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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 37698
   :PG.Title: Dawn of the Morning
   :PG.Released: 2013-04-07
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Grace Livingston Hill
   :DC.Title: Dawn of the Morning
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1911
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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DAWN OF THE MORNING
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      Dawn
      of the Morning

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      BY
      GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

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      AUTHOR OF
      MARCIA SCHUYLER, PHOEBE DEANE, ETC.

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      NEW YORK
      GROSSET & DUNLAP
      PUBLISHERS

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      Made in the United States of America

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      COPYRIGHT, 1911
      BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

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   Wings of the Morning

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..

   |  "The morning hangs its signal
   |    Upon the mountain's crest,
   |  While all the sleeping valleys
   |    In silent darkness rest;
   |  From peak to peak it flashes,
   |    It laughs along the sky
   |  That the crowning day is coming, by and by!
   |  We can see the rose of morning,
   |    A glory in the sky,
   |  And that splendor on the hill-tops
   |    O'er all the land shall lie.
   |  Above the generations
   |    The lonely prophets rise,—
   |  The Truth flings dawn and day-star
   |    Within their glowing eyes;
   |  From heart to heart it brightens,
   |    It draweth ever nigh,
   |  Till it crowneth all men thinking, by and by!
   |  The soul hath lifted moments
   |    Above the drift of days,
   |  When life's great meaning breaketh
   |    In sunrise on our ways;
   |  From hour to hour it haunts us,
   |    The vision draweth nigh,
   |  Till it crowneth living, *dying*, by and by!
   |  And in the sunrise standing,
   |    Our kindling hearts confess
   |  That 'no good thing is failure.
   |    No evil thing success!'
   |  From age to age it groweth,
   |    That radiant faith so high,
   |  And its crowning day is coming by and by!"
   |
   |  WILLIAM C. GANNETT

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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   Dawn of the Morning

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   CHAPTER I

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In the year 1824, in a pleasant town located between
Schenectady and Albany, stood the handsome colonial
residence of Hamilton Van Rensselaer.  Solemn hedges
shut in the family pride and hid the family sorrow, and
about the borders of its spacious gardens, where even the
roses seemed subdued, there played a child.  The stately
house oppressed her, and she loved the sombre garden
best.

Her only friend in the old house seemed a tall clock
that stood on the stairs and told out the hours in the
hopeless tone that was expected of a clock in such a house,
though it often took time to wink pleasantly at the child
as she passed by, and talk off a few seconds and minutes
in a brighter tone.

But the great clock on the staircase ticked awesomely
one morning as the little girl went slowly down to her
father's study in response to his bidding.

She did not want to go.  She delayed her steps as
much as possible, and looked up at the kindly old clock
for sympathy; but even the round-eyed sun and the friendly
moon that went around on the clock face every day as
regularly as the real sun and moon, and usually appeared
to be bowing and smiling at her, wore solemn expressions,
and seemed almost pale behind their highly painted
countenances.

The little girl shuddered as she gave one last look over
her shoulder at them and passed into the dim recesses of
the back hall, where the light came only in weird,
half-circular slants from the mullioned window over the front
door.  It was dreadful indeed when the jolly sun and
moon looked grave.

She paused before the heavy door of the study and held
her breath, dreading the ordeal that was to come.  Then,
gathering courage, she knocked timidly, and heard her
father's instant, cold "Come."

With trembling fingers she turned the knob and went in.

There were heavy damask curtains at the windows,
reaching to the floor, caught back with thick silk cords
and tassels.  They were a deep, sullen red, and filled the
room with oppressive shadows in no wise relieved by the
heavy mahogany furniture upholstered in the same red
damask.

Her father sat by his ponderous desk, always littered
with papers which she must not touch.

His sternly handsome face was forbidding.  The very
beauty of it was hateful to her.  The look on it reminded
her of that terrible day, now nearly three years ago, when
he had returned from a journey of several months abroad
in connection with some brilliant literary enterprise, and
had swept her lovely mother out of his life and home, the
innocent victim of long-entertained jealousy and most
unfounded suspicion.

The little girl had been too young to understand what
it was all about.  When she cried for her she was
forbidden even to think of her, and was told that her mother
was unworthy of that name.

The child had declared with angry tears and stampings
of her small foot, that it was not true, that her
mother was good and dear and beautiful; but they had
paid no heed to her.  The father had sternly commanded
silence and sent her away; and the mother had not
returned.

So she had sobbed her heart out in the silence of her
own room, where every object reminded her of the lost
mother's touch and voice and presence, and had gone about
the house in a sullen silence unnatural to childhood, thereby
making herself more enemies than friends.

Of her father she was afraid.  She shrank into terrified
silence whenever he approached, scarcely answering
his questions, and growing farther away from him every
day, until he instinctively knew that she hated him for
her mother's sake.

When a year had passed he procured a divorce without
protest from the innocent but crushed wife, this by aid
of a law that often places "Truth forever on the scaffold,
Wrong forever on the throne."  Not long after, he brought
to his home as his wife a capable, arrogant, self-opinionated
woman, who set herself to rule him and his household as
it should be ruled.

The little girl was called to audience in the gloomy
study where sat the new wife, her eyes filled with hostility
toward the other woman's child, and was told that she must
call the lady "Mother."

Then the black eyes that held in their dreamy depths
some of the gunpowder flash of her father's steely ones
took fire; the little face darkened with indignant fury;
the small foot came down with fierce determination on the
thick carpet, and the child declared:

"I will *never* call her mother!  She is *not* my mother!
She is a bad woman, and she has no right here.  She
cannot be your wife.  It is wicked for a man to have two
wives.  I know, for I heard Mary Ann and Betsey say so
this morning in the kitchen.  My mother is alive yet.
She is at Grandfather's.  I heard Betsey say that too.  You
are a wicked, cruel man, and I hate you.  I will not have
you for a father any more.  I will go away and stay with
my mother.  She is good.  *You* are bad!  I hate you!  I
hate you!  *I hate you*!  *And I hate her*!"—pointing
toward the new wife, who sat in horrified condemnation,
with two fiery spots upon her outraged cheeks.

"Jemima!" thundered her father in his angriest tone.

But the little girl turned upon him furiously.

"My name is not Jemima!" she screamed.  "I will
not let you call me so.  My name is Dawn.  My mother
called me Dawn.  I will not answer when you call me
Jemima."

"Jemima, you may go to your room!" commanded
the father, standing up, white to the lips, to face a will
no whit less adamant than his own.

"I will not go until you call me Dawn," she answered,
her face turning white and stern, with sudden singular
likeness to her father on its soft round outlines.

She stood her ground until carried struggling upstairs
and locked into her own room.

Gradually she had cried her fury out, and succumbed
to the inevitable, creeping back as seldom as possible into
the life of the house, and spending the time with her own
brooding thoughts and sad plays, far in the depths of the
box-boarded garden, or shut into the quiet of her own
room.

To the new mother she never spoke unless she had to,
and never called her Mother, though there were many
struggles to compel her to do so.  She never came when
they called her Jemima, nor obeyed a command prefaced
by that name, though she endured in consequence many
a whipping and many a day in bed, fed on bread and water.

"What is the meaning of this strange whim?" demanded
the new wife, with set lips.  Her position was
none too easy, nor her disposition markedly that of a
saint.

"A bit of her mother's sentimentality," explained the
chagrined father.  "She objected to calling the child for
my grandmother, Jemima.  She wanted it named for her
own mother, and said Jemima was harsh and ugly, until
one day her old minister, who was fully as sentimental
as she, if he was an old man, told her that Jemima meant
'Dawn of the Morning.'  After that she made no further
protest.  But I had no idea she had carried her foolishness
to this extent, nor taught the child such notions about
her honest and honorable name."

"It won't take long to get them out of her head,"
prophesied the new-comer, with the sparkle of combat in
her eye.  Yet it was now nearly three years since the little
girl had seen or heard from her mother, and she still refused
to answer to the name of Jemima.  The step-mother had
fallen into the habit of saying "you" when she wanted
anything done.

Of the events which preceded her father's summons
this morning, Dawn knew nothing.

Three days before he had received an urgent message
from his former wife's father, stating that his daughter
was dead, and demanding an immediate interview.  It was
couched in such language that, being the man he was, he
could not refuse to comply.

He answered the summons immediately, going by horseback
a hard six-hours ride that he might catch an earlier
stage than he could otherwise have done.  He was the
kind of man that always did what he felt to be his duty,
no matter how unpleasant it might be.  It was the only
thing that saved his severity from being a vice.  His
father-in-law had laid this journey upon him as a duty,
and though he had no definite idea of the reason for this
sudden demand, he went at once.

No one but his Maker can penetrate the soul of a
man like Hamilton Van Rensselaer to know what were his
thoughts as he walked up the rose-bordered path to the
fine old brick house, which a few years before he had trod
with his beautiful young bride leaning upon his arm.

With grave ceremony, the old servant opened the door
into the stately front room where most of Van Rensselaer's
courting had been done, and left him alone in the dim
light that sifted through partly drawn shades.

He stood a moment within the shadowed room, a sense
of the past sweeping over him with oppressive force, like
a power that might not be resisted.  Then as his eyes grew
accustomed to the half-darkness, he started, for there
before him was a coffin!

His father-in-law's message had not led him to expect
to see his former wife.  He had gathered from the letter
that she might have been dead some weeks, and that the
matter to be discussed was of business, though probably
painfully connected with the one who was gone.

While the news of her death had given him a shock
which he had not anticipated, he had yet had time in his
long journey to grow accustomed to the thought of it.
But he was in no wise prepared to meet the sight of her
lying there in her last sleep, so still and white.

Strangely moved, he stepped nearer, not understanding
why he felt thus toward one whom he firmly believed had
made utter wreck of his life.

She lay in a simple white gown like the one she used
to wear when he first knew her.  In her hand was one white
rose.  It might have come from her wedding bouquet.  The
soft fragrance of it floated up and smote him with keen
and unexpected pain.  The rose had reached where a sword
could not have penetrated.

Death had kindly erased the deep lines of suffering
from Mary Montgomery's beautiful face, and told no tales
of the broken heart; but to see what he had once loved,
pure and lovely as it used to be, with no trace of the
havoc he had wrought upon it, spoke louder to the
conscience of the man than a sorrowful face could have done;
for then he might have turned from her with a hardened
heart, saying it was all her own fault and she had got only
what she deserved.  But to see her thus was as if God's
finger had touched her and exonerated her from all blame.
The sight shook the very foundations of his belief in her
disgrace.

He was filled with conflicting emotions.  He had not
supposed that he could feel this way, for he had thought
that his love for Mary was dead; yet it had raised its
dishonored head and given him one piercing look, while it
had seemed to say to his heart, "You are too late!  You
are too late!"

The sound of footsteps coming down the hall recalled
him to himself.  It came to him that this was what he had
been brought here for, this dramatic effect of Mary's
death, perhaps for revenge, perhaps to try to make him
acknowledge that he had been in the wrong.

He stiffened visibly and turned toward the door.  His
heart, so accustomed to the hardening process, grew
adamant again, and he was ready with a haughty word to greet
the father, but the dignity of the white-haired man who
entered the room held him in check.

Mr. Montgomery went over to the window, merely
giving his visitor a grave bow in passing, and pushed up
the heavy shades.  The sunlight burst joyously in upon the
solemnity of the room, unhindered by the sheer muslin
curtains, and flung its golden glory about the sweet face
in the coffin, making a halo of light above the soft, dark
waves of hair.

The younger man's eyes were drawn irresistibly to look
at her once more, and the sight startled him more than
ever, for now she seemed like a crowned saint, whose
irreproachable life was too sacred for him to come near.

The old man came over and stood in the pathway of
light from the window, though not so as to hinder its falling
on the dead face, and turned toward his former son-in-law.

Then and not till then did the visitor notice that the
old man held in his arms a beautiful boy between two and
three years old.

Proudly the grandfather stood with the chubby arm
around his neck and the dimpled fingers patting his cheek.
The sunlight fell in a broad illumination over the head
and face of the child, kindling into flame the masses of
tumbled curls which showed the same rich mahogany tint
that had always made Hamilton Van Rensselaer's head a
distinguished mark in any company.  The baby's eyes
were a wonderful gray, which even now held flashes of
steel—albeit flashes of fun and not of passion.  As the
man looked, they mirrored back his own startlingly.  In
the round baby cheeks were two dimples strikingly placed,
the counterpart of two that daring Nature had triflingly
set in the otherwise stern countenance of the man.  The
likeness was marvellous.

In sheer astonishment the man gazed at the child, and
then as he looked the baby frowned, and he saw his own
face in miniature, identical even to the sternness which
was the prevailing expression of his countenance.

Suddenly the man felt that he stood before God and
was being judged and rebuked for his treatment of the
dead.  The awful remorse that stung his soul burst forth
in a single sentence which was wrung from him by an
unseen force:

"Why did you never tell me?"

He flashed the rebuke at the old man, but the dark eyes
under the heavy white brows only looked at him the more
steadily and did not flinch, as if they would tell him to
look to himself for an answer to his question.

The steady gaze did its work.  It was the Nemesis
before which his pride and self-esteem fell.  His glance
went from the righteous face of the old man to the pure
and beautiful eyes of the boy, now frowning with
disapproval, and he dropped into a chair with a groan.

"I have been wrong!" he said, and bowed his head,
the last atom of his pride rent away from him.  There
beside the dead, great scorching tears of bitterness found
their way to his eyes, washing away the scales of blind
conceit, and bringing clearer vision.  Mary Montgomery
was vindicated in the eyes of the man who had wronged her.

But the baby frowned and cried softly:

"Hush, bad man!  You go away!  You wake my pitty
muvver!  She's 's'eep!"

The strong man shrank from the child's words as from
a blow, and looked up with almost a pleading on his usually
cold face.  But the old man watched him sternly.

"Yes, it is enough.  You may go.  There is nothing
more to be said.  Now you understand.  This is why I
sent for you.  It was her right."

"But," said the stricken man, and looked toward the
sleeping one in the coffin, "may I not wait until——"

"You have no right," the old man answered sternly,
and the young man turned away with a strange wild
feeling tearing his throat like a sob.

"No, I have no right."

Then with a sudden movement he turned toward the
child as if he would claim something there, but the baby
hid his face and clung to his grandfather's neck.

"I have no right," he said again.  One last look he
gave the sweet dead face, as though he would ask
forgiveness, then turned and went unsteadily from the room.

The old father followed him silently, as though to
complete some ceremony, and, closing the door softly
behind him, spoke a few words of explanation, facts that
had they been brought forth sooner might have made all
things different.  It was Mary's wish that no word should
be spoken in her vindication while she lived.  If her
husband could not trust what she had told him when he first
came home, it mattered not to her what he believed.  The
hope of her life was crushed.  But now that she was
beyond further pain, and for the boy's sake, her father
had sent for him that he might know these things before
the wife he had wronged was laid to rest.

Then Van Rensselaer felt himself dismissed, and with
one last look at the huddled figure of his little son, who
still kept his face hid, he went down the path again, his
pride utterly crushed, his life a broken thing.

After him echoed the sound of a baby's voice, "Go
away, bad man!" and then the great oak door closed
quickly behind him for the last time.

He trod the streets of the village as in a nightmare,
and knew not that there were those in his way who would
have tarred and feathered him if it had not been for love
of the honored dead and her family.  Straight into the
country he walked, to the next village, and knew not how
far he had come.  There he hired a horse and rode to the
next stage route, and so, resting not even at night, he came
to his home.  But ever on the way he had been attended
by a vision, on the left a sweet-faced figure in a coffin,
with one white rose whose perfume stifled him, and on the
right by a bright-haired boy with eyes that pierced his
very soul.  And whether on horseback or by stage, in the
company of others or alone in a dreary woodland road,
they were there on either hand, and he knew they would
be so while life for him should last.

He reached home in the gray of a morning that was
to become a gray day, and sent up word that his little
daughter should come down to his study when her early
tasks were finished.

He had not said a word to his wife as yet, though she
had suspected where he was going when he told her that
Mary Montgomery was dead.  It lifted a great load from
her shoulders to know that the other wife was no longer
living.  She had been going about these three days with
almost a smile upon her hard countenance, and the little
girl had had no easy time of it with her father away.

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It was very still in the study after Dawn sat down in
the straight-backed chair opposite her father.  She could
hear the old clock tick solemnly, slowly.  It said,
"Poor-child!  Poor-child!  Poor-child!  Poor-child!" until the
tears began to smart in her eyes.

Her father sat with his elbow on the desk, and his
handsome head bowed upon his hand.  He did not raise
his head when she entered.  She began to wonder if he was
asleep, and her heart beat with awe and dread.  Nothing
good had ever come to her out of these interviews in the
study.  Perhaps he was going to send her away, too, as he
had sent her mother.  Her little face hardened.  Well,
she would be glad to go.  What if he should send her to
her mother!  Oh, that would be joy!—but he never would.

She was a beautiful child as she sat there palpitating
with fear and hope.  Her face was like her mother's, fair,
with wild-rose color, and eyes that were dark and dreamy,
always looking out with longing and appeal.  Her hair,
like her father's only in its tendency to curl, was fine and
dark, and fell about the little troubled face.  It had
been the cause of many a contention between her and her
step-mother, who wished to plait it smoothly into braids,
which she considered the only neat way for a child's hair
to be arranged.  Failing in that, she had tried to cut it
off, but the child had defended her curls so fiercely that
they had finally let her alone.  It was wonderful what care
the little girl took of them herself, for it was no small
task to keep such a head of hair well brushed.  But Dawn
could remember how her mother loved her curls, and she
clung to them.  When she lifted the dark lashes there
was a light in her eyes that made one think of the dawn of
day.  Such eyes had her mother.

At last Dawn looked up tremulously to her father, and
he spoke.  He did not look toward her, however, and his
voice was cold and reserved.

"I have sent for you, my daughter—"

Dawn was glad he did not use the hateful name "Jemima."

"—to tell you that your mother was a good woman."

"Of course," said the child, with rising color.  "I
knew that all the time.  Why did you ever say she wasn't?"

"There was a terrible mistake made."  The father's
voice was shaken.  It gave Dawn a curious feeling.

"Who made the mistake?" she asked gravely.

The room was very still while this arrow found its way
into the father's heart.

"I did."  His voice sounded hoarse.  The little girl
felt almost sorry for him.

"Oh!  Then you will bring her right back to us again
and send this other woman away, won't you?"

"Child, your mother is dead!"

Dawn's face went as white as death, and she sprang
to her feet, clasping her hands in horror.

"Then you have killed her!" she screamed.  "You
have killed her!  My beautiful mother!" and with a wild
cry she flung herself upon the floor and broke into a passion
of tears.

The strong man writhed in anguish as his little child
set the mark of Cain upon his forehead.

The outcry brought the step-mother, but neither noticed
her as she entered and demanded the reason for this scene.
She tried to pick the child up from the floor, but Dawn
only beat her off with kicks and screams, and they finally
went away and left her weeping there upon the floor.  Her
father took his hat and walked out into the woods.  There
he stayed for hours, while the wife went about with set
lips and a glint in her eye that boded no good for the
child.

Finally the sobs grew less and less frequent, and the
old clock in the hall could again be heard in her ears, as
she sobbed herself slowly to sleep: "Poor-child!  Poor-child!
Poor-child!  Poor-child!"

It was after this that they sent her away to school.





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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Her father placed her on a Hudson River steamer in
charge of the captain, whom he knew, and in company with
two other little girls, who were returning to the school
of Friend Isaac and Friend Ruth after a short vacation.

Dawn, attired in the grave Quaker garb of the school,
leaned over the rail of the deck, inconsequently swinging
by its ribbons her long gray pocket containing a hundred
dollars wherewith to pay her entrance fee and provide
necessities, and watched her unloved father walk away
from the landing.

"Thee and thou and thy long pocket!" called out a
saucy deck-hand to the three little girls, and Dawn turned
with an angry flash in her eyes to take up the work of
facing the world single-handed.

She did not drop the pocket into the water, nor fall
overboard, but bore herself discreetly all through the
journey, and made her entrance into the new life demurely,
save for the independent stand she took upon her arrival:

"My name is Dawn Van Rensselaer, and my mother
wishes me to wear my curls just as they are."

Her two fellow-travellers had given her cause to believe
that there would be an immediate raid made upon her
precious curls, and her determined spirit decided to make
a stand at the start, and not to give in for anything.  The
quiet remark created almost a panic for a brief moment,
coming thus unexpectedly into the decorous order of the
place.  Friend Ruth caught her breath, and two faint
pink spots appeared in her smooth cheeks.

"Thee will wear thy hair smoothly plaited, child, as
the others do, unless it be cut close," she said decidedly,
laying her thin pink lips smoothly together over even
teeth.  "Thee will write to thy mother that it is our
custom here to allow nothing frivolous or worldly in the
dress of our pupils."

One glance at the cool gray eye of her oppressor decided
Dawn to hide in her heart forever the fact that the mother
whose wish she was flaunting was no more in this world,
nor longer had the legal right to express her wishes
concerning her child.  With ready wits she argued the matter:

"But it isn't worldly.  God made my curls, and it is
just as bad to plait them up and take out the curl as it
would be to go to work and curl them on an iron if they
were straight.  My curls are n't frivolous, and I take care
of them myself.  My mother loves them, and I must do
as she says."

Friend Ruth looked at the determined little face set in
its frame of dark curls, and hesitated.  She was not used
to logic from a child, yet there seemed to be reason in
the words.  Besides, Friend Ruth was a great advocate of
honor to parents.  It was a complicated question.  She
decided to temporize.

"I will speak to Friend Isaac about the matter, but
thee will have to wear them in a net.  It is untidy to have
curls tumbling about thy face."

That was the end of the matter.  Dawn wore her curls
without further question, albeit in a plain, dark net.
Though outwardly the little girl was docile, except upon
occasion, Friend Ruth learned to avoid any crossing of
swords with the young logician, for she nearly always got
the worst of it.

Dawn took to learning as a bird to the air, having
inherited her father's brilliant mind and taste for letters,
combined with her mother's keen insight and wide
perceptive faculties.  Her lessons were always easily and
perfectly learned, and she looked with contempt upon the
plodders who could not get time from their tasks for the
fun which she was always ready to lead.

The pranks she played were many.  On one occasion
she led an expedition of the entire school in a slide down
a newly made straw-stack, thereby damaging its geometrical
shape and necessitating several hours' work by the
farmhands.  As a punishment, she was remanded to the garden
alone to write a composition on the beauties of Nature.
It began:

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   A great green worm come cameing down the populo tree with
   great tribusence.

.. vspace:: 2

Friend Ruth read the finished composition with the
dismay of a hen which has a duck on its hands, and handed
it over to Friend Isaac.

"The child has an original mind, and is going to be
a brilliant woman," he remarked gravely.

"Yes, Isaac, but thee will not tell her so," said Friend
Ruth quickly.

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Six years had passed since Dawn, a child of ten, had
come to the school, and she had never gone home.  It
had been her own wish, and for once her father and
stepmother were willing to accede to her.  To both, the sight
of her and the thought of her were painful.  Her father
had visited her every year and brought with him a full
supply of the modest wardrobe that the school allowed,
and Dawn had money to meet all her necessary expenses.
She lived a sort of triple life—one in the world of her
studies, in which she sometimes took deep delight, often
going far ahead of her classes because she wanted to see
what came next; one in the world of play, where she was
leader in all sorts of mischief, getting the older ones into
endless difficulties with the teachers, and protecting the
little ones, even to her own detriment at times; the third
life was lived alone in the fields or the woods, where she
might sit quietly and look up into the blue sky, listening
to the music of the winds and the birds or the sad chirp
of a cricket, taking a little grasshopper into her confidence,
talking to a friendly squirrel on the maple bough
overhead—here was where she really lived.  On the walls of
her memory were hung strange, sad pictures of the past.
Always on such occasions the mother all in white, with
starry eyes, hovered over her, and seemed to listen to the
wild longing that beat in her young heart, and to pour a
benediction upon her.

She could not think of her father except sadly or
bitterly, and so as much as possible she put him out of
her thoughts.  By degrees, as she came to see on his annual
visits how old and careworn he was grown, how haunted
and haggard were his eyes, she grew to pity him, but
never to love, for her mother had been her idol, and he
had killed her mother.  That the girl could not forget,
though as she grew older she felt with a kind of spiritual
instinct that she must forgive.  She felt it was his own
blindness and stupidity that had done it, and that he
was suffering some measure of punishment for his deed.
She never actually put these thoughts before her in so many
words.  They were rather a sort of growing undertone of
consciousness in her, as her mental and spiritual faculties
developed.

In one year more she would be through with the school
course.  For some time she had been dreading the thought,
and wondering what would come to her next?  If she
might go somewhere and "teach school,"—but she felt
certain her father would never allow that.  He was proud
and held ideas about woman's sphere.  Though she could
scarcely be said to know him well, still she felt without
asking that he would never consent.  Sometimes she even
entertained vague thoughts of running away when she
should be through school, for the idea of dwelling under
her father's roof again, under control of the woman who
had usurped her mother's place, she could not abide.

It was therefore with trepidation that she received a
message in the school-room one morning, bidding her
come to the parlor to meet her father.  The fair face
flushed and the brow darkened with trouble.  It was not
the usual time for her father's annual visit.  Did it mean
that he was going to take her away from the school?  Her
young heart beat to the old tune of the friendly clock at
home as she went to answer the summons: "Poor-child!
Poor-child!  Poor-child!  Poor-child!"

But in the square, plain parlor, with its hair-cloth
furniture, its gray paper window-shades, and its neutral-tinted
ingrain carpet, there sat two men with Friend Ruth, instead
of one.

Her father looked older than ever before.  His hair was
silvering about the edges, though he was still what would
have been called a young man.  The stranger was younger,
yet with an old look about his eyes, as if they had been
living longer than the rest of his face.

Dawn paused in the doorway and looked from one to
the other.  She had put up her hand as she reached the
door, and drawn from her head the net which held her
beautiful curls in leash.  They fell about her lovely face
in the fashion of the day.  They were grown long and
thick, but still kept their baby softness and fineness of
texture.  She made a charming picture standing thus with
the door-latch in her hand, hesitating almost shyly, though
she was not unduly shy.  Even in her Quaker garb, with
the sheer folds of the snowy kerchief about her neck, she
looked an unusually beautiful girl.  The young stranger
saw and took notice as he rose to receive the impersonal
introduction that her father gave.

The girl looked at them both gravely, with an alert
watchfulness.  Of the stare of open admiration with which
the stranger regarded her, she seemed not even to be
aware, though Friend Ruth noticed it with disapproval.

Dawn took the chair to which Friend Ruth motioned
her, at some distance from the young man, and sat demurely
waiting, her eyes wide with apprehension.  Her father
asked about her conduct and standing in the school, but
no flush of embarrassment came to the face of the
watching girl, though Friend Ruth gave unwonted praise of the
past year's work.  At another time it would have
astonished and pleased her, but now she felt it was a mere
preliminary to the real object of her father's visit.

As soon as there came a break in the conversation, the
stranger took a part, admiring the location of the school,
and saying he would be glad if he might look about the
place, as he had a friend who wished to send his daughter
away to school somewhere, and it would be a pleasure to
be able to speak in detail of this delightful spot.  Was there
a view of the Hudson from this point?  Indeed!  Perhaps
the young lady would be so kind as to show it to him?

Friend Ruth hesitated, but the father waved a
command to his daughter.  Frowning, she arose to obey.  She
felt the whole thing was a subterfuge to get her from the
room while the real object of her father's unexpected visit
was divulged.

She led the way through the wide hall, out to the
pillared veranda, and down the sloping lawn to the bluff
which overlooked the river, where plied a steamer on its
silver course.  Apathetically she pointed out the places of
interest.  She scarcely heard her companion's eager attempts
at conversation.  He noted the absent look in her dark eyes.

"You do not like it here?" he asked, letting his tone
become gentle, in coaxing confidence.

"Oh, yes," she answered quickly, with a flit of trouble
across her face.  "At least, I think I do.  I do not care
to go away."

"Not to your beautiful home?" he asked insinuatingly.
"And your mother?" he added, his eyes narrowing to
observe her expression more closely.

"She is not my mother," answered the girl coldly, and
became at once reserved, as if she were sorry for having
spoken so plainly.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!  I did not know," murmured
the stranger, making mental note of her change of
expression.

Suddenly her eyes flashed wide upon him, and she
dashed a question out with a way that compelled an answer:

"Has my father come to take me home, do you know?"

"Oh, no, not at all," answered the young man suavely.
He was delighted to have found this key to her thoughts.
It led just where he desired.  "We are merely taking a
business trip together, and your father stopped off to see
how things were going with you.  I am sure I am delighted
that he did, for it has given me great pleasure to meet you."

"Why?" asked the girl, lifting relieved eyes to his
face in mild astonishment.

He gave a half-embarrassed laugh at this frank way of
meeting him.

"Now, surely, you do not need to ask me that," he said,
looking down at her meaningly, his eyes gazing into the
innocent ones in open and intimate admiration.  "You
must know how beautiful you are!"

With a startled expression, she searched his face, and
then, not finding it pleasant, turned away with a look
resembling her father in its sternness.

"I don't think that is a nice way for a man to talk
to a girl," she said in a displeased tone.  "I am too big
to be spoken to in that way.  I am past sixteen, and shall
be done school next year."

He dropped the offending manner at once, and begged
her pardon, pleading that her father had talked of her as
a child.  He asked also that she would let him be her
friend, for he felt that they would be congenial, and all
the more that she was growing into womanhood.

Her gravity did not relax, however, and her eyes
searched his face suspiciously.

"I think we would better go into the house," she said
soberly.  "Friend Ruth will not like my staying out so
long, and I must see my father again."

"But will you be my friend?" he insisted, as they
turned their steps toward the house.

"How could we be friends?  You are not in the school,
and I never go away.  Besides, I don't see what would be
the use."

"Don't you like me at all?" he asked, putting on the
tone which had turned many a girl's head.

"Why, I don't know you even a little bit.  How could
I like you?  Besides, why should I?" answered Dawn frankly.

"You are deliriously plain-spoken."

She caught her lip between her teeth in a vexed way.
Why would he persist in talking to her as if she were a
child?

"There, now I have vexed you again," he said, pretending
to be much dismayed, "but indeed you misunderstand
me.  I do not look upon you as a child at all.  Many
a girl is married at your age, and you will soon be a lovely
woman.  I want you for my friend.  Are you not willing?"

"I don't know," said the girl bluntly, looking troubled.
"I should have to think about it, and I don't see why I
should.  I shall be here a whole year yet, and I shall never
see you.  I wish I could stay here always," she ended
passionately.  "I never want to go home."

"Perhaps you will not need to go there," he said
insinuatingly, wondering how it was she was so different
from other girls.  She did not seem to understand coquetry.
Her eyes met his now in mild question.

"You may marry and have a home of your own," he
answered her unspoken question.  A startled expression
came into her eyes.

"Oh, no," she said quickly; "I don't think that will
ever happen.  I don't want that to happen;" and she
drew away from him as if the thought frightened her.
"Married people are not happy."

"Nonsense!" said the young man gayly.  He had
planted the seed in what looked like fallow ground, and
perhaps one day it would blossom for him.  "There are
plenty of happy married people.  I've a good old father
and mother who just worship each other.  They've been
happy as clams all their lives, and I know a great many
more.

"My father and mother were not happy," said Dawn
gravely.  "Friend Ruth and Friend Isaac do not seem to
be very happy either, though of course this isn't a real
home.  But they are never cross," she added in
conscientious explanation.

"If you were married, you could have a real home of
your own, and have things just as you wanted them," the
young man remarked cunningly.

"That would be nice," said the girl thoughtfully.  "I
should like that part, but I think I would like it better
without being married.  There are father and Friend
Ruth looking for us.  Let us hurry."

"But you have not told me whether you will let me be
your friend," he said, detaining her under a great elm
tree, and looking off toward the river, as if he were still
watching the steamer.  "If you will let me be your friend,
I will get permission to come and see you now and then,
and I will bring you a box of sweets.  You will like that,
won't you?  All girls are fond of sweets."

"I don't know," answered Dawn slowly, looking at
him with troubled eyes, and wondering why it was that
his eyes reminded her of a fish.

"The other girls would like the sweets," he suggested.

"Could I give them away?" she asked with a flash of
interest.

"You may do anything you like with them," he responded
eagerly.  "So it is all settled, then, and I may
be your friend?"

"I don't know," said Dawn again.  "I suppose it will
have to be as father and Friend Ruth say."

"No need to consult them in the matter.  Leave that
to me.  All I want is your consent.  Remember I am going
to visit you next month and bring you something nice."

But by this time the others had reached them.

"Charming view, Mr. Van Rensselaer.  I had no idea
you could see New York so plainly from this point," said
the young man.

Dawn stepped over and stood beside Friend Ruth, looking
thoughtfully down the river.  She would like the box
of confections well enough, for not many sweets were
allowed at the school and they could have a treat down in
the woods, beside the brook.  But somehow she had a
vague uneasiness about this friendship.  She did not like
the stranger's face.

Her father and the other man went away after the
noonday meal.  The stranger's name, she learned, was
Harrington Winthrop, and that he was interested in a
business enterprise with her father.  The matter passed
entirely from her mind, only, after that, when she sat
alone to brood over her life, a new dream took the place
of the old.  Always there was a lovely home all her own,
with comfortable chairs and plenty of books, and thin,
sprigged china, such as had been her mother's.  In this
home she was sole mistress.  Day by day she dreamed out
the pretty rooms, and dwelt in them, and even occasionally
let her imagination people them.  The image of her
beautiful mother hovered about that home and stayed, but
there came into it no one to annoy or disturb.

When the two men settled themselves in the stage that
night, the younger began to talk:

"Do you know you have a very beautiful daughter,
Mr. Van Rensselaer?"

The father started from the reverie into which he had
fallen.  The look of the moonlight was reminding him of
a night over sixteen years ago, when he and Mary had
taken this same stage trip.  Strange he could not get away
from the thought of it.  Ah, yes! it had been the look of
his daughter that had brought back Mary's face, for the
girl was grown to be the image of her mother, save for a
certain sad flitting of severity.  In the moonlight outside
the coach he seemed to see again the sweet face in the
coffin, and he compared it with the warm living face of
the girl whom he had been to see that day.  He knew that
between his daughter and him was an impenetrable barrier
that could never be removed, and the thought of it pierced
his soul as it never had before.  A great yearning and pity
for his motherless, fatherless girl had come into his cold,
empty heart as he had watched her move silently about.
But ever present was the thought that he had no right—no
right in her either, no matter how much he might try.  No
one would have suspected him of such feelings.  He hid
them deep under his grim and brilliant exterior, sternly
self-contained in any situation.  But now, in the
half-darkness, a new thought came into his mind, and he
started and gave his attention to the words of his companion.

"Is she your only child?"

The question made him start again.  There was a long
pause, so long that Harrington Winthrop thought he had
not been heard; then a husky voice answered out of the
shadows of the coach:

"No, there was another—a little boy.  He died soon
after his mother."

Outside in the moonlight, the vision of a ruddy-haired
boy rode in a wreath of mist.  The words were the man's
acknowledgment to the two who ever attended him now
through life.  He did not wish to give his confidence to
this business companion.

"Ah!  Then this beautiful young woman will likely
be sole heir to the Van Rensselaer estate," said the young
man to himself, rejoicing inwardly at the ease with which
he was obtaining information.

There was silence in the coach while Winthrop pondered
the great discovery he had made, and how he should
act upon it.

But the elder man was lost in gloomy thoughts.  He
had a vague feeling that Mary, out there in the moonlight
with her bright-haired boy, would hold him to account
for the little girl she had loved and lost in life.  A
sudden glimpse into the future had been given him, partly
by the young man's words, partly by the beauty of Dawn
herself.  She was blossoming into womanhood, and with
that change would come new perplexities.  She could not
stay always at the school.  Where in the world was there a
place for his child?  More and more he saw that the woman
whom in the fierceness of his wrath he had selected to take
the place of mother to the girl was both unable and
unwilling to do so.  He shrank from the time when his daughter
would have to come home.  As he thought of it, it seemed
an impossible situation to have her there; it would be
almost like having Mary in the flesh to live with them,
with reproachful eyes ever upon their smallest acts.  At
that moment it came to him that he was enduring the
torments of a lost soul, his conscience having sat in
judgment and condemned him.

The stage-coach rumbled on, stopping now and again
through the night for a change of horses, and the two
who sat within its gloomy depths said little to each other,
yet slept not, for one was musing on the evil of the past
and its results, while the other was plotting evil for the
future.





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.. _`CHAPTER III`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III

.. vspace:: 2

Harrington Winthrop kept his promise about the
sweets.  Five times during the winter that followed his
first visit with Mr. Van Rensselaer, he invented some
excuse to visit Dawn.

The first time he came, he found her in the maple grove
behind the pasture, with a group of other girls, all decked
in autumn leaves and playing out some story that Dawn
had read.

He persuaded her to walk a little way into the woods
with him; and when he came to take his leave asked for
a kiss, but Dawn sprang away from him in sudden panic:

"No," she said sharply; "I have never kissed anybody
but my mother."  Then, fearing she had been impolite in
view of his gift, she added:

"We don't kiss people here at this school.  It isn't
the custom."

And she knew so little of the customs of the world that
the incident passed without further apprehension on her
part, or understanding of the young man's meaning.

"That's all right, my dear," he said pleasantly.  "But
don't forget about the house.  I'm going to tell you all
about it next time I come.  You still want a home of
your very own, don't you?"

"Why, of course," said Dawn; "but I can't see how
you can know anything about it, or care.  What have you
to do with it?"  And then with sudden alarm, "Has my
father been talking to you about any such thing?"

"No, indeed!  Your father does not even know I am
interested in you.  I care for my own sake.  Didn't I tell
you that I liked you the minute I saw you?  And I'm just
as interested in this future home of yours as you are."

"I'm sure I can't see why," said Dawn, perplexed, yet
trying to be polite.

"Suppose you think about it hard, dear, and see if you
can find out why I care.  Just think it all over, everything
I have said, and then if you are still in doubt go and look
in the looking-glass and keep on thinking, and I'm sure
you'll find out by the time I come back.  I'm coming soon
again, and I want you to be watching for me every day.
I'll bring you something nice next time, besides another
box of sweets."

Dawn tried to smile, but felt uncomfortable.  She
murmured her thanks again, and turned uneasily toward
the woods and her companions, and he deemed it prudent
to leave her without further ado.

Back in the woods, the girls were making merry with
her confections, and had nothing but praise for the
handsome stranger who had brought them; but all through
the eager questions and merry jibes Dawn was silent and
thoughtful.

"Where are your thoughts, Dawn?" said Desire Hathaway.
"Has the stranger stolen them away to pay for his
goodies?"

"She looks as if he had asked her to marry him, and
she didn't know whether to say yes or to wait for
somebody else," laughed Matilda Hale, a new-comer among
them, and older than the rest.

"I guess he kissed her good-by," chimed in silly Polly
Phelps, who aspired to be Matilda's shadow.  "I peeked
through the bushes and saw him bending over her."

Amid the thoughtless laugh that rose, Dawn stood
defiant, the crimson leaping into her cheeks, the steel into
her eyes.  For an instant she looked as if she would turn
upon the offending Matilda and tear her to pieces.  Then
a sudden revelation came to her: this, this was what the
handsome stranger had meant!

Instantly the light of anger died out of her face, and a
gentle dignity took its place.  Her little clenched hands
relaxed, the tenseness of the graceful body softened, and
she turned toward the offender with a haughty condescension:

"Matilda, we don't talk in that way here," she said,
and the laughter died out of the faces of her companions
and left instead amazement and admiration.  They had
seen Dawn angry before, and had not expected the affair
to end so amicably.  They felt it showed a marvellous
self-control, and left her mistress of the situation.  Matilda
bit her lip in a vexed way and tossed her head.  She felt
she had lost prestige by the little incident, and Dawn was
still the recognized leader of the school.  It was not a
pleasant thought to the older girl.

Dawn turned and walked slowly away from them all,
out of the woods, down through the meadow, where grazed
her quiet friends, the sheep.  She still carried her gentle
dignity, and none of the girls spoke until she was out of
sight behind the group of chestnuts at the corner of the
meadow.

Then Desire Hathaway voiced the general feeling:

"Isn't she just like a queen?"

"Oh, if you want to look at it that way!" sneered
Matilda, with another toss of her head.  "There are a
good many kinds of queens, you know.  I must say, I
thought she looked like a pretty wicked one for a minute
or two.  She would have enjoyed tearing my eyes out if
she had dared."

"Dared!" cried Desire.  "You don't know her.  She
will dare anything that she thinks is worth while.  I
thought it was just splendid, the way she controlled
herself."

"Oh, well, just as you think, of course," shrugged
Matilda.  "Come on, Polly; let's go finish our sewing."

Dawn stumbled on blindly in the pasture, trying to take
in the appalling thought that *perhaps* the young man
wanted to marry her!

Tears of indignation welled into her eyes, but she
brushed them angrily aside.  Why was life so dreadful, she
wondered.  Why did men exist to break women's hearts?—for
she never doubted that the married state was one of
heart-break.  Such had been the lesson burned deep into
her soul by suffering.  A home of her own had been a
sweet thought, but the serpent had entered her Eden, and
she cared no more to stay there.

The next time Winthrop came it was openly, with a
message from her father.  All through the interview, which
lasted for an hour, and was prolonged over the noonday
meal, Dawn sat stiffly on the other side of Friend Ruth,
watching the fishy eyes of the stranger and listening to his
fulsome flatteries of the place, her small hands folded
decorously, but her young heart beating painfully under
the sheer folds of the 'kerchief.

On his fourth visit he bore a private letter from her
father to Friend Ruth, and wore an air of assurance which
made the girl's heart sink with nameless foreboding.  Not
even the praises of the girls for her handsome lover, their
open envy of her future lot, or their merry taunts, could
rouse her from a gravity which had begun to settle upon
her.

This time Friend Ruth seemed to look upon the visitor
in a different light.  Not only was Dawn allowed to talk
with him alone, but she was sent out with him for a
walk in the woods.

Reluctantly she obeyed, frightened, she knew not why.

Harrington Winthrop had a winning way with him,
and he was determined to win this proud, beautiful girl.
Also, he was wise in the ways of the world, he did not
force any undue attention upon her, but confined his
conversation to telling her about the beautiful home he had
seen.  Rightly guessing that there was still much of the
child about her, he went on to picture the house in detail,
not hesitating to embellish it at will where his memory
failed.

There was a garden with a fountain, and there should
be flowers, all in profusion.  There were clipped hedges,
gravel paths, an arbor in a shady place, where she might
bring her book or sewing, and where the sunshine would
peer through the branches just enough to scatter gold
about the leafy way.

In spite of her prejudices, she was interested.  She
could not help it.  The longing for a real home of her own
was great.

Then came the most difficult part of his task, which
was to reconcile her to himself.

Skilfully he led the conversation about till he himself
was the subject—his life since he had become a man and
gone out into the world.  Pathetically he talked of his
own loneliness, until he touched the maternal chord in her
nature and made her feel sorry for him.  He opened up for
her gaze depths of sympathy, tenderness, and pathos, which
were purely imaginary and wholly impossible to his own
nature.  He launched into details of his own feelings
which were the inspiration of the moment, because he
saw they touched her.  He told her how he had often been
lonely almost to desperation, and how he had many and
many a time pictured a home of his own, with a lovely
wife at its head.  The girl winced at the name "wife,"
but he went steadily on trying to take the strangeness
out of the word, trying to touch her heart and fire her
tenderness; for he rightly read the possibilities of love
in the beautiful face, and it put him on his mettle to make
it bloom for him.

He succeeded so far as to make her conscience sharply
reprove her for the dislike she had for him.  Of course if
he had been lonely, too, and had had a care for her
loneliness, it was a different matter.  Perhaps, after all, they
had something in common, and he would not be such a
dreadful addition to the home she had longed for.  At
least, she had no right to shut him out of a dream that
he held in common with her, and she tried to put aside
her own feelings and look at him fairly.

So they walked the deeper into the woods, and while
she did not say much in reply to his eloquent words, she
did not seem actively opposed.  He let his voice grow
more and more tender, though he did not trouble her
with words of love.  He let a care for her become apparent:
as they walked over the rough growth in the woods, he
held the branches aside for her, and helped her over a
log, and once across the stones of a little brook, touching
her hand and arm deferentially.  It did not appeal to
Dawn in the way he hoped that it would, nor awaken any
tenderness for him, but she let him lead her along a path
which, had she been alone, she would have cleared at a
bound, and counted an easy thing.

When he parted from her that evening to take the
night boat, he gave her shrinking fingers a slight pressure
in token of the understanding between them, and Dawn
understood it as the sealing of a kind of unspoken contract.

After that Dawn was not surprised to receive a letter
from her father in which he spoke of the young man's
desire to make her his wife, and formally gave his consent.
It never seemed to occur to him that the girl might have
any question about the matter.  A dull kind of rebellion
rose in her breast and smouldered there as she read her
father's letter; yet she accepted his arrangements for her
life, because it seemed the only way out from a home that
could never be a happy one for her; and because it offered
a spot that might be called her own, and a possible
opportunity to live out some of her childish dreams.

When Harrington Winthrop came again, she no longer
yielded to her inward shrinking from him, but took him
as she took hard tasks that she did not like but that were
inevitable; and he, finding her unresisting, was careful not
to do anything to mar the pleasant understanding between
them.  Meantime, he congratulated himself constantly
upon the ease with which he had possessed himself of a
promised wife whose private fortune would be no small one.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn settled into a gravity that was premature.  She
counted every day of her precious school year, as if it had
been a priceless treasure that was slipping from her.

There were times when she roused to her old self again,
and plunged madly into fun, leading her companions into
wild amusements that they would never have originated
by themselves.  Then again she would sober down, and they
could get her to say very little.  It began to be whispered
about that she was to be married when she had finished
school, and the girls all looked at her with a kind of
envying awe.

Thus the winter passed and the spring came on, the
spring that was to be her last at school.  The first few
days of warm weather she spent exploring old haunts,
watching for the spring blossoms, and reverently touching
the green moss, hunting anemones, hepaticas, and violets.
Then, as if she could stand her own thoughts no longer,
she suddenly proposed the acting of another play.  It was
the first since that time in the autumn when Harrington
Winthrop broke in upon them, and they had never been
able to induce her to finish it.  Now she selected another
one that seemed to her to have the very heart of spring and
life bound up in it.  She got it out of an old book which
had been her mother's—"Tales of William Shakespeare,"
by name.  It was not used as a text-book in the excellent
school of Friend Ruth and Friend Isaac, and the child had
always kept it safely hidden.

The play she had selected had many elves and sprites
of the air in it.  Dawn drilled her willing subjects, and
rehearsed them, until at last she felt they were ready for
the final presentation.

The scene of the play was to be on the sloping hillside
just above the meadow, where the maples on the hill were
flanked by a thicket of elderberry bushes that did double
duty of background, and screen for the dressing-rooms.

The audience of girls was seated in breathless silence,
augmented by a group of kindly cows and stupid sheep,
who stood in patient rows and waited mildly for any tender
bites or chance blossoms of cowslips the girls might put
between the bars of the fence.  Now and then, as the play
went on, they lifted calm eyes of bewilderment over the
turbulent scenes in the mimic play-house, or out of their
placid world of monotonous duty, wondered whatever
the children could be at now.

It chanced that day that Harrington Winthrop was
passing, and, most unexpectedly, he had with him his
younger brother, who was on his way back to Harvard
College, after a brief visit home to see his mother, who
had been ill.

Charles Winthrop had met his elder brother in the
coach, and had boyishly insisted on accompanying him
when he stopped on what he professed was a friendly errand
at this school.  Charles had long been separated from his
brother, and wanted to talk over old days and ask many
questions, for Harrington had been away from home most
of the time for nearly ten years and had travelled in the
West and the South a great deal, which seemed a charmed
country to the younger man.

Now Harrington had not been anxious for company
on this visit, but he could not well shake his brother off
without arousing suspicions, therefore as they neared the
school he told him that he was about to visit the girl whom
he expected in a few months to make his wife.

Charles in his hearty boyish way congratulated him and
expressed a desire to see the girl who was his brother's
choice.

They were told at the house that Dawn was out with
the other girls in the meadows, and so went in search of
her.  They arrived on the scene just as the closing act
was about to begin.

The little company of players stood out bravely in
costumes designed entirely by Dawn.  The outfit of the
school was far too sombre to play any part in the gaiety
of the occasion.  An occasional patchwork quilt had been
pressed into service, and one or two gray or scarlet blankets,
but most of the players were dressed in white literally
covered with flowers or green leaves.

The two young men skirted the foot of the hill and
came upon the scene just when Dawn, as queen of the air,
attended by her sprites and nymphs, came into view with
a gentle, gliding run learned surely from the birds, for
nowhere else could such grace be found.  She was clad in
white drapery of homespun linen, one of her own mother's
finest sheets.  It was drawn about her slender form, over
her shoulders, in a fashion all her own, though graceful
as any Greek goddess.  Her white throat and round white
arms were bare, the long, dark curls had been set free, and
about her brow was a wreath of exquisite crab-apple blossoms,
whose delicate tinting matched the rose of her cheeks.
About her throat, arms, wrists, and ankles—for her feet
were bare—were close-fitting chains of the same blossoms.
Here and there the white drapery of her garment, which
fell half way from the knee to the ankle, was fastened
with a spray of blossoms.  It was a daring costume for a
Quaker-reared maiden to don, and she knew it, but she
expected no eyes to look upon her save her companions
and the friendly cattle.  She stood poised on the green
slope, holding in her hands and high above her head a
soft scarf of white—an old curtain which she had saved
from the rag-bag and wet and stretched in the sun till
it was soft and pliable.  She had mended it, and fastened
the darns with blossoms, and edged it also with blossoms
plucked close from the stem and sewed down in a fine flat
border.

Behind her came her maidens, their garments sewed
over with maple leaves, tender and green and fluttering.
They were crowned and wreathed also with maple leaves,
and made a beautiful setting for Dawn's delicate beauty.

Then down the hillside they came, the maidens with
festoons of leaves fastened together by their stems, which
they held aloft as their leader held her scarf.  They sang
a strange, sweet song that had in it the wildness of the
thrush's song, the sweetness of the robin's.

It was Dawn who had composed the melody, and taught
it to them.  She had learned it from the birds, and
interpreted old Shakespeare's words.  They sang it as the
zephyrs sing.

The little audience sat with bated breath; the old cows
chewed their cud thoughtfully, one with soft eyes heaved
a long, clover-scented sigh, marvelling on the ways of the
world.  The two strangers stood entranced and astonished;
but the heart of one of them thrilled with a strange new joy.

Charles Winthrop saw only the beautiful face of Dawn
Van Rensselaer.  All the rest were but a setting for her.
He seemed to know instantly as he looked that there was
no other girl in the world like this.  He knew not who
she might be, but he looked at her as if his spirit were
calling to hers across the meadow-land that separated
them.  Then suddenly, half poised as she was, in the very
midst of her song, Dawn became aware of his presence
and stopped.  She met his gaze, and, without her own
volition, it seemed, her eyes were shining and smiling to
meet his smile.  It was just a fleeting instant that they
gazed thus, and then the joy went out of the girl's face,
and a frightened look took its place.  She had seen the
other man standing beside him, and he was frowning.

Harrington Winthrop had caught the look on his
brother's face, and its answer in the face of the girl upon
whom he had set his seal of possession, and an unreasoning
anger had taken possession of him.  This girl had looked
at Charles as Harrington had never been able to make her
look at him, not even since she had in a tacit way
consented to marry him.

"This is foolish child's play!" he said in a vexed
tone to his brother.  "Let us go back to the house and
wait until she has returned."

"Oh, no, let us stay!" said Charles.  "This is beautiful!
Exquisite!  At least, if you must go, let me stay.
I wish to see the finish."

"I wish you to go," said Harrington, and there was
something in his brother's voice that reminded Charles of
the days when he used to be ordered back from following
on a fishing or swimming expedition.  He looked at his
brother's angry face, and then back to the beautiful girl on
the hillside.  But the light had gone out of her eyes.  The
song had died on her lips.  There was no sparkling smile
now.  Instead, there was an angry, steel-like flash in the
eyes.  She held the fluttering scarf in front of her now, in
long loose folds covering her feet and ankles, and as the two
men turned and gazed at her her head went up proudly,
even as the queen of the air might have raised her head.
One hand went up in quick command, pointing straight
at the two young men, and in quite the phrase of the
play she had been acting she spoke:

"Hence, strange spirits!" she cried.  "Hence!
Begone!  Ye have no right amongst us, being unbidden.
'Go, I tell ye!  Go, or I, the queen of the air, will bring evil
upon ye!  Go, ye have angered me!"

Dawn had made Shakespeare so much her constant
companion that the language came easily to her.  She
picked up phrases here and there and strung them together
without hesitation.  Her anger helped her on, and her
splendid command of herself had a strange effect upon
her audience.

