no other had
done; no noted concert singer had tones so full and
grand as issued from his powerful chest without
effort or thought that he was making an impression
upon his listeners.

“There is one thing that Gabe could do,” remarked
Kitty, when the last notes died away in
perfect accord, “he could sing like a seraphim; that
‘Roll, Jordan, Roll’ was his favorite.”

“Dat is so; dat is jis’ so!” agreed Uncle Andy,
whose feelings were softened by the melody, “and
I’ll tell yer what was passin’ in my mind while we
was singin’. I is gwine to write a letter to Gabe dis
yer berry night. Roy, honey, bring de pen; Kitty,
clar dat table; I’s gwine ter write dis yer hour an’
tell Gabe Websta ter gib up de rheumatiz an’ go
ter work.”

“Oh, Uncle Andy, Gabe won’t be in a hurry to
get that letter; wait till mornin’,” said Kitty.

“No, now is de ’cepted time, Kitty. If de doctahs
git to ’westigatin’ it’ll knock Gabe higher ’n a kite;
he’ll git well ob dat rheumatiz, an’ be popped out ’n
dat pore-house whar my letter will nebber jine him.
No, sah! Dat letter has done got ter be writ dis yer
ebenin’.”

“To-morrow would be airly enough,” said Kitty,
preparing to arrange the table for the writing materials.

“You is allus puttin’ off, Kitty. Dat is de way
ol’ Satan gits de souls ob sinners; dey help him dar
ownselves by puttin’ off. Git de writin’ utenshils,
Roy, honey.”

While Roy was gone, Andy had the table rolled
to his chair and was ruminating over the prospective
contents of the epistle when he returned.

“How shall I commence it, Uncle Andy?” Roy
asked.

“Dear Gabe,” suggested Chloe.

“No, I is gwine ter say no sich thing!” said Andy
irately, the softening influence of the music having
lost its effect when he had reflected upon Gabe’s delinquencies.
“He’s not ‘dear Gabe’ ter onybody but
de pore-house and dem dat has him ter keep; mighty
cheap Gabe in my mind.”

“‘Respected Gabe,’ or ‘Esteemed Gabe’” suggested
Roy, with waiting pen in hand.

“No, he is none ob dat! ‘Lazy Gabe’ is de only
’pendix dat fits him.”

“But it would not look well to commence a letter
that way,” said Roy.

“No, honey, ol’ Andy knows dat. Folks hab to
be ’ceitful in dis yer wicked world. I suppect yer’ll
hab ter say, ‘dear Gabe,’” he agreed regretfully.

Roy jotted it down quickly, thinking another discussion
might arise.

“It’ll be berry short, honey, jes’ say ‘You Gabe
Websta, come out ’en dat pore-house afore de doctahs
hab a chance to ’westigate, an’ gib yer wuthless
place to some ’flicted creetur dat ain’t playin’ ’possum,
an’ go ter work an’ airn your livin’, an’ may
de Lord hab mercy on yer soul.’”

“But Uncle Andy,” said Roy, when the old man
paused for breath, “that is what a judge says when
a person is sentenced to the gallows.”

“Dat tex’ ’plies to anybody, honey, ’kase we is all
sinnahs, an’ we’se all got ter die.”

Roy proceeded with the epistle, softening it as
much as possible, signed Andy’s name to it, stamped
and addressed it, and Andy gave it to Perry to mail.

“Thanky, thanky, honey! If Gabe goes ter sleep
ober dat letta I done hope de doctahs will ’westigate
an’ pop him out ’n dat pore-house;” and, serenity
restored, Andy was ready to sing and as soon as
the sweet notes of “I’ve Been Redeemed” died away
Mrs. Courtney rang the bell for prayers. Israel
went to the library with the others and Perry went
home.

When Ralph and James went to their room that
night they stood gazing for some time from their
windows upon “My Lady’s Manor,” beautiful under
the light of the full moon. From the servants’
quarters could be heard the same plaintive airs to
which they had listened that evening, accompanied
by banjo and violin, and they expressed to each
other the wish that they might see the place before
returning to Baltimore.

“Uncle Val,” said Cecil the next morning, “may
we go to ‘My Lady’s Manor?’ Ralph and James
would like to see it.”

A look of pain crossed Mr. Courtney’s face, but
he gave permission. “I have a message,” he continued,
“and now is perhaps the best time to send
it; while there, please tell the servants of the death
of Miss Anna Ashburton; they loved her and should
no longer be kept in ignorance of it.”

Breakfast finished, the four boys hurried away,
and as they drew near Mrs. Ashley’s cottage they
saw Hilda Brinsfield standing at the gate with a
white rabbit in her arms.

“What a beautiful little girl,” said Ralph in a
low tone; “she is the loveliest creature I ever saw.”

“That is what we all think,” responded Cecil.
“Mother says that with her blue eyes and golden
hair she reminds her of the angels we see in pictures.”

The fishpond, the dove-cote and orchard belonging
to “My Lady’s Manor” were visited, then they
halted at the servants’ quarters and obtained the
key, unlocked the front door, passed in and closed
it behind them.

With almost awe at the silence, they went
through the dim, richly furnished rooms, then
mounted the stairs to have a view from the roof.

So full of interest was the sight of their native
city to Ralph and James that it was near noon when
they descended. Talking gaily, they reached the
attic, and were surprised to see a little old lady in
black slowly receding toward the back room.

Roy and Cecil had heard through the colored people
of the apparition which made them afraid to pass
the mansion late at night, but had been trained to
have no belief in the supernatural, so without hesitation
followed.

The spectre had glided through the door of the
back attic room, but when they reached it, it was
empty and silent; and perplexed, they descended to
the quarters to give up the key and to deliver the
message in regard to Miss Ashburton.

The boys were aware of the servants’ attachment
to their young mistress, but were not expecting the
outburst of grief the disclosure of her death called
forth, as they sobbed and moaned in the abandonment
of woe, genuine and awe-stricken from the
suddenness with which a long cherished hope had
been shattered.

“We can’t stay here no more,” cried Lois with
streaming eyes, “we only stayed to keep the place
nice for Miss Anna; she is done gone! She will
never, never come, and we must go.”

“Perhaps the owner of ‘My Lady’s Manor’ will
like you to stay,” suggested Roy, deeply touched,
as were the other boys.

“No, we can’t stay; Miss Anna is done gone,
this is no home for us no more! Pore Miss Anna
that was kept out of the home that ol’ missus done
give her! She was so pretty and sweet and kind and
would have been living and well and happy if she
hadn’t been turned out of her home. Pore Miss
Anna!”

When the boys returned to “Friedenheim” they
gave a full account of their visit, and after they had
gone to the lawn for a game of ball, their elders sat
in the seclusion of the library and wondered, as they
had always done, over the mystery of the apparition.

The servants left the next day for one of the
lower counties of Maryland, and “My Lady’s Manor”
was deserted. Silence reigned in the servants’
quarters as well as in the spacious rooms of the
mansion; sunlight was shut out and spiders spun
their webs in the door-ways of the cabins, as well
as between the lofty pillars of the piazza.

CHAPTER V—HILDA’S NEW CARE-TAKER
================================

Two days after the accident which had caused
Mrs. Warfield to return to her farmhouse with
nerves so disturbed by terror, pain and grief that
she was ill for several weeks, little Hilda Brinsfield
was playing under the shade of an apple tree in the
garden back of the cottage of Mrs. Ashley, it being
one of the ideal days frequently enjoyed even in
early spring.

“Hilda,” called a subdued voice from the window,
“come in, dear, and stay by your aunt while I get
supper.”

The little girl made no response, but laying her
doll upon the bank beside her, she took up a book
and applied herself diligently to spelling the words
of three letters which described the gay pictures.

“Hilda!” And now Diana Strong was sitting
beside her with one of her little hands in hers.

“Oh, child,” she said in an endearing tone, “you
will regret it some day that you are not willing to
leave your play to sit a few minutes beside the
sweet lady who loves you so dearly! Come now,
come!”

A frown darkened the fair brow of the child, and,
throwing the book upon the ground, her foot came
down upon it with a quick, angry stamp.

Diana said no more, but taking her and the doll
in her strong arms carried her to the house in spite
of her struggles for release, and, putting her down
by the door of Mrs. Ashley’s room, gently pushed
her in. Ill as she was, the flashing eyes and flushed
cheeks of the little girl attracted the attention of
Mrs. Ashley, and she sighed deeply.

“My darling is angry again,” she said feebly.
“Who will take care of her and teach her self-control?”

“Diana made me leave my new book,” replied
Hilda tearfully. “She held me so tight in her arms
that it hurt me, and I could not get loose. Send her
away, Aunt Janette, I don’t like her! Please send
her away!”

A look of pain came into the sweet face of Mrs.
Ashley and she clasped her hands as if in supplication.

“Diana is very tired,” she said after a pause.
“She has lost much sleep in the week that I have
been ill.”

“I am tired, too, and want my supper,” responded
Hilda fretfully.

“Diana will soon have a nice supper for you, and
while she is preparing it you can lie down beside me
and rest.”

Hilda was willing for this; she pushed a chair
to the bedside, and, still clasping the doll in one arm,
crept in.

The setting sun glowed ruddily through the
western window, and the ticking of the clock upon
the mantel, and the purring of the kitten before the
smouldering wood fire upon the hearth were the
only sounds which broke the stillness of the pleasant
room.

“Your father named you Hilda for your sweet,
young mother,” said Mrs. Ashley, taking the child’s
hand in hers. “He loved his little daughter so tenderly
that he gave her her mother’s name. She was
lovely in disposition and patient, and I hope my little
Hilda will be like her.”

“Where are my father and mother now?”

“In heaven, my darling, where I hope soon to be
with them and your dear Uncle Ashley.”

“When will I go?”

“In God’s own good time. Try to live each day
aright, and then you will have a home with them
and never be parted from them.”

“Who will stay with me when you go?”

“My sister, Sarah Warfield, I hope. I have prayed
for that, and God answers prayer.”

“Why doesn’t she write to you? You said you
wanted a letter.”

“Why not, oh, why not?” echoed Mrs. Ashley.
“I do so long for a word from her.”

“But I would rather go to heaven with you and
my father and mother. What is heaven?”

“It is a beautiful home where we will live forever.”

“And will we never come back?”

“No, we will be so happy we will never wish to
come.”

“Oh, I want to go now! Take me with you, Aunt
Janette, to see my father and mother and Uncle
Ashley!”

“Be patient, my love, and you will come. I cannot
talk any more now; I am very weak, but will
speak of it again when rested. I hope you will be
polite and obedient to Diana; she is good and kind.
What would we do without her?”

Hilda was silent, her thoughts busy with what
she had just heard. Where was heaven? How
could she get there? And what was being patient?

Diana had made good speed in preparing the
evening meal, and brought a cup of tea and a slice
of cream toast, daintily served, to the invalid.

“Any letter?” inquired Mrs. Ashley, eagerly
scanning the countenance of the nurse as she drew
near.

“No,” replied Diana sadly. “Mr. Merryman’s
errand boy, Perry, passed just now on his way from
the postoffice. I ran out and asked him if he had a
letter for you, but there was none. I hoped you
would not ask until you had taken your tea.”

“Oh, Diana, two letters unanswered! Sister
Sarah is surely ill or she would write to me, whether
she had received my letters or not. I know
that she has much on her mind with the care of her
two boys and the farming, and Ohio is some distance
from here, but the reply to even my last letter
has had time to reach me.”

“Yes, there has been time,” agreed Diana sympathizingly.

“She and my brother Herbert were opposed to
my marriage to Mr. Ashley, but they were always
loving and kind. They wrote affectionate letters to
me as soon as they received my letter telling them
that my husband had fallen in battle, and Sarah offered
me a home with her, and said to bring Hilda.
She was glad that I intended adopting her as my
own, and said she would be much company for me.”

“Yes, anyone would think so,” agreed Diana as
she drew a stand to the bedside and arranged the
toast and tea upon it.

“I do not wish any tea, Diana. I had so hoped
for a letter. Surely Sarah must write and give
me the comfort of knowing that she will take Hilda
when I am gone!”

“I am sure she will; we must give her time,”
answered Diana, soothingly.

“But Sarah is always prompt; a noble, active,
Christian woman. There is no one on earth that
I can look to but her, to train Hilda as she should
be trained. Oh, if she would but write and give
me the assurance! but I fear that Mr. Courtney did
not tell her in the letter he wrote for me how ill I
am;” and tears of anxiety and longing filled her
beautiful eyes.

“Mr. Courtney said he would state the case exactly
as it is, and ministers should do as they promise.”

“Yes, Diana, so should we all; but you remember
my heart troubled me so little that day that I
fear he was deceived. You said yourself that I was
the picture of health with my bright eyes, the flush
upon my cheeks and lips, and my natural appearance
in every way. Oh, I fear he gave Sarah the
impression that there was no need of haste!”

“But you told him there was; he would be guided
by what you said and not by how you looked.”

“I believe that Dr. Lattinger is also deceived by
my appearance, but I knew when I took ill that I
would not get well, and if it were not for my anxiety
in regard to Hilda I would be glad to go. Heaven
seems very near to me; I have so many loved ones
there, so few on earth.”

“I was thinking, ma’am,” remarked Diana, “that
maybe your sister is coming, and that is the reason
she does not write.”

A gleam of joy illumined Mrs. Ashley’s face, and
she partly arose and stretched out her arms as if to
welcome her.

“Oh, Diana,” she whispered, sinking back upon
the pillow, “that would be such a happy thing; God
grant that it may be so!”

“You say that she is prompt in her ways; she
may not have waited to write, knowing that she
could reach here as quickly as could a letter,” she
said comfortingly.

“Yes, Diana,” smiled Mrs. Ashley, “that is the
reason she does not write. She is coming! Dear
heavenly Father,” she continued, putting her small
white hand upon the head of Hilda, “grant my
heartfelt petition that this loved child be a consistent
Christian, and may her home and that of Sarah
Warfield be one and the same.”

Cheered by this hope and trust, Mrs. Ashley partook
of the toast and tea with relish, and laid her
head again upon the pillow with the smiling, happy
expression of one who had never known pain or
trial, causing Diana to again wonder that the week’s
illness had made no change in her beauty.

“I feel so much better, Diana,” she said cheerfully.
“Do you and Hilda go and take your tea
together; do not mind leaving me alone. I have
pleasant thoughts to keep me company. I shall see
my sister—Sarah—Warfield—in the—morning.”

The kitchen where the supper was prepared
looked very bright and cheery to the little girl and
the light tea biscuits, sweet butter and honey were
delicious to her taste. She enjoyed the meal, then
fell asleep in the chair where Diana let her remain
until all was put in order for the night, then prepared
her for rest and laid her beside Mrs. Ashley,
who appeared to be in a sweet sleep.

Her own cot was in an opposite corner of the
room, and after fastening the outer door she lighted
the night lamp, shading it from the sick bed, then, as
was her custom, lay down without removing her
clothing that she might be ready at any minute to
wait upon the invalid.

She had, she thought, scarcely slept, when she
was waked by a rap upon the outer door of the
kitchen, and arose quickly that Mrs. Ashley might
not be disturbed by a second knock.

What was her astonishment on opening the door
to see the eastern horizon tinged with a ruddy glow,
betokening sunrise!

“How is Mrs. Ashley this morning?” asked Dr.
Lattinger as he stepped over the sill.

“She must have slept all night; I did not hear
her speak or stir,” replied Diana in bewilderment.

The doctor made no remark, but passed quickly
through to the other room, followed by Diana bearing
the lighted lamp.

“She has been dead several hours,” he said, taking
the lifeless hand in his.

“Oh, doctor, do not think I neglected her!” exclaimed
Diana, with blanched face and trembling
with grief and excitement. “She was so much better
last evening and ate a slice of toast and drank a
cup of tea. Oh, how I wish now I had not lain
down!”

“You were worn out with watching and should
not have been left alone,” said Dr. Lattinger kindly.

“Any of the neighbors would have come had I
asked it. I did not have an idea that anyone was
needed.”

“Who would you like to have with you? I will
call any place you specify. In the meantime it
would be better to remove the little girl to the cot,
that she may not know when first waking that her
aunt is gone.”

“I will, doctor; and if you are going out upon
your rounds please call at ‘Friedenheim’ and ask
Mrs. Courtney to come. Mrs. Ashley admired her,
and said she reminded her of her sister, Mrs. Warfield.”

“I am on my way home and have just passed
‘Friedenheim;’ but it will be no trouble to drive
back and tell Mrs. Courtney, and I hope she can
come.”

Dr. Lattinger left and Diana removed Hilda to
the cot, then sat by the bedside of Mrs. Ashley and
wept without restraint.

It took but a few minutes for the doctor to reach
the lane gate that led to the main entrance of
“Friedenheim.”

His ring of the door bell was answered by Mose,
who informed him that Mrs. Courtney was suffering
with sick headache and was unable to go.

Disappointed, Dr. Lattinger turned away and in
a few minutes reached home, where he sat down
to breakfast, weary and listless, having been all
night beside a sick bed.

“Diana Strong needs someone to assist her this
morning,” he said, when a good cup of coffee had
refreshed him. “Mrs. Ashley died during the night
and Diana is there alone. I called at ‘Friedenheim’
to ask Mrs. Courtney to go, but she is in bed with
one of her attacks of sick headache, and it is impossible
for her to give aid.”

“Of course, Diana feels the responsibility,” rejoined
Mrs. Lattinger. “Mrs. Ashley had no relatives
and her reserved disposition prevented her
making acquaintances. ‘My Lady’s Manor’ was the
only place she visited, and after Anna Ashburton
left it she had not one whom she could call a
friend. I wonder why Diana selected Mrs. Courtney?”

“She said that Mrs. Ashley admired her greatly,
and said she reminded her of her sister, Mrs. Warfield.”

“I doubt, however, if Mrs. Courtney could have
done what will be required. A burial robe will have
to be made unless Diana sends to Baltimore for
one.”

“I think she is at a loss to know what to do. Perhaps
you can go down and advise her. She is depending
upon me to send someone.”

“I cannot possibly go from home to-day, for I
have invited Mrs. Merryman and Mrs. Watkins to
luncheon, and Jerusha Flint is coming this morning
to cut and fit a dress for me, and if I disappoint her
she would take pleasure in refusing to come another
day.”

“If she can make burial dresses perhaps she would
go and help Diana.”

“No one could be of more help than Jerusha in
every way, if she will go. And I will be glad to
postpone my work until another day.”

“Well, see that someone goes,” said the doctor,
as he arose and went to his office, and at that moment
a light, brisk step was heard upon the porch,
followed by a sharp peal of the bell.

“There she is now,” thought Mrs. Lattinger, as
she arose to admit Jerusha. “I will tell her before
she lays aside her bonnet.”

The moment the door opened Jerusha, erect, neat,
and with perfectly fitting walking dress, stepped
in, her eyes like black beads and her cheeks flushed
from her mile walk in the clear morning air.

“Where is my pay to come from?” she asked
sharply, when Mrs. Lattinger made the situation
known. “There is no charge for making a burial
dress for a neighbor, and I cannot afford to lose my
day.”

“The doctor feels it incumbent to send someone,
having promised Diana. I suppose there is money
in the house; if not, we will see that you are paid
for it.”

“That settles it!” responded Miss Flint, promptly,
and, turning abruptly, she left the house and walked
with her usual dispatch down the road, looking
neither to the right nor to the left until she reached
the cottage.

Diana was still alone, with the exception of Hilda,
who was taking her breakfast, and her face clouded
at sight of Miss Flint.

“Mrs. Courtney is sick and could not come,” explained
Jerusha, reading Diana’s face like an open
book, “and Mrs. Lattinger took it upon herself to
ask me to come, so I am that accommodating individual
known as ‘Jack-in-a-Pinch’; what’s to be
done now that I am here?”

“I don’t know; that is why I wished someone to
come.”

“Has no patient that you have nursed died until
now?”

“Yes, but there were always plenty of relatives
and friends to make arrangements; my duty was
done and I went home.”

“Well, the first thing I will do is to lay aside my
hat and cape, seeing the lady of the house is not
polite enough to ask me.”

“Oh, please excuse me!” said Diana, reddening;
“I really forgot it.”

“No harm done,” said Miss Flint, as she shook
her cape with a vigorous snap, folded it and
placed it on the pillow of the lounge and laid her
hat upon it. “Had she no relatives?”

Miss Flint had nodded toward the other room
while smoothing her raven hair with the palms of
her hands until it shone like satin, and Diana had
no difficulty in understanding.

“Yes, she has a brother and sister in Ohio. Her
sister, Mrs. Warfield, has been written to twice, but
has not answered either letter. They were opposed
to her marrying Mr. Ashley; she told me so herself,
last evening, poor dear;” and Diana’s eyes filled at
the remembrance.

“No wonder they were opposed,” commented
Miss Flint as she glanced about the neat but simply
furnished room. “If she had possessed the common
sense that a woman of her appearance should have
had, she would have been opposed, too.”

“It may be that they won’t pay any attention to
her, or it may be that Mrs. Warfield is on her way
here,” resumed Diana. “I do hope she is, for I
want to get away. I feel it such a responsibility.”

“What is to be done with her?” asked Miss
Flint, nodding toward Hilda. “She will be in our
way.”

“I might stop the miller’s children on their way
to school and ask them to take Hilda home with
them, or ask one of them to come here for company
for her; their mother will, I am sure, oblige in a
case like this.”

“Let her go there, for mercy’s sake!” responded
Jerusha sharply. “We will have two to bother with
if one of them comes here.”

“There they come now!” said Diana. “I will
run out and ask them.”

Fortune favored; one of the children was glad to
return home and take Hilda with her, and Miss
Flint was gratified to hear that the miller’s family
would keep her until after the funeral; and the way
was now clear for business.

“Now if Mrs. Warfield would come, how thankful
I would be!” sighed Diana as she set aside the
remains of the breakfast.

“But we cannot wait for that. What is to be
done about a burial dress?”

“I don’t know,” responded Diana anxiously. “Do
you take the lead and I will help you all I can.”

“What I want to know is, will it be made here,
or bought ready made in Baltimore?” questioned
Miss Flint sharply.

“I really cannot decide. Which do you advise?”

“That depends upon circumstances. What is
there in the house?”

“Do you mean money?”

“Yes, money or clothes, or material to make a
burial dress of,” snapped Miss Jerusha impatiently.

“There is a bureau in her room with her clothing
in two of the drawers; the third one is locked; I
don’t know what is in it.”

“Where is the key?”

“In the upper drawer in a little box.”

“We can soon see; come!”

“I really cannot; not while she is in there,” said
Diana, shrinkingly.

“Why, there is where she will have to be until
taken to the grave; you certainly are not thinking
of having her brought out here?”

“Oh, no; but it seems so hard to go in and unlock
her bureau when she is unable to prevent us.”

“We don’t want to be prevented. Somebody
must attend to this; come along and give me the
key.”

They went, Diana shading her eyes from the still
form on the bed. The drawer was unlocked and a
white cashmere burial robe was found, covered by
a sheet of white tissue paper.

“Just as I expected the moment you told me that
the lower drawer was locked,” remarked Miss
Flint. “She was exactly the woman to prepare for
this in order to be independent of her neighbors.
Well, it saves a day’s work, so I am not the one
to complain.”

Sustained by the self-reliance of her companion,
Diana became of “some use,” as Miss Flint expressed
it, and did as directed with many a longing
to be away from it all.

The beautiful form of Mrs. Ashley was neatly
arrayed in the robe and Diana waited for further
orders.

“Give me a pair of scissors and I will cut off a
lock of her hair; her sister may want it. But stop,
you need not go! I have mine with me.”

“I don’t see how you can bear to cut off her
hair,” said Diana nervously, as the snip, snip of the
scissors fell upon her ear.

“It is lovely,” commented Miss Flint as she held
up a glossy tress, “and it curls naturally.”

“Yes, many a rich woman would give half she
possesses for such a splendid head of hair, and could
envy her in many ways. Mrs. Lattinger said she
was a lovely young creature when she came as a
bride to Dorton, and has changed very little since.
Now she looks like one of the beautiful marble
statues in the Peabody Institute, if it were not for
the long, dark lashes resting upon her cheeks.”

“She was a beauty and no mistake, but as proud
as Lucifer. Pride and poverty killed that woman,
or my name is not Jerusha Flint.”

“She was always kind and gentle and polite to
me,” responded Diana tearfully.

“Polite, oh certainly! But she made you know
your place, I’ll warrant. I wonder that one as
proud as she was would marry a poor artist. Now
you can fix her hair the way she wore it, and while
you are doing it I will watch at the gate for someone
who can be trusted to send the undertaker.”

“Oh, please don’t leave me!” exclaimed Diana,
dropping the comb. “Do you stay here and let me
watch at the gate.”

“Well, you are the poorest creature I ever did
see. You are not afraid of her, are you?” asked
Jerusha derisively.

“Oh, no, but I feel so nervous. If I had kept
awake last night and known if she needed anything
I would not feel so miserable.”

“Kept awake!” echoed her companion in astonishment.
“I hope you don’t mean to say that you
let her die alone?”

“She passed away while I was asleep,” said
Diana humbly. “I thought her so much better!”

“Thought her better, and you a trained nurse,
calling yourself a watcher; a professional, if you
please!”

“You cannot make me feel more self-condemned
than I am,” sighed Diana tearfully, “but I have the
comfort of knowing that if she could speak she
would grant me her forgiveness. She was a saint
on earth if ever there was one.”

“I fail to see how she could be with all that
pride; she scarcely noticed me.”

“I am sure it was not pride. She was very retiring
in disposition, and the neighbors may not have
tried to make her acquaintance.”

“Because she showed by her manner that she
considered herself above us. No one suited her
highness except Mrs. Farnsworth and Anna and
Mrs. Courtney; and it is plain to be seen that their
elegant homes were the attraction. I wonder that
she was so anxious to be friends with them when
her home was so poor.”

“But all is comfortable and pretty,” replied Diana
glancing about her, “and she kept it in beautiful
order.”

“Well, what she did and what she did not do is
no concern of ours. What we have to do is to bow
these shutters and sit down and wait for someone
to go for the undertaker.”

Diana went outside to watch, and while she was
gone Miss Flint stood in the doorway between the
rooms and took a look over the objects of beauty
and utility contained therein, and over her grim lips
passed a satisfied smile.

“Yes,” she said to herself, “it is the very plan;
and trust Jerusha Flint to carry out any scheme she
determines upon. Yes, it shall be done!”

Diana in the meantime had unhooked the shutters,
bowed them, and returned with the intelligence
that Perry had been sent over by Mrs. Merryman
to offer his services, and had gone to Dorton
to see the undertaker, and, that care removed, they
could think of other things.

“What time will you set for the funeral?” asked
Diana.

“That will depend upon Mr. Courtney. If he
can preach the sermon to-morrow afternoon that
will be the time to appoint. I will go over to ‘Friedenheim’
after the undertaker has been here and ask
him.”

“But isn’t that very soon? She died only—”

“You were asleep and know nothing about it,”
interrupted Jerusha sarcastically. “What would be
the use of waiting for her sister who has not set a
time for coming? And there is no one in the neighborhood
who cares when she is buried.”

