*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79843 ***




MARRIED IN HASTE.


BY

MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

AUTHOR OF "FASHION AND FAMINE," "WIVES AND WIDOWS,"
"CURSE OF GOLD," "MABEL'S MISTAKE," "REJECTED WIFE,"
"GOLD BRICK," "SILENT STRUGGLES," "THE HEIRESS,"
"RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY," "THE WIFE'S SECRET,"
"MARY DERWENT," "THE OLD HOMESTEAD,"
"DOUBLY FALSE," "SOLDIER'S ORPHANS."


The ocean has its music, sweet and low,
Like a great heart in the rich overflow
Of noble thoughts, and scarce oppressed
By the stout keel that cleaves her mighty breast,
Breaks up her waves, and, tossing foam and spray,
Cheers the brave ship along her toilsome way.
Thus, ever thus, the waves of human life
Are thrilled with heavenly glory from above,
Amid rude toil—base falsehood—selfish strife—
One thing must live forever—Holy Love.


PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.


       Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by
                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the
                    Eastern District of Pennsylvania.




MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS' WORKS.

Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.


    _MARRIED IN HASTE._
        _RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY._
            _THE CURSE OF GOLD._
                _THE REJECTED WIFE._

    _WIVES AND WIDOWS; OR, THE BROKEN LIFE._
        _THE GOLD BRICK._
            _THE HEIRESS._
                _SILENT STRUGGLES._

    _FASHION AND FAMINE._
        _THE OLD HOMESTEAD._
            _MARY DERWENT._
                _THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS._

    _THE WIFE'S SECRET._
        _MABEL'S MISTAKE._
            _DOUBLY FALSE._

  Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all
of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage
pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,


    T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
          306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




CONTENTS.


  Chapter       Page

  I.—THE OLD ARM-CHAIR      23

  II.—LITTLE RHODA      26

  III.—RHODA AND HER BROTHER      31

  IV.—THE TREASURE OF WILD FLOWERS      35

  V.—A GENEROUS IDEA     38

  VI.—THE REAL AND THE IDEAL      43

  VII.—A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT      46

  VIII.—THE PRIVATE MARRIAGE       51

  IX.—AFTER THOUGHTS       56

  X.—THE FAINT HEART       60

  XI.—THE UNEXPECTED REVELATION       64

  XII.—"AMEN."      69

  XIII.—THE FORCED VISIT      73

  XIV.—HIS SIN HAD FOUND HIM OUT       78

  XV.—THE SPIDER AND THE FLY       84

  XVI.—DISCONTENT       90

  XVII.—BRILLIANT PROSPECTS      92

  XVIII.—OVERPOWERED      98

  XIX.—THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER      104

  XX.—BASKETS OF WILD FLOWERS      109

  XXI.—ENTREATIES AND PERSUASIONS       114

  XXII.—OPPRESSED WITH LONELINESS       120

  XXIII.—LITTLE RHODA AS A BUSINESS WOMAN      127

  XXIV.—CRUEL REPROACHES      131

  XXV.—OLD HEIR-LOOMS      138

  XXVI.—THE BLUE SILK DRESS      143

  XXVII.—BETWEEN THE MOTHER AND THE WIFE       148

  XXVIII.—FALSE AND FAIR      155

  XXIX.—THE STARTLING PROPOSAL       157

  XXX.—CONSTANCE COUNTS HER MONEY       161

  XXXI.—THE PLACE OF REST       166

  XXXII.—NIGHT WATCHES       172

  XXXIII.—THE INDIA SHAWL       176

  XXXIV.—DREAMS AND THEIR SAD INTERRUPTION      181

  XXXV.—THE DRESS-MAKER AND HER CUSTOMER       186

  XXXVI.—NEGOTIATING A SALE       193

  XXXVII.—IN THE JAWS OF THE SERPENT       198

  XXXVIII.—RHODA IS FILLED WITH ASTONISHMENT AND
  DELIGHT        205

  XXXIX.—RHODA BRINGS GOOD NEWS TO HER FRIEND      210

  XL.—THAT THOUSAND DOLLARS      213

  XLI.—BLACK AND SCARLET      218

  XLII.—WOULD SHE PART WITH HIM      222

  XLIII.—THE GOOD AND THE EVIL      227

  XLIV.—CONSTANCE PARTS WITH HER HUSBAND      232

  XLV.—CONSTANCE MAKES A SECOND VISIT TO HER
  DRESS-MAKER       237

  XLVI.—PLANNING AN ESCAPE      240

  XLVII.—CONSTANCE MAKES A CONFIDANT OF RHODA      243

  XLVIII.—THE FORCED CONSENT      247

  XLIX.—THE DESPERATE BRIDAL      252

  L.—OFF INTO DARKNESS      255

  LI.—RHODA HIDES AWAY HER HOUSEHOLD SKELETON      258

  LII.—MUSIC AMONG THE FLOWERS      262

  LIII.—THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LADY IN WASHINGTON
  GIVES A DINNER PARTY      269

  LIV.—MR. CRIST      272

  LV.—THE UNOPENED LETTER      276

  LVI.—CONSTANCE RETURNS HOME      281

  LVII.—CONSTANCE TELLS HER WRONGS      287

  LVIII.—THE ENGRAVED PLATE      295

  LIX.—AT SWORDS' POINTS      299

  LX.—THE UNDERGROUND VAULT AND THE SECRETARY'S
  RECEPTION      303

  LXI.—DYING      308

  LXII.—DEAD      314

  LXIII.—THE HUSBAND'S RETURN      316

  LXIV.—LUKE BECOMES DOWN-HEARTED      319

  LXV.—ON THE PRAIRIE      325

  LXVI.—THE LAST HOPE CRUSHED      331

  LXVII.—NEW ARRIVALS IN THE PRAIRIE      338

  LXVIII.—PLEASANT VISITORS      343

  LXIX.—A BOAT ON THE RIVER      346

  LXX.—MUSIC ON THE RIVER      349

  LXXI.—MOTHER AND SON      354

  LXXII.—DYING MUSIC      360

  LXXIII.—ON THE TRACK      365

  LXXIV.—THE WIFE'S CONFESSION      370

  LXXV.—CONCLUSION      377




                                   TO

                         D. JOHNSON COOPER, ESQ.

                                   THE

                      VALUED FRIEND OF MY ONLY SON,

                                   AND

A GENTLEMAN for WHOSE CHARACTER and ATTAINMENTS I HAVE PROFOUND RESPECT,

                                  THIS

                          VOLUME IS DEDICATED,

                                WITH MANY

                     PLEASANT MEMORIES OF THE PAST,

                                   AND

                 A THOUSAND KIND WISHES FOR THE FUTURE.

                                                        ANN S. STEPHENS.

 ST. CLOUD HOTEL, NEW YORK,
     JULY 6TH, 1870.




 MARRIED IN HASTE.




 CHAPTER I.

 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.


 The door-bell rang one of those sharp, startling peals
 which makes the heart leap with a dread of painful news.
 This brought a large, indolent girl, whose supine indifference
 nothing could disturb, into the upper hall.

 "Hist! Hist!"

 The girl gave a glance over her shoulder, and saw a
 keen, anxious face looking down upon her from over the
 banisters—the face of a woman advanced in life, lined
 with care, if not something deeper than that, and sharpened
 with present apprehension.

 "Hist! Hist! I am out, if it is for me. Have moved—gone
 into the country; and dead! Better that—better
 that! Oh! if it were but true!"

 The girl did not hear the words, which died out in a
 faint wail; but she was evidently accustomed to these signals
 over the banister, and put a plump finger to her lips
 before she opened the door.

 The woman up stairs had gone into her room with an
 impulse to shut herself in, and cower out of reach of the
 creditor she supposed to be hunting her down; but anxiety
 was keener than this miserable dread, and she went
 back to the banisters, holding her breath as she bent over
 them, listening.

 The door was wide open now; a wagon stood before it,
 and its driver was bringing some heavy object up the
 steps.

 "Tell him to bring it up—tell him to bring it up here,"
 cried the woman, with a thrill of pleasure in her voice.
 "It is for me—surely it is for me!"

 "Yes, marm, it is you he asked for," answered the girl.
 "Take hold here, you sir, and help me up with it."

 The man took hold of the great arm-chair, which he
 had brought in from the wagon, and, laughing at the girl
 for her offered help, carried it up stairs; following the lady
 into a back chamber, to which she had slowly retreated.
 He sat the chair down, gave it a little push with his foot,
 and seemed to be waiting for something.

 The lady, for she was a lady, notwithstanding some
 marks of hard usage received on the stage of life, hesitated
 a little; then, with a sudden effort, put a hand into her
 pocket and took out a worn porte-monnaie, which she
 opened, partly turning her back on the man.

 "You have not been paid?" she questioned, in a faltering
 voice.

 "Yes, I have, marm, for bringing it here; but they
 didn't take the stairs into account."

 The lady drew a deep breath, and took something from
 her meagerly-filled porte-monnaie, which she handed to the
 man.

 He looked at her, then at the money, with something
 like a sneer.

 "I—I have no other small money about me—nothing
 less than a fifty-dollar bill," she said, flashing angrily, and
 dropping the porte-monnaie into her pocket.

 The man muttered something under his breath, and went
 down stairs, leaving a strong scent of tobacco behind him.
 The lady walked to the window and watched him drive
 away eagerly, as if she could not quite feel alone till he was
 out of sight. Then she ran to the door, locked it, and
 turning to the chair as if it had been a living thing, fell
 upon her knees in front of it, and, laying her cheek against
 the faded cushion, began to moan piteously, like a wounded
 animal that had dragged itself back to some thicket which
 he had never expected to reach again.

 It was an old faded piece of furniture, after all. Large,
 roomy, and cushioned luxuriously; but the rich crimson
 silk, which had once rendered it a resplendent affair, was
 now frayed and faded into utter shabbiness. One castor was
 off, and it leaned sideways when the woman pressed her
 arms upon it, as if striving to edge away from her, as many
 of her old friends had done.

 At last the woman lifted up her head, and looked at her
 old possession with something like a smile.

 "This—this of all that I had has come to me; I never
 expected it, never hoped that the poor woman would find
 me out! Gratitude is not often so sharp. Had it been a
 dun now!"

 The woman laughed a little bitter laugh at the thought,
 for she had been so harassed and hunted down of late with
 hungry creditors, that the chase had its interest even for its
 victim, as all the cunning and energy of a fox are put forth
 when the hounds press it close. She arose at last and
 began to examine the chair.

 "Poor thing! it has had hard usage. I wish they had
 sent the castor. It seems like a poor cripple without
 that."

 The lady went to a closet, took out a work-basket, and,
 seating herself on the floor, began to darn the frayed silk,
 smoothing it under her palm, and pressing it down tenderly
 every few minutes, as fond mothers caress the heads
 of their children; while she worked, this wayward and
 harassed woman sung, in a low, gentle voice,

 /P
 "I love it, I love it; and who shall dare
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?"
 P/

 While she was working and singing thus, the servant-girl
 had gone into the basement, where her mistress was
 busy darning a worn stair-carpet, which was about to be
 promoted from the second to the third floor, ending at last
 on the garret-stairs.

 "Who was it, Martha?" she inquired, pausing to
 thread her needle.

 "Only an express-man, marm, with a chair for Mrs.
 Holt."

 "I wish some express-man would bring her money to
 pay her board with," said the woman, giving a vicious tug
 at her needle, and drawing out the coarse thread attached
 to it with a jerk. She's been paying me with fine words
 and promises long enough; and those are things the landlord
 don't take from me. There's somebody at the door,
 Martha; see who it is."




 CHAPTER II.

 LITTLE RHODA.


 Martha opened the basement-door, and a little black-eyed
 girl, who did not appear to be more than ten years of
 age, came in, with a basketful of matches on her arm.

 "We don't want none," said Martha, sharply.

 "Oh, yes, you do! Where's the lady?"

 In she came, preceding the servant, cheerful as a bird,
 and fearless as a hero; a sweet, plump little child, that
 talked and looked like a woman.

 "I know you want matches by this time, Mrs. Wheeler.
 She said you didn't; but I know better. It's ten days
 since I was here. How many bunches?"

 "Why, Rhoda," said the woman, "what a pushing little
 thing you are. No, no! I'm sure Martha has plenty
 yet."

 "But I shan't come again for ever so long. How
 many?"

 Rhoda began to count the bundles of matches with
 much unconcern.

 "There, I think half a dozen bunches will do for this
 time," she said, piling a little heap of matches on the
 table, and holding out a tiny hand for the money.

 The woman looked at her in comical surprise, but the
 little rogue refused to understand it.

 "Oh! you can have twice as many, if you like," she
 said, tumbling the matches over in her basket; "plenty of
 'em left."

 "I don't want any more, nor them either," said the
 woman, laughing; "but I'll take the matches, to get rid of
 you."

 "Yes, I know; two cents more, please. What's that?
 Oh! I had forgotten, it belongs to the lady up stairs."

 The object which caused this question was the brass castor
 of a chair, which lay in the bottom of Rhoda's basket.

 "What lady up stairs, Rhoda?"

 "Why, Mrs. Holt; a real, real lady, that was so good to
 my mother. I've told you about that, haven't I?"

 "No."

 "Well, then, I will. No, I won't; there's no good in
 chattering; but that lady is an angel, good as gold. You
 ought to be proud of having her in the house."

 "But how did you know Mrs. Holt?"

 "How? She came to our room when nobody else would.
 She sent that great, beautiful chair for my sick mother to
 sit in, and never asked for it again, or told us where to send
 it. She gave father money to buy a violin with, a real Cremona,
 and got the manager to take him back after he'd—Well
 no matter about that. She——"

 "But how did you know she lived here?"

 "I went up stairs one day to ask if any of 'em had any
 old dresses, and saw her sitting there."

 "Yes, I dare say. No cat from the street ever took
 more liberties in a house than you do, Rhoda."

 "Yes, I make myself at home. Why not? You all
 know me. Everybody knows me. Who shuts a closet-door
 or hides away the silver when Rhoda comes in? When I
 find a door on the latch, in I go; the girls look out from
 the kitchen, see me, and go back to their work, saying to
 each other, 'Oh! it's only that bright little imp, Rhoda.
 We don't want any of her matches; but she will come in,
 anyhow.' They don't want my matches. Well, marm,
 they do want 'em, and buy 'em, too, as sure as you live.
 Think I ever mean to let 'em get out and buy at the groceries?
 Not as I know of."

 "But you don't want to sell matches to Mrs. Holt?"

 "No. I'd like to give her fifty bunches. Yes, I would;
 but she won't take 'em from me. She's a lady, every inch
 of her."

 "Well, I wish she was lady enough to pay what she owes
 me," said the housewife, darning vigorously at the carpet.

 Rhoda sat down her basket and went close to Mrs.
 Wheeler, her keen, little face full of startled interest.

 "How much does she owe you, marm? How much?"

 "Why what's that to you? Fifty dollars, if you must
 know."

 Rhoda recoiled, took up her basket, and went toward the
 door; then came back suddenly and said, in a sort of
 panic,

 "Fifty dollars? Did you mean that?"

 "Yes, I mean it; and mean something else," said the
 woman sharply.

 "What is that?"

 "To have my money."

 "Ye-e-s."

 "But where are you going now, child?"

 "Up stairs to give this little brass wheel to the lady. It
 belongs to her chair."

 "Very well; but mind you say nothing of what we've
 been talking about."

 "What, me? Oh, Mrs. Wheeler!"

 Mrs. Holt was bending over her chair, drawing her swift
 needle in and out of the broken silk, when little Rhoda
 came softly through the door and stood looking at her. She
 had taken the missing castor from her basket, and held it
 in one hand, hesitating, as if intrusion on a real lady, without
 knocking, had just struck her as a questionable proceeding.
 At last she advanced a pace, and held out the castor,
 saying, in a low, almost meek voice,

 "Here is the little wheel, marm. It will make it stand
 up straighter."

 Mrs. Holt started, looked up, and the color came into her
 face.

 "Ah! Rhoda Weeks, is it you?" she said. "How is
 your father? What have you got there? Something to
 sell?"

 "Nothing that you want, lady," said Rhoda, drawing
 a corner of her little shawl over the basket.

 "Oh, yes! I must take something," said Mrs. Holt, putting
 one hand into her pocket from simple habit and drawing
 out her porte-monnaie; but her face flushed crimson as
 she opened it and remembered, all at once, how empty it
 was. "Then you won't sell me anything? Well, next
 time I will not let your basket pass," she said, bending her
 eyes beneath the keen anxious look with which Rhoda was
 regarding her.

 "I hope—oh! I hope the chair was not quite spoiled
 for you," said the girl, dropping her eyes. "We tried hard
 to keep it nice; but she was so long sick, and loved to sit
 in it all the time. I can see her in it now, marm, with her
 white cheek leaning against the silk, just here."

 There were tears in the child's eyes, and tears in that
 sweet, broken voice, when little Rhoda laid her hand upon
 the chair, and looked down into Mrs. Holt's face with such
 wistful gratitude.

 "I am glad, very glad, if anything I did made your poor
 mother more comfortable," said Mrs. Holt, a good deal
 moved. "But it was very little."

 "Very little, was it? Didn't you give her everything?
 Didn't you get my father's place back after the manager had
 turned him off, and give him money to buy the violin he
 loved so well, after it had gone clean out of his hands?
 Didn't you buy the greenest place for us to bury her in, and
 pay for it? Oh, marm! how I wish I could die for you
 just here! I would—I would."

 Mrs. Holt looked upon the child at first in surprise; then
 a quiver of disturbed feeling came to her face.

 "Don't cry, Rhoda. It makes me feel like a child when
 you make such a baby of yourself, about nothing, too."

 "Please excuse me, marm," answered Rhoda, wiping
 her eyes with a corner of her apron. "I don't cry often;
 ask father if I do. Haven't made such a baby of myself
 since she died; and now I've gone and done it for you.
 Please, now, just let me wipe my eyes and forgive me."

 Rhoda was wiping her eyes vigorously as she spoke; then
 she lifted the corner of her apron to Mrs. Holt's face, and
 brushed some tears away. This action touched the poor
 lady to the heart. She threw her arms across the bottom of
 the chair, and burst into a passion of tears that fairly
 frightened the little girl.

 "Of all that I have helped, all that I have loved, this
 poor child alone remembers me with gratitude," she sobbed.

 "No, no! there is father! He loves you; he is grateful!"
 pleaded the little girl.

 Mrs. Holt looked up, and swept the tears from her face.
 "I know it! I know it all, Rhoda Weeks! You are good
 people, and I am wrong to think that there can be no more
 like you. Run home, now, and I will go on with my work;
 you shall see how nice the chair will look the next time you
 bring your basket this way. Stop a minute, I think we
 can find a ribbon for your hair. Yes; here is something
 scarlet. See! it looks like a flame among those jet-black
 waves. Wear it home, and see if your father will notice
 how well you look."

 "Yes, yes, I will! He loves my hair; and I brush it
 ever so much for his sake."