The other girls listened in open-mouthed wonder that
Dawn should dare to speak before these strangers and not
be covered with confusion.  Almost they thought it was
part of the play.  But the two to whom she spoke turned
and obeyed her command, the one because he was angry and
wished to get his brother away, the other because there had
been a certain appeal in her lovely eyes which had reached
his soul and made him bow in reverence to her command.
Then all at once, as he turned away, he knew that she
was the girl whom his brother intended to make his wife,
and a great sadness and sense of a loss came over him.

There was mutiny in her eyes as Dawn came back to
the house a little later, and greeted her lover with a
haughty manner.  He had managed it that Charles should
sit alone in the gray parlor and wait while he met the
girl out in the entrance to the orchard and walked away
with her to a sheltered place overlooking the river.  There
was no hint of the queen of the air in her demure dress,
the well-sheathed curls, the small prunella slippers that
peered from under the deep hem of her gray gown, but
her bearing was queenly as she waited for him to speak.
He saw that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"Do you really like such childish play?" he asked a
trifle contemptuously.

"You had no right to come there!" she flashed.  "If
you did not like it, you should have gone away."

He was disconcerted.  He did not wish to anger her,
for he had come for another purpose.

"Well, never mind.  If you enjoyed yourself, I suppose
it does not matter whether I liked it or not.  Let us
talk of something else.  Your play-days are almost over.
You will soon begin to live real life."

She looked at him and felt that she came near to hating
him.  A sudden, unspeakable terror seized her.  She let
him talk on about the house they were to have, and tried
to remember that he was lonesome and wanted a home as
badly as she did, but somehow she felt nothing but fear
and dislike.  So, though she walked by his side, she heard
little of what he said, only saying when he asked if she
wished this or that: "I suppose so.  I suppose it will be
as you like."

As they came back to the house again, she asked him
suddenly:

"Who was the young man with you?"

The frown came into his face again.

"Why do you ask?" he asked sharply.

"He did not feel the way you did about us out there
on the hill."

"How do you know?"  He watched her keenly, but
her face told him nothing.

"I saw it in his eyes," she said quietly, and without
more words went into the house and up to her room.

Dawn stood at the little window of her room and
watched the two men go down the path from the door.
Through the small panes her eyes followed them until they
were out of sight, and her heart swelled with thoughts
strange and new and fearful.  How could she go and live
with this man who had frowned at her innocent happiness?
Would he not be worse than the woman who had taken her
dear mother's place?  And how could he be so cruel as
to look at her in that way?  It was the look she remembered
on her father's face the day he sent her mother away.
It was the cruelty of men.  Perhaps they could not help
it.  Perhaps God made them so.  But that other one had
been different.  He had understood and smiled.  Her heart
leaped out toward him as she remembered his look.

Was it because he was young, she wondered, that he had
understood?  He had seemed far younger than his
companion, yet there had been something fine and manly in
his face, in the broadness of his shoulders, and the set
of his head, as he walked down the path, away from the
house.  Perhaps when he was older he would grow that
way to, and not understand any more.

She sighed and dropped her face against the glass,
and, now that they were out of sight, the haughty look
melted into tears.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V

.. vspace:: 2

The day that Dawn left school to go back to her home
was one long agony to her.

All the other girls were happy in the thought of
home-going, some of them looking forward to returning for
another year, others to entering into a bright girlhood
filled with gaieties.  But to Dawn it meant going into the
gray of a looming fate where never again would she be
happy, never again free.

Ever since the day of the play when she had seen her
future husband frown, she had looked forward to her
marriage with terror.

He had not come after that, but instead wrote her long
letters full of plans about the house, *their house*, that they
were to occupy *together*.  The letters impressed that
thought most deeply and made the whole hateful to her.  It
grew to seem that it was *his* house, and she would be his
prisoner in it.  Yet somehow he had succeeded in
impressing her with the feeling that she was pledged to him in
sacred honor, and that it would be a dreadful thing to
break a tie like that.  This was made stronger by her
father's letters, which now grew more frequent, as if he
sought to atone to his motherless child for the wrong he
had done her.

Just the day before her home-going there came one of
these letters, in which he told her that everything had
been prepared for her marriage to take place within a
week after her arrival.  He told her of the trousseau which
his wife had prepared for her, which was as elaborate and
complete as such an outfit could be for one of her station
in life.  He also spoke about the dignity of her origin,
and with unwonted elaboration commended her judgment
in selecting so old and so fine a family as that of the house
of Winthrop with which to ally herself.  He added that
it would have pleased her mother's family, and that
Mr. Winthrop was one of his oldest and most valued friends.

Somehow that letter seemed to Dawn to put the seal
of finality upon her fate.  There was no turning back now.
Just as her father used to compel her to go upstairs alone
when he discovered that she was afraid of the dark, so she
felt that if he once discovered her dislike for her future
husband he would but hasten the marriage, and be in
league with her husband against her always.

When the time came to leave the school, she clung with
such fervor about the neck of the impassive Friend Ruth
that the astonished lady almost lost her breath, and a
strange wild thrill went through her unmotherly bosom,
as of something that might have been and was lost.  She
looked earnestly down into the beautiful face of the girl
who had so often defied her rules, and saw an appeal
in those lovely eyes to which she would most certainly have
responded had she understood, for she was a good woman
and always sought to do her best.

But the boat left at once, and clinging arms had
perforce to be removed.  Once on the deck with the others,
Dawn looked back at Friend Ruth as impassively as always,
though the usually calm face of the woman searched her
out with troubled glance, still wondering what had come
over her wild young pupil.  Somehow, as she watched the
steamer plough away until Dawn was a mere blur with the
others, Friend Ruth could not help being glad that the
beautiful dark curls had never been cut.

The day was perfect, and the scenery along the Palisades
had never looked more beautiful, yet Dawn saw
nothing of it.  She sat by the rail looking gloomily down into
the water, and a curious fancy seized her that she would
like to float out there on the water forever and get away
from life.  Then she began to consider the possibility of
running away.

It was not the first time this thought had entered her
mind.  The week before she left the school, she had thought
of it seriously, and even planned the route, but always at
night there had come that fearful dream of her future
husband following her, and bringing her home to a
life-long punishment.

She had almost got her courage up to the point of
deciding to disappear in the crowd at Albany, and so
elude the people with whom she was expected to journey
to her home, when, to her dismay, she looked down at the
landing-place where they were stopping, a few miles below
Albany, and saw her father coming on board the boat.
He had not expected to be able to meet her and had written
that she was to come with acquaintances of his.  Her heart
stood still in panic, and for a moment she looked wildly
at the rail of the steamer, as if she might climb over and
escape.  Then in a moment her father had seen her and
stood beside her.  He stooped and kissed her forehead coldly,
almost shyly.  This startled her, too, for he had not kissed
her since the days before her mother was sent away, and a
strange, sharp pain went through her heart, a pang of
things that might have been.  She looked up in wonder.
She did not know how like her dead mother she had grown.

But the stern face was cold as ever, and his voice
conveyed no smallest part of the emotion he felt at sight of
her lovely face.

He talked to her gravely of her school life, and then
he went on to speak of the Winthrop family, and to tell her
in detail bits of its history calculated to make her
understand its importance.

Dawn listened with growing alarm at the thought of
all that would be expected of her.  Yet not a breath of
her trouble did she allow her father to see.  It might have
made a difference if she could have known how her father's
heart was aching with the anguish of his great mistake,
and perhaps if the father could have known the breaking
of the young heart it might have melted the coldness of
his reserve and brought some sympathy to the surface.
But they could not see, and the agony went on.

Dawn walked sadly, reluctantly, into the unloved,
unloving home.  As the days dragged by, she grew to
have a haunted look, and the rose flush on her sweet round
cheek faded to a marble white, while under her eyes were
dark circles.

Her father saw the look, but knew not what it meant.
Yet it pierced his soul, for it was the same look that her
mother had worn in her coffin, and he was the readier to
have the marriage hastened, both for her sake and his own,
for he realized she was not happy here in the home where
there was so much to remind her of what had passed.  He
felt she never would forgive him, and that her only hope
was to be happily married.  Winthrop had so represented
her feelings to him that he had taken it for granted she
was only too eager to go to a home of her own.

The house had been bought—at least, the father
supposed so—not knowing that but a small payment had been
made, with a promise to pay the balance soon after the
marriage.  The young man had laid his plans nicely, and
meant to profess that some investment of his had failed,
making it impossible for him to make the final payments,
and that he had disliked to postpone the marriage or to
tell of his predicament, feeling sure that he would have
the money by the time the payment was due.  Naturally,
his wife's fortune would suffice to pay for the house, which
of course she would not let go then.  If the house was
not exactly what he had described to the little school-girl,
certainly it was large enough and showy enough to make
up for the lack of some of the things which had seemed
important to her; and he had taken care that it should
be so far from the home of her father that the latter could
keep no eye on his son-in-law's business affairs.  If all
went well, he intended to have his wife's fortune in his
own hands before their first year of married life should
have passed.  After that it would not matter to him
whether the girl was pleased with her home or not.  She
could no longer help herself.

But of all this the father suspected nothing.

Dawn took no interest in her clothes.  The step-mother
was chagrined that after all her efforts Dawn was not
pleased.

"I should think you might show a little gratitude, after
all the trouble I've taken," Mrs. Van Rensselaer snapped
angrily.

Dawn turned wide eyes of astonishment upon her.

"For what?" she asked.  "I didn't want the things.
I supposed you did it to please father."

"Didn't want them!" exclaimed her step-mother.
"And how would you expect to get married without them?"

"I don't want to be married!" said Dawn desperately,
and then closed her lips tightly, with a frightened look
toward the door.  She had not meant to let any one know
that.  The words had come of themselves out of her weary
heart.

"Well, upon my word!  You're the queerest girl!
Any other girl in the world would be in high feather over
your chances; but you always were the stubbornest, most
contrary creature that ever drew breath.  Whatever did
you say you'd get married for if you didn't want to?"

"I don't think I ever did," said the girl sadly.  "It
just came in spite of me."

"That's all foolishness.  Don't talk such things to me.
No girl has to be married unless she chooses, and I'll
warrant you had your hand in it from the start.  Besides,
it's too late to talk of such things now.  It wouldn't be
honorable to draw back now, after he's got the house
bought and all."

"I know it," said Dawn miserably, and stood looking
out the window blindly, swallowing hard to keep back the
tears.  She felt that she must have reached the limit of
her endurance when she would let her step-mother see
her state of mind.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer eyed her keenly, suspiciously.  At
last she ventured another question.

"Have you got any other beau in your head, Jemima?"
she said.  "Because if you have, you'd better put him out
pretty suddenly.  If your father should find it out, he
would—I don't know what he would do.  He would certainly
punish you well, big girl as you are.  Is that what's
the matter?  Answer me!  Have you got another beau?"

Dawn looked up with great angry, flashing eyes, horror
changing into contempt.

"I have never even thought of such a dreadful thing!"
she said, with a withering look, and swept haughtily from
the room.  But on the way upstairs the color crept slowly
into her cheeks, and her eyes drooped half-ashamed.  Was
there?  Yes, there was some one else enshrined within her
heart, some one whose face had smiled in sympathy just
once, and toward whom she felt as she had never felt to
any human being save her mother.  Of course he was
nothing to her but the vision of a moment, and never,
never, could he be called by the hateful word her
stepmother had used, that detestable word "beau."  It seemed
to the poor, tried child as if she could almost kill any one
who used that word.

After that, Dawn endured her misery in secret, speaking
not at all, unless spoken to.  The older woman looked
at her curiously, almost nervously, sometimes, as if the
girl were half uncanny.  She was glad in her heart that
the day of the wedding was close at hand, for if she knew
anything about signs, that girl was on the verge of
throwing over a fine marriage, and then they would have her
on their hands for years, perhaps.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer
had suffered not a little for her share in the tragedy of
these lives with which she had bound up her own, and was
not willing to endure more.  She shut her thin lips and
determined to watch the girl carefully and prevent if
possible any slip between cup and lip.

Meantime, with ever-growing dread, Dawn counted the
hours, and watched sleepless through the long nights, now
calling on her dead mother for help, now praying to be
saved in some way from the nameless fear which, try as she
would, she could not shake off.  The family relatives on
both sides were gathering and starting, some on long
journeys, to attend the wedding.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 2

Charles Winthrop had written his family that
matters which he wished to complete would detain him at
the college for a few weeks, and begged his father to make
his excuses at the wedding.  He had an instinctive feeling
that Harrington would not care, as well as an inexplicable
aversion to being a witness at the wedding ceremony of his
elder brother and the girl who had burst upon his vision
that afternoon and seemed to open a new world to him.

He had long ago put by the strange, sweet sense of
having discovered in her a familiar friend—one who fitted
into his longings and his ideals as though he had always
been waiting for her.  He called the thought a foolish
sentimentality, and, in view of the relation in which she
was soon to be placed to him, he tried to be as matter-of-fact
as possible with regard to her.  He sent several
pleasant brotherly messages—which never reached her—through
the medium of Harrington.  He tried to accept the
thought of a new sister as a delightful thing, and always
he regarded her beauty and grace with the utmost reverence.
The father, while feeling that Charles's absence was
almost a discourtesy to his brother, nevertheless gave
reluctant consent.

Then, a few days before the wedding, there came over
Charles an overwhelming feeling that he must go.  All
his former arguments in favor of remaining away seemed
as water.  He felt as if the eyes and the smile of the
girl he had seen upon the hillside called him imperatively.
Try as he would to tell himself that with his present
feelings it was foolish, even dangerous, for him to go near
her, and that his brother was already a little jealous owing
to the look that had passed between them, it made no
difference; he felt that he must go, and go he did.
Without waiting to do more than throw a few necessities into
a valise, he took the first stage-coach that started from
Boston.  All through the long journey his heart beat
wildly with the thought that he was to meet her.  He was
ashamed of the feeling.  Yet in vain he told himself that
it was wrong; that he ought to go back.  Once he flung
himself out of the coach at a station where they were taking
on fresh horses, determined to return to Boston, and then
madly climbed up to the seat with the driver just as the
coach started again.  After that he grimly faced the matter,
asking himself if it were not better to go on after all,
meet his new sister-in-law on a common, every-day basis,
and get this nonsense out of his head forever.  Then he
tried to sleep and forget, but her face and her smile
haunted him, and there seemed to be an appeal in her eyes
that called him to her aid.

When he presented himself at his father's door in the
early morning of the day before the wedding, his face was
gray with combat, yet in his eyes was the light of a
noble resolve.  In spite of all his reasoning, he could not
help the feeling that he had come because he was needed,
but he was here, and there was a duty connected with it
which he felt strong to do.  It was therefore not a surprise
to him when his father met him with eager welcome and a
grave face.

"My son, you have come just when I needed you most,"
he said as he drew the young man inside the library door.
And then Charles noticed that his father seemed suddenly
aged and heavy with sorrow.  He knew it was nothing
connected with the immediate family of the household,
for they had all welcomed him with eager clamor and
delight.

"Sit down, Charles."

His father was fastening the door against intrusion,
and the young man's heart stood still with apprehension.

Mr. Winthrop turned and looked in his son's face
with feverishly bright eyes that showed their lack of sleep.
Then he seated himself in the arm-chair before the desk,
drawing Charles's chair close, that he might speak in
lowered tones.

"Something terrible has occurred, Charles.  Your
mother does not know yet.  The blow has fallen so suddenly
that I find myself unable to believe it is true.  I
am dazed.  I can scarcely think.  Charles, your only
brother, my son——"  The old man paused, and with a
sudden contraction of his heart Charles noticed that there
were tears coursing down his father's wrinkled cheeks.
The voice quavered and went on:

"Our first-born has been guilty of a great wrong.  It
is best to face the truth, my boy.  Harrington has
committed a crime.  I don't see how it can be thought
otherwise by any honest person.  I am trying to look at the
facts, but even as I speak the words I cannot realize that
they are true of one of our family."

Charles waited, his eyes fixed upon the old man's face,
and a great indignation growing within him toward the
brother who could dare bring dishonor upon such a father!

Mr. Winthrop bowed his head upon his hand for a
moment, as though he could not bear to reveal the whole
truth.  Then he roused himself as one who has need of
haste.

"Charles, your brother already has a wife and two
little children, yet he was proposing to wed another woman.
He has dared to court and win an innocent young girl,
and to hoodwink her honorable father.  And the worst
of it is that he meant to carry it out and marry her!  Oh
the shame of it!  We are disgraced, Charles!  We are all
disgraced!"  With a low groan the father buried his face
in his hands and bowed himself upon the desk.

The heart of the young man grew hot.  A great desire
for vengeance was surging over him.  He arose excitedly
from his chair.

"Harrington has done this, father!"

The words burst from his lips more like a judgment
pronounced than like a question or a statement of fact.  It
was as if the acknowledgment of his brother's sin were
a kind of climax in his thought of that brother, whom he
had been all these years attempting to idealize, as a boy
so often idealizes an elder brother.  The words bore with
them, too, the recognition of all the pain and disappointment
and perplexity of many things throughout the years.
Charles's finer nature suddenly revolted in disgust from
all that he saw his brother to be.

He stood splendidly indignant, above the bowed head of
his father, a picture of fine, strong manhood, ready to
avenge the rights of insulted womanhood.  There before
him arose a vision obscuring the walls of the book-lined
library—the vision of a girl, fresh, fair, lovely, with eyes
alight, cheeks aglow, floating hair, and fluttering white
drapery, garlanded in pink and white blossoms that filled
the air with the breath of a spring morning.  It blazed
upon him with clearness and beauty, and veiled by no
hindering sense of wrong.  With a great heart throb of
joy, he recognized that she no longer belonged to his
brother.

The thought had scarcely thrilled his senses before he
was ashamed of it.  How could he think of joy or anything
else in the midst of the shame and trouble that had fallen
upon them all?  And most of all upon the beautiful girl,
who would bear the heaviest burden.

True, there was another side to the matter, a side in
which she might be thankful that Harrington's true
character had been discovered before things had gone further;
but there was mortification, and disgrace inevitable.  Then,
it was to be presumed that she had loved Harrington, or
why should she be about to marry him?  Poor child!  His
heart stood still in pity as he realized what the sin of his
brother would mean to her.

These thoughts went swiftly through his mind as he
stood beside his father.  It seemed to him that in the instant
of the elder man's silence he reviewed the whole catastrophe
in its various phases and lived through years of
experience and knowledge.  Then his father's trembling
voice took up the story again:

"Yes, Harrington did that!"  They were Charles's
own words, but somehow, on his father's tongue, they spoke
a new pathos, and again the young man saw another side to
the whole terrible matter.  Harrington was the oldest son,
adored of his mother.  Though he had been gone from home
for years, he had yet remained her idol until it had seemed
his every virtue had grown to perfection, while all his faults
were utterly forgotten.  During his visits, which had been
few and far between, the whole family had put itself out of
its routine, and hung upon his wishes.  His stories had been
listened to with the deference due to one older and wiser
than any of them could ever hope to be.  His wishes had
been law, his opinions gospel truth.  Charles recalled how
his mother had always called together the entire family to
listen to the reading to one of Harrington's rare epistles,
demanding a solemnity and attention second only to that
required at family worship.  These letters always ended
with a description of some new enterprise in which he was
deeply involved, and which required large sums of money.
His father and mother had always managed to send him
something to "help out" at such times, and made no
secret of it, rather rejoicing that they were able to do so.

Charles knew that his father owned large and valuable
tracts of land, and was well off; yet it had not always been
convenient to send Harrington large sums of money, and
often the family luxuries and pleasures had been
somewhat curtailed in consequence.  All such sacrifices had
been cheerfully made for the family idol, by himself as
well as by his three sisters, his maiden aunt, and his father
and mother.

At this critical moment it occurred to Charles to wonder
if his father had ever received any interest from these
many sums of money which he from time to time had put
into Harrington's business schemes.

Then his father's voice drowned all other thoughts:

"I do not know how to tell your poor mother!"  The
trembling tones were almost unrecognizable to the son.
"She ought to know at once.  We must plan what to do.
The Van Rensselaers must be told."

He bowed his head with another groan.

The son sat down and endeavored to get a better grasp
of the situation.

"Since when have you known this, Father?" he asked
keenly.

"Last night.  Mother had gone to bed, and I did not
disturb her.  I felt I must think it all out—what to
do—before I told them; but I cannot see my way any clearer.
It is a most infamous thing to have happened in a respectable
family.  Charles, I'm sorry to have to say it, but I'm
afraid your brother is a—a—a—*scoundrel*!"

The old gentleman's face was red and excited as he
brought forth the awful utterance.  It was the thought
which had been growing in his mind all through the long
night watch, but he had not been willing to acknowledge it.
He arose now and began to pace the room.

"He certainly is, if this is true, Father," said the son.
frowning.  "But are you quite sure it is not some miserable
blackmailing scheme?  Such stories are often trumped up
at the last minute to get money out of respectable people.
I've heard of it in Boston.  It is rare, of course, but it
could happen.  I cannot think Harrington would do such
an awful thing."

"Son, it is all too true," said the old man sadly.  "Do
you remember William McCord?  You know he was my
trusted farm-hand for years, and I have kept in touch
with him by letter ever since he went out West to take
up a claim on gold land.  Well, it was he that brought me
the terrible news.  He came last evening, after mother and
the girls had gone upstairs.  He did not want to see them
and have them question him till he had told me all.  He
brought letters and proofs from Harrington's wife and
the minister who married them, and, moreover, he was
an eye-witness to the fact that Harrington lived in the
West with his wife and two children.  You yourself know
that William McCord could not tell a lie."

"No," assented Charles; "never."

"Harrington's wife is a good, respectable woman,
though not very well educated.  She is the daughter of a
Virginia man who went out there to hunt for gold.  He
died a couple of years ago, and now the daughter and her
children have no one to look after them.  It seems
Harrington has neglected them for the past three years, only
coming home once in six months, and giving them very
little money.  He has told them a story of hard luck.

"The wife is desperate now.  She has been ill, and
needs many things for herself and the children.  At last
she learned of Harrington's intended marriage through
William, whose sister had written him the home news.

"She sold what few possessions she had and brought
the proceeds to William, begging him to come on here and
find out if the story was true.  William refused to take
her money, but started at once, at his own expense, and
came straight to me with the story.  Just think of it,
Charles!  Our grandchildren actually cold and hungry
and almost naked—our own flesh and blood!  Your
nephew and niece, Charles."

The younger man frowned.  He had very little sympathy
at present to expend upon any possible nephews and
nieces.  He was thinking of a lovely girl with eyes like
stars.  What were cold and hunger compared to her plight?

"Where is my brother?"  The boy looked older than
he had ever seemed to his father as he asked the question.

"I do not know.  He has always told us to write to
an address in New York, but often he has not answered our
letters for weeks.  I am afraid there is still more to be
told than we know.  McCord tells me he was under some
sort of a cloud financially out there—some trouble about
shares in a gold mine.  I'm afraid he has been speculating.
He has borrowed a great deal of money from me at one
time and another, but he has always told me that he was
doing nicely and that some day I should have a handsome
return for all I had put in.  But if that is the case, why
should he have dared to involve a sweet and innocent
young girl in it all?  Why should he dare do so dreadful
a thing!—unless he is under the impression that his first
wife is dead.  I cannot think that my boy would do this
thing!"

The father's head dropped upon his breast, but the
brother stood erect with flashing eyes.

"I see it all clearly, Father.  He is marrying this girl
for her money.  He needs money for some of his schemes,
and he is afraid to ask you for any more, lest you suspect
something.  He told me once that she was very rich.  I
think you are right: my brother is a scoundrel!"

The father groaned aloud.

"But, Father, what are you going to do about it?
Have you sent word to Mr. Van Rensselaer?  The wedding
is set for to-morrow morning.  There will be scarcely
time to stop the guests from coming."

Outside the window, wheels could be heard on the
gravel, as the old coachman drove the family carriage up
to the front steps.  Pompey, the stable boy, followed,
driving the mare in the carryall.

Almost simultaneously came the hurry of ladies' feet
down the staircase, and the swish of silken skirts.  Betty
and Cordelia and Madeleine rushed through the hall and
climbed into the carryall, with soft excitement and gentle
laughter.  This wedding journey was a great event, and
they had talked of nothing else for weeks.

"Come, Charles.  Come, Father, aren't you ready?"
called Betty.  "It is high time we started.  Mother is all
dressed, and Aunt Martha is just tying her bonnet.
Charles, Mother wants you to ride in the carriage with
her this morning; but you are to change off with us
by-and-by, so we'll all have a good look at you."

The father caught his breath and looked helplessly at
his son.  "I did not realize it was getting so late," he
murmured.  "Of course the journey must be stopped."

"Of course, Father," agreed Charles decidedly.  "Go
quickly and tell Mother all about it.  I will tell the girls
and Aunt Martha," he added.

With a look as though he were going to his death, the
older man hurried up the stairs to his wife, and Charles
went out to the piazza.  The two servants stood grinning
happily, feeling the overflow of the festive occasion.
Charles could not reveal his secret there.

"Come into the house, a minute, girls.  I've something
to tell you."

"Indeed, no, Charles!" said Cordelia emphatically.
"I will not climb out over the wheels again.  I nearly
ruined my pelisse getting in.  It is very dusty.  And I
have covered myself all nicely for the journey.  Won't it
keep?"

"Cordelia, you must come," said the young man imperiously,
and stalked into the house, uncertain whether they
would follow him.

In a moment Betty appeared roguishly in the parlor
door, whither Charles had gone.

"They won't come, Charles," she said.  "It's no use.
If you had news of an earthquake or a new railroad, they
wouldn't stir.  Nothing weighs against one's wedding
garments, and Cordelia has taken special pains."

But Charles did not respond to Betty's nonsense in his
usual merry way.

"Betty, listen," he said gravely.  "An awful thing has
happened."

"Is Harrington dead?" asked Betty, with wide, frightened
eyes and blanched face.

"No, but he might better be, Betty.  He has a wife
and two little children out West, and he has deserted them
to marry again."

Betty did not scream nor exclaim, "How dreadful!"  Instead,
she sat down quickly in the first chair at hand.

After an instant's silence, she said in her matter-of-fact
way:

"Then there won't be any wedding, of course!  And
what will that poor girl do?  Has anybody thought about
her?  Somehow, I'm not surprised.  I've always secretly
thought Harrington was selfish.  It's like him never to
think how he would make other people suffer.  His letters
always put Father and Mother in hot water.  Have they
told her yet, Charles?  Oh, I wish I could go and help
comfort her!  I can't think of anything more mortifying
for her."

"Betty, it is good that she will be saved from anything
worse.  It is good to have it found out beforehand."

"Oh, yes, of course; but she won't think of that.  With
all the wedding guests coming, how can she have time to
be thankful that she is saved from marrying a selfish, bad
man?  Charles, it is a shame!  Somebody ought to be at
hand to step in and take Harrington's place.  If I were
a man, I'd throw myself at her feet and offer to marry her.
Say, Charles, why don't you do it yourself?" declared
Betty romantically.

The heart of the young man leaped up with a great
bound, and a flood of color went over his face and neck.
But the parlor was darkened, and, moreover, the girls in
the carryall were diligently calling; so Betty vanished to
impart the news, and Charles was alone for the moment,
with a new thought, which almost took his breath from him.

Then down the oaken staircase, with soft, lady-like,
but decided rustle, came Madam Winthrop.

Behind her, nervous, protesting, came her husband's
anxious footsteps.

"But, Mother, really, it won't do.  We couldn't go, you
know, under the circumstances."

"Don't say another word, Mr. Winthrop," Charles
heard his mother's most majestic voice.  "I intend to
go, and there is no need of further talk.  Depend upon
it, Harrington will be able fully to explain all this
impossible story when he arrives, and it is not for his family
to lose faith in him."

"But, Mother, you don't understand," protested her
husband, still hastening after her and putting out a
detaining hand.

"Indeed, I do understand," said the woman's voice
coldly.  "I understand that my boy is being persecuted.
It is you, apparently, who do not understand.  I am his
mother, and I intend to stand by him, and not let a breath
of this wretched scandal touch him.  The wedding will
go on as planned, of course, and what would the world
think if his family were not present?  How could you
possibly explain your absence except by bringing out these
most unfatherly suspicions?  No, Mr. Winthrop, there is
all the more need of haste, that we may forestall any of
these wicked rumors.  Let us start at once."

"But, Janet——"

"No!  You needn't 'But Janet' me.  I don't wish
to hear another word.  I'm going, no matter what you say,
and so are Martha and the girls.  You can stay at home if
you like, I suppose.  You are a man, and, of course, will
do as you please.  I will explain your absence the best
way I can.  But I'm going!  Come, Martha; we will
get into the back seat!"

Charles stepped out of the darkened parlor and
intercepted his mother.

"Mother, really, you're making a mistake.  You have
not stopped to think what you are going into.  It won't
do for you and the girls to go.  I will go with father——"

But the imperious lady shook her son's hand from her
arm as though it had been a viper.

"Charles, you forget yourself!" she said.  "It is not
for you to tell your mother she is making a mistake.  You
must not think that because you have been to college you
can therefore teach your mother how to conduct her affairs.
Stand out of my way, and then follow me to the carriage.
You are displeasing me greatly.  It would have been better
for you to remain in Boston than to come here to talk to
your mother in this way."

The majestic lady marched on her way to the carriage,
followed by her frightened sister-in-law, who scuttled
after her tearfully, not knowing which to dread the most,
her sister-in-law's tyranny, the wrath of her brother, or the
scorn of her nephew.  The habit of her life had been
always to follow the stronger nature.  In this case it was
Madam Winthrop.

Father and son stood looking on helplessly.  Then the
father called:

"Well, Janet, if you must go, leave the girls at home
with Martha."

The aunt drew back timidly from the carriage-step she
was approaching.

"Get in at once, Martha!" commanded Madam Winthrop,
already established in the back seat of the coach.
"We have no time to waste.  Girls, you may drive on
ahead until we reach the cross-roads.  Elizabeth, your
conduct is unseemly for such a joyous occasion.  What
will the neighbors think to see your flushed, excited face?
Wipe your eyes and pull down your veil.  Drive on, Cordelia,
and see that Elizabeth's conduct is more decorous."

She waved the carryall on, and Cordelia and Madeleine,
awed and half-frightened, obeyed, while excitable Betty
strove to put by the signs of her perturbation until she
was out of her mother's sight.  In brief whispers she had
succeeded in conveying to her sisters a slight knowledge
of what had occurred.

The old coachman and the stable boy stood wondering
by and marvelled that the wedding had gone to Madam's
head.  They had seen her in these imperious moods, but
had not thought this an occasion for one.  Some one must
have displeased her very much, for her to get in a
towering rage on the day before her eldest son's wedding.

"Now, Mr. Winthrop, we are ready, if you and Charles
will take your seats."

Father and son looked at each other in dismay.

"I guess there's nothing for it but to get in, Father.
Perhaps you can bring her to her senses on the way, and
I can drive back with her, or they can stop at an inn,
while we go on.  It really won't do to delay, for we have
a duty to the Van Rensselaers."

"You are right, Charles.  We must go.  Perhaps, as
you say, we can persuade Mother on the way.  I am
dubious, however.  She is very set in her way."

"Mr. Winthrop, you will need only to get your hat,"
called his wife from the coach.  "I have had your
portmanteau and Charles's fastened on behind.  Your things
are all here.  Your hat is lying on the hall table."

With a sigh of submission, the strong man obediently
got his hat and took his place on the front seat of the
coach, while Charles indignantly swung himself up beside
his father.  Then the family started for the wedding that
was not to be.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII

.. vspace:: 2

The long journey was anything but what it had
promised to be when it was anticipated.  The carryall
containing the three girls headed the procession.  They
were talking in subdued and frightened tones, Madeleine
and Cordelia endeavoring to find out from Betty more
than the child really knew.  When she could not satisfy
their curiosity and anxiety with facts, she supplied them
with running comments on human nature and her elder
brother in particular.  Now and again they pulled her
up sharply with: "Betty, be still!" or "I am ashamed
of you Elizabeth.  You jump to conclusions.  I am sure
there must be some explanation.  Charles was very wrong
to tell you until he had made sure about it.  You see Mother
does not believe the story, or she would never go."

"Mother wouldn't believe Harrington had done wrong
if she saw him do it," declared Betty irreverently.

"Now, Betty!  How you talk!  One would think you
didn't love Harrington."

"Well, I don't very much, and that's a fact," shrugged
Betty.  "Charles is worth two of him.  Harrington always
hushes me up when he comes home, and talks as if I were
a baby yet.  Besides, he is selfish.  Look how he wouldn't
take me to Harriet Howegate's corn-husking when he was
home the last time, just because he was too lazy to change
his clothes!  I don't see why I should love him if I don't,
just because he happens to belong to the same family.
I'm sure he can't love us much, or he wouldn't have gone
off so long ago and stayed away from us so much."

"Why, Betty!" said Madeleine, shocked.  "He had to
go and earn his living and make a man's way in the world."

"No, he didn't.  He could have stayed at home and
gone into business with Father, as Father wanted him to.
I haven't a bit of patience with Harrington."

"I'm sure, Betty, that's a very shocking way to talk
about your own brother, and Mother would highly
disapprove!" said Madeleine.

"If I were you, I should keep still, Betty," advised
Cordelia.

Betty pouted, and a solemn silence settled upon the
three as the old gray horse plodded sleepily over the road.
The occupants of the coach were by no means at ease.
Aunt Martha sat shrivelled in the back seat, with the
ready tears coursing silently down her cheeks.  She had
heard enough of what her brother had told his wife, to
be filled with gloomy apprehensions.  Aunt Martha was
always sure of the worst.

Madam Winthrop sat severely silent, with her delicate,
cameo features held high.  Her keen blue eyes never
wavered, nor did her firm, thin lips quiver.  Apparently,
she had not one misgiving, and her only regret seemed to
be that the rest of the family had taken leave of their
senses.  She looked straight in front of her, ignoring the
sad gray head of her husband, and the yellow curls of the
strong young son with whom she was offended.  They
would all see their mistake soon enough, and meantime she
was giving them a bit of a lesson not to doubt the idol of
her heart.  To do her justice, she firmly believed she was
right, and was amazed that her husband had taken the
attitude he had.  Of course Harrington would not do such
a dreadful thing.  Such things did not happen in real life.
It was out of the question.  She dismissed the subject with
that, and fell to going over her own arrangements and the
wardrobe of the family, with satisfaction.

The sound of the horses' hoofs on the old corduroy
road, and the husky crickets by the wayside, beat a funeral
dirge for the heart of the Father in the front seat.  His
countenance was heavy, and now and again he brought forth
an audible sigh.

The lugubrious attitude of her family annoyed Madam
Winthrop.  She turned to her sister-in-law sharply.

"For pity's sake, Martha, do stop snivelling!  One
would think you were going to a funeral instead of to a
wedding.  I must say I don't think you honor your nephew
very much, showing such distrust in him.  Do wipe your
eyes and sit up.  If you go on this way, you won't be able
to come to the ceremony to-morrow morning, and you
know how that will annoy Harrington.  I must say,
Mr. Winthrop, you are acting in a very strange manner, for
the father of such a son."

She always called him Mr. Winthrop when he had
offended her.  At other times it was "Father."

Her husband turned in the seat and faced her solemnly.
"Janet," he said sadly, "it's no use for you to try to
blind yourself to the truth.  You'll only have it harder to
bear in the end.  You might as well understand the awful
truth that our boy Harrington has committed a great sin,
and we ought to be thankful that it was discovered before
any more harm was done.  You don't seem to see what a
task we've got before us to tell that father and his innocent
young daughter that the man in whom they trusted, our
son, has played them false."

"Now, Mr. Winthrop, I don't want to hear another
word of such talk.  You must be beside yourself!"  Madam
Winthrop half arose in her seat and cried out shrilly:
"Stop it, I say!  Don't you dare say such words in my
presence again!  If you do, I shall get right out of this
carriage and walk!  *Walk*, I tell you!  And what will the
servants think of you then?  You will find out your mistake
in due time, of course, and be ashamed of yourself.  Until
then I must ask you not to speak to me on the subject.
No, Charles, don't you dare to interfere between me and
your Father again.  I have had enough of your disrespect
for one day.  Just keep absolutely quiet until you can
speak in a proper way.  I simply will not stand such talk."

She sat up with dignity, and spoke to them both as if
they were naughty children.  Her husband looked into
her eyes sadly for a moment, and then turned deliberately
back to his horses.  He knew by former experience that it
was well nigh impossible to convince his wife of anything
against her will.  Well, she would have to go on and take
the consequences of her stubbornness.  There was no other
way.  And perhaps it was as well, for, with her excitable
nature, there was no telling what state it might throw her
into, once she realized the truth about her idolized son.
She might lose consciousness and have to be carried back,
and so perhaps delay them.  His first duty now was to tell
the sad truth to his old friend Van Rensselaer and his
poor daughter.  Every step that the horses took made him
shrink more and more from the task before him.  It seemed
that his shame and disgrace were being burnt into his soul
with a red hot iron.  He kept thinking how he should tell
his story to his host when he reached his journey's end,
and the horses' hoofs beat out the dirge of a funeral; while
keeping pace behind, with decorous bearing, rode the two
old servants, pondering what had cast a shadow over the
gay party they had hoped to escort.

As the young man in the front seat of the coach sat
and frowned at the shining chestnut backs of the horses,
he was conning over and over a thought that his sister
had put into his heart, and each time it ran like sweet fire
along his veins, until it began to seem a possibility, and
fairly took his breath away.

The day was wonderful.  The air was fine and rare,
the sky clear, with not a fleck of cloud to mar the blue—a
blue that fairly called attention to itself as being bluer
than ever before.  But not one of all that little company
of wedding-goers saw it.

The foliage everywhere was washed fresh for the occasion
by a shower that had passed in the night.  Diamonds
strung themselves from grass-blade to grass-blade, and
begemmed even the mullein stalks.  Late dandelions flared
and gleamed, shy sweet-brier smiled here and there by
the roadside in delicate pink cups, inviting the bees.  The
birds in the trees were singing everywhere, and the sweet
winds lifted branches and played a subdued accompaniment.
To the soul of the young man, their music came
in happy harmonies, and, while he was not conscious of it,
little by little they began to play him a kind of wedding
march, the joyous melody of his thoughts, now glad, now
fearful, yet ever growing sweeter and more sure of the
victorious climax.

He grew presently unconscious of the inharmony
behind him: of Aunt Martha and her efforts not to
"sniff"; of his mother's disapproval; and of his father's
heavy heart.  He thought only of the girl whom he had
seen upon the hillside, and the smile her eyes had given
him as they met his.  Every time he thought upon it now
his heart-beats quickened.  All the pent-up flood of
emotion that she had set going that spring afternoon upon the
Hudson hillside, and that he had fought bravely all these
weeks, and thought he had conquered, came now upon him
with the power of stored-up energy and swept over his
being in a flood-tide of gladness.

In vain he shamed himself for such unseemly joy when
his only brother was in disgrace.  In vain he told himself
that the girl-bride would be plunged into grief when her
bridegroom turned out to be no bridegroom at all.  Still
his heart would catch the faint melody of the wedding-march
those birds and winds and branches were breathing,
and would go singing along with a new gladness.

The morning was a silent one for the whole party.
Even the coachman checked Pompey's levity when a robin
chased a chipmunk across a distant path, and the old
darkey snapped him up sharply when he ventured a
question or a wonder about "Marsa" and "Missus."

But while each held to his own thoughts, and the
horses sped willingly over the miles, in the heart of the
young man in the front seat was growing a steady purpose.

About noon they stopped at an inn to dine, and give
the horses a brief respite.

Madam Winthrop would not lie down, as they urged
her, nor would she permit her husband or her son to talk
with her concerning the forbidden theme.  She kept the
three girls with her also, that nothing might be said to
them to prejudice them against their brother.

Aunt Martha, however, unable to bear up longer under
the scornful scrutiny of her sister-in-law, was glad to
take refuge on the high four-poster bed that the landlady
put at her service, and weep a few consoling tears into the
homespun linen pillow-slip.  Aunt Martha was by no
means sure that all was well with the boy whom she adored,
though she acknowledged to herself that he had his
weaknesses.  Had she not seen those very weaknesses from
babyhood upward, and helped many times to hide them from
his blind mother and adoring sisters?  Her fearful soul
accepted the possibility of his sin, yet loved him in spite
of it all.  She resented the thought that public opinion
would be against Harrington if he had done this thing,
and, could she have had her way, would have had public
opinion changed to suit his special need.  She felt in her
secret soul that prodigies like Harrington should not be
expected to follow the laws like ordinary mortals.

Madam Winthrop sat bolt upright in a wooden chair,
and eyed her three daughters suspiciously.  Now and then
she made a remark about their conduct at the wedding,
and they acquiesced meekly.  They had learned never to
dispute with their mother when she was in her present
mood.

Charles and his father wandered by common consent
into the woods near-by.  It was the son who spoke first.

"Father, I've been thinking all the morning about what
you said of her—Miss Van Rensselaer."  He spoke the
name shyly, reverently, and his heart throbbed painfully.
He felt himself very young and presumptuous.  The bright
color glowed in his face.  "It will be terrible for her."  He
breathed the words as if they hurt him.

"Yes," assented the father; "I cannot get her out of
my mind, the poor innocent child!  Think of Betty,
Charles.  Suppose it was Betty."

The young man frowned.

"Father, did you ever see her?"

"No," said the older man, wondering at his son's
vehemence.  "Did you?"

"Yes, I saw her once, when I met Harrington on my
way to Boston.  I stopped off with him at the school where
she was being educated, and we saw her.  She is beautiful,
Father, beautiful, and very young.  She looked as if she
could not stand a thing like this, as if it might crush her.
Don't you think we ought to do something for her, to make
it easier?  Isn't it our place?  I mean—say, Father, in
the Bible, you know, when the older brother died, or failed
in any way, the younger brother had to take up the
obligation.  Do you understand what I mean, Father?  Do you
think I could?  I mean, do you think she would let me?
It wouldn't be so public and mortifying, you know, and I
think girls care a great deal about that.  Betty would,
I'm sure."

The father looked up in astonishment.

"What do you mean, Charles?  Do you mean you
would marry her?"

"Why, yes, Father, that's what I meant.  What do
you think of it?"

The boy in him came to the front for an instant and
looked out of his eyes, though he shrank from the blunt
way the older man had of stating facts.

His father eyed him keenly.

"But you're only a boy, Charles, and you're not through
college yet.  How could you marry?"

"I'm past twenty-one," boasted the boy, and vanished
into the man.  A graver look came out upon his face.

"I could leave college, if it were necessary, or I could
go on and finish.  I could work part of the time and take
care of her."  The last words he breathed gently,
reverently, like a benediction.

The father stopped in the wooded path and grasped
his son's hand.

"Boy, you've got good stuff in you!  I'm proud of
you," he said, lifting his head triumphantly.  "If only your
brother had been like that!"  Then he bowed his head in
bitter thought.

But the young man's thoughts were not on Harrington
now.  He grasped his father's hand, and waited
impatiently for further words from him.

"Well, Father?"

The old man lifted his head.

"But, Boy, you do not know her.  You have seen her
only once.  You can't spoil your own life that way."

A flood of color went over the younger face, and into
his eyes came a depth of earnestness that showed his
father that the man had awakened in his son.  He was no
longer a boy.

"Father, I do not need to know her.  I love her already.
I have loved her ever since I saw her.  That was why I
did not want to come to the wedding.  I felt that I could
not bear it."

The kindly older gaze searched the fine young face
tenderly, but the lover's eyes looked back at him and
wavered not.

"Is it so, Son?"—the words were grave.  "Then God
pity you—and bless you," he added, with an upward look.
"I am afraid there is no easy way ahead of you.  Yet I
am proud to call you my son."

After this they walked on silently through the woods,
over a pathway of flecked gold, where the sunlight sifted
through the leafy branches.  No sound came to interrupt
the silence beyond the whisking of a squirrel or the flirt of
a bird's wings in the branches.

The dinner-bell pealed forth from the inn, and they
turned quietly to retrace their steps.  They were almost in
sight of the house before either spoke.  Then the father
said:

"Son, she does not know you.  Have you any idea how
she will take all this?"

"None at all, Father."  It was spoken humbly.

"What is your idea?  Have you made any plans?"

"Not yet—only, that I shall tell her at once, if I
may, and let her decide.  If she is willing, the wedding
may go on as planned."

A light came into the older man's face, though he
looked troubled.

"Well said, Charles!  Perhaps you may succeed.  But
I fear, I fear.  Nevertheless, your noble action helps me
to hold up my head and look her father in the eye.  If I
have one son who is a scoundrel, at least I have one who
is not, and who is willing to face his brother's obligations."

They went in then and sat down to a dinner of which
both were able to partake more enjoyably than either had
supposed possible.

"Charles, isn't there going to be an awful time when
we get there?" whispered Betty, as they passed out to the
carriages.

"I hope not, Betty," said Charles, with a solemn light
in his eyes that made the girl wonder.

Charles took his seat beside his father with hopefulness,
and all that long afternoon the music of nature rang on;
but now to both men the dirge was almost lost in the
swelling and sounding of the wedding march.





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.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

.. vspace:: 2

All the afternoon, Madam Winthrop had steadily
refused to converse about her oldest son.  The party were
nearing the edge of the town where the Van Rensselaers
lived.

Twice Charles had endeavored to bring his mother's
mind to the subject, and once his father had said: "Now,
Mother, it is absolutely necessary that you put aside your
attitude and let me tell you all about this matter."  But
to all advances she was adamant.

"I shall never allow you to say such wicked things
about my son," declared the old lady, rising from her
seat and attempting to get out of the coach.  They were
compelled to give it up and trust to developments.

The stars were coming out when they entered the
village streets.  The father called to his daughters to wait
a moment, and he stopped the coach horses.  Turning
around in his seat, he faced his wife.

"Janet," said he, and his voice was firm as when he
was a young man, "it is best that the family stop at the
inn while Charles and I go on to the house and make the
family acquainted with the truth.  I wish you and Martha
and the girls to stop here and wait until our return."

The old lady looked ahead impatiently, as if she did
not see her husband.

"I shall do nothing of the kind, Mr. Winthrop," she
said.  "You may as well save time by driving on."

The anger was rising in the old gentleman's face.  He
had been defied for years and had borne it with fortitude
and a measure of amusement.  He had always felt that
he could assert himself when he chose.  But now he had
chosen, and apparently he had been mistaken all these
years.  His wife would not obey.  It was mortifying, and
especially before his son and his sister.  He turned sharply
to Martha, sitting frightened and meek in the dark corner
of the coach.

"Martha, get out," he commanded in a tone she had
never disobeyed.

Martha proceeded to obey hastily.

"Don't you do any such foolish thing, Martha Winthrop.
You stay right where you are.  I won't have any
scenes," said Madam Winthrop.

Martha paused and put her mitted hand on her heart.

"Martha, this is my carriage, and you are my sister,
and I tell you to get out."

Martha had not heard that voice from her brother's lips
for forty years.  She got out.

"Pompey, Caesar"—to the two negroes who drove up
at that moment—"see that the ladies are cared for in the
inn until our return.  Attend to the other carriage, and
tell the young ladies it is my wish that they remain in
the inn parlor until I come back."

With grave dignity, the master of the situation guided
his horse past the carryall and down the dim evening
street.  Madam Winthrop sat amazed, with two red spots
on her cheeks.

"It seems to me, Mr. Winthrop," she said coldly, when
they had gone some distance, "that you are carrying things
with a pretty high hand.  If I had known that such traits
would ever develop in you, I am sure I should never have
left the shelter of my father's house."

Her husband made no reply.

As the coach drew up before the fine old house, Mr. Van
Rensselaer came out to greet the arrivals.  Madam
Winthrop sat up with grave dignity, and allowed him to
hand her down and escort her into the house.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer met her with nervous ceremony
in the wide hall and took her into the stately parlor.
Once there, the lady looked about her as if in search of
some one, scarcely noticing her hostess.

"Where is my son?" she asked.  "I supposed he
would be here.  Will you tell Harrington that his mother
wishes to see him at once?  It is most important."

"Your son has not yet arrived," said the other woman,
watching her jealously.  "We do not expect him until the
morning train."

She mentioned the train with an air of pride, for the
new railroad was a matter of vast importance to the little
city.  A few miles of railroad was a wonderful distinction
in a land where railroads had just begun to be.  But the
guest had no recognition for such things.

"Not here yet?  I supposed of course he would have
arrived.  Then, if it is convenient, I will go directly to
my room, as I am very much worn-out.  No, thank you.
I could not eat a mouthful to-night.  You may send me a
cup of tea if you please."

Dawn had fled in a panic far into the depths of the
garden.  Crouched behind the tall, clipped hedges, her
heart beating wildly, she listened, while frightened tears
stood in her eyes.  If she had dared, if she had known
where to go, she would have fled out into the dark,
unknown world at that moment, so did her heart revolt at
the thought of her marriage.  She listened.  The night
was very sweet with roses and honeysuckles and faint waft
of mignonette all about her, mingled with the breath of
heliotrope.  But only the night sounds came to her—the
plaintive cricket monotonously playing his part in the
symphony of the evening; the tree-toads shrilly piping here
and there, with the bass of a frog in the mill-pond just
below the hill; the screech-owl coming in with his obligato;
the murmur of the brook in the ravine not far away; and
the sighing of the night-wind over all.

A sudden hush seemed to have come over the house,
with only the faint echo of voices.  Oh, if there were but
a place in the world where she might slip away and never
be found!  It would be terrible to leave them that way,
with the wedding all prepared, but she would not care what
she did if only she might get away from it all.

The coach had been sent to the stables, and the gentlemen
were closeted with Mr. Van Rensselaer in his library,
the room made memorable to Dawn by so many sorrowful
scenes.  It was right and fitting that the revelation should
be made within the sombre walls where had been enacted so
many tragedies connected with the little girl.

What passed within that door no one knew exactly,
save the three who took part in the low-voiced conversation.
The lady of the house sat in gloomy mortification
within her stately parlor, reviewing with vexed mind the
recent interview between herself and the mother of the
bridegroom.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer decided that the other
woman was a most unpleasant person, with whom she
wished to have as little to do as possible in future.  It
was well that she and her step-daughter had little in
common, if this was the kind of family she was marrying
into.

The low tones in the library went on.  The lady of the
house did not like the idea of being shut out.

What could they be talking about?  How very strange!
Had something happened to the bridegroom?  They looked
so solemn when they came in.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer caught
her breath at the thought.  It would be nothing short of
a catastrophe to have the girl-bride on her hands, if the
wedding were to be delayed for any reason.  The child
was almost beside herself now with excitement and nervousness.
It was positively uncanny to have her around.  She
was making herself sick, one could see that at a glance,
even if one didn't love her very much.  Of course she would
settle down and be all right after she was married.  Girls
always did.  This girl was particularly headstrong, and
it was as well that her prospective husband was older than
herself, and would be able to control her wild fancies and
put her through wise discipline.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer
was one of those who think all women save themselves need
discipline.

While she meditated, Dawn flitted in at the front door
noiselessly and stole up the stair like a wraith, her white
dress flashing by the parlor before her step-mother could
sense what it was.

The woman started angrily.  It was one of the things
about the girl that vexed her, this stealing softly by and
giving no warning that she was near.  Her step-mother
named it "slyness."

In a moment more the library door opened and her
name was called.

She went into the hall with an attitude that said
plainly she felt insulted by the way things were going.

"Where is Jemima?" asked her husband, and she saw
by his face that something unusual had happened.  His
look was that he had worn the day he came home from
seeing his dead wife.  Jemima indeed!  Why did he not
consult her first?  She bustled up to the door.

"Jemima has gone to her room," she said decidedly.
"By this time she has retired.  It would be better not to
disturb her.  She has been very nervous and excited all day."

To the two guests inside the library, the protest sounded
like loving solicitation.  Perhaps the woman meant it
should.  She had been wont to show her interest thus
before Dawn's father, and seldom let him know her true
feeling toward the girl.

Mr. Van Rensselaer's severe brow did not relax.  He
was used to having life thicken around him in hard
experiences, both for himself and for those who were dependent
upon him.

"It will be necessary for her to know to-night, I think,
Maria," he said.  "Sit down and I will give you the facts.
It may be best for you to tell her, after all."

With the injured importance of one who feels she
should have been told at the first, Mrs. Van Rensselaer
sat down upon the extreme edge of a stiff chair, grudgingly,
not to seem too eager to be told.

"Maria, Mr. Winthrop has kindly come to inform
us of a most unfortunate state of things relating to the
young man who was to have married Jemima to-morrow
morning."

Mrs. Van Rensselaer held her breath, and her face
actually blanched with the vision of the future.  "Was
to have married!"  Then something had occurred to stop
it.  Her premonitions had been correct.  Well, she would
do something to get that whimsical minx out of her
house, any way.  Her husband needn't think she was to
live her lifetime out in the same house with that girl.
She set her lips together hard in a thin line of defence.

"I realize that the whole thing is painful in the
extreme to my friend, Mr. Winthrop, so it is not necessary
for us to discuss the matter at length.  It is sufficient for
you and my daughter to know that it has been discovered
by Mr. Winthrop that his son Harrington is already
married to a woman who is still living, and who is the
mother of his two children.  The situation is most
embarrassing on both sides, and it will be necessary for my
daughter to understand it at once."