Perry had returned and, to the relief of Diana,
could remain as long as wanted, so the moment the
undertaker departed Miss Flint hurried to “Friedenheim,”
saw Rev. Courtney, who made it convenient
to conduct the services the following afternoon,
and thus far the plan was working well.

Her next call was upon the owner of the cottage,
who was willing to allow her to live there in Mrs.
Ashley’s place, the rent having been paid by the
year, and she returned in exuberant spirits.

“I will tell you what I have been doing,” she said,
her black eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing
with the brisk walk. “There is no one to care for
Hilda, so I will stay here until Mrs. Warfield
comes.”

“Oh, that is so kind of you!” said Diana eagerly.
“I never for a moment thought you would stay. I
thought you had such a good home with my sister-in-law
and your brother.”

“There is where I stop,” replied Miss Flint with
emphasis. “I told Horace the very day he brought
his wife there that his house would be my home
only while I could not have a better one. I have
the chance now to have one more to my liking and
am going to take it. I will stay here until Mrs.
Warfield comes, and then can decide what course to
take.”

In her own mind she did not believe that Mrs.
Warfield would ever come, but she kept her opinion
to herself.

“Hilda is no relation of Mrs. Warfield’s, I think
you said,” she remarked after a pause.

“No, she was Mr. Ashley’s niece, not Mrs. Ashley’s;
but Mrs. Warfield will surely take her when
she hears that it was her sister’s last request.”

Miss Flint had another plan in her mind but she
said nothing about it to Diana; and that was that
as soon as the funeral was over the next afternoon,
and Diana gone, she would go immediately about
arranging the furniture to suit herself, and then
walk to her brother’s house in the village and make
arrangements with him to have her effects brought
to her new abode.

All these plans fell into line at the proper place;
the funeral was over, a long train of neighbors following
the bier to the Dorton churchyard, but
among them not one relative or near friend of the
departed.

Diana remained at the cottage until Miss Flint
returned; then, being as eager to leave as Jerusha
was to have the house to herself, she was not slow
in taking the hint that her company could be dispensed
with, and left for the village.

In the kindness of her heart she went out of her
way to call at the miller’s to tell Hilda of the
changes in her home.

“Yes, I know,” assented the little girl; “she told
me she was going to heaven and will see my father
and mother and Uncle Ashley.”

“You are to go back now, Hilda,” said Diana,
her eyes filling with tears. “Miss Flint is so kind
as to take care of you until Mrs. Warfield comes.”

The miller’s little girl saw her safely to the cottage
gate, and bade her good-bye with a parting
kiss.

“What brought you here until I sent for you?”
exclaimed Miss Flint angrily, as Hilda stepped in.
“I am just going out.”

“Diana told me to come,” said Hilda, cowering;
“she said you were so kind as to take care of me.”

“Just like the meddlesome wretch! Now I will
have to stay at home or drag you along with me.”

Hilda began to cry, and Miss Flint could scarcely
restrain herself from laying violent hands upon her,
while every nerve thrilled.

“Stop crying instantly, or I will give you something
to cry for!” she said harshly.

“I wish I were in heaven,” sobbed the child.

“You cannot wish it any more than I do! You
could well be spared from here.”

Hilda raised her head and looked with earnest
gaze at Miss Flint.

“What are you staring at? Get a book or something
and stare at it.”

“I left my new book under the apple tree; please
open the door for me.”

Her companion was glad to comply, and Hilda
returned quickly with it, and, sitting in her little
chair, examined it with the look of having regained
a lost friend.

“I am glad you have a pretty book,” remarked
Miss Flint, calling what she flattered herself was a
pleasant smile to her aid. “I am going out for a
little while and you must not stir from that chair
until I come back;” and hastily donning her wraps
she locked the door, put the key in her pocket and
walked rapidly to Dorton.

After arranging for the removal of her possessions,
she called to see Mrs. Lattinger to say that
she would come next morning to fit the dress, and
then set out for the cottage.

She considered that her absence was short, but
to Hilda it appeared endless. It was growing dark
and she imagined that Miss Flint had left her to
pass the night alone. She was a timid child, and
Miss Flint’s harshness had made her nervous, and
her sobs and cries were pitiful.

She had obeyed the mandate to stay in the chair;
and opposite was a lounge with cretonne cover, the
ruffle of which reached the floor. She saw this
ruffle move, and when something peeped out and
quickly withdrew, her terror was beyond control.

Miss Flint’s anger broke forth when she found
her in this state upon her return.

“How dare you act so, you spiteful creature?”
she cried, shaking her violently.

“I saw something come from under the lounge,”
gasped the child convulsively.

“It is a falsehood, a wicked falsehood!” and going
to the lounge she raised the ruffle. “You see
there is nothing under there! You are only acting
this way to keep me from going out again.”

“I did see something!” screamed Hilda, stamping
her foot in her excitement; “they were two
black fingers.”

“Two black fingers!” echoed Miss Flint, derisively;
“where are they now? They must have been
alive if they moved.”

“They did move; I saw them come out and go
back!”

“You little vixen!” cried Jerusha, grasping her;
“if you don’t hush I will—”

A voice at the door silenced her and caused Hilda
to cower in her chair.

“I was coming from Dorton,” said Perry, “and
heard somebody crying, so stopped to see what was
up.”

“I was out for a little while,” said Jerusha, turning
scarlet, “and Hilda got frightened. She thought
she saw two black fingers come from under the
lounge.”

“When people are scared they see lots of things.
I have, myself. You won’t see them now that Miss
Jerusha is here. Good-night to you both,” and
Perry went on to “Fair Meadow” and they were
again by themselves.

“Now you see what your wicked story-telling
has done,” exclaimed Miss Flint when Perry was
out of hearing. “You see he did not believe you.
Two black fingers, indeed!”

“I did see them!” screamed Hilda, flushed with
excitement and passion.

“Now look here,” cried Miss Flint, pale with anger
and her eyes glowing as she grasped the child’s
arm, “if you say that again I will give you such a
whipping as will last you a lifetime. I have a mind
to do it as it is.”

Hilda cowered in her chair. She was a match
for her tormentor in spirit but not in strength; she
was vanquished and sat trembling with vague terror.

No more words were spoken until supper was
upon the table, then Hilda was bidden to come, or
not, if that suited her better, and she accepted and
took her usual place, though too disturbed to do
justice to the simple but well served meal.

As soon as it was finished Miss Flint put the
room in order for the night, while Hilda returned
to her chair and watched her quick, impatient movements.

“Come, you must go to bed now,” was the command.
“I must sit down to my sewing and want
you out of my way.”

“Please let the door be open; I am afraid in the
dark,” pleaded the child.

“What, of the two black fingers?”

Hilda drew back shuddering and tears rushed to
her eyes.

“Come along, I have no time to waste upon you.
Can’t you unhook your dress?”

“Diana did it after Aunt Janette got sick. I cannot
reach the hooks.”

“You are old enough to wait upon yourself and
will soon find that I am not a waiting-maid for
you,” and, giving an angry jerk to a refractory
hook, the dress was loosened and other garments
removed, and the little girl crept into the cot, which
Miss Flint designated as her resting place.

“Won’t you hear me say my prayers?” she asked
timidly as her care-taker was leaving the room.

“You have great need to say them. I wonder
you are not afraid to go to sleep after telling such
a wicked story,” and, taking the lamp, she went out,
shutting the door after her.

Miss Flint sat down to her sewing in the clean
and pleasant room, but she was not happy. She at
last had a home of her own, but considered the incumbrance
that went with it overbalanced the benefit.

She had not thought that her patrons would object
to her taking Hilda to their homes in her dressmaking
visits, but realized that she was mistaken,
as she saw with her sister-in-law’s eyes that there
would come rainy days when Hilda could not go;
and if clear the child could not stand the walks she
would be compelled to take if she accompanied Jerusha,
nor could she be left alone in the cottage.

Weary and sad, she leaned back in her chair and
reflected; and her glance happening to rest upon
the curtain of the lounge, she saw it move. Jerusha
was not frightened, although she was wise enough
to know that there could not be an effect without a
cause.

The motion was repeated; the head of a mouse
peeped out and was quickly withdrawn, and she
recognized one of the black fingers that had alarmed
Hilda.

“Enjoy yourself all you can to-night, my lively
friend,” she said to herself. “If a trap can catch
you this will be the last chance you will have to
frighten anybody.”

She took care, however, not to enlighten Hilda
as to her discovery and for many days the child
avoided the lounge, fearing the “black fingers.”

CHAPTER VI—HILDA A LITERAL FOLLOWER OF BUNYAN
=============================================

“Fair Meadow,” the home of the Merryman family
for generations, was a large old-time farmhouse,
built of gray stone, with dormer windows in the
roof, broad window and door sills, and within and
without gave the assurance of genuine home comfort,
peace and good-will.

It lay between “My Lady’s Manor” and “Friedenheim,”
within a short distance of each, and save
for a wide lane and a meadow, would have been opposite
the cottage of Jerusha Flint, on the other
side of the road. It was a true Christian home,
and its influence, like that of the Courtneys, was felt
throughout the neighborhood.

The Merrymans were generous, genial people,
and entertained city and country friends with cordial
hospitality, but it was seldom that the farmhouse
wore such a festive appearance as upon one
evening the middle of the February following the
summer and autumn that Jerusha Flint held possession
of the cottage.

The occasion was a reception in honor of a bride
and groom, the bride being Mr. Merryman’s sister,
married at her father’s residence in Baltimore and
returning that evening from a southern tour.

Snow had fallen the day before, which necessitated
sending sleighs instead of carriages to Dorton
Station for the bridal party, and Mrs. Merryman,
seeing her husband drive down the lane in the lead
of three other sleighs, realized that time had passed
too rapidly; the guests would soon be there, and she
was not dressed to receive them.

With a satisfied glance at the supper table—brilliant
with silver, china and glass—she was hurrying
up the stair-way to her dressing-room when she
heard a feeble knock upon the hall door, and, retracing
her steps, she opened it.

A poor wanderer stood with hat in hand waiting
there; the wind was toying with his gray locks, his
thin garments protected him but poorly from the
cold, and through his broken shoes could be seen
his stockingless feet.

“They are all busy preparing supper; you need
not wait,” she answered hurriedly in response to his
humble appeal for a cup of hot coffee.

“No, Archie won’t wait,” said the wanderer,
turning meekly away. “Archie is hungry and tired,
and the snow is cold, but Archie won’t wait.”

Closing the door quickly, Mrs. Merryman went
to her room, dressed as speedily as possible and
descended in time to receive Mrs. Courtney, who
passed on up to the guest chamber to remove her
wraps and be in readiness to help receive.

Mrs. Merryman had no anxiety for the successful
serving of the supper, and later the refreshments,
for in addition to her own efficient maid,
Norah, Diana Strong had the management, and
through the kindness of Mrs. Courtney, Kitty was
her helper, while Mose, in white apron and gloves,
was proud to have been loaned to wait upon the
door and afterward the table.

Notwithstanding these helps to contentment, Mrs.
Merryman carried a heavy heart under her silken attire.
The words of the half-frozen wanderer kept
up a refrain in her memory: “Archie is hungry and
tired and the snow is cold, but Archie won’t wait.”

Oh, to look about her in that comfortable home;
the whole place glowing with light and heat, the
kitchen redolent with roasting poultry; and she had
refused the cup of coffee that might have kept hope
and even life in the stranger!

“I do not deserve to have a roof over my head!”
she said to herself as bitter tears welled to her eyes,
but she controlled her feelings, for the halting of
sleighs at the gate gave token that the bridal party
had arrived.

Amid the chattering of merry voices her depression
was unnoticed and the guests passed up
to their rooms. Friends invited to meet them were
coming in couples and groups, and she welcomed all
smilingly, but her thoughts were upon the old and
poorly clad man whom she had turned from her
door.

At the moment of the arrival of the bridal party,
Hilda Brinsfield, in the cottage of Jerusha Flint,
was kneeling upon a chair by the western window;
not watching with childlike interest the passing
sleighs with their joyous jingling of bells, but with
a look of interest and hope upon her pale face to
which for many a day it had been a stranger.

“Hilda,” said Miss Flint, “I am going up to the
village on business, and wish you to be quiet and
patient. I will not be long away.”

Hilda made no reply. She was thinking of a
picture she had seen at Dr. Lattinger’s where she
had been the day before with Miss Flint.

It represented a group of sweet-faced angels,
robed in white, grouped about a harp upon which
one of their number was playing an accompaniment
to their singing.

She had asked the nurse where the angels lived,
and was told that their home was in heaven.

“Where is heaven?” she had asked eagerly.

“Do you see that sun?” asked the nurse, pointing
to it from the window of the nursery. “That sun is
in heaven.”

Hilda had thought of but little else since hearing
this. She had at last located the home where her
parents and her Aunt Ashley awaited her. All that
was required of her was to follow the sun and it
would lead her to them. She had watched all day,
but the sun had kept itself hidden under dim
clouds.

About the time that Miss Flint left the cottage it
gleamed forth, and seemed to invite her to follow.
A longing to be with father, mother and Aunt Ashley
in heaven was too great to be resisted; all was
to be gained by following where he led. Without
stopping for wraps, the eager child hurried out.
The sun, low in the west, seemed very near to her,
and she ran to join it on its way. On and on she
ran, the snow not crushing under her rapid tread.
The air chilled her, but keeping the sun as a guide
she pressed on. It sank below the horizon, but
Hilda followed, guided by the ruddy glow which
marked the spot where it descended. It grew dark
and the child became bewildered, retracing her
steps or wandering in a circle. Her limbs ached
with weariness, and she was about to lie down and
rest, when she heard the chatter of happy voices
and the sound of sleigh bells, and, encouraged, she
followed. But the sound ceased, and again she wandered
aimlessly, having nothing to guide her.

At length she saw the gleaming of many lights,
and she crept toward them.

“That is heaven!” she said to herself. “It is not
far away, but I am so cold, so cold!”

The lights grew more brilliant, but she could
scarcely move on toward them. Her thoughts grew
confused, strange visions thronged her mind, vivid
colors danced before her eyes, sweet music charmed
her senses. She was growing less weary; a pleasant
warmth comforted her, and her eyelids were heavy
with sleep as she toiled on toward the goal, reached
it, and sank down between an evergreen shrub and
one of the windows of the Merryman farmhouse.

Unconscious of the tragedy transpiring without,
the bride, arrayed in a fleecy robe of white, as were
her attendants grouped about the piano, was singing,
when at the window appeared the wanderer
for the second time that evening, bearing in his
arms the unconscious form of the little girl.

“She is dead,” he murmured in a dazed, helpless
way, as he stepped through the window which Mr.
Merryman opened for him; “she was in the cold
snow!”

“She may be,” said Dr. Lattinger, coming quickly
toward them. “We must take her to a cool room
and make efforts to restore her.”

Tear-dimmed eyes gazed upon the pallid face,
loving arms were extended to bear her where Mrs.
Merryman would direct, when Diana Strong, hearing
the subdued exclamations of surprise and pity,
came to the parlor door and glanced in.

“It is Hilda!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands
and turning pale with emotion. “What could have
driven her out this wintry night?”

Although a new anxiety had come to Mrs. Merryman,
she experienced relief in again seeing the
wanderer, and while Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, Mrs.
Courtney and Diana were doing all in their power
to restore the little girl, she took him to the kitchen
and soothed her tried conscience by seeing that he
was made comfortable with light and warmth and
good food at the table with Perry.

“I knows him,” remarked Mose, who with Kitty
was enjoying his supper at a table in another corner
of the kitchen. “I done seen him many a time
on the road.”

“You knows a heap of people, Mose, that don’t
knows you,” commented his grandmother.

“Where was the little girl when you found her?”
Mrs. Merryman asked Archie, while Diana was
pouring his coffee.

“She was sitting among the bushes by the piazza.
Archie thought she was looking in at the people.
Archie did not know she was dead until he took her
up.”

“Why were you here?” asked Mrs. Merryman
kindly. “I thought you had left.”

“Archie was cold and hungry and tired. He went
to the barn to sleep; he had no other place to go.
Archie heard sleigh bells and people coming in with
horses, and was afraid they would drive him away.
Archie walked about to keep warm; he heard singing
and came to look in the window and found the
little girl.”

The efforts of Dr. Lattinger were rewarded; after
a time Hilda had recovered sufficiently to be taken
to the nursery where Diana watched beside her until
time to help serve refreshments.

“Where is mamma?” whispered Hilda without
opening her weary eyes. “I heard the sweet music
and saw the beautiful angels, but did not know my
mamma or Aunt Ashley.”

“You will see them after a time,” said Diana
tenderly; “go to sleep now and get rested.”

“I will,” whispered the little girl; “I am tired, so
tired, but I have found heaven.”

Tears flowed from Diana’s eyes as she watched
her sleeping, and tender-hearted Norah wept in sympathy.

Hilda was so changed; she seemed no longer the
light-hearted, care-free, high-spirited child which
had been loved and cherished by Mrs. Ashley. Sadness
had its place upon the wan face, the pinched
features, in the deep-sunken eyes. Diana almost
censured herself for a share in the cause.

Fortunately Diana could remain at the farmhouse
while the bridal company stayed, and her heart was
comforted by knowing that Hilda had found a good
home; for the next morning Mrs. Merryman received
a note from Miss Flint saying that as Hilda
had run away from the cottage, she should not be
received again under that roof.

The same afternoon as Perry was returning from
the village with a wagon, Miss Jerusha stopped him
at her gate and helped him place in it three trunks
which had belonged to Mrs. Ashley. They contained
clothing, books and bric-a-brac, Jerusha retaining
the furniture until claimed by Mrs. Warfield.

Cast upon the charity of Mr. and Mrs. Merryman,
Hilda was heartily accepted, and Miss Flint
went from her cottage in the morning and returned
to it in the evening, rejoicing that she was at last
free from the burden that had oppressed her. So
sprightly did she become, in addition to her naturally
independent and arbitrary manner that she gave
no one reason to suspect that her conscience was
troubled by three secrets, one of which in after
years she strove vainly to divulge to Hilda.

The bridal company had been entertained at the
Courtneys, the Lattingers and several other homes,
had seen the places of interest in the neighborhood,
had heard the traditions and chronicles, especially
that of the spectre that haunted “My Lady’s Manor”
and had returned to their homes.

One evening Norah was preparing the evening
meal and crooning an Irish melody—to which
Hilda, sitting in Erma’s cradle, was listening attentively—and
had just placed tea biscuits in the oven
when the door opened and Archie came in.

He was comfortably clothed in the suit given
him by Mr. Merryman, and without glancing at
Norah or Hilda he went directly to the seat in the
corner of the hearth which he had occupied the
night of the reception.

“It is Archie!” cried Hilda in delight, “he has
brought me a mocking bird.”

“No, Archie is ashamed that he could not bring
one,” said the wanderer sadly. “He has tried and
tried to catch one, but Archie has brought something,”
and untying a plaid handkerchief he gave
her a dead oriole, a bit of moss, several snail and
mussel shells, and other trifles which he had gathered
in the woods and streams perhaps miles away.

When Mr. and Mrs. Merryman and their little
Erma returned from Dorton and with Hilda sat
down to tea in the dining-room, Archie fell asleep
in his chair, but awoke to take supper with Norah
and Perry; then went to the room over the kitchen
which he had previously occupied, and before the
sun rose was away upon his aimless wanderings.

Thus the years passed, and in the home of the
Merrymans contentment and peace reigned. Hilda
was looked upon as the elder daughter of the house
and was treated as kindly as though indeed their
own. She went daily to the village school and was
beloved by teachers and companions.

Although each school day she passed the cottage
twice, and the same on Sabbaths to the village
church, she never had a glimpse of Jerusha Flint,
from which the inference could be rightly drawn
that Jerusha had frequent glimpses of her.

One Saturday morning Hilda was helping Mrs.
Merryman arrange the potted plants upon the porch
when Mose, hat in hand, made his appearance with
a note from Mrs. Courtney inviting them to take
tea at “Friedenheim” that evening.

Hilda’s eager glance at Mrs. Merryman, hoping
for acceptance of the invitation, was met by an assenting
smile; a reply was written and Mose hurried
away.

When it came time to dress for the visit Norah,
who took great pride in Hilda’s beauty, arranged
her hair in soft, full ringlets and helped her don a
pretty pink gown, Hilda’s favorite, and singularly
becoming.

The visit was one of unalloyed pleasure, for during
the afternoon Mr. Valentine Courtney drove
out from the city in a handsome carriage drawn by
a pair of ponies, and finding Hilda and Erma there
took them out for a drive, and after tea he took
them the short walk to “My Lady’s Manor,” too
short to Mr. Courtney, so interested and amused
was he with the conversation of Hilda.

He enjoyed her quaint manner of telling the
events which transpired within the range of her
knowledge, among them the arrival of Norah’s aunt
from Scotland, an event of great interest to Norah,
and through her to Hilda.

“She is now at your Uncle Merryman’s, I suppose?”
remarked Mr. Courtney, with a view to
keeping up his share of the conversation.

“No, she is in Baltimore, but she wants to come
to Dorton to be near Norah; and Aunt Merryman
will try to get her a place as housekeeper. She is
a very good housekeeper,” concluded Hilda sagely.

When they reached “My Lady’s Manor,” Mr.
Courtney unlocked the front door, and they passed
in; and after closing it he led the way through the
wide hall to the rooms on either side, all seeming
to Hilda like the almost forgotten remembrance of
a dream. Then they ascended to the second floor,
then to the third and from thence up the narrow
stair-way to the walk on the roof, where Mr. Courtney
pointed out the prominent places in the city
and noted the changes in Hilda’s expressive countenance,
as in her quaint manner she gave her views
of them.

It was growing twilight and so they turned to
descend, Hilda being the first to reach the stair-way.

“There is a lady waiting to come up!” she said
in a half whisper, “I think she is very old.”

“A lady?” ejaculated Mr. Courtney, in surprise,
and, stepping to the stair-way, he glanced down.

The little lady in black, of whom he had so often
heard, stood at the foot, with bowed head and
folded hands, but before Mr. Courtney could address
her, she disappeared.

When they descended to the attic, Mr. Courtney,
without commenting upon the subject, glanced into
the rooms, but not a living creature was to be seen,
nor in the rooms below it; the house was silent save
for their footfalls.

“This mystery shall be explained, if possible, and
that at the earliest moment,” he said to himself as
he locked the hall door upon their exit, and if Hilda
noticed that he was silent on their walk back to
“Friedenheim” she made no comment.

Mr. Courtney joined the Rev. Carl, Mrs. Courtney
and Mrs. Merryman upon the piazza, while
Hilda and Erma, attracted by the cheerful appearance
of the kitchen, halted at the door.

“Come right in, honey,” cried Uncle Andy, heartily.
“We is mighty glad to see yer; we has no little
chillen no mo’, an’ ’pears like we can nebber git used
ter doin’ widout ’em.”

“Where have they gone?” asked Hilda as, holding
Erma’s hand, she stepped in.

“Roy an’ Cecil has done mos’ growed up, an’ de
little gal hab gone to heaven whar ol’ Andy will go
in de heavenly Master’s own good time. Ol’ Andy
will soon go, honey.”

Hilda longed to send a message by him to her
father and mother and her Uncle and Aunt Ashley,
but had not courage to go near enough to him to
whisper her request. Her indecision brought the
delicate bloom to her cheek, which always appeared
under any little excitement, and which awakened
anew the admiration of Chloe.

“She is as pretty as a picture; that is just the
truth,” she remarked to Kitty.

“Now, Chloe, jes’ yer hab done wid dat,” exclaimed
Andy, turning sharply about. “Ol’ Satan
an’ de lookin’ glass will done tell her dat fas’ enough
widout yore help.”

“They will tell her the truth, Uncle Andy, you
know that your own self,” replied Chloe nonchalantly.

“Purty is as purty does, honey; don’t disremember
dat,” advised Andy, turning to Hilda; “don’t
let nobody make you sassy of yer beauty, fer bime-bye,
if de good Lord spares yer dat long, de wrinkles
will done scare de beauty away. Den whar is
yer?”

“Never scared no beauty away from Mis’ Emma,”
asserted Chloe defiantly. “Wrinkles is coming to
stay, but she is a beauty in spite of them.”

“’Kase mistess wan’t sassy ob her beauty, dat’s
what I done jes’ say, Chloe; de strongholt is mine,
not yourn,” and Andy laughed and coughed exultantly.

“Missus come of a pretty family,” interposed
Kitty. “She couldn’t have been ugly if she had
tried. When she an’ Mars Courtney was bride and
groom, dey was de han’somest couple in de state,
an’ her mother an’ grandmother were beauties in
der day.”

“’Kase dey was Christians, an’ had der treasures
laid up in heaven. Yes, Kitty, dey was good to de
pore an’ ’flicted, and too busy helpin’ dem dat could
not help demselves to be sassy about der beauty.”

“They was too good for dis yer world, dat’s certain,”
responded Kitty.

“Deed was dey, an’ nebber done forgit dar manners
to nobody. When I was de coachman, and
used ter bring Selim to de block for young mistus—dat
was dis Misus Courtney’s grandmother—honey,”
he said, turning to Hilda, “an’ she done
come sweepin’ down de piazzy steps, holdin’ de long
train ob her habit ober her arm, an’ her pearl
handled whip in her han’, an’ de long plumes in her
hat bowin’ an’ noddin’, tell yer what, honey, she
suttenly was purtier dan any picture.”

“So she was,” echoed Kitty. “I was young then,
but I remember that she looked like Mis’ Emma.”

“But you done forget about the manners, Uncle
Andy,” said Chloe flippantly.

“Oh, yes! When I done led Selim to de block
an’ would pat de proud-sperited creetur ’till mistus
mounted into de saddle, an’ took the bridle, an’ was
startin’ away, she allus said, ‘Thanky, Andy!’ She
nebber disremembered dat, nebber.”

“Yes, and Mis’ Emma is just as polite as her
mother and grandmother,” said Kitty, proudly,
“they was born ladies and couldn’t be anything
else.”

It came time for Mrs. Merryman to go. Hilda
and Erma were summoned. Mrs. Courtney and
her brother Valentine accompanied them across the
meadow to their home, and their conversation on
the return walk was of “My Lady’s Manor,” now
bathed in the splendor of the moonlight.

CHAPTER VII—HILDA’S WELCOME TO MY LADY’S MANOR
==============================================

A week passed and one evening Mr. Courtney
came out on the train to remain over night at
“Friedenheim,” and with him were Ralph and
James Rivers.

He had something in contemplation which he
wished to impart to the Rev. Carl and Mrs. Courtney,
and when supper was finished and they returned
to the library he mentioned what he thought
they might consider a foolish experiment.

“Brother Carl and Sister Emma, I am thinking of
housekeeping. What is your opinion of it?” he
asked.

“Do you mean at ‘My Lady’s Manor’?” asked
Mrs. Courtney. “I think it would be charming thus
having you for a neighbor; it would be next best to
having you at ‘Friedenheim’.”

“I, too, am pleased,” said Rev. Carl. “Are you
really in earnest?”