 Rhoda's eyes were dancing with happiness. Bits of finery
 did not often come in her way; and this was so brilliant
 and fresh, that it made her forgetful of everything
 else. As for Mrs. Holt, the gift had appeased the craving
 of her benevolence, and the child's joy soothed her as nothing
 else could have done; for she was borne down with
 cares and regrets such as made her very life a pain.




 CHAPTER III.

 RHODA AND HER BROTHER.


 Out from that room Rhoda Weeks went, almost singing
 with happiness; but she had scarcely reached the street,
 when a thought of care settled on her, and she became demure
 as a mouse. That queer old look came to her face,
 and she began to calculate gravely, like any miser, and, for
 the first time in months, went home with a few unsold
 matches in her basket.

 That home was in an old tenement-house, standing up,
 bare and gaunt, among the small houses of a poor neighborhood,
 crowded, like a bee-hive, with the hard working
 and idle poverty of a great city. Rhoda Weeks lived at
 the very top of the house, and cared as little for the staircases
 as a bird does for the boughs that shelter its nest.
 Up she flitted like a sprite, the basket on one arm, her little
 hood swinging back by the strings, while the scarlet ribbon
 rippled in her hair, and fell down her back like quivers
 of flame whenever she passed a window, or was crossed by
 a gleam of sunshine in her flight upward.

 Rhoda opened the door of a little room, so high and
 close to the roof, that it was flooded with sunshine, though
 all the neighborhood below lay in shadow. There was
 enough of squalid misery in that building, but it had not
 yet mounted to that little room which, in its neatness, could
 well brave all the sunlight poured into it from the glory of
 the west, when a warm day was bathing itself in a sea of
 crimson before it dropped into the unalterable past.

 As Rhoda opened the door a boy sat in this rich light,
 with his arms folded on the window-sill, gazing out upon
 the sunset. He had evidently been at work, for a coil of
 coarse braid, woven from fresh wheat straw, lay around him
 upon the floor, and some of the loose straws had fallen
 from his hands.

 "Luke!"

 The boy turned quickly, and saw his sister, with the
 scarlet ribbon in her hair, challenging his admiration.
 His grey eyes lighted up, and a smile parted his lips.

 "Oh! how pretty it is, and how fine we are!" he said,
 giving a little pull at the ribbon. "I was just thinking
 of you, sister, wishing that you and I——"

 "And father," suggested Rhoda.

 "Yes, and father, could just get into one of those fiery
 boats that plunge in and out of the golden clouds, and float
 off into the other world."

 "Where we should find _her_," whispered Rhoda.

 "Where we should find her. If we could all go together,
 Rhoda, in that way or across the golden bridge which
 fell from one cloud to another, as I looked only a minute
 ago, and leave all this behind."

 The boy dropped his hand and pointed downward to the
 street, thus taking in the mass of poverty-stricken life
 moving beneath them.

 "Now you are getting sad and strange again, brother
 Luke; and that troubles me when I come home at nights.
 I love to see beautiful things in the sky, but they make me
 glad, not solemn, as you are, Luke."

 "But I see so much more than the gold and crimson,
 with green and purple shooting through them, or floating
 off in seas and lakes; to me all that glory is full of life.
 I can almost hear music coming from those burning worlds,
 and see crowds on crowds of people going in and out, enjoying
 all that you and I might search after forever and
 ever, and die without reaching."

 "But there is no such thing, Luke. While you are
 thinking about it, those mountains of fire, and lakes of
 gold melt away, and leave nothing but a black sky
 behind."

 "I know it! I know it!" answered the boy, sadly.
 "But every day God gives them to us; and we know that
 he has another and more beautiful world somewhere, where
 you and I may be happy like the rest. Rhoda, dear, the
 richest man on earth has nothing better than this."

 "But it is gone, now; take yourself from the window,
 dear, and let us see how your work comes on. I am going
 to make up the hats this evening."

 Luke turned his face lingeringly on the sky. It had
 deepened into a dark, violet hue, into which the warm
 rose-tints, and hot, golden-red merged themselves.

 "Yes, it is getting dusk; all my bridges and castles are
 burned down," he said. "Now I will talk with you,
 Rhoda."

 "Well, about the work?"

 "I don't like it, Rhoda. It is fit for women, and comes
 to so little, after all."

 "True enough, Luke; if you were strong, and well, and
 saucy, like me, the money we could make would astonish
 folks. But you don't like running about, and I do."

 Luke nodded his head, and the long lashes fell like
 shadows to his pale cheek.

 "But now, about supper, Luke? Has father come in
 yet?"

 "No; he's gone for a long walk over to the Jersey flats.
 But there's plenty of kindling wood, and I'll make the
 fire."

 "No, you sit still; I'm not a bit tired. There's no need
 of your doing girl's work all the time. Ain't these capital
 matches? My customers get the worth of their money.
 See how the wood blazes up. Now help me pull out the
 table. Nothing but poor folks let it stand against the wall
 when they eat; and we are not poor folks—far from it.
 Now the table-cloth. I must wash it out to-night, and iron
 it before breakfast. Getting it crooked, am I; well, you
 can put it right. The kettle begins to steam up; and I've
 got such a nice, tender bit of beef-steak for you and father."

 Directly the beef-steak was sending its savory smoke into
 the room, and a little earthen teapot shot out puffs of steam
 from its place on the stove-hearth, about which Rhoda flitted
 with a knife in her hand, as if she had made up her
 mind to defend as well as prepare her father's supper.
 Never was there such a bright, womanly little creature as
 this. The life within her seemed inexhaustible; after
 tramping the streets all day, she had come home, cheerful
 as a lark, to brighten up that little home, and prepare her
 father's supper.

 "Now, all is ready," she said, taking off a little mite of
 an apron, and washing her tiny hands in a grave, old-fashioned
 way, that would have made you smile. "He may
 come now as soon as he likes."




 CHAPTER IV.

 THE TREASURE OF WILD FLOWERS.


 The father of that little household was coming. That
 moment Rhoda heard her father's step on the stairs, the
 door slowly opened, and a little man came in, carrying a
 quantity of field flowers in his arms, such as grow brightest
 in August and September—golden-rod, wild asters, and
 a feathery white flower, which clings to its stem in soft
 masses, like snow-flakes caught out of season; with these
 were some long pointed leaves of the sweet-flag, and a handful
 of water-rushes.

 You need not have asked where the little maiden at the
 hearth got her activity from, after seeing this man. The
 whole thing was evident in a minute. She was her father
 over again in miniature, with a certain practical common-placeness
 added, which made her seem an old-fashioned
 copy disguised as a child.

 "And so you have got my supper ready?" said the little
 man, cheerily, laying down his flowers on a chair with gentle
 caution. "Good girl! good girl! What a dear little
 grandmother it is! What should you and I do without
 her, Luke? The flowers are for you, boy. I have had a
 glorious tramp after them; come home tired as a hound,
 and bright as a lark. Now for the supper."

 Rhoda sat down at the end of the little square table,
 and began to pour out the tea daintily, like some nice old
 lady in a fairy tale. Mr. Weeks cut up the steak just as
 daintily, and was about to hand some of it to his son,
 when he discovered that Luke had not yet taken his place,
 but was carrying the flowers off in his arms, and placing
 them in a great pitcher which he had filled with water.

 "Come, Luke," he called out; "now that you have fed
 the flowers, come and feed yourself."

 Luke came to the table with his face in a glow. It was
 a lovely face, more feminine, almost, than the girl's. His
 eyes shone, and his lips smiled. The boy's sensitive soul
 had been, for a blissful moment, among the flowers.

 "They are beautiful, father! What rich man gave
 them to you?"

 "Rich man, my boy? Ha! you have never been in the
 country, or you would know. These are the flowers that
 God scatters wild along the roads, and in the hollows, for
 poor people to gather. I might have brought home loads,
 only there was no way of doing it."

 "And you brought them to me? Thank you, father,"
 answered the boy in his gentle gratitude. "For me and
 Rhoda, I mean?"

 "No, no! not for me! I will take some of the beef,
 father, with a bit of pickle. Let Luke keep all the flowers,
 I haven't time for them."

 "Poor fellow! how he loves them!" said the father;
 "and never saw them growing. That is hard; I will take
 him with me some day when I go on a tramp."

 Rhoda looked anxious, and laid down her knife and fork
 with a determined gesture.

 "Father, it would kill him to walk so far."

 "No, no! I am well now—strong!" cried the boy.
 "Let me pick them for myself, father."

 "So you shall. It is a shame that I have never thought
 of this before. I might have taken you out often
 enough."

 "He could not leave mother, you know," said Rhoda;
 "she mourned when he was out of her sight."

 Weeks got up hastily, and went into a little bed-room
 connected with that in which the table was spread. The
 boy lifted his large eyes, and dropped the lids again, under
 which Rhoda could see tears swelling. She did not protest,
 or offer comfort, but gave a little push at her chair, as if
 this quick sensitiveness in her twin brother troubled her.
 Then she settled herself again, and called out:

 "The chair went to Mrs. Holt safe, father, and she was
 glad to get it—so glad, it would have done you good."

 Weeks came out of the bed-room, with a flush about his
 eyes.

 "And you saw her?"

 "Yes, father; she gave me this ribbon, and asked about—about
 us all so kindly."

 "Did she ask after me—particularly, I mean?"

 "No, not particularly; that is, in that way."

 "Luke," said the father, suddenly, "there is time for
 a lesson before I go to the theatre; get the violin."

 Luke started from his chair, opened a closet, and brought
 out an old violin, blackened with time, and seasoned, as it
 were, with ages of music. The two sat down by the window,
 through which the cool evening wind came softly from
 the west, and in a few moments the room was full of such
 low, sweet music as living genius can alone give to any instrument.

 Rhoda, who was washing the tea things, paused in her
 work to listen, and handled the cups daintily, as if afraid
 of making any noise that might clash with those sweet
 sounds. Weeks bent over his son, animated, swaying to
 and fro, with his hand in motion, as if it waved a baton.
 But the strain grew more plaintive, and so exquisitely sad
 that even Rhoda held her breath. Weeks let his hand drop,
 and leaning against the window, listened in mute silence
 till the sweet wail ceased. Then he started up, took the
 violin from the boy's hand, almost roughly, and carried it
 into the next room.

 "You'll soon get beyond my teaching," he said, fastening
 the instrument in its case. "Where in the world did you
 find that?"

 "It came to me this afternoon, when you and Rhoda left
 me alone with the violin," answered the boy.

 "Came to you! Came to you! Why, Luke, I never
 heard anything like it."

 The boy smiled, and his eyes brightened.

 "I think it came to me first in dreams," he said, "not
 altogether, but——Well, father, I cannot say how it is,
 but the violin seemed to draw the notes out from my heart,
 where they had been sleeping ever so long."

 Weeks made no reply, but put on his hat, tucked the
 instrument-case lovingly under his arm, and went out humming
 over the new air to himself.




 CHAPTER V.

 A GENEROUS IDEA.


 Rhoda had finished her work, and sat down by Luke at
 the window. She gave him a little shake, for he seemed
 buried in recollections of the music that had charmed even
 her, and she wanted his entire attention.

 "Luke, I have an idea."

 The boy turned his large eyes upon her, and answered
 gently.

 "You always have good ideas, Rhoda."

 Rhoda nodded her head, thus quietly appropriating the
 honest praise awarded her.

 "But this is a great idea, and may frighten you; that
 good Mrs. Holt is in trouble, Luke. She owes fifty dollars
 for board."

 "Fifty dollars!" exclaimed the boy, dismayed by the
 sum; "that's a great deal of money."

 "Yes, it seems a great deal to any one that isn't in trade
 as I am; but you know, Luke, some people consider it nothing
 at all."

 "Do they? How very rich such people must be!"

 "Not always; but this is my idea, Luke. Mrs. Holt
 spent lots of money on us, besides making a new man of
 father. Now I want to do something for her."

 "You, Rhoda? What can you do?"

 "I want to pay that fifty dollars to Mrs. Wheeler."

 "Oh, Rhoda! Fifty dollars to Mrs. Wheeler!"

 "Look here, brother; I've got a secret."

 "A secret! You?"

 "Yes, a magnificent secret! How long is it since I've
 been in trade, brother?"

 "Why, ever since you were six years old. You began
 to go about when father——"

 "Don't say anything about that just now. It makes me
 think of her mourning herself to death over again. Well,
 since we have been by ourselves, I have been looking out
 for a rainy day, Luke, laying up money like smoke."

 "Laying up money? Why, every night you brought
 home the price of our matches for father."

 "Of course I did—that belonged to him; but, Luke,
 don't be astonished, I've got money of my own; yes, I
 have lots of it, too. When I've been out selling matches—and
 I'm smart at it you may brag on that, if you want
 to."

 "But I don't want to brag, sister."

 "Of course, you don't. It's only me that's puffed up.
 Well, some folks like me, and perhaps some don't; but I
 finds lots of people that are good to me and give me
 things."

 The boy started up, and pushed Rhoda away from him,
 almost angrily.

 "Oh, Rhoda Weeks! you don't beg? You haven't forgot
 our mother so far as that?"

 "Beg! Luke, you are a mean fellow to think so!"

 "But you take?"

 "Take! Well, yes; but it's all in the way of trade.
 Let me tell you. One day a lady asked me to take a dress
 and sell it for her to a second-hand clothing-store. I did
 it and got a good deal more money than she expected. She
 gave me a dollar for doing it, and said she had made a good
 bargain at that. This gave me an idea. I went into ever
 so many houses, and always made friends of the girls in the
 basement. They all like me, brother; and so do the ladies.
 Well, I got the girls to tell their mistresses that I should
 like to trade in cast-off garments—not old clothes, that disgust
 people—and would buy all they had if they would
 only trust me a day or two. The girls knew I was honest,
 and said so. The ladies trusted me, and let me have the
 things low because I was so little. The man had to run up
 his prices when I came, or I'd have gone somewhere else,
 and he knew it. So I began to make money, you understand—and
 that was no begging, but honest trade."

 "But what have you done with the money? Why didn't
 you give it to father? I should."

 "So should I, Luke; only mother left you and father to
 my care—and I had it in on my mind. 'What,' says I,
 'if father should break down, as he has twice before, and
 nothing laid by; where would brother Luke be? The darling
 boy isn't strong, and can't knock about among folks as
 you can, Rhoda Weeks. It isn't in him. _She_ left that
 boy to you, just as rich men leave money and houses to
 their daughters—and he's a hundred thousand times more
 precious! Then father's good as gold when he's all right,
 and kind as kind can be when he isn't; only he does
 make money fly, and hasn't the least idea of saving. He'd
 never be content with this room if he knew about my business;
 but hand out like sixty,'—you know he would do that
 Luke!"

 "Yes, I'm afraid he would," said Luke, thoughtfully.

 "Well, this is the way I went on thinking. 'Brother
 Luke isn't strong; he hasn't a bit of talent for trade. He
 loves to read; he loves that violin as if it were a live thing.
 Mother wanted him to have an education, and he shall have
 it!'"

 "Oh, sister Rhoda! how I love you," cried the boy,
 throwing his arms about the girl's neck in a burst of fond
 gratitude.

 "Of course, you do. Weren't we born to love one another?
 Wasn't that _her_ last charge to us both? There, don't
 smother me, dear, I haven't come to the idea yet."

 Luke unwound his arms from Rhoda's neck with a little
 sigh, and again composed himself to listen.

 "You don't know anything about trade more than a baby,
 and perhaps have no idea that there is such an establishment
 as a Sixpenny Savings-Bank in New York?"

 "No," answered Luke, humbly. "I haven't an idea
 about anything of the kind."

 "And don't know what interest is?"

 "No. What is it?"

 "Did you ever see a snow-ball rolled up on the
 ground?"

 "Yes, yes; the boys do it in some back yard every
 winter."

 "Well, at first it is a little thing, and takes up so little
 snow as you roll it, that you can't tell exactly when and
 how it grows larger; but by-and-bye it rounds out bigger
 and bigger, till every turn swoops up whole drifts of snow.
 That is interest, Luke; the man at the bank told me all
 about it."

 "I can't quite make it out," said Luke, with a puzzled
 look.

 "Of course not. Well, the little snow-ball that a boy
 makes in the round of his hands is the first money; he gives
 it one roll in the snow, and that is a year's interest. The
 next roll takes a wider sweep, the next wider yet; that is
 interest on interest. But you can't understand—I couldn't
 at first; but it is a wonderful thing, Luke, where money
 makes itself."

 "How cute you are, sister! But what is the idea?"

 Rhoda appropriated this truth with a nod of her little
 head, and answered the question at once.

 "This is it. I have got almost fifty dollars in that bank,—all
 yours, Luke. May I give this to the lady who was
 so good to our mother—who saved _him_?"

 "May you do that? And you ask me? Oh, Rhoda!
 don't make me ashamed," answered the boy, folding his
 arms on the window-sill, and hiding his face in them. "I
 never earned a cent of it."

 "That's a fib, if ever one was told. If it hadn't been
 for you, dear, I never should have branched out so. Now,
 say, shall we do this? That poor lady hasn't a cent, I know
 that, and Mrs. Wheeler will be worrying her to death. I
 saw it in the way she screwed up her mouth, and punched
 that great needle through her stair carpet, as if it had been
 a dagger."

 "Do it. Oh, sister! I wish it was mine to give."

 "So it is, every cent of it; but we will get more. You
 shall have learning, and nice clothes, and everything.
 Never fear, I'm in the business, only keep our secret."

 "But is it right to keep anything from father?" questioned
 Luke, whose tender conscience was easily troubled.

 Rhoda answered promptly, and in a way that settled the
 question at once.

 "It is for his own good. I have settled that long ago.
 He is to have the match business. In the other you and I
 are partners. When he needs money, there's time enough
 to astonish him. See how contented he is! After flowers
 in the day, and music at night."

 "But I am doing nothing."




 CHAPTER VI.

 THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.


 "Nobody wants you to do anything, dear," said Rhoda
 persuasively, "but I have another idea. Trade makes one
 think, I can tell you; those flowers that father brought
 home, they are lovely. Suppose we make something of
 them?"

 "Make something? What?"

 "Money, to be sure. Lots of flowers are sold every night
 in front of the theatre—roses and lilies, and all sorts; but I
 have never seen anything like these. They would take, I'll
 bet you."

 Luke's face brightened; here was something for him to
 do. He started up with animation.

 "I will bring them out and see."

 He came back in an instant, carrying the great pitcher
 crowded full of flowers, which he sat down on the floor.
 Rhoda folded her arms, turned her head on one side and examined
 them.

 "Baskets, I should say," was her first commentary;
 "baskets made out of the rushes, with handles, and a little
 rock-moss—that tells. I've seen it on the stands."

 "Let me; I can do that!" exclaimed Luke, with animation;
 for all the artistic taste sleeping in that delicate nature
 was aroused. "Pick out the rushes, if that is what
 you call the round grass. We will try one basket tonight."