There was a quick, eager movement of the young man
on the other side of the big desk, but no one noticed him.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer was perhaps the only one in the
room whose heart was not wrung with the anguish of the
moment.

"A most unpleasant state of things, Mr. Winthrop,"
she said sharply, turning to the elder guest.

The old man bowed his head in assent, too overcome to
reply.

"But one for which Mr. Winthrop and his family are
in no wise to blame, of course," said Mr. Van Rensselaer
quickly.

"I suppose not," said his wife dryly, in a tone which
implied that there was more than one way of looking at
the matter.

"The first thing is to tell Jemima," said her father.

"I'm sure I don't in the least see why," responded his
wife.  "The first thing is to plan what is to be done.
Jemima is far better off asleep until we arrange it all.
She will make a fuss, of course.  Girls always make a fuss,
whatever happens."

Charles eyed the woman indignantly, the color rising
in his face.

"But, Mr. Van Rensselaer, I——" he began eagerly.

"Yes, certainly, Mr. Winthrop; I am coming to that.
There is another matter, Maria, that slightly changes the
affair.  This young man, Mr. Charles Winthrop, has most
thoughtfully offered a suggestion which may help us out
of the dilemma in which we are all placed."

Mrs. Van Rensselaer turned toward him sharply, and
saw that he was good to look upon.

"Well?" she said dryly, as her husband hesitated.

"If Miss Van Rensselaer is willing," put in Charles
shyly, with wistful eyes and a smile that would have
melted any but a woman with a heart made of pig iron.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer pursed her lips at the "Miss"
applied to Jemima, and thought in her heart she would see
that "Miss Van Rensselaer" was willing for anything
that, would help them out of this most embarrassing
situation.

"Mr. Winthrop has offered his hand to my daughter,"
went on the father, dropping his eyes and getting out the
sentence stiffly.  It was all painful to him.  Somehow, in
the last few minutes, it had come to him that she who had
been Mary Montgomery would think he had bungled her
daughter's life most terribly.  He was shaken with the
thought.  It had been a relief to think that the girl was
to be happily married.  But now!

"He proposes to marry her himself, to-morrow morning,
at the hour appointed for the other marriage," went
on Mr. Van Rensselaer.

"With her consent, of course," put in Charles.

"Very commendable, I'm sure," commented Mrs. Van
Rensselaer, while she did some rapid thinking.

Here was her chance.  The girl must marry this young
man, whether she would or no.  All those relatives who
were coming to-morrow should not have a chance to scoff
at her proud arrangements.  The step-mother desired that
they should all see how well she had done for the girl who
was not her own.  Besides, he was a goodly youth, full as
handsome as the other man, and of the same family.  What
was there to object to?  The girl might even be pleased,
though there was no forecasting that.  Such a queer girl
would probably do the opposite from what was expected
of her.  The matter with her was that she was too young
to know what she did want, and in the present circumstances
it was best for her that some one else should decide
her fate.  She—Mrs. Van Rensselaer—would decide it.
She would take matters into her own hands and see that all
went the way it should go.  Meantime, she picked at a bit
of thread on her immaculate gown, and, to make time for
thought, murmured again:

"Most commendable, I'm sure."

Charles's face lighted with hope.  He was ready to
fall upon the cold-looking lady's neck and embrace her,
if that would hasten matters.  He thought she looked
more pleasing than when he had first seen her.

"I think, Mr. Van Rensselaer, you would do well to
leave this matter in my hands now.  As you say, it is a very
delicate situation, and one that must be handled most
carefully.  I will go to Jemima at once and talk with her.
I must break the news gently——"

"Of course, of course—the poor lamb!" murmured
the kind old father of the reprobate bridegroom.

"She is very nervous and quite unstrung with the
day's preparation," went on the step-mother, the more to
work her will upon the feelings of those present.

"Of course, of course—poor child!  Don't distress
her any more than is necessary, I beg.  It is dreadful for
her, dreadful!"

"But it isn't quite as if she had never seen me," put
in Charles wistfully.  "Tell her I have loved her from
the very first sight I had of her——"

The woman turned the chilly search-light of her eyes
upon the young man's ardent face, and a sense of
foreboding passed over him.  Poor soul, she was only
wondering what it must be like to have some one talk in that
way about one.  Still, she was keen to see an advantage,
and knew it would help her in the task she had set herself
to get rid of her step-daughter.

"Whatever you think best, Maria," assented Dawn's
father wearily.  He was glad, after all, not to have to tell
the girl.  He had come to fear her eyes, which were like
her mother's, and her temper, which was his own.

"Of course, of course," said old Mr. Winthrop.

Dawn's father bowed once more his assent.  In his
heart he heard again the words: "You have no right.
You have no right!"  Would the sin of his youth never
be expiated by sorrow?

Mrs. Van Rensselaer arose.

"I will go up and talk with her," she said coolly, as
though it were quite an ordinary matter under discussion.

"You will ask her to come down and let me talk to
her?" asked Charles, following her into the hall.  "I
think perhaps I can make her see it better than any one
else."

The woman looked him over, frowning.  This ardent
youth was going to be hard to control.  She must be wary
or he would upset all her plans, as well as his own.

"I will see what is best," she answered coldly.  "Remember
she has retired, and this will be a great shock to
her.  It would be better for you to give her a little time
to recover and to think it over.  Leave it to me.  I will
do my best for you."

She tried to smile, but conveyed rather an expression
of arrogance than of anything else.

"Of course."  The young man drew back thoughtfully.
"Do not hurry her."

She passed up the stairs, and Charles wandered out
the front door and into the moonlit garden.  He stood and
listened to the harmony of sound and looked up reverently
toward a chamber window where glimmered a candle-light.
He wondered if even now she was listening to his message,
and his heart was lifted high with hope.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

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   CHAPTER IX

.. vspace:: 2

When Mrs. Van Rensselaer came down stairs a half-hour
later she found Charles in the parlor anxiously awaiting
her coming.  Her face was bland and encouraging.
She tried to smile, though smiles were foreign to her
nature.

"Well," she said, seating herself and signing to the
young man to take a chair opposite her, "she is naturally
very much shocked."

"Of course she would be," said Charles, somewhat
sadly, and waited.

"I think, as I said, it will take her a few hours to
become adjusted to the new state of things, and it would
not be well for you to see her to-night.  There will be
plenty of time in the morning.  The hour was set late,
so that all the relatives could arrive, you know.  She will
undoubtedly accept your proposal, but you must give her
a little time."

"You think she will?" asked the young man, brightening.
"Oh, that is good!  Certainly I can wait until
morning.  Poor little girl, it must be very hard for her!"

A hard glitter in his hostess's eye did not encourage
conversation along these lines, and he soon excused himself
to go and meet his father, who had gone to the inn to
see that the rest of the family were comfortable for the
night.

The household settled to quiet at last, but it was like
the sullen silence before a storm.

A heavy burden had fallen upon Mr. Van Rensselaer.
He seemed to be arraigned before his first wife's searching
eyes, for the trouble that had befallen their child.  He
could not get away from the vision of her dead face.

His wife spent the night in feverish planning for the
morning, a fiendish determination in her heart to be rid
of her step-daughter, no matter to what she had to resort
in order to compass it.

Mr. Winthrop had leisure now to think upon his oldest
son, and the sin which he had been about to commit, and
tears trickled down his cheeks as he watched through the
long hours of the night.  His wife vouchsafed him no word
or look.  To all appearances, she was asleep, but no one
ever knew what struggles were going on within her soul.
Perhaps she was holding herself in abeyance for the coming
of the beloved son who would explain all.

In the spacious chamber assigned to him, Charles spent
much of the night in a vision with a white-robed girl upon
a hillside, and his waking visions and those sleeping were
so blended that he was scarce aware when starlight merged
into morning, and he heard the birds twitter in the branches
near his window.

Of all that household, only Dawn slept.  Her heart,
bowed with its burden of apprehension, had reached the
limit of endurance, and the long lashes lay still upon the
white cheeks, while her soul ceased from its troubling for
a little while.

She awoke with a start of painful realization, while
yet the first crimson streak of morning lay in the east.  Its
rosy light reminded her of the day, and what it was to
mean for her.  With a sound that was like both a sob
and a prayer, she rose quickly, and, slipping on the little
white gown she had worn the evening before, nor stopping
to do more than brush out the mass of curls, she hastened
stealthily down the stairs and, taking care to close the door
behind her that her escape should not be noticed, went out
into the garden.  She would slip back quietly, before the
guests were astir, she told herself.  She wanted one more
hour to herself in the dewy garden, before life shut her
in forever from freedom and her girlhood.

Five minutes later, her step-mother, in dressing-gown
and slippers, crossed the hall hastily and pushed open the
girl's door.  She had fallen asleep toward morning, and
had slept later than she had intended.  But she had her
plans carefully laid, and determined to settle the girl's
part before any one was up.

At that same instant, Charles, whose heart was alive
for the possibilities of the new day, stepped out on the
balcony in front of his window, and with easy agility
swung himself over the railing and dropped to the terrace
beneath.  He was too impatient to sleep longer, and felt
that somehow he would be nearer his heart's desire if he
got out into the dewy morning world.

He walked slowly down the carefully tended paths, into
the garden, stopping to notice a bird's note here, the glint
of dew-drops over the lawn, the newly opened flowers in
the beds of poppies, bachelor buttons, foxglove, asters, and
sweet-peas.  A great thorny branch that must have evaded
the gardener's careful training reached out as if to catch
his attention, and there upon its tip was a spray of
delicate buds, just half blown, exquisite as an angel's wings,
and with the warm glow of the sunrise in the sheathlike,
curling petals.  Were they white or pink or yellow?  A
warm white, living and tender, like a maiden's cheek.  He
reached for the spray and cut it off, feeling sure he could
make his peace with the mistress of the house when he
confessed his theft.  He stood a moment looking at the
beautiful roses, one almost full blown, the other two just
curling apart, like a baby trying to waken.  He drank in
their fragrance in a long, deep breath, and then, thinking
his fanciful thoughts of the girl to whom he had given
his heart so freely before he yet knew her, he walked slowly
on to the little arbor hid among the yew trees.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer stood in the doorway of Dawn's
room, aghast, scarcely able to believe her eyes.  Yes, the
girl was gone.  Where? was her instant thought.  Perhaps
she had fled, and would make them more trouble.  A great
fear clutched at the woman's heart lest she had made a
terrible mistake by not talking the matter over with her
step-daughter the night before, and making her understand
what she was to do.  Now, perhaps, it would be found out
by them all, and by her husband in particular, that she had
not yet told the girl anything.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer had a
decided fear of her husband.  Their wills had never
really clashed so far, but for some years she had had a
feeling that if they ever did, he would be terrible.  She
shrank back with a wild heating of her heart, and looked
about the shadowy hall as if she expected to find the girl
lurking there.  Then her stern common-sense came to the
surface, and she went boldly into the room and made a
systematic search.  It did not take but a minute to make
sure that Dawn was not there, and that wherever she was
she had taken nothing with her, save the clothes she had
worn the evening before.  It suddenly occurred to the
step-mother that she ought to have gone into the room
before retiring last night and made sure that her charge
was there; but so sure had she been that she had heard
Dawn come in, it had not occurred to her to do it.  Besides,
where could the girl go?  She was very likely maundering
about that dull old garden she had haunted ever since her
return from school.

With that, Mrs. Van Rensselaer looked out of the
window, just in time to catch sight of her young guest
cutting the roses.  With keen apprehension, she saw what
might be about to happen, and knew that instant action
was the only thing that could prevent a catastrophe.

Regardless of dressing-gown and slippers, and of the
night-cap which concealed her scant twist of hair, she
descended the stairs, strode out the front door and down
the garden path, coming in sight of the young man just
as he turned the corner of the yew hedge into the walk
that led into the green arbor.

Charles stopped suddenly, for there sat Dawn in her
little white gown, with her head bowed upon her arms, on
the rustic table, and her wealth of dark curls covering
her.  Her young frame shook with sobbing, yet so quietly
did she weep that he had not heard her.

Her ear, alert with apprehension, caught the sound of
his foot upon the gravel, and she raised her head as
suddenly as he had stopped.

She looked at him with frightened eyes, out of which
the tears had fled down her white cheeks.  The face was
full of anguish, yet sweet and pitiful withal, framed in
its ripple of dark hair.

One instant she looked at him as if he were a vision
from whence she could not tell, then that great light grew
in her eyes, as he had seen it on the hillside, and before
he knew what he was doing he had smiled.  Then the
light in her eyes grew into an answering smile and lit
up her whole beautiful, sorrowful face.  It was like a
rainbow in the pale dawn of the morning, that smile, with
the tear-drops still upon her lashes.

"Jemima, what on earth!" broke in the harsh voice of
her step-mother.  "You certainly do take the craziest
notions!  You out here in that rig at this time in the
morning!  I guess you didn't count on company rising
early, too.  And your hair not combed either!  I certainly
am mortified.  Run in quick and get tidied up.  There's
plenty to do this morning, without mooning in the garden.
You'll excuse her"—to the guest.  "She had no idea any
one else would be out here so early."

The smile had gone from the girl's face, and instead
the fright had come back at sound of her tormentor's
jangling voice.  She looked down at her little rumpled
frock, put back her hair with trembling hand, and a flood
of sweet, shamed color came into the white face, just as
the sun burst up behind the hedge and touched the green
with rosy morning brightness.

Without a word in reply, she turned to go, but her eyes
met those of Charles with a pleading that went to his
heart, and his eyes answered unspeakable things, of which
neither knew the meaning, though each felt the strange
joy they brought.

As he stood back to let her pass, he held out to her the
spray of lovely rosebuds, and without a word she took them
and went swiftly on into the house.  Not a word had
passed between them, yet each felt that something
wonderful had happened.

Dawn looked neither to right nor to left, fearing lest
she should see some one less welcome, and so she fled to
her room, with the sound of her step-mother's clanging
voice, uttering some commonplaces about the morning
and the garden, floating to her in indistinct waves.

"You will let me see her now just as soon as she is
ready to come down?" Charles asked eagerly at the door.

"I will talk with her at once, and let you know what
she says," answered the vexed lady evasively.  She was
all out of breath and flurried with the anxiety lest she
had been too late.  It had been a narrow escape.  She
did not like to begin an important day like this with being
flustered.  Besides, she had become conscious of her
night-cap, the ugly lines of her dressing-gown, the flop-flop of
her slippers.  A long wisp of hair had escaped from her
cap and was tickling her nose, as she ascended the stairs
with as much dignity as the circumstances and her slippers
allowed, in full sight of the ardent lover.

"Well, Jemima Van Rensselaer, I hope you're satisfied!"
she flared out, as soon as she was inside the girl's
door.  "What on earth took you out in the wet at this
unearthly hour?  And on your wedding day, too!  I
should think you'd be ashamed!  I declare I shall be glad
to my soul when this day's over and I can wash my hands
of the responsibility of you.  If your father knew the
freaks and fancies and the queer actions of you I'm not
sure what he wouldn't do to you!  Now, look here!  Sit
down.  I want to talk to you."

But Dawn had flung herself upon her bed in a paroxysm
of tears, and was smothering her wild sobs in the pillow.
She did not hear a word.

Nor could threats nor protests, nor even a thorough
shaking, bring her out of it until the tears had wept
themselves out.  But finally she lay quiet and white upon the
bed, and even the hard-hearted woman who did not love
her was stirred to a sort of pity for the abject woe that was
upon her face.

"Say, look here, Jemima"—even the hated name
brought forth no sign from the girl—"now put away all
this foolishness.  Girls always feel kind of queer at getting
married and making a change in life.  I did, myself."

Dawn wondered indifferently if her step-mother had
ever been a girl.  She certainly had not been one when
she married Dawn's father.

"You'll feel all right once you get in your own home
and have things the way you want them around you."

Dawn shuddered.  She would have *him* around her.

"Now, do get up and wash your face.  A bride oughtn't
to look as if she was just getting over the measles.  Besides,
you'll be wanted pretty soon to go downstairs——"

"Oh!"  Dawn involuntarily put her hand over her
heart.  "Must I go down and see all those dreadful
people?  Couldn't I just stay here till—till—till it's
time?"

Now, this was exactly what Mrs. Van Rensselaer wanted
her to say, and, moreover, had been counting upon.  If
Dawn had assented to going down, her step-mother would
have found some excuse for keeping her upstairs.  But
she did not wish the girl to know it, so she assumed a
look of mild disapproval.

"It's very queer for you not to want to meet your
mother-in-law and father-in-law, and all your new
sisters——"

Dawn shuddered more violently, and clasped her hands
quickly over her eyes, as if to shut out the unpleasant
vision of her new kindred.

"Oh, no, no, please!" she besought, looking up at her
step-mother with more earnest pleading than she had ever
shown her before.

"Well"—grimly—"I suppose it can be managed, but
you'll want to have a talk with him that's so soon to be
your husband——"

"Oh, no, no!" cried Dawn wildly.  "I do not want to
see him.  I cannot talk with him now.  I could never,
never, go through that awful ceremony afterward if I
were to see him now.  I should run away or something.
I'm sure I should.  I don't want to see anybody until I
have to."

"He'll think it very strange.  I don't see how I can
explain it.  He's very anxious to talk to you.  He sent
you a message last night, but you were asleep."

So that was what the knock had meant!  Dawn was glad
she had not answered it.

"Oh, please, please," she said, clasping her hands in
the attitude of pleading, "couldn't you just explain to
him that I'm a very silly girl, but I should like just these
last few minutes to myself.  Tell him that if he has any
message, please to tell it to you, and to let me be by myself
now.  Tell him he doesn't know how a girl feels when she
is going to stop being a girl.  Tell him, please, that if he
has any sympathy for me at all, he won't ask to see me
now.  It is only a little while, and I want it to myself."

Her great pleading eyes met Mrs. Van Rensselaer's cold
gaze, and her whole slender figure took an attitude of
intense wistfulness.  The elder woman, cold and unloving
as she was, could not but acknowledge that the girl was
very beautiful.  Her heart might have been touched more
had it not been for the gnawing thought that this child's
mother had been the canker-worm which had blighted the
step-mother's whole life.

She turned grimly from the girl, well content that her
plans were coming out as she desired, yet not entirely
comfortable in mind or conscience.  Almost she determined to
risk telling the girl everything, yet dared not, lest she
utterly refuse to be married even at this late hour.

"Well, I suppose you must have your own way.  You
always have," she said grimly.

Dawn wondered when.

"I'll do my best to explain your state of mind,"
continued Mrs. Van Rensselaer, "though I'm sure I don't
know how he'll take it.  It's my opinion he isn't going to
have a bed of roses through life, being a husband to you,
any way, and I suppose he may as well begin to learn."

With which unsympathetic remark, she went heavily
out of the girl's room, and into her own, where she speedily
got herself into her wedding garments.  A red spot burned
in either sallow cheek, but her mouth wore the line of
victory.  So far she had carried out her schemes well.





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.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   CHAPTER X

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At breakfast time, as the other guests were coming
downstairs, Mrs. Van Rensselaer beckoned Charles inside
the dining-room door, and gave him his message in a low
tone.

"It will be all right, Mr. Winthrop.  Your offer will
be accepted gratefully, but she asks you to be kind enough
to leave her to herself until the time for the ceremony.  She
is so much shaken by this whole thing that she is afraid
to talk about it, lest it will unnerve her.  She says she
does not need to talk it over, that you are very kind, and
if you have any message, you can send it by me after
breakfast."

"Thank you, thank you!" said Charles, his face bright
with the joy of knowing that his strange suit had been
successful.  He was disappointed, of course, not to see the
girl at once, but it would not be long before she was his
wife, and he could talk with her as much as he pleased.
After all, there was something wonderful in her trusting
him enough to marry him, when she had seen him but
twice.  Had she, perhaps, had the same feeling about him
that he had about her?  Had that been the explanation
of the light in her eyes?

These thoughts played a happy trill in his heart as he
greeted his father and mother and seated himself at the
table.  All through the meal, he was planning the message
he would send to his beloved.

When her step-mother had left the room, Dawn had
fastened the door securely against all intrusion.  She was
determined to have to herself what little time was left.

On the couch, under her window was spread the beautiful
frock which her step-mother had prepared for her to
wear.  It was of white satin, rich and elaborate, and
encrusted with much beautiful lace, which had been in her
father's family for years, and was yellow with age.  It
was traditional that all the brides of the house had worn
these rare laces.  Dawn hated the frock and the lace.  She
would much rather have worn a simple muslin of her own
mother, but as the marriage was not to her taste, why
should her dress be, either?  What mattered it?  Let them
all have their way with her.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer had taken much pride in preparing
the beautiful garments, but Dawn knew why.  She
knew that it was for others to look upon, so that they would
praise the step-mother for having been so good to the child
who had been thrust upon her care under circumstances
which, to put it mildly, were unpleasant.  It spoke of no
loving kindness toward her.

And so Dawn did not go over to the couch, as many
another girl might have done, to examine again the filmy
hand-embroidered garments, the silk stockings, and the
dainty satin slippers, sewed over with seed-pearls that
were also an heirloom in the family.  They meant to her
nothing but signs of her coming bondage.

Instead, she went to the little three-legged mahogany
stand, where she had placed in a tall pitcher her spray of
rosebuds.  She bent over to take in their delicate fragrance,
and the eyes of him who had given them to her seemed to
be looking into her soul again, as twice they had looked
before.

It was a strange thing—and she thought of it afterward
many times—that she did not yet know who he was, and
had never stopped to question.  It had not even occurred
to her to wonder if he were a relative or only a friend, or
how he came to be in her home.  She accepted him as
she would have accepted a respite in some quiet place for
her fevered spirit, or the visit of an angel with a message
of strength from heaven.  She had a vague feeling that
if he had come before things might have been different.

She knelt beside the stand and let her hot cheek rest
against a cool bud; she touched her lips to another, and
then laid the roses on her eyelids.  It seemed almost like
a pitying human hand upon her spirit, and comforted her
tired heart.  She felt that she was growing old, very, very
old, in these last few hours, to meet the requirements of
her wedding day, and the touch of the buds seemed to
steady and help her, as her mother's hand and lips might
have done.

By and by she would have to get up and put on those
fine garments lying over there in the morning sunlight,
and go downstairs, for them all to stare at her misery;
but now she would forget it all for a little while, and just
think of her new-found friend, who had looked at her with
such a wonderful smile—a smile in which there seemed
no place for fault-finding or sternness or grim solemnity—the
things which had seemed to make up the main part of
her girlhood life.

Meantime, Mr. Winthrop and his host had gone to
meet the train, upon which the expectant bridegroom
would arrive.

As they neared the tavern that served as a station for
the new railroad, they saw an old man, a woman, and two
little children sitting upon a settle on the front stoop.
The man arose and came a step or two toward them, and
Mr. Winthrop saw that it was William McCord.

He seemed embarrassed and he spoke apologetically:

"Mr. Winthrop, sir, I don't jest know what you'll
think about me bein' here—I don't, and I'm sorry's I can
be about it; but, you see, I knowed Harrington pretty
well.  I knowed he might find a way to smooth it all over
and pull the wool over your eyes, and I'd passed my word
I'd come here with her and stop the marriage, if so be it
turned out you couldn't or wouldn't feel called upon to
do so.  I didn't count on your comin' down to the train.
You see, we ben watchin' every train sence yesterday, to
make sure he didn't get away to the house without our
seein' him.  That poor girl there ain't et scarce a mouthful
sence she started from home—only just a drop o' coffee
now an' then—and she ain't slep' neither.  She's jest
keepin' alive to hunt him up and try to persuade him to
come home to her an' the children.  You see, I had to let
her come.  I couldn't say no.  She was up here day 'fore
yesterday, when I come to see you.  She didn't want I
should tell you, because she ain't got the clo'es and fixin's
she'd like to hev you see her in, but she was determined
to come——"

He paused and looked back toward the bench where
the woman and the children sat.

Mr. Winthrop's face had taken on a look of distress as
he recognized William McCord.  He turned to his
companion and explained in a low tone, "This is the man
who brought me the evidence."

Mr. Van Rensselaer regarded the man with keen eyes,
and decided at once that any word from a man with such
a face was as good as an affidavit.

When William looked toward the woman her worn face
flamed crimson, then turned deadly white again.  She
must have been unusually pretty not so very many years
ago, but sorrow, toil and poverty had left their ineradicable
marks upon her face and stripped her of all claim to
beauty now.  Her dress was plain, and as neat as could
be expected under the circumstances.  Her roughened hair
showed an attempt to put it into order, and her eyes
looked as though she had not slept for many nights.  In
spite of her shrinking, there was a dignity about her.  The
bony hand that held the youngest child wore a wedding
ring, now much too large for the finger.

The oldest child, a girl apparently of five, had yellow
hair and rather bold blue eyes that reminded Mr. Winthrop
startlingly of his eldest son's when he was a small boy.
The youngest, a sallow, sickly boy, looked like his mother.

The kindly face of Mr. Winthrop was overspread with
trouble, but he grasped the humbler man's hand warmly:

"That's all right, William," he said heartily.  "I
suppose she felt she must come, and there's no harm done.
Only, for our friend Mr. Van Rensselaer's sake, keep the
matter as quiet as possible."

"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Winthrop, and thank you,
sir," said the old man gratefully.

Then he looked questioningly toward the woman, and
took a step in her direction.

"Alberty, this here is his father," said William McCord
and withdrew hastily.

Mr. Van Rensselaer at once engaged him in earnest
conversation, giving the other man opportunity to talk
with his unknown daughter-in-law without being observed.

The woman looked up abashed into the kindly eyes
bent upon her.  Yet she felt the right was on her side, and
she had no need to quail before any one.

"It has given me great sorrow, madam, to learn of my
son's behavior," he began.  "It is particularly distressing
to us because he is our first born, and deeply loved
by us."  He paused, overcome by his emotion, and the
dry-eyed woman, who looked as if she had long ago shed
all the tears she had to shed, glanced up wonderingly and
said in a voice that betrayed her lack of culture:

"Yes, that's one trouble with him: folks always like
him too well.  He thinks he can do anything he wants,
and it won't make no diff'runce.  But he can't go no
further with me.  I've jest made up my mind to take a
stand, even ef I have to go to that rich girl and show her
them childern."

The father in him almost shuddered at the vernacular.
Of what could Harrington have been thinking when he
married this woman—Harrington, who had been brought
up amid the refinements of life, and been almost too
sensitive to unpleasant things?  It was the old story of a
pretty face, and a boy far from home and acquaintances,
with no one to advise, and no danger of being found out.

"I used to like him a lot myself," went on the tired
voice, "an' I might even yet ef he'd behave himself and
stay home, an' pervide good fer us like he used to."  There
was a pleasant drawl to her tone, like a weary child's.  The
father's heart was touched.

"Has my son sent you money during his absences?"  The
question had to be asked, but it cut the old gentleman
to the heart to speak the words.

She turned dull eyes on him.

"Never a cent!  He always said he was havin' a hard
time to get money enough to keep goin', business was so
bad, but I look notice he was dressed up good and smart
every time he come home, which wa'n't often."  She sighed
as if it did not matter much.

"I could stand it all," she began again in her monotonous
tone, "but I can't stand him gettin' married again.
It ain't right, and it ain't the law, an' I knew ef I didn't
stop it, nobody would, so I come on."

"That was right," sighed the old gentleman, fumbling
in his pocket, "perfectly right.  Here, I want you to take
this with you."

He handed her a roll of bills, but she drew back, a red
spot coming in either sallow cheek.

"I ain't an object of charity, thank you.  I put a
mortgage on pap's shack to git the money to come out here,
but when I get back I've got plenty of work, an' I can
pay it off in a year or so."

"This is not charity," said the disconcerted old
gentleman.  "This belongs to you.  I often lend Harrington
money, and sometimes give him some, and this was to be
given to him.  I think it is safer with you.  He can work
for his own after this, and I will see that all I should
have given him comes to your hands.  I have your address.
Take it for the children.  I guess I have a right to give
something to my own grandchildren," he said with a great
stretch of his pride, looking down at the two forlorn little
specimens of childhood hiding, half frightened, behind
their mother's skirts.

The woman melted at once, the first warm tinge of
life springing into her eyes at the mention of her children
as his relatives.

"Oh, if you put it that way, I'll take it o' course.  It
ain't no fault of theirs that their father don't do right
by me, and they do need a sight of things I can't manage
to get anyhow.  Last winter Harry was sick for four
months—he's named after his pa, Harry is."  She pushed
his hair fondly out of his eyes, and, moistening her fingers
at her lips, rubbed vigorously at a black streak on Harry's
nose, at which he as vigorously protested.

But the train was near at hand.  Even then the distant
rumble of its wheels could be heard.

Mr. Van Rensselaer and William McCord drew near,
the latter with an attitude of deferential expectancy.

"Mr. Winthrop," said his host, "would it not be well
to let your son's wife meet him first?"

The old father bowed.  He saw at once the wisdom of this.

"I'd like ye to stand where ye could get a glimpse of
his face when he first catches sight o' his wife.  It will
be a better proof that I've told ye the truth than all the
words I've said to ye," whispered William.

"I have never doubted your word, William," said the
father sadly.

With much shouting and blowing of the trumpet, the
morning train lumbered in, and the passengers began
rapidly to emerge.  There were loud talk, and tooting of
the horn, and a clatter of machinery, as the fireman
jumped down and attended to some detail of the engine's
mechanism.  Some said he did this to show off before
the gaping crowd, who had not yet grown used to the fact
that a machine could draw a number of loaded carriages
through the country, without the aid of horses.

The two old gentlemen had rapidly withdrawn into a
secluded place, by a wide-spreading apple-tree.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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One of the first to get out of the carriages was Harrington
Winthrop.  A high stock held his chin well tilted in
the air, his gray trousers were immaculate, and his coat
fitted about his slender waist as trimly as any lady's.  He
wore a high gray beaver hat and carried a shiny new
portmanteau.  Altogether, he looked quite a dandy, and the
eyes of his waiting wife filled with a light of pride even
while her heart quaked.

Only an instant she paused to watch him.  He was
making straight for the Van Rensselaer carriage, which
stood not far away, and which he supposed had been sent
to bring him to the house.  He walked with an importance
and pride that any one might see.  He did not take note
of any one on the platform, though he was conscious that
many were watching him.

Then, suddenly, the woman with the two little children
clinging to her skirts, stepped in his way.  The little girl
looked up into his face with bold blue eyes, and cried out:
"It's my pa!  It's my pa!  Oh, doesn't he look pretty?"

The two men standing close together under the apple-tree
were near enough to hear the child's cry, and many
bystanders turned and looked at the fine gentleman beset
by the poor-looking woman and children.

Harrington Winthrop turned his elegant self about with
a start and found himself face to face with the worn
shadow of the woman who for a time had been his
plaything, and whom he had tossed aside as easily and as
carelessly as if she had been a doll.

The start, the pallor, the quick, furtive side-glance, all
told their tale to the watchers, without other need of words.
Then anger surged into young Winthrop's face, and he
cried out:

"Stand back, you vagabonds!  What have I to do with
you?  Get out of my way, woman!  There is a carriage
waiting for me."

But the woman stood her ground, with grim determination,
great red waves of restrained anger marking her face
and forehead, as if he had struck her with his words.  She
looked up at him.  She had planned it all for so many
hours, and now she was calm in this terrible crisis.  It
would not do to make a public disturbance.  Neither for
his sake nor for her own, did she wish to have people see
or hear, if it could be avoided, so she had schooled herself
to be self-controlled.

"Harrington," she said, speaking low and rapidly,
"I'm your wife, and you know it.  I've come to keep you
from an awful sin, and I will do it.  You can't forgit me
an' the children, and marry a rich girl.  It would be wicked.
But I've fixed it so you can't do it, any way.  If you'll
come off quiet with me now, I won't say a word to disgrace
you here where I s'pose folks knows you; but if you try
to git away from me, I'll tell the whole world who I be,
an' prove it too!"

Now, if the young man had known that there were
those watching who knew his story he would have been
more careful, but his casual glance about the platform had
given him no hint of any but the villagers, few of whom
he knew even slightly.  Yet his wife's face and voice were
such that he thought it the part of wisdom to temporize;
so he dropped his angry manner and spoke in a low tone.
But it happened that the two witnesses under the
apple-tree had also, by common consent, moved toward him.
With William McCord in their rear, they came and stood
quite close to Harrington, and though he did not see them,
every word that he spoke was audible.

"Look here, Alberta, what in the name of common
sense are you doing up here?  Isn't it hard enough for me
to have to work and scrape and do all in my power to get
my business going again, so that I can come home to you
and the children and keep you in the way you ought to
be kept, without having you come traipsing around here
in such clothes as that?  Don't you know you'd ruin my
business if anybody thought you belonged to me?
Everybody thinks I'm a successful business man, and they must
think so or I'm lost and shall never come back to you.
Here, take this money.  A man just paid me a bill that he
has been owing me for two years, and I needed the money
to help me in a new deal, but as you are here you'll have
to have it to get home with.  Now, run along back, and
take good care of the children till I come home a rich man.
Then we'll live like folks.  And what is all this nonsense
you are talking about my marrying a rich girl?  How ever
could you get such an idea?  Why, I couldn't marry
anybody as long as you are my wife.  You must have heard
some foolish gossip.  Take it quick and run along, or
people will be looking and talking, and I shall be ruined."

The thin hand of the wife went out to the money he
offered her, but instead of taking it, she struck it into the
air, and it fell scattering in every direction.  Suddenly
the young man became aware of the nearness of others,
and, looking up, he saw in quick succession his father,
Mr. Van Rensselaer, and William McCord!

He knew at once that they had heard every word he had
spoken to his wife, even before their condemning eyes had
searched his soul.  The presence of William McCord made
it plain to him that they had known the story before his
arrival, and he realized instantly that he had given the
final testimony against himself.

It was too late to turn back and deny knowledge of the
woman.  There stood his father's former farm manager,
who had lived in the Western town where Harrington had
married his wife.  That McCord would ever come East
again and bring back tales against him had not occurred
to the careless young scapegrace.  McCord was a quiet,
silent man, who went about his own business, and seldom,
if ever, wrote letters.  Young Winthrop had never given
an uneasy thought to him, but now he stood and looked at
him in growing dismay.

Turning, Harrington met his father's passionate, loving
reproach, his wife's bitter hopelessness, and the scorn
of the man he had hoped soon to call his father-in-law.

The voice of Mr. Winthrop broke out in bitterness:
"Oh, my son, my son!" and the father's kind face was
turned away.  He was weeping.

This kind of reproach had ever angered Harrington
Winthrop beyond all endurance.  It seethed over his
frightened, fretted spirit now like acid in a wound.  The
voice of the trainman cried out, "All aboard!" the trumpet
sounded, and the wheels moved.  The fireman jumped on,
board.  Then Harrington Winthrop grasped his portmanteau,
pushed aside his frightened children, who were eagerly
gathering up the scattered money, and sprang into a vacant
carriage.  His game was up and he knew it.

With a wild cry, the wife caught up her little boy,
and, dragging her little girl, rushed after him.  A couple
of men standing by pushed her up into the carriage with
her husband, which happened to be occupied by no one
else.  Before he had time to turn about and notice what
had happened, the train was going rapidly on its way, and
the reunited family had ample opportunity to discuss their
situation.  Harrington Winthrop had completed the last
link in the chain of evidence against him: he had fled.

Mr. Van Rensselaer stood looking after the vanishing
train with satisfaction.  He had watched the changing
expressions on the face of the young man who had expected
to become the husband of his only daughter: the cruelty,
the craven fear, the hate, and the utter selfishness of the
man!  Suppose his daughter had stood where that poor
wife had stood, and begged of him to come home to her
and care for her!  What an escape!

The daughter who had been the object of so little of
his thought or care had suddenly become dear to him.
Mary's daughter, the child of his real love!  He saw how
utterly selfish and unfatherly had been his whole action
with regard to her; how almost criminal in his self-absorption.
There had come, too, a revelation from the sight of
that poor, hollow-eyed, deserted wife, a revelation of what
his treatment of his own wife, Mary, had been.  He was
stung with a remorse such as he had not known before.

As William McCord watched the departing train, he
might have been said fairly to glow with contentment over
the way things had come out.  Not that he felt that matters
would be materially improved for the poor broken-hearted
woman who was making her last frantic effort to get back
what she had lost.  But he was justified, fully justified, in
the eyes of his benefactor.  He could now with a clear
conscience take his way back to his claim in western
Mississippi, and feel that he had done his duty.

As for Mr. Winthrop, he was filled with horror.  His
son's face had been a revelation to him.  Until now it
had been impossible for him to conceive that Harrington
had done this wrong.  Underneath all his conviction of
the truth of William McCord's story, there had still been
a lingering hope that in some way the beloved son would
explain things satisfactorily.

Mr. Winthrop now realized that he had never really
known his boy at all.  The old father gazed after the
train in the dim distance, saw it round a curve and vanish
from his sight, then turned and walked with bowed head
away from them all.  He felt that such sorrow was too
heavy for him.





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   CHAPTER XII

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Dawn was already dressed for the wedding.

Her step-mother surveyed her with a kind of grim
pride.  The shimmering satin fitted the slim, girlish form
to perfection, and the yellow lace set off the pink and
cream complexion.  It was a beautiful frock, and all who
saw it would be sure to say so.

There had been some contention about the arrangement
of the girl's hair.  Dawn wanted to be married with her
curls down her back, as she had always worn them, but
her step-mother was firm.  That could not be.  If her
hair had been only long enough to reach to her shoulders,
it would not have seemed so absurd, for many young
women wore their short ringlets all about the neck.  But
Dawn's hair fell far below her waist in rich, abundant
curls.  It was out of the question for her to be married
looking so like a child.

The argument had waxed hot, and at one point Dawn
had declared that she would not be married at all unless she
could wear her hair as she had always worn it.  Finally
her step-mother threatened to go for the girl's father to
settle the dispute.  Dawn's face was white, and she turned
away to hide her emotion.  Then in a strange, hard voice
she said:

"I will put it up if it must be."

After all, what did that or anything else matter?
Certainly not enough to invoke her father's wrath upon her
at this most trying moment of her life.

She drew the mass of beautiful curls up on her head,
fastening them with a large tortoise-shell comb which had
been her mother's and was treasured by the young girl.
The ends of the curls fell in a little shower over the back
of the comb, making a lovely effect.  The step-mother
thought it far too careless and mussy-looking, and frowned
at the sweet, artistic head, but Dawn gave it a pat here and
there and would have no more to say about it.  With her
own hands, she arranged the filmy veil.  She would not
have her step-mother's assistance.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer
stood by, watching the quick, assured way in which the
young bride draped the delicate fabric.  The elder woman
was half jealous of the girl's deftness.

"Put on your gloves, and you'll do very nicely, though
I must say I'd rather see your hair smooth for once.  But
the veil hides the frowsiness.  Now, is there anything
you'd like to know about what you've got to do?"

Dawn looked at her step-mother in horror.

"I haven't got to do anything, have I?"  There was
genuine distress in her voice.  She had been so absorbed
in the great thought of the result of this act that the
ceremony itself, about which so many girls worry, had not
entered into her mind in the least.

"Well," said Mrs. Van Rensselaer—there was satisfaction
in her voice, for Dawn was unconsciously making
it easier for her than she had dared to hope—"there isn't
much, of course.  Nothing but to keep your eyes down and
walk in and say yes.  It's all very simple.  The main
thing is never to look up.  It is counted very bad manners
to look up.  A bride who raises her eyes during the
ceremony, or before, is called very bold and—and immodest!"

The step-mother's voice sounded queer to herself, and
she picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve.  This was
the first out-and-out bald lie she had ever told in her life,
though she had made many a misleading statement; but
that, of course, to a woman with a conscience, was a very
different thing.  This woman thought she had a conscience,
and she was excusing her present action on the ground of
necessity, and the circumstances.  "She's getting a far
better husband every way, anyhow, and it isn't as if she
was much attached to the other man.  One can see she was
afraid of him.  I'm really doing her a service, and she'll
thank me when she finds it out."  This was what she
told her conscience now, and went on with her advice to
Dawn.

"You want to walk downstairs very slowly, with your
eyes on the hem of your frock.  You mustn't look up for
anything."

"I'm sure I don't know what I should want to look
up for," said Dawn coldly.  "I'd much rather look down.
I'm glad it's quite polite to do so."

"That's right," commended her step-mother, with
unusual alacrity.  "And it won't do a bit of harm to keep
it up some afterward too, at least, till you get out to the
dining-room, and then you can look into your plate a
good deal.  People will only think you are shy and modest,
and say nice things about you for it."

"I don't care what people think," observed the girl.
"Is that all?"

"Oh, there'll be things he'll ask you—the minister,
you know.  The regular service.  He'll say a lot of things,
and then ask you, 'Do you thus promise?'  And then you
say, 'Yes,' or you can just nod your head."

"But suppose I don't like to promise those things?
Won't he marry me?"  The girl asked the question sharply,
as if she saw a possibility of escape somewhere; but the
older woman was so relieved that her task had been
performed that she took little notice of the question.

"Oh, yes," she answered carelessly, thinking the girl
was anxious about saying her part at the right time.  "If
you don't get it in, he'll go right on, any way, and it'll
soon be over.  You know Doctor Parker is very deaf, and
he wouldn't know whether you said yes or no.  Now, if
there isn't anything else, I'll go down, for I hear more
carriages coming, and I'll be needed.  You're sure you
don't want to see *him* before the ceremony."

"No," said Dawn, turning away from her with a quick
gasp of her breath.  Oh, if she need never see him, how
happy she would be!

"Well, then, I'll go down.  You be all ready when I
call you to come.  Now, mind you don't once raise your
eyes until the ceremony is over and you are out in the
dining-room.  Above all things, don't look up at your
husband even then.  Nobody should see you look at each
other.  It makes them think you are foolish and silly."

"I shall certainly not look at him," said Dawn with
white lips.

Then the step-mother went out of the room.

Dawn fastened the door and went quickly over to the
stand, where the roses had been unnoticed by Mrs. Van
Rensselaer.  Had she seen them, it would have been like
her to throw them out of the window, lest the water should
upset on the white satin frock.

The girl bent over and breathed in their fragrance
again, and then, carefully drying the stem on a towel, she
slipped them up under her veil and fastened them upon
her breast with a little pearl pin that had belonged to her
mother.  She went to her glass and viewed the effect
through her veil, with a white, wan smile at the buds
nestling among the beautiful lace.  She would have one
thing as she wanted it, any way: if she must be married,
she would wear the flowers that had been given to her
with a smile by somebody that understood.  This was the
last time she would have the right to wear another man's
flowers.  After to-day she would belong to her husband,
but until she did she would wear the only flowers that had
ever meant anything to her.

Then she closed her eyes and tried to get her spirit
calmed, but she felt like one of those old queens in a tower
that they used to study about at school: who was soon to
go out and have her head cut off with the guillotine.

A few minutes later Mr. Winthrop again ascended the
stairs to his wife's room.

"They want you to come down, Janet," he said gently.
"Martha and the girls have come, and they are all waiting
for you."

"I shall not come down until I have had a talk with
my son Harrington," said that lady decidedly.

"Are you not coming down to the ceremony?" asked
her husband.  It went very hard with him to deceive the
wife of his youth, but there seemed no other way to deal
with her in the present situation.

"The ceremony?"  She arose with alacrity.  "What
do you mean?  Has Harrington come, and has he explained
everything?  It has turned out just as I supposed it would."

She stopped in front of the glass and smoothed her
hair.  She had arrayed herself in her best immediately
after breakfast.

"I should think it was time an apology was due from
you, Mr. Winthrop."  Madam Winthrop stood haughtily
in the middle of the room, aware that her small figure was
elegant, and feeling that she had entire command of the
situation.  There was a becoming triumph in the brightness
of her eyes and the set of her cameo lips.

"The wedding is to be at once," said her husband
gravely, motioning her to precede him.

"What was Harrington's explanation?" she whispered,
eager as any girl, now that she thought she had come off
triumphant.

"There is no time to talk about it now," said her
husband, again motioning her down the stairs.

She had a mind to make another stand before his grave
authority, but in reality she was too much relieved from
the awful strain she had been under during the past
twenty-four hours for her to care to hold out against him longer.
She went quietly down the stairs and took the place
Mrs. Van Rensselaer most ungraciously assigned her.  There
was in that lady's eye something unquelled which gave
the bridegroom's mother some uneasiness and took her
mind from the ceremony, so that she failed to notice as
the little procession passed by her almost immediately,
that Harrington was not a part of it, and that her youngest
son occupied the place of the bridegroom.

It was not until the clear voice rang out in the words,
"I do," that something in the boyish accents made her
look up and stretch her neck to see her son.  How strange
that Harrington's voice should sound so exactly like
Charles's!  But some one was standing so that the
bridegroom's face could not be seen by her.

The little bride, with downcast eyes and palpitating
heart, stood demurely by his side, her cold hands trembling
within the gloves her step-mother had brought from New
York for the occasion.  One lay upon a fine black coat-sleeve
that had put itself within reaching distance.  She
had not put the glove there herself.  A hand, a strong,
warm hand, had taken it and put it there, a hand that
against her will had sent a strange thrill through her, and
left her faint and frightened.  That had been at the foot
of the stairs, and she had walked with it thus down the
room.  She had not looked up to see to whom that sleeve
belonged.  She believed she knew, and it sent no pleasant
thought to her heart.  Yet she had to acknowledge that
the arm had steadied her and kept her from stumbling, and
had guided her safely into the vacant spot in front of the
minister.

Dawn did not look beyond the hem of her garments,
but kept her long lashes drooping on her crimson cheeks,
a lovely but frightened bride.  She felt keenly the moment
the service began, and knew that she was surrendering
forever her liberty and girlhood.  Good-by to everything
that she had ever counted happy in this life.  No house,
no pretty dishes, no handsome furniture, could ever make
up for that now, and her heart cried out in anguish that
she had not vetoed the idea when it was first proposed to
her, before it had gone so far that retraction was dishonorable.

When the vows were read, and she heard their terrible
binding import, she longed to cry out her horror in a
great, echoing, "*No!*" that should leave no doubt in any
mind, and would even penetrate to the good minister's deaf
ears.  But her tongue was tied by fear of her father and
his friends, and she dared not lift her voice.  Yet she
would not speak to make promises her heart could not
echo, and so she stood silent, with no nod of her head, no
breath of a "yes."  The minister, after waiting an instant
for the desired assent, passed monotonously and solemnly
on to the end, and pronounced those two, who knew each
of the other as little almost as it was possible for two
human beings to know, man and wife.

During the prayer that followed, Dawn had hard work
to keep back the tears that were struggling to creep out
and cool her flushed cheeks; but the breath of the roses at
her breast seemed to steal up and comfort her, and once,
just before the end, a strong hand, warm and gentle, was
placed over her gloved one for just an instant, with a
pressure that seemed to promise help.  Yet because she
thought it was an unloved hand, it only made her heart
beat the more wildly, and she was glad when the prayer
was ended and the hand was taken away.

They came crowding about her after it was over, in the
order of their rank, stiffly at first and with great formality.
The bride still kept her eyes drooped, barely glancing up
at those who took her hand or kissed her and never once
lifting her eyes to the man who stood by her side.  It was
the first and only mandate of her step-mother's that she
obeyed to the letter and to the end.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer gave her a cold kiss, and whispered
that she was doing very well; and her father gave
her the second kiss she could remember from him since he
had sent her own mother away, and said in a low tone:
"Poor child!  I hope you will be happy now!"

She puzzled over that sentence long.  Why had he
called her "poor child," and yet seemed so sure by his tone
that she had attained a height upon which happiness was
assured?  It touched her more than anything else that he
had ever said to her.

Mr. Winthrop bowed low over Dawn's hand and told
her he was glad to have another dear daughter, and Madam
Winthrop, coming up from the side away from the bridegroom,
graciously kissed her and called her a sweet child.
Then she turned to meet her son, and stopped aghast,
saying, "Charles!  Where is Harrington?"

Now, Dawn might have heard the disturbance and been
much enlightened, and all Mrs. Van Rensselaer's fine plans
might have been exposed, if it had not been that Madeleine
and Cordelia stepped up to their new sister-in-law close
behind their mother, while Betty had rushed in and smothered
her with kisses, whispering: "Oh, you darling sister!
How I am going to enjoy you!"  The three girls stood
gushing and fluttering over the young bride, so that she
did not hear what went on.

For, as it happened, Charles bent low over his mother,
so that the stream of relatives should not hear, and said in
a quiet voice:

"Mother dear, congratulate me instead of Harrington.
It is I who have been married.  Harrington has just gone
away on the train with his wife and children.  Don't feel
sorry, little Mother.  You would not let us tell you.
Be careful, Mother; people are looking, watching you.
Mother!"

But Madam Winthrop said not a word.  Instead, her
pretty cameo face went white as death, and she slipped
quietly down at the feet of her husband and son in a
blessed unconsciousness.  For the sake of herself and all
concerned, it was the best thing she could have done.  What
might have happened had she kept her senses, it is not
pleasant to contemplate, for she was a person of strong
will and a fiery temper, although cultured and beloved
beyond most women of her day.

They said that the room was close, and she had fainted.
They made way for her and brought fans and ice water,
but her husband and her son quietly carried her from the
room, and when Betty suddenly realized that something
was going on, and turned around, they told her that her
mother had fainted.  Someone—an angular old maid, with
a sarcastic twirl to her mouth and an unpleasant way of
always saying the wrong thing at the right time—told
Dawn she hoped it wasn't a bad omen that her husband
had had to leave her side just when the ceremony was over.
This was the first intimation that the young bride had had
that her husband was gone.  She cast a sidewise glance and
discovered that there were ladies all around her.  She
raised her eyes again, just a little higher, and swept a
wider circle, and finally cast a guarded glance about the
entire room, but could not see the dreaded face.  Then she
drew a sigh of relief at this small respite.  She heard
some one say that he had gone to help his father take his
mother upstairs.  Dawn had a wild impulse to fly away
where he could not find her when he returned, but knew
she could not.

She would gladly have gone upstairs to wait on the
sick mother, if only he were not there also.

People kept coming around to congratulate her, and
saying how sad it was that Madam Winthrop's strength had
given way at just that moment.  Betty stayed close by,
and Dawn dared to look at the other girl's sweet dimpled
face, all pink and white, with heavenly blue eyes and
golden hair.  They reminded the bride of him whom she
had seen in the garden that morning.  It was a pleasant
thought, and Dawn continued to watch Betty, when she
was sure her step-mother was not looking at her.

By and by Mrs. Van Rensselaer passed behind her and
whispered: "They are coming downstairs now.  Mrs. Winthrop
is better.  We will go out to the dining-room,
and you must cut the wedding cake, you know.  You are
doing very well, only remember what I said: not to look
around too much.  A shy bride is the very best kind of
bride."

A cold trembling came over the young wife.  He was
coming back, and a chill seemed to have crept into the
sunny day.  She hastily dropped her eyes, with the strange
determination not to look upon her husband until
absolutely compelled to do so.  There seemed somehow a
fascination to her in keeping this up as long as possible.

When Charles came down and hastened to her side,
she was talking earnestly with his Aunt Martha, who was
telling a pretty little incident of Charles's babyhood.
Dawn had not the faintest conception of who Charles was,
but she nodded and smiled, and Aunt Martha thought
her a sweet child, and took her immediately into her gentle
heart.  She was somewhat aghast at the manner in which
events had marched into the family history that day, but
she thought it not polite to mention it to Dawn.

A distant relative of Mr. Van Rensselaer came up just
then and murmured in a disagreeable whisper:

"Your husband is a sight younger than I expected,
Jemima!  I had been led to expect he was quite a settled
man, a good ten or fifteen years older'n you, but he's real
handsome.  You mustn't get proud, child."

Dawn started back as if she had been stung, and became
aware at once of a black-coated figure standing close by
her side.

She was grateful to the people who kept talking to her
and to him, so that there would be no chance of his
speaking to her, or of her having to answer him now.  She felt
it would be more than she could do, and look at him now
she would not, not till she absolutely must.  It would
unnerve her to look him in the face and know that she was
his wife, and that he had a right over her from henceforth.
Then, all at once, she heard his voice, and it was not
Harrington's at all.  A quick glance assured her it was
her friend of the roses.  Perhaps, then, Harrington was
still upstairs with his mother.  She drew a breath of relief.

A few mouthfuls of the wedding breakfast she managed
to swallow, and she pushed a knife through the great
white-coated fruit-cake, black with spice and all things good,
which had been made when Mrs. Van Rensselaer first
heard of the possibility of this marriage, and kept in
ripening ever since.  Dawn's step-mother was a fine
housekeeper, and knew how to be ready for emergencies.

It was over at last, and Mrs. Van Rensselaer came to
say that it was time for her to go upstairs and change her
frock for the journey.  Dawn had never before followed
her step-mother with so much willingness as now.  Her
feet fairly kissed the oaken stairs as she mounted; but she
had gone up only three steps when some one came quickly
up and, standing by the stairs, touched her on the shoulder,
saying in a voice that sent a thrill of joy through her:

"We're to go in the train; did you know it?"