“Yes, I would like to at least make the trial, if
I can get a suitable housekeeper.”

“But the apparition, Val!” reminded Rev. Carl
in a low tone. “Of course we give no credence to
such foolishness, but you may have trouble in getting
a housekeeper.”

“I would never have taken Anna there until the
mystery was explained, neither would I be willing
to have anyone run the chance of being frightened,
but Ralph and James have a plan in view which I
will not disappoint them by divulging. In the meantime
Hilda mentioned that Mrs. Merryman knows
of a woman who wishes to come to Dorton; did
she happen to mention it to you, Sister Emma?”

“Yes, she asked me if I knew of anyone who
needs a housekeeper. It is Nora’s aunt who wishes
a place. She is now at a friend’s house in the city.”

“I wish you would see Mrs. Merryman in regard
to it when convenient.”

“I will go or send there to-morrow, and am sure
that Mrs. Merryman will act promptly in regard to
securing her.”

About twilight Ralph and James, with traveling
satchels in hand, walked to “My Lady’s Manor”
with the intention of discovering, if possible, what
manner of creature it was that was deceiving so
many people.

The satchel of James held a lamp, candles and
matches, and Ralph’s contained a stiff rope with a
noose at one end, with which he purposed capturing
the spectre.

They took a survey of the mansion and decided
upon occupying the two bed-rooms overlooking the
quarters.

The doors of both rooms opened into the corridor,
and these they decided to lock, that any unquiet
spirit that chose to visit one of the rooms could
have free access only to the other.

Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night;
they slept peacefully until the white sails upon the
Patapsco were tinged with rosy hues of the ascending
sun.

Before returning to “Friedenheim” they explored
the attic room, which was void of furniture
or articles of any kind, but found no clue to the
mystery, nor hiding place for even a mouse.

As the spectre declined to visit them when the
doors leading to the corridor were locked, the next
night they decided to leave the door ajar which led
into it from the bed-room which Mrs. Farnsworth
and Anna had used as a library, and to place a
lighted lamp near the steps leading to the attic
rooms. Ralph, with rope behind him, lay down upon
the lounge in that room and James occupied the
room adjoining.

He was too excited to sleep, but Ralph was in
the land of dreams when something like an icy
hand touched his forehead. He sprang up, rope in
hand, and followed the little lady in black who had
glided through the door and ascended several steps
toward the attic room, threw the noose about her
neck and brought her to a halt so suddenly that
she had to cling to the banister to keep from falling.
A piece of marble which had simulated the cold
hand fell to the floor, the lace cap and gray curls
fell back, disclosing a head of glossy black hair, and
the dough mask fell off, showing the humiliated face
of Jerusha Flint.

The boys stood appalled at the discovery, and
Jerusha shed a torrent of tears, but whether from
shame or grief or anger they had no means of
knowing.

She spoke no word, but like a veritable spectre,
glided up the attic stairs and was seen no more.
Only the sound of the shutting of a distant door in
some part of the large building could be faintly
heard, then the boys locked the three doors and
slept in the bed-room until morning.

It is doubtful if any news could have given more
genuine astonishment to the home circle at “Friedenheim”
than that of Miss Flint playing the rôle
of a spectre, and the motive that prompted her was
quite as much of a mystery. But before the day
closed the matter was made plain by Miss Jerusha,
who sent a humble message to Mrs. Courtney to
come to see her, as she desired earnestly to converse
with her and was too ill to leave her cottage.

Mrs. Courtney went immediately, and although
Miss Jerusha expected her, she could scarcely raise
her eyes to her neighbor’s face when she stood beside
her, so humiliated was she as she lay pale, yet
feverish, upon the lounge.

“I don’t know what you can think of me, Mrs.
Courtney,” she said, as she signified her wish for
her visitor to take the seat beside her, “but I will
tell you the exact truth.”

Mrs. Courtney took the chair in silence and Miss
Flint, after a pause, resumed.

“Anna Ashburton was my friend, the only person
in her position who treated me as an equal, and
because she had given me her friendship, I told her
what I have told no other, before or since. She
understood me as no other human being could; she
pitied me and loved me; and if I could have remained
with her I would not be the desolate, unhappy,
malicious creature I am. It was a bitter
blow to us when we were cast out of that beautiful
home. We both loved it, and I say in all sincerity
that I grieved more for her sake than for my own.
I had not her gentle spirit, having inherited a proud
and implacable temper, and I vowed in my homeless
condition that so far as lay in my power to prevent
it, Reginald Farnsworth should never find purchaser
or tenant for his ill-gotten property.”

“But my dear Miss Flint,” said Mrs. Courtney,
“‘My Lady’s Manor’ has not belonged to Mr. Farnsworth
for several years. He gave it back to Anna
Ashburton and she bequeathed it to my brother,
Valentine Courtney.”

“Bequeathed it to your brother!” echoed Miss
Jerusha slowly, and turning very pale. “She had
it to bequeath, yet never told me of it in any of the
kind, affectionate letters she wrote to me?”

“She did not become owner of the property until
a short time before her death. She was coming to
see all her Maryland friends and was keeping it as
a surprise.”

“She left her property to a man who has already
more wealth than he can use, and not one penny to
me whom she promised to give a home if she ever
had one to share with me! God help me! I
thought I had one friend, but there is no such a
thing in the wide world. My life has been a miserable
failure.”

“You should not censure Anna Ashburton, Miss
Flint. I feel sure it was her intention to keep her
promise to you.”

A scornful smile crossed the thin lips of Jerusha,
but she made no response.

“And you should not count your life a failure,
there is no one in the neighborhood more useful.”

A sniff of derision rewarded this sincere compliment.

“Please tell me,” resumed Mrs. Courtney, “how
you could act the part of a spectre and not frighten
the servants away.”

“Nothing could be simpler,” replied Miss Jerusha
wearily. “They were glad of anything that would
dishearten Mr. Farnsworth and cause him to restore
Anna’s property to her. They never saw me, because
nothing would tempt them to enter the main
building except in daytime, and then not alone.”

“You always disappeared in the unfurnished attic
room, yet James and Ralph, who examined it
thoroughly, could find no place of exit.”

“That was yet simpler when understood. In
that one short, happy summer with Anna I was one
afternoon gathering clusters of grapes from the
arbor which yet shades this end of the house, and
noticed a locked door for which I could see no use.
I spoke of it to Anna and she explained that it led
by flights of narrow steps to a room just their
width, off the back attic, and furnished with rows
of hooks for meat. After the building of a meat
house it was abandoned and almost forgotten.

“When we were forced to leave ‘My Lady’s
Manor’ my plans were laid. There was no key to
that door, but my brother, being a locksmith, had
keys of every shape and size. I took the impression
of the keyhole in wax and never gave up trying
keys until I got one that would turn the rusty lock.
Then, screened by the arbor, I could gain admittance
any hour of the day or night.”

“But how could you get from the meat room to
other parts of the house?”

“There is a sliding door in the partition which
allowed the servants of that day to get meat from
the room without unlocking the outer door. It
fitted so perfectly that no one could detect it except
by the knob, which I took care should be removed;
and it would not occur to anyone that there was a
narrow room between it and the outer weather-boarding
of the house.”

“But the costume of Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth?”

“Anna gave it to me as a memento of her foster
mother. I kept it on one of the hooks, and it was
short work to don it. The meat room having no
window, the light from my shaded lamp could not
be seen from the outside. Here is the key. You
can give it, with my compliments, to Mr. Courtney;”
and again the scornful smile passed over her
lips.

Mrs. Courtney saw in this a hint of dismissal
and arose to go; moreover Miss Flint appeared
weak and exhausted.

“But can I do nothing for you?” she asked. “It
grieves me to leave you so alone.”

“When I need assistance from you or anyone in
Dorton, or out of it, I will ask it,” replied Jerusha
haughtily, her black eyes gleaming with unshed
tears, and, seeing that her presence was no longer
desired, Mrs. Courtney went home.

When she reached there she found a note from
Mrs. Merryman saying that Mrs. Flynn was ready
any day to assume the duties of housekeeper at
“My Lady’s Manor,” and Mr. Courtney was
encouraged to proceed with his arrangements for
housekeeping.

Busy days now followed, for Mrs. Courtney resolved
that her brother’s home should be in perfect
order for his reception on his return from the city
the first evening of taking possession of his inheritance,
and all the Courtney family be there to welcome
him.

At length all was in readiness and not only the
parlor but the kitchen at “Friedenheim” was interested,
for Chloe was to depart to take up her abode
as cook at “My Lady’s Manor,” and the evening of
the home-coming was sent over by Mrs. Courtney
to have all in readiness for the supper which she
and Kitty had prepared, and would be brought later
by Mose.

Chloe never felt her importance more than when,
as sole occupant of “My Lady’s Manor,” she unlocked
the china closet and took out the beautiful
and costly ware, once the property of Mrs. Joshua
Farnsworth. She was absorbed in admiration of
a tea plate, almost transparent when held between
her and the light, when the door quietly opened and
Archie came in, and without so much as a glance at
the startled Chloe made his way to the corner of the
broad hearth.

“Archie was glad when he saw the smoke coming
again from the chimney. Archie has often looked
for it,” he said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction at
seeing the glow from the open grate of the range.

“Nobody comes into my kitchen without knockin’.
Don’t like folks to come in that way nohow,”
remarked Chloe, keeping at a respectful distance.

“Archie never knocks. All the houses he goes to
are Archie’s homes.”

“This is Marse Courtney’s house and I am boss
of this kitchen,” proclaimed Chloe.

“Archie is tired. He has walked and walked,”
and before Chloe could make further protest he had
leaned back and closed his eyes in the comfortable
chair.

She kept on with her work, but it was with a
feeling of relief that she saw the carriage with Mrs.
Courtney and Cecil stop at the gate.

Hilda on her way from the village school had
stopped to speak to them, and Mrs. Courtney, ever
mindful of the pleasure of others, invited her to
assist in welcoming Mr. Courtney.

The delicate flush which always visited the cheek
of Hilda at an unexpected pleasure proved her eagerness
to accept, and she followed Mrs. Courtney up
the broad walk to the entrance.

“I am afraid I ought not to stay. Aunt Grace
will worry about me,” she said, as Chloe, in new
plaid turban, opened the door, beaming with satisfaction.

“I have thought of that, dear, and intend Cecil
to drive over and tell Mrs. Merryman that you are
here.”

“Oh, please let me go with him!” said Hilda
eagerly; “I will put on my pink cashmere dress and
ask Norah to curl my hair.”

“Certainly, my dear, if you wish it, but you
look very neat to have been in school all day.”

With happiness heightening the beauty of her expressive
face, Hilda turned to go.

“Tell Mrs. Merryman not to be anxious about
your coming home this evening,” enjoined Mrs.
Courtney; “we will take you in the carriage.”

“Come in and see the table before you go, honey,”
said Chloe, leading the way to the supper room and
watching for Hilda’s admiring glance when the
table came in view.

“Oh, Chloe, it is splendid!” she said in delight.
“I never saw china and glass glisten so.”

“Yes, honey, it do glisten, and so do the silver.
Jes’ you wait till the lamps are lighted and you see
that table with the fried chicken and oysters and
pounded biscuit and muffins and raspberry jam.
Be sure and hurry back, honey! Come as soon as
ever you can!”

As eager to be among all these triumphs as was
Chloe to have her, Hilda promised, when a new
thought came to her.

“Chloe, will there be little bouquets at the plates
and a large one in the center of the table as Mrs.
Courtney likes to have at home?”

“I ’spect so, honey. Mis’ Emma allus sees to the
flowers. There’s oceans of ’em growin’ wild in the
yards and garden.”

“Oh, Chloe, I have the loveliest pink rosebuds
at home. I will bring them to put at Mr. Valentine’s
plate.”

“Where did you get them, honey?”

“The miller’s wife gave the bush to me. She
asked Miss Jerusha Flint for it, because it had been
planted by Aunt Ashley. And Miss Jerusha gave
it, although she knew it was for me. I knew nothing
of it until I came one evening from school and
found it in my flower bed. It was very kind of
them.”

“I ’spect, honey, Miss Flint don’t care for flowers,
or you wouldn’t have it now.”

Hilda smiled and was hurrying away when she
caught sight of Chloe’s first guest.

“Why, there is Archie!” she cried, “dear, dear
Archie!” and running to him, she took his hand in
her soft little palms.

“Does you know him, honey?” asked Chloe, full
of surprise.

“Know him? Oh, Chloe, he saved my life!”

“Yes, honey, I done heard that some old body
found you in the snow. Mighty fine girl he saved;
he ought to be proud of that find.”

“Archie is proud,” said the old man who had
waked at the first sound of Hilda’s voice. “Archie
looks all the time for people in the snow since he
found her.”

By this time Cecil, who had finished bringing in
the baskets, was waiting for her. She ran out,
stepped into the carriage and was driven away.

“I hope we won’t meet any boys,” thought Cecil.
“They would never stop plaguing me.”

Mrs. Merryman was glad that Hilda had the
prospect of this pleasant visit and entertained Cecil
while she ran up to her room to dress, keeping in
remembrance the roses she was to take.

“I am so glad you will be there, Miss Hilda,”
said Norah joyously as she curled the girl’s beautiful
hair. “I am to go as soon as our supper is over,
and will stay all night with aunt, for Mrs. Merryman,
bless her kind heart, says that aunt will feel
strange and lonely at first.”

“I am glad you are coming, Norah; I am sure
your aunt will be glad to have you.”

Looking very fair and sweet in her becoming
toilet and with rosebuds in hand, Hilda reached
“My Lady’s Manor” and was assisted from the carriage
by Mr. Valentine Courtney, who was watching
for her.

“My little Hilda expected to welcome me. Instead
I welcome, gladly welcome her to my home,”
and, taking her hand in his, they went up the broad
path to the entrance.

“Thank you, sir,” smiled Hilda. “When I went
past here to school this morning I never thought of
being here this evening.”

“I hope it is as much pleasure to you to be here
as it is to me to welcome you,” he said kindly.

“Yes, I love to be here. I think ‘My Lady’s Manor’
the loveliest place in the world.”

“Then I hope you will come very often,” he returned
smiling with pleasure. “You are fond of
reading, I am sure.”

“Oh, yes, I do love a pretty book; I am reading
a beautiful story now.”

“Here is a large collection and suitable for every
age,” said Mr. Courtney as they reached the library,
which since the days of Mr. Reginald Farnsworth
was on the first floor, across the hall from the
parlor—“you can read here when it suits you, or you
can take any books home with you that you wish.”

The glad light in Hilda’s eyes and the flush upon
her cheek showed her appreciation of the offer, for
which she thanked him in her naturally graceful
manner.

It was one of the happiest hours of Mr. Courtney’s
life when, in company with his sister, her
husband and sons and Hilda, they sat at supper in
his own home for the first time.

Mrs. Courtney did the honors, and Roy and Cecil,
though accustomed to Kitty’s and Chloe’s culinary
achievements all their lives, considered the supper
the best they ever tasted.

Twilight came and the whistle of a departing
train had scarcely died upon the air, when Norah,
who had gone to the Dorton Station, was seen coming
with her aunt. Hilda ran to the gate to meet
them, and Mrs. Courtney received Mrs. Flynn kindly,
introduced her to her employer, and asked Norah
to take her to her room while Chloe prepared her
supper.

Mrs. Courtney admired the neat-looking woman
with the stamp of goodness in her face and felt satisfied
that she was a suitable person to manage her
brother’s household.

Hilda had never enjoyed an evening so thoroughly,
as she flitted like a bird through the spacious
rooms. She was now in the parlor listening to the
cheerful conversation, now in the tea room with
Mrs. Flynn and Norah, then in the kitchen where
Chloe was putting all in order for the night, and
Archie was resting in his chair.

“What’s to be done about him, honey?” asked
Chloe in a whisper, nodding her gay turban toward
the sleeper. “He’s gwine to stay all night, that’s
certain; I knowed that as soon as he was done supper,
’cause he never sighted his ol’ hat and cane in
the corner, but made straight back to his chair.”

“Will I ask Mrs. Courtney, Chloe?” whispered
Hilda.

“Ax Marse Val, honey, ’cause the house is his’n
now.”

Hilda returned to the parlor and stood beside Mr.
Valentine Courtney until he finished something he
was saying to Rev. Carl.

“Chloe wishes to know if Archie is to stay over
night,” she said somewhat anxiously; “he does not
say anything about going away.”

“Certainly he can stay,” replied Mr. Courtney.
“Please tell Chloe to see that he has a comfortable
bed,” and Hilda sped away, well pleased with her
mission.

“It would be a poor beginning to my housekeeping
to turn a fellow pilgrim away, would it not?”
he asked, with a smile, of Rev. Carl.

“I think so, indeed. You are doing right to invite
him to stay and to make him comfortable.”

“Before we leave you perhaps it would be advisable
for me to go through the rooms in the back
building and see which would be best to give him,”
suggested Mrs. Courtney.

Before Mr. Valentine could reply Hilda came
running back to the parlor. “He has gone to his
room without waiting for anybody to tell him,” she
said almost breathlessly. “He says he knows the
room that Lois gave him.”

Rev. Carl gave a hearty peal of laughter, in
which all joined. “That is the style of visitors to
have, brother Val,” he said; “they save you the
trouble of entertaining them.”

“I look upon it as a good omen,” smiled his
brother-in-law. “I hope my home will be a place of
rest and refreshment to all who enter its doors.”

“I am sure it will be,” said Mrs. Courtney sincerely;
“but this Archie, I don’t understand his saying
that he knows the room that Lois gave him. I
am quite sure it was not in Mr. Joshua Farnsworth’s
time, or in that of his widow, or Anna. I
was here quite often, and never saw him or heard
any of them speak of him.”

“The servants who had charge afterward may
have allowed him to sleep here, and no doubt were
glad to have company near them,” suggested Rev.
Carl.

“While we were reviving Hilda the night that
Archie found her in the snow, Diana Strong mentioned
that she had seen him on the road more than
once, but did not know his name,” remarked Mrs.
Courtney.

“I, too, remember hearing him spoken of that
evening,” rejoined Rev. Carl. “Dr. Lattinger
mentioned that he frequently met him, and said that he
was a mystery to him, reminding him of the Wandering
Jew. He added that Archie is weak-minded
and does not know his last name.”

“He appears to be one who has seen better times,”
commented Mrs. Courtney. “There is an air of
refinement about him that one does not see in the
ordinary wayfarer. I believe that he has a history,
but it is not likely that we will ever know it.”

It was now time to return to “Friedenheim,” and
Mrs. Courtney arose to go.

“I hope, sister, that you will allow Roy and Cecil
to come here frequently and pass the night with me.
I will bring Ralph and James often, and wish all
these young people and their friends to take pleasure
in visiting here.”

“They will not be more pleased to come than I
will be to have them with you, and we all wish
you every happiness in your home,” replied his sister
affectionately. And thus ended the happy day
that welcomed Hilda Brinsfield for the second period
of her life to “My Lady’s Manor.”

CHAPTER VIII—LETTERS WHICH BRING A TRIAL TO HILDA
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Not only the village of Dorton, but the whole
country around it rejoiced that Mr. Valentine
Courtney was the owner of “My Lady’s Manor,”
and that it was again occupied and one of the hospitable
homes of the neighborhood.

His first purchase was a pair of handsome horses,
a comfortable carriage and a phaeton.

For coachman he wished a middle-aged, unmarried
man, for whom he advertised, and among
the many who responded was one he was satisfied
to engage. This man was Sandy MacQuoid, a
Scotchman who bore testimonials from two Edinburgh
families as to his exemplary character and
capability.

Sandy was tall, thin and pale, quiet in manner
and scrupulously neat in attire, which was always
black and perfect in fit.

With congratulations of his own good fortune,
Mr. Courtney brought him to “My Lady’s Manor”
and the years which followed proved Sandy’s testimonials
correct; he vied in fidelity with the Irish
housekeeper and the African cook.

Sandy stipulated but for one favor after the matter
of salary was agreed upon, and that was that he
might bring a parrot, which had been trained to
say many things, and his Scotch bagpipes.

Mr. Courtney granted both requests with pleasure
for he was partial to pets and fond of music;
moreover the place would be rendered more attractive
to his nephews and their friends, and to Hilda.

With the cordial assent of Mrs. Merryman, Hilda
had availed herself of the invitation of Mr. Courtney
to read in his library, and almost every afternoon
on her way from school she passed an hour
or more in the home-like room.

Although Mrs. Flynn and Chloe saw but little of
her during that hour, they were glad to know she
was there; the day always seemed brighter when
she passed on the way to the library, halting to chat
a moment with them.

As a rule, she was away by the time that Mr.
Courtney returned from the city, but it was a pleasure
to him to hear that she had been there.

At his request Mrs. Flynn frequently invited
Hilda and her schoolmates to tea, which request was
all the more heartily appreciated by her that Norah
always came and spent the evening in order to see
Hilda safely home.

It was also an understood thing that when Rev.
Carl and Mrs. Courtney came to take tea at “My
Lady’s Manor” Hilda should be invited, and she
always accepted the invitation. Thus in time she
looked upon the villa as a second home, as when a
child in the cottage of her Aunt Ashley she passed
so much time there with Anna Ashburton.

Happy summers passed, and winters equally
pleasant, and Hilda was growing into healthy, symmetrical
and beautiful young womanhood, the cultivation
of her fine mind keeping pace with her
growth.

Three days in each week Mr. Courtney went to
the city in his carriage and Sandy, after leaving him
at his office, purchased supplies for the household.

One day, after completing this, he was driving to
the hotel where the horses were cared for, when he
had the unexpected pleasure of meeting an old
friend who had recently arrived from “the land of
the thistle.”

Sandy invited him to take luncheon with him,
after which they repaired to the lodgings of his
friend where he was presented with a young Scotch
terrier of great intelligence.

Sandy’s pleasure in the gift was enhanced by that
of Mr. Courtney, and when Roy and Cecil came
over that evening they could scarcely tear themselves
away in time to study their next day’s lessons,
so charmed were they with the terrier.

The parrot was kept on the porch, as a rule, and
in order to hear its quaint speeches one had to go
there, but the terrier was here, there and everywhere;
and Hilda was almost tempted at times to
defer her reading in the library to be amused by the
antics of the canine foreigner.

Seeing her fondness for the terrier, Chloe was
loth to complain of it, but could not at times refrain
when his mischief grew too pronounced.

“That pup is mighty mischievous, honey,” she
said one afternoon upon recovering her breath after
chasing the terrier to get her clean turban which he
had captured. “You don’t know the tricks that
terrier can play. When the door-bell rings and I
go to let company in, I’m never sartin that a pile
of bones or ol’ shoes won’t fall in when I open the
door.”

“I wonder why he likes best to put them at the
front door when there are so many doors to the
house?” laughed Hilda.

“Jes’ to be as tricky as ever he kin, honey, and
where he finds the ol’ shoes is the riddle I can’t
guess. I never sees none layin’ around, and I burns
all he fotches in.”

“But he is so funny, Chloe, and we all love him
so!”

“I’m not gwine to say nothin’ agin him, honey,
and haven’t said nothin’, even when he tore up my
best turban that Mis’ Emma done give me. Mrs.
Flynn feeds him. She puts a piece of oilcloth on
the floor by the table and gives the terrier scraps
while she and Mr. Sandy is eatin’.”

One afternoon Mrs. Courtney, Mrs. Merryman
and Hilda went to take tea at “My Lady’s Manor,”
a charming walk across the fields that lovely day,
and Hilda was the happiest of the happy.

The afternoon passed speedily and pleasantly,
and Hilda, who had been part of the time in the
library, was first to see the carriage containing Mr.
Courtney and Sandy stop at the side gate. She ran
joyously to announce his arrival to Mrs. Courtney,
then to the kitchen to tell Chloe, then out to the
gate to meet him.

“My home-coming is always more pleasant when
Hilda is here to welcome me,” he said cordially as
he clasped her dimpled hand; “something told me
that you would meet me at the gate.”

Hilda flushed with pleasure, and, clinging to his
hand, she went with him to the parlor, where he
welcomed the other guests, then went to his dressing
room, the terrier flying up the steps in advance
of him, and watching every movement with alert,
bright eyes until he descended.

Hilda’s request to arrange the bouquet for the
center of the table was cheerfully granted by Mrs.
Flynn, and with scissors in hand she went to the
garden, the terrier following in an ecstasy of delight
and playing about her until he saw Archie
coming through the gate, his coat upon his arm,
for the evening was warm.

The terrier ran to meet him, danced around him
and barked, but Archie paid no attention to him,
and walking slowly up he placed his coat on the
balustrade of the back porch, then went to his favorite
seat in the kitchen, and was soon asleep, worn
out with his constant walking.

Hilda, in the meantime, had arranged her roses
in a tall vase and placed them upon the table; then
the tea-bell rang and Mr. Courtney and his guests
gathered about it, and cheerful conversation enlivened
the meal.

When it was finished they went to the library,
where later, Sandy, tall, grave and reserved, joined
them at Mr. Courtney’s request to give them Scotch
airs upon the bagpipes.

It seemed to Hilda, seated near Mr. Courtney,
that Sandy’s music never sounded so mournfully
sweet as upon that evening, the last time she was
to hear it for many days. For destiny was quietly
closing the doors of “My Lady’s Manor” upon her,
and opening those of a distant farmhouse, the existence
of which she had never known.

In the pauses of the music the occupants of the
library heard a scampering and a scuffling upon the
porch, mingled with sharp, quick barks, and the
dragging of something to and fro.

Mr. Courtney arose and was about to pass from
the room to see what occasioned the sounds, when
through the open door rushed the terrier, bearing
in his mouth two letters which he dropped upon the
floor and then ran out.

“Can’t find no mo’ ol’ shoes so must go and tear
up the coat that Marse Archie sot so much store
by,” said Chloe, as she captured both coat and the
terrier as he was again scampering into the library.
“I done heerd that scampering and knowed that tarrier
was up to sumpin’, and he’s done tore out the
linin’ of that good coat and the cover off a letter.”

“Did he get the letters out of the coat?” asked
Mr. Courtney, as Hilda picked them from the floor.

“I ’spect so, sir. There weren’t no letters on
the piazzy ’till the tarrier done tore the coat.”

“This one is signed ‘Janette Ashley’,” said Hilda,
becoming very pale, “and is addressed to ‘My Dear
Sister Sarah.’ I remember that Aunt Ashley’s first
name was Janette,” she added, turning to Mrs.
Merryman and putting the letter in her hand.

“It was, Hilda, and her sister’s name was Sarah
Warfield. Shall I read it aloud?”

The girl nodded; she could not trust her voice to
speak.

“These must be the letters of which Diana Strong
spoke the evening of my reception,” remarked Mrs.
Merryman when she finished reading. “The dates
prove that they were written the week of Mrs.
Ashley’s death.”

“My husband wrote this one,” said Mrs. Courtney,
to whom Mrs. Merryman had passed the letters.
“I recognize the writing; besides, I remember
hearing him say at the time that he had written
a letter for Mrs. Ashley to her sister in Ohio. He
wrote it at the cottage and I remember his saying
that Mrs. Ashley asked Diana to give him her pen
from the writing desk. He said it was the handsomest
he had ever seen, a gold pen, the handle
also gold, and set with lines of rubies. He commented
upon the beauty of it, and Mrs. Ashley said
her father gave it to her upon her fifteenth birthday,
and she had never used any other since.”