 Rhoda sat down on the floor happy as a bird. She sorted
 out the finest rushes, and began to braid them with her
 nimble fingers, and had full five inches done before her
 brother commenced. The creature chatted as she worked,
 and told Luke all that had happened to her in the morning
 in snatches, until he had a vivid idea of Mrs. Holt's anxious
 face, her proud poverty, and the danger that menaced her
 from Mrs. Wheeler, who stood, though they did not know it,
 in equal danger from her landlord and grocer. At last the
 green braid was deemed long enough, and was coiled into as
 pretty a basket as ever was concocted from rushes.

 "Now, Luke, comes your turn. I haven't the least idea
 about mixing the flowers," said Rhoda, holding her basket
 out by the handle. "Let me see how you do it."

 Luke held a quantity of the golden-rod in his hand, weaving
 the soft spray into what seemed a wreath of yellow snowflakes.
 This he laid around the edge of the basket, and
 directly brought the tremulous gold into more vivid life, by
 an inner wreath of wild asters of that rich purplish blue,
 which no cultivation can deepen or rival. Then came a tuft
 of tiny fern-leaves, holding in their centre a handful of
 flossy white flowers, so delicate that a breath seemed sufficient
 to blow them away.

 "There!" exclaimed the boy, holding up his work in
 gleeful triumph. "What do you think of that for a beginning?"

 "Oh, Luke! it is splendid; and you are so handy and
 handsome. Isn't work delightful when you really get at
 it?"

 No wonder the girl said that, for the boy was a picture as
 he sat upon the floor with his legs gathered under him, his
 jacket off, and the snow-white shirt unbuttoned at the
 throat, from whence it was partly dropping off one shoulder.
 In fact, the whole group was a living Murillo, for the tall,
 wild flowers in the pitcher loomed up a little behind the lad;
 and the girl, so small, so piquant and sparkling, stood near,
 with her head on one side, like a canary-bird, wondering if
 there was seed as well as flowers in the basket which the
 boy held up.

 "It will do; that will take; twenty-five cents would be
 cheap for it," she said, triumphantly.

 Luke lowered the basket to his lap, and a shadow came to
 his bright, young face. He was thinking how beautiful it
 was. She, with as good a heart, perhaps, counted the pennies
 it would bring. This practical common sense chilled
 the boy, and he turned from the basket with a sigh.

 All at once Rhoda clasped her hands with a sudden gesture
 of dismay.

 "Dear me! Who will sell them?" she exclaimed.
 "Father will never let me go to the theatre. _She_ would not
 have liked it. It is only men who buy flowers there."

 Luke turned white, and his eyes fell. "Did she expect
 him to go?"

 "If you could; if you only could bring yourself to try,
 dear. Think how nice it would be to have us both putting
 money into the bank."

 Luke got up from the floor, buttoned his shirt at the neck,
 and put on his jacket, but his face had lost all its animation.

 "Don't! Don't look like that, dear! It's nothing when
 you once begin. Try this once; it's not too late; people are
 just going in. Only think! four baskets will bring in a
 dollar!"

 Luke put on his cap and tried to smile, but the effort
 ended in a quiver of the lips, and tears swelled under his
 eyelids—the thing she asked was torture to the sensitive
 boy.

 "Kiss me before I go," he said, gently.

 Rhoda threw her arms around him, and felt that he was
 shaking from head to foot. This touched her, and she
 made an effort to draw him into the room again; but he
 resisted and would go. Was she, his twin sister, to undertake
 all the work, while he sat idle in the house dreaming
 of music, and watching the beautiful clouds? if she would
 not go up to his ideal with him he must help her here, for
 the needs of this hard working world was a heavy burden
 on her.

 Rhoda went down stairs with him, chatting all the way,
 and telling him how easy it was to sell pretty things.
 Matches were different; people had to be watched, and taken
 in their necessity for them; but flowers struck the fancy at
 once. She kissed her brother at the door and answered.

 "Of course you will," when he faltered out a promise to
 sell the basket before he came back. So the boy went down
 stairs, miserably heavy-hearted, and the girl resumed her
 work about the house, with a vague feeling of self-reproach,
 as if she had done a very cruel thing in urging the boy forth
 into the world from which he shrank so painfully.




 CHAPTER VII.

 A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.


 A girl was walking up and down in the foggy light of
 an ill-trimmed lamp, which was the sole illumination of a
 little room directly under the attic in which the musician
 Weeks, kept his humble household. She was a strange-looking,
 beautiful creature, in spite of her common-place garments,
 and a certain free movement, which bespoke more
 impatience than she could well control. Every few minutes,
 she would go to the window and look out, then pause
 to listen, and with a stamp of the foot, begin to pace the
 room again.

 Directly the door opened, and Weeks looked in with a
 sparkling smile on his good-natured face. Constance
 turned quickly and came toward him.

 "I've got the order, Miss Constance; seats for two, just
 one row back from where you sat the other night."

 "Oh, give them to me. Let me look. How good you
 are."

 "Not at all—don't mention it," said Weeks, beaming
 satisfaction from his eyes, but deprecating her thanks with
 a modest wave of the hand; "good night, I must be off to
 the theatre."

 The door closed, and Weeks ran down stairs, his light
 feet giving back a pleasant sound, as they pattered upon
 the steps.

 Constance ran up stairs, and looked into the room where
 Rhoda was at work.

 "Where is Luke; I want him," she said half out of
 breath.

 "Luke hasn't come in yet," answered Rhoda.

 "Oh mercy! what shall I do; here is an order for the
 theatre, and I want some one to go for Mr. Sterling."

 "I—I'll go," said Rhoda with cheerful good nature, and
 she began to tie on her hood at once.

 "That's a darling, good soul. I wouldn't let you take
 the trouble, Rhoda, but one does not get a chance to see a
 play often and your father has been so good."

 "He always is as good as gold," said Rhoda. "There,
 I'm all ready. Got a note or anything, or shall I only say
 he's wanted?"

 "That will be enough, Rhoda."

 "I should think so!"

 Away went Rhoda on her errand, and Constance Hudson
 returned to her little sitting-room, so anxious that she
 could not rest. In order to save time she went into a bedroom
 that opened upon that miserable apology for a parlor,
 and gave some really artistic touches to her hair, fastened
 a knot of blue ribbon to the bosom of her cheap delaine
 dress, and put on a jaunty little hat which made her dashing
 style of beauty really overpowering.

 "There now, I am quite ready," she said, pouring some
 cheap perfume on a handkerchief edged with imitation lace.
 "Why don't he come?"

 Constance began to pace the room again in her impatience;
 this was a great event for her, poor girl. It was
 not as she said, often that a chance to visit the theatre
 came in her way, and that was all the dissipation yet
 known to her. To understand her ardent longing, one
 must be young and isolated as she was, poor thing!

 It seemed a full hour before Rhoda came back with word
 that she could not find Mr. Sterling, who had gone out, but
 she had left word that he was wanted.

 Constance received this news with a passionate gesture,
 and her disappointment broke forth on little Rhoda, who
 was fortunately out of hearing, having run up stairs like a
 deer, eager to go on with her work.

 The disappointment which fell upon Constance was really
 distressing. She flung off her hat and put it on again half
 a dozen times, walked the room, leaned out of the window,
 laid her hot cheeks against the stone cill, and resolved to be
 patient till some sound of his coming reached her, but in
 half a minute began her feverish walk again.

 The hours wore on: it was getting almost too late for
 any hopes of going out, and Constance gave way entirely.
 She tossed her hat into a corner, flung herself into a chair,
 and burying her face in her perfumed handkerchief soon
 deluged its cheap lace with tears.

 All at once she heard a step, and sprang to her feet
 breathless; snatched up her hat and tried to look unconcerned
 as she settled it on her head; but the effort only
 made her agitation more apparent, for her face was flushed
 with weeping, and her lips had not ceased to tremble
 through the joyful smile that broke over them like sunshine
 on rosebuds.

 "He is coming, he is coming," she cried out, as if her own
 voice would endorse the fact, and turning to look at a
 painted clock that stood on a high wooden mantle-piece, she
 saw, that it would not be so very late when they reached
 the theatre, after all. In the tumult of her happiness she
 had forgotten the step, but it sounded again nearer the door.
 The color left her face, her heart fell like lead in her bosom,
 and she sank into a chair.

 "Oh, it is father—only that," she called, "and he will
 be glad that I am disappointed. I wont let him see it—I
 wont."

 Again she took off her hat, tossed it through the bedroom
 door, and, moving her seat, pretended to be looking out of
 the window; though her bosom heaved with rage against
 her father, that his step should have deceived her so.

 The door opened softly, and a tall man, meanly dressed,
 but neat and gentlemanly in spite of that, came into the
 room.

 "What, alone, Constance!" he said.

 "Alone," answered the girl pettishly; "why not. Who
 is there in this house to keep me company?"

 "I thought, perhaps, little Rhoda."

 "Little Rhoda, indeed; I am sick of her."

 "Or Luke, with his music; you never tire of that, I am
 sure."

 "Yes, I do; one must know something of music to enjoy
 it, and I know nothing of that—or anything else, how
 should I?"

 Constance said this with bitter emphasis. She almost
 hated her father just then, and was seized with a cruel wish
 to wound him.

 He looked at her with trouble in his eyes, but said nothing.
 Then she broke out again—

 "So you are ready to go out—out—out—out all night
 long, and I at home so lonesome that the very mice in the
 ceiling are company. I wonder what people have children
 for, if it is only to let them live in such a way as this; for
 my part, I wish I had never been born. So you _will_ go out
 and leave me alone?"

 It was wonderful, the patience with which the father of
 this girl submitted to these upbraidings. He answered her
 kindly, almost humbly:

 "But I must go, Constance, I have promised."

 "You are always promising, father; always out when I
 most need you. It's right down cruel to treat any child as
 I am treated."

 "Hush, Constance, do not blame me. I am trying to be
 kind—trying to act rightly."

 "Was it acting rightly to refuse me money enough to
 buy a feather for my hat, and put the last cent in your
 pocket as you did just now; you are always doing it, and
 not a shilling ever comes back."

 The man thus harshly reproached, turned his large gray
 eyes upon the girl with such mournful earnestness that she
 softened a little.

 "Oh father, you would not blame me if you knew how I
 wanted the feather, and how I have been disappointed."

 The man took some fractional currency from his pocket,
 counted it over with a troubled look, but put it resolutely
 back again.

 "I cannot give you the money to-night, Constance; wait
 a little and you shall have it."

 The girl burst into a passion of tears.

 "There, it is always so. I suppose you will be out all
 night, and come home without a cent. I declare I won't
 stand it; it's a burning shame for a man of your age to
 spend his nights as you do."

 "Constance!"

 The pain expressed by that one word thrilled through and
 through the angry girl, and told her how cruel she had been;
 but while she was struggling with herself, the door softly
 closed and her father disappeared. Impulsive alike in her
 anger and in her repentance, Constance sprang up, snatched
 her hat, threw a veil over it and ran after him.




 CHAPTER VIII.

 THE PRIVATE MARRIAGE.


 Constance Hudson saw her father moving along the
 pavement as she came into the street, and followed him
 quickly, eager to make atonement for the unfeeling words
 with which she had wounded him so cruelly, but he was walking
 faster than usual, and she had some difficulty in coming
 up with him. She had almost overtaken him, when a
 female came out from the shadow of a sunken doorway, and
 took hold of his arm.

 Constance saw her father bend his head as if listening to
 something this strange person was saying, and instantly a
 whirl of jealous suspicions swept away all her good resolutions.
 Who was this person whom her father came into the
 street to meet?

 At first Constance was tempted to rush up and confront
 the person who seemed on such familiar terms with her own
 father; but something arrested her as she came close up
 to them, and, while she hesitated, the two persons moved on.
 Constance followed them, breathless with hot indignation;
 but they walked rapidly and turned down a cross street
 crowded with wretched buildings, and more wretched people,
 in which she lost sight of them. They had entered a low
 basement kitchen, and seemed to have dropped through the
 earth, while the excited girl was pursuing them. Constance
 became frightened then, for throngs of strange looking
 people were passing and repassing the place where she
 stood, groups of squalid women and miserable children sat
 on the door steps chatting, scolding and sometimes laughing
 with boisterous merriment. Compared to this place her
 own home was a paradise. Sickened, terrified and angry,
 the girl turned and attempted to find her way back, but she
 became bewildered in this strange neighborhood and went
 astray, wandering farther from home each moment.

 At length, a coarse slatternly woman, around whom a
 brood of children were gathered, called out to her from an
 open door-way. Constance had no idea what she said, but
 her bright increased to absolute terror, and starting to a
 swift run, she fled down the street, turned corners at random,
 and at last came into a thoroughfare through which
 more respectable people seemed to be passing.

 Constance did not heed this change, in her terror, but
 sped on at a swift pace, which drew the general attention
 upon her, and the passers-by paused, hesitated and turned
 to look after her in general astonishment.

 No wonder! a more beautiful face than that which the
 filmy little bonnet revealed, seldom exhibited itself on any
 thoroughfare. With her cheeks ablaze with excitement,
 her eyes flashing like stars, and her superb hair floating
 back as she ran, the girl threaded the moving current of
 people with the swiftness and grace of a wild bird.

 "Constance! Great Heavens! Constance Hudson, what
 has brought you here?"

 The girl paused, caught her breath with a gasp, and
 reaching out both hands, burst into tears.

 "Oh Mr. Sterling, Mr. Sterling! is it you—really,
 really you, take me home—do take me home. I have
 lost myself, I have been in such dreadful places."

 The young man drew her trembling hand through his
 arm and held it tenderly as he strove to reassure her.

 "Be quiet. Do strive to tranquilize yourself. It seems
 so strange to find you here; get your breath, girl, and tell
 me what it all means—put down your veil."

 Constance lifted her hand and felt eagerly for her veil, but
 she found only the flossy hair, from which it had dropped in
 her fright.

 "I have lost it, and these people stare so," she said in
 keen distress.

 "Never mind, we shall soon be home. But tell me how
 it all happened," said the young man, whose presence was
 fast inspiring the girl with courage. "I cannot understand
 it."

 "It was all his fault. He came into the room when I
 was so disappointed about going to the theatre. Mr. Weeks
 brought me an order and I sent for you; but Rhoda could
 not find you, then I hoped that he might go with me; but
 he did not offer, and we had hard words. He went off in
 the midst of them. I had the last of it, and was sorry he
 looked so grieved as he closed the door. I got my bonnet at
 once and ran after him, just in time to see him meet some
 woman in the street and start off I followed them into
 such a terrible place, and lost them all at once; then in
 trying to find the way back I came on you."

 "You saw this; there can be no mistake about your
 father?"

 "Mistake, no. I heard him speak to her, I saw his face
 as he stooped down to look in hers. I never lost sight of
 them once till they seemed to drop into the earth, before my
 eyes."

 The young man was greatly disturbed; his heart was
 filled with profound sympathy for the girl, and burning
 indignation against the father.

 "Does this thing happen often? Is he really so neglectful?"

 "Often! he is never at home evenings, and sometimes
 stays away till late at night. If he takes out money, there
 is not a cent when he comes back. Sometimes I sit up till
 daylight waiting for him, afraid that some dreadful thing
 has happened. You have often asked me what made my
 eyes so heavy, and I would not tell you; but it is this! it is
 this."

 "My poor girl!"

 "I know that these wanderings do him harm," sobbed
 the girl, in her impetuous grief, "for he comes home so
 worn out and haggard, that my heart aches for him; but
 pleading, scolding or crying, does no good. Sick or well—rain
 or shine—he leaves me alone, thinking that I do not
 really care."

 By this time, the young couple had reached the house
 in which Constance lived. Young Sterling went up stairs
 with her, filled with bitter indignation against a father
 who would neglect a creature so young and beautiful as
 Constance, at a time when she most needed counsel and protection.
 Never had he seen Constance so beautiful. The
 anger had died out from her face, leaving it pale as death;
 a mist of tears still floated in her eyes; fatigue and terror
 had made her sweetly feminine.

 The heart of that young man turned traitor to his judgment;
 a wild, noble impulse seized upon him. He drew
 Constance toward him, held both her hands firmly in his,
 and bent his fine eyes to her face.

 "Constance, do you love me?"

 She looked at him in wild astonishment, then a glow of
 delight crept up to her face, and she bent her head murmuring:

 "Yes."

 "Come with me then, Constance."

 "Where? what for?" faltered the girl.

 "To a minister. I will make you my wife, Constance.
 It may be a rash step, but I cannot see you exposed to
 scenes like this; if your father cannot protect you, I will."

 Constance turned white as death, but directly her eyes
 kindled.

 "But just now you asked me if I loved you," she said.

 "And you answered 'Yes,' like a brave, honest girl"

 "What if I ask the same question, now. I am a poor
 girl, William, and lonesome enough at times, but you must
 not attempt to marry me from pity; I won't stand that."

 "No honest man asks any girl to love him, if he has
 nothing to give in return, Constance. How could any
 man help loving you?"

 Constance brightened like a rose.

 "You mean this?"

 "Yes, darling; now go smooth that hair a little, get
 another veil, and let us go."

 The girl went into her little bed-room and came out
 again, half tearful, half smiling.

 "I am ready," she said, throwing the veil over her little
 bonnet."

 An hour after this, the young couple entered the room
 again, quietly and in silence. The hour of their destiny
 had passed, and they came into the solitude of the room,
 saddened and serious. The momentous step they had
 taken, silenced the wild excitement which had urged it on.
 Perhaps no two persons that ever lived, were less prepared
 to enter the hard struggle of life, than this newly married
 couple. Constance flung aside her veil, and took off her
 bonnet. The thoughtfulness of her bridegroom made her
 timid.

 "I wonder what father will say," she whispered, drawing
 close to him as he stood by the window.

 "We must not tell him yet," answered the young man.
 drawing her to his side and pressing his lips to hers. "It
 is due my mother that she should be the first informed."

 "But what will she say?"

 The young man stepped back a pace, and held the beautiful
 creature he had married at arm's length as he examined
 her blushing face with eyes full of tender admiration.

 "She must say that you are beautiful, Constance, as for
 the rest——"

 "Well, what of the rest, William?"

 "It will go hard if you cannot make her love you; but
 for the present, Constance, you must keep our secret.
 Give me a little time for thought."

 "But you love me, William?"

 "Indeed I do."

 "Then I do not care for the rest."

 Thus these two young persons entered upon their
 secret and unsanctioned marriage.




 CHAPTER IX.

 AFTER THOUGHTS.


 An unsanctioned marriage! Yes it was that. William
 Sterling had only one person that he knew of on earth to
 whom he owed obedience, and towards whom his whole soul
 went forth in tender affection; that woman was his mother,
 Mrs. Holt, the neglected wife of a second husband, who was
 not Sterling's father.

 Who was this woman, with her gentle manners and
 exquisite refinement?

 William Sterling himself could not have told you more
 than that she was an English woman, of singular beauty,
 when he first remembered anything; a proud, independent
 woman, soft in manners but resolute of purpose, who for
 many years had given up her entire life to his well being.