Forgetting her vows and her step-mother's warnings,
she looked down and saw that it was the young man of the
garden again.  Her face lit with a beautiful smile, and
some people down in the hall, who were watching them,
said one to another: "See how much they love each other,
the dear children!" and turned away with a regretful
smile and a sigh toward their own lost youth.

"Oh!" breathed Dawn.  "I did not know it, but"—she
paused—"I'm so glad you are going, too!"

In saying this, she had no thought of disloyalty to the
man she thought she had married.  It was merely the
involuntary expression of her frightened heart that
suddenly saw a rift in the dark cloud.

"Oh, so am I," he smiled.  "And I'm glad you wore
my roses next your heart.  Put them on again when you
come down, won't you?"

"I will," she promised, and let her eyes dwell on him
for an instant; then fled up the stairs as her step-mother
called in a voice intended to be a whisper:

"Jemima, do, for pity's sake, hurry!  You will be late
for the train, and then there'll be a great to-do."

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in hot water lest the girl
should learn the true state of affairs before she got away
from the house.  It had given the step-mother no small
fright to see Charles talking with the girl over the railing.
She looked at Dawn keenly, but there actually was some
look of interest in the girl's eyes.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer
drew a sigh of relief as she hurried about to help the young
wife with dressing.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

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   CHAPTER XIII

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There were no pleasant memories about the room
Dawn occupied for her to look about upon for the last
time, and bid good-by.  Long ago Mrs. Van Rensselaer
had cleared away every trace of her predecessor, by
remodelling all the rooms, and taking for her own the large,
sunny one which had been occupied by the child.  If there
had been memories left after the overhauling, they would
have been made hateful by the new occupant.  Dawn had
been away from home so long that during this brief stay
she had been given a guest-room, and now she turned
from it without a glance, if anything, to get away from
the place that had witnessed her deepest grief.

She would have liked to run down into the old garden
and get one more glimpse of her woods, the ravine, the
old mill, and the moss-covered dam, with the babbling
brook in the distance, but that of course would be thought
unpardonable; so she walked quietly downstairs, turning
over in her mind the comfort it was that during the journey
she was not to be entirely alone with the man she had
married.  She did not know where she was going.  She
had not cared to inquire which of several houses he had
told her about had finally been purchased.  She was going
with him as any thoughtless child might have gone.

If only the step-mother had let what conscience she had
guide her, and had told the girl the truth, many things
might have been different.  If allowed to hear the earnest
profession of love from Charles Winthrop's lips, Dawn
would undoubtedly have gone to him gladly, out of the
shadow of horror that seemed about to engulf her.  A
sweet memory of her wedding morning would have been
saved to her, and she would have been spared much pain.
The step-mother might have kept her contented
conscience, too, to the end of her days, and not been
tormented with the thought that she had veered from the
righteous path.

But Dawn did not know, and went down the stairs
with a heavy heart, looking for only a brief alleviation of
her trouble.  She determined that she would not look at
her husband, if possible, until this stranger was gone.

The little bustle of departure was over at last.  They
put her into the carriage, and still Harrington Winthrop
had not appeared.  She began to feel her heart beating
wildly at the thought that he would soon be coming to sit
beside her.  Some one standing on the piazza asked where
Mr. Winthrop had gone, and some one else said that his
mother had sent for him, that she was conscious again and
had wished to see him before he left.  Dawn thought they
were speaking of Harrington.  She wished his mother
would keep him a long time, and then it occurred to her
that the train would go, and the young man with it probably,
and she would be left, after all, to take the journey
alone with her husband.  Of course it would have to be
alone with him sooner or later, for the rest of her life,
but oh, how she dreaded it!

Then, to her inexpressible relief, Charles came rushing
down the stairs, and some one called out a question about
his father:

"Is not Mr. Winthrop going to be able to get away
just to the station?"

Dawn again thought they were speaking of Harrington.

"Yes," said Charles; "he will be down in a moment.
He told me to drive on, and he would come in our carriage,
which is here, you know."

With that, he jumped into the seat beside Dawn, the
servant fastened the carriage door, and the horses started
on their way down the curving carriage drive and out
through the great gate, with its two white balls on the tops
of the white pillars.

Dawn could scarcely believe it true that she was going
to the station without Harrington.  His mother must be
very ill indeed, poor lady!  Was it wrong to be glad, she
wondered, because it gave her another reprieve, brief
though it might be?

She had tucked the spray of roses into the bosom of
her travelling frock—a dark green silk, plaided with
bars of black, and a little black silk mantilla, which made
her feel quite grown-up, and which, Mrs. Van Rensselaer
had been assured by the New York merchants, was the
very latest thing for brides.  A great, wide poke-bonnet
of white chip, trimmed with dark green ribbons and a
modest plume to match, framed her sweet face, and helped
to hide its shyness as she sat tremblingly happy at her
escape.  Her hands, in pretty gray kid gloves, lay meekly
folded in her lap.  Nothing about her demure manner
told of the tumult of emotions in her heart.

Beside her sat a friend—she knew that by the light in
his eyes.  Before her was a brief ride to the inn where
the train stopped.  It would last but a few minutes, and
during that time she would like to say something, to have
him say something, anything, just to feel the pleasant
comradeship which she had seen in his eyes, that she might
remember him always, her one friend.  But her tongue
was tied, and her eyes could not raise themselves to look
upon his face any more than if he had been the dreaded
husband.

Charles was kept busy for a minute or two, bowing
to the guests who had lined themselves up along the
driveway to see the couple depart.  Dawn glanced shyly at
them from her lowered lids, and smiled now and then as
she recognized a relative or the kindly face of an old
servant.  Then the carriage passed out into the street,
while her companion sat back very close to her, as if she
needed him, and, reaching over, took one of her little cold
hands in his strong, warm one.  It brought comfort and a
thrill of joy.  Dawn did not stop to question if he had a
right, or if she were doing wrong to allow such familiarity
in a stranger, with her, a married woman, and belonging
to another man.  Such questions had not been brought up
for her consideration, though she had a few fixed little
principles of her own, sweet and fine and natural.  But
now she thought only on her great need, and how this
strong hand met it.  She longed to turn and fling her
tired head upon his big, high shoulder and weep out her
sorrow.

She did not do so, of course, but sat quietly with her
hand enfolded in his for a moment, and dared to lift her
sweet eyes to his.  Then, without any warning, the tears,
which had been repressed so long she had forgotten any
danger from them, sprang into her eyes.

He thought her heart was tender with memories of the
home she was leaving, and perhaps, he thought jealously,
she was sighing for her false fiancé; but with a lover's
true impulse, and in spite of the village street through
which they were passing—although it happily chanced that
this was a quiet part—he bent and kissed her.

An old lady out among her flowers in the front yard
saw them, and nodded to herself: "Bless their dear
hearts!  May they always be so happy!" and brushed
away a tear as she thought of a grave upon a hillside, and
a day far agone when her own hopes were put beneath the
ground.

It was a very short drive.  Almost immediately after
they had passed the old lady's house, they turned a corner
which brought them into the liveliest part of the town,
where people were stretching their necks to watch them,
and all was stir and bustle.  Only a few rods away stood
the inn, with the railroad tracks gleaming in the distance.
People were already gathering to watch for the incoming
train; and some few to go a journey, though there were
not so many travellers in those days.

With his kiss upon her lips and a tumult of strange joy
in her heart, Dawn was handed from the carriage to the
platform.  Then her heart stood still with fear again, as
she remembered who was to come in the other carriage,
soon after them.

A part of the company had started on foot for the
station, among them Betty Winthrop, and they now came
trooping up around the bride and groom, with laughing
talk of slippers and rice which they had reserved for the
novelty of throwing at a train instead of a carriage.

Dawn was surrounded and taken possession of.  She
had no further opportunity to wonder, or to think, or to
fear.  But over her there hovered a sense of calamity,
for with that kiss had come a consciousness that she was
not being loyal to her own ideals of what a wife should be,
and it troubled her more than had all her fears.  Nevertheless,
it had been sweet, and she kept trying to cast it
aside with the thought that it was over forever now and
she would have no further cause to err in this way again.
Perhaps the kiss was sent to comfort her on the dreary
way she had yet to go.

The other carriage drove up at last.  It had been a
long time coming, for Madam Winthrop had returned to
consciousness only to fall from one fit of weeping into
another, and then to blame the unfortunate girl, whom
she called "that little scheming hussy," declaring that
"she wasn't satisfied with leading astray a man of integrity
like Harrington, but when she found it was impossible to
make him swerve from his duty she had worked upon
Charles's tender heart and made him marry her out of pity."

She was scarcely to blame, poor lady, for her nerves
had been on a continual strain for many hours, and when
one took into account her extraordinary love for the son
who had left her when but a boy, and whose faults she had
entirely overlooked, it was not strange.  But it was hard
on her son Charles, and on her devoted husband, whose
love for her was deep, yet whose desire to make everybody
else happy and comfortable was also great.  It had been
a trial to him, indeed, that she should behave in this
unseemly way in the house of his friend.  He had found
it useless to talk with her or to try to pacify her, so at
last he left her with his sister until she should grow calm,
and hastened in the carriage to see the bridal couple off.
It had been arranged that Charles should bring his young
wife home for the present until further arrangements for
their new life could be made.

Dawn's heart bounded with excitement when she saw
that no one was sitting in the carriage but the elder
Mr. Winthrop.  She did not know whether to be glad or sorry.
If he did not come in time for the train, perhaps her new
friend would go on without them, and yet, after what had
happened, perhaps it was right that he should.  But her
heart sank at the thought, and involuntarily she lifted her
eyes to drink in the strong, handsome outlines of his face.

Charles Winthrop turned instantly and met the gaze
of his wife with a look of such deep love, reverence, and
tender care that it sent the color rushing to her cheeks,
and the blood bounding through her heart.  It seemed
almost as if she were again on the point of tears, so many
emotions had followed one another through her weary
soul that morning; but just then there came a distant
rumble, and they said the train was coming.  Everybody
rushed at Dawn at once and kissed her.  Betty fairly
smothered her, saying: "Oh, you dear, dear, dear!  I shall
have you to-night at home!"

Then they hurried her to a seat in the railway carriage,
and Charles sat down beside her.  Nobody seemed to think
it strange that he had done so, and nobody said it was
too bad her husband was detained.  They did not even
seem to be looking for him, and wondering why he was not
there.  Dawn was bewildered and fairly held her breath,
wondering if it could be possible that she was to start off
on her wedding journey without the bridegroom.  Though,
she had not been to many weddings, she knew enough to
feel that her situation was a strange one.  The only
explanation she could think of was that his mother had
been so ill that he had to remain with her for a time, and
would come later and explain.  But even then it made
her heart sink to think that he should have cared so little
for her embarrassment that he had sent her no word.  It
augured ill for the future.  Nevertheless, she was conscious
of a great relief that he had not come, and a great
comfort in the presence of this other man.

There was a good deal of fun and confusion when at
last the train started, with a showering of rice and old
slippers, and a stretching of necks from the other
carriages to see what it was all about.  But they were soon
under way, and Dawn sat back with intense delight to
enjoy the new sensation of a railway ride, without the
expected attendant inconvenience of an unloved husband.
It was perhaps not ideal, but she could not help it, and
when one's heart has been breaking slowly for weeks and
rapidly for the last few hours, it is but nature to let it
throb on naturally for a few minutes if it will.  How
could she help being happy?  The sky was blue, blue; the
bits of water they glimpsed far away, the winding ribbon
of the river in the distance, were blue also.  The trees
seemed fairly to spread themselves in the summer sunshine,
and the whole world looked washed anew for happiness,
basking in the sunlight of heaven.  The birds that flew
away at sound of the strange creature that went rumbling
through the country, the sleepy cows that grazed diligently
upon the hillsides, the dull sheep that raised unwondering
eyes and bleating voice at the moving monster, all seemed
new creations to the girl.  She cried out with delight at
everything, and Charles entered into her joy.

It was not Charles's first ride upon a train, therefore
when she asked some question about their wonderful mode
of travel he fell to explaining it all carefully to her, with
a learned manner that fascinated her, and before she knew
it she was watching his face and his eyes, and her heart
was glowing with the thought of him.  Then he suddenly
caught her hand that lay in her lap, and, taking its
forefinger between his own thumb and finger, her hand enclosed
in his, he made it point to a tiny white house nestled upon
a hillside far away, with a glimpse of water in the
distance and a shelter of feathery trees all about.

"There!  See there!" he cried.  "Do you see that
house up there?  How would you like it if you and I
lived there?"

Instantly that little house seemed to Dawn a very
heaven of peace, to which she would gladly fly from the
grander house that she thought awaited her at the end of
her journey.  She caught her breath and pressed her free
hand hard upon her frightened, happy heart, and cried,
"Oh!  Oh!" so wistfully that he stooped and kissed her
once, and then again, and whispered, "Darling!  My darling!"

They were alone in their carriage, you remember, and
as the train was not then going round a curve, but was
sleepily jogging through a lovely wooded place, no one in
any of the other carriages could see.

Dawn felt the thrill of his touch go through her again,
and then her conscience roused, and she drew herself
away, quite shyly, and not at all as if she were angry.  Her
cheeks were crimson under her drooping lashes.

Her lover watched her adoringly.  He was shy himself,
and felt that maybe he had gone too far in a public place
like a railway carriage; but she had been so charming,
and was she not his?

Then her trembling lips brought out a question which
shot a pang of jealous pain through his heart.

"Won't you tell me—please—where is—m'—where
is——"  She hesitated painfully, wishing he would understand
and finish the sentence for her; but he only looked
down anxiously, trying to understand what she wanted.

"Won't you please tell me where—Mr. Winthrop is?"

He understood at once that she did not mean his father,
but his scoundrel brother.  His face shadowed with a
frown.  Was she, then, thinking only of him who had tried
to cover her with shame and disgrace?  And would it
always be so, that she would hark away from his love to
that which had gone before?  He sighed impatiently, but
tried to answer her gently, a strange pity in his voice:

"I thought they had told you.  It was strange they
did not.  He took the train at once.  He found it was
necessary, you understand."

"Oh!"  There was immense relief in Dawn's exclamation,
and the color came back to her cheeks, which had
grown pale with apprehension when she asked the question.

"Then he will not come on this train at all?" she
asked, and a light broke into her eyes.

"You poor child!" said he gently.  "Were you afraid
of that?"  He laid his hand over hers comfortingly.

"I have been so tired and so frightened," murmured
Dawn; and now she had to let the tears come rolling down
her cheeks, though she tried hard enough to keep them
back.  But somehow she felt he would understand it all,
and she lay back and let him wipe them away with his
large, cool handkerchief that smelled of rose-leaves; and
between the tears he laid a kiss now and then that seemed
like healing ointment to her sore heart, so she no more
tried to contend with her conscience as to what was right
for married women to do in such circumstances.  She only
knew she had found some one who acted toward her as she
remembered her dear mother doing.  The kisses seemed
such as an angel's might be, if an angel stooped to kiss.
So she ceased trying to understand, and just took the
comfort of it.  Perhaps it had been sent to her to help
her in her time of need.  Remember, she was very young,
and had been facing a great terror.

They presently trundled out of the woods into a little
village, and the comforting had to cease.  Dawn sat up with
rosy cheeks and bright eyes, the tears all gone, and looked
about her with interest.  They talked in low tones of the
people they saw come and go on the platform, and laughed
at a couple of geese who were squawking and gabbling at
the train for coming so close to their nice mud-puddle by
the track, putting in a natural protest against the march
of civilization.

But an old lady with many bandboxes and a carpet-bag
was put into their coach just before the train started on
its way again, and there could be no more quiet confidences.
Dawn had thought she would presently ask a few more
questions about her husband, and why he had found it
necessary to take another train.  Most of all, she wanted
to know when and where she was to meet him.  But now
there was no more opportunity to ask questions.

At Albany, they waited for the stage-coach, and walked
about exploring the city, more absorbed in their own
pleasant converse than in sight-seeing, however.

"Do you know, they have never told me your name.
I heard it first in the ceremony this morning," said Charles,
with a smile.  "It is strange, isn't it?  But we have had
so little time, and before that I was away, and they always
wrote of you as 'Miss Van Rensselaer.'  I never asked your
name because I liked to think of you as I saw you first, all
spring blossoms, like some spirit of the air, and I thought
a name might destroy the vision."

The pink came softly into the girl's cheek at his earnest
words, and it filled her heart with a glow of pleasure like
to nothing she had ever felt before.

"They wouldn't have told you my real name if you
had asked," said she, showing her dimples in a smile
answering to his.  "I was christened Jemima, but my
mother, my own dear mother, who died a good many years
ago, told me my name was Dawn, and she always called
me that.  She wouldn't consent to my being named
Jemima until she found out that the meaning of it was
'Dawn of the Morning,' and she always called me that.  I
always made everybody at school call me so too.  They did
not know the other name at school.  I love the name
because my mother loved it, and said it meant something
sweet and dear to her."

She looked up, and the eyes she met were full of
sweet understanding.

"Dawn!  What a beautiful name!  How glad I am it
is that!  It just fits you as I saw you first.  You might
have been personifying Dawn.  You shall be the Dawn of
my morning always."

They were in sight of the stage-coach now, and as they
saw that the driver was preparing to start, they had to
hurry to it, so they had no further opportunity to talk;
but each had been given a vision into the heart of the other.

Dawn was still ignorant of where she was going, and
as she sat in the coach and saw others climbing in to fill the
seats, she suddenly realized that there would be no more
opportunity now for the questions she should have asked
while they were walking.  But she had hesitated to spoil
their pleasant walk, and had dismissed her fears and
troubles, entering into the spirit that Charles had seemed
to manifest.

As he sat close beside her through the long miles, his
arm rested against hers, and now and again came a gentle
pressure, as if he would let her know he was there.  Then
the remembrance of his lips upon hers swelled over her
in a mingling of remorse and joy, and her heart cried out
to itself, "Oh, I love him!  I love him!  What shall I
do?  If I only were not married, perhaps I might have
him for a friend.  I never had a real friend.  But now,
I suppose, I can never see him any more."

By and by, when they stopped to change horses, Charles
found seats for them on the top of the coach with the
driver.  It was lovely up there, with a wide view of the
beautiful country through which they were riding, and no
one to bother them; for the old coach driver was not of a
garrulous disposition, as most of those worthies were, and
they had their talk to themselves.  Still, he was there, and
Dawn dared venture no more confidential questions.

The day drew to a close, and they came to the last
change of horses before reaching the home of the
Winthrops.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIV

.. vspace:: 2

"We are almost home," said Charles joyously.  He felt
that it was a very happy moment.

"Oh, are we going to your home?" she asked, catching
her breath and wondering what that meant.

"Why, yes, didn't you know?  I supposed Mrs. Van
Rensselaer would tell you all the plans.  She said you did
not wish to come down to talk them over beforehand."

"I know," said Dawn, a shadow creeping over the
happy face.  "I could not."  She looked at him with
appealing eyes, as if she knew he would understand.

"I understood," he answered her.  "You had been
through too heavy a strain, a shock——"  He paused.

She looked puzzled, and wondered how he knew that
her marriage was a shock to her.  Was it because his eyes
understood her from the first?  Was it a kind of spirit
understanding spirit?  Dawn was not a philosopher, but
something like this flashed through her thoughts.

"But she told me nothing.  Indeed, I did not ask.
Perhaps it was my fault," she added.

"Certainly not," said Charles vehemently.  "It was
her business to tell you the plans.  I expressly asked her
to do so after we had them all arranged.  I asked her to
see if they had your approval.  I should not have made
any arrangements without it."

"Oh!"  Dawn had never had her approval of anything
asked in her life.  She could scarcely understand
why it should be done.  It was very nice, but how and
why did this delightful person seem to have had the
arranging of her plans?  It was all a mystery, but she
could not ask about it now before the coach driver.
Perhaps the future would unravel the mystery.

"Just how much did she tell you, any way?" asked
Charles, lowering his voice as much as possible, to make
it confidential without actually putting it beyond the
hearing of the driver.

Dawn considered.

"Why, I don't really think she told me anything," she
said at last, half apologetically, "except how to behave
during the ceremony.  I think it was my fault, I really do.
She said I ought to go down and talk it over, but I said I
didn't need to go, that I wanted to be by myself at the last.
I suppose she thought I didn't care about the arrangements.
I never thought I had anything to do with them, any
way.  I thought that was all fixed, like everything else."

There was a sad little droop to the corners of her red
lips, which gave Charles's heart an unhappy twinge.  The
driver turned a suspicious eye toward them, and they sat
silent for a while, Charles thinking it over, and being
somehow depressed that she should feel so about their
marriage.  To her, of course, it must be somewhat of a
forced thing, but to him it had been all joy until now when
he was suddenly brought face to face with the situation
as he thought he saw it.

Dawn was going over sadly all their bright beautiful
day together, and thinking, wondering, how near it was to
the end, and whether she would ever see this dear
companion again.  She treasured every moment of his company,
even when they were silent together; every glance, every
syllable, yes, every kiss and gentle touch of his hand;
even while she dimly perceived (and chided herself) that
this was not the right attitude for a bride of a few hours
to have toward a man who was not her husband.  But to
her it was like stolen sunshine to a lifetime prisoner.
She felt she must take it, as it would never pass her way
again.  All the same, her conscience was beginning to
trouble her, for she was naturally a right-minded girl, and,
in spite of the fact that her ideals of married life were not
as some girls', she had her own ideas of what should be.
She turned toward him suddenly:

"I want to tell you how much I thank you for this
beautiful day," she said, her heart in her eyes.  "It is
the best day I ever had—I mean our part of it.  I was
afraid I might not have another chance to tell you."

The dusk was growing deeper now, and dim lights
ahead showed that a town was not far away.  Charles
reached out his hand and took hers gently in his own,
hiding them both under his coat on the seat between them.
The driver was looking the other way, hunting for his big
tin horn, wherewith to announce his approach somewhere,
and had not seen.

"Dear!  You dear!" Charles murmured softly in her
ear.  "But there'll be plenty of chances to tell me
everything soon now."

"Oh, will there?" she said joyfully.  "I was afraid
there wouldn't be."

"Did you think we were going to spend our days in a
coach?" he laughed.

Dawn's hand trembled in the big, comforting grasp, and
longed to settle down and take strength from it; but she
knew she ought to put a stop to this, and she sat shrinking
and pondering how to draw away her hand without offending
her kind friend, who, in spite of his frank, true eyes,
seemed not to have a thought but that the course he was
pursuing was perfectly right and proper.  It all puzzled
her, more and more as she felt the approach of the moment
when she must meet her unwelcome bridegroom.

A long blast on the driver's horn sent a startled shock
through her slender frame, and instantly Charles's grasp
on the little, timid hand tightened, as if he would enfold
her in his greater strength and soothe her fears.  She was
glad it was dark, for she was sure there were tears in her
eyes; yet she dared not lift her other hand to wipe them
away, lest he see her.

With a swirl and a lurch the coach turned in at an
open gateway and drove furiously up to a wide farm-house
on a hill behind a circle of elm trees.  The driver jumped
down and began to unfasten a trunk from behind.  Dawn
could not see whether it was her own or not, but she took
heart from the fact that Charles sat still and steadily
held her hand, and that other people were climbing out
of the coach below, and talking to a man and woman who
came out of the big hall door in a stream of light to greet
them.  This was not her new home yet, then.  There were
still a few moments more of grace before her doom should
fall.  Now she must know.  It was her only chance.  In a
moment more the driver would be back beside them, and
perhaps the next stop would end their ride.

She leaned over close to Charles and whispered in his
ear: "Tell me quick before the driver comes back: will
*he* be there?"  The tears were trembling on her lashes.
She was glad she was not on the side of the coach next to
the house.

"Will who be there, dear?" murmured Charles, marvelling
at the sweetness of having her so close to him.

"Oh, don't you know?" she said desperately, as if it
hurt her to speak the name.  "Why—my—Mr. Winthrop—Mr. Harrington
Winthrop."

It was a pitiful attempt to put into the name the
dignity that her position as wife demanded.  She was
scarcely more than a little girl, and her situation was
terrible to her.

Charles started and looked down at her.  Was she still
wanting to see the man who had sought to do her so terrible
an injury, or was she dreading to see him?  He looked
at her and saw fear written in her eyes, and his heart was
touched.  However she might have felt toward Harrington
before, of course now she dreaded having to meet him
after what he had done.  But whatever had put into her
head the idea that he would be there?  How strange of
Mrs. Van Rensselaer not to have told her that Harrington
had gone away on the train with his wife!

"No, he will not be there!" he said almost harshly,
"I doubt if he is ever there again."

There was something in his tone that Dawn could not
understand, but she must find out quickly what it all
meant, though she was trembling now from head to foot,
and scarcely knew what question to ask next.  It was all
so strange and mixed up.

"Then, where—where will I have to meet him?" she
asked, grasping his arm with her free hand and watching
his face as if her very life depended upon the answer.

Charles looked down at her, his whole soul in his eyes.

"Never, dear, never.  I will guard you from that, at
least."

"Oh, why!" cried Dawn, more than ever bewildered
by his words.  "Why—but, how can you?  Hasn't he the
right?  Wasn't I married to him this morning?  Nobody
can keep us apart now, can they?  The minister said, 'Till
death do you part!'"  A long, slow shudder passed over
her as she spoke, and though her words were low, lest some
one hear, her tone was like the cry of one who had given
up for lost.

Forgetting the people who were clattering joyous welcomes
below, Charles put his arm close about her, as if
he were shielding her from a present terrible danger.  He
looked into her face and spoke in low, firm tones:

"I don't just seem to understand you, dear, but you
mustn't be so frightened.  There isn't anything in the
world to be afraid of.  I will try to make everything just
as you want it——"

"But how can you?" Dawn's breath came in short
sobs.  She was almost at the limit of her self-control.
"Will he let you?  Will it be right?"

"Dear, listen!  I don't know what you mean by
some of the things you have said.  I'm afraid all the
trouble has upset you.  Perhaps you have a fever——"

"No!  No!" said Dawn, almost impatiently, for she
saw that the driver had landed the trunk on the piazza and
was preparing to come back to the coach, and that some
of the passengers were climbing in again.  There would be
but a moment more.

"It is I that do not understand," she added, and her
voice was very steady.  She felt as if she must make her
meaning plain now.  "I was married to him this morning,
and now he is gone away somewhere, and you say I need
never see him again.  He went away just after the
ceremony.  They said his mother fainted and he took her away.
I have not seen him since.  What does it all mean?  I do
not understand.  It is like some awful dream."

Charles's heart sank in horror as he listened to her
words.  Had she lost her mind, or, more awful yet, had
she in some mysterious way been married to him without
knowing it?  The latter seemed almost incredible, yet if
it were true, what sorrow might it not mean to them both!
Poor child!  He must be very gentle with her, whatever
were the case.  And meantime the driver's foot was upon
the wheel.

Charles leaned over as if to tuck the linen robe about
her to protect her from the dust, and whispered:

"You were not married to him at all.  Don't you
remember?"

"Do you mean I was not married, then?  But I heard
the minister say the words, 'I pronounce you husband and
wife, and what God hath joined——'"  Dawn shuddered
again.  "I heard it.  I didn't look up, but I heard it.
You needn't be afraid to tell me the truth.  I will not
cry or anything."

The driver plumped down on the seat with a loud
laugh at some joke the old farmer was getting off, and
vowed he would be late if they kept him any longer, that
he must go around by Applebee's and Deacon Forsythe's
yet, and it was almost dark.  Then with another hearty
laugh he chirruped to his horses, and they strained and
started, and with a lurch and a swirl of the coach they
were flying down the stony road to the gate again, and
there was no more opportunity to talk unheard.

Dawn braced herself to endure the awful uncertainty
that her question had put into tangible form, and Charles,
as he took hold of the little, trembling hand once more
with a reassuring pressure, sought in his mind for
something to say which should calm her fears and at the same
time not enlighten the driver as to their subject of
conversation.

"Don't worry," he said in a tone that tried to be light
and gay.  "I'll explain it all as soon as we get home.
Meantime, do you want to be told where we are?" and
he launched into a voluble description of the people who
dwelt along the road.

Dawn understood, and kept silent except for a monosyllable
now and then, to keep up appearances before the
driver, and presently the coach halted again before the
gate of another farm-house, where the gleaming candles
from the many-paned windows testified to the comfort of
the inhabitants.  To their relief, the driver jumped down
again to deliver a big package, and they had another
moment to talk.

"Wasn't I married at all, then?  Tell me quick, please,"
she pleaded, the minute the driver had left them.

"Yes, but not to Harrington," he said gravely.  He
had not yet decided how he ought to tell her or whether
he had not better wait until they were at home, lest it
make her ill.  It seemed so strange for her to talk in this
way.  He paused an instant, and looked keenly into her
face, but the light from the coach lantern did not shine
in the right way for him to see her clearly, and it was dark
now.  He did not see the wave of relief that swept over
her anxious face.

"Oh!" she gasped, as if a great burden had suddenly
been lifted from her and she could breathe the free air
again.  "Oh!"  And for a minute she could think of
nothing else save that she was free from the man she had
come to dread almost more than death.  How it came
about, or what else might have happened, must stand in
abeyance until she could take in this great, soul-reviving
truth.  She was not married to Harrington Winthrop!

Charles waited an instant, and then, seeing that the
driver would soon be back, and that Dawn was not going
to ask a question to help him on, he spoke again.

"Don't you remember, Dawn"—his voice lingered over
the name, the first time he had used it, and it went through
her heart with a wonderful thrill—"don't you remember
that you and I were married this morning?"

"Oh, was it you?"

Dawn's face shone up at him out of the darkness, but
he dared not interpret the look.  The driver suddenly
jumped up on the seat and started the horses on again,
but Dawn clasped her hands close about his arm and
clung to him in the darkness, her whole soul surging with
gladness.

He held her arm close to him within his own, but his
heart was beating anxiously to know what effect this would
have upon her, and whether she remembered now.  At
last she ventured the question—for how could the driver
attach any significance to such simple words:

"Are you sure?"

"Sure!" he answered gravely, and added as if he
could not keep the words back: "Are you glad or sorry?"

"Oh, glad, glad!" instantly came the words, and then
they said no more, but let the joy and the wonder of it
sweep over them.  They were both very young and very
happy just then, and what are hows and whys to such as
they?

The lights of the village grew closer, and beamed past
them, and in a moment more, with a rattle and flourish,
they drew up before the old Winthrop house, a beautiful
colonial structure, with lights in all the windows and a
festive air about it that made all the passengers in the
coach look out and wonder.  A shout of laughter, and,
"Here they come!" was heard from the house, and Betty,
in white, with blue ribbons all in a flutter, came flying
down the path of light from the open door to greet them.

"I'll explain it all when we get by ourselves, dear,"
whispered Charles, leaning over her again, as if to see if
she was leaving any baggage behind.  "Don't worry.  Just
be happy."

"Oh, I will!" laughed Dawn joyously.  "But how
did it ever come to be true?"  And then as she got down
from the coach she was instantly smothered in Betty's
open arms.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XV

.. vspace:: 2

"Do they all know and understand?" whispered Dawn
to Charles, as they turned to walk up to the house, Betty
fluttering ahead carrying Dawn's hand-bag and silk cape.

"Yes, they all know and understand, dear.  It is all
right," said Charles reassuringly.

Old Mr. Winthrop stooped and kissed her as she came
up the steps, and said, "Welcome home, daughter!"  Cordelia
and Madeleine, too, made her warmly welcome.  Just
behind them stood Aunt Martha, with arms spread wide
to receive her in a motherly embrace.

"Mother is lying down, resting now," explained Betty,
"and sent word she would see you after supper."

They bore Dawn off to the second story, where Betty
took entire possession of her and showed her the rooms they
had hastily prepared; for of course Harrington had not
intended bringing his prospective bride home, and Betty
and her sisters had had much ado to put things in bridal
array after their own arrival home from the wedding.

"We'll get some of these pictures and things out of
your way to-morrow, so you will have room for your own
things, but we hadn't much time to-night, you know.  We
got home only two hours ahead of you, if we did come by
a shorter cut.  Horses cannot travel as fast as railroad
trains, I guess," chattered Betty.  "Do you think you will
be comfortable to-night?  Or, I could take some more
things out, if you want to unpack your own," she added
anxiously.

Dawn looked around on the exquisitely appointed
rooms.  The great bedroom, with high-canopied bed;
curtains and valance of blue-flowered chintz to match the
window draperies; the wall-paper of dreamy landscapes,
with hazy blue skies, and rivers winding like blue ribbons
among sunny hills; the fine old mahogany furniture; the
little glow of fire in the open fireplace, with the great,
stuffed, chintz-covered chair drawn up before it—all seemed
like heaven to her.

Through the open door one entered a hastily improvised
private sitting-room.  The girls had had the furniture
taken from the connecting bedroom, and in its place had
put a desk, reading-table, chairs, and bookcase of mahogany.
Candles burned brightly everywhere in silver candlesticks,
with tall glass candle-shades over them.  Some books and
papers were scattered on the table, and a comfortable chair
stood ready for some one to occupy.  The rooms could not
have been more home-like.  And all this was for her and—him!
She caught her breath with the happiness of it, and
a pink tinge stole into her cheeks.

"Do you think you can be happy here?" Betty asked
anxiously.

"Oh, happier than I ever was in my life!" cried Dawn.
"Only, it seems too beautiful to be true.  It seems as if
I was dreaming;" and in a pretty little way she had when
she was surprised and pleased, she clasped her hands over
her heart.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" said Betty.  "And let me whisper
a secret: I always loved Charles more than Harrington.
Charles is a dear!"

Dawn's eyes shone with her deep joy.

"Oh, do you?" was all she could say, but she wished
she dared tell Betty that she was a dear also.

Then her little sister-in-law went away and left her to
wash her hands and smooth her hair for supper, and in a
moment Charles came in.

Dawn stood in the middle of the room, looking about,
her eyes shining, the firelight glimmering over her dark
hair and bringing out the green lights in the silk frock
she wore.  She looked so young and sweet and dear as she
stood there alone, taking in the picture of her new home,
that Charles paused to watch her, and then came softly up,
and folded his arms reverently about her, drawing her
close.  It was a long, beautiful moment of perfect bliss,
the memory of which stayed with the two through all that
came afterward.  Then their lips met and sealed the
sacredness of their union.

But Betty's voice broke in upon the joy:

"Charles, the supper is getting cold, and you know I
told you to bring her down at once.  Come quick!"

Reluctantly they prepared to go.

"One minute, Betty!" Charles called.  "I must wash
my hands first!"

"Charles, you know you are just admiring your wife,
and not hurrying a bit," called back saucy Betty.  "Do
make haste.  I want to admire her myself."

"Before we go down, Dawn, I must say one word.
Don't let them know anything about your not knowing.
They think that you understood it all and were willing.
I can't see how it happened.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer went
upstairs last night to tell you all about Harrington, and
to take my offer to you, and when she came down she said
you wanted to think it over."

The deep color came in Dawn's cheeks, and the flash
into her eyes.

"She did not speak to me last night after you came,"
she said.

"But in the morning, after I saw you in the garden—did
she tell you nothing then?"

"She only talked to me about the wedding, and told
me I must not look up during the ceremony, that it was
not nice.  That seemed to be the only thing she cared
about."

"Didn't she tell you at all about Harrington?"

"Not a word, except that I ought to go down and talk
with him before the ceremony?  Was he asking for me?"

The dark eyes took on their frightened look.

Charles frowned heavily behind the big damask towel
with which he was drying his face.

"Never mind, dear.  Harrington has behaved outrageously,
but we will not talk about it now.  I'm ashamed
to call him my brother."

"Oh!  He is your brother, isn't he?" said Dawn,
suddenly perceiving the fact.  "Of course!"

"Didn't you know even that?  What could the woman
have been thinking about?  What object could your mother
possibly have had in not telling you everything?"

"Charles!"  Betty's voice was insistent now.

"Yes, Betty.  Just ready," answered Charles impatiently.

"She is not my mother, you know, and she never liked
me," said Dawn, in a low voice, as if she were ashamed
of it all.

"Never mind, dear; let's forget it now, and be happy."

He stooped and drew her face against his for just an
instant, and then they went out to the impatient Betty.

Downstairs it was all gaiety and brightness.  Once
Charles said with a soft light in his eyes, "I'm sorry
Mother couldn't be down to-night.  How is she feeling
now?" and Dawn looked at him in awe and love, and
thought how beautiful it was to have a mother that one
longed to have about.

"Your mother will be all right in the morning, I
think," answered his father, with just a tinge of sadness
in his voice; and a quietness settled over them all for a
moment.  Dawn thought it was because they loved her so
much and were sorry she was sick.

"We didn't ask any of the neighbors in to-night, because
we thought you would be so tired, and it would be better
to wait till you were rested, so we could have a real party
and do things up nicely, not in such a hurry.  They don't
even know yet that Charles is married, you know."

Betty's voice gushed into the pause that had come in
the conversation, as if she wished to fill it quickly, no
matter with what.

"Yes, that's right," approved Charles.  "We don't
want a lot of folks around.  We just want you folks for a
while."

After supper Cordelia took Dawn up to their mother's room.

Dawn's heart beat high with hope.  She had caught
but a glimpse of Charles's mother that morning, and did
not remember clearly how she looked.  The young bride's
heart went out to her with a double love, because her own
lost mother had been so dear.

Mrs. Winthrop was lying in a great bed with a rose-colored
canopy.  The bed-curtains were of white starched
dimity, and the white linen all about her made her look
like some delicate flower in an elaborate vase.  The canopy
threw sea-shell tints on the delicate complexion that had
not darkened in spite of years, and the rosy light from the
open fire on the other side of the room played over her
beautiful white hair that was carefully arranged in curls
on her cheeks.  The bed-gown she wore was of homespun
linen, fine and elaborate in make; her small, patrician hands
were glowing with rare jewels.  The delicate face was that
of a beautiful woman; beautiful yet, in spite of the fact
that she had grown old; beautiful and proud, yet lovable.
She looked like some rare bit of Dresden china, perfect of
its kind, and perfectly cared for.  Dawn paused on the
threshold shyly and admired her.  Then she came forward
at Cordelia's introduction, but, instead of taking the
delicate hand that was held out coldly to greet her, she stooped
over impulsively and kissed her new mother.  She had
never done such a thing to any one since her own mother
died, but she wanted to give her best to Charles's mother,
she was so glad to-night.

"Sit down," the high-bred voice commanded politely.
"Yes, there in the chair where I can see you.  Cordelia,
you need not remain."

Dawn sat down, and there was a pause until the door
closed after Cordelia.  Somehow, the young wife's heart
began to sink a little.  The room looked so very large, the
bed was so high and big, the beautiful old lady so small
and far away, and her smile was so like a picture.

Madam Winthrop turned her handsome eyes with an
uncordial coolness upon her new daughter-in-law, and
looked her through.  She was a loving and lovable woman
at times, but she did not seem so now.

"I have sent for you"—she spoke the words with
deliberation and incisiveness—"to tell you that I forgive
you."

Dawn gasped, and looked at her in amazement; but the
lady paid no heed to her, only further to fix her with her
eyes, and went on:

"I did not think it would be possible at first, but I
have conquered my feelings, and am now willing to forgive
you."

Dawn could do nothing but look at the woman in
horror.  Her tongue seemed tied.  At last she stammered
out:

"For what?"

"That is an entirely unnecessary question," said the
cool voice.  "You surely know how much trouble you have
made.  It is absurd to ignore it, or try to gloss it over.
It seems strange that one so young as you should have had
the power to make my poor, impulsive boy forget his duty.
You should have known—but, then, I have forgiven you,
and I will say no more about that.  You are very beautiful,
I must admit, and Harrington was always one who admired
beauty, but I feel sure that of himself he would never
have gone as far as he did.  However, as I say, we will
not talk of that.  I have forgiven it, together, of course,
with your other offences.  And it is of the consequences
of those that I feel it my duty to speak to you."

Dawn sat watching her, fascinated as is a bird sometimes
when it keeps its eyes on a cat and is unable to
move.  It seemed to her she would scream if she only had
the power, but the power of speech was gone for the time
being.

"You know, of course, that Charles is very young.  He
isn't really a full-grown man yet.  He hasn't finished his
college course.  You ought to understand that you must
in no way interfere with his life, to spoil it.  It ought to
be enough for you that you have accepted his generous
offer, when he was sorry for your being jilted by his
brother, and kindly offered to take his place so as to save
you from the mortification of having no wedding.  I
haven't an idea that Charles really expected you to think
of it for a moment, but he is warm-hearted and always
ready to offer help in any distress.  It would have been
far more seemly in you to decline the offer, and in your
people to insist upon your doing so, if you did not know
enough to do it yourself.  But that is now too late to
mend, so we will not speak of it, and, as I have said, I
have fully forgiven it.  What is unalterable is always best
forgiven, if possible.  What I wish to say is this:

"Having married my son under these most extraordinary
circumstances, it becomes you to be most modest
and retiring, and hereafter to put aside every personal
consideration, in order that he may not be held back from
his natural ambitions.  I hope you get my meaning?"

A crimson flush had been stealing up into Dawn's
cheeks, and the steel lights were coming into her eyes,
but she was unable as yet to make any reply.  The cool
elder voice went on with the torture:

"I am willing, as I say, to forgive you, but I shall
expect from you docility and a willingness to be guided
by me in everything.  As long as you remain in my house,
which will, of course, be at least as long as my son remains
in college, and as much longer as he deems wise afterward,
I thought it was best for you to understand everything
thoroughly at the start.  Having robbed one of my sons
of his happiness, and robbed me of the other one, it is
becoming that you should walk circumspectly in every
way.  I have, of course, forgiven you.  But it is a terrible
thing which you have done——"

"Stop!"

Dawn sprang to her feet, her hands clasped, her face
white with anger, the lightning in her eyes.

"You are saying things that are not true!  You are
blaming me for what I have not done.  I will not hear
another word of it.  I did not want to marry your son
Harrington.  He came after me while I was in school
and tormented me to marry him.  Afterward, he told my
father and made him think it was all fixed between us
and Father wrote and gave his consent, and they planned
the wedding and everything without asking me a thing
about it.  I did not want to go home, because I was
frightened.  I did not want to be married.  I knew Father
would be angry if I should break it off after everything
was arranged.  He is very proud, and has a terrible temper.
But I dreaded it so that I was almost crazy.

"I don't know yet how it came about that Harrington
didn't come to the wedding.  No one has told me, and I
hadn't thought to ask, I was so glad to find I wasn't
married to him.  I didn't know anything about being
married to your other son.  I thought I was being married
just as it was planned to—to Harrington.  I don't know
how that happened either.  I haven't had time to ask
Charles yet.  I just found out a few minutes ago that
he and I had been married."

"That is a highly improbable story," began the
astonished woman in the bed.  "You will not gain anything
by telling me tales like that.  Nothing but the strict truth
is ever spoken in this family.  You will only bring trouble
upon yourself by telling what is not true.  Besides, you
certainly know that I would not believe a thing like that.
In the first place, why shouldn't you want to marry
Harrington?  He certainly is as good as you are.  And the
very idea that a girl in her senses could be married without
her own consent!  It would be impossible to be married
and not know it."

Dawn stood quite still for a full minute, surveying her
antagonist.  The beautiful color had flown into her cheeks
again at mention of untruth, but, as was her wont in
moments of great provocation, she had herself under
perfect control.  The elder woman acknowledged to herself
that the girl was very beautiful, and lay there watching her
victim with a degree of satisfaction she would not have
felt, could she have known what was passing in the girl's
mind.

Dawn's voice was clear and controlled when she spoke
again.  All excitement seemed to have gone out of it, but
every word went straight to the mark like sharp steel:

"You say I have robbed you of your son.  You may
have him back again at once.  I did not ask him to marry
me, and I cannot stay in your house if you doubt my
word.  I shall never trouble either of you again."

She turned swiftly and silently and went out of the
room, closing the door noiselessly behind her.  The old
lady lay still in blank astonishment.  For any one to
speak to her in that manner was unprecedented.  To
disappear and leave no opportunity for rebuke was outrageous.
She felt helpless and outgeneraled.  Not in years had her
superiority been so rudely set aside as during this whole
affair.  For the moment she was bewildered, and lay
thinking it over, unable even to make up her mind whether
or not she should pull the bell rope and call some of the
family, to tell what had happened.  Truth to tell, she
was mortified that her well-laid plan had ended so
ignominiously.

Dawn went swiftly across the hall to the door of her
own room, which she had left so joyously a short hour
before.

The candles had burned low, but the firelight was
flickering softly over everything, and made the room look
a very haven of comfort.  The poor child searched it
furtively now, to make sure that no one was there.  For
just a moment she stood in the middle of the room, looking
about, her hands clasped tragically over her heart, her
eyes full of unspoken agonies.  The whole ugly import of
the new mother's words swept over her and seemed as if it
would overwhelm her.  Then she girded herself to carry
out the resolution she had formed, her proud nature stung
to the quick.

On the big white bed lay her bonnet and mantle.  It
was the work of but a moment to put them on, though
her fingers trembled so that she could scarcely tie the
ribbons under her chin.

Charles had unfastened her trunk before he went down
to supper, and set it open for her.  There on the top,
where she had slipped it in after her step-mother had shut
the trunk and gone downstairs, lay the sombre gray frock
she had worn at Friend Ruth's school.  She had put it in
with sudden impulse, as being the only thing she had left
of her girlhood.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer had seen to it that
her step-daughter's outfit was perfect, as befitted the
daughter of her father.  No Winthrop should criticise her
for lack of elaborate and costly outfit.  But the gray dress
which had been cast aside was the one Dawn had worn
afternoons at the school, and it reminded her of pleasant
days among the girls, with care-free thoughts—a little
gray girlhood, which had nevertheless become bright in
comparison to the new life.  She snatched the gray frock,
and in it wrapped a few light articles she felt she might
need, taking only necessities, and of those but few.  These
she rolled tightly in the frock, pinned the bundle firmly,
saw that it could be hidden under her mantle, caught up
her hand-bag which contained a purse with twenty-five
dollars which her father had put into her hands when
she left home, and was ready.

She had not stopped to think how she was going to
get out of the house without being seen.  A glance out of
the front window showed a balcony with a wrought-iron
railing, which hung inside the white pillared front piazza,
but Charles and his father sat just below, talking in low,
pleasant voices.  She could not get out that way.  Equally
impossible, of course, would be the front door, even if she
could get through the hall without Betty's seeing her.

With one long look down at Charles, she put out a
protesting hand toward him, as if bidding him farewell.  It
wrung her heart to look at him.  She turned quickly away,
paused an instant in the middle of the room, and swept
it with her eyes, then, with a little tragic wave of
renunciation, she went swiftly into the room beyond.  The open
desk caught her attention.  She stopped and, taking up a
pen, wrote on a sheet of paper:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center small

   Goodby.  I had to go.—DAWN.

.. vspace:: 2

She wrote hurriedly, feeling that she had but a brief
respite for her flight.  Then, casting down the pen, she
went to one of the windows in the room and looked out.
There was another balcony here, and she stepped out.  It
was dark, but the candle-light from the dining-room showed
a terrace below.  It did not look to be a great distance.

For an ordinary runaway bride, this balcony would have
been impossible as a mode of egress; but Dawn and her
schoolmates had practised all sorts of gymnastics from the
windows and roof of the old barn, and even on the gables
of the house itself.  She knew how to drop like a cat from
a considerable distance.  She could swing from the great
high limb of the old cherry tree that overlooked the
Hudson, longer than any of the other girls, and then drop
gracefully in their midst, without ruffling her composure
in the least.

But to perform such a feat attired in her first long dress
of rustling silk, with a bonnet tied under her chin, and a
bundle and hand-bag to look after—to say nothing of
doing it in an unknown and almost entirely dark place—was
another thing.

Dawn glanced back into the room, but could think of
no other way.  It wouldn't be pleasant to fall and break
her leg at the outset, but she fancied she heard steps
coming up the stairs, and to hesitate might bring discovery.

She leaned quickly over the railing of the balcony
and dropped her bundle down to the terrace.  It fell
with a hushed thud among the tall grass, and did not
sound as if the distance were great.

Twisting the cords of her hand-bag twice about her
wrist, she swung her feet over the railing and stood on the
outer edge of the balcony, holding the rail lightly, and
shaking out her skirt so that it would not impede her
progress.  Then she cautiously crept down, holding to the
ironwork of the railing, and then to the floor of the balcony,
and hung for a moment to get her breath and be sure of
herself before she let go.  Then, closing her eyes, she
dropped to the terrace like a thistledown, in spite of the
voluminous skirts.

She paused an instant to pick up her bundle and make
sure her hand-bag was safe, then, gathering her skirt and
holding it close with one hand, that her feet might be
freer, she sped down the terrace and away into the unknown
darkness.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XVI

.. vspace:: 2

It was Charles who had come up the stairs.  He had
grown impatient of the delay, and come in search of his
wife.  He paused before his mother's door and listened
to hear the pleasant voices of the two who were most dear
to him.  He had pictured them getting acquainted with
each other, and he meant to walk in and say that the time
was up and he must not be kept out any longer.  He
listened, but he heard nothing.  He waited a moment
longer, but still the silence.  What could it mean?

He tapped gently at the door, and called, "Mother,
may I come in?"  His mother gave a cold assent.  She
had not yet recovered from the shock she had received.

"Why, where is Dawn?" he asked, pausing on the
threshold and looking about the room, as if expecting to
find her in hiding, just to tease him, perhaps.

"If you wish to come in, please have the goodness to
close the door after you, Charles," said his mother severely.
"You are in danger of forgetting everybody else in your
sudden and extraordinary infatuation."

The joyous spirit of the young man came down to earth
with a thud, and he closed the door and stood looking at
his mother blankly, as if to try to fathom the look in her
face.

"Your wife left me some minutes ago," his mother
answered the question which his eyes repeated.  She spoke
haughtily, as if the offence had been partly his.  "She did
not seem to enjoy my company."

"Mother!" said Charles, aghast at his mother's tone
even more than at her words.

"Oh, yes, '*Mother*'!" she repeated, angered anew at
the reproach in his tone.  "I suppose it will be that from
now on.  She left the room declaring her intention of also
leaving my house.  I suppose by this time she has seen
the impossibility of that, but you will find you have married
no angel, I can tell you.  Whatever possessed you, I cannot
understand.  Such a little spitfire!  You should have seen
her great eyes flash."

"Mother, what had you been saying to her?"  Charles
tried to speak gently.  He saw that here was something
that needed careful handling.  He blamed himself inwardly
that he had not had more forethought than to prevent a
meeting between the two while his mother was still wrought
up over his brother Harrington.

"What had *I* been saying to *her*?  Indeed, Charles,
you forget yourself!  You would better ask what had *she*
been saying to *me*."  In her indignation, Madam Winthrop
rose on one elbow and faced her son.  "I had been most
kind and patient and forgiving.  I had made up my mind
for your sake to put everything by, and I sent for her to
tell her so.  I told her I would forgive her all she had done
to spoil your brother's life and yours——"

"Mother!  You never told her that!"

Charles towered above the little woman in the bed, every
inch of his manhood roused in honest indignation.

"I certainly did," said the mother, her own anger
rising anew.  "I explained the whole matter to her, and
told her I would forgive her entirely.  And then just
because I suggested some things she might do to help you
who are so young and inexperienced, and who had so
generously given up all your own ambitions just to save her
from a few hours' mortification, she got very angry.  She
turned perfectly white, and her eyes looked like two devils.
You wouldn't have known your pretty little angel if you
had seen her.  I will admit, of course, that she is pretty,
but 'handsome is that handsome does' is a very true adage.
You will find it out yet.  She was most insulting—told
me that I was lying, or words to that effect—and then she
got off the most extraordinary yarn about not knowing
she had married you.  I told her she must know I couldn't
believe such a story as that, and, now that I think it over,
I don't see how she can be quite right in her mind.
Perhaps Harrington had suspected as much and took this way
of getting out of a most unfortunate union, and you were
so blind that you just jumped in head-foremost, without
ever waiting to make an inquiry——"

"Mother, stop!"  Charles's face was white, and his
voice was trembling with suppressed horror.  "Remember
you are talking about my wife!"

"Yes, your wife!" exclaimed his mother, beginning
to cry.  "That's the way it goes.  A child forgets all his
mother has ever done, the minute he sees a pretty, silly
face."

Then she sat up with sudden resolution.

"Well, *take* your wife and go *out of my house*, then,
if you and she are going to combine against me, and dictate
to me how I shall talk!"

Then with a moan she threw herself back upon her
pillows and lost consciousness again.

Charles stood looking down miserably at her for an
instant, his mind in such a whirl of emotions that he
scarcely knew which was strongest.  Then, with a remembrance
of Dawn, he turned, half-distracted, and pulled the
bell-cord that hung by the head of his mother's bed.  These
fainting spells were frequent and not alarming, he knew.
Stepping to the head of the stairs, he called:

"Betty, tell Aunt Martha to come to Mother at once.
She has fainted again."

He waited only to hear Aunt Martha's quick, excited
step upon the stair, and then he went to find Dawn.