“But where have the letters been all this time?”
said Mrs. Merryman.

“Without doubt in the pocket of the coat of
which the terrier has torn the lining,” said Mr.
Courtney, whose handsome face had grown pale and
sad since the reading of the letters.

“Poor Mrs. Warfield never received them and we
have censured her for not replying,” continued Mrs.
Merryman.

“But one would suppose that not receiving any
letter from her sister, she would write to know the
reason for her silence,” suggested Mr. Courtney.

“She may have done so, but I never heard of it.
Diana said that she asked the postmaster to forward
a newspaper containing a notice of Mrs. Ashley’s
death.”

“What should be done with the letters?” asked
Mrs. Courtney. “Ought they not be forwarded to
Mrs. Warfield?”

Hilda sat pale and silent, glancing anxiously from
one to another, and for a time no one spoke.

“It appears to be the just, therefore the right
thing, to do,” commented Mrs. Merryman.

“As my husband wrote one of the letters, if you
all agree to it, I will take them home and ask him
to forward them to Mrs. Warfield. Wouldn’t that
be best, my love?” asked Mrs. Courtney, turning to
Hilda.

“Oh, she may think I ought to go to her! How
can I leave you all?” exclaimed the girl.

Tears filled the eyes of the elder ladies, and Mr.
Courtney arose and left the room.

“But we would not be acting justly to the living
or the dead by withholding them,” interposed Mrs.
Courtney.

“No, it would not be right, they must be sent,”
sobbed Hilda.

“The question with me is, how letters written so
long ago came to be in Archie’s coat,” said Mrs.
Merryman. “I know that he is, in his sad, preoccupied
way, searching for something in his pitiable
wanderings, and has his pockets at times filled
with trifles, but these letters, while somewhat
stained and yellow, are not the least worn, so could
not have been carried long in his pocket.”

“It will always be a mystery, I think, unless he
is willing to tell us where he found them.”

“He was at our house over night,” said Mrs.
Merryman reflectively. “I wonder, if asked,
whether he could tell where he got them. Will you
ask him, Hilda?”

She obeyed immediately, but as they supposed,
he could not give the least information.

“Diana incidentally mentioned that she gave the
letters to Perry to mail. It may be that he is the
one to blame for their not being received by Mrs.
Warfield. I will ask him as soon as I get home,”
continued Mrs. Merryman.

“But what could be his object, and where has he
kept them all these years without your knowledge?”

“I have not the least idea. He has a small trunk,
but it is never locked, nor has he ever given the
least evidence that he is keeping anything hidden.”

Hilda arose and left the library, and as she
stepped into the hall she heard footsteps of someone
passing to and fro upon the long piazza. It was
Mr. Courtney, and as she appeared in the door-way
he halted and held out his hand to her. She glided
swiftly to him and he clasped her hand and placed
it within his arm, and silently they walked back and
forth.

The ladies prepared for their return home, and
Mrs. Merryman went to apprise Hilda, who withdrew
her hand to follow. For one brief moment
Mr. Courtney clasped her in his arms, for one brief
moment she sobbed upon his breast, then she rejoined
the others. They bade the master of “My
Lady’s Manor” good-night at his gate and left him
to his sad forebodings.

When Mrs. Merryman reached home she questioned
Perry, whereupon he made a full confession,
glad to be relieved of the secret which had so long
oppressed him.

Diana Strong, during Mrs. Ashley’s illness, had
given him two letters to mail at the Dorton
postoffice. He had opened them out of mere curiosity,
as he earnestly alleged, and they had been a millstone
about his neck. Terror of the law had made
him afraid to have them found in his possession,
and what conscience he had, refused to let him destroy
them. He had taken them to the woods and
placed them in the hollow of a tree too far up for
them to be seen from the ground, and hearing Mr.
Merryman say that the tree was to be felled, he was
compelled to remove the letters.

The visit of Archie to the Merryman home had
left an avenue of escape, and he watched his opportunity
when the wanderer was about to depart to
slip them in the pocket of his coat; and the old man
went to “My Lady’s Manor,” unconscious that he
was bearing a message that would take Hilda from
the home where he had placed her.

Perry was anxious to do all he could to atone,
and as a commencement was willing to leave a game
of ball to carry a note from Mrs. Merryman to
“Friedenheim,” that Rev. Carl might know the
whole story before writing that evening to Mrs.
Warfield, enclosing the letters.

Mrs. Warfield was one who never dallied over a
known duty. Her answer came by return mail, and
had Hilda been destitute of a home, or situated less
happily than she was, the letter would have given
her unmingled satisfaction. As it was, it brought
to her heart and to that of another a chill of bitter
disappointment.

Mrs. Warfield wrote that she had received the
paper containing the notice of Mrs. Ashley’s death
while ill from the effect of the railway accident, and
the nervous terror resulting from it had kept her
from traveling since. She explained that Mrs. Lacy
having gone to France to reside, she had no one to
communicate with, and had written to the postmaster
at Dorton asking the name of any friend
of Mrs. Ashley whom she could address. He replied,
but had taken so little interest in the matter
that he sent the name of Mrs. Reginald Farnsworth,
of San Francisco.

Mrs. Warfield wrote immediately, and after several
weeks she received a letter saying that Mrs.
Farnsworth was traveling in Europe, but the letter
had been forwarded by the postmaster in response
to Mrs. Warfield’s request.

She never received a reply, and still hoped the
time would come when she could visit Dorton and
learn for herself what she had used all means in
her power to know through others. She added that
she was rejoiced to know that Mrs. Ashley had intrusted
Hilda to her care, and so far as lay in her
power the trust should be faithfully cherished.

The letter concluded by saying that her eldest son
would visit Philadelphia the following week, and
would take great pleasure in going to Dorton to
accompany Hilda to the home that would welcome
her gladly.

The evening of the day that this letter was received
found Mr. Valentine Courtney in consultation
with his sister, and the next morning that lady
visited Mrs. Merryman, going early that she might
see Hilda before she set out for school.

Mrs. Courtney having—as she reminded Mrs.
Merryman—no daughter of her own, asked as a
favor that she be allowed to exercise her taste in
providing an outfit for Hilda which might not be
convenient to obtain in her new home.

Mrs. Merryman, taking the offer in the spirit it
was made, gave glad consent, and it was decided
that Hilda should accompany Mrs. Courtney to
Baltimore that morning upon a shopping expedition.

This was a charming surprise to Hilda. She
was ready by the time Mrs. Courtney and Mrs.
Merryman had discussed the needs of the prospective
young traveler, and it seemed like a fairy
story that instead of walking to school, she was
spinning along the pleasant road between Dorton
and Baltimore in a roomy, comfortable carriage behind
a pair of fine bay horses, and with the charming
companionship of Mrs. Courtney.

Shopping proved to be the most attractive of
amusements as they drove from one business house
to another, and to the inexperienced girl Mrs.
Courtney’s purse seemed inexhaustible.

“One article that Mrs. Merryman and I agreed
upon as being indispensable is a large trunk,” Mrs.
Courtney remarked as they reached the city. “We
will buy it the first article, and all the other purchases
can be taken home in it.”

Hilda was charmed with the selection made. It
was handsome, substantial and commodious, with
many little compartments dear to the heart of the
feminine traveler.

The buying of dress goods came next, and Hilda
was in her element, and Mrs. Courtney was surprised
at the judgment she evinced in selecting what
was suitable to her age and appearance.

Wraps, hats, gloves, ruffles, and all the articles
which complete a girl’s wardrobe were rapidly filling
the trunk which Mose had strapped on the rack
on the back of the carriage.

“Now, dear Hilda, I have a favor to ask of you,
and that is to sit for your picture. Mrs. Merryman
wishes one, I should like to have one, and brother
Valentine would be pleased to have you present one
to him.”

“And one for Miss Jerusha Flint,” supplemented
Hilda, laughingly.

“Of course,” assented Mrs. Courtney, amused
at the suggestion. “But first we will take luncheon
at the ladies’ restaurant where I always go upon
these shopping tours, then to the picture gallery,
then to a dressmaker’s to be fitted, and I think we
will feel that we have made very good use of our
time.”

“But, dear Mrs. Courtney, would it not be better
to wait for the photograph until one of these new
dresses is made?”

“No, dear, we prefer seeing you in the pink cashmere.
It is the same you wore when last at ‘My
Lady’s Manor,’ and is very becoming. We will go
now and have a good luncheon which will refresh
us for our afternoon’s shopping.”

The gallery was visited and the sweet face of
Hilda imaged for the friends she was soon to leave,
the dresses fitted, and she supposed all they had
come to do was accomplished.

“We have had a pleasant day together, Hilda,”
said her friend, “and I wish to give you a remembrance
of it and of me—something useful as
well as ornamental. Would you like a watch?”

No need to wait for an answer; the beaming eyes,
smiling lips and rosy tint which rose to the fair
face were more expressive than words, and Mrs.
Courtney led the way to a jeweler’s where she again
had occasion to admire the innate refinement and
courtesy of Hilda. What the donor selected was her
choice, and her pleasure was enhanced and the value
of the gift increased by the inscription which Mrs.
Courtney requested should be engraved on the inner
side of the case: “The Lord is my Shepherd; I
shall not want.”

It was left with the jeweler to be brought out to
“Friedenheim” by Mr. Courtney. Then they turned
their faces homeward, and thus ended this red letter
day in the life of Hilda.

It had always been a foregone conclusion that
anything in which Mrs. Courtney took part proved
to be a success; therefore the pretty new gowns, the
watch and the cabinet pictures reached “Friedenheim”
in good time, and were satisfactory in every
respect.

Mrs. Warfield’s son Paul came at the appointed
time and was, in the eyes of Mr. Valentine Courtney—who,
with his sister, called that evening to
see him and bid good-bye to Hilda—a young Apollo.
In the opinion of the others—Hilda not excepted—he
was a tall, finely formed young man, with good
features, dark hair and eyes and a firm mouth and
chin.

He bore well his part in the after-supper conversation,
and Hilda had a feeling of pride that her
Aunt Ashley’s nephew was so worthy the attention
of her Dorton friends, while he was more than
pleased with them all.

“He is young, handsome, cultured, well educated
and agreeable,” thought Mr. Courtney. “There is
every reason for Hilda to become attached to him
now that they will be under the same roof.”

Obeying the request of Mrs. Courtney, and her
own inclination, Hilda selected the most perfect of
the pictures of herself to give to Mr. Courtney, and
had gone to her room early in the evening and had
brought it down to the parlor to have it in readiness
to give when he arose to leave.

It was given and accepted, farewells were said,
and the Courtneys went to their homes; then Hilda,
who had borne herself bravely during the evening,
bade Mr. and Mrs. Merryman and Paul good-night
and went to her room, and from the window looked
with tear-dimmed eyes upon “My Lady’s Manor.”

She watched the light gleaming in the library
where she knew that Mr. Courtney was sitting
alone, and when at a late hour it disappeared she
retired and wept until slumber closed her eyes.

The next morning was bright and beautiful, and,
refreshed by sleep, and possessing the hope and
buoyancy of youth when not crushed out by affliction
or cruelty, Hilda arose and dressed for her
journey in the pretty new traveling dress, which,
with hat and gloves, she had placed in readiness before
retiring.

Descending to breakfast, the first object that met
her gaze was a bouquet of roses which she knew at
a glance had come from Mr. Courtney. She had
been accustomed to seeing flowers all her life, but
these seemed the sweetest and loveliest she had ever
known. She examined each bud and blossom, and
admired anew the donor’s name and compliments
upon the card.

Tears were in Mrs. Merryman’s eyes, and tender-hearted
Norah wept, when Hilda, equipped for the
journey, stood, bouquet in hand, ready to go to the
carriage which Perry brought to the gate.

“Good-bye, dear Aunt Merryman!” she said, putting
an arm around that faithful friend as they
stood upon the piazza.

“Good-bye, dear Hilda!” responded the lady as
she pressed kisses upon the lips and the fair brow
of the girl. “We shall miss you; do not forget us.”

“How can I forget, when I have found mother
and father in you and Uncle Merryman?”

“And, Hilda,” continued Mrs. Merryman in a
low tone, and noticing that Mr. Merryman and
Paul were engaged in parting words—“never, never
let your Aunt Ashley’s prayer grow dim in your
memory.”

“No, dear Aunt Merryman, I will always look
upon it as my guide through life, and with it will
associate you who have tenderly kept it in my remembrance;
and see,” she added with a sudden
flush of color to her cheeks, “it is being answered,
in part, at least, for my home and that of Aunt
Sarah Warfield will be one and the same.”

They all walked down the path to the waiting
carriage, Mr. Merryman helped her in and bade her
good-bye; then with a few last words they were on
their way to the Dorton station while Mr. and Mrs.
Merryman returned slowly to the house feeling that
something sweet and pleasant had been removed
from their home and lives, never again to be restored.

In a few minutes the travelers reached Baltimore,
where the train halted, and to Hilda’s surprise and
pleasure Mr. Valentine Courtney appeared at the
window by which she was seated, his handsome
face growing brighter when he saw his roses in her
hand.

“They are lovely; I treasure them!” she said,
touching them with her lips.

“And this, also, I hope,” he said, putting a small
package in her hand.

“I know I shall,” she answered, flushing with
surprise and anticipation, giving him a smile and
glance which lingered long in his memory. She
waved her hand in farewell, and they were gone.
And he returned to his office, and in the evening to
“My Lady’s Manor,” feeling more desolate than he
had ever been in his life.

The world in which he had lived since taking possession
of his home was not, as it had been, the
matter-of-fact world of business alone. It was a
new world, rosy with sweet companionship and
hope; morning sunshine which had now given place
to evening clouds and coming darkness.

He tried to think that he was no more desolate
than before he had known Hilda, but his reasonings
brought no comfort. He was not—as when Anna
was taken from him—reconciled to the lot which he
had in Christian faith looked upon as not only out
of his power to prevent, but as something which
God willed, and it was therefore his Christian duty
to be submissive.

Had Hilda been a few years older, Paul Warfield
should not have taken her away before he had made
known his attachment. He had not done this, believing
it not honorable to fetter her with a promise
before she had seen anything of the world. Now
she was gone, and he was grieved that he had given
her no hint of his feelings. He realized that he
had been unjust to himself and to her.

As soon as possible after they were again on their
way, Hilda untied the packet and brought to view
a crimson velvet case in which was a fine picture of
Mr. Courtney.

“Oh, it is so like him, so exactly like him!” she
exclaimed in delight, as Paul bent his stately head
to look upon it. “Isn’t he the very handsomest man
you ever saw?”

“He is very elegant looking, indeed, Cousin
Hilda,” responded Paul heartily.

“And just as good as he is handsome! He is so
kind to everybody and urges poor Archie, who
saved my life, to make his home at ‘My Lady’s
Manor,’ and pass his days in rest and comfort; but
Archie will stay only for a night, preferring to
wander about.”

“He is handsome and of noble presence, Cousin
Hilda,” remarked Paul as he saw her looking again
upon the picture, “but I cannot agree with you that
he is the handsomest man I ever saw, and he is
somewhat gray.”

“Only a little upon the temples,” said Hilda eagerly.
“Some persons turn gray early.”

“Wait until you have seen my brother Fred,” said
Paul, a little confusedly. “Do not think me boastful,
Cousin Hilda, but all agree that Fred is very handsome,
and he is young.”

“I suppose he looks like you,” said Hilda, in all
sincerity.

“Girls never see me when Fred is around. He
seems to know exactly what to say to interest
them.”

“And ‘My Lady’s Manor’ is such a lovely place,”
resumed Hilda. “I wish you could have stayed
even one day longer and visited there and at ‘Friedenheim.’
They are such beautiful places, and my
friends are all so kind.”

“They are indeed charming people. I was glad
to meet them and would have enjoyed remaining,
but, little cousin, I have something to tell you.
Shall it be now?”

“Yes, now,” echoed the girl eagerly.

“I told your Dorton friends that we would remain
in Philadelphia until to-morrow with Mr. and
Mrs. De Cormis, old friends of my father. A niece
of Mr. De Cormis from Woodmont, a village near
my home in Ohio, is visiting there, and I am glad
to have you become acquainted.”

“Is she a dear friend of yours?”

“Yes, the dearest.”

“Did she come to Philadelphia with you?”

“No, she has been there several weeks. She has
many friends there to visit, for she lived there all
her life until the past four years, when she and her
father came to Woodmont. Her father, Rev. Horace
De Cormis, is pastor of our church and is one
of the best of men.”

“Will she go back to Ohio with us?”

“No, her visit is not yet completed. Her uncle,
Mr. Robert De Cormis, and his family wish her
to remain the winter with them, but she is a devoted
daughter and is not willing to leave her father
longer than a fortnight more. You may know that
we were glad to meet again.”

“You love each other, then?”

“Oh, little cousin, when you see her you will understand
how impossible it would be not to love
her! If nothing prevents, we expect to be married
before another autumn.”

“I am glad, Cousin Paul, and hope you will be
very happy.”

“Thank you, cousin; I am sure you wish it. I
cannot fail being happy with Lura De Cormis.”

“What style of person is she, Cousin Paul?”

“She is faultlessly fair, has coal black hair and
brilliant black eyes, lips like coral, perfect teeth, and
her hands are small, white, and beautifully formed.”

“She must be beautiful,” commented Hilda. “I
hope she will love me. Is it easy to make her acquaintance?”

“She is considered very reserved, but she is interested
in you. I am sure you cannot help being
congenial friends.”

Paul’s fiancée was out when the travelers arrived
at the handsome home of Mr. Robert De Cormis.

Mrs. De Cormis received them cordially and conducted
Hilda to the pretty apartment she was to
occupy, then left her that she might make her toilet
for dinner.

Hilda took girlish delight in arraying herself
in one of the new gowns, which fitted her lithe
figure perfectly and was charmingly becoming.

She heard the door-bell ring, and heard the sound
of cheery voices and descended to the parlor to meet
Miss Lura De Cormis. Paul met her at the door
and led her to the alcove window where the young
lady stood, so absorbed in reading a letter just received
from her father that she did not hear Hilda’s
step upon the soft carpet.

The introduction was given and when Hilda
looked upon the face of the future Mrs. Paul Warfield
she saw a younger and fairer, but with those
exceptions, a living image of Jerusha Flint.

CHAPTER IX—AT THE GYPSY ENCAMPMENT
==================================

It was evening of a cloudless day when Paul and
Hilda reached the Warfield farmhouse, which was
looking charmingly picturesque in the ruby-red glow
of the sunset.

The flowers in the lawn were giving out their
sweetness, and birds in the maples were singing
their vesper songs as if in greeting to the travelers.

Mrs. Warfield’s welcome to both was tenderly
kind, and the marked resemblance she bore to Mrs.
Ashley was a joy to Hilda.

Separated from those whose loving kindness had
made life a holiday to her, she had again found a
home and a mother.

“I will not weary you, my dear, by questioning
now, but will give you the opportunity to refresh
yourself after your journey,” said Mrs. Warfield,
and, conducting Hilda to a pleasant room adjoining
her own, she left her to herself and returned to the
parlor to talk with Paul.

“Her beauty quite bewildered me, it was so unexpected,”
she said, laying her hand upon his shoulder
as he sat by the window, newspaper in hand.

“Yes, and the Merrymans spoke of the sweetness
of her disposition. She will be a charming companion
for you, mother.”

“I know I will love her as a daughter. How did
you like the family who have so kindly cared for
her?”

“I never met strangers whom I admire more.
We have taken her from an excellent home, mother,
and must try to make her happy here.”

“We will. And now tell me of my future daughter-in-law,”
continued Mrs. Warfield, with a smile.
“I hope she is well and happy.”

“Perfectly so,” replied the young man, smiling in
turn and reddening slightly. “She sent her love to
her future mother-in-law.”

“For which I am duly obliged. When does she
expect to come home?”

“In a fortnight, and has promised to be my wife
within the year. Mother dear, you will have more
daughters than you can manage!”

“Yes, I can count upon three. Fred will be
bringing me a daughter one of these days, I suppose.”

“If he can keep in love with any one girl long
enough. He is fickle, and the girls seem to know
it.”

“He is a jolly, generous, conscientious boy,”
commented his mother with a glow of pride. “I
don’t believe he would intentionally wound the feelings
of anyone, and I hope the girls he flirts with
understand that he means nothing serious.”

A step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment
Hilda appeared at the parlor door.

“I think I told you on our journey that Fred is
reading law with an attorney in Springfield,” remarked
Paul, as he arose to give her a chair.

“Yes, and you also said that you expected him
this evening.”

“I did, and he has come,” exclaimed Paul, glancing
eagerly toward the door, for quick footsteps
were coming toward it, and a buoyant voice had
called, “Mother, where are you?”

“Here!” responded Mrs. Warfield, her eyes beaming
with pleasure. “Come and welcome your new
cousin!”

Fred came forward in his easy, graceful manner
and was presented in due form.

“They are as handsome as pictures,” thought
Mrs. Warfield proudly. “The Garden of Eden
could scarcely have shown a handsomer couple.”

“How are you, old fellow?” said Fred, turning
with a bright smile to shake hands with his brother.

“In fine health and spirits, and I see you are the
same.”

“I thought you were not coming until late. Having
you in time for supper is an unexpected pleasure,”
said his mother.

“I intended coming out on the evening train,
but there are gypsies encamped in Mr. Barry’s
woods, and some of the young people of Springfield
came out in carriages to have their fortunes told,
and insisted that I should come with them, and
here I am.”

“I have not the least belief in gypsies or in fortune
telling, but I am glad you are here. Now we
will go to the tea table.”

With an arm about his mother’s waist, Paul led
the way, and Fred, with a radiant smile of pleasure,
offered his arm to Hilda, who accepted with a
smile and blush.

If Mrs. Warfield allowed herself to be proud of
anything, it was of her sons, and not without reason.
They were sensible, well educated, attentive
to business, and honorable in their dealings, and
mothers with marriageable daughters could not forbear
pointing out, or at least alluding to the excellence
of these damsels when in the society of Sarah
Warfield.

If it be true that happy people have no history,
then nothing could have been recorded of Fred
Warfield, for Mother Destiny had willed that his
pathway from babyhood should lie in sunshine,
never in shadow. He had experienced but few disappointments
and fewer trials to dampen his exuberant
spirits; but light, almost trifling as he was in
manner, his intimates knew that beneath it all was
a warm, affectionate nature, a steadfast love for
what was good, and a wish to help others to enjoy
life, as he undoubtedly did.

That he was captivated by every new face and
fickle in his attachments was known to all who were
acquainted with him, but they looked upon it as no
more than might be expected of a handsome youth
who was courted and admired in society, a fault
which age and experience would correct.

That evening at the farmhouse was an ideally
happy one to him, the only shadow to its brightness
being the knowledge that he could not study law in
Springfield and at the same time remain under the
home roof without attracting attention to the fact
that it was because Hilda was there.

Without appearing to notice, Mrs. Warfield took
note of Fred’s manner to the young girl, and read
his thoughts as accurately as if inscribed upon the
page of an open book, and resolved to have a more
serious conversation with him than she had ever
had in regard to his failing.

If it lay in her power to prevent it, there should
be no trifling with the affections of any girl, no
blighted happiness laid to the charge of her sons.

“It is really too beautiful this evening to stay indoors,”
remarked Fred, when, tea finished, they returned
to the parlor. “Mother, I will have Planchette
put to the carriage and take you and cousin
Hilda for a drive.”

“I would enjoy it, but Hilda will excuse me this
evening, as several ladies are coming from the village
to help arrange for a fair to be held in the hall
there, but that need not prevent you and Hilda from
going.”

“We will drive past the gypsy encampment,” said
Fred eagerly, turning to Hilda. “It is really romantic;
I could scarcely tear myself away. You
will go, won’t you, cousin?”

No need to ask. Hilda’s face showed her delight
in anticipation of something so new and altogether
enchanting.

“I hope you will not encourage the gypsies by
stopping to listen to their foolishness,” said Mrs.
Warfield gently.

“Oh, I would not have them tell my fortune for
anything!” ejaculated Hilda. “I would be afraid
they would tell me something evil.”

“That would depend upon what you paid them,”
smiled Mrs. Warfield.

Fred made no comment, but hurried out to give
orders for the conveyance.

“Now, cousin mine,” he said as it came to the
gate, “allow me to assist you,” and with easy grace
he took the filmy white scarf from Hilda’s hand
and placed it adroitly and becomingly on her brown
hair and a few minutes later Planchette was speeding
away with the long swinging trot which characterized
her.

Fred had said truly that nothing could be pleasanter
than the drive to the encampment, and nothing
more romantic than the scene upon which they
looked a little later.

In order to observe, and, as he thought, be unobserved,
Fred selected as a good place to halt a
part of the forest separated from the encampment
by a running brook and the thick screen of willows
on either side, between the trunks of which they
could, with but slight obstruction, have a good view
of the camp.

In the foreground were two small tents, in front
of which was burning a bright fire of brushwood.

Two forked sticks supported an iron rod from
which was suspended a tea kettle, clouds of steam
issuing from lid and spout.

Upon a large box which served as a table a middle-aged
woman had spread a white cloth, and was
placing upon it dishes of different colors, and with
an eye to effect.

A young and handsome gypsy in a scarlet dress
and with a plaid kerchief about her shapely throat
was seated under a large oak tree that spread its
protecting arms over the tents.

Her swarthy yet clear complexion was smooth
as satin, her eyes were large, brown and lustrous,
and her crimson lips parted frequently in smiles at
the gambols of the child at her feet, showing her
perfect teeth. Two robust little boys played about
the mossy bank, upon whom her eyes rested with
pride.

Back of the tents stood two substantial, covered
wagons, and under the oaks beside them lay three
gypsy men, idly watching the horses, which, held
by ropes, were cropping the grass within reach.

“It looks so lovely and peaceful,” commented
Hilda. “I wish an artist were here to sketch it.”

“The full moon is rising,” said Fred, turning to
look through the window of the carriage; “the tops
of the trees are becoming silvered, which adds to
the beauty. Would you like to be a gypsy, Cousin
Hilda?”

“At this hour it would be charming to encamp;
but during the bitter cold and snow-storms of winter
the poor creatures must suffer.”

“No danger but they will keep warm so long as
there is wood to steal; besides, they are accustomed
to rough it,” said Fred lightly.

“And yet they suffer sometimes from exposure.
When I was a child Dr. Lattinger attended a gypsy
who was ill of pneumonia. Their encampment was
in the woods near Dorton during two months of
winter, and Dr. Lattinger saw her twice a day. He
said they were very respectful to him, and in sympathy
for the sick woman and in care of her were
much like our own people. They were of the tribe
of Stanley.”

“Yes, I suppose they have good and evil among
them as have other communities, but it is the general
belief that gypsies are not trustworthy.”

“Which of those women is the fortune-teller?”

“Neither of those. I do not see her. She must
be in one of the tents.”

“Is she handsome?”