 As a boy his education had been derived entirely from
 her own highly cultivated mind; and when that was insufficient
 for the requirements of his early manhood, she gave
 up a pretty cottage home in which their quiet lives had
 glided on together, and made her residence near the college,
 which gave him a higher range of education than she could
 impart.

 This devotion in the mother was met by ardent affection
 in the son; but they were to a certain extent separated, and
 in an evil hour for her the isolated and lonely woman contracted
 a second marriage which, for a time, promised to
 bring some happiness into her dull life.

 Holt, the man she married, was much younger than herself.
 Thrown into the society of this brilliant and beautiful
 woman, directly after a residence of two years in the
 tropics, her genius and proud beauty fascinated him. The
 woman was very lonely, and the ardent love of a man in
 the prime of his life, handsome, impetuous, and genial, won
 upon her prudence and awoke all the affections, without
 which the life of any woman is as nothing. It was almost
 the dawn of a new existence to this lady, when she entered
 the world again as the bride of Mason Holt. An atmosphere
 of wealth had become so completely a part of her life,
 that a return to it was almost Heaven to her. Besides, she
 loved the man, and that, after the monotony of her late life,
 was happiness in itself.

 If Mrs. Sterling told the history of her life to the man
 she married, no one ever learned the fact from him; but one
 thing came to his knowledge about this time, that might
 have excited distrust in a less reckless man. Whatever
 means of support Mrs. Sterling had possessed before, had
 been utterly exhausted at the time of her marriage. With
 the exception of a few hundred dollars, set apart for her
 son's education, she had scarcely money enough of her own
 to purchase her wedding garments. But Holt was liberal
 to a fault. The wealth that he had, was lavished without
 stint, for a few years; then came difficulties, wild speculations,
 bankruptcy, and at last a shabby boarding-house, in
 which the sensitive woman shrank and trembled with dread,
 as she heard the step of her landlady on the stairs.

 For a time young Sterling shared the sudden prosperity
 of his mother, but as humiliation and poverty came upon
 her, she grew reticent with him, and would not admit the
 evil that was slowly creeping over her life. But the young
 man saw it vaguely, and knew that it was a trouble which
 must be prepared for in the future. So he flung aside the
 indomitable pride which had been ingrained into his nature,
 and casting away all hopes of a profession, followed the
 bent of his own genius, and earned a tolerable independence
 as an engraver.

 In this pursuit, he met the ardent, and reckless girl who
 was to be his destiny, and his genius went out and seized
 upon hers with the vivid quickness of two powerful fires,
 meeting and rushing onward together.

 These two young persons, both ardent and wonderfully
 gifted, had been for nearly a year thrown into the intimate
 companionship of teacher and pupil, opposed as they were
 in character and training. A feeling of intense interest
 sprang up between them, and while Hudson followed his
 mysterious life, leaving his daughter almost every night to
 the solitude of that dull room, so irksome to a person of her
 quick vitality and ardent imagination, young Sterling became
 almost an inmate of the little household, and, as time
 wore on, the confidant of this lonely girl.

 Sterling understood more of the world than the young
 girl, whose life had been so miserably circumscribed, and
 drew conclusions regarding the father, that deepened his
 sympathy for her. More than once he had seen this man
 enter places that would have cast suspicion upon an anchorite;
 low drinking saloons, and haunts of evil resort,
 which he believed would only be a resort of depraved morals
 and perverted taste. It was well for Constance Hudson that
 she was thrown into intimate association at this time with
 a person so much above her in character and education—so
 staunch in his honor. Sterling believed Hudson to be a
 man utterly unfit to control a girl so beautiful and impetuous,
 and to a certain extent had constituted himself her
 guardian.

 It was a dangerous position for any young man—doubly
 perilous for a person of such quick sympathies and chivalric
 generosity. He saw this girl utterly unprotected, as he
 believed, rich in artistic genius and most dangerous beauty.
 Her loneliness touched him, her ambition and industry impressed
 him with admiration, amounting, at times, to absolute
 respect. What a glorious creature she might become, if
 once lifted out of the cruel isolation to which fate had condemned
 her.

 These thoughts had grown and deepened in his mind
 until they possessed him entirely. He saw this girl, so rich
 in attractions, spending night after night in that dull parlor,
 or wandering from room to room without a single creature
 to speak with, whose association was not likely to drag her
 down, except the musician's family. He saw all this, and
 was ready to condemn her father for this abandonment
 night after night of a creature so rash, so impetuous, and
 rich in perilous beauty; and so far as he could, the young
 man took the father's place, resolved to protect her alike
 from herself and the evil example of a parent he deemed
 unworthy of so high a trust. The girl aided in this belief
 of her father's unworthiness; there was so much in his
 character and conduct which she could not understand, and
 this filled her with anger and distrust against him. These
 feelings she imparted to the young man, who was ready to
 believe anything evil of the parent who would so neglect an
 only child. These feelings and the sudden terror which came
 upon him on seeing Constance Hudson fleeing like a wild
 animal through the streets at night, hurried the young
 man on to a marriage which, in less than twenty-four hours,
 he shrank from revealing to his own mother.




 CHAPTER X.

 THE FAINT HEART.


 Yes, from the depths of his proud nature, William Sterling
 shrank from the plain duty which lay before him. But
 his mother must be informed of the mad act, which had
 made Constance Hudson his wife. Hard as the task was,
 he set forth to perform it.

 The young man knew well, that he was preparing a cruel
 blow for that sensitive and proud woman. How could he
 present this unformed girl to her as a daughter-in-law,
 without a pang of bitter humiliation.

 The blood burned hotly in his cheeks, as he felt the
 necessity of this step. He imagined his mother's look of
 amazement as the unformed, self-sufficient girl was brought
 before her, arrogant, ignorant, and so quick of resentment.
 How would they meet?

 No princess of the blood royal had ever evinced more ambition
 for her son, than this poor lady. The idea of his
 marriage state had been one of great solicitude with her.
 It seemed as if some hope which appertained to her old life,
 had wound itself about the young man in a way that made
 his marriage a matter of life and death to her.

 These thoughts, which pressed upon the bridegroom immediately
 after his marriage, made a coward of him; but he
 was honest as the day, and the very thought of concealment
 oppressed him. While the solemn marriage vows were
 warm upon his lips, he went to his mother resolved to confess
 everything, and relieve his soul from all deception. But he
 found Mrs. Holt in tears. Sorrows that she would not speak
 of preyed upon her, and chilled the young man when he
 thought of the blow he had come to give.

 "Do not mind me, William," she said, turning the sigh
 that rose to her lips into a sad smile. "So long as you love
 and give her your heart and your full confidence, there will
 always be hope for your mother."

 "I have always given you my confidence," faltered Sterling,
 turning white and red under the secret he had come to
 divulge. "I—I—"

 "Yes, I know; but William, there must be something
 more than mere confidence between us."

 "Between us, mother! I do not ask to wound you, but
 is there nothing that has been kept back from me—nothing
 of the past that I ought to know?"

 Mrs. Holt turned painfully white, and Sterling could see
 that her hands began to tremble.

 "Nothing that you ought to know, William, unless you
 are prepared to leave your mother forever, and herd with
 her enemies."

 "Enemies?—Oh, mother, can you, so gentle and so generous,
 ever have made enemies?"

 "Yes, my son, bitter, implacable enemies, who would
 never be content until they had wrested from me the trust
 and love of my son."

 "Mother, that can never be done."

 "You say this now."

 "And forever; this earth holds nothing so dear to William
 Sterling as his mother. I shall lose faith in the angels
 when she becomes less than that."

 Mrs. Holt leaned forward, and kissed her son with tearful
 eyes and quivering lips.

 "And you do not condemn me, as I am forever condemning
 myself," she said, lowering her face and weeping outright.

 "Condemn you, mother, how should I? What have you
 done that I should give you anything but love?"

 "I—I married Mr. Holt, took half my life from you, and
 gave it to him."

 "But not your love,—no one has ever taken that from me.
 As for the rest, so long as this man makes you happy—I
 have nothing to say against him."

 "William, I was hard beset. Mr. Holt was very kind to
 us both. I was lonely, and troubled with a kind of trouble
 that frightened me."

 "Hush mother, hush! One would think these words
 meant an apology to your own son. I will not hear it, or
 allow the right of every human being to choose the happiness
 of love for his, or her own self, to be questioned. If
 you married Mr. Holt, loving him, it was your natural right
 if any other reason influenced you wholly or in part. I know
 well enough it was a sacrifice to your child, for which he
 should be grateful. It was not of Mr. Holt I was speaking."

 Mrs. Holt looked up quickly, and wiped the tears from
 her eyes.

 "Then we will speak of nothing else until God's good
 time, my son. Trust your mother in the future, as you have
 in the past, and in one thing give her more than trust. As
 you value the future—your own happiness and mine—form no
 attachments among the people with whom your life must for
 a time be spent. I have suffered much, William, but the
 blow that strikes me down will come when you bring a wife
 to me, such as—as—a lady cannot take to her bosom.
 Never think of that, William, unless you desire to see me
 dead at your feet, or the most hopeless wretch that ever
 burdened the earth."

 William Sterling checked the words that had risen to his
 lips, with a thrill of pain that left those lips bloodless
 as marble. There was such pathetic earnestness in her
 voice, such intense pleading in her eyes, that the secret he
 was about to speak, fell back on his heart, like the ashes
 of a quenched fire, bitter and burdensome.

 "I say this now, my son, because you are of a nature
 and an age, when one rash act might mar your whole life;
 there is a path before you, dark as it seems now, that God
 will open in his own time, which must be entered upon
 without burdens and without regret. Above all things,
 keep free both in mind and heart."

 Sterling took the two hands which Mrs. Holt held
 toward him, and clasped them closely.

 "Mother, mother! I would give you my life," he faltered.

 "Not your life—only let me guide the present, that a
 noble future may be secured. I ask nothing more than
 that."

 Still the young man clasped her hands, and was about
 to say words that he knew would smite her to the heart,
 but that moment the door opened, and he arose quickly,
 like a prisoner reprieved.

 After that interview, Sterling never found the courage
 to wound his mother with the truth. When William
 Sterling went back to his young wife, the mists of passions
 seemed to have fallen from his eyes, spite of his love which
 was half pity; he saw how impossible it was to introduce
 her to his mother, until study and refining influences had
 made her more worthy of that gentle, but proud lady's
 regards.

 There was really no cowardice in this, but the young
 man could not bring himself to strike the blow which
 might absolutely kill his mother. He saw that her nerves
 were greatly shattered, that she shrank from all discussions
 involving the present or the past, and that she had
 some unexplained hope in the future, which a knowledge
 of his marriage would blast forever. He literally dared
 not present Constance to her as his wife. No, the young
 man had not the courage to distress his mother with news
 like this. He would still keep the whole thing secret;
 would teach this bright girl to subdue all that was low
 and coarse in her nature. Love must aid him in this good
 work. An intellect like hers, bright, vivid, and receptive,
 must, in the end, be capable of any degree of refinement.
 He had only to wait, work diligently in her behalf, trust
 to her warm heart and quick intellect for the rest, and all
 would be well in the end.

 Thus it was that the young man reasoned with his conscience.




 CHAPTER XI.

 THE UNEXPECTED REVELATION.


 Luke had not far to walk. People were going into the
 theatre in crowds. A feeling of sensitive shame seized upon
 him, the color fled from his lips, and they quivered when
 he held out his flowers, and attempted to speak. But he
 was brave, from a kind desire to prove himself of use, and
 moved into the thickest of the crowd, holding up his lovely
 merchandise. One or two gentlemen answered his timid
 appeal sharply, and told him to stand out of the way; at
 which he shrank back, with tears in his eyes, and longed to
 run home and never see a human face more.

 As he stood leaning against the wall, forlorn and disheartened,
 a young man entered the building with a girl upon
 his arm, dressed in a showy fashion, but with an underlaying
 of poverty in her garments, that she attempted to cover
 by a dashing and jaunty air, which seemed to defy criticism.

 The girl, seeing that several ladies had bouquets in their
 hands as they passed into the theatre, was seized with a
 desire for flowers herself, and, seeing Luke standing by the
 wall, with his head bent over a basket of flowers hanging
 from his listless hand, turned that way. The boy stood
 in shadow, and she was only led to him by a gleam of white
 and gold in his basket.

 "See, see, there are some—there are some!" she cried,
 addressing her companion, and dragging him rather roughly
 towards Luke. "Oh mercy! they are nothing but common
 things from the side of some road! What trash!"

 Here Luke lifted his eyes suddenly, and the light fell
 upon his face.

 "My gracious!" cried the girl, throwing up both hands
 and breaking into a laugh. "If it is not Luke—Luke
 Weeks; did you ever!"

 Luke lifted his pleading eyes, and drew back into the
 shadows.

 "Oh don't—oh don't!" he almost moaned.

 "But how on earth came you here?"

 "I—I thought they would not know me," pleaded the
 boy.

 "But those ridiculous things are nothing but weeds that
 grow in the crooks of fences."

 "But so fresh—so lovely! Oh, please don't say that. I
 know they are beautiful as you are."

 "As I am!" answered the girl, tossing her head in arrogant
 consciousness of its loveliness, "the idea!"

 "Come, come, as you do not care for the flowers, let us
 go," said the young man, who had been restless and evidently
 annoyed by the manner of his companion, "you
 forget that the house is filling up and we have no secured
 seats."

 "True enough," answered the girl, swinging herself back
 into the crowd and giving Luke a warning glance over her
 shoulder as she added for his benefit, "now go home, go
 home and tell Rhoda not to have any more of this nonsense.
 Ridiculous!"

 "Don't speak quite so loud," whispered the young man,
 "you will break the child's heart; surely you did not mark
 the trouble in his eyes."

 "Oh yes, I did. It isn't the first time I have brought
 it there, he's just one heap of poetry and nonsense. But
 did you ever see such eyes!"

 "There is but one pair of eyes that I ever care to
 remember," answered the young man, bending his head
 low, and speaking in a tone that brought the bloom of a
 wild rose into the girl's cheek. So, forgetting the flowers
 and the poor boy that held them, in this sweet flattery, she
 moved on with the crowd, while Luke's heart sunk like lead
 in his bosom.

 He grew weary and ashamed of holding out his basket,
 and dropping it partly behind him, was preparing to creep
 away, when a gentleman and lady stepped from a carriage,
 followed by a girl who was evidently the daughter. Her
 first glance fell upon Luke and his unlucky merchandise.

 "Oh, papa! see how pretty! Stop! stop a minute, do!"
 she cried out eagerly.

 "Do you want them, Dora?"

 "Want them? Of course I do."

 The gentleman smiled, and his wife laughed outright;
 and turning to Luke, asked the price of his flowers.

 "I—I don't know; if the young lady likes them——"

 The boy's face was one glow of blushes.

 Dora took them, just as unmindful of the money as he
 was.

 "Oh! thank you, ten thousand times! See, papa, how
 lovely they are!"

 "But the price—how much, my boy?"

 "I don't know—I'd rather not, if you please."

 "Oh, papa! what do you ask for? Give him lots," whispered
 Dora.

 But while the gentleman was taking out his porte-monnaie,
 Luke attempted to lose himself in the crowd. After
 looking in that bright young face, he was ashamed of taking
 money.

 "Here! Here!" said the gentleman, following him up
 and thrusting some money into his hand. "Take that
 address, and bring a basket to my house twice a week."

 "Three times," said Dora, "three times, papa, please—and
 don't forget the address, little boy."

 Luke took the money, and, hiding himself in the crowd,
 watched the lady and her daughter as they stood together,
 while the gentleman was at the ticket-office.

 "There she goes," he thought, as the plume of her dainty
 little hat disappeared through the door; "and she'll always
 remember me as the boy who took her money for the flowers
 that God gives to all."

 Luke almost ran home, leaped up stairs, in breathless
 baste, and flung the money, which he had not looked at,
 into his sister's lap.

 "Why, Luke, it's a dollar—a whole dollar! Isn't this
 famous?" she said. "You precious, darling old boy!"

 Rhoda looked up for an answer, and was astonished to
 see that Luke had fallen upon a seat by the table, and, with
 his face buried in his folded arms, was crying passionately.

 Poor Luke had cried himself asleep long before Sterling
 and Constance came home from the theatre. The young
 man had become shy of spending so much time in that
 shabby parlor, for his marriage was yet unacknowledged,
 and the secret pressed heavily upon him.

 Constance bade him good night with some reluctance.
 She had no conscientious scruples regarding the deception
 practised on her father, but had accepted the marriage
 without a thought of its consequences, and with as little
 consideration as she would have given to a morning walk.
 She loved the young artist with passionate vehemence. He
 was her only friend, her gentle and kind master, handsome,
 talented, earnest, and she felt the influence of these qualities
 without possessing the power to appreciate them. To her
 it was a grand step in life when she saw the golden ring of
 wedlock on her finger. The dignity of her own person was
 enhanced; she longed to dress herself in white, crown
 herself with orange blossoms and make wedding calls on all
 the tenants of the house, still she felt it no grievous wrong
 when Sterling suggested that she should wear the wedding
 ring about her neck, hid away in the folds of her dress, till
 his mother and her father should be informed of the step
 they had taken. One thing was certain, they were married,
 and all these triumphs must yet come to her.

 "Remember," she said as Sterling held her hand a
 moment, at parting, "we must go again one night this
 week. I do so love the theatre."

 "Yes," he answered gently, "I will be sure to get seats."

 Sterling turned from the door, and walked toward home,
 somewhat depressed in spirits; for things had happened at
 the house that night, which wounded his sensitive pride.
 The rude arrogance with which Constance had treated that
 gentle boy, with his flowers, had shocked him as before that
 rash ceremony no act of hers could have done,—besides
 this, she had accepted the staring homage of more than one
 man, who leveled his audacious eyes upon her beauty, in a
 way that wounded and repulsed her husband. So he left her
 at the door, and wandered off, not thinking or caring what
 course he took.

 After awhile, the young man found himself in that part of
 the town, which is desolate as a wilderness after the stores
 are closed and business is withdrawn. It was late at night,
 and he had unconsciously sought the quiet streets in order
 to arrange the painful thoughts that crowded on him.

 All at once he was aroused, almost startled by the sound
 of voices down a cross street, where groups of people were
 swarming in and out, with an appearance of unusual interest.

 The young man turned listlessly, and went forward with
 the crowd. The sound of a voice in the interior of a house
 which opened on the street, sent the blood back upon his
 heart. He pushed forward, urged his way to the door, and
 looked in.

 When Sterling left that crowd, and made his way into
 the street again, a marvellous change had fallen upon him.
 A revelation had been made, while standing in the shadow
 of that open door, which changed the whole aspect of his
 own conduct. He knew that the act, which he had
 deemed one of magnanimity, was violation of friendship,
 and a wrong which no power of his could atone for.




 CHAPTER XII.

 "AMEN."


 Back of the Old Brick Church, in Fulton street, a group
 of people had gathered, drawn there by a man's voice in
 earnest, almost agonised pleading, which came from the
 lecture-room, and fell upon the stillness of the night with
 a force and pathos that made every third man that passed,
 turn aside and listen.