Opening the door of the sitting-room, it startled him
to feel the emptiness that pervaded the place.  He had
expected to find Dawn weeping in the big chair, or perhaps
huddled upon the bed.  That would have been Betty's
way.  He had often acted as comforter to Betty during
her childish woes.  Even in his anger and trouble, he was
thrilling at the thought of how he would comfort Dawn,
his own little girl.  He was the only one in all the world
now to whom she had a right to look for comfort.

He strode through the rooms hurriedly, looking in
every possible place for her, and unwilling to accept the
conclusion his mind had instantly jumped to, that she
was not there at all.

He even pushed aside the curtains and stepped out
upon first the front balcony and then the side one,
thinking that she had taken refuge there from intrusion by
Betty or the other girls.  But there was no sign of her
recent step, and in the darkness the tall grass down below
on the terrace told no tales of a little crushed place where
her bundle had fallen and where her feet had rested lightly
when she dropped.  Next morning, before any one would
think to look, the grass would be standing tall as ever,
and they would never know how she went.

Stepping back into the room again, Charles at once saw
the writing on the sheet of paper lying on the desk.  When
he had read it, he caught it hastily in his hand as if it
could give him some clue to her whereabouts, and started
down the stairs and out of the front door to find her.  He
knew only one thing then, and that was that he must find
her and bring her back before any one else discovered her
flight.  She could not be far away yet.  Charles hurried
out into the darkness.  The family were attending to the
mother, who had recovered consciousness.  He could hear
her moaning, and a sudden bitterness came over his soul,
that her blindness and selfishness should make them all so
much trouble.  He had never thought of her in any but a
gentle, loving way before, and it shocked his spirit to
have to think differently now; but his indignation at her
treatment of his young and blameless wife was roused
beyond his present control.

He searched the grounds and garden carefully, going
over every possible hiding-place twice.  As he did so, he
reflected that she could not have known where to go to
hide, and he felt sure he would find her in a minute or
two.  The minutes grew into thirty, and he had found no
trace of her.  He went down the street quite a distance in
one direction, only to be sure she would have chosen the
other, and to hurry back.  An hour passed with no trace
of her, and then he began systematically to go over the
grounds again, calling her name softly; but a screech owl
mocked him, and the night wind only echoed back his
voice emptily.

Once he drew near the house and under the balcony
where Dawn had escaped.  He heard his sister calling
him, "Charles, Charles!  Mother wants you!" and his
heart grew bitter.  Then Betty's head came out of the
window, and she called again:

"Charles, where are you and Dawn?  Mother has
been moaning and crying for half an hour.  She wants
you, and nothing else will stop her but the sight of you."

Then, out of the darkness, Charles answered his sister,
and the tone of his voice frightened her:

"Betty, I cannot come.  There is something more
important than even Mother just now.  I'm sorry for
Mother, but I'm afraid it's all her fault.  She has been
saying things to Dawn, and Dawn has gone!"

"Gone!"  Betty's horrified voice seemed like a fresh
recognition of the awful truth that his young wife was
beyond his easy reach, and a dreadful foreboding entered
his soul.

"Oh, Charles!" Betty gasped.  "But she can't be
gone.  Her things are here, aren't they?  Wait—I'll look."

Betty disappeared, and in a moment more her white,
scared face reappeared on the balcony, and she was holding
a candle high above her head.

"No, they are not there.  I've even looked in the
closet, thinking she might have hung them up.  Her bonnet
and mantle were on the bed before supper, but they are
gone from the room.  I found her gloves, though—one on
the bed, and one on the floor.  Here they are."  She tossed
them to him as if they were an important clue, and Charles
caught at them as if they were something most precious.

"What shall we do?" she asked.  "Hadn't I better
call Father?  We ought to find her at once, poor little
thing!  She'll be frightened out in the night all alone.
How could Mother!  But then she was so upset with
Harrington, I don't believe she understood things fully,
do you?"

But Charles had no time to listen to Betty's sympathetic
chatter.  His heart was wrung with the thought of
the girl he loved out in the night alone, afraid perhaps of
the unknown perils about her.  He must hurry to her aid.

"Yes, tell Father to come to the front door, quick!
There's no time to lose.  And, Betty, don't rouse the
neighbors.  Let's keep this quiet."

"Of course," said his little sister.  "How fortunate
they don't know yet that it was you who was married."  Then
Betty flew to call her father, telling him excitedly
all the way to the front door what had happened.

"Poor child!  Poor child!" said the father tenderly,
as he listened to the tale.  "And poor Mother, too; she
just didn't understand."

Charles made no response.  He did not feel like pitying
his mother yet.

"What do you think I had better do, Father?" he
asked.  "I've gone everywhere about the place; and down
the road a good way in each direction."

"She will have started home, I suppose—it is a girl's
natural refuge," said the old man thoughtfully.  "There's
only one road if you don't take the train.  She wouldn't
likely go all that way around."

"But, Father, she doesn't know the way.  It was all
quite new to her."

"Oh, that's easy.  She will ask, and of course anybody
will direct her.  She's probably asked somebody quite near
the house here.  If you only knew whom, you could easily
trace her, but, as you say, it's best not to say anything
about it, for it would get out to the neighbors.  We'll
soon trace her.  There are only two ways by which she
could reach the main stage-road.  You go down to the
stable and saddle the two sorrel mares.  The blacks are
tired with the long drive to-day, so you'd better take the
sorrels.  The men are all gone to bed by this time, so
you'll have to do it yourself.  You take one horse and go
the road by the sawmill, and I'll take the other and go
around by Applebee's farm, and then if she should have
taken it into her head to go back by the way you came,
I couldn't miss her, for she couldn't have gone further
than that by this time.  Had she any money with her?"

"I don't know," answered Charles miserably.

"Cheer up, lad, we'll find her inside of two hours,
never fear.  Hurry up, and I'll be with you in half a
minute."

Five minutes later, the two horses and their riders
parted company at the cross corners, and started on the
search.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

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   CHAPTER XVII

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Dawn fled through the dark grass, straight from the
house, not knowing or thinking where she was going, only
to get away.  In a moment she reached a high hedge of
dense growth, and, not daring more than to glance toward
the house, she crept swiftly along toward the street.  A
few rods from the sidewalk she found a small opening
and slipped through into another great yard.  Keeping
close to the hedge, she soon reached the front, and slid
out at the gate like a wraith, wondering what she would
do if some one in the neighbor's house should accost her.
But no one was near.  She could hear footsteps coming,
and gay voices, so she turned and hurried the other way,
though it carried her past the house she had just left.  It
would not do, she thought, to meet any one just yet.

It was this little circumstance that determined the
direction of her flight, and carried her away from the
road her kindly pursuers expected her to take.

She presently reached a lane and turned into it.  It
happened to be a private lane leading to a farm-house set
far back from the street, and as she approached the house
the deep bay of hounds heralded her coming.  Her heart
stood still with fright, for she had read much about the
horror of being pursued by bloodhounds.  In those days
there was much talk of the pursuit of escaped slaves, and
the girl's imagination suddenly saw herself surrounded by
a great pack of hounds sent to bring her back.  She paused
and crouched beside the fence.  Presently she heard a
man's voice not far away, and saw a speck of light moving
and bobbing here and there near the dark outline of the
house.  Then her senses came back.  This was not a dog
sent after her, but a man, who had heard her, an intruder,
near the house.  Perhaps he would come and search her
out.  She must get over that fence as fast as possible.

The silk skirts rustled horribly, and cold chills of
apprehension crept down Dawn's back, as she found how
much harder it was to climb a fence encumbered by long
skirts and a bundle, than when dressed as a care-free
school-girl.  That gave her an idea.  She ought to get off that
silk dress as soon as possible, for its noise would attract
attention.

Another howl of the dog startled her just as she cleared
the fence, so she began to run.  Fortunately, the house
was between her and the town, and she had not to turn
back upon her way.  She discovered by the humps and
hillocks that she was in a meadow, and she struck out as
far away from the house as possible, though the way was
rough, and several times she fell.  But the dog's howling
was more distant now, and she concluded he had been
chained.  Ahead of her, she could see a dark line of trees,
and she hurried toward them.  At least, she could pause
there a minute and arrange her clothing.

She crept within the edge of the woods, and dared not
look around, so easily her imagination could people it with
evil spirits.  She was naturally of a courageous nature, and
at school had always been ready to dare anything just for
fun, but it was a different matter to be running away into
the great night world of a place you had never seen.

With trembling fingers, she unfastened her bundle,
being careful to stick the pins on the corner of her
handkerchief in her hand-bag, where she could find them in the
dark.  It was a work of time and care to extricate the
little gray frock from the bundle and be sure to lose
nothing in the darkness.  She unrolled it cautiously,
gathering the other things within the largest garment she
had brought, and then slipped the dress out from underneath,
first taking the precaution to pin the smaller bundle
together.  Then she took off her mantle, slipped out of her
silk frock and into the gray one, all the time nervously
staring into the darkness of the fields through which she
had just come.  What if some one should catch her now?

The blood pounded through her heart, and poured up
into her face, as though it were on a mad race to strangle
her.  Her hair was wet with perspiration and clinging to
her forehead, yet she felt a chill.  It seemed as if her
fingers were growing wooden and clumsy as she turned
the silk frock inside out and folded it carefully, pinning
it over the other bundle, so that it would show only a gray
cotton lining.  The silk mantle she put on again, and,
feeling carefully about to see that she had left nothing
behind, she turned to face the blackness of the woods.

It was only a maple sugar grove on the edge of a
prosperous farm, but it looked inky black, and might have
been filled with all sorts of wild animals, for aught she
knew.  Yet she pressed on.  She felt as if the woods were
a friend, at least.  She had been used to walking among the
trees and telling her troubles there to the birds and breezes,
and now it seemed a natural refuge, in spite of its blackness.
If only it were the old woods she knew at the school,
she would not be afraid at all.  But fear henceforth must
have no part in her life.  She had herself to look out for,
and she would never, never go again where any one could
talk to her as that dreadful woman had talked.  She
shuddered as she remembered the cold, cultured voice, and the
scorn that had pierced her soul with a shame that she
knew was unjust.  Her rising anger helped her to go on
and put down any timidity that she might have felt, and
presently, through feeling from tree to tree, she came out
to the other side of the maple grove.  Far away to the
east she could see a pale moon rising.  She started toward
it, keeping close to the maple grove, as if it were a friend.
The way led over two or three more meadows, and now in
her little gray frock she found it much easier to climb the
fences.

At last she came to a straight, white road in the
country, with the slender moon hanging low over it.  With
relief, she climbed the intervening fence and took her way
along the beaten path.  Her light prunella slippers had
found it hard travelling in the meadows.

The day had been a long one, and filled with excitement,
beginning with fear and trouble, and preceded by a
sleepless night.  Dawn was very weary now that she felt
herself safe from the terror that possessed her, yet she
must walk all night, for it would not be safe to lie down,
she knew.  She had heard of wild beasts lurking on the
edges of towns, and a wolf or a bear would not be a pleasant
companion.

On she went through the sweet summer night, slackening
not her pace, even though there was now no longer need
for haste.  It seemed to her tired spirit that she must
go on and on thus, throughout ages, always alone and
misunderstood and pursued.  The thought of her husband
and their beautiful day together seemed like some
tantalizing dream, that hovered on her memory and sickened
her with its impossibility.  Such joy as his love offered her
was too great for her ever to have hoped to attain.  Yet in
her secret soul she knew she was glad to have had it, even
if only to have it snatched from her.

As she thought over her own hasty action in leaving
her husband's home forever, she could not feel she had
done wrong.  Never, never could she have lived with others
taunting her that she had been married out of pity—for
that was what his mother's words had meant.  Charles had
not married her for love, but for pity, because, for some
unexplained reason, Harrington had chosen to desert her
at the last minute.  Her exhausted spirit did not care to
know the reason.  She could but be thankful that he had.
Anything, anything was better than to have been married
to him.

All at once a wild fear possessed her that perhaps by
leaving the refuge of his brother's home she had again put
herself in danger of Harrington.  Perhaps he would find
her out, follow her, and compel her to come with him.

As the night went on, all sorts of curious fancies took
possession of her excited brain, until she started at her
own shadow, and thought some one was following her when
all was still in the empty road behind.

Once or twice she sat down by the roadside to rest, but
the awful desire for sleep which crept over her frightened
her, and she staggered to her feet again.

The road wound into a lonesome wood of tall forest
trees, so high that the moon's faint glimmer served only to
make the path look blacker.  But now she was too dead
with weariness to have any fear, and she walked on and on
into the blackness of the forest, with no care save to keep
going.  At last, under a group of pines that huddled
together as if they were of one family, she stumbled over
a great root that obtruded among the slippery pine needles
and fell headlong.  She lay still for a moment, dazed, and
then the sense of relief and exhaustion became so great
that, without a thought of wild beasts, she drew her bundle
up under her head and continued to lie still on the soft,
sweet bed of needles.

The great pines bent their feathery heads over her, and
the wind crept into the branches and softly sang a lullaby
over the lonely little pilgrim.  Regardless of dangers that
might be stalking about her, she slept.

Quite early in the morning, before the first faint streaks
of day had penetrated the cool retreat where Dawn lay
asleep, there came a soft murmur of gentle music from the
trees all about; and soon a sleepy twitter brightened and
grew into a chorus of melody, bird answering to bird from
tree to tree.  Up and down and around, in and out and
over, the threads of song spun themselves into a lovely
golden web of harmony that seemed to shut the vaulted
forest in loftily from all the world, and in the midst of
it all Dawn awoke.

It was quite gradual, her return to consciousness, as if
the atmosphere of sweetness and melody pervaded her soul,
and stirred it from its slumber in spite of itself, bringing
new life and a great peace.

At first she did not open her eyes, nor think where
she was.  It was enough that she smelled the pines and
felt the soft lap of nature where she lay.  It seemed still,
very still and restful; cool and sweet and dark.  That
she knew with her eyes closed.  Up above, where the birds
sang, she seemed to feel a golden light coming, coming,
and knew that it would soon grow into morning.  But now
she might just allow herself this little time to lie still and
listen and wait.  There came to her consciousness a thrill
of freedom that in her fright and hurry the night before
she had not realized.  For months now she had been
half-planning to run away from the things that were saddening
her life, and now she had done it.  She was free!  Free to
order her small life for herself.

Down deep in her heart tugged the agony of a great
loss, yet it was as of the loss of something she had never
really had—only dreamed of briefly.  She would not let
herself think of Charles now.  She wanted to keep his
memory as something sweet to take out and look at
sometimes when she was lonely, but that could not be until
the first bitterness of the shame of her union to him was
past.  She wanted to forget the scene in his mother's
room, her terrible helplessness before the onslaught of the
woman's tongue; and just to rest and feel that she was free.

Freedom meant getting away from Harrington Winthrop
and from her step-mother, and from her father's
wrath, or his possible efforts to shape her life.  What else
it meant, she had yet to learn.  She supposed there was
some place in the world where she might work for what
she needed.  The thought of her livelihood did not trouble
her.  Youth feels equal to its own support always, if it has
any spirit at all.  Dawn had plenty of spirit, and felt sure
she could earn her "board and keep."  At present, she was
concerned only in getting rested and getting away as far
as possible from all the evil things which seemed to have
combined to crush her.

The light came on, and the morning entered the forest.
A saucy little squirrel ran up the tree beneath which the
girl lay, and, poised on a high twig, looked down and
chattered at her noisily.  Down fell a bit of bark upon
Dawn's face, and, laughing involuntarily, she sat up and
looked about her.  The dim aisles of the forest were lit
with golden lights now, and the birds, their matins almost
finished, were hurrying about with breakfast preparations.
A wood-thrush spilled his liquid notes out now and then,
like a silver spoon dropped into a glass.  A robin called his
mate, and a blackbird whistled forth a silken melody.
Dawn laughed aloud again at the squirrel, and tossed back
the curls that had come loose from the confining comb
during her sleep.  It was good just to be here and to be
free.

The squirrel chattered back at her and ran up the tree.
Dawn unpinned her bundle and made her simple toilet.
There was no brook near, where she could wash her face,
but perhaps she would come to one by and by.  She combed
out her hair as well as she could with only a back-comb,
and did it up on her head, for she must have dignity now
if she were going out in the world to shift for herself.
Then she looked over her small possessions carefully, as a
shipwrecked mariner might take account of the wreckage
he had saved.  She took a kind of fierce joy in the thought
that she had brought none of the elaborate garments which
her step-mother had prepared for her trousseau.  They
were all the simple school garments that had been put at
the bottom of her trunk.

She rolled up the bundle again and pinned it closely,
then tied her bonnet on demurely, straightened her frock,
and was ready for the day.

A soft little pathway of light beckoned her through the
woods, and she followed it, her bundle tucked under her
cape, her hand-bag with its cords safely twisted about her
wrist.

The bar of light grew brighter and broader, and led her
to another road.  Unwittingly, she had come a way that
would take her far from the place where she started more
directly than any other she could have chosen.  The sight
of the white road in the dewy morning light gave her new
zest for her journey.  Her sleep, short though it had been,
had rested her wonderfully, and she was eager to get on
her way.

She climbed the fence and fairly flew down the road.
It was very early, and she would be far on her way before
people were up and stirring.  There were mile-posts on this
road, and guide-boards sometimes at cross-roads.  That
meant that a stage-route came that way.  She studied the
next guide-board carefully, and decided that she was on
the direct route to New York, and that the miles might
mean from New York to somewhere else.  Not Albany,
of course, for she must be far to the west of that.  Perhaps
she would find out later, as she went on.  What if she
should go as far as New York?  How long would it take
her?  She could not go all at once, probably; but gradually
she might work her way down.  Why not?  The world
was before her.  She would watch the mile-posts and see
how long it took her to go a mile.

Thus dreaming, she flew along like a bird.

Here and there she passed a farm, and soon she began
to see signs of life about.  The men were coming from
the barns with brimming pails of milk.  As she passed one
house somewhat nearer to the road than the rest, she caught
the fragrance of frying ham and the aroma of coffee.  It
made her hungry.

A mile further she came to a small white house not far
from the roadside.  Outside the door a woman who wore a
sunbonnet and a big apron sat on a three-legged stool,
milking a mild old cow.  As Dawn came near, the woman
gave the last scientific squeeze, and moved the pail from
its position under the cow, then, taking the stool in one
hand and the pail in the other, started for the house.  The
face she showed beneath the deep sunbonnet was a kindly one.

Following an impulse, Dawn turned in at the front
gate, and the old woman paused to see what she wanted:

"Could you let me have a glass of milk?"  Dawn's
voice was sweet, and she held her purse in her hand.  "I
would be glad to pay for it.  I started early this morning,
and am hungry.  I'm on my way to the next village."

The woman's face lit up at the sight of the girl's smile.

"A glass of milk?" she said.  "'Course I can, but I
don't want no pay for it.  Just you keep your pennies for
a new ribbon to wear under that pretty chin.  Set down
under the tree there on the bench, an' I'll bring a cup."

She put down her pail on a large flat stone, and hurried
in, coming out in a moment with a plate of steaming
johnny-cake and a flowered cup of delicate china.  The
woman strained the milk into the cup and stood watching
her while she ate the delicious breakfast.

"Come fur?" asked the hostess, eying the sweet young
tramp appreciatively.

"From beyond Schoharie," she answered quickly,
remembering the name on the last cross-road signboard she
had passed.

"H'm!  Right smart way fer a little slip of a thing
like you to come alone.  You must 'a' started 'fore light."

"Soon after," laughed Dawn.  She felt as if she were
playing a game.  Then, perceiving that the old lady was
curious and would ask questions that she did not care to
answer, she launched into a description of the morning
sky and the early bird songs.  The old woman watched
her as if she were drinking in a picture that did her good.

"Bless me!" she said.  "That sounds like poetry
verses.  How do you think it up?"

Then she whisked into the house again and came out
with a paper of doughnuts.

"You might get hungry again 'fore you get to the
village, and these doughnuts was extra good this time.
Just take 'em an' eat 'em to pass the time as you go.  If
you feel hungry when you come along back, just stop in.
I'll be glad to see your pretty face.  It does a body good.
Goin' back before sundown?"

"No," said Dawn; "I may stay some time.  I'm not
sure.  But I thank you very much for your kind invitation,
and I know I shall enjoy the doughnuts.  I love
doughnuts.  We used to have them in school once a week
in the winter, but only one apiece."

"So you've been to boardin'-school!"

The old woman would fain have detained her, but
Dawn edged away toward the gate, thanking her sweetly
all the while, and saying she must hasten, for the sun was
getting high.  She hurried down the road at last, pretending
not to hear the old woman's question about who were
her friends in Schoharie, and where she was going to
visit in the village.

Her cheeks were bright with the excitement of the little
episode, and she trilled a gay song as she fled on her
unknown way.  For the time being, all sadness was put
away, and she was gay and free as a lark.  Just a happy
child.

A farmer's boy on a hay-wagon crawling along to the
village stopped his whistling and stared at her; and the
hired man on top of the load called out to him some remark
about her that made the color grow brighter in her cheeks
and her heart flutter wildly in her breast.  She could not
hear what words the man had spoken, but his tone had
been contemptuous and familiar.  She fairly flew by the
team, and fled on down the road.

By noon the johnny-cake and milk were dreams of the
past, and she was exceedingly hungry, yet she had not
come to a place where she cared to ask for dinner.  Every
farm-house she came to seemed to have plenty of farmhands
about, coming in to their dinner, and she dreaded
their eyes upon her.  So she sat down under a tree by the
roadside and ate her fat, sugary doughnuts, rested a few
minutes, and plodded on.

The afternoon was more wearisome.  Her slippers hurt
her feet, and she had to stop often to rest.  About five
o'clock she came to a neat-looking inn by the roadside,
where a decent woman sat knitting by the door, and Dawn
decided to sacrifice something from her small store of
money and stop overnight.

The woman eyed her curiously when she asked for a
room and supper.  Not many pilgrims so young or so
beautiful passed her way unattended.  Dawn explained
that she was on her way to another town, to look for
something to do.

"I suppose you're expecting to teach school," said the
woman disapprovingly.  "They all do nowadays, when
they better be home, helping their mothers make bread
and pies."

"My mother is dead," said Dawn quietly, "and I must
earn my own living now."

The woman was silenced, and gave the young traveller
a pleasant little whitewashed room, where she slept soundly.
But an idea had come to her.  A teacher!  Of course, she
could be a teacher.  Had she not led her classes, and always
been successful in showing the girls at school how to do
their sums?  She would enjoy playing the part of Friend
Ruth, and putting a class through its paces.  It quite
interested her to think how she would do it.  But how
would she get her school?  Should she go to New York and
try, or begin in a country one first?

This thought interested her all through the day, which
was Saturday, and kept away the undertone of consciousness
of a deep loss.  But once, toward evening, she passed
a shiny new carryall in which rode a young man and a girl,
and a sharp pang shot through her heart as it brought
back vividly to her memory the beautiful day which she
and Charles had spent together.  And then her mind
went back to the first time she had seen him, that day
when she was standing on the hilltop with, her small
audience before her, and had looked up and seen the shining
of his eyes.  It came to her then that she had a certain
right of possession in him, as if that day had given her to
him and him to her in a bond that could never be broken, no
matter how far they might be separated.  Quiet joy settled
down upon her with the thought that, whatever might
come, whether she ever saw him again or not, she was his
wife, and nobody, nobody could ever take the thought of
it from her.

The sun was setting, and evening bells were ringing in
the spire of a little white church, as she came into a small
village nestled at the foot of a circle of hills.  It reminded
her that the next day was the Sabbath.

That day had no sweet association for her since her
mother's death, but, though she had been only a little
child, she could remember walking by her mother's side to
church, with her little starched skirts swinging, and her
mitted hands folded demurely over her pocket handkerchief,
while the bells rang a cheery call to prayer.  There
had been no bells on the meeting-house to which the
scholars of Friend Ruth's school were taken every First
Day, and nothing about the service to remind her of the
church where she had sat by her mother's side in the
high-backed pew and heard the hymns lined out, trying to follow
the singing of the congregation with her wee sweet voice;
but now the bells harked back over the years and brought
an aching memory of her almost forgotten little girlhood.
A sudden longing to go to church as she used to do came
over her, and she decided to find a place in the village to
stay over Sunday and go to service in the little white-spired
church.  Besides, it was against the law in those
days for any one to travel unnecessarily on the Sabbath
day.  Dawn never thought of doing so, any more than she
would have contemplated the possibility of stealing.

It chanced that she arrived at the village tavern about
the same time as the stage-coach from the opposite
direction, and no one noticed that she had not come on the
stage, for there were a number of travellers who stopped
off here for the Sabbath.  Seeing them descending from
the coach, she went in haste to the landlady and begged
that she might have a tiny room to herself.  She was a
little frightened at the thought of paying a whole dollar
out of her small hoard for the lodging and her meals until
after breakfast Monday morning, but she shut her eyes
to the thought of it and took the room.  It was only a
tiny one over a shed that was given her, but everything
was clean and sweet, and the supper smells came richly up
through the open window to her hungry senses.  On the
whole, she was quite content when she lay down to rest
in her own little room that night and dreamed of church-bells,
and weddings, and sweet fields of clover and new-mown hay.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning the roosters crowing under her
window awakened her, and for the moment she thought
she was back in school, with the barn-yard not far away;
but other and unfamiliar sounds and odors brought her
back to realities, and she remembered she was a lone
traveller putting up at an inn.

She lay still for some time, thinking over the strangeness
of it all, and the tragic happenings of the last few
days.  The thought of Charles brought tears to her eyes.
The dearness and loss of him came over her as it had not
had time to do while she was hurrying on her way.  But
this morning, for the first time, she felt that she was far
from every one who knew her, and hidden securely so
that she could never be found, and that she might look
her life in the face and know what it all meant.  It was
inevitable that in reviewing her life the first and largest
part of all should be Charles and her brief but sweet
acquaintance with him.  That she was his wife thrilled
her with unspeakable joy.  The fact that she had deliberately
renounced him took away to some extent the sting of
the manner in which she had been married.

As she thought it all over, she realized that the only
real shame in the whole affair was that she had been about
to marry Harrington Winthrop when her heart was full of
fear and hatred for him.  She seemed to see many things
in a new light.  In fact, the child had become a woman in
the space of a few days, and she understood life better,
though it was still one vast perplexity.

One thing remained of all the past, and that was the
memory of the love of Charles.  Even the remembrance
of her dear mother was dimmed by it.  It seemed to be the
one eternal fact which stood out clearly, and in the light
of which she must hereafter live.  That he had been
generous and kind enough to marry her for the sake of
relieving her from humiliation, as his mother had intimated,
only made Dawn love him the more.  But because of the
generosity of that act, she must never trouble him again.
She had renounced him.  It was the least she could do for
him, under the circumstances, in return for his great
kindness.  But whatever happened, she must be true to his
memory, and be such that he would always be proud of her
if he should chance ever to hear of her, though she meant
to take care that he did not.

If she had been a little older and wiser, if she had
understood the ways of the world better, she would not
have been so sure that she was taking the most direct way
to reward Charles for his kindness to her.  But she did not
understand, and so was sincere and earnest in her mistaken
way of being loyal to him.  One thing, however, made her
glad.  She felt that no matter how far apart they might
be during the rest of their lives, they had understood each
other, and their souls had met in a deep, sweet joy.  As
she thought of the moment before supper at his home,
when he had held her in that close embrace, and laid his
face upon hers and kissed her, the sweetness and pain of
it were too much for her, and with a sharp cry she hid her
face in her pillow and wept bitterly.

It never occurred to her, poor little pilgrim, that he
might be grieving just as deeply over her absence and the
mystery of her whereabouts as was she for him, or she
would have flown to him in spite of all mothers-in-law,
and made him glad.

The tempest of her grief swept over her like a summer
storm, and was gone.  At her age she could not grieve long
over what had been hers so briefly that it had scarcely
become tangible.  But as it had been the dearest happening
of her life, and the only bright thing in her girlhood, it
took the form of a mount of vision from which ever after
she was to draw her inspiration for the doing of the
monotonous tasks of life.

She arose and washed away the marks of the tears, and
dressed herself carefully in her green silk for church,
arranging her hair demurely on the top of her head, with
the curls as little in evidence as possible.  She wished to
look old and dignified, as befitted a person travelling by
herself, and looking for a chance to teach school.

The village was a pretty one, and as she walked down
the street to the church her heart went out to it.  As she
sat in the tall pew where the beadle placed her, she glanced
shyly around at the people who came in, and wished she
might stop here and get something to do.  Yet her heart
shrank from any attempt to speak to them or beg their help.

A lady came in leading a little girl by the hand, a
sweet-faced child with a chubby face, and ringlets in
clusters on either cheek, held there by her fine white,
dunstable straw bonnet, with its moss-rosebuds and face-ruche
of soft lace.  After they were seated, across the aisle,
the little girl leaned over her mother and stared at Dawn,
then smiled shyly, and the young wanderer felt that she
had one friend in this strange place.

A sudden loneliness gripped her heart, and she wished
she were a little girl again, sitting by her mother's side.
How many, many times she had wished that the last few
months!  The thought made her heart ache, it was so old
a hurt.  She felt the smart of tears that wanted to swim
out and blind her vision, but she straightened up and tried
to look dignified, remembering that she was a woman
now—a married woman.  She wondered, would it be
wrong to pretend, as she used to do at school sometimes?
She wanted to pretend that Charles sat by her side, they
two going to their first church service together.  She
decided there would be no harm in that, and moved a
little nearer the corner to make room for her dear
companion.  It gave her a happy sense of not being alone,
and she glanced up now and then as if he were there and
she were watching him proudly.  It was not hard to
imagine him.  She was good at such things.  It thrilled
her to think how his arm would be close to hers, his sleeve
touching her hand, perhaps, as he held the hymn-book
for her to sing with him.  And to think that if only her
marriage had been like others, she would in all probability
have been singing beside him in his home church at this
very minute!  The thought of it almost brought the tears.

There were no hymn-books in the little village church,
but the minister lined the hymn out, and Dawn stood up
to sing with the rest, her clear voice lifting the tune till
people near her turned to look at the sweet face.  She
tried to think that Charles was singing by her side, but
when they came to the stanza:

   |  When we asunder part, it gives us inward pain,
   |  But we shall still be joined in heart, and hope to meet again.

it was almost too much for her, and she had to wink hard
to keep back the tears, for it came over her that she could
not hope to meet Charles again, but must go on with the
being asunder always.

The minister had gray hair and a kindly face.  He
preached about comfort, and Dawn felt as if it were meant
for her.  As she listened, an idea came to her.  She would
go to the minister and ask him to help her find a school.
Ministers knew about such things.

She went to the afternoon service also, and after it was
over two or three women shook hands with her, looked
curiously, admiringly at her rich silk gown, and asked her
if she were a stranger.

She smiled and nodded shyly.  Then the minister came
and shook hands with her, and brought his tired-looking
wife to speak to her.  She watched them go across the
churchyard together, and up the steps of the old parsonage.
The minister seemed tired, too, but there was sympathy
between the two that seemed to rest them both when they
looked at each other and smiled.  It touched the girl-wife.
Here were two who had walked together, yet who seemed to
be agreed, and to be happy in each other's company.  She
felt instinctively, from the minister's face, that he would
not have sent his wife away from his home, no matter
what she had done.  He would not have thought she had
done anything wrong in the first place.  It came to Dawn
that perhaps it had been her father's quick temper and
hasty judgment that had made all the trouble for her
mother.  She remembered lately an unutterably sad
expression about his eyes.  Perhaps he was feeling sorry about
it, and ashamed.  It made the girl have a tenderer feeling
for the father she had never really loved.  She pitied him
that he must live with her step-mother.  She had not as
yet connected Mrs. Van Rensselaer with her own present
predicament.  Her main sensations were dislike for her
father's second wife, and thankfulness that she was out
of her jurisdiction.  It remained for deeper reflection to
tell Dawn just how much her step-mother was to blame for
her having been married to one man, supposing all the
time that he was another.

The next morning quite early, Dawn attired herself in
her little gray frock and tied her bonnet neatly, then,
leaving her bundle in her room, ready to move in case her
mission failed, she presented herself at the parsonage and
asked to see the minister.

She was shown into the study, where the good man
sat in a big hair-cloth chair by the open window, reading.

He received her kindly and gave her a chair.

"I've come to gee whether you can help me to find
something to do," she began shyly.  "My mother is dead,
and I must earn my own living.  I have relatives to
whom I should be a burden, and I have come away so
that they will not be troubled with me."

She had thought out during the night watches just what
to say.

The minister looked at her keenly and kindly through
his spectacles.  Long experience had made him a good
judge of character.  He saw nothing but guileless innocence
in the sweet young face.

"What is your name?" he asked, by way of preliminary.

Dawn's face flushed slightly, but she had anticipated
this question.

"I should like to be called Mary Montgomery," she
said shyly.  "It is not my real name, but my relatives
might be mortified if they should hear of my being at
work.  They are very proud, and would not like to have
their name mixed up with one who works.  Besides, if
they should hear of my being here this way, they would
think that they must come after me and take care of me,
and I don't wish them to.  I want to be independent."

She gave the minister a most engaging smile, which put
a well rounded period to her plea.

"How do I know that you have not run away?" he
asked her, half smiling himself.

"Oh, I have run away," answered Dawn frankly.  "I
knew they would try to keep me if I told them, but I left
word I had gone, and they will not worry.  They do not
love me.  They wanted me to stay only because they felt
it a duty to care for me, and they will be greatly relieved
to be rid of me without any trouble.  That is why I came.
You see, they told me as much, and it was very
uncomfortable.  You would not want to stay where you knew
you were in the way, would you?"

Dawn looked into the old minister's eyes with her own
wide, lovely ones, and won his heart.  She reminded him
of his little girl who had died.

"I suppose not," he said in a half amused tone.  "But
don't you think it would be better for you to confide in
me?  Just tell me your real name, and where you come
from, and all about it, and then I can help you better.  I
shall be able to recommend you, you know."

"Thank you, no," said Dawn decidedly, getting up as
if that ended the matter.  "If I told you that, and then
you were asked if I were here, you would have to say yes.
Then, too, if you knew, you might think it was your duty
to let my friends know where I am.  Now you have no
responsibility about it at all, don't you see?  But I don't
want to make you any trouble.  If you don't know of some
work I might do here, I will go elsewhere.  I can surely
find something to do without telling my real name.  I
know I am doing right.  You were so kind when you spoke
to me yesterday, that I thought I would come and ask
though I had intended going on this morning."

"Wait," said the minister.  "Sit down.  What do you
want to do?  What kind of work are you fitted for?"

"I have been educated at a good school," said Dawn,
sitting down and putting on a quaint little business-like
air which made the minister smile.

"Did you ever teach school?"  There was much hesitation
in the minister's voice.  He was not altogether sure
he was doing right to suggest the idea, she was such a child
in looks.

"No, but I could," replied Dawn confidently.  "And,
oh, I should like it!  It is just what I want.  I love to show
people how to do things, and make them learn correctly.
I used to help the girls at school."  There was great
eagerness in her face.  The minister thought how lovely
she was, and again that fleeting likeness to his dead child
gripped his heart.

"You are very young," he mused, watching the changing
expression on her face, and thinking that his child
would have been about this girl's age.

"I am almost seventeen," said Dawn, drawing herself
up gravely.

"Our village schoolmaster left very suddenly last week,
to go to his invalid mother's bedside, and it may be some
months before his return.  Indeed, it is possible that he
will not come back at all.  He intimated as much before
he left.  We have not had opportunity as yet to find another
teacher, and the school has been dismissed for a few days
until we can look about for a substitute."

"Oh, will you let me try?"  Dawn sat on the edge of
her chair, her hands clasped, her lovely eyes pleading
eagerly.

"But some of the scholars are larger than you are."

"That will not matter," responded Dawn, undaunted.
"I could always make the girls at school do what I wanted."

"There are some big boys who might make you a
good deal of trouble," went on the minister.  "Our school
has the name of being a hard one to discipline.  We have
always had a man at its head."

"I am not afraid," said Dawn, fire in her eyes.  "I
should like to try, if you will let me.  You cannot tell
whether I can do it unless you let me try."

"That is true," agreed the minister gravely.  "I suppose
there would be no harm in your trying.  I could talk
with the trustees about it, though the matter has been
practically left to me."

"Oh, then, please, *please*, try me!  I am sure I can do
it," Dawn pleaded, and the look of his dead child's eyes
in her face conquered the minister's scruples.

"Very well, I will try you," he said, after a thoughtful
pause.  "I will see the trustees and have the notices put
up at once.  School will open to-morrow morning.  But I
warn you it will be no easy task.  I feel that it will be an
extremely doubtful experiment."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Dawn, her eyes bright with
anticipation.  "I am not afraid, and I shall do my best.
I am sure I can teach a school."

"Poor child!" thought the minister.  "Am I doing
right to send her into such a trial?"

Aloud, he only said:

"You will receive sixteen dollars a month, and will
board around, Miss Montgomery."

Dawn looked up at the new name she had chosen, and
saw a twinkle in his eye.  She smiled in recognition of his
acceptance of it.

"Where are you stopping?" he asked.

"I am at the Golden Swan," she answered.  "I can
stay there a little while yet.  I have a little money, though
it will not last many weeks."

She wrinkled her sweet face into dimples and smiled at
him, as if having no money were a matter of little consequence.

He admired her courage, and, bending upon her a
look of benediction, said kindly:

"We will arrange the matter of boarding as soon as
possible.  I will see Mrs. Gillette, the wife of the
proprietor of the Golden Swan.  They have a daughter in
school, and possibly their two boys will attend also, though
sometimes at this time of year they are both out working
on the farm.  But the Gillettes always take the teacher
for their share of the term."

Dawn went smiling down the parsonage path.  It
seemed to her the larkspurs had grown bluer and the
verbenas pinker since she came up a few minutes before,
and her feet fairly danced down the street, she was so
happy over her good fortune.  It was like a beautiful
story, the way it was turning out.  She had no apprehensions
about her ability to handle the village school, for
she had had no experience of what bad boys could be; so
there was nothing to cloud her bright day, save now and
then a brief pang of longing for Charles.  For the most
part, her mind was too much filled with anticipation of
the morrow to have room for thoughts of the past.  She
went to the Golden Swan, and told Mrs. Gillette that
she was to remain there for a few days at least, then she
found the village store and made a few simple purchases,
among them needles, thread, and a thimble.  Then she
chose material for an apron, and hurried home to make it.
The school-teachers she had known had always worn aprons.
They were a badge of office.  But the apron she made
was not like Friend Ruth's.  It was small and coquettish,
and edged with a tiny ruffle.

Dawn knew how to sew beautifully, for that had been
one of the accomplishments Friend Ruth required of all
her pupils.  With a pair of borrowed scissors, the young
girl fashioned the garment, and cut the tiny ruffles, rolling
the hems as she had been taught to do, and scratching the
gathers scientifically.  By night she had a dainty little
apron ready to wear to school.  It was a frivolous bit of
a thing, but it filled her with delight, for it was such an
apron as she had always desired, but had not been allowed
to have while in school.  Simplicity held sway where
Friend Ruth ruled.

At the supper table it was whispered around that a
new school-teacher had come to town.  There were notices
up at the corners and all the cross-roads.  School was to
"take up" on the morrow.  Some of the people at the
table looked suspiciously at the pretty young stranger
sitting demurely by herself at the end of the table, and
wondered if she were the new teacher, but others said no,
she was entirely too young.

After supper Dawn went to the big book wherein were
registered the names of the guests, and wrote down "Mary
Montgomery" in a clear, round hand.  Mr. Gillette
watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye.  As
he saw her about to turn away, he said gruffly:

"Put down the place.  We like to know where our
folks belongs."

"Oh!" said Dawn, a pink flush stealing into her cheek.
What should she put?  Then, quick as a flash, she thought,
"I have adopted a name—why should I not adopt a home,
too?  I am on my way to New York.  If I do not remain
here, I shall go there—if I can get there.  I will choose
New York for my home.  It is a large place, and no one
will expect me to know every one there.  Besides, it will
also stand for New York State."

So, without another word, she wrote "New York"
beside her name.  She might as well have written
"Heaven," for it stood to her as a kind of final destination,
far away and pleasant, the only place now that she
could look to for a real home.

"You ain't the new schoolmarm, be you?" inquired
the worthy proprietor of the Golden Swan cautiously.

"Why, yes," said Dawn, happily conscious, and laughing
merrily to think of the word "schoolmarm" as applied
to her who but yesterday was a scholar.

"Now, you don't say!" said the proprietor, settling
back in his chair and putting his feet on the office table
in front of him, while he shoved up his spectacles to get
a better view of her.  "Some said as how you was, but I
couldn't think it.  You look so young."

"Oh, I'm quite old," said Dawn anxiously.  "I'm far
older than I look."  And she hurried away, lest she should
be questioned further.

It was soon noised abroad that the new teacher was
stopping at the Golden Swan, and many a villager dropped
in to have a look at her.  But she was nowhere in evidence.
Up in the little whitewashed chamber, with her candle
lighted and the shades drawn, she was standing before
her tiny looking-glass, arrayed in her new, beruffled apron,
and trying to look grave and dignified, and as much like
Friend Ruth as possible.

If Charles could have seen her all absorbed, his heart
would have been sadly cast down to see how little she
seemed to miss him.  But later, when she had put out
her candle and crept into her bed, she sobbed a long time
into her pillow with loneliness and excitement.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XIX

.. vspace:: 2

There was much curiosity in the village concerning
the new teacher, who was reported to have come from New
York, and to be exceedingly young.  Some thought the
minister had made a great mistake to hire a woman, for
the school was a hard one to manage, and even a master
found it difficult to control the big boys.  There was so
much talk about it that the scholars themselves were quite
excited.  Even the big boys, who usually preferred to get
out of the summer session although it meant hard work
in the hayfields, decided to go to school and see for
themselves.

Quite early the scholars might have been seen wending
their way toward the old red school-house.  They huddled
in groups about the steps or under the great elm tree which
grew in front and spread its branches far on every side,
making a lovely leafy bower for the playground.  Peggy
Gillette was among the first to arrive.  From her point
of vantage at the Golden Swan, she was in a position to
give accurate information concerning the new teacher,
so she knew that she would be most popular this morning.
She had, therefore, packed her little dinner-pail hastily
and departed soon after breakfast, after making sure that
Dawn had gone up to her room to make ready for school.

"She's awful pretty," Peggy told the first knot of
eager listeners, "and she's got a lot of real curls on top
what ain't tied on.  I know, fer I peeked through the
crack of the door when she was fixin' her hair last night,
and it was down and reached ever so far below her waist.
An' she's got dimples when she laughs, and twinkles in
her eyes like the stars make, an' she ain't much bigger'n
I am.  She looks just like a little girl."

"H'm!  We'll soon do her up!" remarked Daniel
Butterworth, the tallest and strongest boy in the school.

Daniel had a shock of yellow hair that was roughly
curly, big blue eyes with curly yellow lashes, and an
irresponsible wide mouth, always on a defiant grin.  Peggy
looked up at him in terror.

"Now, Dan Butterworth," she began, "ef you boys
go to playin' pranks on her, it'll be just pusly mean.
She's jest a girl, an' she's so pretty an' don't look like
she was used to rough boys like you."

"We don't want no sissy-baby to teach us," declared
'Liakim Morse, a bold, black-eyed boy, who always followed
Daniel's lead in everything and then went a step further.
"We want a *man* to teach us.  The selectmen'll soon find
out they can't put no baby teachers off on us, fer we won't
stand it."

Peggy made a face at them and turned her back, but
Daniel only grinned.  He had his plan, and he knew it
would be carried out.  He did not need to say much to
his followers.  The program was well understood by them.

One of the selectmen, who lived near the school-house,
came over with the key, and stayed about the place,
opening the windows and setting the teacher's desk in order.

The scholars were all seated demurely with books before
them when the minister came walking in with Dawn,
shy and smiling, by his side.  Not one of them seemed
to be looking her over curiously, for it was done from the
side of their eyes; but a kind of groan went softly over
the back rows, where the bigger boys sat, as much as to
say, "This job is too easy.  It's scarcely worth our
attention.  Why didn't you send us some one worthy of our
valor?"

Dawn looked them over, bright-eyed, her heart beating
a trifle fast, but her face on the whole quite confident
and happy.  They noted the confidence in the tilt of her
chin, and it gave them intense pleasure to think how
soon they could dispel it.  They failed, however, to note,
the firmness of that chin, or the determination in the
line of the softly curving red lips.  They looked at their
victim warily, and rejoiced in her youth and beauty.  They
had vanquished many before, but never one so lovely, so
child-like, or so confident.  It was an insult to their
manhood that the selectmen should have thought she could
teach them.

The minister introduced Miss Montgomery to the
selectman, who shook hands with her, wished her well,
and departed.  Then the good old man made a few gentle
remarks to the effect that they should reflect on the
goodness of the new teacher, to whom he referred as "our
young friend," in coming to teach them and guide them
into the devious ways of knowledge, and that they should
refrain from all annoying conduct during her stay, and
behave as model scholars should.

The minister had spent much thought upon this speech,
and felt that he had worded it in such a way as to appeal
to the sympathy of all the children.  In all his mild and
reasonable life, he had never been able to comprehend the
sinful workings of the unregenerate heart of a boy.  He
could conceive of no reason why a boy or a girl would
be mischievous in school, if the matter were presented
rightly to their minds.  He felt that he had put it before
them as it should be made to appear, and, looking into the
demure faces, he hoped that he had accomplished his end,
and that the sweet young stranger would have opportunity
to prove that she was capable of teaching that school.
Though exceedingly doubtful of the experiment, he wanted
her to have a fair chance.

After giving one long, lingering look toward the back
row of scholars whose studious appearance was almost
portentous in its gravity, the old clergyman sighed with
relief and turned with a smile of farewell toward the new
teacher.

"Miss Montgomery, I will leave you with your school,"
he said.  "I'm sure that they all appreciate how hard is
the first day in a new school, and that they will do their
best to make it easy for you."

He bowed and went out.  His last glance had shown
him a vision of serious faces bent upon open books; yet
he felt a strange and apparently most uncalled for foreboding.

Dawn surveyed the whole quiet room with a smile, then
she untied her bonnet, took off her cape, and carried them
to the hook in the corner, obviously used for that purpose
by other teachers.

How did the boys on the back seat time the minister
exactly, so as to know just the instant he reached the
corner beyond the blacksmith's and was out of hearing?

Dawn had turned from a room full of model scholars,
to hang up her mantle and bonnet.  Turning back, she
beheld pandemonium let loose.  Something struck her on
the cheek, something else stung her forehead.  The whole
room seemed white with hard little flying objects.  Some
of them were of paper, wet and soft, some were bits of
chalk.  It was like a summer snow-storm, and there
seemed to be no end to it.

The bewildered young teacher surveyed the scene for
an instant, surprise growing into indignation at the
outrage.  She was young enough to like fun as well as any
one, and for an instant she felt like laughing at the sight,
then she realized that it was intended as an insult, and
as an open rebellion against her authority.  It hurt her
sharply that they thus arrayed themselves against her at
the outset, without giving her a chance to show them what
she was.  Well, if they would be enemies, she would show
them she could fight.  The crucial test of which she had
been warned was upon her.  She must make good now
if she would hope to at all.  This critical moment would
tell whether she could ever teach that school or any other.
In her imagination she saw the regretful look in the kindly
minister's eyes, and the line of his mouth which would
say, "I told you so," and she did not mean he should be
disappointed.  Or, rather, she meant that he should be
happily disappointed.

In an instant she was on the alert again, her senses
collected.  As ever in a crisis, she was cool and able to
move deliberately.

It took but a second for her to find out who was the
leader of the unruly scholars.  The tall form of Daniel
Butterworth towered above the rest in the back line, and
the grin on his impudent face showed he was enjoying the
affair immensely.  Without an effort, he was evidently
directing the whole thing.

A great indignation came into Dawn's eyes, and the
soft lips set in determination.  Like a flash she dashed
across the room, dodging the missiles that pelted through
the air from every side.

Straight at Daniel Butterworth she came, the bully
and the leader.  He was the tallest and strongest boy in
the school, and no teacher had ever dared make a direct
attack upon him.  Usually, the teachers punished the
smaller boys for the sins that were really Daniel's.  Dawn,
with her quick perception, located the cause of the trouble,
and impulsively went straight to the mark with her
discipline.

The scholars paused in their entertainment to see what
would happen next, and little Peggy Gillette began to cry:
"Oh, Teacher, Teacher, don't ye! don't ye!  He won't
stand it, he won't."

But Peggy's voice was drowned in the general hubbub,
which subsided suddenly into ominous silence as Dawn
took hold of Daniel Butterworth's arm and jerked him
into the seat.

Daniel, of course, did not expect the attack, or he
would not have been so easily thrown off his balance; but
coming down on the seat so unexpectedly bewildered him,
and before he could understand what had happened blows
began to rain upon his head and face and ears.  Not that
they hurt him much, for Dawn had no ruler or switch or
any of the time-honored implements wherewith to exercise
discipline.  She used her hands, her small, soft, pink
palms, that were daintily shaped and delicately eared for,
and had never seen any hard labor, but yet were strong and
supple.

As he sat still and allowed the new teacher to administer
justice, Daniel resembled a kitten backing off, with
flattened ears and ruffled fur, and submitting to a severe
slapping for some misdemeanor.

Nothing so soft and wonderful as Dawn's hands had
ever touched the boy's face before.  He sat and took the
experience in a dazed delight, subsiding and shrinking at
every blow which yet gave him a delicious sense of pleasure
as if it were some kind of attention she was offering him.
Probably in no other way could she have ever won this
boy's admiration.

After the chastisement was over he sat still, blushing
and smiling sheepishly, as if he were glad of her victory,
while all the rest of the school stood gaping in
amazement.  Their hero had fallen!  He had been conquered by
a woman, a woman who was only a girl!  How could any
of them ever again hope to stand against a teacher, if the
heart of the strong Dan Butterworth melted like wax in
her hands?

Dawn whirled upon them all.

"You may sit down," she commanded grandly, and they sat.

"What is your name?" she asked, turning back to
Daniel.

"He'th Dan Butterwuth," volunteered an A-B-C from
the front of the room.

Dawn looked Daniel straight in the eye, with a long,
burning, scathing scorn.

"You great big baby!" she said at last, her cheeks
a beautiful red, her eyes bright with the excitement of the
encounter.  "Aren't you ashamed?"

The rich red stole up into the boy's face, mantling
cheek and brow, and seeming to bring a glow even into
the rough, tawny hair and yellow, curling lashes, as he
dropped his eyes in a kind of happy shame.  It was the
first shame, perhaps, that he had ever been made to feel,
and it was real shame, yet it was so mixed with wholesome
admiration of the small, beautiful creature who had
brought it upon him, that it left him unable to understand
himself.  So he grew redder, though there was no look of
anger about him, and soon his habitual smile was
growing again, although this time it was tinged with reverence
and quite lacked its usual impudence.

The scholars marvelled at him as the new teacher left
him with the brand of baby, sealed with her beautiful
scorn.

Dawn went back to her seat on the platform, behind
the big desk, and Daniel sat still, only lifting his curly
lashes to get another glimpse of the loveliness and daring
which had attacked and conquered him.  Bug Higginson,
a small, round imp, who adored Daniel, seemed to feel
that the erstwhile leader would expect something of his
followers, so he delivered himself of a fiendish grimace
toward the teacher, which set the girls near him to
giggling, and of which Dawn had the full benefit just as
she sat down.

"You may come here," commanded Dawn, pointing
straight at Bug with a ruler she found on the desk.
"Come here and sit on this stool."

She placed a stool near her own chair and waited for
him to obey.

Bug made another grimace, and responded pertly, "I won't!"

It was very quietly and swiftly done, and no one in
the school saw the beginning, because they were watching
Bug and the teacher; but somehow an instant after Bug
had declined to obey he was taken by the nape of his
neck and the seat of his trousers, and deposited on the
required stool, while Daniel Butterworth was making his
way back to his seat, with a look of unconcern upon his
face.  Bug was too astonished and too much afraid of
Daniel to make a sound or move a muscle.

Dawn looked at the long, lank boy as he sprawled back
into his seat and raised his curly eyelashes, to see how
she would take his action, and there flashed into her eyes
a kindling of surprise, gratitude, and understanding.  The
school sat in mild dismay.  The fun had vanished, and
before their halting eyes stretched a monotonous vista of
uninteresting school days.  For they saw plainly that
the leader had gone over to the enemy, and they must
surrender.

At intervals during the day some boy would attempt
to bring about another insurrection, but he would be
promptly silenced by Daniel, who every time received as
reward a look of gratitude from Dawn's expressive eyes;
and every time the beautiful glance gave him a new thrill
of pleasure.  He sat docile as a lamb and let her make
him study, a thing he had never done before in his whole
life.  Now and then he raised his eyes, dumb, submissive,
and met hers, and the shock of a great revolution
reverberated through his nature.  He did not know what it
meant; he did not know why he was enjoying the morning
so keenly; but he entered into the new state of things as
in a dream of bliss.

At recess time the boys who had always followed his
lead in everything began to jeer at him about the way he
had given in to a girl and let her whip him.  He did not
turn red nor look embarrassed.  He promptly settled the
boldest of them with a few blows from his loosely hung
arms, and the others considered it wise to desist.  It was
plain that the former bully of the school had fallen in
the new teacher's snare, and as it was well known to be
unsafe to arouse his fiery temper, the other boys had no
choice but to follow in his lead.