“Handsome! She is gray and wrinkled, and
toothless and swarthy, cross-grained and disagreeable
in every way. Phew!” grimaced Fred, at the
remembrance of the prophetess.

“She did not please you in your fortune, I think,”
laughed Hilda.

“She was not very clever to me, that is certain.
Jack Prettyman gave her the largest fee, and is to
marry a rich and beautiful girl and live in Europe.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She paid me a few compliments, which no doubt
I deserve. She caught me mimicking her, and I
never saw such a look of malignant hate as crossed
her ugly face.”

“Had you no faith in her predictions, then?”

“No; yet I felt almost startled when she described
my mother and my home better than I could have
done. She also told me of some of my flirtations,”
continued Fred, laughingly, while he reddened.
“The old vixen said I would meet my match at no
distant day, and would receive no pity, and deserve
none.”

“How could she describe your mother and your
home?” said his companion, amused at his discomfiture.
“She had never seen them, had she?”

“Not that I am aware of, but these strollers have
sources of information unsuspected by honest individuals.
She could not have told me so much of
my life since childhood had not someone given her
the information.”

“What did she tell the ladies who came with
you?”

“Something that pleased them very much, judging
by their happy looks and smiles. We tried to
persuade them to tell us, but they would only give
us scraps and hints which might have been told any
young lady and not been far wrong.”

“They are such good-looking people. I imagined
that all gypsies had a wild, degraded look.”

“These are the most respectable ones I have seen,
so far as appearances go, especially that one by the
oak tree. They also belong to the illustrious house
of Stanley.”

Fred’s laugh arose above the key to which they
had been modulating their voices, and they realized
that it had attracted the attention of the gypsies.

The men arose, and tying the horses, stood awhile
looking about them, conversing in a low tone, then
went to the brook, laved hands and face, and went
to supper.

“Cousin Hilda,” said Fred, who had been gazing
intently at the horses, “I believe that beautiful
cream-colored one is the very animal that was stolen
from an innkeeper in Springfield about two years
ago.”

“But there are many cream-colored horses; how
could you be certain that this is the one? Or why
do you imagine it is?”

“By the peculiar manner in which she tosses her
head. The one I speak of belonged to a circus
company and had been trained to perform several tricks.
I feel quite sure that this is the animal.”

“But surely you do not intend hinting anything
of the kind to them?” said Hilda, anxiously.

“No, but Planchette is perfectly quiet. If you
will hold the lines a moment I will take a circuit
and come up back of the tents, and while the gypsies
are at supper will examine that horse.”

“But what proof would a closer view give you?”

“One of the tricks of the circus horse was to
kneel if touched upon a particular spot on his head.
I know that spot and will put it to the test. You
can watch from the carriage and see if I am right.”

“Oh, Cousin Fred, do be careful! Suppose they
should see you?”

“But I do not intend them to see me, and will
be back in a moment.” He swung himself lightly
from the carriage and disappeared behind the thick
underbrush.

Hilda gazed anxiously in the direction of the
tents and saw Fred reach the place, keeping at the
same time his attention upon the gypsies.

Patting the animal gently, and speaking in a low,
soothing tone, his fingers glided to a spot upon her
forehead. Instantly the intelligent creature knelt
and laid her mouth in the outstretched palm of
Fred. He raised his arm and she arose to her feet;
and convinced that he was not mistaken, Fred went
swiftly behind the tents on the way back to the
carriage.

He found Hilda with a blanched face, a look of
terror in her eyes, and seeming almost on the verge
of fainting.

“Oh, Fred,” she whispered, “the fortune teller
sprang from behind that bush the moment you left,
and I cannot tell you the terrible things she said
to me! She heard all you said and has gone to tell
them.”

Fred was no coward, nor was he foolhardy. He
realized the danger they were in, and his cheek grew
as pale as that of his companion.

A commotion was visible among the gypsies—loud
talking, curses and threatening looks toward
the carriage, and a general uprising from the table.

Fred sprang to his place beside Hilda, took the
reins preparatory to flight, had turned Planchette’s
head toward the road and reached to take the whip
from the socket, when the bridle was grasped by one
of the men.

“Halt, liar, and explain, or you shall not leave
this place alive!” cried the gypsy, his black eyes
blazing with fury.

For answer Fred brought the lash down upon
his hand with a quick, stinging stroke. The bridle
was released, and Planchette sprang forward just
as a bullet whizzed through the back of the carriage
between the heads of the occupants, and amid
shouts and imprecations from men, women and children,
they cleared the woods, and were in comparative
safety.

“This is only loaned,” exclaimed Fred, with
flashing eyes, and face pale from anger and excitement.
“I was single-handed, unarmed, and have
a lady with me. It shall be returned with interest!”

“Oh, Fred,” implored Hilda, almost faint from
terror, “promise me not to molest them! I should
never forgive myself if anything happened to you,
Which would surely be the case if you attacked
them. Promise me!”

“That horse was stolen, Hilda; they should be
made to return it! They fired upon me, and it is
not through any merit in them that one of us is
not lying dead at this moment. Would you wish
me to leave all these things unpunished?”

“Yes, for we are the ones at fault. They did
not go to us; we came to them.”

“Then you wish me to act the coward’s part by
hiding their theft, and the attempt upon our lives?”

“Yes, all; all for the sake of your mother. Oh,
to think that the very first evening of my coming
I should be the cause of bringing anxiety and perhaps
anguish upon her! Promise me, Fred, or I
will not return to your house.”

“You would despise me when you reflected upon
it,” commented the young man moodily. “Were
I to follow your advice I would be of no credit to
you.”

“What credit would it be to you, or to anyone,
to quarrel with gypsies? Supposing you were victorious
and killed one or more of them, what would
it add to your advantage or happiness?”

“The woman insulted and frightened you. What
man worthy of the name would allow it to go
unpunished?”

“Words do not kill; I care nothing about them,
and would not have told you only to warn you of
the danger we were in. We were the aggressors.”

“They should be driven from the neighborhood,
which the authorities cannot do unless complaint
be made against them, and you will not let me make
it.”

“We are unharmed, and have no right to complain
against them when it was our own fault.
They may not have stolen the horse, but bought
it from someone who did, as I am sure if they had
stolen it they would not encamp so near Springfield,
where at any moment the horse is liable to
be recognized.”

“That looks reasonable,” said Fred, reflectively.

“Let us keep it a secret, at least for some time.
I am a girl, but I can keep it to myself.”

“Agreed!” responded Fred.

“Promise that you will not pass the encampment
on your way back to Springfield, will you?”

“No, I will go by the way of the Lakes, or the
Pacific, or around by California and the Isthmus
of Panama, if you prefer.”

“My mind is at rest now,” said Hilda with an
answering smile. “Thank you, Cousin Fred, I will
go home with you now.”

Her mind was at rest so far as concerned the
safety of Fred, but her tried nerves could not recover
their tone for many days. Her sleep was
troubled, and in dreams she saw the wild faces of
the gypsies, heard their shouts and imprecations,
and saw Fred dying at her feet.

CHAPTER X—AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE
==============================

One evening nearly a year after the adventure
with the gypsies, Fred came out on the train from
Springfield to pass the night under the homestead
roof, a thrill of boyish delight paying tribute to it,
as always, but more pronounced now that it was the
dwelling place of Hilda.

They were expecting him, and Mrs. Warfield,
with motherly care, had seen that his favorite dishes
were prepared for the evening meal, and with a glad
light in her beautiful eyes, welcomed him.

“Where is Hilda, mother?” he asked, glancing
inquiringly through the open door of the parlor,
after pressing a filial salute upon the yet plump and
rosy cheek.

“She is in the garden arranging bouquets for
the vases. She expects several of the young people,
from the village to pass the evening here.”

“I hoped she would have no visitors this evening,”
commented Fred, a shadow crossing his handsome
face.

“She invited them because she was quite sure
you would be here, and, Fred, I hope you will divide
your attentions among the girls, and not
devote them to one of them, as you have a habit
of doing. You know that you care for no one long
at a time, so why do you give them reason for thinking
you are in earnest?”

“Now, mother, that is cruel!” exclaimed Fred,
reddening, while his dark eyes sparkled with amusement.
“You will blight my prospects if you proclaim
me fickle. I am afraid an earnest girl would
be influenced by your opinion of me, and doubt my
sincerity should I offer my hand and heart.”

“The idea of a boy making an offer of his hand
and heart!” laughed Mrs. Warfield.

“Twenty-one next fall, just in time to cast my
first vote! Lots of fellows are settled in life at that
age,” and he gayly left the room in search of Hilda.

He did not follow the straight course, but instead
took a circuitous path to the arbor, where sat
Hilda upon a rustic chair, the table before her covered
with flowers, and all framed in by the vine-covered
arch.

Very deftly her fingers were adding sweet to
sweet, apparently unconscious that a pair of handsome
eyes were regarding her with admiration. Her
simple gown of dark blue material fitted her graceful
figure to perfection, and was finished at throat
and wrists with filmy white frills. From the pocket
of her white apron peeped the handles of bright
scissors, and a broad-brimmed sun hat lay on the
bench beside her. Her luxuriant hair was bound by
a narrow crimson ribbon, and a crimson rose upon
her breast cast its warm glow upon her rounded
cheek.

This costume was considered by Fred as the most
becoming of any in which he had seen her, yet he
called to mind that he had thought the same of
every toilet in which she appeared, only that the
sunlight flickering through the leaves made the
picture more lovely.

An incautious step upon a stick which snapped
under the pressure betrayed his near approach.
Hilda smiled but did not look up.

“Come in, Cousin Fred,” she said; “don’t be
timid.”

“How did you know it was Cousin Fred?” he
asked, taking the hand she offered.

“I saw you when you left the house. You reminded
me forcibly of the ostrich of school-book
renown.”

“Will you make a boutonniere for me to wear
this evening?” he asked, laughing, in spite of his
wish to frown.

“Certainly! I have just finished one for Cousin
Paul. See the little beauty,” and she took it up and
inhaled its fragrance.

“Why do you bother to make one for Paul?” he
asked, his smile becoming less pronounced. “You
know he is engaged.”

“Because, like yourself, he is, by courtesy, my
cousin.”

“But Miss Lura De Cormis is the one to make
bouquets for him, leaving you at liberty to make
them for me, as I am not fortunate enough to claim
a lady-love.”

“Were Paul in Philadelphia or Miss Lura here,
I am sure there would be no need for me to make
a boutonniere for him; but she has gone to purchase
her trousseau. Had you forgotten that, Cousin
Fred?”

“I should say not, when I am to be best man,
and you Miss Lura’s bridesmaid.”

“I would like more foliage for this large bouquet.
Will you please get it for me?” and she gave
him the scissors.

He obeyed her with a lingering glance upon the
fair face bending over the flowers, and a resolve to
tell her what was in his heart, for “out of the abundance
of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and it came
as natural for Fred Warfield to speak of love to a
pretty girl as it is for a broker to discuss the rise
and fall of stocks, or an artist the lights and shades
of a new study. In truth, it was his chief amusement,
and practice had made him perfect.

Just now, however, he was ill at ease, and in his
own eyes awkward and uncouth as, leaning against
the door frame of the arbor, he watched Hilda’s active
fingers add the foliage to the artistically arranged
bouquet.

“You are very beautiful, cousin,” he said almost
involuntarily.

“I know it,” she replied serenely, without glancing
in his direction.

Fred gazed upon her in undisguised astonishment.

“This is not new to you; you have been told so
by others,” he said.

“By admiring glances and appreciative smiles,
never in words.”

“Do you consider it good form, Cousin Hilda,
to express your opinion of your own beauty?”
he inquired of her, with commendable hesitation.

“If you remember, cousin, it was not I who expressed
the opinion; I only agreed with yours,” and
she gave minute attention to the placing of colors
in the second bouquet.

“Yes,” he responded uneasily, “but suppose someone
else should tell you; some stranger, for instance.
It would not be good form to agree with a stranger’s
opinion.”

“Thank you, cousin; you are very thoughtful,
and I mean it for your comfort when I suggest that
a stranger will not be at all likely to comment upon
my beauty in my presence. That bridge is so far
out of my latitude there is not the least danger
of my having to cross it.”

“You are so indifferent to me and my opinions.
Cousin Hilda! You keep me quite out of spirits.”

“I do not wish that; instead, I hope to see you in
your very best spirits this evening, and willing to
charm us with your choicest pieces on piano and
mandolin. I wish I were the accomplished musician
you are. You cast me in the shade.”

“You will soon surpass me. Professor Ballini
remarked the last time that he went back to Springfield
in the train with me that ‘Meesh Heelda haf ze
exqueesite taalent for ze moozique; she is one woondare.’”

Fred was a good mimic. Hilda laughed heartily
at the expression of face and tone of voice assumed
for the occasion.

“Oh, Fred, I hope I won’t think of you when I
take my next lesson!” she said, wiping away tears
of mirth with her handkerchief.

“You never wish to think of me; I am only
Cousin Fred to you.”

“Oh, yes, I do think of you, and am grateful for
it is you who merit the praise for any progress I
have made in music. You gave me such thorough
instruction in the rudiments that my progress could
not fail in pleasing Signor Ballini. You have been
very kind to me.”

“Then why not show a little interest in me? You
know that I care for no one but you!”

“Oh, Fred, I should, instead, try not to have interest
in you, except as a cousin!” replied the girl,
flushing deeply as she bowed her head over her
work.

“Why should you try? We are suited to each
other in age, position and disposition!” was his
quick reply.

“Not in disposition; you have not my quick temper.”

“Temper, Cousin Hilda!” ejaculated Fred in
surprise. “We have never seen the least evidence of
it.”

“Because there has been no occasion; and, moreover,
I have been taught to control it. Dear Aunt
Merryman saw many an evidence of it.”

“But we are wandering from the subject in hand.
Have you forgotten that I asked you to care for
me, and told you that I cared for no one but you?”

“No, I have not forgotten, but you have said the
same to so many girls that I do not put much confidence
in it.”

“Now, cousin, that is too cruel, and I know who
told you. It was Celeste Prettyman.”

“Have you been flirting with her, too, Cousin
Fred? She thinks you very handsome, and wonders
that you are so much handsomer than Paul, when
the same description answers for both.”

“I suppose she compares me with her brother
Jack. It is a pity that he is such a burlesque upon
his own name. I take it for granted that he will be
as awkward as ever this evening and will break his
goblet and upset his chair before he leaves.”

“Yes, one cannot help noticing his awkwardness,”
said Hilda, laughing in spite of herself; “but I think
it is caused by embarrassment, and he has so many
good traits that one can easily overlook such small
defects.”

“You seem to be well posted as to his good qualities.
Please inform me of what they consist,” remarked
Fred dryly.

“In kindness to his mother and sister; in his genuine
goodness, earnestness and stability; there is
nothing trifling in his manner; one may be sure that
he means what he says, and can depend fully upon
him.”

“You appear to have made quite a study of our
friend Jack,” commented Fred, flushing uneasily.
“I scarcely thought that one year’s acquaintance
could make one so thoroughly competent to judge.”

“But I have the opinion of others; everyone
speaks well of Jack Prettyman.”

“Have you more than a friendly interest in him?”

“Not at all; I never thought of such a thing; but
am only saying what is my real opinion of him. He
is your friend; you should be glad to know that he
is appreciated.”

“So I am in a certain sense, but if I tell the truth
I must say that he is awkward and uncouth.”

“That is owing to his having so little confidence
in himself. He hasn’t a particle of conceit. Conceited
people are so comfortable that they can afford
to be agreeable. It really appears to be a desirable
thing to have a good opinion of one’s self. Don’t
you realize this?”

“Do you speak from experience?”

“Yes, and from observation.”

“Conceit would be too ridiculous in Jack Prettyman
with his red head and pug nose.”

“But he is very entertaining. The last time he
took me out driving he taught me the language of
flowers.”

“I did not know that you go out driving with
him,” responded Fred, his face flushing and his
eyes shadowed.

“Neither did I know that it was expected of me
to inform you. Aunt Sarah sanctioned it and I
supposed that sufficient.”

“It is cruel in you to take that tone with me.
Oh, Hilda, I feel so uncertain of you! You never
appear to believe me in earnest. Promise that you
will not go driving with anyone but me.”

“Wouldn’t you think it selfish if I asked the
same of you?”

“No, indeed; I promise gladly. Do you agree to
it?”

“Yes, I don’t care. Aunt Sarah and I drive out
as often as I wish to go.”

“Then you only agree because you sacrifice nothing.
Hilda, why are you so cold, so indifferent to
me? You keep me always anxious. Promise me—”
taking her reluctant hand in his, “promise to be
my wife!”

“Oh, Fred, what is the use of promising? You
will change your mind as soon as you see a new
face.”

“Promise! I will not let go your hand until you
do!”

“The tea-bell is about to ring. I heard Angie
take it from the sideboard.”

“Then promise!”

“I will,” the hand was pressed, then released, and
Hilda gathered up the bouquets.

“Here is yours, Cousin Fred,” she said, holding
the boutonniere toward him.

“I had forgotten it,” he said, candidly.

“You will notice that I have arranged them according
to their language. See, here is a sprig of
arbor-vitæ:

   | “‘The true and only friend is he,
   |   Who, like the arbor-vitæ tree,
   |     Will bear our image in his heart.’
   | “With it I have placed
   |   “‘The generous geranium
   |     With a leaf for all who come.’
   | “Then a spray of myrtle:
   |   “‘Myrtle placed on breast or brow,
   |     Lively hope and friendship vow.’
   | “Then two pansies:
   |   “‘Pray you love, remember.
   |     There’s pansies, that’s for thought.’”

Fred placed the boutonniere without comment in
the button-hole of his coat, and they went up the
broad path to the house.

Mrs. Warfield read in Fred’s happy face and in
the bloom upon the fair cheek of Hilda that which
she had hoped for was in the way of being realized,
but gave no evidence of it by word or manner—she
would wait until the young people saw their own
time to tell her of the agreement into which they
had entered.

Fred was at his best that evening in the way of
entertaining their guests, and Mrs. Warfield smiled
at the dignity of his demeanor, bespeaking as it did
the engaged young man, while Hilda comported
herself as if engagements of marriage had ceased to
be a novelty.

The luckless Jack Prettyman succeeded in passing
one evening without upsetting his chair or breaking
his goblet, and to all it was an enjoyable evening.

The next morning Fred arose earlier than usual
and descended to the garden, which was dewy and
fragrant, and wended his way to the arbor. Birds
were twittering in the trees overhead, and colonies
of ants dotted with their hills the ground at his
feet. Innumerable filmy webs festooned the evergreen
borders and flowering shrubs, which, jeweled
with dewdrops, sparkled in the beams of the sun.

Happy as Fred had been in all his favored life,
he had never been so happy as that morning. Owing
to the relations existing between them, he fully
expected that Hilda would give him a few minutes
of her society before he left for Springfield. But
anxiously as he looked toward the house, he saw
no evidence of her coming. Instead, Angie rang
the bell and he went in to his breakfast, and found
Hilda quietly reading by the window which commanded
a view of the arbor.

“She could not have helped seeing me,” thought
Fred; “she might have come out for a few words!”

It had always been his custom to leave for Springfield
as soon as breakfast was finished, and he
had no excuse for waiting that morning. Moreover,
Paul, his mother and Hilda lingered, as usual,
to say good-bye before separating for the duties of
the day.

“I may not let two weeks elapse before coming
home next time, mother,” he said, as he kissed
her at parting.

“Come whenever it suits you, my son; your homecoming
is always a joy to us.”

Coke and Blackstone gave precedence to Hilda
Brinsfield in Fred’s mind for several days after his
visit home, and with chair tilted back, feet elevated
and eyes closed, he recalled the conversation in the
arbor, while alone in the office of Mr. Meade, attorney-at-law.

Mr. Meade noticed the abstraction and surmised
the cause, but was not disturbed in the least, satisfied
that in Fred’s case the malady was not incurable.

CHAPTER XI—HILDA’S LETTERS TO HER OLD HOME
==========================================

Hilda, in the meantime, was pursuing the even
tenor of her way. Her church and Sabbath school
duties were faithfully performed; she went daily to
the Woodmont high school, enjoyed her music and
art lessons, and took interest in the minor employments
of the home which would have naturally devolved
upon a daughter of the house. Always busy,
cheerful, amiable and affectionate, she endeared
herself more and more to the motherly heart of Mrs.
Warfield.

Paul had taken upon himself the charge of the
farm, thus relieving his mother of all care, and Ben
Duvall, his efficient foreman and all-around helper,
was living happily with his wife and children in
their little home in the village, walking out to the
Warfield farm in the morning and back in the evening,
satisfied with the world and all it contained.

One morning a few weeks after Hilda’s engagement
to Fred, she set out for a walk to the village,
having several little commissions on hand, among
them to call upon Mrs. Duvall with a message from
Mrs. Warfield. Her heart was buoyant with the
thought of the festivities that were to follow Paul’s
wedding, now near at hand, and her frequent meetings
with the young people of the neighborhood in
consequence. Her gown was being made by
the village dressmaker and her first call was there,
and all being satisfactory, she passed on to the neat
home of Mrs. Duvall.

“Something told me that you would be here to-day,
Miss Hilda,” said Susie cordially, as she opened
the door; “the chickens keep crowing and a little
black spider came down from the ceiling, which is
a sure sign of a visitor, and I said to myself, ‘That
is Miss Hilda.’”

“I am very glad you thought of me, Mrs. Duvall,”
smiled Hilda, amused at the superstition, as
she took the proffered seat. “Here is a package of
cake Aunt Sarah sent to the children, and she told
me to ask if it would be convenient for you to
come three days of next week to help Angie. You
know that Cousin Paul is to be married on Tuesday,
and on Thursday evening we are to have a reception,
and hope you can come on Tuesday morning.”

“Nothing but sickness will prevent me, Miss
Hilda,” said Susie, warmly; “Mrs. Warfield has always
been a kind friend to me and I love the two
boys as if they were my own. You know I lived
with Mrs. Warfield for years, and the farmhouse
was a real home to me, and she was always good
and kind to me.”

“Yes, and aunt said she could always count upon
you, and is quite sure you will come and help.”

“I wish she could always count so surely upon
that wife Paul is getting. I am fearful of it, Miss
Hilda. Lura De Cormis has a temper, and what
is more, she doesn’t try to curb it.”

“She is an only child,” remarked Hilda, “and
her mother died while she was very young and I
suppose her father indulged her too much.”

“Well, I reckon he thought he ought to put up
with her bad temper, knowing that she got it from
him. People that know him say that his high temper
has been a terrible trial and cross to him, and he
has grieved so much over it and over his unforgiving
nature that he has bettered himself in both ways,
as a minister ought to, if he expects to be an example
for the people who hear him preach.”

“I do hope for Aunt Sarah’s sake that Lura will
try to improve her temper; they are, as you know,
to live together.”

“Yes, and Miss Lura will be boss. Mrs. Warfield
will have to give the right of way to her, if I
know anything about Miss Lura De Cormis. It
makes me sorry to think of it, for a sweeter, nobler
Christian woman does not live than Mrs. Warfield,
and everybody that knows her loves her.

“People in Springfield who knew her and her
sister Janette when they were young said they were
rich orphan girls, and that they and their brother
Herbert lost nearly all through the failure of people
who had their money in trust, but that did not spoil
their sweet dispositions. Just think how Mrs. Warfield
struggled along and kept that farm for the
boys, and with it her generous nature that oppresses
nobody but helps everybody along! I do
wish that Miss Lura had her sweet, kind disposition,”
she concluded.

“Have you had any evidence of her temper, Mrs.
Duvall?”

“Indeed I have! The last Sabbath school celebration
we had, she had charge of one of the dinner
tables, and my Johnny broke a tea cup. She was
so angry at his carelessness, as she called it, that
she shook him, and her black eyes fairly blazed. She
made him pick up every scrap on a newspaper. She
said that if I would make him behave himself at
home, he would do so when out in company.”

Hilda had heard the subject of Miss Lura’s temper
discussed, but not so freely as by Susie, and
knew that what she said was entirely correct. In
her own mind she believed that no one could resemble
Jerusha Flint so closely without partaking of
her nature. “I do hope that Cousin Paul has made
a good choice,” she said sadly.

“I hope that both boys will make good choices.
Folks say that Fred has a notion of getting married, too.”

“Do they?” asked Hilda, her face flushing.

“Yes, to a girl in Springfield,” continued Mrs.
Duvall, not noticing her visitor’s embarrassment.
“She is a great friend of Miss Lura’s and of course
will be at the wedding and you will have a chance to
see her.”

“I never heard that Cousin Fred was waiting
upon anyone in Springfield,” said Hilda faintly.

“No, I reckon not. Fred Warfield waits upon
so many girls it is hard to keep track of him. It
was about a month ago that I heard it, so most
likely he has dropped the Springfield girl and is in
love with another. He always had a sweetheart,
sometimes one, and sometimes another, ever since
I first knew him.”

Hilda breathed more freely. It had been a fort-night
since Fred had engaged himself to her, and
Mrs. Duvall evidently knew nothing of his attachment.
Fred had told her of the girl in Springfield
that last time he was at home, and in his happy-go-lucky
manner had made merry over the flirtation
between them, at which Mrs. Warfield had reproved
him while she vainly tried to conceal her amusement
at his travesty of the affair.

“That Fred Warfield was always the best-natured
fellow that ever lived,” resumed Mrs. Duvall.
“Paul would get mad sometimes, but Fred you
couldn’t make mad no matter what happened. He
just made merry over everything and was the kindest,
tenderest-hearted boy that ever lived, and
wouldn’t hurt the feelings of a fly.”

“I must go now, Mrs. Duvall,” said Hilda, rising.
“Aunt Sarah will be glad to know that you
can come. I have to call at Uncle Herbert’s store
for spices and other things, and will ask him to
send them here for Mr. Duvall to bring out in the
morning if convenient for him to do so.”

“Certainly, Miss Hilda! Nothing pleases him
better than to oblige Mrs. Warfield or any of the
family. I will be sure to come early, and please
tell Mrs. Warfield that I can stay as long as she
needs me.”

“She will be glad to know that, and Aunt Sarah
requests you not to walk to the farmhouse, for I
am to drive to the dressmaker’s in the village on
Tuesday morning for my gown and will take you
home with me.”

“What kind of a gown are you having made,
Miss Hilda, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“A white silk, and the bride’s is white satin. It
was made in Philadelphia and is very elegant.”

“They can well afford to have fine clothes for
Miss Lura,” commented Mrs. Duvall. “People who
know them in Springfield say that Mr. De Cormis
got a fortune from France, where his grandfather
came from. He needn’t preach if he don’t want to,
but he likes to live in the country, and wants only
a small church, so has here what suits him.”

“It would interest you to go to the church on
Tuesday evening and see them married, Mrs. Duvall?”

“It certainly would, and I’ll go. A cat can look
at a queen, I reckon, whether the queen looks at
her or not.”

Hilda laughed, and then nodding good-morning
to Mrs. Duvall, drove to the store, made her purchases
and went home.

Tuesday evening came, the church was filled to
overflowing, and Rev. Horace De Cormis gave his
daughter to the one above all others whom he would
have selected had he done the choosing.