 After a little time, men came out of the cross streets and
 alleys, and crowded up to the church, like ghosts and shadows,
 drawn from their hiding places by a voice that was
 indeed crying aloud in the wilderness of a great city.

 The room behind that grim old church, had long been
 known as a place of midnight prayer, and it was no unusual
 thing for men, women and children, to gather under its
 shelter, some from sheer curiosity, some to mock and gibe,
 others to escape from the cellars and garrets of a tenement
 house, and a few hard-working men, came there reverently
 after a season of toil, for words of hope and consolation of
 which their daily life was so barren.

 This night, the little knot of people grew into a crowd,—a
 dense, squalid mass of humanity, evidently gathered
 from the very dregs of the people; for after business hours,
 the neighborhood of the old church was haunted by the
 desolate and the dissolute, who wanted shelter, or craved
 even the excitement of a prayer-meeting, rather than
 remain in their own miserable homes.

 But those who came from idle curiosity, or with a mocking
 spirit stayed, spell-bound by the touching eloquence of
 a tall spare man, who stood in one end of the lecture-room,
 pleading with the hardened souls gathered around him, as
 if each man had power over his own life.

 A man was walking down the street evidently on his
 way to the ferry, when this strange voice, so full of passionate
 devotion, fell upon his ear. He stopped suddenly,
 turned his face towards the church, and listened with intense
 interest. The light of a street lamp lay full upon his face,
 which was lighted up with surprise at first, then settled into
 a look that it would be difficult to describe.

 "By Heavens! it is his voice as I first heard it; with
 the old trumpet tone, the clear, ringing sentences. At last,
 at last I have found him. No two voices like that ever
 mocked Heaven."

 The man had on a traveling cap, which he drew down
 over his face, then, buttoning the linen duster that he wore,
 over a handsome suit of black, turned and made his way
 quietly through the crowd till he stood just within the lecture
 room, and commanded a view of all that was passing
 there.

 He stood in the midst of a crowd of squalid men and
 women from the neighboring lanes and cross streets, newsboys
 ready for any lark after a hard day's toil, and bootblacks
 with boxes and brushes slung to their backs, lured
 from their way home by the crowd and that strange ringing
 voice; added to these, washerwomen with their baskets of
 clothes on their arms, arrested on their way home with the
 week's wash, by these unusual signs of life about the old
 church, appeared here and there in the throng.

 The man who had been so strangely arrested on his way
 to the ferry, kept his place resolutely by the door, to which
 the outside crowd huddled up like sheep, hesitating to leap
 over the bars of a strange pasture. After waiting a little,
 these groups broke up, and glided away into the shadowy
 corners, some hiding their faces, ashamed of the tears that
 attested to the humanity within them, others seating themselves
 on the benches, with their startled faces uplifted, and
 their wild eyes glowing beneath this fervent eloquence,
 which rang over them and thrilled the silence of the deserted
 streets.

 There was something wild and almost sublime in the earnestness
 of this man. His dark gray eyes were black with
 excitement, his sensitive mouth curved and trembled under
 the torrent of burning words that shook them as they rushed
 forth to startle and thrill that motley crowd. The stranger
 at the door kept his place, and listened with a cynical smile
 on his lips, and a gleam of triumph in his eyes. The wonderful
 eloquence of the speaker, his wild, pathetic pleading,
 which thrilled its way even to the hardened souls around
 him, made no impression on this man. His face never
 changed its unpleasant smile, until the speaker alluded with
 touching humility to his own unfitness as a teacher. Then
 his sinister look hardened into a wicked sneer, as the speaker
 dwelt on this subject with almost abject self-abasement,
 proclaiming that he did not assume to teach his hearers
 from a stand-point of superior christian excellence, but
 as a fellow-creature, given to grievous backsliding, weak
 and infirm of purpose, unfit even to plead with his fellow
 men, except by the grace of God.

 That which the lecturer said of himself was true. The
 truth stirred every feature of his face, and suffused his eyes
 with unshed tears, as he spoke of himself as no better than
 those who listened to him, of sins which outmatched theirs,
 inasmuch as greater advantages had been given to him, and
 such powers as neglect or persuasion turned into curses.

 This language was not unusual in these night meetings,
 but never before had it seemed so intensely real. There
 was no mock humility in those tones, no impudent attempt
 to win a miserable notoriety, by proclaiming imaginary
 sins, in order to find the level of his hearers. The pathos
 of his self-reproach, won his hearers into quick sympathy.
 There was little action in this man's delivery, no stormy
 sound, no studied rhetoric. I cannot tell you where his
 force lay, but it made those rough natures shake their
 sloth and aspire for the time, at least, toward that human
 goodness which seemed so beautiful, when his lips portrayed
 it.

 He turned toward the crowd at the door, and reaching
 forth his arms, pleaded like a drowning man, that all
 should join with him, and struggle forth to the better life.

 "Listen to one who has known the bitterness of sin, the
 misery of evil doing," he said, "and come forth into the
 pure light. If a knowledge of sin, and a loathing of it,
 can fit a fellow being to guide you in all humility, then
 may I entreat you to listen. There is not in all this
 crowd, man or woman, whose transgressions have been
 more deeply dyed than those of the fellow mortal, who
 pleads with you this night."

 "Amen!"

 These words came ringing in from the door, loud and
 distinct; sharp, too, from the venom that cut through it.
 The burning eloquence died on those ashen lips. One
 word had struck the speaker dumb. His outstretched
 arms fell heavily; great drops started on his forehead, his
 limbs began to waver.

 "Who is it that speaks?" he cried out, with agony in
 his voice.

 There was no reply, but for an instant the stranger
 lifted his cap, and looked in through the door, smiling as
 his eyes met the wild orbs wandering over the crowd.

 The speaker took a handkerchief from the desk before
 him, clutching it tightly in his hand, and made a feeble
 effort to wipe the drops from his forehead. Then his limbs
 gave way, and he sunk slowly to his knees, his face
 drooped forward, and for a moment the silence of death
 fell upon the startled crowd.

 Directly that white face was uplifted, and the first
 words of an agonised prayer struggled through those quivering
 lips—louder and firmer it rose, till the very soul of
 the man cried out to God for help, with passionate vehemence.
 At last he stood upon his feet, and looked around
 the room, as if nerving himself to meet some enemy.




 CHAPTER XIII.

 THE FORCED VISIT.


 The crowd of people who had witnessed this scene in
 the lecture room, were low, obtuse natures, on whom the
 simple words which had almost paralysed the speaker before
 their eyes, made but a momentary impression. They only
 saw that he was exhausted and completely broken down.
 This eloquence had been their principal attraction, and when
 another speaker took the desk, half the crowd broke up in
 confusion. With the various groups that went out of the
 rooms and swept into the street, the man whose sublime
 eloquence had assembled them, disappeared. For a little
 time he lingered near the church, and creeping into its
 blackest shadows, laid his forehead against the rugged
 walls.

 "Oh my God! my God, help me! help me! for this,
 mine enemy, has found me out."

 His voice was broken, his breath came sharply; he rested
 his forehead against the cold stone, and, though fever was
 in his veins, shuddered with the chill. All at once a hand
 was laid on his shoulder, and a light laugh sounded in his
 ears.

 "So, my friend, we have met once more," said a voice
 that made the man shrink; but he turned with some degree
 of courage, and answered rather sadly:

 "Yes, I recognised your voice."

 "And I yours. It has lost nothing of its power. No
 wonder the beggars swarm around you. They do not always
 get eloquence from so pure a source."

 The speaker made no reply; he was evidently used to
 the jeers of this man, and endured them without resistance.

 "Upon my word," said the traveler, "I should think
 the very sight of me had struck you dumb."

 "It is only another curse come back," muttered the tortured
 man, as he moved away from the church.

 "Come, Hudson, let us have a talk together, this is a cold
 meeting for old friends like us. You have no idea how
 long I have been searching for you."

 The man addressed as Hudson, turned upon his persecutor
 with a look and gesture of pathetic appeal.

 "Why is it that you search for me? The time has
 passed when we can meet with pleasure or profit. Leave
 me, Church; in mercy leave me to go on my path alone. It
 is dreary enough—how dreary, the God who will judge us
 both, only knows."

 "Leave you, Hudson? Indeed I will do no such thing;
 we have been fast friends too long for that"

 "Friends?" muttered the wretched man, bitterly, "I
 have no friends and deserve none."

 "But what wretches we should be if no man got more
 than his deserts? You are far too modest, Hudson; upon my
 soul you are a wonderful creature. Why, half that crowd of
 beggars were crying like babies. Once or twice I felt the
 mist creeping into my own eyes."

 "Then why did you linger, tears should speak of forbearance;
 why not go away and leave me in peace?"

 "Because I mean yet to be of service to you."

 "Of service to me."

 "Yes, certainly, by the looks of your coat you do not
 seem to have a superabundance of prosperity. Tell me how
 you are getting on."

 "I have liberty, a roof to shelter me, and generally enough
 to eat."

 "But not a dollar laid by for a rainy day?"

 "All days are rainy to me!"

 "I understand; but your daughter. She was a bright
 little thing. What of her?"

 "Constance is well, and getting very womanly."

 "Does she live with you?"

 "Yes."

 "And have you no ambition for her?"

 "Ambition! no, I only wish to keep her safe, and make
 her better than her father has been."

 "Is she pretty?"

 "I do not know."

 "Clever?"

 "Yes, there are few things my child cannot do when she
 puts her energies forth."

 "Free of heart?"

 "Constance is very young, and sees but few people."

 "But where does she live?"

 "With her father!"

 "Then I can imagine that her home is not a sumptuous
 one."

 "It is the best I can give her as yet."

 "But how can you deal fairly by the girl, when your
 time is spent in such places as I found you in to-night?"

 "Do not question or revile me, Church, I have duties to
 my fellow men, and atonements to make. It is only such
 people as you saw me with to-night, that I dare approach;
 even in a holy cause I cannot shut out three bitter years
 of my life, but while God gives me breath, I will do my
 best to atone for them."

 "Unfortunately, these infernal laws of ours are vampires
 that accept no atonement," said Church, with emphasis.

 A shudder crept over Hudson and he turned a white,
 appealing face on his tormentor, but made no answer, save
 in a deep sigh.

 "Are you going home now," said Church, answering this
 pathetic look with a smile, full of subtle cruelty.

 "I have no where else to go, at this time of night," answered
 Hudson, sadly.

 "Then I will take a look at your home, and pay my
 respects to little Constance."

 The instruments of torture were on Hudson, and he
 could only submit, but his heart turned to lead in his bosom,
 and his step grew heavy as he approached the tenement
 house, which was all the home he knew. Without a
 word of protest he turned into a cross street, and entered
 one of those old-fashioned brick houses that are still left in
 the lower part of the city, waiting for the fast progress of
 business to sweep them away.

 The two men entered a narrow hall, dark as Egypt, and
 mounted a flight of rickety stairs, which led to a dingy
 parlor and small bed room both furnished with ill matched
 articles, so shabby and faded that the utmost care could not
 have given it even a comfortable appearance.

 A dull lamp burned upon the table, but this was only
 sufficient to reveal the general destitution of the place, which
 really shocked the man, Church, to whom poverty was far
 more hateful than sin.

 "Your girl does not seem to be at home," said Church,
 with an accent of pity in his voice. "No wonder, I should
 say."

 That moment a light step was heard on the stairs above,
 and the parlor door opened far enough to admit a little
 bright face.

 "Mr. Hudson, is that you," said a childish voice. "Miss
 Constance told me to say that she has gone to Wallack's
 theatre with Mr. Sterling, if you got home before she did,
 but I did not expect you home so early."

 The door closed, and Rhoda Weeks' bright face disappeared.

 "Gone to the theatre, has she?" said Church, taking out
 his watch. "There is time yet, I will just drop in and see
 if I can make out your daughter among so many people. I
 think there can be no mistaking her eyes; perhaps I shall
 come home with her. You won't object to that, I suppose.
 She has an escort, of course, but she will find room on the
 pavement for her father's old friend, I dare say."

 Church took off the linen duster from over a suit of
 handsome black, flung it across a sofa, and smoothed his hair
 with a pocket comb, before a paltry looking-glass upon the
 mantel-piece.

 Hudson watched these movements with a look of haggard
 misery in his eyes. When his forced guest went out, he
 fell upon his knees and sobbed like a child.

 "Oh, my God, my God, help me to struggle, help me to
 resist, or let me die now, imploring mercy."

 The door opened softly, and Rhoda Weeks crept in.
 Hudson had lifted his voice, and it was so full of anguish,
 that the girl had run down to comfort him.

 "Don't, Mr. Hudson, don't take on so! She didn't
 think you would mind her going to the theatre. It's only
 Mr. Sterling has gone with her, you know."

 Hudson lifted his face, and attempted to answer the girl's
 consolations with a smile, but the effort was so sad that she
 only cried out again:

 "Oh, don't—don't. She hasn't done anything to make
 you feel like that."




 CHAPTER XIV.

 HIS SIN HAD FOUND HIM OUT.


 That night young Sterling had redeemed his promise,
 and taken Constance to the theatre, where he soon found
 himself an object of annoying attention, from the remarkable
 beauty of his companion. No wonder. Her complexion
 was bright and pure as a morning rich with June roses.
 In color and form, she was splendid; yet there was something
 in her look, and the atmosphere that surrounded her,
 quite indescribable, which betrayed that she was not in all
 respects a gentlewoman.

 This subtle influence, which made itself felt as surely as
 her personal loveliness, tinged the homage which her beauty
 might have inspired. She felt herself stared at, and knew
 that she was admired. This thought fired her vanity, and
 made her restless. She looked about the audience, with an
 air that seemed to challenge observation.

 As the play went on, a tall man, stooping forward in his
 walk, and clothed in black, came into the theatre, took an
 empty seat near the couple, and watched them keenly, but
 with apparent indifference, when he observed that any one
 was looking at him. Before the performance closed he left
 the theatre, and walked leisurely toward the tenement house
 in which he had only a short time before left the girl's
 father in an agony of apprehension.

 He found that unhappy man trying to read, by the light
 of a kerosene lamp, which Rhoda had trimmed and brightened
 up for him; but no word of the book he held had
 reached his thoughts, which went painfully back to the man
 who had just left him.

 Church flung his cap on the sofa where his linen duster
 lay, and sat down by the table.

 "Well, Hudson, I have seen your girl, and she is simply
 splendid. The idea of keeping a creature like that in this
 place, is absurd. I cannot permit it."

 "It is all the home I can give her," said Hudson, with
 some spirit; "but I think she will have something better
 before long."

 "You mean the young fellow that is with her. He may
 have a weakness for your girl—who would not? But he
 is not weak in other respects; that handsome face of his
 has strong lines in it; and the mouth is iron. It would go
 hard with the girl, if he were her husband, and something
 we know of, were to come out. I do not think we had better
 encourage that sort of thing."

 But I sometimes think—"

 "No you don't. No man can think safely ten minutes
 in advance. But tell me, who is that young fellow? how
 comes he to stand on such very intimate terms with your
 daughter?"

 "He is an engraver of great genius; his name is Sterling,
 and I think he was born in England."

 "A brief biography, but how came he on such terms
 here, that he dares take your daughter out, and you ignorant
 of the fact?"

 "He is my daughter's teacher."

 "In what, pray?"

 "She has a wonderful genius for the art, and he has
 been her teacher in it during the last year."

 "But why did you not teach her yourself?"

 "I did, for awhile—but she soon got beyond me; as a
 little girl, I saw her talent and encouraged it."

 "Are you sure that this young fellow is not teaching her
 a double lesson? You were always a modest man, Hudson,
 and a little over-confiding, as we can both remember.
 It will be difficult to convince me, that this young fellow
 can surpass you with the graver."

 There was something in the man's look as he said this,
 which startled Hudson, and he faltered out:

 "I am getting old; my sight is failing."

 "Tush, man! your sight and your hand are sharp
 and steady enough for me; I have found no one to equal
 you. In fact, I have been in search of you. It was not
 the old friendship alone, that made my heart leap, when
 your voice swelled across my path to-night. The old enterprise
 was nothing to what we may accomplish now. My
 position in the Treasury—"

 "Hold, hold!" cried Hudson, drawing his chair suddenly
 back, and throwing out both hands in desperate
 repulsion. "I expected this; I saw it in your face, but I
 will never do the thing you want, never!—So help me—"

 "There, there! let us have no more, old friend; this is
 not a midnight mission, and calling upon God in high
 passion, can be dispensed with. You have grown nervous
 and timid; let us talk of something else."

 Hudson drew his chair slowly towards the table again,
 but his limbs were quivering and his hand shook as he
 lifted it to his forehead.

 "Tell me more about your girl," said Church, softly feeling
 his way back to the poor man's confidence. "Did I understand
 that she really thinks of working for her own living?"

 "She aspires to more than that, poor child, and talks of
 supporting her father when he gets too old for work."

 "She must be a brave girl."

 "She has borne many things bravely; privation of all
 those things a young girl loves best,—dress, accomplishments,
 society, for I have not always had work, and at
 times we have been very poor."

 "But you knew where to find me, Hudson, and I wanted
 to hear about you so much. There was no occasion for
 poverty here."

 "I know, I know," answered Hudson, rapidly; "but
 Constance had wonderful spirit, and put up with what I
 could give her without complaint. I was astonished."

 "No wonder if a girl like that could content herself
 here, she must be either without taste, or an angel."

 Hudson's face brightened; and he said with some emphasis:

 "Constance is not an angel, but she is a brave, bright
 girl."

 Church smiled blandly.

 "I have seen your daughter, and can believe more than
 that from her face alone; but tell me more of the young
 man; of course the girl has made a slave of him by this
 time."

 "No one will ever make a slave of him, he is far too
 proud and clever for that."

 "But there is always a method by which a sharp girl can
 control such men, either through the head or heart. It is
 your fool that is unmanageable. That young fellow, at any
 rate, is no fool."

 "No, he is sharp as steel!"

 "And you are certain about his talent?"

 "No finer artist in the city; and, what is better, no one,
 at least very few, have any idea of it. He studied in
 England; and, being proud as Lucifer, takes in work on
 the sly through another artist-friend."

 "And how did your daughter get acquainted with
 him?"

 "I had been unable to work for a long time, for my eyes
 were overtasked, and inflamed. We were on the verge of
 absolute want."

 "And you never thought of me—you did not even tell
 her of your old friend?"

 Again Hudson turned deadly pale, and shrunk back, as
 Church laid what seemed like a friendly hand upon his
 knee.

 "My girl has talent—genius I may assert, and that is a
 gift which always aspires to independent action. She
 resolved to exert all her energies, and absolutely against my
 protest, went to a first class engraver, for counsel and help.
 She was poor, she said; had talent enough to do something
 at engraving, but lacked tuition. Would he give it to her,
 and look for remuneration when she was able to work?
 The girl has a face that will make its way anywhere—but
 you have seen it. Well, the good-hearted young fellow
 gave way to it at once, and she set to work in earnest; not
 with the principal engraver, 'that was impossible,' he said,
 but he had a young friend who lived in close retirement, and
 who might not object to a pupil—that friend, Church, you
 saw to-night. He is a man of superior genius."