"If you fellers say a word about her"—he nodded
toward the school-house—"I'll lick every last one of yeh,
an' I mean it, too!" he threatened, and then he walked
away and sat down under the big elm to whittle.  He
always sat down to whittle after he had presented an
ultimatum to the other boys.

At her desk opposite the schoolroom door, Dawn heard
this deliverance, as he intended she should, and her eyes
grew bright.  She understood that Daniel Butterworth was
her champion, and felt her courage grow stronger at the
thought.  In a moment more she stood at the school-house
door, looking out.  Daniel looked up from his whittling
and met her gaze.  She was smiling, and he felt that she
no longer considered him a baby.  The diminutive had
rankled in his heart, and henceforth his purpose was to
prove to her that it was undeserved.  If good behavior
and hard study alone could do that, then he would behave
and study, though it was a new mode of procedure for him.

The most interesting fact of the morning was that
Daniel Butterworth had given in to the new
"school-marm," and all the school knew it.

"Teatcher, thshe licked Dan Butterwuth," announced
the precocious A-B-C scholar that evening, as she devoured
her supper of mush and milk.  "Thshe licked him real
hard—jetht thlapped hith fathe an' eyeth an' earth eth
hard eth ever thshe could."

Her father dropped his knife and fork on his plate
resoundingly.  He was the selectman who had unlocked
the school-house.  He felt in a measure responsible for
the new teacher.

"The teacher whipped Daniel Butterworth!" he exclaimed.
"Well, that settles her hash, I s'pose.  I didn't
much think she'd do, such a little whiffet tryin' to manage
great lunkin boys.  It ain't in conscience to expect it.  We
need a *man*.  I told Parson so, but he insisted we try her,
an' this is how it comes out.  Well, it's no more'n I
expected.  Of course Dan'l's father'll never stand that."

"What did Dan do?" inquired the A-B-C.'s mother
practically.  She knew how to get at the root of the matter.

"He jeth thet thtill an' took it."

"Dan'l Butterwuth set still an' took a whippin' off'n
a girl-teacher!" exclaimed the mother.  "Are you sure
you're tellin' the truth?"

"Yeth, an' then teatcher, thshe thaid he wath a *great
big baby*, an' he jeth thet thtill an' got red, an' then he
took Bug Higginthon an' thet him down hard where
teacher thaid, when he'd thaid, 'I won't' to her.  An'
then he filled the water-pail fer her, an' licked all the
other boyth."

"Well, I snum!" said the selectman gravely.  "Mebbe
she'll do, after all.  If Dan'l's took up fer her, there's a
chance."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XX

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn went back to the Golden Swan that evening
tired but triumphant.  She had had a most successful
session of school, and she knew it.  She felt the victor's
blood running wildly through her veins, and longed to have
the minister know how well she had succeeded.

The teaching part had not troubled her in the least.
Fresh from school-books, blest with a love of study and a
gift for imparting knowledge, she entered into the work
with a zest.  The problem of discipline, which had bade
fair in the morning to shipwreck her hopes, had resolved
itself into a very simple matter since she had conquered
the school leader.  It puzzled her a little to know just
how she had done it, and why he had succumbed so easily,
yet she felt a pleasant elation in recognizing the power
she had over him.  As she lay in her little room, after
the candle was out that night, she pondered it, and resolved
to try to help Daniel to be a fine fellow.  Perhaps some
day he would grow to be something like Charles.  He
never could be as fine and noble, of course, for he was a
rough boy, uncultured and ignorant; but he had nice
eyes, and he might develop good qualities if he were helped.
Dawn would have been horrified if she could have known
that instead of loafing with the men at the grocery, where
he usually spent his evenings, Daniel was at that moment
standing in the dark of the kitchen porch of his home,
behind the cool morning-glory vines, looking out at the
stars and thinking with wonder of the delight it had been
to have her soft hands strike his face, and her dainty
personality flash down upon him, even in her beautiful
wrath.

Daniel Butterworth was only a boy yet, but new
thoughts were stirring in his heart, and an absorbing
admiration for her had entered into his soul to stay.
Hitherto he had been a big, good-natured, rollicking
animal.  His mind had been upon either fun or practical
matters, never upon books.  He had not been taught to
think.  His surroundings had been rough, easy-going, and
practical.  Nothing beautiful had ever touched him before,
yet his soul had responded quickly now that it had come,
and in one brief day Daniel seemed to have grown beyond
his seventeen years and to have come suddenly face to
face with manhood.

And the cause of his sudden awakening had been the
new teacher's hands, so small and soft, and yet so strong.
As he thought about them, they seemed to have been made
of finer stuff than most women's hands; to have been
tinted like the inner leaf of a half-blown rose, and to
have borne a subtle perfume upon his senses.  How he
could have seen their color when the "rose-leaves" were
smiting stinging blows upon his closed eyes, he did not
stop to reason.  He leaned his face against a great
morning-glory leaf in the darkness, and its coolness against his
fevered cheeks reminded him of her hands, and thrilled
him in a way he did not understand.  He looked up at the
stars, between the strings on which the morning-glories
twined, and wondered at himself, and thrilled again with
a solemn joy.  But all he knew was that he liked the new
teacher, and meant to study hard, if that would please
her, and that he would lick any boy that dared molest
her or disturb her gentle rule.  So much the little hands
had accomplished in their first quick, decisive battle.

Then Daniel kicked off his boots noisily and tiptoed up
the creaking stairs to his attic chamber, to make his
mother think he had been at the village store, as usual.
Not for the world would he have her know he had spent
the evening among the kitchen morning-glories, thinking
about a girl!  And she a schoolmarm at that!  He blushed
deeply in the darkness at the thought.

After that first day of getting acquainted with her
scholars, and finding out who were in the various classes,
Dawn fashioned her school on the model of Friend Ruth's
as nearly as was consistent with existing circumstances.
The rules she laid down were stricter than the village
school had ever known before, and went more into detail.
A code of ethics was gradually formed among the scholars,
who followed the lead of Daniel Butterworth and
succumbed to the leadership of the new teacher.  Her beauty
and her youth combined to make both boys and girls fall
victims to her charm.  They fairly worshipped at her
shrine, and went long pilgrimages after berries or rare
flowers and ferns, that they might be rewarded with the
flash of gratitude in her lovely eyes.  They suffered
torments in refraining from their usual mischief, that they
might escape the flash of steel from those same eyes, for
once that was felt, they had no desire to re-experience it.
It became the fashion to treat her as a sort of queen, and
Dawn was very gracious to her subjects, though always
masterful.  She smiled upon their offerings impartially,
even upon Bug Higginson's small sister's donation of
moistly withered dandelions.  Yet when she discovered
some deviation from the laws she had laid down, she was
severity itself, almost flying into a passion with them,
outraged goodness in her eyes, and impulsive intensity in
her every motion.  At such times she seemed to have a
special gift of speech, coming directly to the point and
saying the things that would most cut the culprit.

Once behind a stump fence in the woods she came
upon a row of her boys placidly smoking corn-cob pipes,
in imitation of the village loafers—or of their respected
fathers, each of whom had threatened dire things to his
offspring if he was ever caught at the practice.  Her
horror and disgust quickly blazed into words, until every
boy wished that a hole would open in the ground wide
enough to swallow him for a little while.

Dawn had no convictions or principles about the
matter.  She was moved by an innate dislike of the
practice, intensified by the fact that Harrington Winthrop
had once smoked in her company while walking with her
in the woods, and had never even asked permission.  The
smell of tobacco smoke ever after gave her a sickening
sense of dislike.

The boys threw their pipes away, and Daniel Butterworth,
rising from the root of the tree on which he had
been seated, commanded:

"Fellers, if she don't like it, we quit!  D'ye understand?
We quit entirely.  I'll thrash any boy that breaks
the rule."

The pipes were thrown away, and seven boys with very
red cheeks and downcast eyes entered school a trifle late
that noon and sheepishly slunk to their desks.

The next morning Daniel Butterworth was found tacking
up on the blackboard a clipping from a newspaper, in
which was set forth how a certain Eliphalet Howe, a guest
at the Tremont House in Boston, had been arrested for
breaking the law which declared that there should be no
smoking on the streets.  The said Eliphalet had been
found guilty and fined twenty-five dollars for the offense,
though he had pleaded in defense that the sidewalk where
he stood to smoke was in front of the Tremont House, and
that therefore, as he was on the premises of the house
where he was stopping, he was not breaking the law.

At recess the scholars filed solemnly around and read
the item, and looked with awe at Daniel, who read the
papers and knew so much about affairs.  Dawn smiled to
herself to see how Daniel was helping her.

But Dawn knew nothing of the thrashings her champion
gave to the smokers whose habits were not easily
broken up, nor how they were forced to find other quarters
for their secret meetings, or scatter by themselves in
hiding to pursue the practice.  Public opinion had turned,
and it was no longer popular to do anything the teacher
disliked.  Daniel was even known to send two boys home
one day as they entered the school yard, because they
smelled of smoke and he had told them the teacher did
not like it.

It was not to be supposed that in so large a school
everything would always be pleasant and easy, nor that
the scholars would always be angels.  They had their
noisy days, and their mischievous days, and their stupid
days, and now and then Dawn felt disheartened and
discouraged.  But matters were made far easier for her
than she perhaps fully realized, because of Daniel
Butterworth and his devotion to her.

Dawn was grateful to the boy, and in return for his
championship she let him carry her books home, walking
a little way behind with some of his devoted boy followers,
while she was escorted by an eager group of little girls.

At first there was a sort of jealousy of her among the
older girls, who were inclined to toss their heads, and
whisper among themselves that she was no older than
they, so why should she put on so many airs?  They
suspected her of taking the attention of the boys away from
them; but as the days went by, and Dawn entered into
her work with enthusiasm, planning debates and plays
and readings for them, and making even the dullest lessons
glow with interest because she really seemed to like them
herself, opposition melted away and they succumbed to
her charm.

For one so young and inexperienced, it was wonderful
what she could do with those girls and boys.  The parents
began to talk about it, the minister saw it with
gratification, and pleased himself by thinking his child might
have been like that if she had lived.  Presently the whole
town was proud to own her as a kind of public institution,
like the doctor and the minister.

There were a few old ladies who shook their heads
and wondered how it was that she had come so far, from
that wicked city of New York, to teach their school,
without there being a single relative in the vicinity.  The
village seamstress, with half a dozen pins in one corner
of her mouth, would talk about it wherever she went to
work, and say, "What I'd like to know is, who knows
anything about her?  What is she?  Why doesn't she tell
about herself?"

But in spite of all, Dawn walked calmly back and forth
to her school, and managed the scholars with a degree of
dignity and skill that would have done credit to a far
older teacher.  The whole town gradually began to love
her.  It was a nine days' wonder that Daniel Butterworth
had been so changed by her influence.  His mother never
could get done thanking the new teacher, sometimes with
tears running down her cheeks.  Often she would send to
her by Daniel a paper of fresh doughnuts or a soft
ginger-bread, or even a juicy apple-pie, as a token of her
thankfulness.

Dawn was "boarding round," and the days she spent
at the Butterworths' comfortable, weather-beaten old
farmhouse were one continual jubilee for the family, and a
season of triumph for the teacher.  The best dishes and
the finest table-cloth were got out, and a fire was built in
the solemn front room.  There, after the supper, which
was composed of all the nicest things Mrs. Butterworth
knew how to concoct, the family would gather around
the teacher to listen while she talked or read to them.

And Dawn, because she wanted to help Daniel, and
also because she thoroughly enjoyed the admiration and
attention she was receiving, entered into it all, and hunted
out stories to read to them, and finally gave them a taste
of Shakespeare, which she read with remarkable understanding
and dramatic power, considering that she had
never had any interpreter but herself.

A new world was opened to the house of Butterworth.
Even the old farmer sat open-mouthed and listened,
watching the wonderful change of expression on the beautiful
girlish face.

There were flowers in a tumbler on the dinner-table,
stiffly arranged by Daniel's oldest sister, Rachel.  Daniel
wet and combed his tawny hair before he came to meals.
It was unusual, and the smaller children noticed and
followed suit.

It was one day when Dawn sat at the table, talking
and laughing and making them all forget the common-placeness
of life, with her cheeks as red as the late pink
aster tucked in among her curls, that Daniel's mother
noticed with a heart of satisfaction the look on her boy's
face.  That Daniel should take to a girl like that was all
and more than her mother heart could wish.  And why
not?  Were not the Butterworths well off?  Was not their
farm the largest and most flourishing in the whole
country?  True, they had not painted their house in a long
time, and didn't go in much for fancy dressing, but that
was easily changed; and the barns had always been kept
in fine repair, which was a good test of prosperity.
Thus Mrs. Butterworth meditated in the watches of the
night, but she never mentioned the matter, even to the
boy's father, for John was "turrible easy upset of an
idea, an' it was just as well to let things take their own
way, 'long's it was sech a good way for once."

But Dawn had no idea that any such notion had
entered the good woman's head, and enjoyed her stay at
the Butterworths' heartily, going on to the next place
with regret.

There were places where boarding round was not
altogether agreeable; where the rooms were small and
cold and had to be shared with younger members of the
family; where the blankets were thin, or the feather-beds
odorous; where the morning's ham sizzling in the spider
on the kitchen stove below came up through wide cracks
in unappetizing smoke; where the master of the house
was gruff, and her welcome was grudgingly given.  Many
a night she cried herself to sleep in these places, and
wondered why she had been born to suffer so, and to be
so lonely.

The thought of Charles, and of the day of her wedding,
was growing to be like a dim and misty dream.  She still
hugged it to her heart, as a most precious treasure, but
day by day it was becoming more unreal to her.

However, take it all in all, Dawn was perhaps happier
than she had been since she was a tiny child with her
mother.  She was interested in her work, enjoyed the
companionship of many of the children, and was pleased
to feel that she was independent and self-supporting.  Of
her own private fortune she never thought.  She had
been told that there was money left to her by her mother's
father, but it made little impression, and she had never
cared to ask how much.  It was just a part of the world
she had left behind her when she ran away in her attempt
to undo mischief she had never meant to do.  She kept
herself much more strictly than Friend Ruth had ever
succeeded in doing, feeling as she did her responsibility,
now that she was a real teacher.  But she allowed herself
many a playtime as the winter drew on and the snow-falls
made coasting and skating possible.  There was a hill
behind the school-house where at noon she coasted with
her scholars, shouting and laughing with the rest.  Each
boy strove to have the honor of her company upon his
sled, but she distributed her favors impartially.

It was only when she went home with "Bug" Higginson,
to spend her week, and discovered to her dismay where
he got his nickname, that her heart failed her entirely,
and she felt she had met with something she could not
bear.  However, that experience did not last forever and
Dawn went cheerily on her way, brightening the whole
town with her presence, which, now that she was set free
from the confines and oppression that had always been
about her, seemed to grow and glow with a beautiful
inner life.

The school-children were not the only ones who
admired the new teacher, and sought her society.  There
was not a young man in town who did not gaze after her
as she went down the street, and wish himself a scholar
again in the old red school-house.

About Christmas time, a new annoyance loomed up
and threatened to spoil Dawn's bright prospects.
Suddenly, without warning, the youngest of the selectmen,
Silas Dobson, took a violent interest in the school.  He
would drop in at all hours, and stay the session out, taking
occasion to walk home with the teacher, if possible.

Daniel, who had never presumed to walk beside her
alone, frowned heavily and grew almost morose as the
thing was repeated.

Dawn was very polite and a little frightened at first.
It spoiled the cosy feeling of her school to have visitors.
The presence of this particular selectman stirred up the
latent mischief in the scholars.  As his visits were repeated,
the teacher was filled with a growing consternation.

Silas was a long, thin man about thirty years old, a
widower with five children, and an angular mother, who
kept them in order.  He was the editor of the village paper,
and as a literary man he claimed that he felt a deep
responsibility toward the school.  Daniel heard him say
this one day, and told the boys he'd knock Silas's
responsibility into a cocked hat if he bothered the teacher much
more.

Daniel's opportunity arrived one night when there was
a quilting bee out the old turnpike road, and everybody
was invited to the supper.  The quilting began in the
afternoon, and Dawn closed school early, so that she and
the older girls might attend.  The young men were coming
to supper, and they were all to ride home in the moonlight.

With her thimble in her pocket and her eyes shining,
Dawn hurried off from the school-house in company with
the older girls who could sew.  They looked back once
to wave their hands toward the group of boys who lingered
wistfully behind, keeping watch of them.  The older
boys were to come to the quilting bee later, but they
felt—some of them—that the afternoon was a long blank in
spite of good skating and the half-holiday.  Somehow,
the coming of the new teacher had made them more
anxious to have the girls along and to have a good time
all together.  But they consoled themselves with the
anticipation of the evening.  The teacher had promised to
ride home with them, and they were planning a big
sleigh-load, all huddled happily on the straw, with songs and
shoutings and a good time generally.  Dawn was looking
forward to the ride as much as any of them.

But Silas Dobson had other plans.  He brought his
own horse and cutter, and, having arranged that his mother
should return home with a neighbor, he himself planned
to monopolize the teacher.  To this end, soon after supper
he edged over to where she sat among the girls, and
conferred the honor of his company upon her for the ride
home; at least, that was the impression he gave as he
told her that he wished her to go home with him.

"Oh, thank you," said Dawn politely, "but I've already
promised to go with my pupils.  Daniel Butterworth is to
bring a big sleigh, and we are all going home together."

Silas's face darkened and his back stiffened.

"That will be quite uncomfortable for you," he said
decidedly, as if it were not to be thought of.  Dawn
wondered why it was that people were always taking her
affairs out of her hands so confidently, without asking her
leave.  But she was no longer the child she had been at
home or school.  She was feeling the strength of
independence.  She sat up with dignity.

"Oh, I shall enjoy it," she answered, sparkling at
the thought.

"My cutter is here, and you'd better go with me,"
said Silas.  "I'll speak to Dan about it and make it all
right, so he won't expect you."

"Oh, please don't do that!" cried Dawn anxiously.
(Why was it he reminded her so much of Harrington
Winthrop?)  "I promised Daniel and the children.  I
wouldn't disappoint them for anything.  Thank you just
the same."

Some one else came up then, and Silas turned away,
but Dawn watched him uneasily.  From the look on his
face, one would have thought she had accepted his
attention with delight.  He did not act like a man who had
received a rebuff.

Later, when Dan drove his horses with a flourish to
the old horse-block in front of the house, Silas was waiting
for him.

"You needn't wait for Miss Montgomery, Dan," said
the selectman in a patronizing tone.  "She's going with me."

"She's not any such a thing," growled Dan.  "She
promised us she'd go in our team."

"Yes, she was afraid you'd be disappointed, but I told
her I'd make it right with you," said Silas, in a soothing
tone.  "Hurry, now, and load up and drive out of the
way.  Don't you see the other folks are waiting?  You
wouldn't stand in the way of a lady's comfort, would you,
especially when she doesn't want to go with you?"

Dan glared at his adversary in speechless wrath for an
instant, while the girls and boys were climbing in, then
gave a cut to his horses with the whip and drove the long
sleigh with its merry load out into the white mist of the
moonlit road and round a curve to the fence, where he flung
the reins to another boy, telling him to wait and keep quiet.
Then he stole back around the house and stood in the
shadow of a great wood-pile, near enough to hear all that
went on, but not to be seen.

The guests merrily trooped forth in the path of
candle-light that shone from the open house door, and Dawn's
musical laugh rang over them all; but when she came out
to the horse-block and saw Silas standing alone beside his
cutter, she drew back and looked around in dismay.

"Why, where is Daniel?" she asked anxiously.  "They
told me he wanted me to come now."

"Daniel has gone," said Silas pleasantly.  "I explained
to him how much more comfortable it would be for you
in my sleigh, and, besides, he was crowded as it was.  He
hadn't room enough for you.  Just get right in, and I'll
show you what my mare can do in getting you over the snow."

"Daniel is gone!" Dawn echoed in a troubled voice.
"Oh, no, thank you"—drawing back timidly and looking
toward the door.  "I will see if Mrs. Butterworth is
inside yet.  I can go with her.  I will not trouble you."

But Silas was not to be thus set aside.

"Don't think of such a thing," he commanded.  "Just
get right in."  He reached out to grasp her arm and
detain her from her purpose, but just as he touched the
sleeve of her coat his arm was grasped from behind, and
a skilful thrust of Daniel Butterworth's long arm sent
him spinning backward into a big snowbank.

When Silas Dobson arose, disconcerted and spluttering,
from the snow-bank, Dawn had vanished, whisked
around the wood-pile in a jiffy by Daniel, lifted for an
instant in his strong arms, carried across a broad expanse
of unbroken snow, and tucked neatly into the sleigh among
the girls and boys.

The whole sleigh-load had divined Dan's purpose, and
they kept silent until she was safe among them, and Dan
in the front seat had gathered up his reins again.  Then
they gave a united shout which rang through the moonlit
air and struck sharply on the ears of the disconcerted
Silas as he climbed hastily into his lone sleigh and turned
his horse's head in the opposite direction.

The next time Silas Dobson came to visit the school
he stayed after hours and said he wished to talk with the
teacher.

With lowering brow, Daniel lingered in the back of the
room, phenomenally busy with his books.  Dawn cast a
frightened look around, and her eyes rested on him with
appeal.  His eyes seemed to give back comfortable
assurance of help as he sat down with a thump and began to
figure vigorously at a sum he had not finished in the
arithmetic class.  Silas eyed his youthful enemy, and
finally requested that he be sent home, as he wished to
have a little private conversation.

"Oh!" laughed Dawn, loud enough for Daniel to
hear.  "Daniel has to stay to-night to finish his sums.  It
would not do for me to let him go.  I might lose my school
if I did not act fairly, you know."

Daniel figured away vigorously, putting down any
numerals that entered his head.  There was a warm
feeling around his heart.  It was as exhilarating as scoring
a point in a ball-game.  He was apparently deaf to what
was going on about him, and frowned over his sum in
feigned perplexity.

"Sit down, Mr. Dobson," went on Dawn, summoning
all her dignity.  "We can talk with entire freedom here.
Daniel is busy and will not notice."  She spoke in a low,
distant tone, and seated herself at the desk.

"I'm one of the principal selectman," frowned Dobson,
as he sat down at her bidding.  "You needn't be afraid
to send him home."

"It isn't in the least necessary," said Dawn, thankful
to Daniel from the depths of her heart for his presence.

Silas Dobson lowered his voice and, drawing gradually
nearer to the teacher, launched into a flowery paragraph
which he had prepared and rehearsed before his mirror.
It contained phases about Miss Montgomery's starry eyes,
raven locks, pearly teeth, and rosy cheeks, and was
calculated to convey his admiration in a delicate editorial
manner.  Noting the drooping eyelashes, and deepened
color of the girl before him, he proceeded from this
preamble to make her understand that his interest in the
school had not been altogether for the school's sake, and
that he was offering her honorable attentions, which, if all
went well, would mean a proposal of marriage later.

If he could have seen the steel flash under the drooping
eyelashes, he would not have gone on to impress her
with the value of such an offer, nor told its advantages
in half so complacent a tone.

As usual, Dawn had control of herself in this unpleasant
crisis, and while his words filled her with dismay and
repulsion her tone was cool, low, deliberate:

"I have no doubt you mean to be kind, Mr. Dobson——"
she began.

"Not at all, not at all, it is my pleasure and my will,"
he interrupted effusively.

"But," she went on, ignoring his interruption, "I
have no desire for attention from any one, and will have
to ask you to excuse me from accepting it."

He looked at her in astonishment, and thought she
must be coquetting; but his most earnest solicitations failed
to get anything further from her than the fact that she
would rather not receive his attentions.

"Do you know," he asked angrily, "that I am a man
of importance in this town?  I have influence enough with
the selectmen to take this school away from you if I
choose.  Take care how you treat me!"

"I suppose there are schools in other places, then,"
answered Dawn coolly, looking him in the eye now, though
she felt every fibre of her being in a tremor.

"Are you aware, Miss Montgomery, that I am an
editor, and that a very slight word from my pen would go
abroad through the land and ruin your reputation so that
you could not get any school anywhere?"

"I cannot see why you should want to do such an
unkind thing as that, after what you have said about liking
me, but if you do, you need not stop on my account.  I
can find something else to do.  I certainly could never
have anything more to do with a man that threatened
such things."

"I did not say I would do any such thing, Miss
Montgomery," began Silas, eager now to retract his angry
words.  "I was merely trying to show you what risks
you were taking in talking to me as you did.  I mean well
by you, and I think you ought to appreciate it.  If I were
to offer these attentions to any other girl in the village,
she would feel flattered."

"Daniel"—Dawn's voice rang clear and without a
trace of the excitement she was under—"if you need help
with those sums now, I can give it.  Bring them up here,
please."

Daniel lost no time in getting to his feet and gathering
up his scattered papers, but the selectman arose in protest
and put out his hand toward the teacher.

"Don't call that boy up here yet," he commanded,
and dared to lay his hand upon the girl's arm as he did
so, bringing his smug countenance quite near, that he
might speak so the approaching boy would not hear.

But the words on his lips were never uttered.  Without
an instant's hesitation, Dawn sprang away from him,
crying, "Don't you dare to touch me, sir!" and with
catlike agility Daniel glided up the aisle and struck the
selectman full in the face.  Silas reeled backward off the
platform, and staggered ignominiously against the wall,
clutching at the blackboard rail for support, his hat rolling
at his feet, and his general appearance undignified, to
say the least.  Daniel stood in a combative attitude,
looking at him contemptuously.  He would have enjoyed
nothing better than to give Silas Dobson a good thrashing.

"You shall answer for this, you young rascal," threatened
Silas, shaking his fist at Daniel, as he recovered his
balance and began to brush the chalk dust from his best
coat.  "This is the second offense, remember!"

Silas was no match for Daniel in a fight, and he
knew it.

"All right," said Daniel, unconcerned.  "We'll see
who does the answering, but don't you dare touch Teacher
again, d'ye hear?"

"I shall have a talk with Mr. Butterworth, who is
also a selectman, and with the minister," said Dawn, with
dignity.  "If they wish me to give up the school, I will
do so, and thus save you the trouble of doing what you
have threatened, Mr. Dobson."

"You make a great mistake, Miss Montgomery," said
Silas, thoroughly alarmed now.  "I have no desire to
have you give up the school."

"Well, I guess you better not have," said Daniel
threateningly—"not unless you want a good coat of tar
and feathers."  There was a look of wrath in the boy's
blue eyes that boded no good for the discomfited selectman.

"You have not understood me," repeated Silas lamely,
glaring with helpless anger at Daniel, and then casting a
wistful appeal at the teacher.

But Dawn had taken up the arithmetic, and was
figuring rapidly.  She only raised her head to say coldly,
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dobson.  You will do me a favor
if you won't come to visit the school any more.  You
hinder my work, and I do not like it."  Then she turned
to Daniel and began to explain the sum.

"You have not understood me," murmured Silas again.

"I guess you've been understood all right," said
Daniel grimly over his shoulder.

With a last angry glare at Dawn's protector, and a
threat he would never dare to carry out, Silas Dobson
took himself off the scene of action.

The next week there appeared a prominent editorial
about the public school and its brilliant young teacher, who
was doing so much for the youth of the village, and should
be encouraged in every way by the parents.

Daniel read it to a group of the boys in the school
yard, and then cut it out with his penknife and pinned it
to the blackboard, as an expression of the sentiments of the
whole school.

After that little episode, there was a closer bond than
ever between Daniel and his teacher.  They never talked
it over, nor even mentioned it, except that Dawn, as
Silas's footsteps died away that afternoon, had put her
little hand on the boy's rough one for just an instant, and
said:

"Thank you so much, Daniel.  I do not know what I
should have done if you had not stayed."

Daniel had turned away with a sudden feeling as if
he was going to choke, while the blood in his heart pounded
up into his face.  But aloud he only said in a bashful
tone:

"Aw, that's nothin'.  He needs a good lickin', an'
I'd like to be the one to give it to him."

Afterward, Dawn wondered that she had dared to
speak as she had to Silas Dobson, a selectman, and the
editor of the paper.  And if she had it in her to do so now,
how was it that she had allowed Harrington Winthrop to
lead her on to a hated marriage, when she might have
easily stopped it by being decided?  Had her brief months
of independence given her courage?  It seemed strange
to her now that she had been so afraid to tell her father
what she felt about it until matters had gone so far
that it was almost impossible to stop it.  Her heart
burned within her sometimes to go back and tell Harrington
Winthrop just what she felt about him.  She had
been weak, she decided, terribly weak, in yielding in the
beginning to her desire for a home of her own, and for
freedom from any possibility of having to stay in the house
with her father's wife.  Yet, were not all women weak and
helpless sometimes, when it came to a testing of their
strength against men?  Her mother had not been able
to cope with her father's will.  It was all a mixed-up
world, and full of trouble.  She turned on her scanty
corn-husk pillow and wished for the dawn of a day that would
have no sorrow.

Just why it was that her experience with Silas Dobson
made the thought of Charles and her marriage so much
more vivid than before, Dawn could not understand, and
she thought about it a great deal in the watches of the
night, when she should have been sleeping.  A new phase
of her position was forced upon her: she was in a measure
deceiving other people about herself.  Silas Dobson,
disagreeable as he was, had no idea that his attentions were
an insult to her because she was already married.  Of
course she could refuse to accept attentions from any one,
but if Silas Dobson had been a pleasant and agreeable
man, it might have been difficult to explain to him without
telling him the truth why she could not ride nor walk
with him.  It was all a terrible problem, and night after
night she cried herself to sleep.

Sometimes she stayed in unpleasant quarters, where
she had perhaps to climb a ladder, and share the loft above
the lean-to kitchen with two of the small children of the
family.  Often the cracks would be so wide that the snow
would blow in, drift across her bed, and even blow into
her face.  Then as she dropped off to sleep, lulled by the
roar of the wind outside, she would wish that the snow
might come softly and cover her out of sight, that she
might sleep forever.

At other times, the thought of Charles brought a great
longing to see him, and to hear his voice whisper, "My
darling," once more, as he had that night when they stood
for one blissful moment together in their room, before
Betty called them.  Then Dawn would go over all the
happenings of the evening: the scene at the supper table,
and every syllable that Madam Winthrop had uttered, up
to the awful moment when the mother had hurled her
accusations, and the truth had burst upon the young bride's
heart in all its nakedness: that she was married out of
generosity!  Bitterness toward this woman was changing
slowly into understanding.  How was the mother to blame
for what she had said?  It was all true, except that she,
Dawn, had not known it, and was therefore not to blame.

Then she began to wonder how it was that she could
have been so deceived.  She could not blame her mother-in-law
for doubting her word, for would not she also doubt
that a girl could be married to a man and think he was
some other?  Whose fault had it been?  Not Charles's,
for he had fully vindicated himself.  She would sooner
doubt herself than him.  Could her father have known
about it?  Could he have wished her to be married to
one whom she did not know, without even telling her?  It
was believable that he might have thought it of little
importance to her, if he, her father, willed it so; yet while
often treating her as if she were a chattel, without will of
her own, he had ever been perfectly frank with her.  She
felt that he would have informed her of the change of
bridegrooms, and not merely carried out his wishes
without announcing it to her.  She could scarcely believe he
could think it would not matter to her.  But after careful
thought she was inclined to lay the deception at her
stepmother's door, and she was not long in fathoming the true
reason for it.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer knew her unhappy
state of mind, and probably feared that Dawn would
rebel against being married.  To have her remain at home
was the worst possible thing that could happen to her
step-mother, Dawn knew, for from childhood she had
been hated by the woman who had taken her outraged
mother's place.  It was all quite plain—all but one thing:
how had Harrington Winthrop been turned aside from
his purpose of marrying her?  Had he done it of himself,
or had her father found out something about him that he
did not like, or had Charles managed it for her?  And
where was Harrington?  Would she ever meet him again?
The thought took such hold upon her that it visited her
in dreams and made her cry out in alarm as she sought to
hide from his pursuing phantom.

After her experience with Silas Dobson, Daniel was
ever vigilant, attending her to and from school, albeit
seldom alone with her.  He seemed to be entirely willing
that his favorite followers should share his privileges of
her company; and often there were several tiny girls, or
older ones, in the triumphal procession going to and from
the red school-house, taking "teacher" home.  Daniel
showed himself a gentle giant toward the little ones, too,
picking them up when they fell down, wiping off the mud,
and carrying them if they were tired.  Dawn saw him
daily growing more manly and kindly, and she felt proud
of him.  Perhaps, some day, he might become something
like Charles, though never quite so cultured, for he lacked
the refined home training.  But she realized more and
more that he was a good boy and a great comfort to her.
As for herself, she felt years older than he, and far beyond
him in experience.  She never dreamed how it was with
him toward her.  If she had, she might have given up in
despair, and cried out that there was nothing good for her
in the world.

So Daniel continued to guard her, and to watch the
movements of Silas Dobson as a cat watches a mouse.
If Silas had wished, he would have had no opportunity
to repeat his troublesome attentions, for whenever he
found himself in the neighborhood of where the teacher
happened to be boarding, he was likely to notice Daniel
in the immediate foreground.

So the long winter went pleasantly by.  There were
husking bees, quiltings, singing-school, and Lyceum nights.
Dawn became a prominent participant at all.  In singing-school,
no voice was so clear as hers, and she could take
the high notes to the envy of every other soprano in the
village.  At the Lyceum her readings were more popular
than any others.

In spite of her frequent loneliness, and her feeling of
being cast off by all who should naturally protect
her—though it was her own fault, of course, that she had run
away, and she blamed no one—Dawn had never been quite
so happy in her life.  Her hours were pleasantly employed,
she had friends who admired her, and she might do as she
pleased.  It opened a wide and interesting life before her.
If only there had not been that ache as of something lost,
that memory of her one beautiful day of love, which
remained as a haunting vision, she would have felt herself
blest beyond most girls.  But all the time there was that
sense of something wrong, that could not be set right; of a
great mistake that might not ever be mended.

And then, one morning when a hint of spring was in
the air, and the snow was all gone save lingering patches
in dark corners and in shady hollows, and the sunshine was
making everybody feel glad, she came face to face with
Harrington Winthrop!





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXI

.. vspace:: 2

It was in front of the Golden Swan that she met
Harrington.  He was just coming down the steps, and
must have arrived the night before.

He stopped suddenly, with the look in his eyes like a
cat's when she spies a bird and, crouching, steals slowly
nearer.

Dawn paused for just an instant, too, in wild dismay,
having the instinct to flee, yet realizing that she must not,
because the whole town would think it strange.  She wished
to have the power to pass him unrecognized, yet with
sudden sinking of soul she knew that she had not.  His
eye had met hers with recognition, and she must hold her
position courageously.  She wished she knew all the
circumstances of his giving her up, and it flashed across her
that she must not let him know that she was ignorant of
them.  He must have no advantage, for his strange power
over her might crush her in spite of herself.  Something
tightened round her heart and gripped it like a vise as
his cold calculating glance looked her over, and a cruel
satisfaction settled about his hateful mouth.

Dawn gave a sort of gasp and started on, summoning
all the spirit with which she had vanquished Silas Dobson,
and wondering why she could not be as haughty and as
brave now.  The sight of Daniel's butter-nut clad shoulders
in the distance, waiting at the corner with a group of other
boys, gave her courage, but her face was white, and she
felt her limbs trembling beneath her.

But Harrington Winthrop did not intend to let her
slip through his fingers thus easily, now that he had found
her, apparently far from her natural guardians.  He of
course knew nothing of her marriage with his brother.

He hastened down the steps with effusive manner and
smiling countenance, and extended his hand in a warm
greeting—if anything he ever did could be said to be
actually warm.

"I did not expect this pleasure," he said in an oily
voice, and with an impressive glance intended to convey
deep emotion.

She drew back from the hand he offered, and wished she
could take her eyes from his hateful ones, but she could
not.

"Poor child!" he murmured in mock pity.  "They
have told you terrible untruths about me, and you have
suffered and find it hard to forgive.  But, indeed, it was
none of my fault.  I will explain the whole matter, and
we can still evade the enemies who are trying to part us,
and be happy together."

Dawn shuddered!

"Where can we go that we shall not be interrupted?
Suppose we walk in the woods?"

Dawn was filled with terror.  She looked about wildly,
and saw to her relief that Daniel, with his special
bodyguard in the rear, was sauntering slowly toward her.  His
attitude of protection gave her courage.  He was watching
the stranger with a curious suspicion.  Had his intuition
told him that she needed help?  Daniel was but a few
steps away.

She drew her breath in quickly, and spoke in a clear
voice:

"I have no time to talk with any one at present.  I
am on my way to school, and shall be busy until late in
the afternoon.  I am a teacher."

She drew herself up with dignity, and he realized that
she was not the simple child he had seen last, but a woman
with an independence of her own.

"Dismiss your school," he said in the voice he was
used to having obeyed.  "I cannot possibly wait until this
afternoon.  I must talk with you at once.  I don't intend
to let you slip through my fingers so easily, now that I
have found you, my pretty lady."  He smiled, but there
was a sinister menace in his voice.

"It is impossible to dismiss school," said Dawn decidedly.
"I should lose my position if I did a thing like
that.  Besides, I do not wish to talk with you.  There is
nothing to talk about."

"There is everything to talk about," said the man, a
fierce light coming into his eyes.  "They have told you
lies about me, and taken you away from me, but I mean
to have you in spite of them.  I will explain to you all
about that poor woman.  She was never my wife at all.
Come, let the school take care of itself.  You will have
no further need of it.  You belong to me, and I will take
care of you.  Come with me!"

The last word was a command, and with it he took hold
of her shoulder almost roughly and attempted to turn
her round.

At once there was a low growl behind his heels, and
Daniel Butterworth's dog took hold of the calf of his
leg as if he too would say, "Come with me!"

Harrington promptly let go of Dawn, who took advantage
of her freedom and fairly flew down the street, leaving
Daniel to settle up matters between his dog and the
stranger, in whose frightened antics the boy was secretly
taking deep delight.  When Dawn had turned the corner
and was out of sight, Dan called the dog off.  Then
Harrington Winthrop discovered that his lady had departed.
Before that time he had been otherwise occupied.

Angry, baffled, and exhausted, he was in nowise attractive.
An interested group of boys and one or two little
girls who had torn themselves away from the teacher's
side encircled him.  Dan looked at him in quiet amusement,
and then called his dog and betook himself to school.
Most of the group followed him, with reluctant glances
back at the dishevelled stranger.  One little girl lingered,
eying him wonderingly, and twisting her apron-strings.

"Where is your school-house, little girl?" asked
Harrington sharply.

The child felt compelled to answer.

"Round that there corner over there, and down the
road a good piece."

Harrington glanced after the boys and the dog
uncertainly.  Did the dog go to school also?

"Where does your teacher board?" he asked again.

"She's boardin' round, an' it's Ann Peabody's turn
this week.  She's got a boy what's blind in one eye."

"Ah!  Indeed!  That's a pity.  Where does Ann
Peabody live?"

"Next door but one to the church.  The house with
Johnny-jump-ups by the gate, an' a laylock bush by the
stoop."

"Thank you.  Now tell me what time your school lets
out, that's a little lady."

"It don't let out till four o'clock—but it'll be took
up 'fore I get there if I don't hurry."

She took to her heels forthwith, and Harrington
Winthrop limped up the steps of the Golden Swan to
repair damages and consider his next line of procedure.

When Dawn arrived at the school-house she was almost
too frightened to stop.  It was late, and most of the
scholars were there.  They trooped gladly in after her.
She had made school for them a kind of all-day picnic,
and they were eager to begin it.  Even after she had hung
up her bonnet and cape, and opened the high lid of her
desk, her heart was beating like a trip-hammer.  Now
and then she looked apprehensively toward the door, and
was reassured when at last she saw Daniel saunter in
with a comfortable smile on his face, while the dog took
up his station on the door-step.  Rags often came to school.
It was a part of his privilege to guard the teacher, and he
felt he had earned a morning session by his gallantry in
defending her against the rude stranger who had dared to
lay hands upon her.  He sat down comfortably just inside
the school-room door, his forepaws hanging over the step,
but he kept his head erect.  With his nose on his paws
and one eye closed, not once during the morning did he
relax.  He felt that there was further trouble to be expected,
and he must be ready.

Dawn smiled, albeit with trembling lips, and set about
the morning's routine; but her mind was troubled, and
she kept starting and glancing uneasily toward the door.
Daniel saw this, and grew grave with apprehension.  What
had the stranger to do with the teacher, and why did she
seem to be so uneasy?  Had he some power over her?  She
certainly did not look happy when he had laid his hand
upon her arm, just before he, Dan, had given that low
signal to Rags.  She couldn't have liked the stranger to
be there, or she would not have run away when she got
the chance.

At recess she made Daniel happy by calling him to the
desk and in a low tone thanking him for helping her.  She
did not explain further than to say that the man was an
old acquaintance whom she did not like.  Daniel
understood him to be in the same class with Silas Dobson.

During the morning session of school Dawn's mind
was in a whirl, trying to think what she should do.  She
dreaded the coming of the afternoon, when school would
close, and she must go back to Mrs. Peabody's house.
Winthrop would certainly search her out.  It had been a
great mistake to let him know she was the school-teacher,
for though he did not know her assumed name he could
easily find her now.  She dreaded any encounter with
him.  A frenzy of fear had taken possession of her.

As the morning went on, she tried to make some plan
for escape.  No longer was it safe in this vicinity.  She
must get away and hide from him.  Where?  Could she
ever hope to evade a man who spent his entire time
travelling over the earth?  He had the assurance of the devil
himself, and it was almost hopeless to try to get beyond
his grasp.  Nevertheless, she must go.

The reading class which recited just before the noon-hour
stumbled on its way for once without correction,
while Dawn planned her next pitiful move.

At noon she sent one of the older girls to Mrs. Peabody's,
to get her bag and a few little things that were
lying about the room.  She usually kept everything neatly
packed in a large bag she had made—everything except her
silk dress, which was hung on a nail.  This the girl
promised to fold nicely and put into the bag.  She was to tell
Mrs. Peabody that Dawn had decided to go a day before the
time was up, and to thank the lady for all her kindness,
and say Dawn was sorry she could not very well leave to
explain it herself.  The girl felt honored by the commission,
and performed it to the letter, wishing the while that
she knew where Teacher was going a day ahead of time,
and resolving to ask her mother to invite the teacher to
come to their house ahead of time, too.

Rags took up his station on the school-house steps again
for the afternoon session, having been abundantly fed from
the generous dinner-pails, on apple-pie, doughnuts, and
chicken bones.  Rags felt it in the air that something was
going to happen, but nothing did, and four o'clock came
at last.

Dawn had made the scholars write in their copy-books
during the last hour of the afternoon.  "Command you
may your mind from play," straggled up and down a
whole page in many of the books, while blots grew thick
among the words, but no teacher wandered alertly up and
down the aisles to watch and to correct; sometimes—oh,
blessed honor!—to sit down and hold the quill pen, or,
better still, take the dirty little fist of the writer into
her own pink hand and guide the writing.  The teacher
sat behind a raised desk-lid, diligently writing, and took
no heed of notes, or whittling, or even paper balls.  Daniel
Butterworth finally took Bug Higginson by the collar
and stood him up behind the stove, but still the teacher
wrote on.

It was a letter to the minister she was writing, and
her young breast heaved with mingled emotions is she
wrote.  It was hard to have to leave this first school, where
she had been so happy, and where she could still be so
happy if she only had some one to protect her from the
man who would probably haunt her through life.  She
had felt that she must make some brief explanation of
her departure to the kind old man who had trusted her,
and upon whom it would fall to explain her absence.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

DEAR DR. MERCER [she wrote]:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

You have been so very kind to me that it gives me much
sorrow to tell you that I must go away.  Something has
happened that makes it necessary for me to go away at once.  I
cannot even wait to say good-by to you or any one else.  I
am so sorry, for I have been very happy here, and I have tried
to do my best; and there is the singing-school this week, and
the barn-raising where I promised to read them a story after
supper, and my dear school!  I love them all!  Will you please
tell everybody how sorry I am to go away like this?  You have
all been so good to me, and I shall never find a place I love so
much as this, I am sure, but I truly cannot help going.  If
you knew all about it, you would understand.  Please thank
Mrs. Mercer for the pretty collar she gave me that belonged to your
daughter, and tell her I will keep it always.  I am sorry to
leave you without a teacher, but there is almost a month's pay
due me, and perhaps that will help you to get some one right
away.  So please forgive me for leaving the school just as it was
when I got it.  I love it, and wish I could stay.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

Yours very gratefully,
    MARY MONTGOMERY.

.. vspace:: 2

After folding, addressing, and sealing this letter, she
closed her desk; then with sudden thought, as she caught
Daniel's troubled eyes upon her, she opened it again and
wrote hastily:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

DEAR DANIEL:

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

I am having to go away in a great hurry.  I cannot say
good-by to anybody, but I must thank you for all you have done
for me.  I thank you more than words can ever tell.  You cannot
know how hard it is for me to go away from the school.  Please
study hard and try to be a good boy and then some day, when
I hear of what a great man you are, I shall be so proud to have
been your teacher.  Go to college, Daniel, and be as great a
man as you can, and don't forget that you have helped me very,
very much ever since I came here.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent small

YOUR GRATEFUL TEACHER.

.. vspace:: 2

Her hand trembled as she sealed this other note.  She
closed the desk hastily and glanced at the clock.  It was
one minute after closing time.  Bug Higginson was
decorating the stove with a caricature of one of the selectmen.
It all looked so homely and familiar and dear, and she
was to see it no more!  The tears sprang to her eyes, and
she could scarcely control her voice to dismiss the school.
She shook her head and tried to smile when the girls
asked if they might wait for her to walk home, telling
them she must stay a little while, that she had something
to do.

They all filed out save Daniel, who sat quietly in his
seat, watching her with sad, puzzled eyes.  Daniel had seen
the glint of a tear as she looked at them.

"Aren't you going home to-night, Daniel?" she asked.
She was dreading momentarily the approach of Harrington
Winthrop.  She seemed to know he would come to walk
home with her.  So did Rags, who sat very stiff and straight
on the door-step, with bristling ears and eyes alert.

"Don't you want I should stay?" asked Daniel, and
his eyes hinted that he understood she was in trouble.

"Oh, no, thank you, Daniel," she said, trying to make
her voice sound cheery and natural, but somehow it broke
into almost a sob.

Daniel eyed her curiously for a moment, and then got
up slowly from his desk and went out.  He gave Rags a
look as he passed.  The boy and the dog thoroughly
understood each other.  Rags did not stir.  Daniel went down
the path and out to the road; then down the road a few
paces, after which he climbed the fence back into the
school-yard.  Then he walked over to a log behind the
school-house and sat down where he could watch the road
to the village.

As soon as he was gone, Dawn looked about her, caught
her breath a moment, and seemed to bid good-by to all
the childish forms that had but a few minutes before
occupied the now empty benches.  Then, spying Rags still
sitting in the doorway, she took the note she had written
to Daniel and, going over to the dog, tied it around his
neck with a bit of string.  Rags got up and wagged his
tail, glancing eagerly at her, then back to the road again.

Dawn patted him lovingly.

"Take that note to Dan, Rags," she commanded.

Rags barked questioningly.  He wanted to tell her
that he had been ordered to stay with her, but she did not
seem to understand.  He wagged his tail harder, but he
did not budge.

"Go, Rags, good dog.  Take that to Dan."  She pointed
out the door.

Rags cast a protesting, anxious bark at her, a furtive
glance down the empty road, and hustled out the door.
He reasoned that Dan was near at hand and must settle
the confliction of duties himself.  He could not but obey
the one whom he and his master alike worshipped.

The minute the dog had gone, Dawn put on her bonnet,
caught up her cape and bag, and slipped out of the door
and around the school-house on the side farthest from the
village.

She fled through the back yard, crept under the lower
rail of the fence, and proceeded over into the meadow
where they had coasted all winter.  In a moment more
she was out of sight down the hill.  She had but to cross
the log which formed a bridge across the brook and she
would enter the woods that lay at the foot of Wintergreen
Hill.  There she would be safe and could get away without
seen by any one.

Daniel cut the string which held the note and sent the
dog back to his post, while he slowly unfolded it and read,
his hands trembling at the thought that she had written
and sealed it, and that it was for him.  A great tumult of
emotions went through his big, immature heart as he tried
to take it in.  He had known something would happen,
and was glad he had not gone away.

Rags hustled back to the school-house steps, but
instantly he knew something was wrong.  He looked into
the empty room.  She was not there.  He smelled his way
up to the desk, but could not bring her into existence.  He
snuffed his way out to the steps and down the path in a
hurry, then came back baffled, with short, sharp, worried
barks, to hunt for the scent again.  Snuff!  Snuff!  Snuff!
Bark!  Rags could not understand it.  Yes—but it was—there
was the scent!  Snuff!  Snuff!  Snuff!  Bark!  Bark!
He tried it over again to make sure.  The scent went
around the left of the school-house, through the girl's
play-ground.  What could she have gone around there for
at this time of day?  Had the enemy come during his
absence and stolen her away?

Rags hurried around the school, snuffing and barking,
scuttled under the fence in a hurry, and away down the
hill, his bark growing more sure and relieved every minute.

Daniel was not accustomed to receiving letters.  He
grasped the meaning of that first sentence slowly, having
lingered long over the "Dear Daniel."  But he got no
further than the first sentence: "I am having to go away
in a great hurry."  He got to his feet rapidly and went
around to the school-house door.  A great fear was in
his heart.  The absence of Rags confirmed it.  He entered
the deserted school-room.  No one was there.  He stepped
up to the teacher's desk.  A letter addressed to the
minister lay there.  Daniel stood still by the teacher's desk,
his heart filled with foreboding, and read the remainder
of his own letter.  As he finished, he heard a step outside
the door, and, looking up, saw the stranger of the morning
before him.

Instinctively he reached out for the minister's letter on
the desk and put it with his own into his coat-pocket.
Then he faced the intruder quietly, and something in his
steady blue eyes reminded the man of his morning
encounter with the dog.  He felt that he had an enemy in the
boy before him.

Winthrop took off his hat and inquired suavely:

"Is Miss Van Rensselaer here?  This is the school-house,
isn't it?"

"It's the school-house all right," answered Dan, "but
there ain't no Miss Van Rensselaer round.  Don't know
no such person.  You must 'a' ben told wrong."

"Oh, no; I saw her this morning.  In fact, she must
have expected me.  I refer to the teacher of this school."

"The teacher's Miss Montgomery—Miss Mary Montgomery—an'
she's gone.  She boards this week with the
Peabodys', up by the church, second house beyond.  She
hasn't been gone from here five minutes."

"That is very strange," said the visitor.  "I just
walked down past the church and did not meet her."

"She sometimes stops a minute to see how the blacksmith's
little sick girl is, at the corner here.  She might
'a' gone there, but she never stays long.  You'd best go
right up to Peabody's."

Daniel was anxious to get rid of the man, and he was
certain that the teacher had not gone in the direction of
the Peabodys', for he had watched the road every minute
until he came around to the front of the school.

Harrington Winthrop took himself away, with a baffled
look on his imperious face.  As soon as he had passed
from sight, Dan reconnoitred the school-yard.

There was no sign of anybody.  He listened, but could
not hear the dog.  He gave a long, low whistle, and
instantly from the distance, toward the woods, he heard
a faint, sharp bark in answer.  He whistled again, and
again came the dog's response.

Daniel was over the fence in a second and down the
hill, not whistling again until he reached the log across
the brook.  Then the dog's bark was nearer, but it ended
suddenly, as if some one was holding his muzzle.  The
boy thought he understood, and bounded rapidly toward
the place from which the sound seemed to have come.
In a moment more he had plunged into the darkness of
the woods.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

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   CHAPTER XXII

.. vspace:: 2

Daniel found Dawn huddled at the foot of a tree,
behind a thicket of laurel, with her bag beside her, and
tears on her frightened face.

The dog had broken away from her and met him with
a joyous bark, wagging his tail and running back and
forth between them, his ragged, hairy body wriggling
joyously; for had he not both of them here together, far
away from intruding strangers?  Why should not all be
well now?

"Oh, Daniel!" said Dawn, in a voice that was almost
a sob.  "Why did you come after me?"

"I had to," said Dan, looking almost sullen.  "I
couldn't let you come off alone.  Besides, you don't need
to go.  We won't let anybody hurt you.  I can knock that
fellow into the middle of next week if you say the word."

But the trouble was not lifted from her face.

"You are very good, and I thank you more than I
can ever tell," she answered him; "but I must go away.
He is a bad man, and he thinks he has some power over
me.  It would be of no use for you to knock him into
next week, for he would be on hand again the next week
to deal with.  He would tell the minister and everybody
that he had a right to take me away, and they would all
believe him.  He can make wrong things seem right to
people.  He has done it before.  I'm afraid of him.  I
never expected to meet him here.  There is nothing to do
but get away where he can't find me.  I must get away
at once, or he may follow me.  Will you please take Rags
and go back now, and will you take a letter that I left in
the school-house to the minister?  I am so sorry to go
this way, but it cannot be helped.  I must get away from
that man."