Beautiful as was Hilda at all times, she never
looked more lovely than upon that occasion, and
Mrs. Duvall was not the only one whose gaze wandered
to the handsome attendants, who expected
to be only secondary objects of interest.

The evening reception at the parsonage was followed
by that given by Mrs. Warfield, and this in
turn by friends of the bride among her father’s congregation.
The quiet neighborhood had never
known such a festive time.

Fred was always mentioned as Hilda’s escort to
these festivities and was an attentive and courtly
cavalier. Hilda’s confidence in him became firmly
established and confidence became esteem, which
she mistook for love.

Mrs. Lura Warfield remained several weeks at
the parsonage, then became one of the home circle
of the Warfield farmhouse. Yet her taking up her
abode in a new home did not prevent her from keeping
her place as head of her father’s household. She
attended to his wardrobe, visited the poor and ailing
of his congregation, purchased the supplies, answered
his letters, and in every way in her power
kept him from realizing the loss he had sustained in
her marriage and her removal to another home.

Mrs. Lura was a good, dutiful daughter, and
there was scarcely a day passed that she was not
engaged upon some work for him, and Hilda was
glad that there was something to interest her outside
the farmhouse. Sometimes by invitation she
accompanied her, driving Planchette to Mrs. Lura’s
phaeton, and could not help admiring the executive
ability of the brilliant little woman.

Although she had seen but little exhibition of a
Jerusha Flint temper, Hilda never gave up the
conviction that it was there, only waiting occasion
to be called forth. Many traits which she remembered
as being possessed by the adversary of her
childhood were noticeable in this fair and refined-looking
prototype.

Mrs. Paul Warfield resembled Jerusha Flint in
her untiring industry and her methodical habits,
her uncompromising neatness, her ability, her
satirical opinion of anything that failed to agree
with her ideas and her extreme selfishness. She had
a much better education than had Jerusha and her
environment had been of the best, but the texture of
her mind was no finer; she was cold, calculating and
heartless. In short, Mrs. Lura was so much like the
one with whom part of her childhood had passed
that, try as she might, Hilda could not persuade herself
to love her.

Happy as was the young girl in her Ohio home,
and tenderly kind as were Mrs. Warfield and her
sons to her, she did not forget her Dorton friends.
She looked eagerly for letters from them, and the
most trifling incidents which interested her Maryland
acquaintances were full of interest to her, and
knowing this, Mrs. Merryman let nothing which
came to her notice pass unmentioned.

Hilda was informed of Erma attending school
in Baltimore, staying five days out of the week
with her grandparents there, of Norah’s faithfulness,
and Perry’s improvement in all branches of
farm work, of everything in fact that would keep
up Hilda’s interest and affection for those who
loved her and held her in remembrance.

It was the rule from the beginning that after
the Merryman household had read Hilda’s letters,
they were passed on to “Friedenheim,” for the
Courtneys had always evinced much interest in her,
and she had made no restrictions in regard to her
letters.

When Mrs. Courtney had read them aloud to her
family they were sent the same evening by Mose
to “My Lady’s Manor,” and in this way Mr. Valentine
Courtney was kept in touch with Hilda’s
everyday life.

When she left Dorton “My Lady’s Manor” lost
its charm for him. He missed the gentle girl more
than he had ever before missed a human being, and
felt that life was scarcely worth living when she
was not there to brighten it.

He tried to arouse himself from what he considered
unmanly weakness, but without avail. He
went from his home each morning disconsolate, and
returned to it despairing. Had it not been for the
efficient management of Mrs. Flynn within doors
and Sandy MacQuoid without, home life would have
been at low ebb. But these faithful servitors, without
appearing to notice the changed manner of
their once cheerful employer, attended to their allotted
duties, enjoyed each other’s society, fed the
terrier and the parrot, entertained the Courtney
boys and Ralph and James Rivers, and Norah and
Archie, to the best of their ability, when they gave
“My Lady’s Manor” the pleasure of their company.

The first gleam of comfort which Mr. Courtney
received lay in the knowledge of Paul Warfield’s
engagement. Each succeeding letter of Hilda’s
spoke of Fred, dwelt much upon him, but for
months it did not occur to Mr. Courtney to fear
a rival in him. Hilda was so unrestrained in speaking
of him, even making merry over his love affairs,
more as an older sister would jest of a young
brother or some other jolly companion than a maiden
of a lover. Then came a time when Fred’s name
dropped from her letters, and a grave maturity
came into them, unnoticed by any reader save Mr.
Courtney; and then it dawned upon him that he
had indeed a rival. His heart ached with its burden
of unrest; his home had grown into a prison;
he felt that he must leave it and seek change from
the thoughts which oppressed him; he resolved to
close “My Lady’s Manor” and pass at least a year
in travel. Ralph and James Rivers could attend to
the law business, and if it suffered financial loss in
their hands it was of but little moment to one of
Mr. Courtney’s wealth and disposition.

One evening after coming to this decision, he sat
alone in his library. It was cool for the season and
Chloe had made a glowing fire upon the hearth before
which he sat, lost in thought.

Rich curtains hung in heavy folds over the windows,
the glow of an astral lamp on the table beside
him gave light for reading, but books had lost their
charm. Pictures with sunny Italian skies, of Alpine
peaks, of arctic snows, of fair English landscapes,
lined the walls. Comfort and beauty was
on every hand, but they brought him no happiness.

Chloe came with a letter upon a silver waiter,
presented it and quietly withdrew. And Mr. Courtney,
with a presentiment of further unrest in store
for him, opened it and read to the end. It was
from Hilda to Mrs. Merryman, and as Mr. Courtney
finished it he contrasted his feelings with those
of light-headed, light-hearted Mose, who had
brought it, and whose boyish laughter was heard
from the kitchen where he was recounting to Chloe
some of the adventures in which he was, as usual,
the hero.

There was no mention of Fred throughout the
letter, but a postscript was added which thrilled his
heart with pain.

“Dear Aunt Grace,” it said, “I feel that it would
not be right not to tell you, my dear second mother,
that Cousin Fred has asked me to be his wife and I
have accepted him. Aunt Sarah says it is what she
has hoped for, and in this way Aunt Ashley’s
prayer will be answered.”

Mr. Courtney knew the trial it had been to Hilda
to write this. He was glad at the prospect of happiness
for her in her future home, but he groaned
in spirit at the thought of his own loneliness. How
was he to pass the years of life allotted to him?
After a time he rang the bell and Sandy appeared.

“I wish to have a few minutes conversation with
you, Sandy,” he said, as his stately Scotch servitor
stood respectfully beside his chair. “Take a seat.”

Sandy obeyed, his well-trained countenance showing
no surprise.

“When I employed you,” said Mr. Courtney, “I
did not foresee that I would wish to leave ‘My
Lady’s Manor.’ Circumstances have made it necessary
that I should seek change. I have sent for
you to tell you this, and to express my hope that this
sudden resolve may not inconvenience you. I shall
advance you three months’ salary for any disappointment
it may be to you, and will do the same by
Mrs. Flynn when I speak to her, which will be this
evening. Chloe can go back to her old home at
‘Friedenheim.’”

“Excuse me, sir, for asking, but do you expect
to return here sometime?”

“I may, Sandy; I cannot say.”

“I do not wish to pry into your affairs, sir, but
do you intend renting this place?”

“No, it will be closed for the time I am absent.”

“You have encouraged me, sir, to make free to
tell you my plan,” said Sandy, gravely. “Perhaps
you will do us a greater favor than to advance three
months’ salary.”

“Us?” echoed Mr. Courtney, looking up in surprise.

“Yes, sir; Mrs. Flynn and myself are intending
to marry.”

Mr. Courtney smiled almost cheerfully.

“That is news indeed, Sandy, and very agreeable
news,” he said. “She will make you a good
wife.”

“And she will have a good husband,” responded
Sandy.

“You are right. What do you propose as to
housekeeping?”

“I am not sure as yet, sir. We had intended, if
you were willing, to remain here with you in the
same positions we now occupy. We know that we
could find no better home than this. Now that you
are going away, no coachman or housekeeper will
be needed by you, but perhaps you will let us stay
and take care of ‘My Lady’s Manor’ while you are
away.”

“I will be more than willing; it will relieve me of
a great care,” replied Mr. Courtney cordially.

“If there is nothing in Dorton for me to do, I
can, I think, get some employment in the neighborhood,”
continued Sandy, reflectively.

“I am not anxious to dispose of the horses,
Sandy. If you can get any employment in which
you can make use of them, you are more than welcome
to them until my return.”

“Thank you, sir! I am sure I can, and am more
grateful than I can say for your kindness.”

“It will not be necessary now for me to speak to
Mrs. Flynn. You have taken that out of my
hands,” smiled Mr. Courtney. “I wish you every
happiness in your married life.”

“Thank you, sir, we will try to deserve it.”

The next evening in the presence of the Courtneys,
Mrs. Merryman, the delighted Norah, and a
few of the villagers, the Rev. Carl Courtney performed
the ceremony which made Mrs. Flynn Mrs.
Sandy MacQuoid, much to the astonishment of Roy
and Cecil, who had never suspected any love-making
between the dignified Mrs. Flynn and the more
dignified Sandy.

As nothing remained to prevent, the following
week saw Mr. Valentine Courtney upon the Atlantic,
bound for he knew not and cared not where.

CHAPTER XII—JERUSHA FLINT AND HILDA
===================================

One favor stipulated by Fred, after his engagement
to Hilda, was that she should answer his letters
promptly when anything prevented his weekly
visit to the farmhouse, and she promised.

At the commencement of this correspondence
Fred ignored the title “cousin” in inditing and ending
his epistles, and substituted “My Dearest Hilda,”
or “My Beloved Hilda,” as the fancy of the moment
dictated, and signed them “Your Devoted
Fred.” Her answering missives were guided by
his letters, modified, however, by maidenly reserve,
but at his request she ceased to address him as
“cousin.”

As the winter wore on, snows and rains and like
excuses were utilized by Fred as preventing his
weekly visits; and after the spring came and merged
into summer he made only fortnightly visits to the
farmhouse, as was his custom before Hilda became
a member of the home circle. His letters, however,
came punctually and gave lively details of the
social festivities in Springfield society. “Dear
Hilda” appeared to be a sufficiently affectionate appellation
in inditing these missives, and before the
autumn came “Cousin Hilda” seemed to satisfy his
surely waning affection.

A silent, but none the less attentive observer of
all this was Mrs. Warfield, although she never saw
or asked to see a line of the correspondence. But
after Hilda’s reception of a letter from Fred she
failed to see the glow of pleasure which had illuminated
the sweet face in the early days of the engagement;
instead, a wounded, unsatisfied expression
sat upon the sad lips and tried to hide itself in
the depths of the pensive eyes.

One morning Hilda received her usual letter
from Mrs. Merryman and one from Fred, brought
from the village post-office by Ben Duvall. She
hurried to her room to read them. Mrs. Warfield,
who had gone to her own room adjoining, heard
her ascend the stairs, enter her room and close the
door, and expected after time was given her to
peruse them to hear her gentle tap upon her door
Mrs. Merryman’s letter in hand to read aloud, as
was her custom. All remained silent for such a
length of time that Mrs. Warfield had almost concluded
that her eyes had deceived her, and Hilda
had not received letters, when she heard her foot-steps
pause at the door.

“Come in, darling, I am here,” she called, and
Hilda came in slowly with Mrs. Merryman’s letter
open in her hand. A bright spot burned on either
cheek, but it was evidently not caused by pleasure.
There was a look of having shed tears, and when
she took a low chair near Mrs. Warfield and read
the letter her voice trembled, although she made
an effort to steady it.

Mrs. Merryman’s letter was long and interesting.
Her former letters had informed Hilda of the absence
of Mr. Valentine Courtney. This one mentioned
the place of his sojourn in the old world as
heard through Mrs. Courtney. It gave details of
all the little happenings in Dorton and in its neighborhood,
and of affairs at “My Lady’s Manor” under
the management of Mrs. MacQuoid, as reported
by Norah, and closed with the intelligence of the
illness of Jerusha Flint.

Mrs. Warfield listened attentively to the letter
from beginning to end, and thanked Hilda for giving
her the pleasure of hearing it; at the same time
she heard nothing to warrant the subdued excitement
of the reader.

She was quite sure that it was not the illness of
Miss Flint or Hilda would have made allusion to it.
Moreover, her manner appeared to take more of anger
than grief, and Mrs. Warfield felt assured in
consequence that a letter had been received from
Fred, and it was responsible for that anger.

As soon as Hilda finished she arose and returned
to her own room.

“Aunt Sarah,” she said a few minutes later, “do
you wish anything from the village? I am going
to the post-office.”

“No, dear, I do not know of anything needed.”

Hilda went to her room to put on her wraps, and
Mrs. Warfield, after a moment’s reflection, laid
aside her sewing and followed.

“My dear,” she said, as Hilda opened the door
for her, “if you are writing to Fred, I hope you
will be careful what you write. He is very careless
of his letters, and other eyes may see what you
only intend for his. I do not seek to question into
what should perhaps not concern me, but you appear
a little different from your usual manner and
I only wish to warn you.”

The color left the face of the girl for a moment,
and she leaned against her dressing-table for support.

“You are his mother,” she said with tear-dimmed
eyes. “Read what he says.”

“I hope, my child, that you have not asked me
to do this unless you are desirous that I should read
it.”

“I did not even imagine, five minutes ago, that
I could ever allow anyone to see it; now I wish
you to read it,” and tears rolled down the pale
cheeks.

Mrs. Warfield opened the sheet and glanced over
the words:

   “My Poor Little Hilda:

   “No one could have convinced me half a year ago
   that I would address you, whom I then loved, to
   tell you that my feelings in regard to you have undergone
   a change. I am heartily ashamed of myself
   to have to acknowledge this, and no doubt you
   will be disappointed in me. Perhaps if I could have
   seen you oftener it might have been different. If
   I could know what my future sentiments toward
   you will be I would gladly tell you. I hope you
   will care a little because of this, but I do not wish
   you to grieve too much.

   .. class:: right

      “Your Cousin Fred.”

The flush which had arisen to the cheek of Hilda
was eclipsed by the glow that spread over the face
of Mrs. Warfield. She gave the letter back without
a word, her eyes refusing to meet those of the
girl standing before her.

“Will you read my answer?” asked Hilda, taking
it from the envelope not yet sealed.

“If you wish it, my love.”

“Yes, I would rather have you know the whole
story.”

Mrs. Warfield’s face brightened into a smile as
she read:

    “Dear Cousin Fred:

    “Yours received and I reply merely to advise you
    not to distress yourself fearing I will grieve. Why
    should I be disappointed in you, when it is exactly
    as I expected? I was favored with the experience
    of other girls, and as you will remember
    was not willing to engage myself to you, knowing
    your fickleness; but after you remained faithful a
    few weeks I was foolish enough to believe you in
    earnest, and for this I am heartily ashamed. I shall
    be in no danger of committing again the folly of
    believing it, so you need not trouble yourself to
    tell me ‘your future sentiments.’

   .. class:: right

      “Your Cousin Hilda.”

Mrs. Warfield arose upon finishing the letter, and
taking Hilda in her arms pressed a kiss upon the
trembling lips.

“I feared you would not be willing to have me
send it,” faltered Hilda, as tears for the sympathy
received filled her eyes.

“Yes, send it, by all means, and the earlier the
better. It will do Fred good to find that one girl,
at least, is not so much in love with him as to withhold
resentment for his unmanly fickleness.”

Hilda put the letter in the envelope, sealed it and
went out, and Mrs. Warfield returned to her room
and took up her sewing.

“Without intending it, she has taken the very best
way to retain him,” she communed with herself.
“She is a noble girl. Fred will rue this.”

Bravely as Hilda had borne the trial, try as she
might to conceal her wounded feelings, Mrs. Warfield,
apparently unobservant, knew as time passed
on that the reaction was harder to bear than the
first knowledge of Fred’s inconstancy.

Hilda had watched for his coming, the correspondence
had been a stimulus in her uneventful life
at the farmhouse, and when it ceased, in spite of her
good sense and excellent judgment for one so young,
she felt desolate and unsettled. She dreaded Fred’s
next visit home. How could she meet him under
these changed circumstances? What could she say
to him, or he to her, under the piercing, satirical
gaze of Mrs. Paul Warfield? And Mrs. Merryman—what
would she think of it, she who was so glad
to know that Hilda had such kind and loving
friends in her new home?

It was a bitter trial to tell her, but Hilda’s conscience
would not allow her to leave that faithful
friend in ignorance of how matters stood, and in
the postscript to her next letter she said: “Dear
Aunt Grace, the engagement between Cousin Fred
and myself is broken.”

That was all; she could not tell her now the cause,
and was very sure that Mrs. Merryman would never
ask.

Hilda was sincere in saying that she would not
grieve. She read, she studied, practiced the most
difficult of the pieces given her by Professor Ballini,
and in other ways kept herself constantly employed;
and Mrs. Warfield’s motherly heart yearned toward
her as if she were indeed her own loved daughter.

After a time Fred’s letter set Hilda to analyzing
the real state of her feelings toward him. She
loved him because, like the others of his family, he
had been so kind to her. He was one of the best
of sons, one of the most affectionate of brothers.
She doubted if any girl could have helped becoming
attached to one so handsome and attractive, if placed
in his companionship as she had been.

Yet she realized that the affection she had cherished
for him was unlike that which she had thought
a woman’s should be for the one who was to fill the
place of protector and life-long companion; different,
as she now discovered, from the affection she
entertained for Mr. Courtney.

Yes, like a revelation it came to her in the quietude
of her room that the feeling with which she
regarded him was different from that felt for any
other human being. She remembered his manly
steadiness and strength of character; his protecting
care of her and of everything feebler than himself;
the repose and peace and contentment she always
felt in his society. She remembered the last evening
she passed at “My Lady’s Manor,” and tears
filled her eyes as she thought of the loneliness that
reigned in the beloved library, now that he was far
away.

She took the miniature portrait of Mr. Courtney
from its velvet case and looked long and earnestly
at it.

“He has not a superior,” she said to herself; “he
is noble and true and I love him and only him,
though he may never think of me or see me again.”

That afternoon Mrs. Lura invited Hilda to make
parochial calls with her, after which she intended
stopping at Uncle Herbert’s store in the village to
purchase material for her embroidery. She was
proficient in all kinds of fancy work, and just at
that time was exercised over the completion of a
sofa pillow for a birthday gift for her father.

In the fancy line Uncle Herbert’s stock was far
from extensive at any time, and at that particular
epoch was poor indeed, and Mrs. Lura was unable
to obtain any of the shades of silk desired. Consequently
she lost her temper and sharply reminded
him that he ought to keep a store where customers
could get at least a third of the articles called for,
or give it up that a more enterprising man might
take his place.

Uncle Herbert laughed good-naturedly at this
candid opinion, accompanied by a frown upon the
fair brow and the flashing of brilliant black eyes,
and informed her that he intended going to Philadelphia
on the early morning train to purchase his
half yearly supply of merchandise, and would be
happy to get anything she needed.

Equanimity restored, Mrs. Lura made out a list
which Uncle Herbert put carefully in his memorandum
book, searchingly watched by Mrs. Lura,
accompanied by the injunction not to forget until
she came for the silks that it was there.

The errands all completed, they drove back to the
farmhouse, at the entrance of which Mrs. Warfield
met them, more disturbed than they had ever seen
her.

“My love,” she said taking Hilda’s hand, “a
telegram has just come from Dorton. Jerusha Flint
is very ill; they think she cannot live, and she says
she must see you, and you cannot go alone.”

“Uncle Herbert is going to Philadelphia in the
morning,” said Mrs. Lura promptly. “Hilda can
go with him.”

“That is an excellent opportunity,” exclaimed
Mrs. Warfield. “I will send immediately to the
village and tell him that Hilda will meet him at
the station in good time.”

“Planchette and the carriage are yet at the gate,”
said Mrs. Lura, glancing through the window. “I
will drive back and tell Uncle Herbert, although I
wonder that Hilda is willing to trouble herself to
visit one who treated her so unkindly as did Miss
Flint. I should not go near her.”

“I grieve to have Hilda leave us, but it is a duty.
Miss Flint must have some important reason for
wishing to see her. She has possession of the few
articles of furniture which were my sister’s, and she
may wish to see her in regard to them; or she may
wish to ask forgiveness for her cruelty. Be the
reason what it may, she must have her wish granted,
if possible.”

Hilda passed the evening packing her trunk, and
although she reproached herself that she could be
glad to go from friends who were so tenderly kind,
and her conscience troubled her that she could not
be more sorry for the cause that was calling her
back to Dorton, in spite of her reasoning she could
not help rejoicing over the prospective visit.

“I will see dear Aunt Merryman and all my Dorton
friends,” she said to herself with an exultant
throb of her heart. “Besides, I shall miss seeing
Cousin Fred.”

The next morning Mrs. Lura, who had another
commission for Uncle Herbert, took Hilda to the
Woodmont station, where he had not arrived, much
to her displeasure, for it was nearing train time and
she prophesied that with his usual want of punctuality
he would be left.

Just as she arrived at the stage of impatience as
to be upon the point of driving to the village for
him and giving him a piece of her mind, he came
in sight, walking at his usual leisurely, dignified
pace, and in a few minutes they were off and Mrs.
Lura went home.

Uncle Herbert was a genial traveling companion,
and Hilda enjoyed the trip thoroughly. He
accompanied her to the Baltimore depot as soon as
they reached Philadelphia, and saw her on her way.
Mr. Merryman’s carriage met her at Dorton Station
and conveyed her to the cottage of Jerusha
Flint. And thus, without a moment’s delay which
could be avoided, Hilda stood again in one of the
homes of her childhood.

Diana Strong was in attendance upon the invalid
and welcomed Hilda warmly.

“How much you have grown!” she said softly.
“I never would have thought that a person could
improve so much in less than two years; you are
really an elegant young lady.”

“Is she very ill?” asked Hilda in the same tone,
as she laid aside hat and gloves in the little sitting-room.

“She is at death’s door. It appears that only her
longing and hope of seeing you have kept her alive.
She has something on her mind that troubles her,
poor creature, and has fretted and worried to see
you, and I had to get Mr. Merryman to telegraph
for you to come.”

“Hilda,” moaned a feeble voice, “won’t you
come?”

“I am here,” replied the young girl, passing into
the room, and bending over the invalid. “Tell me
what I can do for you, and it shall be done gladly.”

And thus the two whose heredity and paths in
life had so contrasted met for the last time upon
earth.

“Forgive me, oh, forgive me for my cruelty to
you!” implored the fast failing voice slowly and falteringly.

“I do forgive you, freely and fully, as I hope to
be forgiven.”

“I am almost gone,” whispered Jerusha. “I was
unjust to you as well as cruel. Your Aunt Ashley
left—two letters—for you. I read them—and destroyed—one.
All in the cottage—was—yours,—there
was money—I kept—every penny—of it—safely
for you. It—is with the—letter, and—her
pen—in the—the—”

Eagerly as Hilda listened, she heard no more.
Jerusha’s lips were closed in death.

CHAPTER XIII—HILDA BY THE MERRYMAN FIRESIDE
===========================================

Excepting Erma, who was growing into healthy,
attractive young womanhood, Hilda found no
change in the Merryman household.

Her room was just as she left it the morning she
and Paul set out for Ohio. She was glad to be
again in it, and was as tenderly welcomed to the
home as if she were a beloved daughter, and
dropped naturally into the place she had once filled.

Mrs. Courtney had forwarded Hilda’s last letter
to her brother Valentine, and had not expected to
write so soon again; but having called to see Hilda
the evening of her arrival, she could not forbear
writing to him as soon as she reached home telling
him of the unexpected call which had brought the
young girl to Dorton, and speaking warmly of her
beauty and the sweet dignity of her manner.

The day following that in which Jerusha Flint
had been placed in her resting place in Dorton
churchyard, Mrs. Merryman went with Hilda to
visit the cottage abandoned by Diana Strong.

Following the rule adopted at the commencement
of her occupancy, of renting by the year and paying
in advance, Jerusha Flint, though in her grave, held,
in a manner, possession of the cottage, so all remained
as she had left it until Hilda could consult
with Mrs. Warfield through the medium of letters.

With the exception of the desk, and a few small
articles, there was nothing that she cared to keep;
yet as all there was bequeathed to her by Mrs.
Ashley, she did not wish to act unadvisedly.

The main object of her visit was to examine the
writing desk in search of the papers and the ruby
inlaid pen of which Jerusha had spoken.

“I wrote a letter to you with it, but did not send
it, as Mr. Merryman, who called, said a telegram
would be better,” Diana Strong had told her the
day she came. “I laid the pen back in the desk and
while standing at the gate talking to Mr. Merryman
I saw Jerusha rise from her bed, totter the few
steps to the desk, lock it and put the key under the
pillow where we found it.”

All searching for the papers was vain, but Hilda
never passed the cottage that she did not examine
the desk, believing there was a secret drawer that
was baffling her search.

Her walks to “My Lady’s Manor” were resumed,
to the delight of Mrs. MacQuoid and Chloe,
who made it a rule to have the library warm and
bright when Hilda came.

Sometimes she remained only long enough to exchange
books, but they had seen her, she had chatted
with them, had petted the terrier, exchanged
some words with Sandy and left all cheered by the
visit.

One afternoon she extended her walk to Dorton
post-office, intending to call at “My Lady’s Manor”
upon her return in order to get a volume which an
adverse and scathing criticism had tempted her to
read.

She was expecting a letter from Mrs. Warfield,
and saw that she was not to be disappointed when
the postmaster, with a benevolent smile, commenced
looking over the mail in the Merryman
box.

There was one for her, but not addressed in the
feminine script of Mrs. Warfield, but in the bold,
business hand of Fred.

She had not remembered that it was the fourteenth
of February, and with trembling fingers
opened it the moment she reached the seclusion of
the library at “My Lady’s Manor.”

Fred’s remorse for his fickleness had found relief
in rhyme, and under the wing of St. Valentine he
poured forth his plaint:

   | “Each sound hath an echo, like to like doth incline,
   | But where is the heart that respondeth to mine?
   | In sunshine and shade life is lonely and drear,
   | I call my beloved, but no answer I hear.
   | I seek my beloved as the dew seeks the flower,
   | As moonbeams seek stream, meadow, forest and bower.
   | Oh, sadly I wander o’er woodland and lea,
   | And muse on the one so far distant from me!
   | I question my fate, and try to divine
   | If Hilda, my loved one, will ever be mine.
   | But all, all is silent; I wander alone;
   | I hope against hope, for I know she is gone.
   | She is loved by another, his bride she will be
   | And all pleasures in life must seem hollow to me.”

His reminiscences had a different effect upon
Hilda from what he intended. They cheered and
warmed her heart, it was true, but not for him.
Kind-hearted and sympathetic as she was, the prospective
hollowness of Fred’s pleasures did not in the
least disturb her serenity. Instead, the last two
lines of his valentine held a prophecy which filled
her heart with sweet content. In the loving arms
of kind Destiny she had been fostered, and she had
faith to believe that she would ever there repose.
Fred’s written words only confirmed what she in
thought was beginning to cherish. She loved Valentine
Courtney, and had the conviction that the
time would come when he would think of her; for
that time she would wait.