 "Yes; but about the young lady?"

 "She has talent and wonderful perseverance, I can tell
 you."

 "The talent I do not doubt, but the perseverance—

 "Well, go on."

 "The young people were brought together—my daughter
 took to her work with passionate ardor; her progress was
 something wonderful."

 While Hudson was speaking thus of his daughter, inspired
 by love of his own art, Church fell into thought, and he
 did not answer. Hudson sat watching him with anxious
 face. At last he was asking himself if he had not been
 talking rashly, in such praises of his daughter's talent,
 and a vague fear came over him. It was evident from the
 next words of his visitor, that he had not misjudged the
 train of thoughts that possessed that crafty man.

 "But an art like this requires time and patience," he
 said, really speaking to himself, "without that, genius is
 of little account."

 "Of course," said Hudson, eagerly," I spoke of crude
 genius and ardent desire in my child rather than perfection,
 she is a long way from that."

 "I dare be sworn; as for the young man, I suppose he
 is little better—so we must fall back upon you, old fellow.
 It is decided. Show me some of your late works, if time
 and practice is anything, it should be perfect."

 Hudson got up from his chair, and, opening a closet,
 brought forth a steel plate just in the progress of completion.
 It was an imperfect work and gave traces of the
 weak sight and tremulous hand of the artist.

 Church examined it with a gathering frown.

 "This is a falling off," he muttered, "not your best,
 surely?"

 "My last and the best I can do," answered Hudson,
 with a look of relief.

 Church saw the look, and a gleam of fire shot to his
 eyes.

 "Let me look at something the girl has done."

 Hudson turned deadly white, and cast a pitiful glance at
 his persecutor, who smiled blandly as he handed back the
 steel plate. With a slow step he went to the closet, and
 brought forth a half-finished piece of work.

 "This is hers," he said, holding the plate out for inspection.

 Church took it eagerly, carried it to the lamp, and pored
 over it, line by line; but the cloud gathered again on his
 forehead, and he handed, the plate back with a disdainful
 gesture, only saying:

 "As I expected."

 Hudson put the plate away with such haste, that it
 excited the visitor's suspicion; a gleam of shrewd intelligence
 shot across his face. He said nothing of what was
 in his thoughts, but took out his watch.

 "It is almost time for them to be here," he said, "as I
 have staid so late, suppose I trespass further."

 "I—I shall be very glad," faltered poor Hudson.
 "Sit down."

 "I will," answered Church, placing his hat on a rack in
 the hall, and sitting down for the first time in a comfortable
 position. "Suppose we order a little supper, and
 have it ready when the young folks come in? I should
 like to study them a little."




 CHAPTER XV.

 THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.


 Hudson arose, went to the foot of a flight of stairs, and
 called out to Rhoda Weeks.

 "Yes, yes, I'll be there in a minute," cried out a fresh
 young voice. "Wait till I get my hood!"

 Directly the patter of steps came down the stairs, and
 our little match-girl put her bright face through the door.

 "What shall I tell them to bring, Mr. Hudson,
 please?" she said, tying the strings of her hood with
 nimble little fingers, and looking alert as a bird. "Oysters
 and things?"

 "Yes, child; let it be oysters and things," said Church,
 turning on his chair, "with some cold chicken, and a bottle
 of champagne—do you hear? The best they have,
 which will be bad enough, I dare say; and—and—Well,
 that will do. No, stop! There, there, go along!"

 Away went the girl, almost flying down stairs, out into
 the street, and down into a restaurant below the street,
 where everybody seemed to know her, and in a way recognize
 her right to be there. Directly she went forth, calling
 out,

 "Don't forget, Mr. Ward! just about eleven. Father
 will stop for his glass of beer, and you will know by that
 when the theatre is over."

 "All right," answered the man, laughing goodhumoredly;
 for every one who saw that strange child was
 sure to feel kindly toward her.

 A few minutes after, Rhoda's pleasant face looked in
 upon Hudson and Church again.

 "It's all right; they will find a splendid supper when
 they come. Shall I set out the table?"

 Hudson nodded, and the little girl came in. She saw
 that the room was in some confusion, and went to work at
 once arranging chairs, sweeping the hearth, and dusting
 things generally, as well as she could by the smoking
 lamp. Then she unscrewed the lamp-chimney, thrust her
 little hand into the glass, and polished off a stain of black
 smoke with wonderful vigor; cut the wick level, and gave
 double light to the room.

 Hudson was used to all this; but Church watched the
 girl with a sidelong glance full of amusement. She drew
 a table into the middle of the room, spread out its leaves,
 covered them with a tolerably white cloth. Then made
 the best display possible of some unequal china-plates, a
 Britannia-castor, a goblet of cut-glass, one long-necked
 champagne-glass, from which she emptied some stale wild-flowers,
 and two greenish tumblers, thrust as far as possible
 into the back-ground.

 When all this was done, the child ran up stairs, and came
 down again, bearing a pitcher between her little hands, half
 concealed behind the mass of field-flowers that rose in blue
 and golden spray from it. This she planted in the centre
 of the table, and, folding both hands under her apron, stood
 with her head on one side complacently regarding her
 work.

 "That will take her eye, sure enough," she said, walking
 backward to the door. "Now I'll go up stairs," she added,
 with a questioning glance.

 "But you'll not go to bed—we may want you?" answered
 Hudson.

 "I never go to bed till father comes home," was the grave
 reply. "Besides, this is washing-night, and I haven't quite
 got through."

 "What a strange, old-fashioned thing it is," said Church
 as the girl ran up stairs. "What did she mean by 'washing-night?'"

 "Wait a moment and you'll hear her about it. There,
 that is her wash-board! She is, indeed, a wonderful little
 housekeeper; and, as she says, does the family washing
 while her father is at the theatre. To-morrow evening you
 may hear the smothered noise of her flat-irons. I tell you,
 sir, that child is a wonder!"

 "I should think as much; how honest and happy she
 looks."

 "And is. I tell you what. Church, when I see that child
 performing her duties so cheerfully, working with more
 energy than most women even now; absolutely buying and
 selling, always at a small profit, and yet keeping a comfortable
 home for her father and brother, it makes me ashamed
 of my own life. Oh, Church! it is a terrible thing to find
 out, so late, how noble existence might be made."

 "But why allow yourself to find it out?" said Church.

 "True," said Hudson. "Such things make one long to
 undo the past—an impossibility."

 "Take things as they are," said Church; "that, after
 all, is the best wisdom. It is only the young who can afford
 to shape existence; but they will not do it any the more
 for all the experiences ever written—make yourself sure of
 that. Does any man ever profit by another's experience, I
 wonder?"

 "Not one time in a thousand," answered Hudson.
 "Youth is impetuous, self-confident—anything but reasonable.
 Advice makes little impression on the inexperienced;
 they cannot comprehend its necessity. Besides, every soul
 shapes or accepts its own life; no two events ever happen
 in just the same way, as no two leaves are alike on the same
 tree. How, then, can any man really profit by the joys or
 misfortunes of another? No; these things live in the
 nature, not in the circumstances."

 "Then you believe that every man shapes his own destiny?"

 "No; I believe nothing of the kind; but I do believe
 that no destiny can make a good man do an absolutely
 wicked thing. The power of right and wrong rests in
 every human soul for itself. When we attempt to bring
 good from evil acts, we shape the destiny that falls upon us.
 A good mariner does not attempt to regulate the sea and
 the tempest that lashes it, but he stands firm and vigilant
 at the helm of his own vessel, taking care of that, while
 God regulates the waves. That is all any just man has
 the power of doing."

 "Why, Hudson, I did not expect this from you and to
 me," said Church.

 "No more than those who looked up to me once in love
 and trust would have expected what you know of me," was
 the sad answer.

 Hudson shaded his eyes with one hand as he spoke, and
 Church observed not only that the hand shook, but that
 tears were dropping from under it. A gleam of half scornful
 pity came upon the hard man's face.

 "Do you know," he said, at last, "you have been talking
 like a minister, and to me?"

 "I was a minister," answered Hudson, sweeping the
 hand across his eyes, and dropping it over the arm of his
 chair with a heavy sigh.

 "You, Hudson?"

 "I was young, ardent, good, for the time, and felt myself
 sufficient, not only for my own safe guidance, but for the
 leadership of other men."

 "Well, and they followed you. Where?"

 There was something like a sneer in this speech, which
 Hudson felt keenly.

 "But I forget myself and my audience," he said, rising
 and waving his hand almost fiercely.

 There was a sort of desperate courage in Hudson's manner,
 which made Church smile.

 "Why, bless you, old fellow!" he said, "I knew well
 enough what you had been and where all this moral wisdom
 came from. You are good enough, and bad enough, for me;
 but here comes the young people, or the supper, I don't
 know which. Ten to one, though, it is the supper—that
 tramp is too heavy for our lovers."

 True enough, it was a man bearing a huge tray in his
 hands. Scarcely had he began to arrange its contents on
 the table, when a light laugh and a confusion of careless
 steps came up the stairs, like the rush of a spring breeze.

 "Well, papa, we are home at last. What, supper? How
 delightful! Isn't it splendid, William?"

 The girl, whom we have seen entering the theatre, saw
 Church, paused, blushed a little, and advanced into the
 room, sweeping a rather long train of cheap silk after her.
 Hudson introduced his friend both to her and her companion,
 who came forward in a quiet, gentlemanly way, and
 shook hands.

 "Now for something nice," said Constance Hudson, pulling
 off a pair of rather soiled gloves, and thrusting them
 into her pocket. "Let us sit down and take supper comfortably.
 What a nice little thing that girl is to do all
 this for me. Come, father; and you, sir. William, here.
 What! champagne? delicious!"

 She patted the chair next her with an inviting smile, and
 the young man took it, flushing a little at her open preference,
 which, certainly, was calculated to embarrass any sensitive
 man.

 The two other men took their places, and a very irregular
 but sociable meal commenced. Constance was full of vivacity
 and animation. She criticised the play, jested about
 the audience, and so aroused the admiration of her father's
 guest, that he became cheerful, and almost witty, stranger
 as he was.

 The young man kept almost silent; but he, too, seemed to
 enjoy the merriment of the girl, and made himself useful
 in her service. At last Church drew the bottle of champagne
 toward him, and pressing out the cork with a fillip of his
 thumb, sent it quickly from glass to glass, like so much
 topaz, molten and sparkling. Then the conversation became
 more brilliant; the young man joined in it with kindling
 animation, and while the young people drank freely, Church
 looked on, making observations with shrewd coolness.

 Hudson scarcely tasted the wine; a cloud had fallen
 upon him that evening, and he looked anxiously at his
 daughter more than once, as if her merriment troubled him.




 CHAPTER XVI.

 DISCONTENT.


 After awhile the young man arose and took his leave,
 with a grave seriousness that made Constance thoughtful
 for a moment. When he had entered the hall, she started
 up and followed him, quite regardless of the smiles her
 movement excited.

 "William," she said, laying a caressing hand on his arm.
 "Dear William, you are not going away so, without a word,
 without——"

 She lifted herself on tip-toe, and made a perfect apple-blossom
 of her mouth, which might have tempted a very
 saint from the altar, it was so fresh and blooming.

 He kissed her offered lips coldly, and turned away.

 "What is the matter, William? What have I done?"

 "Nothing, Constance—I scarcely know; but, all at once,
 this house seems strange to me. Who is that man?"

 "A friend of father's, I suppose. You know as much as
 I do. He seems pleasant enough. I rather like him."

 "Are you fond of foxes?"

 "I never saw one, except in a cage."

 "Or hawks?"

 "Yes, when they swoop down upon the chickens. I saw
 a magnificent fellow do it once—and it was splendid. Oh,
 yes! I do like hawks."

 "Good-night, Constance."

 "Really! But when will you come again—to-morrow,
 early?"

 "Perhaps. Yes, I will."

 Once more the girl stood on tip-toe, and tempted him with
 her rosy mouth. Once more his kiss fell upon it cold as a
 drop of rain—and this time he went down stairs and out of
 the house. She leaned over the balusters, and looked after
 him as if half-tempted to follow, but gave her head a little
 toss, and went back to the parlor.

 "What is the matter with him?" questioned Hudson, a
 little anxiously.

 "Oh! he's out of sorts—people looked at me so much in
 the theatre, and he did not like it. I wonder why he cannot
 enjoy their nonsense, and laugh at it, as I do."

 "It isn't likely that he would," broke in Church, leaning
 both elbows on the table, and fixing his admiring eyes on
 the girl. "That is asking too much of infirm human
 nature, Miss Constance. I don't blame the audience either,
 for you are a wonderfully pretty girl."

 "Church," said Hudson, "my daughter does not require
 this."

 "Excuse me. When the sun shines, one naturally says
 it is a pleasant day. I meant no more than that."

 "Oh! father is always angry if any one tells me that—that
 I am not a fright," said Constance with a pout, tossing
 her head. "Just as if I couldn't see!"

 Church laughed, but shook his head, and glanced at Hudson,
 as if he, too, rather disapproved of this flippant air.

 "Six months will be needed to teach her more things
 than engraving," he said, in a low voice, as Constance entered
 a little bed-room, and was taking off her bonnet—a
 flashy little affair, which she had kept on till now.

 Church made a slight motion with his hand towards
 the room where Constance was standing before a little
 mahogany-framed looking-glass, smoothing back the rich
 masses of her hair, and admiring herself with genuine satisfaction.

 "I have not thought of the girl in that light," said
 Hudson.

 "No, I can see; neglected, and allowed to run wild.
 That does well enough in the country, where the very
 atmosphere gives something of refinement; but in the
 city——Well, you see what it does in the city. Now, I
 take it, there is not a sweeter face to be found within ten
 miles than that in yonder; but, without grace and gentle
 training, what will it amount to? The young fellow,
 infatuated as he evidently is, feels that there is something
 wanting. Now, to an artist, that dress would be a repulsion;
 but, to a man calculating her capabilities, it is full of
 promise, for it bespeaks ambition."

 "You have been studying her keenly."

 "Oh! this needs no study! The girl, as yet, is all on
 the surface; she never had an earnest thought in her life."

 Constance came out of her room just then, arranging the
 long train of her dress, which rattled with a metallic sound
 under her hand, as some cheap silks will. She was, indeed,
 very beautiful, for now a neck, perfect in form, and white
 as the first opening leaf of a lily, was revealed by the
 neatly-fitting Pompadour bodice, adown which one long
 wreathing curl fell almost to the waist. She fairly brought
 light with her out of the shadow of that dim room.

 The two men, who had been discussing her, looked at
 each other, one sadly the other smiling. Could too much
 be said of beauty like that. The creature had talent, as
 well as beauty, and a capacity for acquiring such knowledge
 as promised to develop it effectually.




 CHAPTER XVII.

 BRILLIANT PROSPECTS.


 "It is a shame, Hudson," said Church, "that your
 daughter should be lost in these dull apartments. I tell
 you, sir, she is worthy of a palace."

 "Yes; but how is the palace to be found?" said Constance,
 laughing. "You mustn't? abuse this parlor, sir; it
 seemed like paradise when we came into it from the other
 place—didn't it, father?"

 "Unfortunately," said Hudson, "I have never been
 able to do more than this for my child or myself. If I
 have kept her from absolute toil, up to this time it has
 been at a sacrifice, which she was never permitted to
 understand. It was all I could do for the poor, motherless
 creature."

 There was genuine feeling in the man's voice, that
 brought tears to his daughter's eyes.

 "Oh! fortune does not frown forever," said Church;
 "and the daughter's luck may swallow up the father's misfortunes.
 The wheel is always turning, remember that!"

 "Father is always gloomy and looking on the dark side
 of everything," said Constance, with a dash of petulance
 in her voice. "Why shouldn't we prove fortunate as well
 as other people?"

 "Why, indeed?" answered Church. "In these times
 chances are constantly coming up for any one who has the
 talent and nerve to seize them."

 "I wish one would come uppermost for me," laughed
 Constance. "Wouldn't I find the nerve to grasp it!
 Oh! how I do long to sit in one of those private boxes,
 with silks that rustle like silks, laying in waves around my
 feet, with ermine on my shoulders, and diamonds in my
 ears. Wouldn't I show them what a live girl could do;
 but that will never, never be!"

 "Why not? Why not?" said Church, eagerly, for he
 was delighted with this spirit.

 "Because he—because it never can!"

 "Not if your father becomes rich?"

 Constance brightened out of her momentary despondency,
 and her eyes flashed like sapphires.

 "Oh, yes! Then—then!"

 "And would you help him?"

 "Help him? Yes, if he asked me to black my face and
 sweep the streets with a splint broom."

 "But suppose he asked something more difficult, but
 every way pleasanter?"

 "Why, of course, I would do it."

 "Would you work very, very diligently at the art you
 are now learning?"

 "Wouldn't I?"

 "And make that young fellow, your teacher, very much
 in love with you?"

 Constance blushed scarlet at this; then she laughed
 and asked if Mr. Church thought that would be difficult.

 "But then you must not fall very much in love with
 him."

 Again Constance felt a flood of scarlet rushing over her
 neck and face; Church saw it, and hastened to say,

 "Because, the woman who loves is always a slave."

 "Is she?" said Constance, in a low voice, as if questioning
 herself.

 "When ambition merges itself in love, it loses all its
 power; when love aids ambition, it is invincible."

 "I—I don't know about these things, sir," said Constance,
 seriously. "How should I? These rooms are my
 world."

 "But they will not be so always, rest sure of that!" answered
 the crafty man. "All that your father wants to lift
 you above the women you think so happy, is money, or a
 good opportunity to make it. Money goes a great way
 toward making women happy in these days, let me tell you.
 Fortunes are now made in a day by men with half his
 ability. I like your father; he is an old friend of mine,
 and I mean to give him this chance."

 "You will, sir! You will!"

 Constance seized the half closed hand which Church
 rested on the table and pressed her lips upon it. Her father
 started from his seat, and a slow, hot color came into the
 other man's face.

 "What an impulsive child it is," he said, gently, disengaging
 his hand. "This will never do, pretty Constance—so
 much feeling will be troublesome in the new life some
 good fortune may open for you."

 Constance shook the hair back from her face, and answered
 laughing,

 "Oh! it was only the surprise. Father knows I am not
 given to much feeling! Now tell me what I am expected
 to do. I'm ready."

 Church leaned over the table, and spoke to Hudson rather
 than his daughter, for the old man was restless, and still
 walking up and down the floor.

 "She is ready to exert herself in any way for you. Surely
 with such a child you cannot be hopeless."

 Hudson turned suddenly and addressed his daughter:

 "It is late, and you must get up early, Constance, besides,
 I and my—our guest, want a little time by ourselves."

 Constance flushed angrily, and hesitated to obey the
 suggestion that she should withdraw. Church laughingly
 interposed.