"Is he—has he any right?" began Daniel lamely and
then burst out: "I mean, is he anything to you—any
kind of relation, you know?"

"Nothing in the world, I'm thankful to say, and he
never shall be as long as I live.  But I never could feel
safe again, now that he knows where I am."

Dan stood puzzled and troubled.

"Say, don't you know how you're going to make all
the school feel bad if you go this way?  The little ones'll
wait for you to-morrow morning, and they'll go there to
the school and you won't be there.  We never had a teacher
that made everybody like to study before.  You oughtn't
to go this way.  You *can't* go!"  He stopped, choking.

Dawn looked at him a moment, the tears gathering
anew in her own eyes; then suddenly down went her head
in her hands, and she cried as if her heart would break.

"Oh, Daniel," she said, "please don't!  I don't want
to go.  I shall never be as happy again, I know, and you
have been so good to me!  But I must——"

The big boy went down on his knees beside her then,
and put his rough hand reverently on hers.

"Don't," said he.  "Don't.  I've *got* to tell you something.
Perhaps you won't like it—I don't know.  I'm not
near as good as you, and I don't know as much as you do,
but I'll study hard, and go to college, and do anything
else you say, just to please you.  If you only won't go
away.  If you'll just stay here and let me take care of
you!  I love you, and I don't care who knows it!  I've
been feeling that way about you all winter, only I thought
perhaps you'd like me better when I got more education;
but now you see I've just got to tell you how it is.  Don't
you like me enough to stay and let me take care of you?
I love you!"

But Dawn interrupted him with a moan.

"Oh, Daniel!  You too?  Then I haven't got anybody
left.  Not a friend in all the world!"  She sobbed afresh.
Daniel dropped down on the moss beside her in dismay.
His heart grew heavy as lead within him, and the world
suddenly looked blank.

"Yes, you have," he said.  "I'll be your friend if you
won't let me be anything else.  I was afraid it would make
you mad," he spoke hopelessly.  "I ain't good enough
fer you, I know, but I'm strong, an' I'd study hard and
get an education, and I'll take wonderful care of you.
You shouldn't ever have to work.  You're a lady.  That's
why I like you.  You're the prettiest thing that was ever
made, an' I'd like nothing better'n to work hard for you
all my life.  But I might 'a' known you wouldn't think
I was good enough."  He broke off helplessly, and she
saw that his broad chest was heaving painfully and that
his usually smiling lips were quivering.

She put out her hand and laid it gently on his.

"Dear Daniel," she said, "listen!  It isn't that at all."

He caught the cool little hand and pressed it against
his eyes that were burning hot with boyish tears he was
ashamed to shed.  It was years since tears had been in
those eyes.  He had almost forgotten the smart of them.
He had scorned the thought of them even in his babyhood,
yet here, just when he longed to be a man, they came to
make his shame complete.

"Listen, Dan," said Dawn earnestly.  "It isn't that
at all.  You're good and dear enough for anybody, and
I do love you, too, for you've been very good to me.  I
love you for yourself, too, but not in that way, Dan, for
I love some one else.  I loved him first and shall always
love him, and—and—I belong to him.  I couldn't belong
to any one else, you know, after that.  I'm sorry, Dan, so
sorry you feel bad about it, but you see how it is.  I
*belonged* to some one else first."

"Is it *him*?" he blurted out fiercely.

"Oh, no, Dan!  Oh, no!  I'm very, very thankful it
isn't that man.  If it were, I should die.  I couldn't love
him.  You wouldn't think I could!"

There was silence in the quiet woods for a moment.

"It ain't Sile Dobson?" he asked fearfully at last.

Dawn's laugh burst out softly then.

"Oh, Dan!  You know better than that.  You knew
without asking.  How could any one love him?  No, Dan;
the one I belong to is fine and grand and noble—everything
he ought to be."

"Then, why doesn't he take care of you?" burst forth
Dan indignantly.  "I wouldn't let you teach school if
you belonged to me, and I wouldn't let that fellow frighten
you.  He can't be all you say, or he'd take care of you."

Dawn's cheeks were very red.

"He doesn't know where I am," she said softly.  "I
went away because—well, it was for a good reason.  It
was for his sake.  I had to go.  Things had happened.  I
can't tell you about it, but it would have made him
trouble if I had stayed."

Dan sat looking at her steadily, a great, wistful
yearning in his eyes.

"I guess you're wrong 'bout that," he said thoughtfully.
"I guess he'd rather have you *an'* the trouble, than
to have no trouble without you.  Leastways, I would, an'
ef he don't love you that way, he ain't much account."

A troubled look came into Dawn's eyes.  It was the
first time she had questioned, from Charles's standpoint,
the wisdom of her running way.

"It would have made a lot of trouble all around,"
she said, shaking her head doubtfully.

"Say, look here!" said Dan, sitting up suddenly.
"You tell me where that fellow is, an' I'll go tell him all
about you, and how that other fellow is worrying you,
and how you need him to take care o' you; an' then if
he don't seem to want to find you and look out for you,
why, I won't tell him where you are.  I'll come back and
take care of you myself, any way.  You needn't like me
nor anything if you don't want to, but I ain't going to
stand having you off running around the world, frightened
of that fellow all the time, not if I have to chop him up
myself.  I tell you, I *love* you!"

Dan's blue eyes were flashing, and his cheeks were red
with determination.  He had let go of her hand as if it
were a gracious favor she had bestowed upon him for the
moment in his dire distress, and he had no right to keep
it, but Dawn put it out again and laid it on his gently.

"Daniel, you are my dear friend for always, and I am
glad to feel that you would take care of me if you could,
but truly there is nothing you can do.  I would not have
you go to him for the world.  He must not know where I
am, nor be troubled ever by any thought of me.  It was
for that I came away.  You would grieve me more than
I can tell you if you did.  I want him to forget me,
because it could only make him trouble if he found me.
He would *have* to come to me.  He would want to come,
I know, if you told him.  But I don't want him to come.
You don't understand, of course, and I mustn't tell you
any more, only there is nothing can be done but for me to
go away and find a place somewhere where no one can
find me.  Then people will forget, and I shall not bring
any trouble or disgrace on him—though it wasn't at all
my fault," she added.  "I want you to know that, Daniel."

"Of course," growled Dan, looking down at the little
hand on his as if it were an angel's and might be wafted
away with a breath.  "But I'm going with you myself,
then, and see you to some safe place."

"Oh, but you mustn't, Dan.  I couldn't let you.  It
wouldn't be right, you know.  People would think it very
strange."

"People needn't know anything about it.  I don't need
to talk to you.  I can keep far enough away to see that
no one hurts you, till you get a good, safe place."

"But, Dan, the folks at your home?  They would
think we had gone away together!  I do not want them to
think wrong of me, even if I'm not there to bear it."

Dan was baffled.  He saw at once that it would not do.
He must go back and bear the loneliness and the thought
of her fighting her own battles.

"Well, I'll go with you now, any way," he said at last,
with determination.  "I'll see you safe to some coach
somewhere, an' come back in the night.  I can get to my
room without Mother hearing me.  She never worries
about me now any more, an' don't stay awake to listen for
me.  She'll never know when I get in.  I'll go back an' tell
'em I helped carry your bag across country to Cherry
Valley coach, or somewhere.  I've got the parson's letter
here in my pocket.  That villain came to the school-house
after you, an' I picked up the letter so he wouldn't see it."

"Oh, did he come to the school after me?  Then perhaps
he has followed us.  Dan, I must go quickly!"

"Come on," said Dan, as though he were proposing to
walk to his death.  At least, he was not to leave her yet.
He picked up her bag, and helped her to her feet; then,
still holding the hand by which he had helped her up, he
bent over and kissed it reverently.  Then he straightened
up with a royal look of manhood in his eyes and turned to
her:

"You won't mind that just once, will you?  That hand
did a whole lot fer me, beginning when it gave me that
first licking."

Dawn smiled sadly.  Then with sudden impulse she
reached up, caught his face between her hands, drew it
down to her own, and gently, seriously, kissed him upon
the forehead as if it were a sacred rite.

"I love you, Dan," she said.  "I'm so sorry it can't
be the kind of love you want.  But I'll be your dear friend
always.  I never had a brother.  Perhaps I might call you
my brother.  It would be nice to have a brother like you.
You have been very, *very* good to me, and I shall never
forget it."

Dan looked at her as if she had laid a benediction upon
him.  After all, he was young, and it was much to have
her friendship.  And if another had her love, at least he,
Daniel, was on the spot and might help her now, which
went a great way toward making him feel better about the
other fellow.  The boy had begun to have a lurking pity
for him, besides.  And who was he, Daniel, that he
should hope to hold a girl like this for himself?  It was
much that he had known her.  It was right that she
should have a lover such as she had described—"fine and
grand and noble."  Almost the great heart of the boy-lover
felt he could take them both in and care for them,
and bring them together, perhaps—who knew?

They hurried through the woods, the boy directing the
way now, and she depending upon him.  He decided that
It would be well for her to take a certain stage line that
could be reached only by a good walk of several miles
across the country.  He knew the way, and she was only
too glad to have a guide.

That was Dan's great day of happiness.  For years
afterward he remembered every little incident.  He seemed
to know while it was all happening that it was a special
gift granted him in view of the sorrow and sacrifice he
must pass through.  His was no passing love of a boy.  He
realized that the girl beside him was one in a thousand, and
that it was enough for a lifetime just to have known her,
and to be able to remember one such perfect afternoon
as this.

To Dawn, it was given to understand her power for
that brief season, and to use it to its utmost for the boy's
good.  She talked to him earnestly about himself and his
future, and urged him to make the utmost of every
opportunity.  She made him understand that he had the gift
of leading others, and that some day he might take a
great stand in the world for some cause of Right against
Wrong, when others would flock to his standard and let
him lead them to victory.  It was an unusual thing that
a girl like Dawn should see his possibilities and point
him to a great ambition, but Dawn was an unusual girl.

Some girls, even though they might have done no real
wrong, would have taken advantage of the boy's confessed
love, and have coquetted with him.  Dawn treated him
with the utmost gentleness, as if she understood the pain
she must inflict, and would fain give him something fine
to take the place of what he had lost.

When they came to a hill they took hold of hands and
raced down.  When they came to a brook he helped her
gravely across, just as he had helped her ever since she
came to teach the school.  He said no more about his love.
It was understood between them that it was a closed
incident, to be put away in the sacred recesses of their hearts.
Into the girl's face had come a tender, womanly interest
that for the time being almost made up to the boy for the
loss of her.  It was while they were walking down a long
stretch of brown road, straight into a glorious sunset,
that the boy asked quite suddenly:

"Has he been to college?"

Dawn knew at once whom he meant, and began simply
to tell all about Charles.  It did her good to speak of him.
It seemed to bring him nearer.  Her face blossomed into
sweetness as she talked.  There was not much to say, not
much about him that she could tell to a stranger, from
her one brief day's acquaintance with her husband, yet
she managed to say a good deal.  Charles would have been
amazed to hear her describe his high ambitions and noble
thoughts.  He did not dream how well the girl had read
him during their one blissful day together.  And now
she was painting him as an ideal for the rude boy who
walked beside her and listened, with his heart filled with
patient envy; that presently lost its bitterness in pity for
the other one, who might have her great love, yet might
not walk beside her as he was doing.

At last Dan broke in upon her words:

"'Tisn't right he shouldn't know where you are.  If
he's anything like what you think he is, he's 'most crazy
hunting you.  I know how he feels."

Dawn shook her head sadly and told him he did not
understand, but his words sank into her heart for future
meditation, and she could not quite get away from the
thought that perhaps she had been wrong, after all, in
going away.  Perhaps it might have been more heroic to
stay and face the hard things right where she had been.

The long spring twilight had almost faded into darkness
as they came at last to the inn where the coach would
pass.  Neither had spoken for some time.  There was
upon them a sense of their coming separation, and it
depressed them.  Already Dawn was looking into her lonely
future, and dreading to lose this only friend she had.
Already Dan was realizing what the going back was to be.

They had arranged it all.  Dan was to take the letter
to the minister, and explain that he had helped the teacher
to catch a cross-country stage.  He had taken it upon
himself, also, to carry messages to the scholars and to
her kind friends—brief messages of good-by, and haste,
and sorrow; with the promise, too, at Dan's earnest
solicitation, that if she ever could she would return to them.

Then at the end they had no time for parting.  The
stage was just driving up to the inn as they reached there.
There was no time even for supper, though neither of
them thought of it at the time.

Dan put her into the coach and arranged her bag
comfortably, but he had to get out at once, as others were
pressing in.  He went outside in the dim light and stood
by her window, looking up, trying to keep Rags from
breaking away and getting into the coach.  Something in
his throat choked him.  He could not speak.

The people were all in, and the driver was climbing to
his place, when Dawn reached out her hand and caught
Dan's, giving it a quick little squeeze.

"Dear Dan," she whispered as she leaned out, "don't
forget to be the best you can."

He caught the little hand and laid his lips against
it in the half-darkness.  Rags had broken away and was
barking wildly at the coach door, but the horses started
and took Dawn away from the boy and the dog, and in a
moment more they stood alone in the road, looking down
the street at the dim black speck in the distance which
was the coach.

Then slowly, silently, the one with downcast head,
the other with drooping tail, Daniel and his dog took their
way back over the road they had come so happily that
afternoon.  The dog could not understand, and now and
then stopped, looked back, and whined, as if to say they
ought to go back and do things over again.  At last, when
they reached the country roadside where all was still, and
there were only the brooding stars to see, Dan sat down
on a bank by the roadside, buried his face in his hands,
and both down upon the cool, wet earth that was just
beginning to spring into greenness.  Then he gave way
to his grief, while Rags, almost beside himself with
distress, whined about him, snuffed up and down the road,
and then sat down and howled at the late moon, which
was just rising over a hill.

By and by Dan got up and called the dog.  Together
they started on their journey again, a silent, thoughtful
pair.  But never afterward did the boy Dan return.  He
was a man.  He had suffered and grown.  In his face
were born resolve and determination.  People wondered
at the change in the careless, happy boy, and grew proud
of his thoughtfulness.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

The night that Dawn left her husband's home marked
the beginning of an era of sorrow in the history of the
Winthrops.

The distracted young husband and his father rode all
night long.

Charles reached the Van Rensselaers' home a little
sooner than old Mr. Winthrop, who had further to go.
The young man's white, drawn face startled Mrs. Van
Rensselaer as he stood to greet her in the gloomy parlor,
where the scent of the wedding roses still lingered.

She was in workaday attire, to set her house in order
and prepare for what she hoped was to be a season of peace
in her hitherto tempestuous life.  Dawn was off her hands
finally, she felt, and she had no serious forebodings
concerning her share in the matter.  The hard part had been
to get the girl off without her finding out the trick that
had been played on her.  It had amazed the step-mother
that her plan had worked so well.  She had been prepared
for the discovery to be made soon after the ceremony, but
she had trusted to Dawn's fear of publicity, and Charles's
evident infatuation, to hush the matter up.  Mrs. Van
Rensselaer had been reasonably sure that she could even
keep it from her husband's knowledge, though she was
prepared with a plausible story in case he remonstrated.
His sense of pride would make him readily persuadable to
almost any plan that would hide their mortification from
curious friends.  She had been sure that she could make
him see that the whole thing had been done for his
daughter's good.  And now that the step-mother had succeeded
even better than she had hoped, in getting the couple off
on their wedding trip without either one discovering her
duplicity, she had been at rest about the matter.  Charles
was enough in love to be able to make everything all right,
and he would never blame her for having furthered his
plans, even though not quite in the way he had arranged.
Dawn could not fail to be pleased with the husband her
step-mother had secured for her, and even would thank
her in later life, perhaps, for having helped her to him.

And so Mrs. Van Rensselaer had gone placidly about
the house, putting things to rights, and enjoying the
prospect of a comfortable future without the fear of an
unloved step-daughter's presence haunting her.

But when she saw Charles's face a pang of fear shot
through her and left her trembling with apprehension.
His voice sounded hollow and accusatory when he spoke:

"Is Dawn here, Mrs. Van Rensselaer?"

A thousand possibilities rushed through the woman's
brain at once, and she felt herself brought suddenly before
an awful judgment bar.  What had she done?  How had
she dared?  How swift was retribution!  Not even one
whole day of satisfaction, after all her trouble!

She tried to summon a natural voice, but it would not
come.  Her throat felt dry, and as if it did not belong to
her, as she answered:

"Here?  No.  How could she be here?  Didn't you
take her away?"

The young man sat down suddenly in the nearest chair
with a groan, and dropped his head into his hands.  The
woman stood silent, frightened, before him.

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, what have you done?  Why did
you do it?"

"Well, really, what have I done?"  The sharp voice
of the woman returned to combat as soon as the accusation
pricked her into anger.  "I'm sure I helped you to get a
wife you seemed to want bad enough and never would
have got if I hadn't managed affairs.  You haven't any
idea how hard she was to manage or you'd understand.
It was a very trying situation, and it isn't every woman
could have made things go as well as I did—not to have a
soul outside your family know there had been a change
of bridegrooms.  You see, none of our friends had ever
seen your brother, and as the name was the same there
were no explanations necessary."

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, I would never have married
Dawn against her will.  It was not right for you to deceive
her.  She ought to have been told just how things stood,
and what my brother had done."

"H'm!  And had a pretty mess, with her crying and
saying she wouldn't marry anybody, and all the wedding
guests coming?  Young man, you don't know what you're
talking about.  That girl isn't easy to manage, and I
guess you've found it out already.  She's like a flea: when
you think you have her, she's somewhere else.  I knew
something desperate would have to be done before she ever
settled down and accepted life as it had to be, and I did
it, that's all.  Well, what's the matter, any way?  Have
you got tired of your bargain already and turned her out
of your house?"

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was exasperated and frightened.
She scarcely knew what she was saying.  Any moment her
husband might come into the house.  If she could only get
the interview over before he came, and perhaps hide at
least a part of the story from him!  She dreaded his
terrible temper.  She had always had an innate presentiment
that some time that temper would be let loose against her,
and she knew now the moment was come.

Charles looked up with his handsome and usually
kindly eyes blazing with amazement and indignation:

"Mrs. Van Rensselaer, my wife has gone away.  We
have searched all night and cannot find her.  I was sure
she had come home.  Oh, what shall I do?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't see how I'm to blame for her
having left you," snapped out Mrs. Van Rensselaer.  "I
did my part and made sure you got her.  You ought to
have been able to keep her after you had her.  How'd she
come to leave you?"

"I cannot tell exactly.  She went up to see Mother a
few minutes after supper, and then——"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Van Rensselaer, with disagreeable
significance.

"And then we could not find her," went on Charles,
unheeding.  "She left a note with good-by.  That was
all.  I have no clue."

The front door opened, and Mr. Van Rensselaer walked
in.  His face was white, for he had not slept well.  In a
dream his dead wife had stood before him and seemed to
be taking him to task about her child, the daughter who
left her father's house but a few hours before.  He had
gone out for the morning mail, hoping to get rid of the
phantoms that pursued his steps, but his head was
throbbing.

How much he had heard of what they had been saying,
they did not know.  He stood before them white and
stern-looking, glancing from one to the other of the two in the
dim parlor.

"Where is my daughter?" he asked.

"She is gone, Mr. Van Rensselaer," answered Charles
pitifully.  "I have searched for her all night long.  I
hoped she was here."

"Gone?" repeated the father in a strange, far-away
voice; then he wavered for an instant, and fell at their
feet, as if dead.  The accusations of his own heart had
reached their mark.  The iron will yielded at last to the
finger of God.

They carried him to his bed and called the doctor.
Confusion reigned in the house.  The old doctor shook his
head and called it apoplexy.  Mr. Van Rensselaer was
still living, and might linger for some time, but it would
be a living death.

And so, while he lay upon his bed, breathing, but dead
to the world about him, they made what plans they could
to find his daughter.  Charles's father came in sadly,
reporting no success in the search.  They started out once
more after a brief rest.

Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in no condition to help them
now.  She had her hands full, poor woman.  One thing
had been spared her: her husband did not know her part
in the disappearance of his daughter.  Perhaps he might
never need to know; yet as she went about ministering to
that silent, living dead, whom she had loved beyond
anything earthly, her heart was full of bitterness and fear.

The months that followed were terrible to Charles.
After a few days of keeping the matter quiet and hoping
they would find her by themselves, they made the disappearance
public, and the whole countryside joined in the search.

The greatest drawback to success was that so few people
had seen Dawn since she grew up.  The servants in her
father's house had seen her during the week she had been
home from school, but scarcely any one else except for a
passing glance on the street.  All searching was in vain.
There were notices put in the papers of that region.  They
sent to her old school for knowledge of her; they left no
stone unturned.  And the wonder of it is that Dawn's
friend, the minister, or some of the selectmen, especially
Silas Dobson, did not see the notices that appeared in
New York papers and in those of smaller towns, and
connect the mysterious disappearance with the new teacher
that had come to their village.  But the old clergyman had
vouched for her, and there was apparently no mystery
about her.  This good man did not often have opportunity
to read papers of other towns, save his regular weekly
religious sheet.  Then, too, the place where Dawn had
found refuge was small and insignificant, and not on the
line of most travel.  She could not have been better
sheltered from the searchers.

It was the day after Charles had been to see the body
of a young woman who had been found in the river some
fifty miles distant from his home, that he became ill with
typhoid fever.

Not for a day had he rested or given up his search.
When one clue failed, he went to the next with restless,
feverish energy, and a haunted look in his eyes.  The boy
had become a man, and the man was bearing a heavy
burden.  His father saw it, and grieved for him.  His
mother saw it, and accused herself.  His sisters saw it, and
did their best to help him.  Betty was constantly thinking
up new plans for the search, and saying comforting, cheering
things to her brother.  Charles loved her dearly for it,
but nothing brought relief.  His affection for Dawn had
been such as rarely grows in a human heart, even after
years of acquaintance.  It had sprung full-bloomed into
being, and filled his whole soul.  It is said that to the
average man love is but an incident, while to a woman it
is the whole of life.  If that be so, there are exceptions,
and Charles was one of them.  He kept his love for his
girl-wife as the greatest thing life had for him, and thought
of nothing else day or night but to find her.

No one dared to suggest his going back to college.  That
would be to admit that the search was hopeless, and that
might prove fatal to Charles.  The neighbors had begun
to shake their heads and pity him.  It was even whispered
that the girl might have run away with another man,
though no one ventured to say such a thing in the hearing
of the family.

If it had been in these days of telegraphs and telephones,
railroads and detectives, it would have been but a
matter of days until they had found her, but in those times
travel and search were long and hard.  There seemed little
hope.  It was the third dead face which Charles had
searched for likeness to the girl he loved.  He came
home worn and exhausted, his spirit utterly discouraged
and weary, and he was an easy prey to the disease which
gripped him from the first in its most violent form.

Silence and sadness settled down upon the Winthrop
household while the life of Charles was held in the balance.
The father carried on the search for the lost wife more
vigorously than ever, believing that the sight of her might
bring his boy back even from the grave; but nothing
developed.

News from the Van Rensselaers gave no hope of the
paralyzed man's recovery.  He was lying like a thing of
stone, unable to move.  He could not even make a sound.
Only his eyes followed his tormented wife, like haunting
spirits sent to condemn her.  The face was set in its stern
expression, like a fallen statue of his proud, imperious
self.

It was mid-winter before Charles began slowly to creep
back to life, and there was still no clue to Dawn.  They
dreaded to have him ask about her; though they had
noticed how he had searched their faces every morning
after consciousness returned to him.  He knew as well as
they that nothing had been accomplished toward finding her.

One day he seemed more cheerful and a little stronger,
and called old Mr. Winthrop to his side.

"Father," said he, "I've been thinking that perhaps
she'd not like to come back here, the way she feels about
it.  There was a little white house on the hills beyond
Albany that we noticed as we came along on the train.
We both said we should like to live there among the trees.
Would you be willing that I should take the money Grandfather
left to me and buy that little house for her to come
to?  Then I could put a notice in the papers telling her
it was ready, and perhaps she would see it and understand."

The old man's heart was heavy, for he had begun to
believe that Dawn was no longer in the land of the living;
but he would have consented to any plan that would
comfort his boy and give him a new interest in life, and
so as soon as Charles was able to travel they went together
to purchase the small farm and little white house.  The
next day there appeared in the New York papers this
notice, which was printed many weeks and copied into
numerous village papers:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

Dawn, the little white house we saw near Albany is ready for
us.  Write and tell me where to find you.  CHARLES.

.. vspace:: 2

But nothing ever came in answer, though Charles
watched every mail with feverish anxiety; and he still
kept up his search in other directions.  So the spring crept
on, and almost it was a year since Dawn had left him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXIV

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn had been in New York two months, after various
trying experiences in getting there, and all that time she
had been unable to find anything to do by which she could
earn her living.

The miserable little boarding place, the best she could
afford, was growing more and more uncomfortable as the
hot weather came on.  Dawn was thin and worn and sad.
Her money which she had earned during the winter, and
which she had always carried sewed inside her garments,
was fast melting away.  A few more weeks, and she would
be penniless.  She began to wonder what would come next,
and to question whether it would not have been better to
stay with the school, and trust the old minister and Daniel
to protect her from Harrington Winthrop.  But always,
after thinking it over, she decided that she could not have
been safe when he knew her whereabouts.

There was one other thing which troubled her
constantly now.  It was that sentence of Daniel's: "He'd
rather have you *and* the trouble, than to have no trouble
without you."  Was it true?  Did Charles love her that
way?  Was she giving him trouble by staying away?
"If he's anything like you say he is, he's most crazy
hunting you," Daniel had said.  Was *that* true, too?  Could he
be hunting her yet?  Had she been wrong in coming
away?  Gradually she came to admit to herself that there
might have been a better way.  She might have made a
mistake.  But it was too late now to remedy it.  She
could not go back on her promise that she would trouble
him no more.  She could not bring added disgrace to him
now that she had stayed away all these months and
everybody must know it.  Oh, how long and hard life was!
And then she once more went wearily at her task of
hunting a position.

.. vspace:: 2

Slowly, stealthily, up from the south; strangely,
unexpectedly, down from the Canadian border, there crept a
grim spectre of death.  Heard of from afar with indifference
at first, it gradually grew more terrifying as it
drew nearer.  Now and then the death of a well-known
victim caused uneasiness to become more manifest.

Hotter grew the sun, and nearer drew the spectre.  The
daily papers contained advice for protection against it.
The cities cleaned their streets and warned their citizens.
The temperance societies called attention to the fact that
hard drinkers were in more danger than others.  Meat
and milk and vegetables were carefully inspected.  Water
was boiled.  Cheerfulness was put on like a garment, and
assurance was flaunted everywhere.  People were told to
keep up a good heart and keep clean, and there was little
danger.  Still the spectre crept nearer, laying hands upon
its victims, and daily the reports grew more alarming.  It
was near the end of June when the ministers met in New
York and petitioned the President to appoint a general
day of fasting and prayer to avert the oncoming pestilence.
Andrew Jackson replied that it was in their line, not
his, to decide whether this matter was important enough
to bring to the notice of the Almighty, and he left it in
their hands.  The days went by, and the spectre crept on.
The Governors of the States began to appoint days of
prayer.  At last the cholera was a recognized fact.  It had
come to do its worst.  The newspapers abandoned their
talk of its impossibility, and set about making the best of
things, describing the precautions to be taken, the
preliminary symptoms, and the best method of treatment.
For a time, during the latter part of June and the early
part of July, it was hoped that by vigilance and care it
could be kept out of New York City.  The worst of the
pestilence was in the Southern States, though it had made
great ravages as far north as Cincinnati.  And from
Canada it was spreading south into New York State.
Here and there a little town would have a single case, which
would send terror throughout the county, and daily the
number grew greater.

Charles was looking worn and thin.  He had bought the
little house, and had had it renovated.  It was furnished
now, and waiting for the bride who did not come.  His
heart grew sick with the great fear that was growing within
him, the fear that he should never find her on this earth.
Of late, a new worry had come to him.  A letter had
come to his father from Harrington's wife, saying that
she was destitute, as her husband had deserted her again.
He had stayed with her but a week after he brought her
home, though he had promised many things.

In spite of himself, Charles could not get it out of his
mind that Harrington had spirited Dawn away somewhere.
He did not doubt her for an instant.  He would not let
himself think that she might still have some lurking love
for the man who had not scrupled to do her a wrong.  He
laid all blame, if blame there was, upon his brother.
Harrington had sometimes appropriated his younger
brother's boyish treasures to his own use when they were
both younger, and Charles had no doubt he would not
hesitate to do thus even with his brother's wife, were such a
thing possible.

Sometimes the remembrance of the terror in Dawn's
eyes when she asked about Harrington and where she
would have to meet him, made Charles fairly writhe, and
he felt that he must fly somewhere, to the ends of the
earth if need be, and find her.

He lay on the couch in the library one warm evening
in early July.  Betty sat beside him, reading the New York
paper which had just been brought by the evening coach.
She was trying to distract his mind from the ever-present
sorrow over which he seemed to brood every minute when
he was not in actual motion trying to find his wife.  This
evening there was a deeper gloom over them on account
of having received that morning news of the death of
Mr. Van Rensselaer.

Charles lay still, with his face shaded from the candlelight,
and let Betty read.  He was paying little heed, but
it made Betty happier to think that she was helping him
to bear his pain.  The little sister's sympathy was a great
comfort, and so if she could think she was helping him,
he was glad.  He was occupied in trying to think out a
plan for finding Harrington, just to make sure that he
knew nothing about Dawn.

"Here's something about the new railroad, Charles.
Shall I read that, or would you rather have me read
*Parley's Magazine* than the *Commercial-Advertiser*?"

"Oh, read the *Commercial-Advertiser*, by all means,"
said Charles, trying to rouse himself to take an interest for
Betty's sake.  His head was aching, and he was weary in
both body and soul.

"Well, listen to this, Charles.  Isn't this wonderful?
They've completed the railroad from Saratoga to Ballston.
They can go eight miles in twenty-eight minutes!  Think
of that beside the stage-coach travelling!  It takes only
an hour and five minutes to go from Ballston to
Schenectady, and you can go from Albany to Saratoga in three
hours.  Who would ever have believed it true?  Do you
suppose it is true, or have they exaggerated?"

"Oh, I guess they can do it," said Charles, with a
sigh.  The new railroad made him think of his wedding
journey.  Oh, to take it over again and never let his bride
out of his sight!

Betty read on:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"Governor Howard, of Maryland, has set July 4th as a day of
prayer that the cholera may decline.  Governor Cass says——"

.. vspace:: 2

but a low moan from Charles made her fly to another
column to distract his mind:

"Here's the report of the meeting of the Foreign
Mission Board in New York.  Would you like to hear that?
It looks interesting.  The evening address was made by
the Honorable Stephen Van Rensselaer.  Why——"  Betty
stopped in dismay, but Charles answered the wonder in
her tone quietly:

"Yes, Betty, Stephen Van Rensselaer is a cousin of
Mr. Van Rensselaer.  He is a fine speaker.  Read
about it."

But Charles did not attend, though Betty rattled off a
lot of statistics glibly, inwardly blaming herself for
constantly coming upon things that would remind Charles of
his loss.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"There are twelve missions now, with fifty-five stations,
under the Board.  Seven are in India, two in Asia, four in the
Mediterranean, seven in the Sandwich Islands, twenty-seven
among the southwestern Indians, four among the northeastern
Indians, and four among the Indians of New York State.  There
are seventy-five missionaries, four physicians, four printers,
eighteen teachers, twenty farmers and mechanics, and one hundred
and thirty-one females, married and single, sent out from this
country."

.. vspace:: 2

"My!  Isn't that a lot!" commented Betty.

Just below the report of the missionary meeting was
a brief paragraph.  She plunged into it without stopping
to glance it over.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"*Disappeared*.  A female dressed in a white straw bonnet
trimmed with white satin ribbon, a black silk gown, white crêpe
shawl with flowered border, black silk stockings, and
chocolate-colored parasol."

.. vspace:: 2

"Oh!" cried Betty in dismay, and then went wildly
on to the next column, not daring to look at her brother:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"The Honorable William Wort has purchased a plantation
in Florida, and is going to work it with hired hands.  This will
do more toward opening the eyes of the slaveholders than all
the declamatory efforts of the free States since the adoption of
the Constitution."

.. vspace:: 2

"That is quoted from the *United States Gazette*,
Charles, and the editor of this paper has a long, dry-looking
comment on it.  Do you want to hear it?"

Betty looked uneasily at her brother, but his white face
was turned toward the wall.

"Here's an article about Barnabas Bidwell, and
something about General Prosper Wetmore.  Doesn't father
know General Wetmore, Charles?"  Betty felt she was
not getting on well at all.

"I believe he does," answered her brother patiently,
and then the knocker sounded insistently through the
house, and Charles came to an upright position in an
instant.  He seemed ever to be thus on the alert for
something to happen.  And this time something did happen.

A negro boy stood at the door with a note scrawled on
a leaf from a memorandum-book.  He said he was to give
it to Mr. Winthrop at once.  As his father was out, Charles
read it.  Betty held the candle for him to see.  It was
badly written, with pale ink.  Betty's hand trembled and
made the candle waver.  She felt that something momentous
was in the air.

"Come to me at once.  I'm desperately ill.—Harrington,"
read the note.  It was like the writer to command
and expect to be obeyed.

Charles pressed the note into Betty's hand, saying,
"Give it to Father as soon as he comes, and don't let
Mother or Aunt Martha know."  Then he seized his hat and
sprang out into the night, urging his escort into a run, and
demanding an explanation as he went.

But the boy could tell little of what was the matter.
He knew only that he had been sent in great haste, and
that the gentleman was very sick.

The night was still and warm.  There was a yellow
haze over the world, and a sultry feeling in the air.
People had been remarking all day how warm it was for
the season of year.

Charles plunged through the night with only one
thought in mind.  He was to see his brother in a few
minutes, and he must take every means to find out whether
he had any knowledge of Dawn.  His whole soul was
bent on the purpose that had been his main object in life
during the past year.

It occurred to him that Harrington might be in need
of medical attendance, though that was a sort of secondary
consideration at the time.  So he sent the negro boy after
their family physician.  He himself went on alone to the
inn, some two miles from the village, where the boy said
his brother was stopping.

When Charles reached the inn he found a group of
excited people gathered near the steps, and the word
"cholera" floated to his ears, but it meant little to him.

In a moment he was standing by his brother's bedside.

Harrington turned away from him with a groan.

"Is it only you?" he muttered angrily.  "I sent for Father."

"Father was not in.  He will come as soon as he
returns.  I will do anything you want done.  I have sent
for the doctor.  But before I do anything, you must answer
me one question.  Do you know where Dawn is?  Have
you seen her since the day of the wedding?"

Harrington turned bloodshot eyes upon his brother.

"Who is Dawn?" he sneered.  "Oh, I see!  You
mean Miss Van Rensselaer.  Yes, I remember you were
smitten with her the only time you ever saw her.  I believe
in my soul it was you who cheated me out of my little game,
and not Alberta at all.  Well, it doesn't matter.  I've got
something better on the string now, if I ever get out of
this cursed hole.  Let the doll-faced baby go.  She wasn't
worth all the trouble it took to keep track of her."

Then suddenly he was seized in the vise of an awful
agony, and cried out with oaths and curses.

Down below his window a group of huddled negroes
heard, and a shudder went through them.  They drew
away, and whispered in sepulchral tones.

Charles stood over his brother in helpless horror until
the agony was passed, and Harrington gasped out:

"Go for the doctor, you fool!  Do you want to see
me die before your eyes?"

Charles's voice was grave and commanding as he stood
over his brother and demanded once more:

"Answer me, Harrington.  Have you seen her since the
day of the wedding?  Answer me quickly.  I will help you
just as soon as I know all.  I shall not do a thing until
you tell me."

A groan and a curse were all the answer he got, and
a cold frenzy seized him, lest he should never get Harrington
to tell what he knew.  He understood that his brother
was a very sick man.  Great beads of perspiration stood
upon his forehead.

"Get me some whiskey, you brute!" cried out the
stricken man.  "That awful agony is coming again.  Well,
if you must know, she's teaching school in a little
forsaken village over beyond Schoharie—Butternuts, they call
it.  At least, she was till I appeared on the scene.  Then
she made away with herself somehow.  I stayed three days,
waiting for her, but she didn't come back.  I stopped off
last week, and the people said she'd never returned.  No
one knew anything about her but a tow-headed boy who
called himself Daniel and said he helped carry her bag
to the stage-coach.  Now get me that whiskey quick.  I
feel the pain coming again."

Charles turned without a word and dashed downstairs
to the landlady, demanding hot water and blankets.  He
knew little about illness, save what his mother's
semi-invalid state had taught him, but he had read enough
in the papers lately to make him sure that Harrington
had the cholera, and he knew that whiskey was not a
remedy.  Before he could return to his brother the
doctor arrived, and together they went up to the
sick man, who was writhing in agony, and again
demanding whiskey.

The old doctor shook his head when he saw the patient.

"He has indulged in that article far too much already,"
he said.

Then began a night of horror, followed by a day of
stupor on the part of the patient.  The doctor had said
from the start that it was cholera, and that the disease
was almost always fatal to persons of intemperate habits.
Charles held himself steadily to the task of the moment,
and tried to still the calling of his heart to fly at once
and find Dawn.  Not another word had he been able to
get from his brother.  The pain had been so intolerable
that Harrington had been unable to speak, and little by
little he grew delirious until he did not recognize any of
them.  At times he cried out as if in wild carouse.  Once
or twice he called "Alberta!" in an angry tone, then
muttered Mr. Van Rensselaer's name.  Never once did
he speak the name of Dawn.  This fact gave Charles
unspeakable relief.

All through the night and day the doctor, the brother,
and the father worked side by side, but each knew from
the first that there was no hope, and at evening he died.

They buried Harrington Winthrop in the old lot where
rested the mortal remains of other more worthy members
of the family; and the father turned away with bowed
head and broken heart for such an ending to his elder
son's misspent life, and kept saying over to himself, "Has
it been my fault?  Has it been my fault?"

They were almost home when Charles, who had been
silent and thoughtful, touched the older man on the
shoulder.

"Father, shall you mind my going away at once?" he
asked.  "I have a clue, and must follow it."

Mr. Winthrop lifted his grief-stricken head, and,
looking at his son tenderly, said:

"Go, my boy, and may you gain your heart's desire!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXV`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXV

.. vspace:: 2

The next evening at sunset Charles stood beside the
Butterworth gate, about to enter, when Daniel came out.
The boy had finished his early supper, and was going to
the village on an errand.  His face was grave and
thoughtful, as always since the teacher's departure.

Charles watched him coming down to the gate, and
liked his broad shoulders, and the blue eyes under his
curly yellow lashes as he looked up.

"Are you Daniel Butterworth?" asked Charles.

"I am," said Dan, eying him keenly.

"Are you the one"—Charles was going to say "boy,"
but that did not seem to apply exactly to this grave young
fellow—"are you the one who carried the teacher's baggage
to the stage-coach when she went away so suddenly?"

Charles had studied the question carefully.  He did
not know by what name Dawn had gone, whether she had
used his or kept her own maiden name, or had assumed
still another.  He would not cast a shadow of reflection
upon her, or risk his chance of finding her by using the
wrong name, therefore he called her "the teacher."  On
inquiring about her at the inn where the stage-coach
stopped, he had been referred at once to Peggy Gillette,
who immediately guided him to the point in the road
where he could see the Butterworth house.

Daniel started, and looked the stranger over suspiciously.
There was a something about this clean-faced,
long, strong fellow that reminded him a little, just a very
little, of the scoundrel who had frightened the teacher
away; yet he instinctively liked this man, and felt that
he was to be trusted.  Rags, too, generally suspicious of
strangers, had been smelling and snuffing about this man,
and now stood wagging his tail with a smile on his homely,
shaggy face.  Rags's judgment was generally to be trusted.

"I might be," responded Daniel slowly, "and then
again I mightn't.  Who are you?"

Charles understood that the boy was testing him, and
he liked him the better for it.  His heart warmed toward
the one who had protected Dawn.

"That's all right," responded Charles heartily.  "I'm
ready to identify myself.  I'm one who loves her better
than my life, and I've done nothing for a year but search
for her."

He let Daniel see the depth of his meaning in his
eyes, as the boy looked keenly, wistfully, into his face.
Daniel was satisfied, and with a great sigh of renunciation,
he said:

"I knew it, I told her so.  I knew you would be half
crazy, hunting her.  You're the one she said she belonged
to, aren't you?"

A great light broke over Charles's face, bringing out
all the beauty of his soul, all the lines of character that
suffering had set upon his youth, and that love had wrought
into his fibre.

"Oh, Daniel, bless you!  Did she tell you that?  Yes,
she belongs to me, and I to her, and if you'll only tell me
where to find her, you'll make me the happiest man on
earth!"  He grasped the boy's hand in his firm, smooth
one, and they stood as if making a life compact, each glad
of the other's touch.  "Daniel, I feel as if you were an
angel of light!" broke out Charles.

The angel in blue homespun lifted his eyes to the
stranger's face, and was glad, since he might not have
the one he loved, that she belonged to this other.  He had
done the best he could do for her, and his was the part
of sacrifice.

"I can't tell you just where she is," said Daniel gravely.
"I thought mebbe you'd know from this.  She's sent me
two books since she went away, and they're both
post-marked 'New York.'  That's all I know."

He pulled out a tattered paper that had wrapped a
parcel, and together they studied the marks.  Charles's
face grew grave.  New York was a large place even in
those days.  Yet it was more definite than the whole
United States, which had been his field of action thus far.
He would not despair.  He would take heart of grace and
go forward.

"Daniel," said he, handing back the paper to its
owner, with a delicate feeling that the boy had the first
right to it, since he was the link between them, "will
you go to New York to-night with me and help me to
find her?"

Dan's face lit up until he was actually handsome.

"Me?"

Rags wagged his tail hard, and gave a sharp little bark,
as if to say: "Me?"

"Yes, both of you," said Charles joyously.  He felt
as if he were on the right track at last, and his soul could
fairly shout for happiness.

"Rags might do a lot toward finding her.  He'd track
her anywhere.  It was all I could do to get him away from
her when she got into the stage-coach to go away."  Dan
looked down at his four-footed companion lovingly, and
Rags lifted one ear in recognition of the compliment,
meanwhile keeping wistful eyes on the stranger.  It almost
looked as if he understood.

Charles stooped down and patted him warmly, and the
ugly little dog wriggled all over with great happiness,

"Of course he must go with us, then," said Charles.

"Yes, and the way he lit into that dressed-up chap
that came and frightened her away was something fine,"
went on Dan.

"Tell me about it," said Charles.

Dan gave a brief account of Harrington's visit to the
village and Dawn's departure.

Charles's face was grave and sad as they spoke
of his brother.  Harrington's death was too recent and
too terrible to admit of bitter memories.  He kept his
head bent down toward Rags, who was luxuriating in the
stranger's fondling, while Daniel was talking.  Then he
gave the dog a final pat and stood up.

"Daniel," said he, "that man was my brother, and
he died of cholera three days ago.  He did wrong and
made a lot of trouble, and he almost broke my father's
heart, but his death was an awful one, and perhaps we'd
better not think about his part in this matter any more.
He's gone beyond our reach."

"I didn't know," said Dan awkwardly.  "I'm sorry
I said anything——"

"It's all right," said Charles heartily.  "I saw how
you felt, and I thought I'd better tell you all about it.  I
need your help, and it's best to be frank.  And now, how
about it?  Will you go with me to help find her?  Will
your family object?  I'll see to the expense, of course, and
will make it as pleasant as I can for you."

"I'll go," said Dan briefly, but his tone meant a great
deal.  If he had lived in these days, he would have answered
"Sure!" with that peculiar inflection that implies
whole-souled loyalty.  Charles understood the embarrassed
heartiness, and took the reply as it was intended.

"How soon can we start?" he asked anxiously.  Every
moment meant something to him, and he was impatient
to be off.  He took out his watch.  It was quarter to six.
"They told me there was a night-coach making connection
with the early boat for New York.  It starts at seven
o'clock.  Would that be too soon for you?"

"That's all right," said Daniel, in a voice that was
hoarse with excitement.  "I just got to change my clothes.
Will you come in?"

"Suppose I wait on the front stoop," suggested Charles,
seeing the embarrassment in the boy's face.

"All right," said Daniel.  "I won't be long."

Mrs. Butterworth looked up anxiously as Dan came into
the kitchen.  She had been watching the interview from
the side window.

"I'm goin' to New York with one of Teacher's friends,
ma," he said, in the same tone he would have told her he
was going to the village store.  "Have I got a clean
shirt?"

"To New York!" echoed the woman, who herself had
never been outside of the county.  "To New York!"—aghast.
"Now, you look out, Dan'l.  You can't tell 'bout
strangers.  He may want to get you way from your friends
an' rob you."

"What is there to rob, I'd like to know?  He's welcome
to all he can get."

"You never can tell," said his mother, shaking her
head fearfully.  "You better take care, Dan'l."

"What's the matter with ye, Ma?  Didn't I tell you
he's a friend o' Miss Montgomery?  She told me all about
him.  We're goin' down to New York together to see her.
Where's my shirt?  He's invited me.  You needn't to
worry.  I may be gone a few days.  I'll write you a letter
when I get there.  I'm goin' to take the dog.  We're goin'
on the seven o'clock stage an' mebbe I'll find out somethin'
about goin' to college.  I'm goin' to college this fall if
there's any way.  I don't know whether he's had any
supper.  You might give him a doughnut.  He's on the
front stoop.  Say, where is my clean shirt, Ma?  It's
gettin' late."

Daniel had thrown off his coat and was struggling
with a refractory buckle of his suspenders as he talked.
His mother was roused at last to her duties, and brought
the shirt, with which he vanished to the loft.  Then the
mother, partly to reassure herself about the stranger, filled
a plate with cold ham, bread and butter, a generous slice
of apple pie, and three or four fat doughnuts, and
cautiously opened the front door.

Rags, not having to change his clothes, had remained
with Charles, and was enjoying a friendly hand on his
head while he sat alert waiting for what was to happen
next.  When Dan appeared things would move, he knew,
and he meant to be in them.  He wasn't going to trust
any verbal promises.  He was going with them if he had
to do it on the sly.

Charles arose and received the bountiful supper
graciously.  When Mrs. Butterworth saw the manner of
the stranger who sat on her front settle she was ashamed
to be handing him a plate outside, as if he were a tramp.
"Dan'l said you wouldn't come in," she said hospitably,
"and I couldn't bear not to give you a bite to eat.
You should 'a' happened 'long sooner, while supper was
hot.  We all thought a lot o' Miss Montgomery.  Was
you her brother, perhaps?"

While she had prepared the lunch, she had questioned
within herself what sort of "friend" this might be with
whom Dan was going to visit the teacher.  If Dan wanted
to "make up" to Teacher, why did he not go alone?

Charles perceived that Daniel had not explained to
his mother, and, keeping his own counsel, returned
pleasantly:

"Oh, no, not her brother," and he began to tell
Mrs. Butterworth how glad he was to have her son's company
on his visit to New York.  His manner was so reassuring
that she decided he was all right, and as Dan came down,
his face shining from much soap, and his hair plastered as
smoothly as his rough curls would allow, she said
pleasantly:

"You'll see my boy don't get into bad company down
in New York, won't you?  I'm worried, sort of, fer his
pa said last night there was cholera round."

Charles's face sobered in an instant.

"We'll take good care of each other, Mrs. Butterworth;
don't you worry.  I'm much obliged for your letting me
have Daniel for company, and I'll try to make him have a
pleasant time."

The village people stared at Dan as he got into the
stage with the stranger.  They wondered where he was
going.  One of the boys made bold to slide up to the coach
and ask him, but he got little satisfaction.

"Just running down to New York for a few days,"
Dan answered nonchalantly, as if it were a matter of
every-day occurrence.

Amid the envious stares of the boys, the coach drove
away into the evening, and Daniel sat silently beside his
companion, wondering at himself, his heart throbbing
greatly that he might within a few hours see the girl who
had made such a difference in his life.

About midnight everybody but Charles and Daniel got
out of the coach.  Comfortably ensconced, the two young
men might have slept, but Charles was too nervous and
excited to sleep, and Daniel was not far behind him.

"Daniel," said Charles, suddenly breaking the silence
that had fallen upon them, though each knew the other was
not sleeping, "by what name did she go?  Your mother
spoke of her as Miss Montgomery.  Was that the name
she gave?"

"Yes," said Daniel, wondering; "Mary Montgomery."

"It was her mother's name," said Charles reverently.
Dawn had talked to him of her mother on their wedding trip.

"Daniel, there is something more that perhaps I ought
to tell you.  Did she tell you that she and I are married?"

"No," said Dan.  His voice was shaking as he tried
to take in the thought.  It was as if he were expecting an
unbearable pain in a nerve that had already throbbed its
life out and was at rest.  He was surprised to find how
natural it seemed.  Then he stammered out:

"I guess I must have known, though.  She said she
belonged to you, and so nobody else could take care of
her."

"Thank you for telling me that," said Charles.  He
laid his hand warmly on Dan's.  The boy liked his touch.
Rags, who was sleeping at their feet, nestled closer to
them both with a sleepy whine.  He was content now that
he was really on his way.

"I guess," said Dan chokingly—"I guess I better tell
you the whole, because I like you, and you're the right
kind.  You seem like what she ought to have, and I'm glad
it's you—but—it was kind of hard, because, you see, I'd
have liked to take care of her myself.  I didn't know about
you till she told me, and though I knew, of course, I
wasn't much to look at beside her, I could have done a lot
for her, and I mean to go to college yet, any way, just to
show her.  You see, I guess it ain't right to go along with
you to see her, and not tell you what I said to her.  I told
her I loved her!  And it was true, too.  I'd have died for
her if it was necessary.  If that makes any difference to
you, Rags and I'll get out and walk back now.  I thought
I ought to tell you.  I couldn't help loving her, could I,
when she did so much for me?  And, you see, I never
knew about you."

It was a long speech for the silent Dan to make, but
Charles's warm hand-grasp through it all helped wonderfully,
as well as Dan's growing liking for Dawn's husband.

"Bless you, Daniel!" said Charles, throwing his arm
about his companion's shoulders, as he used to do with his
chums in college.  "You just sit right still where you are.
It was noble and honest of you to tell me that.  I believe
in my heart I like you all the better for it.  We are
brothers, you see, for I love her that way, too, and it gives
me a lot of comfort to know you can understand me.  But,
old fellow—I don't quite know how to say it—I'm deeply
sorry that your love has brought you only pain, and I feel
all the more warmly toward you that you tried to help her
when you knew she belonged to some one else.  I never
can thank you enough."

"I couldn't have helped it," said Dan gruffly.  "If
anybody *loved* her, they'd *have* to take care of her, *if it
killed 'em*."

"Dan, old fellow, I love *you*," said Charles impulsively.
"You can't know what this is to me, that you took care of
her when I couldn't.  I'll love you always, and I shall never
forget what you've done for me.  Now, begin at the
beginning and tell me all you know about her, won't you?  I'm
hungry to hear."

And Dan found himself telling the whole story of how
Dawn had conquered him, the ringleader of mischief in
the school, made him her slave, and helped him up to a
plane where higher ambitions and nobler standards had
changed his whole idea of life.

As he listened to the homely, boyish phrases and read
between the lines the pathos of Dawn's struggles, Charles
found tears standing in his eyes to think his little
girl-wife had been through so much all by herself, without
him near to help and comfort.  Would he ever, ever, be
able to make up to her for it?

He expressed this thought clumsily to Dan, and the boy,
all eager now with sympathy, and loving Charles as loyally
as Dawn, said royally:

"I calculate one sight of your face'll make her forget
it all.  Leastways, that's the way it looks to me."

They talked at intervals all night.  Charles drew from
Daniel his ambition to get an education and be worthy to
be the friend of such a teacher as he had had.  The boy
said it shyly, and then added, "And you too, if you'll let
me," and there in the early breaking of the morning light
the two young men made a solemn compact of friendship
through life.  When the sun shone forth and touched the
hills, glinting the Hudson in the distance, Daniel sat up
and looked about him with a new interest in life, and a
happier feeling in his heart than he had had since Dawn
went away.

Three days they spent in New York, searching for
Dawn.  The paper that had wrapped Dan's book they took
to the post-office first, and by careful inquiry were able to
discover in what quarter of the city the package was mailed,
though, of course, this was very slight information, as she
might have been far from her living place when she mailed
it.  They also discovered the store where the books were
bought, for Charles had had the forethought to send
Daniel back for them before they started.  The clerk who
had sold them to her remembered her, and described her as
beautiful, with black curls inside a white bonnet, and a
dark silk frock.  He said she had sad eyes, and looked thin
and pale.  This troubled Charles more than he was willing
to admit to Dan.

Having narrowed their clue to this most indefinite
point, they held a consultation and decided that the only
thing to do was to walk around that quarter of the city and
see if they could get sight of her.  Or possibly Rags would
get on a scent of her footsteps in some spot less travelled
than others.  It was almost a hopeless search, yet they
started bravely on the hunt, and talked to Rags in a way
that would have made an ordinary dog beside himself.