It was growing twilight, and folding her letter
she left the library, and to her great pleasure saw
Archie sitting by the kitchen hearth, who spoke to
her as he would have done had he seen her every
day.

“Got any valentines yet, Miss Hilda?” asked
Chloe. “You must not forgit that you is a valentine
yer own self, that Archie done found in the
snow.”

“No, Chloe, I can never forget that good Archie
saved my life on St. Valentine’s day,” replied Hilda,
looking kindly upon the wanderer.

“Archie can find no more people in the snow;
he has looked and looked for them,” he said sadly.

“I suppose it is yourself that gets plenty of valentines,
Miss Hilda,” remarked Mrs. MacQuoid respectfully,
gazing with admiration upon the fair
girl.

“No, Mrs. MacQuoid, there is no prospect of my
getting many,” smiled Hilda.

“Archie wishes that he could bring one,” said the
old man. “He would find one in the snow if he
could.”

“Thank you, Archie, I am sure you would bring
me a valentine if you could find one,” and nodding
a cheery good-bye, Hilda ran down the steps of the
porch and in a little while reached “Fair Meadow.”

“Miss Hilda,” said Norah, “Mr. Merryman had
a message from his sister in Baltimore, saying that
relatives from Boston on their way south for the
winter are there to remain over night, and she
would like Mr. and Mrs. Merryman to come there
for supper, and they have gone.”

“Very well, Norah; then you will please bring
in the tea while I run up to my room to lay aside
my wraps.”

Hilda had worn a crimson cashmere dress to the
village, a costume very becoming to her fair face;
and, adjusting the soft lace about throat and wrists,
she put on a filmy white apron with a pocket to
accommodate the ball of some fleecy white knitting,
and with it in her hand descended to the tea-room,
which was very bright and cheery in the lamp and
fire-light.

Hilda’s brisk walk in the crisp air had made the
simple meal very enjoyable, and as soon as Norah
had again put the center-table in order, Hilda drew
it closer to the hearth and was soon absorbed in her
book. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the room
save the singing of the hickory wood blazing in the
open grate, or the purring of the kitten upon the
hearth.

At the same hour the household of “My Lady’s
Manor” was agreeably surprised at the unexpected
arrival of Mr. Courtney; and his welcome home, so
far as they were concerned, was all that could be
desired.

But during his voyage across the Atlantic, and
every reflective moment since, he had pictured a
fair girlish face that he longed to see brighten at
his coming, and had felt the clasp of a dimpled hand
that was dearer to him than all else upon the broad
earth.

“I hope you will not allow my coming to disturb
you, Mrs. MacQuoid,” he said kindly when both
arose from their evening meal at his entrance.
“Do you and Sandy finish your tea; I will chat
with Archie a while and then rest in the library
until it suits you to ring for me.”

Archie had been asleep in his chair, but awoke
at the sound of Mr. Courtney’s voice and looked
up at the handsome, kind face with an appreciative
smile.

“Archie is glad you are home; he has often
been here, but could not see you,” he said.

“Miss Hilda was here this afternoon, sir,” said
Mrs. MacQuoid. “She was reading in the library.”

Mr. Courtney’s heart thrilled with pleasure, and
a smile illumined his countenance. He was now
where she had lately been; the sweet consciousness
of her presence made his home doubly dear.

While he was chatting with Archie and asking
Mrs. MacQuoid for the welfare of Rev. Carl and
family and the neighborhood in general, Sandy
lighted the library lamp, drew the blinds, and
wheeled Mr. Courtney’s favorite chair before the
grate.

“If we had knowed that Marse Val was comin’,”
remarked Chloe, after he had withdrawn to the
library, “we could have had fried chicken and hot
waffles, an’ invited Mis’ Emma an’ Miss Hilda over,
an’ it would have been like ol’ times.”

“He knows we didn’t expect him, Chloe, and I
am sure this rich ham, and your beautiful white
rolls, and the sweet butter and honey will suit him,”
replied Mrs. MacQuoid as she placed glass and
china for one upon the tea-table.

“He allus was that easy to please; never had no
bother nohow with Marse Val, and Marse Carl an’
Miss Emma. They is angels, that is certain sure.”

“True for you, Chloe, and now if the coffee is
ready, I will ring for the master.”

“It’s done ready, an’ is the Simon-pure an’ no
mistake. Kitty done say, she did, that when Marse
Val was a little fellah, he couldn’t be humbugged
when it come to coffee. He knowed the very fust
sip that the culled folks’ Rio wasn’t the white folks’
Mocha.”

The meal appeared to suit Mr. Courtney perfectly.
Refreshed in spirit by his sojourn in the
library, his manner proved the return of hope.
When he finished he again sought the library.

On his homeward journey he had read and reread
Mrs. Courtney’s two latest letters, received by
the same mail—one telling him of the broken engagement,
the other of Hilda’s return to Dorton.
They had found him lonely, restless, seeking for
happiness that change did not bring. After reading
them he was, as it were, in another realm, and
obeying a sudden impulse made haste to return to
his native land, was now at “My Lady’s Manor” in
his favorite room. Alone and at leisure, he had
time to reflect.

If, after all, his coming were fruitless, what had
life to offer in compensation for his great disappointment?
He reasoned that the broken engagement
was, perhaps, the result of a misunderstanding
which had been explained away, and the engagement
renewed upon a firmer basis than before.

He called to mind that business alone had brought
Hilda to Dorton. She had not come because she
wished to see him or “My Lady’s Manor,” for she
knew of his absence, and could have no knowledge
as to when he would return.

If she loved Fred Warfield, this visit to Dorton
would not weaken the attachment, nor would he
wish it to do so; yet her return to Fred would leave
him desolate, and “My Lady’s Manor” a prison.

What presumption—he reflected—for one whose
age was nearly double her seventeen years to hope
to win one so lovely! What advantage had he over
the bright, buoyant beauty, the youthful companionship
of Fred Warfield, except his wealth? And
he knew Hilda’s noble nature too well to believe
for a moment that she would make of it the most
remote object. He arose from his place by the
hearth and walked to and fro in the quiet room.

The library door opened softly and Archie came
in. “I want you!” he said, in a subdued, impatient
tone. “I promised her. Come!”

Mr. Courtney made no response; mutely he
obeyed, and swiftly and silently Archie led the way
across the meadow to Mr. Merryman’s. Taking
neither path that led to the front entrance, he took
his accustomed way, opened the tea-room door, and
they stood in the presence of Hilda.

“I have brought you a valentine, but I could not
find one in the snow,” said Archie in a low tone.
“Archie would have tried and tried, had there been
any snow.”

Hilda arose, a flush of joy illumined her sweet
face, she advanced a step toward Mr. Courtney, then
withdrew.

“She does not love me, Archie,” said Mr. Courtney,
noticing the action, “youth and loveliness can
have no affinity with middle age.”

“Please tell him, Archie,” said Hilda, gently,
“that youth trusts to middle age for faithful love
and protection. Hair tinged with silver is beautiful
in my eyes.”

Mr. Courtney advanced eagerly and taking her
hand in his pressed his lips upon it.

“Oh, Archie, dare I ask for this dear hand?”

“If he asks, Archie, it is his,” said Hilda.

“But the heart, Archie? The hand is valueless
to me unless the heart goes with it.”

“Tell him, good Archie, that the heart has always
been his, though part of the time it knew not its
master.”

“I feel as if in a dream,” faltered Mr. Courtney;
“an hour ago despairing, now filled with
greater happiness than I had dared imagine.”

“We owe our happiness to Archie. He has been
my good genius from childhood. He is my mascot.”

“I will make another effort to have him share our
home at ‘My Lady’s Manor’,” said Mr. Courtney.
“Your persuasion will, I think, prevail.”

“Our home!” Hilda’s heart thrilled at the sweet
words. An orphan, homeless, save for the goodness
of dear friends, she was now the promised
wife of one who would protect and care for her as
long as life was granted, one whom she could truly
love and honor for his noble, tender and steadfast
nature. How could she ever be grateful enough
to God for His goodness to her?

“This is one of Archie’s homes; Archie will stay
till morning,” and, passing into the kitchen, the old
man, without so much as a word to the occupants
thereof, went up to his room, leaving Norah and
Perry amazed at his sudden appearance.

With a look of supreme content Mr. Courtney
took a chair beside the center-table whereupon lay
the book which Hilda had been reading. His glance
fell upon the letter lying beside it and a look of pain
crossed his handsome features.

“It is only a valentine,” said Hilda. “Will you
read it?” and she gave it into his hands.

“This is from young Mr. Warfield, I suppose?”
he commented with a smile as he finished the closing
lines.

“Yes, it is from Cousin Fred, and I suppose it is
my duty to tell you that he once asked me to be his
wife.”

“You loved him, of course,” said Mr. Courtney,
a little anxiously.

“I will tell you, sir, exactly as it was,” she replied,
with the straightforward look and manner
of one who had nothing to conceal. “The girls told
me that Fred is fickle, and they did not believe that
he could really love anyone. When he told me of
his affection for me, I knew it was what he had
said to every girl with whom he was well acquainted,
so did not believe him sincere. He wished
to correspond with me, and through his letters I
began to have a warmer affection for him, and was
disappointed when they began to grow cold, or
failed to come when expected. It ended by his
writing, releasing himself from the engagement.”

“And you were grieved, my darling?”

“Yes, sir, and I was angry. His letter was so
patronizing, so full of his own importance, that had
I asked him to marry me, he could scarcely have
worded it differently. I let him know that, attractive
as he considered himself, I could quickly give
him up.”

“But you were sorry it occurred?”

“For a while I missed his visits and his letters,
then I grew glad it happened, for I would not have
known my feelings toward you had not Fred engaged
himself to me, and then broken the engagement.
I compared him with you, and he appeared
boyish and unstable. I could have no confidence in
him. He would change his mind at the altar if he
should see a prettier face among the spectators.”

“Was Mrs. Warfield aware of the engagement?”
asked Mr. Courtney, amused at the quaint seriousness
of the little woman.

“Oh, Mr. Courtney, no mother could have acted
more nobly than she! I told her all, and gave her
his letter and my reply.”

“Could you welcome Mrs. Warfield and her
younger son to our home without one regret for
‘the might have been?’”

“Without one regret.”

CHAPTER XIV—ARCHIE FINDS A PACKAGE
==================================

Mrs. Warfield was deeply grieved and disappointed
that Fred had given Hilda cause to lose
confidence in him so utterly, as she had given evidence
in her letter to him. She had intended speaking
plainly to him in regard to his heartless conduct,
thinking it would influence him in his future
companionship with Hilda, and was much disappointed
that the summons came for her to return to
Dorton before his next visit home.

Her resolutions, like many others depending upon
circumstances, were put aside, for instead of
setting out to chide she remained to comfort. Fred,
for the first time in his life, was completely cast
down. Ever since receiving Hilda’s letter he had
been revolving in his mind what he would say when
they met, in order to place himself upon the former
basis.

The passage at arms had aided him, as it had
Hilda, to define his feelings. He realized that he
loved her, and this time, if never before, was in
earnest. It was his intention to offer a humble
apology, and to ask a place in her esteem with the
eloquence of which he was master, and he did not
believe that she would refuse.

His hopes received a blow when he came home
and found her gone, and no time specified for her
return. He could have shed tears in the bitterness
of his soul, and Mrs. Paul Warfield, who suspected
how matters stood, shook her shrewd head and
agreed with herself that it served him right.

After sending the valentine he hoped to hear a
word from Hilda, but in her letter to his mother
no special mention was made of him, so he wrote to
her imploring her to believe him sincere in his profession
of affection for her, and asked for a line
bidding him hope. Perry brought the missive from
the village post-office and Norah took it to the parlor
where Hilda and Mr. Courtney were conversing by
the early evening fire-light.

Hilda, with a deep blush, opened and read it and
passed it to Mr. Courtney.

“I hope you don’t think I expect this of you,” he
said gently. “Believe me, I have not a particle of
jealous curiosity.”

“No, sir; I gave it because I wish your advice in
regard to answering it, and you could not give it
unless you understood the whole affair. Aunt Sarah
has also written to me, and says that Fred deplores
his mistake and she hopes I will reconsider the matter,
for she knows him to be sincere and pities him.”

“It would be well to answer both letters immediately,”
remarked Mr. Courtney when he finished the
perusal of Fred’s letter. “It is far kinder to tell
them the relation in which we stand to each other
than to allow them to indulge a false hope.”

“I do not mind telling Fred,” replied Hilda, a
flush very like anger coming into her face, “but I
do feel sorry to grieve Aunt Sarah. She is as kind
to me as an own mother, and I love her so dearly.”

“I know it, but it will not be the task to write it
that it would be to tell them were you there. I
should write at once to both.”

“I will do as you advise. I can see that it is the
kinder way.”

“There is another favor I would ask of you, my
dear one, and that is not to address me as ‘sir.’ It
keeps the difference in our ages in very large figures
before my eyes.”

“I never thought of that,” responded Hilda,
laughing and blushing.

“I hope you will never feel under more restraint
in my company than in that of Fred Warfield or
any other person near your own age. I should be
grieved to know that we were not in every way
congenial and at home with each other.”

“I never felt otherwise with you; you have always
appeared young to me,” said Hilda, sincerely.

“Thank you, my darling; I am truly glad to hear
this. I have known two instances where the husband
was double the age of his wife, and the lady
in both cases seemed to be in awe of her husband.
I would be miserable to know that you felt so toward me.”

“You need not dread my being in awe of you,”
laughed Hilda. “You were somewhat younger than
now when I first became acquainted with you. I
suppose that accounts for my lack of deference. We
have grown old together.”

Mr. Courtney had suggested an early day for
their marriage, and there was nothing to prevent except
the item of a trousseau, a subject which Hilda,
penniless, and having no claim upon a human being,
did not consider open for discussion.

Mr. Courtney believed that to be the cause of
her reluctance to agree to his suggestion for an
early day, and had he not appreciated her fine nature
so thoroughly, might have been tempted
through the aid of Mrs. Courtney, to do away with
that hindrance. As it was, he could only await
Time’s adjustment.

Hilda wrote to Mrs. Warfield and to Fred and
waited for the second time in her life with keen
anxiety for Mrs. Warfield’s reply. Would she be
wounded because Hilda remained indifferent to the
united appeal of mother and son? Would she resent
the reticence of Hilda in not giving them
knowledge of her attachment to Mr. Courtney in
the nearly two years she had been with them and
thus misleading Fred?

Smothering the pain in her heart, Mrs. Warfield’s
letter was candid, cordial and affectionate. She
wrote nothing that would mar the happiness of the
girl whom she held blameless. She offered her sincere
congratulations, and added to the measure of
her kindness by enclosing a check for the purchase
of a handsome outfit as a wedding present.

There was now nothing to prevent Hilda from
acceding to Mr. Courtney’s wish to appoint an early
day for the marriage, which would be at the home
of the Merrymans, Rev. Carl officiating, and the
bridal tour followed by a reception at “My Lady’s
Manor” under the auspices of Mrs. Courtney and
Mrs. Merryman.

As upon a former occasion, Mrs. Courtney offered
her assistance in the matter of shopping, and the
offer was accepted gladly by Hilda.

The evening before they were to drive to Baltimore,
Mrs. Merryman and Hilda took a walk to the
cottage, and upon reaching the gate saw Archie
coming down the road from “My Lady’s Manor,”
where he had been the past night and day.

“I am sure he is on his way to ‘Fair Meadow,’”
said Mrs. Merryman. “Ask him to wait and go
with us; he can carry the things you wish to take.”

Archie was willing to oblige and followed them
up the grass-grown path. He sat down upon the
door-step while the ladies went inside and opened
the windows, letting in the soft evening air, laden
with the odors of early spring.

As upon former visits, Hilda went to the desk,
let down the lid and searched through the small
drawers and other receptacles, but found nothing,
and was about to lock it again when the old man
entered and stood beside her.

“Archie knows where there is money,” he said
abruptly.

“No, Archie,” said Hilda, “we have searched
several times and can find nothing.”

“But Archie knows it is there. Archie saw the
woman put it in there one night when he was looking
for people in the snow.”

“Where is it, Archie?” asked Hilda, trying to
conceal her eagerness, knowing it would confuse
him.

“In that tall box,” pointing to the desk.

“There is no money there, Archie,” said Mrs.
Merryman. “We have looked for it several times.”

“Archie can find it; he saw the woman put it
there. Archie was looking through a crack in the
shutter. The woman didn’t know Archie saw her,”
he added earnestly.

“Show us where it is, Archie,” said Hilda; “take
your own time.”

He stepped to the desk, put up the lid, lowered it
again, and stood contemplating it with a look of
perplexity upon his worn face.

“Archie forgets. He must think,” he said. He
locked and unlocked the desk several times, the
ladies sitting quietly by.

“Yes, Archie knows!” he cried exultantly. “The
woman held the lid so, and put her hand under
here,” and suiting the action to the word, he drew
forth a small flat package and gave it into the hand
of Hilda. It was addressed to her. She opened it
and found Mrs. Ashley’s letter, the money, a letter
from Jerusha Flint to her and the gold pen with its
holder set with rubies.

Pale and silent, Hilda held them, her eyes brimming
with tears. It seemed almost as if her aunt
had returned to hold converse with her, and that
poor Jerusha was yet craving forgiveness, though
“after life’s fitful fever,” she was at rest in the
grave.

“Hilda,” ran the letter, “I was cruel to you, and
can never atone for that, but I give back all I kept
from you. I did not intend to keep the pen, but
forgot to send it with the trunks, and then, wishing
to have no communication with you, put off
sending it. I have used it twice, there being no
other pen in the house. The first time was in writing
my letter to Mrs. Merryman to keep you. You
did not return, and I looked upon the pen as bringing
me good luck. Diana told me that she used it
in writing to Mrs. Warfield; you found a home
with her, which I regarded as better luck, for it
took you out of my sight. I directed an envelope to
my brother Horace with it, enclosing three letters.
One was my mother’s letter to me, received on my
sixteenth birthday. The other two I requested
Horace to forward to our grandfather after I am
gone, and I wish him joy in reading my mother’s
letter to him from Baltimore, and his reply. I also
enclosed for Horace a slip cut from a London newspaper
years and years ago, by my grandmother,
which confirmed the record of our ancestry and heredity
given in my mother’s letter to me.

“That letter from my mother served to keep in
remembrance my miserable childhood. Her pride
of ancestry kept her from allowing me to associate
with the plebeian children of the neighbors, among
whom our poverty-stricken homes were compelled
to be, and to add to my half-starved, and in winter,
half-frozen condition, I was shut up with her sighs
and tears, her heart-sick waiting for forgiveness
and help from her father which never came, and
her unavailing regret for her disobedience to him
and to her mother, which was the cause of all her
troubles.

“My sleep was broken, my nerves wrecked; and
I imagined and dreamed of all kinds of terrible
calamities which we were powerless to escape. When
my mother died, I was taken to an orphan asylum,
which I hated from foundation to roof; and when
old enough to earn my living was compelled to earn
it by means of an occupation I despised.

“I mention these things as some little excuse for
my warped disposition which made me so disagreeable
to my fellow-creatures that I had not one real
friend, and was so cruel to you that I wonder you
lived. For that I implore your forgiveness.

.. class:: right

:sc:`“Jerusha.”`

“Poor Jerusha looked upon this pen as a mascot,”
remarked Hilda, taking it up to examine it after
finishing the letter. “Oh, Aunt Merryman, how
could I bear resentment toward her after reading
this story of her life?”

“Yes, we should be patient with our fellow creatures.
We cannot know the burdens that many of
them are bearing. I have often wondered what
trials poor old Archie has had to bring him to the
condition he is in now, for he has evidently seen
better days.”

“I have often said that Archie is my good genius.
Besides saving my life, it seems that through him,
guided by a kind Providence, I have found three
beautiful homes, and now through him this package
has been found.”

“Did you ever see anything so capable of keeping
a secret as is this desk?” commented Mrs. Merryman.
“Let us examine it more closely.”

“How simple when one understands it!” said
Hilda, raising and lowering the lid. “The desk has
a false bottom to which the lid is attached by
hinges not placed at the end, but a short distance
above it. Thus, when we put up the lid it closes
the secret space, and when the desk is open—that is,
the lid down and resting upon the open drawer beneath
it—it is concealed.”

“It is the greatest curiosity in the shape of a desk
that I have seen,” commented Mrs. Merryman.
“Who would suspect a vacancy under what they
suppose to be the floor of the desk, large enough to
hold a larger package than yours? In truth, several
of that thickness could be concealed there if laid
side by side.”

“But the hiding place is easily seen if one knows
that the secret lies in holding the lid in a horizontal
position; but being always under it, and the entrance
to the secret nook being partly filled in by
the lower end of the lid, it is sure to elude detection.”

“It eluded ours, and Archie was puzzled, although
he had seen it.”

“It cannot be seen except at the moment that
someone is raising or lowering the lid,” remarked
Hilda, experimenting, “and then only by an observing
person who was standing where a side view of
the desk could be had, as did Archie. When the
desk is closed it conceals the false floor; when it is
open it conceals the real one.”

“But you and I are as intelligent as most persons,”
said Mrs. Merryman, reflectively. “How is
it that we could not find out the secret of that desk
as did Jerusha Flint? She said in her letter that
she had used the pen, and yet we find it with her
letter in the secret nook. Who told her how to
find it?”

“The information must have been in the letter
she destroyed. She feared it would fall in other
hands.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right,” answered Mrs.
Merryman.

“It is no wonder that she longed to see me,” continued
Hilda. “I wish for her sake that I had
reached here in time to listen to all she wished to
say.”

They arose, locked the desk and the cottage door,
and, followed by Archie with the basket, went
home, Hilda carrying the package which had been
kept so long from its rightful owner.

Since her return to Dorton she had gone several
times to the village churchyard to visit the grave of
her Aunt Ashley—on which Mrs. Warfield had
long before ordered to be placed a handsome memorial
stone—and never left it without evincing
her forgiveness by pausing at that of Jerusha Flint.

The wish had been in her heart to mark that
lowly mound by a headstone, however small and
plain—a greater longing than she had ever felt for
any acquisition for herself. Now the way was
opened, and the next day she made it part of her
errand to the city to visit the marble yard where
Mrs. Warfield’s order had been faithfully executed,
and order one of snow-white marble bearing only
the carved words—“Jerusha Flint.”

Invitations to the wedding reception at “My
Lady’s Manor” were sent to the four members of
the Warfield family, but Mrs. Warfield and Fred
sent a courteous regret, promising to visit Hilda at
some future time.

“They will never come,” commented Hilda, after
reading the letter aloud to Mr. Courtney. “Fred
will not wish to come, and Aunt Sarah would not
travel so far unless Fred or Paul accompanied her.”

“After we are settled in our home we will invite
them again,” said Mr. Courtney, “and if they are
kept in ignorance of my knowledge of the engagement
between you and Mr. Warfield it will save
them embarrassment.”

“I shall never tell them unless they ask, and I
scarcely think they will mention it to us, or to
anyone.”

Mrs. Lura purposed making her annual visit to
her uncle Robert De Cormis and his family in
Philadelphia about that time, and Paul accompanied
her there, and to the reception at “My Lady’s
Manor.”

Upon her return to Ohio she discanted so volubly
upon the beauty of the bride, the elegance of the
bridegroom, and the grandeur of their home when
in the presence of Fred that Mrs. Warfield was constrained
to think that the chief pleasure she took
in the visit was the opportunity it gave her to embarrass
him.

Mrs. MacQuoid and Chloe were rejoiced that the
home had a mistress, and that mistress, Hilda, and
Sandy, who had resumed his position as coachman
as soon as Mr. Courtney returned from Europe, was
more than satisfied, and drove the iron-grays to
town and back happier than a king.

Mr. and Mrs. Valentine Courtney made an effort
to induce Archie to give up his wanderings and remain
with them, but to all inducements he made
the same reply, “No, Archie has plenty of homes;
he must walk about to find people in the snow.”

“My Lady’s Manor” was a charming visiting
place to the young people of the neighborhood, and
to no one more so than to Erma Merryman, who
looked upon it as a second home, and upon Hilda
as a loved sister.

One morning, about two years after Hilda had
taken up her residence there, Mr. Courtney came
into the nursery with an open letter in his hand.
The king of that small realm was Valentine Courtney,
Jr., a healthy, handsome boy, “just as good as
he is handsome,” being the opinion of each and all
who saw him.

“I think I have a pleasant surprise for you, dear,”
said Mr. Courtney, taking the infant upon his knee
and looking with loving admiration upon mother
and child.

“I am not easily surprised, but have my share of
woman’s curiosity. What is it?” smiled Hilda.

“Judge Sylvester happened to mention to me
some time ago that he wished a partner in his law
business and preferred a young man. I thought
immediately of Fred, and as Sylvester appeared
willing to have me write to him, I did so, remembering
that Mrs. Warfield said in one of her letters
that he wished to go into partnership with an established
firm. Fred answered promptly, and the result
is that he is coming to Baltimore and we will
have him near us.”

“That was so kind and thoughtful in you; Aunt
Sarah will appreciate it,” said Hilda, gratefully.

“I have been wishing to do them some favor that
they would accept, in return for their kindness to
you, and am glad that this was acceptable.”

Hilda wrote that evening to Mrs. Warfield, inviting
her to come with Fred and make a long visit,
a request with which Mrs. Warfield gladly complied.

Thus before a month passed Fred Warfield was
established as partner with Judge Sylvester in Baltimore,
and Mrs. Warfield was at “My Lady’s
Manor,” where her son was always a welcome
guest.

CHAPTER XV—HILDA’S HOME
=======================

Five happy years had passed since Hilda had become
the cherished wife of Mr. Courtney, and during
those years Mrs. Warfield had spent two winters
at “My Lady’s Manor,” and was there for the
third. She was expecting to return to her Ohio
home, for spring had again made the earth jubilant
with the song of birds and fragrant with the perfume
of flowers.

Although no confidences were solicited or given
upon the subject, Hilda knew that her beloved guest
was happier during these visits than at any other
time since Paul’s marriage, because away from the
domineering presence of Mrs. Lura, who was growing
more like Jerusha Flint every year of her life.

No childish voices disturbed the quietude of the
farmhouse; perfect order reigned, and Mrs. Lura
could devote all the time she wished to embroidery,
the chief pleasure of her existence.

There were many reasons for the sojourn at “My
Lady’s Manor” being pleasant to Mrs. Warfield,
not the least of which was having Fred so near, a
lawyer in good position, popular in society as he
had been in Springfield, and, as was characteristic,
falling in love with every beautiful face new to him.

Mr. Courtney invited him frequently to pass the
night with them, taking him back to his office in the
morning; and Fred thought, as had Hilda years before,
that nothing was more enjoyable than the
drive in a luxurious carriage drawn by a span of
handsome, spirited horses.

Then Mrs. Warfield was always happy in the
company of children, and believed that no better or
handsomer boy could be found than the small Valentine;
and the dainty blue-eyed darling—Sarah
Warfield Courtney—was, in her eyes, the perfection
of infantile beauty and excellence.