 "Come, come, Hudson," he said. "We have nothing to
 talk about that she may not hear. Take another glass of
 wine, and be sociable; I want Miss Constance to show me
 some of her work."

 "I have already done that," answered Hudson, impatiently.

 "What was it—what did you show him, papa?" questioned
 the girl, eagerly.

 "Oh," said Church, "it was a pretty group of children."

 "That!" exclaimed Constance, with the utmost disdain,
 "I wonder at you, father. It was enough to disgust him
 with me forever. Wait a minute."

 Before Hudson could step between her and the closet,
 which he attempted to do, Constance had flung the door
 open, and came forward with a plate in her hand.

 "I wonder you did not think of this," she said, looking
 reproachfully at her father. "It was real cruel of you."

 "I think so, too; this is really wonderful!" said Church,
 examining the plate. "How long has she been about it?"

 "Only about a year, under Mr. Sterling's tuition,"
 said Constance, delighted with his ardent admiration,
 "but ever so long in an uncertain way. In fact, ever since
 I was a little girl I used to dabble, now and then, in these
 things. Father helped me along, but it was not till lately
 that I thought of making it available as a profession. But
 I have some proofs in the closet, come and look at them
 please."

 Constance went to a closet near the fire-place, and took
 out some proofs on filmy paper, and another plate which
 seemed about half finished.

 The man to whom these were submitted, examined both
 the proofs and the plate with searching attention. He
 seemed greatly struck with them, and his face kindled
 with surprise.

 "Have you done all this alone?"

 "Yes, quite alone. I would not allow him to touch
 them."

 Church took the proofs in his hand, and went up to
 Hudson, who stood pale as death, regarding these proceedings.

 "Hudson, you are right; the girl has a love for it.
 Upon my soul, I think she can learn anything she sets her
 heart on."

 "Yes," said Hudson, sadly. "She has talent enough to
 be a blessing or a curse."

 "A curse, father? I never heard you talk in that way
 before, and I have been so anxious to learn, that we might
 be a little more like folks. I am tired of this life. Poverty
 does not suit me, I can tell you, Mr. Church."

 Church looked around the dim room, and laughed
 lightly.

 "You need not make what you call poverty so horribly
 dismal, at any rate," he said, looking at Hudson. "I do
 not see why a certain degree of elegance might not be
 entered upon, if it were only to please the girl. There
 is something I don't like in a pretty creature like her
 going to and fro in a neighborhood like this. It has a
 bad look. Now, as an old friend, suppose you accept a
 little money from me. It will not be long before my
 young lady here, will be able to pay me back. What do
 you say to it, Miss Constance?"

 "I don't think he, that is father, would let me," said the
 girl, casting a wistful look on Hudson, who stood in the
 middle of the room, gazing in a sad, despairing way on her.

 "No, no, we do not need anything. This room is comfortable
 enough."

 "But your daughter needs a great deal. Hudson, all this
 is well enough for you, but remember a young lady requires
 something more than mere necessaries."

 Hudson turned his gloomy, almost despairing eyes on his
 child.

 "Constance, Constance, you will not ask for these
 things. Do not, do not, the price will be terrible."

 "I thought that in time I could earn money, and pay
 everything back, and there is so much that I want," pleaded
 the girl.

 "But why, why—you were contented as we are, this
 morning."

 "Because I had no hope. If your good, kind friend had
 asked me what I most wanted then, it would have been
 all the same."

 Hudson turned away with a groan. How could the girl
 feel for him, not knowing of the iron shackles that made
 that man his master. Church went close to him and
 whispered:

 "Come with me into the hall."

 Hudson obeyed like a child, and went through the door
 with his head bent and his hands clasped, like a criminal
 going to trial.




 CHAPTER XVIII.

 OVERPOWERED.


 "Hudson," said Church, when they were together in
 the dark hall, "you must not oppose me. I am sorry for the
 girl; this is a sad life for her, and I wish to make it brighter.
 The money I advance she can repay by degrees with the
 help of her art, and if not, you have served me in the past."

 A faint groan broke from Hudson, but his tormentor did
 not seem to hear it. "Cannot—oh cannot you go away
 and leave us in peace," pleaded the unhappy man. "My
 poverty was sweet, for I was just beginning to feel safe."

 "Why, this is rank ingratitude! I come to you for help
 in a delicate matter, which you refuse, when I have but to
 lift my hand to ensure obedience, or——"

 "Hush!" said Hudson sharply; the door is thin, she may
 hear."

 "That which I never mean to tell her, or any other person;
 but you must let me be a little generous. There is
 no time to lose with the girl. I have given you some pain,
 let me atone by being of some use to her."

 "And what return must we give?" asked Hudson.

 "Nothing, I can get along without you. In fact, I cannot
 see of what use you could be in my affairs; so do not hesitate
 on that account. Come, man, act frankly, and accept
 the trifle I am ready to advance, in order that the girl in
 yonder may one day take the place her father's child should
 occupy."

 "I cannot accept; but God help me, no power of refusal
 is left to me."

 "Spoken like a man!" said Church, grasping the cold
 hand of his victim. "Now there must be no appeal to the
 girl, no explanation; she is to have her gleam of good fortune
 without alloy."

 "I will say nothing to disturb her, but there is another
 who may."

 "You mean young Sterling. By what right can he interfere?"

 "If the young man loves her as I think he does, his heart
 will claim the right."

 Church became thoughtful a moment, and seemed to be
 pondering over what Hudson had said. At last he spoke.

 "If you took her out of town, could she go on with her
 work, think you?"

 "What, without him?"

 "Yes."

 "She would not go."

 "Why?"

 "Because she loves her art, and she loves the man."

 "Loves the man, hey! By Jove! turn where you will,
 and this eternal state of things is forever putting stumbling-blocks
 in one's way. The girl has brains enough to keep
 clear of love, I should think. You may be mistaken,
 Hudson."

 "Try her, and see if she will give up her art, or give him
 up for any money you can offer; his will has greater power
 to lead her than my command or your wealth."

 "Let him lead!" answered Hudson; "or think he does,
 which is the same thing. There is always a way of guiding
 such men, either through the heart or brain, and she is
 sure to find the way. Come, now let us go in and tell the
 girl that you have relented."

 Church flung open the door as he spoke, and addressed
 Constance in a voice that contrasted painfully with the dejected
 tone of her father.

 "My friend has decided that your life is to be made a little
 brighter, while you are by all means to go on with the art you
 love so well; he will give you opportunities of acquiring such
 accomplishments as will be essential to the new life your
 success will open to you. She must learn dancing, it is
 understood," he said, addressing Hudson, "and music; you
 say she has a good voice."

 "Yes," broke in the girl, eagerly. "The old man up
 stairs has been teaching me to sing; he says that I might
 join in choruses even now."

 "And you play?"

 "Yes, on the violin."

 "The violin! That is a strange instrument for a lady."

 "But it was all I had; the old man would make me
 try it."

 "We must have a piano. Can your old man teach it?"

 "Oh, yes! beautifully!"

 "How is she educated otherwise?" asked Church, turning
 to Hudson.

 "Better than most girls. I taught her myself,"
 answered Hudson, a little proudly.

 "That is excellent. She must know very little, indeed,
 if we cannot match her with the dolls that graduate from
 half our fashionable seminaries. A few ologies in school,
 and a raft of novels read on the sly, that is all it amounts
 to."

 "Oh! I like the novels!" said Constance.

 "And so do I," answered Church, with a cynical laugh;
 "they contain about all the knowledge our young ladies
 acquire now-a-days. Only don't spend too much of your
 time over them, you will want it for better things."

 "Never fear! I can read them, or let them alone. Give
 me something else to think of, and I don't care. But all
 this will cost money; lots of it."

 "Money, of course. Who ever expected to accomplish
 anything without that. Here, old friend, is the sinews of
 war."

 Church took a package of crisp, new bills from his
 pocket, without a flaw or spot on their greenness, and
 handed them to Hudson, who recoiled as if he were called
 upon to touch a serpent.

 "Fresh from the Treasury, you see," observed Church,
 with a significant smile.

 "Yes, I see," answered Hudson, shuddering.

 "What a suspicious fool you are, Hudson. Great generals
 never go into the heat of battle themselves; but
 stand aloof and guide other men to destruction for their
 own benefit. You and I know better than to go into the
 works. Take the money. It is good as gold. I saw it
 cut with my own eyes."

 Still Hudson held back.

 "Now, father, don't make such an awful goose of yourself!"
 exclaimed Constance, looking greedily at the money.
 "If you won't take it, I will. There!"

 The girl held out her hand, blushing and half frightened
 at her own audacity, but as Church reached it forth, tempting
 her with his crafty smiles, Hudson snatched the money
 from his hand.

 "No," he said fiercely, "if it must be taken, I will save
 her from the peril and the gratitude."

 "Gratitude!" laughed Church; "how much of the old
 preacher life must cling around you, Hudson, when you
 talk of that; but I am glad to see you a little more sensible;
 no matter who takes the money so long as our pretty
 daughter here gets the benefit."

 Church put on his duster as he spoke, and held the traveling
 cap in his hand. Hudson watched each movement
 with vigilant suspicion. The presence of that man seemed
 to oppress him like a nightmare.

 After swinging his cap awhile in a hesitating way, Church
 shook hands with Constance, and turned to Hudson:

 "Step with me into the hall again, a moment."

 Hudson went into the hall, closing the door after him.
 The moment they were in the dark, Church said with decision:

 "I have been thinking this matter over since that young
 fellow went out. She must keep her influence over him,
 and absorb all he knows, but he must not win her. Do you
 understand?"

 "I understand, but have neither the wish nor the power
 to control the matter."

 Church broke out into something approaching an oath,
 and stamped his foot on the floor.

 "Let us have an end to this cant. Carry it to your midnight
 missions, it is thrown away upon me. There is no
 limit to the good this girl may work out for you and herself
 if you keep her free."

 "I want no good for her or myself, such as you hint at,"
 said Hudson, with a passionate outbreak. "All that I do
 ask is that you go away and leave us. Nothing but evil
 can come out of this. While God permits me to be useful
 to his creatures, it is all that I ask for myself; as for the
 girl—God help us! she shall not be tempted as I was, not
 while I am here to protect her."

 "Anger me—brave me as you are doing, and there will
 speedily come a time when you will not be here, to protect
 her, my friend!" It was dark in the hall, but the shivering
 of Hudson's garments as he fell back against the door frame
 convinced the cruel man that his threat had fallen with all
 the power he expected.

 "Good night," he said. "If I think of anything else, you
 shall hear."

 "Good-night," answered Hudson, faintly. He listened
 till the footsteps of his unwelcome visitor were lost in the
 street; then turned back to the room where his daughter
 sat, flushed, excited, and eager to learn what all this
 meant.

 "Father, father, who is this man?" she cried.

 "An old acquaintance of mine, Constance."

 "But how came he here—and what does all this
 mean?"

 "He came here because I was once his friend."

 "But what are his wishes, father?"

 "You heard them, child; but go to bed now; I am tired,
 and want to think."

 "And I—oh! I am delighted. Good-night, father."

 She kissed him on the forehead, patted his shoulder
 lightly with both hands, and went away, singing like a bird,
 though it was now beyond midnight.

 She had been in her room a few minutes, when Hudson
 opened the door, just enough to make his voice heard.

 "Constance," he said, "do not forget to pray, before you
 go to bed."

 "All right—I wont."




 CHAPTER XIX.

 THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.


 Hudson still lingered by the door, while his daughter
 shook down her hair in front of the little mirror, and began
 to weave it in and out of her crimping pins; putting her
 head on one side now and then, while she admired her handsome
 face with childlike self-complacency.

 The unhappy man witnessed these movements with alarm.
 His anxieties regarding the girl had been terribly aroused
 that night, and her flippant answer to his suggestion about
 her prayers, deepened the feeling. Pushing the door farther
 open, he went into the room.

 Constance did not look around, but giving the tress of
 hair she was crimping a vigorous twist, said, carelessly:

 "You there, father, I thought you had gone up to bed."

 "No, Constance, I want to talk with you awhile. Sit
 down here and make me a little happier before I go."

 "Dear! I am so tired. This crimping is awful hard work
 when one is sleepy. There now, I can go on while you
 talk."

 The girl seated herself on the side of the bed, and, with
 those magnificent tresses falling over her shoulders, went
 on with her work, looking at her father now and then through
 the floating web of hair that veiled her eyes.

 Hudson sat regarding her for some moments in anxious
 silence. She saw that he was agitated, and wondered at it
 in a careless way, for there was little real sympathy between
 that man and his child.

 "Dear me, father, what does make you look so down in
 the mouth? I should think all this good luck might cheer
 you up."

 "Constance, my poor child."

 "There it is again, just as if I were dead and buried,
 and you mourning over my grave. I don't see how you
 ever expect me to be happy here. If it were not for Mr.
 Sterling, I might as well live in a vault."

 "But this money, Constance, I cannot accept it. We
 must not use a dollar of it."

 Constance lifted her magnificent hair, and flung it back
 from her face with both hands, staring at her father with
 those great blue eyes, to make sure that he was in earnest.
 She saw in his pale, set face, the stern sincerity of his
 words, and flinging herself forward on the pillow, burst
 into a vehement passion of tears.

 "Constance, my child, listen to me."

 The girl clapped both hands to her ears and sobbed more
 bitterly than ever.

 The poor man clasped his hands, and lifted them toward
 Heaven with a look of touching humiliation.

 "Oh, my God," he murmured, "is my punishment coming
 from her; try me—pierce me—beat me down in any
 other way."

 Suddenly his hands fell down helpless, his face drooped,
 and tears gushed to his eyes.

 "It is but meet," he sighed, "that out of my sin should
 leap this keen punishment. Forgive me, Lord, that I dared
 to question thy eternal justice."

 "What are you talking about, father," exclaimed Constance,
 lifting her tear-stained face from the pillow, "if it's
 trying to persuade me not to spend that money, I tell you
 it's of no use. I won't be mortified and put down all my
 life, when there is no reason on earth for it."

 "But my child, the money is not ours."

 "Of course it is ours, for I will work morning and night
 to pay for it. Darling old father, do let me keep it, and
 learn to be a lady. I could—I could—it is in me, I know,
 and this is such a beautiful chance."

 "What is it you wish so much, Constance?" asked the
 father so mournfully, that the girl paused a moment in her
 headlong selfishness, but directly began kissing him, and
 smoothing his hair with her soft palms.

 "What is it I wish, you precious old darling, first music—no,
 first dancing—don't start, it is only to learn how to
 walk and move like the ladies, who seem to swim up and
 down the avenue. Of course I don't care for whirling
 about, and cutting my steps off like mince meat; but real
 ladies all learn to dance."

 "What next?" questioned Hudson, in a voice so anxious
 and pained, that she kissed him again before answering.

 "Then there is music! When one has such a voice, it is
 a sin to let it run wild as mine does."

 "True, my child, if we had money of our own to pay for
 lessons."

 "As for the rest, my own darling father has done more
 for me, than the highest of 'em get at their boarding-schools.
 I can read beautifully—who could help it, with
 such a dear patient master—and spell without missing,
 which is more than can be said of your boarding-school
 girls. After all, it is only music and dancing with just a
 few nice clothes. It isn't very much that one wants. I
 won't ask for better rooms, or more furniture—not a thing."

 "Ah, my child, if you will only wait."

 "Wait! wait! What have I been doing all my life but
 waiting?"

 "True, true!" said the father.

 "And now that I see a way to earning money and getting
 my own living in a fashion that no lady can find fault
 with or sneer at, my own father stands in the way, and
 won't let me prepare myself. It's hard, it's awful hard!"

 The unhappy man so unjustly and yet justly reproached,
 sat still for some minutes, dumbly thinking over the fearful
 position in which he was placed, on every side painful, even
 dangerous responsibilities fell upon him. He was not a
 strong man, and his nervous system had been fearfully shattered;
 he longed to be firm and to act rightly, but the power
 seemed to be wrested from him. With that young girl to
 whom he had never been able to render a parent's whole duty,
 a conscientious resolution would seem nothing less than
 cruelty. How could he make her comprehend the struggle
 that moment in his heart, the yearning wish to give her pleasure,
 and the fear which strangled the wish. He made one
 last effort to arouse the generosity of a creature, who could
 not be made to see how painfully he was placed without
 revealing that from which every nerve of his body shrank.

 "Constance, if you were sure that it would make your
 father happy?"

 "But you never were happy, father."

 "True, true, but less miserable; would you not consent
 that I should send this money back, and wait till I can earn
 it for you with my own hands?"

 "You can't, you can't! We but just get along as it is."

 "I will give up my people, my poor people for a time, and
 work nights."

 "As if I would let my own father do that," exclaimed
 Constance in high indignation. "Your eyes would give
 out in a week."

 "God help me, I fear they would."

 "Besides, if we could work nights, which I won't and you
 shan't, why not do it to repay the money, and save time."

 "Constance, you press me cruelly," exclaimed Hudson,
 with a sad trembling of the voice, which bespoke his pain
 and his weakness. "But I tell you that it is neither safe
 nor wise for us to be indebted to the man who came here
 to-night. Between us lie bitter things, which can never
 be forgotten."

 "But you are a christian, father; at any rate, Sterling
 says you are, and teach others to forget and forgive. I am
 sure this Mr. Church was kind as kind can be. While you
 were looking dark as a thunder storm, he sat smiling like—no,
 not exactly like an angel, but in a nice, gentlemanly
 way, as if malice never entered his thoughts. Now really,
 father, it seems as if you were the unforgiving one."

 Hudson took his daughter's hand. His own was cold and
 trembling.

 "Constance, if you love me, if you can pity a man who
 carries a heavy burden through a world, that but for you
 and one other would be a wilderness, give up all the vain
 thoughts that have been put into your head to-night, and
 let us go on as we did, before this man broke up our peace.
 I cannot use his money without degradation—worse than
 that, worse than that—without terror. I am not strong,
 like most men, and seem over timid, perhaps; but my own
 child should never think that; she should have some compassion,
 and not let the gold of a stranger become dearer
 than an old man's peace."

 As Hudson spoke, Constance drew nearer and nearer to
 him, her passionate nature was touched; her bosom heaved
 under the first great effort of self-abnegation that she had
 ever experienced in her life. For the time she was inspired
 with noble impulses, such as would have made her a glorious
 woman, perhaps, had the surroundings of her life been
 different, as they had often done when she was a wayward
 romping child, her arms wound themselves around his neck,
 and her face wet with tears, was pressed to his.

 "Never mind—never mind about it, father. We won't
 be hard on each other any more. I will do my very best to
 be good, and my own father won't ask me to give up quite
 everything, just as if it were a dream—and such a bright
 dream. Don't make me cry any more to-night. Oh! how
 I wish you had not set your heart against it. Now do go
 to bed, old darling, it is so very late."




 CHAPTER XX.

 BASKETS OF WILD FLOWERS.


 She was sitting by the window, embroidering a pretty
 trifle of floss-silk and beads, whose colors harmonised richly
 with her dark brown hair, and almost black eyes, just then
 half concealed by the droop of her long and curling lashes.