Charles had with him the gloves that Dawn had dropped
on the floor beside the bed when she fled from his home.
He always carried them with him in his breast-pocket.
He took them out and let Rags smell of them.  Then Dan
said:

"Rags, go find Teacher.  Teacher!  Rags!  Go find Teacher!"

Rags sniffed and looked wistfully in their faces, then
barked and started on a sniffing tour all about them, his
homely yellow-brown face wearing a look of dog anxiety.
He thought he comprehended what they wanted, but was
not sure.  He had felt a great loss since the teacher went
away.  Was it possible they expected him to find her?

During the three days, they haunted the streets of the
city, both day and evening, and Rags was quite worn out
with sniffing.  Once or twice he thought he had found a
trail, but it came to nothing, and he scurried dejectedly
on ahead, hoping his followers had not noticed him bark.
On the morning of the fourth day they turned into a
narrow street which was almost like a lane compared to
other streets.  There were only tiny, gloomy houses, and
noisy, foreign-looking people stood in the doorways or
conversed across the street.  It seemed a most unlikely
neighborhood for their search, and Charles was half of a
mind to turn back and take another street, but almost at
the entrance to the street Rags had gone quite wild and
nosed his way rapidly down the uneven pavement until
he stopped beside a humble doorstep and went nosing
about and yelping in great delight.  The door was closed,
but he tried the steps, and even sniffed under the crack,
and then came bounding back to his companions.

"What have you found, Rags, boy?" said Charles half-heartedly.
He did not believe they would find any trace
of Dawn here.

"He thinks he's found her," said Dan convincingly.
"He never acts like that without a reason.  Rags, find
Teacher!  Where is she, Rags?"

"Bow-wow!" answered Rags sharply, as much as to
say, "Why don't you open the door and find her yourself?"

An old woman came to the door, and looked sharply
at the dog on her clean step.  Charles took off his hat.

"We are looking for a friend, madam, who is stopping
in this neighborhood somewhere, and we do not know her
address.  Our dog thinks he has found a trace of her, but
he is probably mistaken.  You don't happen to have
noticed anywhere near here, a young woman with dark
eyes and dark, curling hair, lately come to the city—not
more than two months ago, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't be meanin' pretty Mary Montgomery—bless
her heart!—would ye?" the old woman asked quizzically,
surveying the two.

But Rags had stayed not on the order of his going.  He
had dashed past the old woman and up the stairs to the
floor above.

"Och!  Look at the little varmint!" said the old
woman, forgetting her question and dashing after the dog,
thus missing the startled look that came into the faces of
both young men.

But after a series of short, sharp barks, Rags returned
as quickly as he had gone, almost knocking the old lady
down her rickety stairs, in his delight, and bearing in
his mouth a fragment of gray cloth which he brought and
laid triumphantly at his master's feet.

Dan stooped and picked it up almost reverently and
smoothed the frayed edges.  It was a bit of Dawn's gray
school-dress that she had torn off where the facing was
worn and had caught her foot as she walked.  Dan recognized
the cloth at once.  Charles had never seen the gown,
but he saw that the bit of cloth had some significance to
Dan.  He rushed in after the old lady, who had now
descended the stairs wrathfully behind the dog.

"Tell me where this Miss Montgomery is, please," he
said as quietly as he could.  He had followed so many
clues and seen them turn into nothing before his eyes, he
scarcely could dare hope now.  His heart was beating
wildly.  Was he to see Dawn again at last?

"Och!  An' I wish I knew, the darlint!" said the
garrulous old woman.  "She lift me yistherday marnin',
an' it's thrue I miss the sight o' her sweet smile an' her
pretty ways.  She was a young wummun of quality, was
she, an' I sez to me dauther, sez I, 'Kate, mind the ways
o' her, the pretty ways o' Mary Montgomery,' sez I, 'fer
it's not soon ye'll see such a lady agin.'"

"Has she been here in your house, do you say?"
asked Charles anxiously.  He felt he must keep very
calm or he might lose the clue.

"Yis, sorr, that she was.  She ockepied me back siccond
floor, an' a swater lady niver walked the earth, ef she *was*
huntin' work fer her pretty, saft hands to do, what she
couldn't get nowhere, sorr, more's the pity.  Would yez
like to coom up an' tak a luik at the rum?  It's as nate
a rum as ye'll find in the sthreet, ef I do say so as shouldn't,
though a bit small fer two.  But there's the frunt siccond
floor'll be vacant to-morry, at only a shillun more the
wake."

Daniel held up the fragment of cloth.

"It's the frock she wore to school," he said.  He spoke
hoarsely and handled it as though it belonged to the dead.
It seemed terrible to him to have found where she had
been, and not find her.

They followed the old woman upstairs, scarcely hearing
her dissertation, nor realizing that she took them for
possible roomers.

The room was neat, as the woman had said, but bare—so
bare and gloomy!  Nothing but blank walls and chimneys
to be seen from the tiny window, where the sun
streamed in unhindered across the meagre bed and deal
chair and table which were the only furnishings.  Charles's
heart grew tender with pity, and his eyes filled with tears,
as he looked upon it all and realized that his wife had
slept there on that hard bed, and had for a time called
that dreary spot home.  He glanced involuntarily out of
the window, noting the garbage in the back yards below,
and the unpleasant odors that arose, and remembered the
warnings and precautions with which the papers had been
filled even before the cholera had come so close to them.
He shuddered to think what might have happened to Dawn.

"But where has she gone?" he asked the old woman.

"Yes, that's what we want to know," said Dan.

"Yes, where!" barked Rags behind the old woman's
heels, which made her jump and exclaim, "Och, the
varmint!" until Dan called the dog to his side.

"She's gone.  Lift me, an' no rason at all at all, savin'
thet she couldn't find wark, an' her money most gahn.  I
sez to her as she went out that dor, sez I, 'Yez betther go
hum to yer friends ef yez kin find 'em.  It's bad times fer
a pretty un like you, an' you with yer hands that saft;'
but she only smiled at me like a white rose, an' was away,
sayin' she'd see, and she thankin' me all the whilst fer
the little I'd been able to do fer her—me that's a widder
an' meself to kape."

Nothing more could they get from the good woman,
though they tried both with money and questions.  Dawn
had been there for two months, and had gone out every
day hunting work.  She had come back every night weary
and discouraged, but always with a smile.  At last she had
come home with a newspaper, her face whiter than usual,
and, as the old widow had put it, said: "'Mrs. O'Donnell,
I'm away in the marn, fer I'm thinkin' it's best;' and
away she goes."

The two young men turned away at last, after having
made Rags smell all around the room.  He insisted upon
their taking a folded bit of paper that he found on the
floor by the window, as if it were something precious
belonging to her.  They bade Mrs. O'Donnell good-by,
after Charles had given her something to solace her for
losing two prospective roomers, and went out to search
again.

Rags preceded them down the street, following the
scent rapidly until he reached the corner, where he seemed
in some perplexity for a time.  Finally, he chose the street
leading to the river, and going more slowly and crookedly,
sometimes zigzagging and sometimes going back to make
sure, he brought them at last to the boat-landing.

Perhaps, they thought, she might have followed the
advice of the old woman and gone back to her own home
region—who knew?  With heavy hearts, they set about
finding what boats had left the wharf the day before,
about the hour the old woman had said that the girl had
left her house.

But the morning boat of the day before had just come
in and was lying by for repairs.  After some questioning,
the captain professed to recall such a passenger as they
described, but as all the decks had been scrubbed, Rags
with his eager nose was unable to corroborate the captain's
testimony.  Charles and Dan lost no time in securing
passage on the boat, which was to sail that evening for
Albany, where the captain said he was sure the young lady
had gotten off the evening before.

The remainder of the afternoon they spent in making
inquiries in every direction, leaving written messages
directed to Miss Mary Montgomery, and putting notices in
the various city papers.  Rags, meantime, was much
annoyed and disturbed by their digression.  He felt that
the boat was the place to stay.  He was satisfied they
were on the right track.  If he had been managing the
expedition, he would have had the boat start at once.  When
it finally did leave the wharf, he sat up on deck with his
fore-feet on the railing and barked his satisfaction, then
settled down to rest at the feet of the two beloved ones,
with a smile of satisfaction on his grizzly face.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVI`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER XXVI

.. vspace:: 2

The day before Dawn left New York the city papers
officially announced that the cholera had reached the city.
Their columns were filled with admonitions, and the symptoms
of the disease from start to finish were plainly told.
Everybody was ordered to clean up and keep clean.

There seemed to be nothing but cholera news in the
paper.  A full report was given of every case, and two
long columns reported the progress of the disease in other
States and cities.

As Dawn passed wearily away from an office where she
had spent the entire day waiting for a man who she hoped
might use his influence to get her a chance to teach a
small school in a country district, but who did not come,
she caught the cry of the newsboys.

"*New York Commercial-Advertiser*!  All 'bout the cholera!"

It was not often she spent her hoarded pennies for a
paper, but a sudden desire to know the truth about the
fearful epidemic seized her.  She bought a paper, and
turned to the general report column.  Almost at once her
eye caught the name of a town not far from where her
father lived, with a report of three cases of cholera.  She
read on down the column, and suddenly her heart stood
still with horror.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: small

"SLOANSVILLE [she read].  A man who gave his name as
Harrington Winthrop died here last week of cholera.  He was in an
advanced stage of the disease when he arrived in a hired
carriage, and died a few hours later.  His father and brother were
sent for and arrived before his death.  This case has caused a
panic among the negroes in the vicinity, and there have been a
few suspicious cases of illness which are being carefully watched.
Everything is being done to prevent a further spread of the
disease.

.. vspace:: 2

Dawn felt a sudden weakness, and hurried back to her
wretched boarding place to lie down.  She did not feel
like eating any supper, though the old woman prepared
some tea and toast and brought it up to her.

Dawn lay panting on her hard little bed, and the hot
breath of the night came in at her window, redolent of all
the departed dinners of the neighborhood.  A stench of
garbage sometimes varied the atmosphere as the faint
breeze died away, and the noises of a careless, happy-go-lucky
community jangled all about her.  She thought of
the rules of cleanliness that had been laid down in the
papers, and of the probability that they would not be
carried out in this street.  She pictured herself sick with
cholera, with no one but the poor old woman to wait upon
her, and no doctor.  The smells, the awful smells, would
be going on and on, and she would be unable to get up
and get away from them.  She thought of the hot, hot sun
that would stream in at her curtainless window when the
day broke again, and wondered why she had come to this
terrible city, where there was no work, and no place in
the world for a lonely pilgrim whom nobody wanted.

Then over her rolled a deep relief at the thought that
Harrington Winthrop would trouble her no more, though
it seemed awful to rejoice in what must have been a
terrible death.  Yet it could not but make life freer for her,
for she would have one thing less to fear.

Gradually, as she thought about it, another fear seized
her.  Charles, his brother, her husband, had been with
him when he died.  Perhaps he too would take it and
die, and she would never know, never see him again in this
life.  She would be left alone—alone in this awful world
where she had no friends, and none to love her, save a poor
boy to whose kind heart she had brought only pain.

Why not go back to the neighborhood where Charles
was?  She need not let herself be known.  She could
surely find some secluded place where she could earn
enough to keep her, yet where she might find out how he
was, and maybe catch a glimpse of him now and then!

It was strange this idea had not entered her mind
before.  It had never seemed to her possible that she could
go back.  But now the spectre of death had made her see
things in a different light.  She wanted to get back to the
greenness and the coolness of the country, and, most of
all, she wanted to know if Charles was living and was
well.  After that, it did not matter what became of her;
but now she knew she was going back, and she was going
at once—in the morning.

She went down to tell the old lady her purpose, and
after that she slept.  The next morning she gathered up
her few belongings and took the boat for Albany.

She had no settled purpose of where she would go
after reaching her objective point.  She did not know the
name of the town where Charles lived.  Strangely enough,
it had never been mentioned in her hearing, and she had
not thought to ask.  She was beginning to feel as if she
must have been half asleep when a good many important
events in her life happened.  Was she half asleep now also,
she wondered idly?

As they passed the old school of Friend Ruth, Dawn
looked out hungrily and longed inexpressibly to be a girl
again, studying her lessons and knowing little of the
hardness of life.

When the boat reached Albany she took the first
stagecoach that appeared, without asking where it went.  Her
money was almost gone, but she paid the fare without a
pang.  What did anything matter, now that she was out
of New York?

Everywhere the talk was of the cholera, and her heart
grew sick as she heard the details of the dread disease, and
long, minute descriptions of how best to nurse it.

The stage-coach reached a pretty village late in the
afternoon, and Dawn left it, to take a walk and rest herself
from the long sitting.

She had but a few dollars left.  Perhaps she ought not
to use any more for fare, but stay where she was if she
liked it, or walk farther.

She did not feel like eating anything, so she grasped
her little bundle of well-worn garments, and walked down
the village street.

There was a white church with a wide porch, and stairs
in front, leading to the gallery.  At the side was the
graveyard, its wicket gate shaded by a great weeping
willow.  Just inside was a seat under the tree.  Dawn
tried the gate and found it unlatched, and she went in
and wandered about among the graves, reading here and
there a name idly, and wondering how it would seem to
lie down and sleep in that quiet resting place.

Deep in the centre, so far from the street that she
could not be seen, she sank in the grass at the foot of a
green mound, and laid her face down upon the blossoming
myrtle.  How nice it would be if this were a great, free
inn where strangers might come and lie down, and the
servants would bring each one a green blanket for covering,
and a white stone at the head of his pillow, and let him
sleep in peace and quietness forever.  She was so weary,
so weary, body and soul.

At last she roused herself, and, looking up at the
stone above her, traced the name with startled senses:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center small  white-space-pre-line

   MARY MONTGOMERY,
   Born 1798, Died 1825.
   *Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.*

.. vspace:: 2

Now, indeed, Dawn was wide awake!  This, then, was
her mother's grave.  She verified the dates with her own
memory.  She traced the letters tenderly with her fingers,
she took in the significance of the quotation, and read
her mother's story as she had never been told it by any one.
Her mind, made keen by suffering, could understand and
sympathize.  Her young heart ached with longing for
the mother who was gone from her.  How might they
have comforted each other if they could only have been
permitted to stay together!

A little later she moved her position and saw that
there was a smaller mound beyond her mother's grave,
and that the white stone read:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line

   CARROLL MONTGOMERY VAN RENSSELAER,
   Aged 2 years and 9 months.
   *He shall gather the lambs in His arms.*

.. vspace:: 2

Before this stone Dawn knelt in wonder.  Had she,
then, had a brother?  And how much more of the story
was there?  Oh, if she had only asked her father more
questions!  Perhaps some day she would dare to go to
him and find out many things.  Not now—not till she
was older and had forgotten some of the troubles she had
borne.  Poor child!  She knew not that his body had been
resting beneath a stately monument these ten days past!
Beyond her was her grandfather's stone, and beside it
her grandmother's, much older and moss-covered.  In
the same enclosure were many other Montgomerys who
had lived and died.  Some of their names she thought she
remembered.  She sighed wearily, and, going back to her
mother's grave, touched the letters of her name gently,
as if she would bid them farewell, picked a spray of the
blossoming myrtle, and went sadly out into a lonely world
again.  She could not stay here; it was too sorrowful.

She walked to the next village that afternoon, and
took another coach, the first that came along, going she
knew not where.  When she reached the end of the route
the next morning, she took up her walk again, resolving
to spend no more money for riding.  She did not realize
how long she had walked, but some time in the afternoon
she came into a familiar region.  She could not tell where
she was at first, but as she drew near to the village she
recognized it as her native town.

At first she was frightened, and stopped by the roadside
to think what to do.  Then a great longing to see the
garden once more, and creep into the old summer-house,
came over her.  Skirting the woods on the outside of the
village, and going around by the saw-mill, she at last came
to the hedge at the lower end of her father's garden, and
slipped through to the summer-house, as she had wished.

The mansion looked quiet.  No one seemed moving
about.  But, then, it had always seemed that way.  She
had no fear that any one would discover her, for the hedge
was thick and tall, and had not been cut lately.  She
crept into her old corner in the greenness and quiet.  The
cushions were there as they used to be, but they looked
weather-beaten, as if no one had been there in a long time.
She brushed them off, spread her mantle upon them, and
lay down.  It was very still all about, and she soon slept.
Some time in the night she awoke with a feeling of chill
and loneliness.  It was night, she knew by the darkness,
and a sense of something strange and sad brooded in the
air.  But she was very weary, and soon slept again.

When she awoke again it was late morning.  She knew
by the sun that the day was well begun, and she was
impressed almost immediately by the quietness of her
surroundings.  There seemed to be no one about.  Not a
sound came from the house.  The bees and the cicadas
droned and whetted their hot scythes in the burning day,
but otherwise there was a torrid silence.

The little hedged summer-house was not far from the
street.  It seemed strange to the girl that she heard no
one passing.  She got up and made herself as tidy as the
circumstances allowed, and then stole toward the house,
keeping within hiding of the hedges.  She had no mind
to let any one see her, but a strange fascination led her to
look again upon her old home.

The shutters were all staring wide, as if forgotten, and
the front door stood open, but no one was about.  Dawn
wondered if the old servants were still there, but no sound
came from the direction of the kitchen.  She stole nearer,
though her judgment warned her to go away if she did
not wish to be seen and recognized.  A power stronger
than she realized seemed drawing her on.

With sudden impulse, she stepped softly up to the front
door and peeped in.  She had no deep love for this old
house, for the memories of her mother there had been
dimmed and marred by later happenings; but Dawn had
been a wanderer so many months now, that even to look
upon a place where she had once had a right to be, was good.

The hall looked much as ever, though there was no
hat lying on the polished mahogany table, and a coating
of dust showed clearly in the stream of sunshine from
the front door.  Her father's walking-sticks were not in
their accustomed place either.  She wondered a little, and
then was impressed again by the deep stillness that lay
over everything.  What could it mean?  Was no one
about?  Surely they had not gone off and left the house
alone and the front door wide open!

The curious longing for a sight of something familiar
which had brought her thus far drew her on.  Cautiously
she stepped into the hall and peered into this room and
that—the parlor, the library, the dining-room, and back
through the servants' quarters into the kitchen.  All were
empty!

The fire was out, and a heap of ashes lay on the hearth,
as if no one had made an attempt to put things to rights
for hours.  There were unwashed dishes on the kitchen
table, and on the bread board, beside the knife, lay half a
loaf of bread which had moulded in the warm, moist
atmosphere.  It was all very strange.  What could have
happened?

With a growing sense that the house was empty now,
Dawn went upstairs, looking first into her own old room
and the guest rooms, and coming at last to the door of that
which had been her step-mother's.  It was closed, and
she hesitated to open it.  What need had she to go in
there, any way?  It could profit her nothing.  If her
step-mother was there, Dawn did not wish to see her.
The girl paused an instant, then her soft tread turned
back again to go downstairs, but a low sound, like a moan,
caught her ear, and something made her turn again and
open the door, though cold chills were creeping down her
spine, and a frenzy of fear had seized upon her.

There upon the high four-poster bed lay her step-mother,
her eyes sunken into deep sockets, her cheeks
hollow, her nose thin and pointed, her whole face pinched
and blue, with lines of agony in her expression.

Dawn felt her heart leap in fear, but she went forward.
There seemed nothing else to do.

The sunken eyes turned toward her dully, and the blue
lips uttered a low moan, then, suddenly, the sick woman
fixed her gaze upon the girl's face in growing horror, and
a livid look came into her face.

"Is that you at last?" she asked in a deep, hoarse
voice that sounded strange and unnatural.  "Are we both
dead?"

A cold perspiration had come out upon the girl, and
the awfulness of the situation seemed to be taking her
senses away, but she tried to speak coolly, and still the
wild beating of her heart.

"Yes, I've come," said Dawn; "but we're not dead.
What is the matter?  Are you sick?  I found the front
door open, and no one around."

"They've all gone and left me," moaned the woman,
beginning to turn her head with a strange, restless
movement from side to side.  "They rushed off like frightened
cattle.  You'll go, too, I suppose, when you know I've got
the cholera.  Yes, go quick.  I don't want to do you any
more harm than I have already.  Oh!"

The sentence broke in a cry of agony, and the sick
woman writhed in terrible contortions, which, passing, left
her weak and almost lifeless.  The girl's heart was filled
with horror, but she took off her bonnet and cape and laid
down her bundle.

"No, I'm not going to leave you," she said sadly,
almost dully.  "I'm not afraid, and, besides, it doesn't
matter about me, any way.  Have you had the doctor?"

The woman shook her head.  The agony was not all passed.

"There wasn't any one to go for him," she murmured
weakly, tossing restlessly again.  "Oh, I'm so thirsty!
Can you get me some water?"

"Where is Father?" asked Dawn, wondering if he too
had deserted her.

"Didn't you know he was dead?" asked the sick
woman, in that strangely hoarse voice.

"No," said Dawn, shuddering.  Everybody seemed to
be dying.  Would she die, too?

She hurried to the old medicine closet and in a moment
returned with the camphor bottle and some lumps of sugar,
and administered several drops of camphor.  The patient's
hands were cold and blue.  Dawn tucked her up with
blankets warmly.

"You lie still," she said in a business-like tone.  "I'll
get some hot water bottles for your hands and feet, and
then I'll call the doctor."

"It isn't worth while for you to stay here and get the
cholera," said the woman plaintively.  "I'm not going to
get over it.  I've known it all night.  It was coming on
yesterday.  I tried to straighten up the house, but I was
too dizzy and weak.  The servants all went away when
they heard me say I didn't feel well.  There have been
several other cases——"

But Dawn did not hear all her step-mother said, for
she had hurried down to get a fire started.  It was no
easy task for her unaccustomed hands to strike the fire
from the tinder-box, and after one or two fruitless efforts
she decided to waste no more time, but to run to the
neighbor's and borrow a kettle of water, at the same time
sending a message for the doctor.  She was terribly
frightened by her step-mother's appearance, and knew she must
be very ill indeed.  It seemed as if all possible haste was
necessary if she would help to save her life.

Upstairs, the sick woman was tossing and moaning.
The sudden appearance of the girl who had been the
occasion of so much trouble in her life seemed to make the
agony all the greater.  She knew that she was face to face
with death, and now to have the girl she had injured meet
her almost on the threshold of the other world, and
minister to her, was double torment.  If only she could do
something to make amends for the wrong she had done,
before she left the world and went to meet her just
retribution!  Her fevered brain tried to think.  What was there
she could do?

The girl had come, and would probably take the disease
and die.  Her husband might never know she was here.
No one would find it out until she was dead.  If only
she—Mrs. Van Rensselaer—had some way of letting Charles
Winthrop know that his wife had come home.  If she could
get up and go out into the street and beg some one to
take him a message!  But her strength was gone, and the
agony might come upon her at any moment.  She would
have to do it at once, or the girl would return and stop
her.  Could she try?

All her life she had been a woman of iron will.  She
had made herself and every one except her husband bend
to it.  She summoned it now.  She would try.  She would
make one supreme effort to right the great wrong of her
life.  If in the other world to which she knew she was
going in a few short hours there was opportunity to meet
the husband she had loved as she had loved nothing else
on earth besides herself, she would like to tell him that
she had tried—that at the last hour she had tried to make
some amends.

With the extraordinary strength which mind sometimes
gives to body at times of great necessity, as in cases
of soldiers mortally wounded fighting to the end, the
woman crawled out of the bed and dragged herself over to
the desk.  Her eyes were bright with her great purpose and
blazed like sunken fires.  Her gray, thin hair straggled
down upon the collar of the old dressing-gown she had
put on when first taken sick.  She seized her quill pen
and a sheet of paper that lay there, and with cramped,
shaking hand wrote, "Dawn is here," and signed her
name, "Maria Van Rensselaer."  The scrawl was almost
unreadable, but she dared not try to write it over.  She
dared not add another word.  Her time was short.  Her
strength already was failing.  She had yet to get the
message into some one's hands.  Perhaps even now she
would fail.  She crushed the folds together with her cold
fingers, wrote "Charles Winthrop" and the address, and
then tottered across the room to the door.  She almost fell
as she reached the stair-landing.  The dizzy, blinding
blackness that seemed pressing upon her almost
overwhelmed her.  She felt the pain and torment surging
back, but she fought it off and would not yield.  This
was her last chance to make amends—her last chance.  She
said it over to herself as she clung to the banisters and
got down the stairs clumsily.  If Dawn had been in the
house, she must have heard her.

It looked like miles to the front gate as the sick woman
came out on the piazza, but somehow she got there—a
queer, ghastly figure of death, clinging to the gate-post,
with a letter and a purse in her hand.

In the distance she saw a negro approaching.  He was
scuttling along with a frightened gait, as if he wished to
hurry through the street.  She felt her strength going.
If she could only stand up till he reached her!  It seemed
to her hours before he came to the gate.  She had kept
back out of sight, instinctively feeling he would be scared
away if he saw her.

"Take that to the post office or God will punish you!"
she said, in the deep, hoarse voice the disease had given her,
and thrust the letter and the purse upon him.

The negro stopped with a yell of fright, but her words
had the desired effect.  She had worked upon the
superstition of his race.  He dared not disobey her command.
Taking the letter and the purse in his thumb and finger,
that he might not come in contact with them more than
was necessary—for a glance at the face of the woman had
warned him of her malady—he ran at top speed to the
post-office.  His eyes rolled with horror as he told of the
old woman who had accosted him.  He felt as if his
days were numbered and he fled the village immediately,
not caring where he went so he got away from the haunting
memory of the living dead who had given him the letter.

With almost superhuman effort Mrs. Van Rensselaer
turned to go back to the house, but the iron will could
carry her no further.  Her strength was gone.  She had
accomplished her errand, and had come to the end.  She
had done her best to make amends for her sin.  She sank
unconscious by the gateway.

Meantime, Dawn had hurried through the hedge by a
short cut to the nearest neighbor's, but failed to get any
response to her urgent knock.  She went around the house
and perceived that it was closed.  The family must be
away.  She flew to the neighbor just below with the same
result, and going on farther down the street to four other
houses, found no one in sight.  At the fifth, some distance
from her home, a woman stepped fearfully out of the
kitchen door, and agreed to send word to the doctor, but
shook her head at the demand for hot water.  She could
not spare her kettle.  She had sickness in the house
herself.  No, she didn't think Dawn could get any at the
next house either.  Everybody that could get away had
gone since the cholera struck the town.  Then the woman
went in and shut the door and with new horror Dawn sped
back to try her hand again at making the fire.

The necessity was so strongly upon her now that she
fairly *made* that fire burn, and at last had a kettle of hot
water to carry upstairs.

Dawn was so intent upon carrying her great steaming
kettle up the front stairs without spilling the contents
that she failed to hear the wheels of a carriage upon the
gravel drive outside.  It was not until she had carried
the kettle into the bedroom and put it on the hearth and
then turned toward the bed that she discovered the bed
was empty!

A great horror filled her.  Trembling, she knew not
why, she quickly glanced into the other rooms on that floor.
It seemed almost as if the pestilence had become a living
being that could snatch people bodily away from the earth.

She seemed to have no voice with which to call, yet
she felt upon her a necessity of great haste.  Perhaps her
step-mother had gone downstairs in search of her.  She
hurried down a few steps, then stopped, startled.
Someone was coming into the front door, staggering under the
heavy burden of an inert, human form.  It looked a vivid
blot of darkness against the background of the hot summer
sunshine outside.

Dawn hurried down, with white face and horrified eyes,
and saw that it was the old family doctor, and that he
held her step-mother in his arms.  A sudden pang of
remorse went through her heart that she had been away
from the sick one so long, yet how could she have helped
it?  Was Mrs. Van Rensselaer perhaps trying to find her,
or was she seeking aid, and had fallen by the way?

"Oh, why did she get up!" she exclaimed regretfully.
"I came just as soon as I could get the water hot!"  Then
she caught hold of the heavy form of the unconscious
woman and helped with all her young strength to lift and
drag her up to her room again.

"She might have been out of her head, child," said
the doctor kindly, as if in answer to her exclamation.  He
was searching in his medicine case for a certain bottle
as he spoke.  His breath was coming in short, quick gasps
from the exertion of carrying the sick woman upstairs,
and the perspiration stood in great beads on his forehead.
His face looked old and haggard, and his voice was that of
one who had seen much recent sorrow.  He walked rapidly
asking a few keen questions and giving brief directions.
He nodded approvingly at the kettle of hot water, sent
Dawn for one or two articles he needed, then when he had
done all he could, and the sick woman was breathing more
naturally, he turned and looked at Dawn.

She had told him in a few words how she had found the
house when she arrived, and the little she had done.  He
looked her through with his kind tired eyes, noted the
sweet, sad face, the dark circles under her eyes, the pallor
of the thin cheeks, and shook his head doubtfully.

"You're young for this sort of thing," he said gruffly.
"It's a hard case, and her only hope is good nursing.
I'm afraid you're not equal to it.  You'll break down
yourself."

"Oh, no, I'm quite strong," said Dawn, bravely trying
to smile.

"Well, I don't know how it can be helped," he mused.
"I don't know of a single person I can get to help you.
It may be Patience Howe could come if she can get away
from the Pettibones.  I'll see what I can do.  I'll stop
and send a line to Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister.  She'll
likely come down by to-morrow.  You know she was here
when your father died.  Do you think you could get along
to-night alone in case I can't get any one?  I'll try to get
back here before dark if I can and bring some one to
stay with you.  I haven't had a wink of sleep for
forty-eight hours except what I caught on the road.  I'll get
back as soon as I can."

Dawn assured him she would do her best, though her
heart quaked within her at thought of staying alone
with the death-like sleeper upon the bed.  The doctor gave
a few directions and cautions, and hurried away.

The house settled into quiet, and the hours stretched
into torturing length.  Dawn slipped downstairs to find
some food, for she was growing faint with long fasting.
But there was nothing in the house fit to eat.  The bread
was moist and sticky with the damp, warm atmosphere,
and she had no heart to cook anything.  She had arranged
the fire to keep the kettle boiling, for hot water was an
essential in the sick-room.  Now she caught sight of a
basket of eggs and dropped several into the boiling water.
These would keep her alive and be easy to eat.

The afternoon was a long agony.  She spent most of
the time applying hot cloths, and chafing the skin of her
step-mother.  From time to time the woman would almost
waken or moan and toss in her sleep.  As the hot, red
sun slipped down in the west and the oppressive darkness
settled upon the house, Dawn felt more alone than she
had ever been in all of her short, troublous life.  She
lighted a candle and set it on the floor in the hall, as in
the room it seemed to trouble the patient.  The long,
flickering shadows wavered over the floor in ghostly march,
and the nurse sat and watched them till it seemed that
they were the shadows of all the troubles that had taken
their way through her young life.

It was late in the evening when the doctor finally
returned, and he was alone.  But Dawn was glad to see
his kindly face, for she had almost given up hoping for
him that night, and it seemed terrible to her to sit there
and feel that the death angel was standing at the other
side of the bed, perhaps.

But the doctor's eyes brightened a little as he looked at
the patient.

"She's holding her own," he murmured.  "You've
done pretty well, little girl.  Just as well as an experienced
nurse.  If you can keep it up during the night you may
save her life.  I'm sorry I couldn't get any one to stay
with you to-night, but there wasn't a soul who was not
already taking care of two or more cases.  I'd stay myself,
but there are three cases I must save to-night if possible.
Keep up the treatment as before, and if she rouses again
try this new medicine."

He was gone as quickly as he had come, and she was
alone with her charge once more, but a new spark of
interest was in her work.  He had said she might save her
step-mother's life.  She wondered dully why she should
care when the woman had done her so much harm, but she
did care, and the fact gave her peace.

While she thus thought she was aware that the sick
woman's eyes had opened and were gazing at her with a
strange, deep wonder, as if they would ask: "Are you
here yet?  Have you stayed alone to nurse me, when I
have always hated you, and done you harm?"

Dawn came quickly over to the bed and stood in the
path of light that the candle shed from the hall doorway.
She took the patient's hands in her own and noticed that
they were not so cold as they had been, and she asked
gently: "Do you want anything?"

For a moment her step-mother only looked at her, and
then her lips stirred as if in an effort to speak, but she
uttered only one word, "Forgive?"

Dawn's heart bounded with a sudden, unexpected pleasure,
and the tears sprang to her eyes.

"Of course!" she said briskly, "it's all right, but you
must lie still and help get well."

A gentler light came into Mrs. Van Rensselaer's
anxious eyes.  Once more, as if to make sure that she
had heard aright, she murmured her question, "Forgive?"

Dawn stooped impulsively and kissed her.  Then an
actual smile of peace settled into the hard face of
die woman on the bed, changing it utterly.

"It's all right," said Dawn again eagerly.  "And now,
you must take your medicine and not talk any more.  You
are going to get well.  The doctor says so, and you must
go to sleep at once."

She administered the new medicine, and with another
smile like a tired child the sick woman sank away into
a gentle, restful sleep.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day that
the doctor returned with Mrs. Van Rensselaer's sister, who
established herself by the bedside with energy and
competence.  The doctor, noticing Dawn's wan look and
sleep-heavy eyes, ordered her to go to bed at once or there would
be two patients instead of one to look after.  Mrs. Van
Rensselaer he pronounced decidedly better.

Dawn, as she slipped away from the sick room, felt
dizzy and faint with weariness.  She reflected that she
would probably contract the disease herself, and it might
come upon her suddenly.  She had read of many cases that
died almost at once.  The thought gave her no alarm.  It
would be good to go quickly.  She went to her own room
feeling that she had come almost to the end of things.

Her dress was torn and wet from much working with
the hot water and flannels.  Her face and hands were
blackened with soot from the fire.  Tired as she was she
must freshen herself a little before going to sleep.

She bathed and dressed in fresh garments that she
found hanging in her closet, and put on the little white
frock she had worn the day before her marriage, smoothed
her hair, and then, taking a pillow and some comfortables
from the bed, she went downstairs.  The thought had
come to her that it would be good to get out to the arbor
again.  If she were to die, it would be as well there as
anywhere.

As she passed down the garden walk, a rose thorn
caught her white gown, and in freeing herself she noticed
a spray of roses like those Charles had picked for her a
year ago.  Their fragrance seemed to touch her tired senses
like healing balm.

After she had spread her comfortables on the floor of
the little summer-house, she stepped back and broke off
the spray of roses, and lay down with their cool leaves
against her hot cheek.  Breathing in their odor, she fell
into a deep sleep, in which no dreams came to ruffle her
peace.

She had not noticed when she lay down that the long,
red rays of the sun were very low.  The excitement through
which she had lived, the lack of food, the unusual exertion
and the sudden release from the necessity of doing
anything, made her stupid with weariness.  The sun slipped
quickly down, and the cool darkness of the garden soothed
her.  A tiny breeze gave her new life, and she slept as
sweetly as the sleeping birds in the trees over her head,
while the kind stars looked down and kept watch, and the
roses nestled close and spoke of him she loved.

In the village, pestilence stalked abroad and the shadow
of death hovered, but in the garden there were quiet and
peace and rest.  And if the languid winds played a
solemn dirge among the pines near the old house, they
disturbed her not, safe sheltered among God's flowers with
others of his beautiful, dependent creatures.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVII`:

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   CHAPTER XXVII

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Charles and Dan had stayed in Albany several days,
questioning coach drivers and making enquiries at all the
inns; but no one seemed to remember Dawn.  It happened
that the driver with whom she had left Albany had broken
his leg the very day after, so he was not there to be
questioned.  Heartsick and despairing, the two young men did
not know what to do.  Even Rags was dejected, and
whined at having to leave the boat.  Somehow he seemed
to think it would bring them to her if they but stayed by
it long enough.  He was for going back to New York
when the boat went, and told the others so with a wise
bark, but they heeded him not.  He went about snuffing
helplessly, and spent much time with his nose in his paws,
one sad blinking eye open to a disappointing world.

They reached the Winthrop home a few hours before
Mrs. Van Rensselaer's letter arrived.

It was Betty who brought the strange, scrawled letter
to Charles, and she wore an anxious look.  She had
half-hesitated whether she would not keep it till morning, he
looked so tired and worn.  These were troublous times,
and no one knew at night but that his dearest friend might
be dead by morning.  Betty would have spared her brother
if she had dared.

Charles noticed the postmark, and tore the envelope
open quickly, some premonition quickening his heart-beats.

"Dawn is here!"

He read the significant words, then repeated them
aloud, his voice containing a solemn ring of wonder and
joy.  Could it be true?

"Betty, tell the boy to saddle two horses and have
them ready at once.  Dan, you'll go with me, of
course....  No, I've no time for supper....
Well, just a cup of hot broth.  Or, stay, put some in a
bottle, and I'll take it with me.  I might need it on the
way....  Are you ready, Dan? ... Tell father,
Betty.  I'll be downstairs in just a minute."

They were off almost immediately, for the willing
servant had hastened with the horses, and had ready a
lantern for their use when the moon should go down.
Betty handed each of them a bottle of hot broth tightly
sealed, to put in their pockets.  They rode through the
night, silent for the most part, each gravely apprehensive
of what might be at the end of the journey.  It was a
strange, abrupt message Charles had received, and he
pondered over and over what its purport might be.  Was
Dawn sick, or dead?  Why had not Mrs. Van Rensselaer
told him more?  Perhaps before he could reach his wife
she would be gone again, as before.  With this thought, he
hurried his horse.  Once he caught a glimpse of a sharp
abyss within a few feet of where he passed.  One misstep
and the journey would have ended.  Charles marvelled
how he was going through unknown dangers without a
thought, just because his heart was full of a great purpose.

It was in the early morning that they reached the
village where the Van Rensselaers lived.

Rags was tired and splashed with mud.  His tail
dragged wearily behind him, his head drooped, and his
tongue hung out.  He wasn't used to being up all night,
nor to travelling on foot behind fast horses.  He thought
his companions must be crazy to come away off here
where there was no scent.  How could they expect to know
what they were doing in the night?  Rags wanted a good
juicy bone, and a rug in a quiet place.

As the two young men turned their horses in at the
great gate, the sound of the hoofs clattered hollowly and
echoed back in the empty place.

Rags mounted the steps and sat down, looking disconsolately
around.  He did not care for this place, fine though
it might be.  He was dreadfully tired.  The front door was
open, but he had no desire to investigate.

Charles dismounted and went into the house.  It struck
him as strange that the front door should be open so early
in the morning.  He had noticed the deserted look of this
part of the town, and he felt the chill of fear grip his
heart.  Had the cholera reached her ahead of him?  Was
it in this town?  Even in this house?

As Dawn had done, he looked into the empty rooms.

Rags got up and limped to the door after him, snuffed
around, and then suddenly gave a short, sharp bark, and
was off with his nose to the ground.  He disappeared
among the rose-bushes down the garden-path, and his
young master sprang off his horse and hastened after him.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII

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Quickly as Dan followed, Rags was before him, with
his sharp, peculiar bark, and then a sudden low whine of
fear or trouble.  The boy's heart stood still, and he hurried
the faster.  Rags came whining to his feet as he reached
the arbor.  And then Dan saw her.

She lay sleeping on the pile of comfortables, in her
little white frock, with the spray of roses in her hand and
a slight tinge of color in her cheek, like the flush on a
half-open rosebud.  The comb had fallen from her hair,
and the beautiful curls lay tumbled out upon the pillow in
lovely confusion.

The boy gazed with awe, and then turned his head
reverently away.  But Rags went whining about her feet
again.

Dan signed to the dog to be still, and, bending over
with sudden anxiety, watched to see if she were breathing
naturally.

Gently as a child she slept, and the roses trembled with
her soft breathing.  His heart leaped with joy.

"Rags, stay here and guard her!" he commanded.
"Sit right there!"  He pointed to a spot in the garden
walk.  "Now be still."

Rags whined softly.  He was trembling with excitement.

"Be still!"

The little dog thumped his tail in acquiescence, but
looked wistfully after his master as he turned away, and
then at the sleeping goddess.

Dan hastened back to the house.

The horses were cropping their breakfast from the lawn
at the edge of the gravel driveway.  Charles was coming
down the steps, his face white and drawn.

"Dan, I cannot find her, and there is cholera here.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer is lying desperately ill upstairs!
There is another woman caring for her and she says Dawn
has gone."

He buried his face in his hands and stood still.  Dan
thought he was going to fall.

"Don't!" said Dan.  "I've found her.  Come!"  He
eagerly drew Charles along the garden walk.

"Oh, do you mean it?  Are you sure, Dan?"

"Sure," said the boy.  "Rags found her.  She's asleep.
Walk softly."

"Is there anything the matter with her, Dan?" said
Charles apprehensively, yet waited not to hear the answer,
for at that instant he reached the arbor, almost stumbling
over Rags, who jumped upon him with delight and wagged
and wriggled himself joyously—albeit silently.

But Charles stood still and gazed at his beloved.  His
hungry eyes drank in her loveliness, his anxious heart
searched keenly for any sign of illness.  He felt himself
growing weak with fear and joy.

Dan stood silent behind him, his own face lighting with
the other's joy and solemn rejoicing that they had found
her.

Not so Rags.  He thought the time had come for the
princess to awaken and he laid a cold, audacious nose
in the open palm of Dawn's pink hand.  She at once
opened her eyes.

"Dawn!  My darling!" murmured Charles, and
dropped upon his knees beside her.

Rags was beside himself with joy now.  He had brought
the teacher to life.  But Dan grasped him by the collar
and drew him away.  He and Rags might rejoice, but it
was not for them to intrude at such a time as this.

Charles gathered his young wife into his arms, laying
his face gently against hers, and over her stole a thrill of
deep, solemn joy.  He had come after her!  He wanted
her!  She was loved!  In spite of the way she had married
him, she was beloved!

She closed her eyes and let the joy flow over her, a
sweet, sweet pain, till almost it took her breath away, and
brought tears to her happy eyes.  He kissed them away,
and said over and over, "My darling!  My darling!  I
have found you at last!" and she nestled closer to him
and hid her face against his breast.

It seemed a long time to Rags, and finally he broke
away from his master with a bound and stood barking
joyously at their feet.

"Oh, there is Rags!" exclaimed Dawn, with a happy
little laugh.  "Dear Rags!"

"Yes!" said Rags in his own way.  "Dear *Teacher*!
I'm glad I found you!"

"And Dan is here, too," said Charles.  "Come here,
Dan, and share our joy."

Then came Daniel, his face red with embarrassment,
and stood bashfully before her.

"I found him, and he's helped me to find you, dear,"
said Charles.  "He's told me all about everything."

All dishevelled as she was, with her lovely hair about
her shoulders, Dawn stood bravely to receive him, and put
out both hands to the boy.

"Dear Dan!" she said.

She took his hands in hers for an instant, and Dan
bowed his head, but he had nothing to say.  He felt that
he had received a benediction.  Rags saw how he felt about
it and tried to help him out.

"Me, too!" he barked, and Dawn, laughing, stooped
and patted the dog lovingly, while he wriggled himself
half in two in his joy.

"But have you had any breakfast?" asked Charles,
with sweet responsibility in his tone, as Dawn shook back
her curls and gathered them into a knot on her head,
fastening them with her comb quite properly.  Dan lowered
his eyes deferentially and looked away from the pretty
sight, knowing it was not for him.

Dawn's face grew grave.

"Is it morning?" said she.  "How could I have slept
so long when there was so much to be done!  Mrs. Van
Rensselaer——"

"I know, dear," Charles stopped her, "but she is being
cared for.  The woman told me she seemed a little better.
I got her letter last evening, and we came at once, Dan and
I.  We had been down to New York, hunting you, and
just missed you.  We had gone home utterly discouraged,
when this note came, just these words, 'Dawn is here.'  We
started at once.  How long had she been ill?"

"The letter?" said Dawn.  "I don't understand.  I
just came myself yesterday morning.  She was very ill
when I got here.  She couldn't have mailed any letter,
unless——  Oh, it must be that she dragged herself out
and sent it while I was hunting hot water and a doctor
for her?  The doctor found her lying at the gate
unconscious, and brought her in."

"She had done you a great injury," said Charles, with
a grave face.

"But she almost gave her life to make it right again,"
said Dawn solemnly.  "I have heard exertion is usually
fatal in cholera.  And she asked me twice to forgive her.
Think of that!  Wasn't it wonderful?  But you don't
know her and can't understand how unlike her that seems."

Dawn was crying softly now, and Charles soothed her
anxiously.

"You must put the thought of it away, dear, or you
will be ill, too.  Are you sure you feel quite well?  It was
a terrible experience for you to have to go through alone.
Come, we must get you something to eat at once.  What
did you have last?  I hope you ate nothing that had been
around the sick-room."

"I ate two boiled eggs," said Dawn, smiling through
her tears.  "It was all I could find, and I was too tired
to make a fire."

"Dear child!" said Charles.  "But it was the best
thing you could have done, I guess.  Dan, there's that
broth we brought along.  Betty put up enough for a
regiment."

"We will go to the kitchen and make a fire," said
Dawn.  "You must have breakfast, too.  You have had
a long, hard ride."

"Yes, breakfast!" barked Rags impolitely.

Charles grew grave at once.

"Now, Dawn, you must not go near that house again.
You have been sufficiently exposed already.  Dan and I
will bring you some breakfast.  I don't like the idea of
your eating anything that comes out of that house.  It
isn't safe.  Couldn't we make a little fire there at the edge
of the woods and warm that broth?  If we had a tin dish——"

"There's a long-handled saucepan in the kitchen," said
Dawn.  "I'll go and get it."

"You'll stay right here," said Dan, in his kindly, gruff
way.  "*I'll* go and get it."

Before they could stop him, he had gone, and in a few
minutes he returned with a pail of water, a tea-kettle, a
saucepan, and three cups.  Then he gathered sticks, and
he and Charles made the fire, rigging up a kind of crane to
hold the kettle.  Soon they had hot water to pour over the
dishes, and then Dawn heated the broth, and they each
had a good cupful.  Even Rags had a few spoonfuls, though
he sat up quite politely at a word from Dan, with his
head cocked sideways, and a knowing look, as much as
to say, "Serve yourselves first, and I'll lick the dishes."

After all, it was Dan who did everything for them.
He told Charles that it was best he should stay with his
wife and guard her.  There was no telling but she might
get sick or something, and it was not safe for her to be
left alone just now.  Besides, it was Charles's business to
care for her, and for that reason he must keep out of
danger himself.  What would happen to Dawn if Charles
should get the cholera?

"But you might get it yourself, Dan, and we'd never
forgive ourselves."

"Aw!" said Dan, turning away in scorn.  "Don't
you worry 'bout *me*."

So Dan had his way.  When the doctor came he agreed
with Charles that Dawn should be gotten away at once
into a high, healthy region.  By this time Mrs. Van Rensselaer's
brother had arrived with a faithful family servant.
There was no need to stay.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer had
roused herself to add her voice of urgency that Dawn go
at once away from contagion.  So they hitched their
horses to the big Van Rensselaer carriage and rode away
on a second wedding journey, attended by Dan and Rags,
two faithful servitors.

Once during the afternoon, when Dan had left them
for a few minutes, they had looked after him lovingly:

"Dear Dan!" said Charles.  "I don't know what I
should have done without him.  He must have his college
course.  How would you like to have us send him to
Harvard as a sort of thank-offering for what he has done
for us?"

And Dawn smiled happily into her husband's eyes as
she answered:

"Oh, how beautiful!  Could we?"

They planned it all out briefly then, and that evening,
at the setting of the sun, as they rode forth from the
plague-stricken village toward the high, cool hills where
waited the little white house, Charles broached the subject
to Dan.

Charles and Dawn were in the back seat, Dan driving
in front, with Rags at his feet, with his head held proudly,
as if he had always ridden in a carriage with two gray
horses.

"Dan," said Charles, leaning forward a little that he
might the better see the boy's face, "when Dawn and I
go back to Cambridge in the fall, for my last year at
Harvard, we're going to take you with us."

Rags smiled widely.  He had heard the talk in the
afternoon, and he expected to go to college himself.

Dan turned with a radiant, awed face, and grasped
Charles's hand.

"Could I?" he asked eagerly.  "*How* could I?"

"You may need some preparation," said Charles.
"Wouldn't it be a good idea for you to come up to our
house in the hills and let me coach you?  How about it,
Dawn?  We have always room for Dan, haven't we?"

And Dawn, smiling and happy, assured the boy that he
would always be welcome.

Later, when Charles drew Dawn's head down upon his
shoulder in the darkness, put his arm close about her, and
with his free hand held both of hers, there was tender joy
and thankfulness.

Dan and Rags, up in front, knew that there were depths
of happiness in the back seat not for them, but they were
content, for were they not going to college, and in company
with the two they loved best of all?

A week later Charles and Dawn stood together on the
hillside, in front of their own little house.  It was very
early in the morning, and off beyond another hill the sun
was just flashing into view—a great red disc against a
sky of amethyst and opal.  Hill, valley, winding river,
and every tree and shrub were touched with the glory of
the dawn.

They were watching Dan ride away to his home, to
gather his belongings, and prepare his family for the new
order of his life.

In the afternoon Betty was to arrive by stage-coach.
She was to spend the rest of the hot weather in the cool
hills with them, until the cholera had disappeared.  This
was their first time absolutely alone together since they
had known each other.

They stood silent, watching the gray figure of horse
and man as it proceeded slowly down the hillside and
disappeared among the trees in the shadowy road, where night
was yet lurking.  Slowly, slowly, the sun slipped up, until
a great ball of ruby light grew into a brilliant glory their
eyes could not look upon.  And stretched before them
lay the day, with all its radiant possibilities.

"'And he shall be as the light of the morning when
the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the
tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining
after rain,'" quoted Charles solemnly.

They involuntarily drew closer together as they looked.
Then the husband put his arm about the wife and, looking
down upon her, said:

"Dawn of the Morning, do you know that you are
like all that to me?"

She hid her happy face on his shoulder, and he bent
down and whispered:

"Darling!  Dawn of my morning!  My Dawn!"

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   THE NOVELS OF
   GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL

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   *are as thoroughly modern as they are wholesome and refreshing*

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   May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Hill has the priceless gift of
understanding, and it is this great
quality that makes her stories so true to
life and her people so real.

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   THE RANSOM
   HAPPINESS HILL
   PATCH OF BLUE
   THE CHALLENGERS
   KERRY
   THE CHANCE OF A LIFETIME
   SILVER WINGS
   LADYBIRD
   THE WHITE LADY
   THE GOLD SHOE
   FOUND TREASURE
   BLUE RUIN
   THE PRODIGAL GIRL
   DUSKIN
   CRIMSON ROSES
   OUT OF THE STORM
   THE HONOR GIRL
   JOB'S NIECE
   A NEW NAME
   ARIEL CUSTER
   THE BEST MAN
   THE CITY OF FIRE
   CLOUDY JEWEL
   DAWN OF THE MORNING
   THE ENCHANTED BARN
   EXIT BETTY
   THE FINDING OF JASPER HOLT
   THE GIRL FROM MONTANA
   LO, MICHAEL
   THE MAN OF THE DESERT
   MARCIA SCHUYLER
   PHOEBE DEANE
   THE RED SIGNAL
   TOMORROW ABOUT THIS TIME
   THE TRYST
   THE WITNESS
   NOT UNDER THE LAW
   RE-CREATIONS
   THE WHITE FLOWER
   THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

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   GROSSET & DUNLAP *Publishers* NEW YORK

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   LOUISE PLATT HAUCK'S
   THRILLING ROMANCES

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   May be had wherever books are sold.  Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

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   LIFE, LOVE AND JEANETTE

.. vspace:: 1

This story takes Jeanette Brokaw through the ecstasy of first love and the
joys and responsibilities of wifehood and motherhood; it leads her, through
dark waters, to permanent happiness.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   THE STORY OF NANCY MEADOWS

.. vspace:: 1

There was true love between Nancy and Dwight, but her aloofness and
his susceptibility to women wrought havoc with their marriage.


.. vspace:: 2

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   THE PINK HOUSE

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A fresh and gay love story of a girl who meets financial and emotional
disaster with her head up and her heart high.


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   THE WIFEHOOD OF JESSICA

.. vspace:: 1

Jessica was swept from her feet by Bill's tempestuous wooing.  But
married life was far different from her dreams.  A novel of human emotions.


.. vspace:: 2

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   TWO TOGETHER

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A glamorous story of young love, its tenderness shot with bright threads
of gayety, its romance spiced with whimsicality.


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   SYLVIA

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Lovely Sylvia was the victim of unrequited affection, so she sought the
High Mountain Peaks in which to heal her broken heart.


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   WILD GRAPE

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A story of the Ozark Mountains which gives the reader glimpses of life
touched with mysticism, alive with romance but elemental in its simplicity.


.. vspace:: 2

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   ANNE MARRIES AGAIN

.. vspace:: 1

An attractive young widow marries a second time and learns that all
marriages demand compromises and sacrifices.


.. vspace:: 2

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   PRINCE OF THE MOON

.. vspace:: 1

Page Copeland, nineteen, left her home in St. Joseph, Missouri, to visit a
well-to-do family in Kansas City, and encountered Romance.

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   GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK

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