Another tie which bound her to Hilda and Hilda’s
home was the articles which had belonged to Mrs.
Ashley; and she passed some time each day in the
room containing them; relics hallowed by the touch
of the lovely and beloved young sister.

She loved the neighborhood of Dorton and its
people; she and Mrs. Carl Courtney were congenial
in every way, were members of the same denomination,
and although both were too broad-minded
to be rigidly sectarian, it was a dear tie that attached
them to each other.

Her visit, however, was nearly finished, and she
was making preparations to return to Springfield,
when she received a letter from Mrs. Lura, eminently
characteristic of that managing little matron.
It read:

   “Dear Mother—I think you will be surprised to
   hear of a change made in our household arrangements.
   Father has always been lonely since I
   married and left him, and it occurred to me that it
   would save me much time and trouble going back
   and forth if I could have him with us. So he has
   given up the parsonage, and as he has always been
   accustomed to a large front room with southern
   exposure, and where sunlight comes in freely, I
   have given him yours, which, being just across the
   hall from Paul’s and mine, I think suits him well,
   and I am sure you should be satisfied with the one
   back of it, as Angie tells me you used it the summer
   that Mrs. Lacy and two other visitors were at the
   farmhouse, so you must have preferred it.

   “Believing that you cannot fail in agreeing to
   this, I remain

   .. class:: right

      | “Your affectionate daughter,
      | “Lura Warfield.”

After receiving this epistle it appeared to be a
suitable time for Mr. and Mrs. Courtney to again
urge their loved friend to remain with them, and
as that letter seemed to be the only thing required
to make her decide, she agreed to stay.

They all had occasion to rejoice that she had
thus decided, for the next week after she had appointed
to go to Ohio, little Valentine was ill of
scarlet fever, and Mrs. Warfield, who loved the boy
as if he were of her own flesh and blood, was, next
to Hilda, his devoted nurse.

“’Pears like ter me, Kitty,” said Andy one morning
when the dangerous symptoms were at their
height, “dat Marse Val didn’t seem chipper dis
mornin’ when he com’d over to see Marse Carl an’
Mis’ Emma; has yer took notice to it, Kitty?”

“Marse Val never looked handsomer than he did
this yer mornin’,” replied Kitty, decidedly.

“I didn’t say nothin’ ’bout handsome, Kitty!”
exclaimed Andy irately. “I done said he wan’t so
chipper. I don’t like dat pale face, Kitty; ’tain’t
for no good, min’ dat.”

“I may as well tell you, Uncle Andy,” said Kitty,
hesitatingly, “that Chloe told me all about it; she
was in de china closet when Mis’ Emma was over
dar yistady, and heard her an’ Mis’ Warfield talkin’.
De doctor comes twice a day to see little Marse
Valentine and little Mis’ Sarah; dey has de scarlet
fever, an’ Dr. Lattinger is afeard dat little Marse
Valentine won’t live.”

“Well! well! well!” cried Andy, shaking his
white head, and brushing away a tear with the back
of his wrinkled hand. “I’s nearly a hundred years
ol’, an’ has toted Marse Val in my arms when he
was a chipper baby. I done lubed dat chile like I
lubed my own chillen, an’ now can’t help him none
in his trouble.”

“We must all have trouble in dis world, Uncle
Andy.”

“I know dat, but de good Lord won’t shorely
take little Marse Val an’ leave me who ain’t no
’count nohow. I’s like a withered apple on a dead
branch, dat no wind nor frost nor hail kin fotch
down from offen de tree.”

“Chloe told me that Dr. Lattinger says much depends
on de nursin’, and dey has good nurses. I
tell you that it is a mighty good thing Mis’ Hilda
has dat Ohio lady to call on in time of trouble.”

“’Pears ter me yer knows a heap dis mornin’,
Kitty,” remarked Andy dryly. “’Spose yer was
’tendin’ to keep all dis from de ol’ man.”

“No, Uncle Andy, but Mis’ Emma said it was
better not to tell you unless you asked, for it would
only distress you, for you think so much of Marse
Val.”

“Of course I does, Kitty, but nobody wants to be
kep’ in de dark, yer knows dat yer own self! Ol’
folks wants ter know what is goin’ on, an’ how is
dey ter know widout somebody tells ’em?”

“I will tell you all I know, Uncle Andy,” said
Kitty remorsefully, as the old man took out a remnant
of plaid handkerchief to dry his tears. “What
do you want to know next?”

“Whar did de chillen catch de feber?”

“Dr. Lattinger says it is in de atmosphere.”

“Is dat sumpin’ to eat or drink, Kitty?”

“No, it is the air.”

“Den why couldn’t he say de air? Oh, ’twill be
mighty hard for Marse Val to part wid dat little
boy and gal. Dey is de light of his eyes.”

“But maybe he won’t have to part wid dem, Uncle
Andy,” said Kitty, cheerfully, “and de sorrow
of a night will be forgot in de joy of de mornin’.”

“But I am afeard dey’ll be taken, Kitty,” sighed
the old man tearfully. “I ain’t axed my heavenly
Marster to let me lib a little longer, not sense I had
seen Marse Val so happy in dem chillen, but I suttenly
wants to lib now; an’ if dey is taken I hope de
good Lord will spare ol’ Andy to comfort Marse
Val.”

Andy was spared this grief, for to the joy of
many hearts the children recovered; and when the
balmy summer weather came were well enough to
enjoy many pleasant drives over the shady country
roads.

Hilda, though favored with efficient helpers, lived
far from an idle, aimless life, for her days were
filled with good works. The plans originated by
Mr. Courtney for promoting the temporal and spiritual
welfare of his fellow creatures were heartily
seconded by her; she was in every way a helpmeet.

Time passed speedily and happily in their home,
varied by visits from friends from the city and the
neighborhood, one of the best loved being Erma
Merryman. She had returned from her school in
Baltimore, a cultured and accomplished young lady,
cherished by the home circle and admired in society.

Fred, in his frequent visits to “My Lady’s
Manor,” saw, admired, and as was his wont, fell in
love with her which impelled Hilda to have a serious
talk with him.

“Erma is a sweet, confiding girl,” she said, “and
if you are only intending to flirt with her I consider
it my duty to warn her and her parents that
their confidence in you is misplaced; for you will
leave her for the next pretty face you see.”

“Oh, Cousin Hilda, please don’t prejudice them
against me! I am really in earnest this time.”

“So you always say. Fred, what does make you
so fickle and inconsistent?”

“Absence, Cousin Hilda.”

“Absence! Oh, shame. What style of husband
would you make when you so easily forget a loved
one when separated for a time?”

“But the case would be entirely different, if the
lady were my wife. Never fear, Cousin Hilda. If
I am fortunate enough to win Miss Erma Merryman
you will see me one of the best of husbands;
you will be proud of me yet.”

“Listen, Fred; you and your family have been
dear, kind friends to me; but so, also, have been
Uncle and Aunt Merryman, and it would distress
me beyond measure to have them made unhappy
through you.”

“But I will not give them unhappiness; instead,
I wish to give them a son-in-law first-class in every
respect. Do, Cousin Hilda, lend a helping hand by
speaking a good word for me.”

“No, sir; I will do nothing of the kind. Making
or breaking matrimonial engagements is something
at which my conscience rebels; and if ever I should
be tempted to aid in that line, it certainly would not
be for one so unsettled in the affections as yourself.”

Fred laughed in his usual amiable and lighthearted
manner, but Hilda was too much disturbed
to smile.

“It was never excusable in you, Fred, even with
youth on your side; but at your age it is positively
culpable. You will lose the respect of all right-minded
people, for if there is a person who merits
ridicule, it is a light-headed, trifling old beau.”

“But Cousin Hilda, how can I convince you that
I am in earnest this time? I really love Miss Erma
and intend asking her to be my wife.”

“No doubt; but unless you give me your word of
honor, as a gentleman, that you will not trifle with
the affections of that lovely girl, but will keep your
word, Mr. Courtney and myself will not consider
you worthy of respect, and our home will be closed
against you.”

“I do give you my word of honor as a gentleman
that I will ask Erma Merryman to be my wife;
and if she accepts, will ask the very earliest time
that she will agree to for our marriage, and will
not make the least effort to break the engagement
though the face of an houri should tempt me. Will
that satisfy you, Cousin Hilda?”

“Yes, and no one will rejoice more than I to see
you happily married; and you cannot fail in happiness
if your wife be Erma Merryman.”

The evening that Hilda and Fred had this conversation
Erma received a letter from Anita Appleton,
a school friend in Hagerstown, accepting the
cordial invitation given her by Erma the week before,
to pass a month at the Merryman farmhouse.

She had scarcely finished the perusal of it when
Fred called and was told of the expected visitor,
and innocent satisfaction beamed in her gentle face
when she noticed that his brow grew clouded, and
the smile left his lips.

“You do not seem glad, Mr. Warfield,” she said.
“I am sure you will be pleased with her. She is not
only very beautiful, but is lovely in disposition. She
is accomplished and witty; very different from me,
which is, I suppose, my reason for loving her more
than any girl in the school in Baltimore.”

“I am glad for your sake, Miss Erma, but not
for my own. I wish only your society,” he said,
taking her small, white hand in his, “not only for
the evenings of the coming month, but for all
time. I came to ask you to be my wife,” and accustomed
as was Fred to making proposals of marriage,
his voice trembled with apprehension as to
the answer.

Erma’s face flushed, then paled, and she remained
silent; a silence which Fred misconstrued.

“I am aware that it was my duty to have first
asked your parents’ consent, but you have given but
little encouragement that you cared for me, and
now this expected visitor has unsettled my plans.”

Erma was still silent; she seemed to be collecting
her thoughts for an answer.

“Promise me that you will be my wife; promise
now, before a stranger steps in to prevent us being
alone together! If you will consent, I will seek the
consent of your father and mother before I leave
this evening.”

“I must have time to consider,” said Erma; “you
cannot expect me to take such an important step
without reflection, or consultation with papa and
mamma.”

“But you can certainly give me some hope, or appoint
some early date when you can give me your
decision!”

“Yes, I will appoint a time,” she said, gently.
“When Anita’s visit is over, if you ask me again I
will give you my decision. There is no need to
speak to papa and mamma in regard to it; their only
wish is for my happiness. They could say no
more to you than I have already done, and I am
sure that they will give free and full consent to any
choice I may make.”

“But I would be so much happier if you would
promise me now, so much more settled in mind
than if kept in suspense for more than a month.”

“The time will soon pass, and we must bend all
our thoughts toward making Anita’s visit pleasant.
We will take her out driving and on horseback.
Cecil Courtney would, I think, help make a party of
four for many a pleasant expedition.”

“Then Cecil must be her escort; I will not give
you up to him!” said Fred, his face flushing warmly.

“We will not consult our own pleasure,” replied
Erma, gently. “Whatever will be most agreeable to
Anita for the short time she will be here must be
our pleasure. I only hope that you will assist in
entertaining her by coming as many evenings as
you can.”

“There is nothing to prevent my coming from
Baltimore every evening with Mr. Courtney; you
know that I have a standing invitation to ‘My
Lady’s Manor.’ Mr. Courtney is glad to have my
company in the drive out and back to the city.”

“I know it; Mr. Courtney loves you as he would
an own brother.”

Early the following week Miss Appleton came,
was cordially welcomed by the Merrymans, and
proved to be one of the most agreeable of guests,
a brilliant, attractive creature, with whom every
member of the family felt at home from the moment
she crossed the door sill, and whose cheery presence
seemed to pervade the whole house.

Anita had perfect taste in dress; and every article
of her artistic and elegant wardrobe was becoming
to her. More than once, the very first evening in
the parlor of the Merryman home, where several
young people were congregated in honor of her arrival,
Erma saw Fred’s glance rest upon the beautiful
face of her friend, and then upon hers, and she
read his thoughts as correctly as if they were spoken
words.

“Bird of Paradise and gentle dove,” he had said
in a low tone to her, and she had the intuition that
“Bird of Paradise” was the ideal of the spoiled
favorite of society, and not the sober plumaged
dove.

Cecil Courtney was more than pleased to act as
escort to one of the girls, and, seeming to prefer
Erma, Fred did not object; so after the first drive
and horseback expedition, all fell naturally into the
places which they had filled the beginning of the
visit.

Fred made no secret of his preference for the
companionship of Anita, and soothed his conscience
with the thought that he had been solicited by
Erma to help entertain her friend, and she surely
could not be so unjust as to feel aggrieved that he
had taken her at her word.

The visit was over and Anita returned to her
home, and Fred, true to the letter of his request,
and his promise to Hilda, called to hear Erma’s decision.

“I have concluded that we are not at all suited to
each other, Mr. Warfield,” said Erma when he
again made his offer of marriage.

A swift look of relief crossed Fred’s expressive
features, and any lingering idea that he really cared
for her fled from Erma’s mind.

The next day she went to take tea at “My Lady’s
Manor,” and Hilda rejoiced at heart that she was
not a love-lorn damsel, but was, as usual, bright
and cheerful.

“Fred seemed pleased with your friend Anita,”
remarked Hilda as the two were seated in the
shaded veranda while Mrs. Warfield and the children
were taking their afternoon rest.

“Not pleased only, but captivated. He is certainly
in love now, if never before.”

“But Erma, dear, if you care for Fred, was it
wise to invite your beautiful friend to visit you at
this time?”

A smile, as if the question had called up some
pleasant remembrance, hovered upon the lips of
Erma, and Hilda’s heart grew so light that she
laughed gleefully.

“Tell me, my Erma,” she said, assuming a tragic
air, “pour out the secrets of that heart into my
faithful bosom.”

“I will, oh friend of my childhood!” laughed
Erma; then with tears of feeling in her eyes she
added, “Oh, Hilda, how grateful I am every hour
since Anita’s visit that I was willing to agree with
papa and mamma’s advice to invite her to visit me at
this time.”

“The advice of Uncle and Aunt Merryman?”
exclaimed Hilda in surprise.

“Yes, I had told them of Mr. Warfield’s flippant
manner of speaking of his broken engagements,
and they trembled for my happiness should I become
his wife. That was our reason for inviting
Anita at this time and the result is just as we expected.”

“And you are not crushed by the blow? Ah,
Erma, dear, someone has taken possession of that
gentle heart of yours.”

Erma’s downcast eyes and flushing cheeks confirmed
her in this opinion in advance of the artless
words, “Yes, Hilda, I compared him with Cecil
Courtney, and he dwindled into insignificance beside
that manly, reliable friend that I have known
from babyhood. And oh, Hilda, Cecil has always
cared for me and I did not know it! Nor did I
know until Anita’s visit that I cared for him.”

“I congratulate you both from my heart; but
Erma, dear, there is another side of the question to
be considered. Was there not danger of your friend
Anita becoming attached to Fred? You cannot
deny that he is handsome and agreeable.”

“I told her that he was a known trifler, and she
was not many evenings in his society until she saw
that my opinion was correct. She went away perfectly
fancy free, so far as Fred was concerned. I
cannot answer for him.”

Erma had not long to wait to hear how Fred
fared, for Anita’s second letter informed her that
he had written an offer of marriage which she declined
for two reasons, one being that she could not
respect a man who so trifled with the affections,
and the other, that after her return she promised
herself in marriage to a young man worthy in every
respect, absence proving that they were all in all
to each other.

Winter, with its sleighing parties and other
amusements, brought the young people together frequently,
and Cecil Courtney was always Erma’s
escort, both their families, the Lattingers, and in
truth the whole neighborhood approving highly of
the prospective union.

Thus the months passed, and one sweet June
morning a company of dear friends were gathered
in the parlor of the Merryman farmhouse to witness
the marriage, after which the newly-made husband
and wife went upon a wedding journey and
then took up their residence in Baltimore, as happy
a young couple as could be found in “Maryland,
My Maryland.”

The evening of the wedding day Hilda and the
children took one of their favorite walks to Dorton
churchyard, and while the little ones, under the care
of Chloe, gathered wild flowers that dotted the
grassy enclosure, Hilda went to the resting place of
Jerusha Flint.

When she reached the spot she was surprised to
see a lady beside it, and more so to find in her no
stranger, but Mrs. Robert De Cormis, of Philadelphia,
the aunt, by marriage, of Mrs. Lura Warfield.

“No wonder that you are surprised to see me,
my dear,” she said, as Hilda greeted her cordially.
“I am on my way to your house to pass the night
with you, if agreeable to you to entertain me at this
time. The postmaster at Dorton pointed out ‘My
Lady’s Manor,’ but I took a circuit from the direct
way in order to visit this churchyard.”

“Nothing would give us greater pleasure than to
have you with us, Mrs. De Cormis. Shall we walk,
or would you prefer that I send Chloe to have the
carriage come for us?”

“I prefer walking this lovely evening, and we
can converse on our way. I came from Philadelphia
this morning, and stopped off in Baltimore in
order to see Horace Flint, the brother of Jerusha
Flint. He had forwarded letters to our address
which was the reason for my coming. My dear, do
you know that Jerusha was my husband’s niece, the
daughter of his only sister?”

“His niece!” echoed Hilda, halting to look into
the face of Mrs. De Cormis; “his sister’s daughter!
Then she was first cousin to Lura Warfield, wife of
Cousin Paul.”

“Yes, her own cousin; Lura’s father and Jerusha’s
mother were brother and sister.”

“Lura Warfield has no knowledge of it, I am
sure. I have every reason to know that she never
heard of Jerusha Flint until she became acquainted
with me,” commented Hilda.

“No, I am sure of it. My husband never heard
of Jerusha until we received the letter from her
brother—Horace De Cormis Flint—which Jerusha
requested should be forwarded to her grandfather.
The letter proved itself, having been written by
Jerusha’s mother—my sister-in-law, long since
dead; and enclosed in it was my father-in-law’s reply.”

“But I cannot understand it,” exclaimed Hilda
in bewilderment. “Jerusha died several years ago.
Why were not her mother’s and her grandfather’s
letters forwarded at that time to your husband, Mr.
Robert De Cormis, instead of waiting until now?”

“Horace Flint gave the excuse that as he and his
sister Jerusha had lived until past middle age without
any acquaintance with their mother’s relatives
he should never have made himself known were it
not for the request of Jerusha.”

“I never saw Horace Flint,” remarked Hilda.
“He may never have lived in this neighborhood, or
if so, must have left it before my remembrance.”

“He did not mention how long he has lived in
Baltimore, but just incidentally mentioned that
Jerusha’s home was with him until she rented the
cottage where a lady lived whose name was Ashley.”

“It is so surprising that I can as yet scarcely
comprehend it,” said Hilda.

“It was the same to me, and the perusal of the
two letters sent by request of Jerusha was a great
grief to my husband. I will tell you of them.

“The mother of Jerusha and Horace Flint was
the only daughter of Father De Cormis, and was
several years older than her two brothers—Rev.
Horace De Cormis, of Woodmont, Ohio, and Robert
De Cormis, my husband.

“She was beautiful, but self-willed, and in spite
of the threats of her father and the entreaties of her
mother persisted in receiving the attentions of a
young man named Archibald Flint, who was visiting
Philadelphia from San Francisco.

“He was handsome, cultured and amiable, but
without knowledge of business of any kind.

“To break off this intimacy Miss De Cormis was
sent to a distant boarding school. Mr. Flint followed,
she eloped and they were married, and for
several years her parents heard no word of them.
Not knowing that during this time her mother had
died, and being in abject poverty, Mrs. Flint wrote
to her parents from her poor home in Baltimore,
beseeching them for the sake of her little daughter,
Jerusha—named for Mother De Cormis—to send
relief.

“My father-in-law was a man of implacable temper;
he wrote commanding her never to communicate
with him again. He reproached her as being
the cause of her mother’s death, and added that her
ingratitude and disobedience to her parents was being
visited upon her children. He concluded his
letter by saying that he disowned her as a daughter,
had disinherited her, and had commanded his young
sons, Horace and Robert, under the same penalty,
never to see her or communicate with her in any
way.

“In this letter he returned the one she had written;
and these were the two letters which Jerusha
had requested her brother Horace to send their
grandfather; but he being years before in his grave,
we, who are living in his old home, received them.”

“Poor Jerusha had these letters,—her mother’s
to grieve over, and her grandfather’s to sour her
against the world,” sighed Hilda. “Her poor young
mother was severely punished for her disobedience.
I wonder how long she lived after receiving that
letter?”

“It must have been several years, for Horace
Flint mentioned in our conversation to-day that
Jerusha was ten years of age and he was six, when,
after the death of their mother, they were taken by
their father to the orphan asylum.”

“I wonder what became of the father?” questioned
Hilda.

“We always supposed that he died years ago,
our reason for thinking so being a letter found
among the papers left, by Father De Cormis. It
was written to him by a nurse in the hospital in
Baltimore, saying that a man was lying there dangerously
ill of brain fever, and in his pocket they
had found a letter which, being addressed to Father
De Cormis, the nurse had written to enclose it. But
Horace informed me to-day that his father recovered.”

“I wonder if Father De Cormis gave any attention
to the letter of the nurse?” questioned Hilda.

“I think not, nor to the one Archibald enclosed
in it, which was so pathetic in its appeal that, so
well as I knew my father-in-law, I wondered that
he could steel his heart against it.

“It was written at the bedside of his sick wife,
and in it Father De Cormis was implored to send
relief to the suffering woman and her little children.
The writer added that he was ill, and exhausted
from watching, and from a long walk of
several miles to ask assistance of his brother-in-law,
Joshua Farnsworth, of ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ who
was willing and able to assist him, but who had
died suddenly, so that hope was extinguished.

“He wrote that he had no expectation or wish to
live, but while able to write, and with a clear mind,
he wished to state the incidents of his visit to his
brother-in-law, Joshua Farnsworth, at ‘My Lady’s
Manor,’ which, with his many anxieties and insufficient
food, had brought on the fever from which
he was then suffering.

“In order to make his statement plain, he dated
back to his boyhood in San Francisco, where he and
his sister were the only children of wealthy parents
who indulged them in every wish. He grew up
without knowledge of business of any kind, his
parents lost their property, and this was followed
by their death.

“His sister married Joshua Farnsworth, who at
that time lived in San Francisco, and at the age of
twenty-one she died, leaving an infant son—Reginald—whom
Mr. Farnsworth placed in the care of a
friend and left for Maryland and became owner of
‘My Lady’s Manor,’ now your home.

“Archibald wrote that being without home or
kindred—except his little nephew, Reginald Farnsworth—he
left San Francisco for Philadelphia. At
this point in his letter he implored pardon—as he
had done many times before—for the elopement, and
added that they had wandered about seeking employment,
until compelled to remain in Baltimore
owing to the ill health of his wife. They were reduced
to want, when he heard incidentally that his
brother-in-law, Joshua Farnsworth, was living here,
and he walked from Baltimore to see him, ask for
help and then return the same night. He saw Mr.
Farnsworth at the post-office and walked with him
to ‘My Lady’s Manor’ and up to the seats upon the
roof, where they could converse undisturbed. There
Mr. Farnsworth agreed to take him back to Baltimore
that night in his carriage and provide liberally
for his family.

“He had scarcely finished speaking when he
placed his hand upon his heart and fell back lifeless.
The shock to Archibald was so great that for
some time he sat motionless; then, realizing the
danger to himself if found there alone, he resolved
to escape from the house. When he reached the
corridor he saw the open door in the wall of a back
attic room. He crept through it into a meat room,
closed it after him and went down a flight of steps
and out a door which he locked and took the key,
unconsciously. He walked back to Baltimore,
where at the bedside of his wife he wrote the letter
to Father De Cormis, closing it with a heartfelt
petition for assistance, and taking all the blame of
the daughter’s disobedience upon himself.

“The letter was never mailed by him, for his wife
died that night. The next morning he took Jerusha
and Horace to the orphan asylum, then went to the
hospital, where the letter was found upon his person.”

“Does Horace Flint say that his father is yet
living?” asked Hilda.

“Yes, but he has no home, but wanders about,
his mind nearly a blank since his attack of brain
fever.”

“It surely is Archie, the Archie who saved my
life!” exclaimed Hilda. “No one in the neighborhood
knows his last name, for he has forgotten it.”

“Horace mentioned that he sees him frequently,
as did Jerusha, but without making themselves
known to him. I think there is no doubt but he is
the Archie you speak of; and, my dear, I am sure
you will be surprised to know that Jerusha was the
great-granddaughter of a French nobleman—the
Marquis De Cormis. He was a noted officer in the
French army, but owing to a sudden ebullition of
temper was forced to flee from his native land.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Hilda. “I wonder if
Jerusha knew it!”

“Yes, her mother told her of it in the letter
which Jerusha sent to her brother Horace, and
which Horace forwarded to Philadelphia. He also
showed me a slip cut from a London newspaper of
that date which gave all the details of the affair
which made a refugee of the marquis.”

“Do you know what it was?”

“Yes, my father-in-law told us of it a short time
before his death, and we also found a full account
of it among his papers and those of the marquis,
which he had kept. The substance of it was that
the young Marquis De Cormis was at one time
summoned from the frontier by his superior officer,
and when he upon a dark, stormy night arrived at
the tent of the officer, cold, wet, and exhausted from
a long ride, he was severely and insultingly reprimanded
for his delay in reaching there.

“The haughty spirit of the marquis could not
brook the injustice from one whose social position
was inferior to his, and seizing a boot which the
officer had just removed, he hurled it at the head of
its owner. It struck him upon the temple and he
fell to the ground unconscious.

“The marquis rushed from the tent and with the
help of his aides escaped to England, and from
thence sailed to America, where he lived in the
strictest retirement. He married in Philadelphia
and my father-in-law was the only heir to the
property in France, and to the title, neither of which
he made effort to claim.

“In my father-in-law’s will was a request that my
husband should go to France and lay claim to the
property, and divide it equally between himself and
Horace, which has been done.”

The two ladies had walked slowly toward “My
Lady’s Manor” during the conversation, and upon
reaching it found that Archie, who had come the
evening before, was still there; and after Hilda had
shown Mrs. De Cormis to her room she returned to
have a chat with him.

“You have never told me your last name, Archie,”
she said gently as she took a seat beside him.
“Every person has a last name, and it would please
me to know yours.”

“Archie forgets; he has tried, and tried, and cannot
think,” and a look of sad perplexity came into
the worn face.

“Is it Flint? Archibald Flint?”

A gleam of glad recognition came into the eyes
of the wanderer, and he clasped his hands in delight.

“That is it! Archibald Flint! Archie has never
heard it since he had the fever. Archibald Flint!
Yes, that is Archie’s name.”

From that time he made no effort to leave “My
Lady’s Manor.” He said he was tired of looking
for people in the snow; he must rest. So he remained
in that comfortable home, frequently saying
to himself, “Archibald Flint! Yes, that is Archie’s
name,” and the home of the one whose life he had
saved was truly a haven of rest to his weary feet.

Lives of usefulness, peace and happiness were enjoyed
by the Courtneys and their loved Mrs. Warfield;
and Mrs. Ashley’s prayer had, in God’s own
time and way, been fully answered; for Hilda was
a consistent Christian, and her home and that of
Sarah Warfield was one and the same.

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   THE END.

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