 With the restlessness of girlhood, she dropped the work
 into her lap, and looked out of the window. All at once,
 her face brightened, and springing to her feet, she leaned over
 the sill.

 A boy was coming up the steps with a basket of flowers
 in his hand; she heard the distant tinkle of a bell, timidly
 pulled, and without waiting to be summoned, ran downstairs.

 "Ah, it is you, with the flowers. How pretty they are.
 I never saw anything more lovely."

 The boy stood before her as she admired the dainty
 arrangement of wild flowers, which had cost him so much
 thought. The dawning pleasure in her eyes sent its sparkling
 happiness over his face.

 "I picked them all myself; father took me into the country
 on purpose that I might find the prettiest. It was so
 pleasant. We waded among them with the soft, bright
 sunshine all around us. Were you ever in the country,
 lady?"

 The boy said this with childlike frankness; but a cold
 look or word from the beautiful girl would have instantly
 driven the light from that sensitive face.

 Dora buried her face in the flowers, and drew in their
 pungent odors with a long, delicious breath.

 "What a smell of the woods," she said, "how I should
 like to gather them myself."

 "Would you—would you? we are going again this afternoon,
 and I know father will be so glad to take you with
 him. Some of them are so tall they sweep over my head.
 In places the ground is damp, especially where the rushes
 and cat-tails grow, but there is nothing like it. One would
 think all the colors in the sky had rained down among the
 tall grasses. Father loves it almost as much as I do."

 Dora smiled at the boy's enthusiasm, and laughed outright
 when she looked down at her dainty slippers, and
 thought of wading with them through swamps and crooks
 of fences, with a man she had never seen, and that handsome
 boy, in search of wild flowers.

 "I think you will have to get them for me—it would be
 a hard scramble."

 "No—no! one is never tired, you find them everywhere."

 "Still, you and your father shall gather them for me, as
 papa desires, I think."

 "That will be next best—I will be sure to bring them;
 would you like more of the blue or white? I found one tuft
 of pink in a hollow by itself, here it is."

 "Don't ask me about it; I never could make anything
 half so lovely."

 The boy smiled, and a glow of delight swept over his face.

 "While I was picking them, it seemed to me a little
 wrong," he said shyly continuing the conversation: "I
 couldn't feel quite sure that it did not hurt them, when I
 broke the stems. Rhoda,—she is my own sister—said it
 was all nonsense, but who knows? One tall golden-rod, as
 I bent and broke it, seemed to shriek with the pain. I sat
 down by it and almost cried. Foolish wasn't it? Rhoda
 says so, and I don't mean to think about it the next time,
 especially as you are so pleased with the basket: it never
 seemed so pretty till now."

 "You think so?" said Dora, flattered by the admiration
 that shone in the boy's eyes.

 "And no wonder! If I were a flower—"

 Dora laughed outright, at the strange conceit.

 "Well, if you were a flower, what then?"

 "I should feel, as if the sunshine would never leave me."

 "What a strange boy you are, I never heard anything
 like it. Supposing yourself one of these, which would
 it be."

 "The one your lips touched just now. It must be
 sweetest of all," answered the boy veiling his superb eyes
 with the dark lashes that fringed them, and shivering with
 strange thrills of delight under the half startled glance of
 Dora's eyes.

 The girl blushed scarlet. She could feel all the vague
 poetry in this strange speech, but it troubled her, and might
 have deepened into offence but for the gentleness and tenderness
 of the boy.

 "We have forgotten one thing," she said, after the blush
 had swept her face, leaving only a soft rosy shadow behind it.
 "I have not paid you, we must not forget that."

 Luke lifted his eyes with a look of timid reproach.

 "Don't, don't," he pleaded. "I cannot do that. Please
 never mention it again. Rhoda herself says I needn't do
 it for money."

 "But you have spent time, and had ever so much trouble
 in getting them."

 "Oh that was my happiness; please let me keep it."

 "But we must reward you some way."

 "If you only would!" faltered the boy, looking through
 the open door of a superb room, in which a grand piano stood
 open. "Give me music for my flowers."

 "That I will, strange boy. It will be pleasant to have a
 listener. Come in here, since you will take nothing else."

 Dora Foster had been well taught, and her love of music
 was a passion. She took her seat at the piano and dashed
 her hand over the keys in a bold prelude, thinking to charm
 the uncultivated ear of this strange child with the stirring
 passages of a march. Turning to look upon his face after
 the first brilliant, essay, she saw that it was clouded, and
 wondered at it.

 "Is music sweet to you as the flowers?" she inquired.

 "Oh sweeter, sweeter, a thousand times!" he said. "I
 think it must be the music of the winds and the whispering
 of water as it runs, which fills the flowers with such
 bright life. I hated to bring them away, for it seemed to
 me that those left behind stooped downward to listen, with
 fear that I had come to take the others. It was all fancy,
 as Rhoda said, but I suppose one cannot help fancies, they
 come upon one so."

 "You love music, I can see that by your face," said
 Dora, a little crest-fallen that astonishment and admiration
 had not followed her efforts to amuse him. "Perhaps you
 have some one at home who plays?"

 "Oh yes, my father is first violin at the theatre."

 "Oh, indeed! that accounts for your going there; has
 he ever taught you?"

 "Yes, I think he loves to teach me better than anything
 on earth."

 "How strange, I should so like to hear you play; but
 we have no violin here, nothing but the harp and piano."

 "I never touched a harp, but——"

 "You can play the piano a little, is that it?"

 "My father knows all the music dealers, and most of
 them like to have me play on their instruments," answered
 the boy modestly, "but I like the violin best."

 Dora got up from her seat.

 "Will you let me hear you?" she said, kindly; for so
 far as music was concerned, she felt safe in patronizing the
 lad.

 Luke took his place on the stool, and began to turn over
 some sheets of music in a way that fairly took Dora's breath;
 for he was searching among her most difficult pieces. Having
 satisfied himself, the lad dropped his delicate hands to
 the keys, with a touch that brought their first music out
 like a gush of air in the woods. With that bright face
 bending toward him in its great astonishment, he was timid
 and hesitating; but after a few moments the spirit within
 him asserted itself and that lofty room resounded with such
 music as no man ever taught, and nothing but genius itself
 could have learned. There was no method in the boy;
 the very smile upon his lips breathed music, his eyes danced
 or saddened as the strain of his own creation grew fainter,
 or triumphant. Every line of his face and nerve of his
 body, changed and vibrated to the power of his own harmonies.
 After the first effort, he abandoned his notes, and
 gave himself up to the inspiration of a slow plaintive melody,
 which grew and thrilled under those childlike hands into
 something so sweet and wild, that it seemed scarcely an
 expression of mortal feeling.

 Dora saw that the child was indeed inspired, and gazed
 upon him in silent wonder, for the beauty of his face grew
 heavenly and spiritual as the strains he created.

 Rhoda, in the pride of her girlish motherhood, had insisted
 that her idol should wear a tunic of soft brown cloth and
 snow white under garments, that gave a picturesque effect
 to the slender form and perfect head. His hair, so bright
 and richly golden, glanced and rippled in the light as the
 heavenly face it shaded bent and swayed to the motion of
 his hands. Murillo never painted anything more beautiful
 than that boy in the hour of his love's first inspiration.

 All at once the music ceased, and Luke came out of his
 dream. Startled and penitent for what he had done, he
 left the piano and taking up his cap, stood like a culprit
 before the girl his genius had charmed.

 "Please forgive me; I forgot."

 "Forgive you! one might as well attempt to forgive the
 angels!" cried Dora, taking his beautiful head between
 her hands, and gazing into his face in an ecstacy of delight.
 The boy drew back from the touch of her hands, flushing
 crimson; his eyes sank, his head drooped, like a flower on
 its stalk when an August sun is at its noon. She could
 not understand the meaning of this change. Was it the
 exhaustion of genius overtaxing a most delicate organism,
 or had her enthusiasm shocked the boy?

 "I will go home now, if you please," he said, in a sweet
 faint voice.

 "But tell me first, what it is—where can I get the piece
 you have been playing?" said Dora, detaining him.

 "Ask the flowers; it was their complaint. I knew that
 they suffered when my hand broke them down; but I
 brought them to you, and that is like giving things that
 must die up to the angels."

 Luke bent his eyes to the floor as he spoke, and with
 sweet humility, stole out of the room.

 Dora went up-stairs into a chamber where her mother was
 sitting.

 "Who was it, Dora? I heard the music and knew that
 it could not be yours."

 "Mamma, I do not know whether it was the boy of
 whom we bought flowers at the theatre, or the spirit of
 some child long since in Heaven. See what he has brought
 me, and the others scarcely faded; let me take them to my
 room."




 CHAPTER XXI.

 ENTREATIES AND PERSUASIONS.


 A few days after the visit of Church to his old friend
 Hudson, young Sterling and Constance were seated in the
 room where that midnight supper had taken place.

 Both were at work with their gravers, and both seemed
 completely occupied by the art they were practising; but a
 close observer might have seen that some excitement had
 gone before, for Constance had a flush of hot scarlet on
 either cheek, and the young man, pale, as if passion had
 exhausted itself to ashes with him.

 At last he flung down his graver, and came to the chair
 in which Constance sat. She was working at random, and
 he could see that her hand quivered as he bent over her.

 "That is not right—you are working wildly," he said,
 attempting to guide her hand; but she flung him off, and
 attempted to resume her aimless task.

 "Constance, why is this? What evil demon has possessed
 you of late? Is it that you think me harsh in denying
 you what is a pain for me to grant?"

 "You have no right to grant or deny it. I persist in
 that, and will. If my education has been neglected; if I
 have never had opportunities like other people, it was because
 my father could not afford it. Now that he has got
 money, outside of the little he can earn, and is willing to
 spend it on me, you start up and talk about impropriety.
 Let me ask you, sir, is it worse for me to learn to dance than
 other people."

 "But your position, Constance. If it were private lessons,
 I would not so much object."

 "I don't want private lessons. It is the room, and the
 company, and the chance of seeing how others do, that I
 want. You keep telling me that I am forward and unladylike."

 "No, no! I never did that!"

 "I say you did; or, father said it when you were by, and
 submitted to it. What is worse, the whole thing is true.
 How am I to be like a lady, when I hardly ever saw a genuine
 one in my life, except at the theatre, or in Fifth Avenue,
 where they sweep by me, and look me down, as if I had no
 business to be in the same street with them?"

 "Well, why do you go there, Constance?"

 "Why do I go there? What takes a boy to the wall
 against which peaches are ripening? He knows they are
 out of reach, and that they are growing crimson for some
 one else; but the very thing fascinates him."

 "Yes, child; but all time lost in vain longing is worse
 than sacrificed. Still, genius has its privileges, dear, and,
 when thoroughly developed, has a right to high place. Industry
 may, in the end, lift us both to positions more exalted
 than any held by the people you seem to envy; but this
 cannot be done in a day."

 "Do hush! I don't want that sort of position which only
 comes with gray hairs! Who is interested in one then?"

 "I shall always care for you, Constance."

 There was something so tender and pathetic in his voice,
 that Constance looked up and half smiled.

 "I know you would, dear old fellow, hateful as you are;
 but then how much more certain that would be if you would
 just let me have my own way, I'm sure I had trouble enough
 to get father willing, but he gave in at last that I should
 go to this dancing-school, and be at the receptions."

 "But who will go with you? Remember, you are older
 than scholars usually are, and—and more remarkable."

 "Father will go with me himself. Besides, William, I
 do know just a little about it; that dear old fellow, with the
 violin, once thought of getting me on the stage, when father
 was at his worst, you know; and he gave me lessons on the
 sly, so that I shan't seem so very awkward; besides, I'm
 small, and look younger than I am. With a short dress,
 and all that, it need not seem strange to anybody."

 "But it seems very strange to me, Constance. What
 can have put this idea into your head so soon after——"

 "Hush! not another word. Remember, you promised
 me faithfully. Father has got enough to bear without
 knowing that."

 "But if you insist upon doing things I don't like."

 "You will like them—it's all nonsense, William. You
 must like what I want; and, of all things in the world, I
 want to dance at one ball, dressed like other girls."

 "Like other girls?"

 "Well, like other ladies, then."

 "But, Constance, I will not permit this. Why should
 you ask what you know to be unseemly and every way
 improper?"

 "Because my father told me I might—and I will—there!"

 "Not if I can prevent it."

 "But you can't, without doing what no honorable man
 dare do."

 "Will you, then, deliberately disobey me?"

 "Will I? Yes——"

 She looked up and checked herself seeing how deadly
 white he was; and the hot color slowly left the half-frightened,
 half insolent beauty of her face.

 With this she fell to crying, and muttered, "That she
 didn't mean quite so much as that—only he was so cruel
 and unreasonable. It was enough to make any woman say
 wrong things, and do them, too; but she didn't want to be
 obstinate, only to persuade him just that once."

 The young man looked down into those beautiful eyes full
 of tears, and, with all his stern resolve, was a little softened.
 She saw it, and pursued her advantage.

 "Father will always go with me, that is settled; and you
 can come after me—so it will be a double protection," she
 pleaded.

 The young man was not convinced; still he loved that
 beautiful, selfish creature, and yielded, but so sternly, that
 his very consent frightened her.

 "Constance," he said, taking her two hands in his, and
 wringing them hard, "if I give way in this, it is with a
 conviction that the thing is, in itself, wrong, and will lead
 to evil for us both. But I will not forget how little of
 pleasure you have seen, and how keen is your relish for it.
 Go to this place; but understand me thoroughly, if through
 that, or any other means, you are led to forget what you
 are, and what I am, for a single moment, I will have no
 forbearance, no mercy."

 "Oh William, don't say that, you frighten me," cried the
 girl with wild energy; but her hands were still clasped with
 force, and the young man went on.

 "I may have done a wrong thing in marrying you, as I
 have done a foolish thing in keeping it secret; but as I
 have sowed, so must I reap. God help us both if the harvest
 should prove such as I fear, for no two human beings
 will ever have had such need of help."

 Constance clasped her hands when the young man dropped
 them from his grasp, and began to cry; but a flush of pleasure
 came slowly to her face, and she looked at him, from
 time to time, with timid smiles, after he had returned to his
 work. By-and-by he felt a pair of soft white arms stealing
 around him, and a cheek like moist roses pressed to his.

 "William," whispered a soft, rich voice, for there was
 real feeling in it, "William, I thank you so much. Indeed,
 indeed, I do. Can't you understand that I want to make
 myself a lady only for your sake? Father has got a little
 money now, and that gives me a hope to learn such things
 as I have never had a chance to know. Don't you see there
 is a piano in the room, and I am to have music lessons as
 well?"

 The young man looked around, and observed the piano
 for the first time—a flimsy, second-hand affair, but still an
 instrument of music. There did seem to be some systematic
 effort to complete Constance's imperfect education. This
 relieved the anxiety that had been oppressing him all day,
 and he began to look upon the affair in a different light.
 If old Mr. Hudson had, in fact, come in possession of means
 sufficient to complete, in some degree, his daughter's education—what
 cause of complaint was there? The poor girl
 had so little pleasure in her youth, that it seemed a cruelty
 to deprive her of any this new idea might afford. So, with
 a generous feeling of sacrifice, the man yielded his will
 against his judgment, as many a stronger mind has done
 before, under the persuasions of a loved object.

 Now all was sunshine with Constance. She was not generous
 enough to consider the sacrifice this man had made
 to her; nor did the pain, still manifest in his countenance,
 detract in the least from the pleasure of her triumph. So
 she beamed smiles, and lavished caresses upon him, with an
 abandon which rather annoyed him; and thus, unconsciously,
 the two began to take separate paths, and have separate
 thoughts, which diverged more and more each day.

 So Constance had her way. She went to the dancing-school,
 in a private and advanced class, for the young artist
 insisted on that, very foolishly, in fact; for there she met
 something above mere children. In this class she was
 thrown with young gentlemen and ladies of apposition she
 had never mingled with before, richly dressed, full of pride,
 and well calculated to excite all the vanity and wild ambition
 of a young creature so utterly unregulated as she had
 been. This young girl was so sickened with poverty, that
 she had learned to look upon it as the only great evil of
 life, from which she was determined to escape on any terms.

 Constance had not thought in this way so deeply until
 after the visit of Mr. Church, whose eloquence had
 impressed her wonderfully. Up to that time, the possibility
 of wealth, or of an equality with the people she was now
 associating with, had never presented itself, except as a wild
 dream. Indeed, she had looked upon the young artist as so
 far superior to her, or her belongings, that all the ambition
 of her nature was gratified in his commendation, and in
 the love which had led him to the rash step of an unsanctioned
 marriage.




 CHAPTER XXII.

 OPPRESSED WITH LONELINESS.


 Mrs. Holt spent much of her time alone in those days,
 very sadly. So completely had all the enjoyments of her
 former existence dropped from her, that she fell to loving the
 few inanimate things which had once been as nothing in
 her luxurious abundance, as if they were gifted with feelings
 and sympathies.

 Thus it happened that the easy chair that had come back
 so unexpectedly, like drift-wood rescued from a flood, became
 inexpressibly dear to her. She hailed it as a sign that
 Providence had not quite forgotten her. At first she wept
 over it; and even this was a source of comfort, for usually
 tears lay heavily in her heart their fountain had been
 buried under so many troubles; and such bitter humiliation,
 that they came to her eyes singly, and with pain, wounding
 where they should have brought consolation. God help the
 man or woman whose tears are so buried and frozen over
 with a deadly weariness of life.

 The return of this old armed chair came upon her so unexpectedly,
 that the very sight of it was like a dash of soft,
 warm rain upon ice,—it stirred some of the sweet emotions
 of former years in her bosom; and, as I have told you, she
 knelt down before it, feeling glad and thankful, like a little
 child; crying like a little child, too, as she had not done for
 years.

 In her solitude—for the woman was left almost entirely
 to her own loneliness—she fell to loving this old chair, and
 added it to her little family of treasures, which nothing
 ever should induce her to part with—no, not the very depths
 of poverty itself, or even _his_ importunity. The chair was
 worn and shabby enough. In places the rich red had
 turned to a yellowish brown, and all its rare shading of tints
 had seemed to run into a confused maze of color; glimpses
 of the brown under-linen broke through the worn silk at the
 seams. In places the glorious old carving was broken hopelessly
 and the pieces lost. That could not be helped, but
 much remained that might be done to bring back something
 of its old splendor.

 No matter how much time was needed, she would find it
 passing almost pleasantly while employed on the kindly
 work of rejuvenating that old household friend. During
 her whole life she had been an active woman, full of
 resources, gifted with a rare power of invention.

 Indeed, it was in the exercise of her varied accomplishments
 that this lady found all the recreation she ever had.
 Seldom, perhaps, in this world had splendid endowments
 been so trampled down and wasted as you found them in
 the wreck of this brilliant woman. So with very little else
 to busy herself about, she was glad to seize upon this object
 as a means of distraction.

 The very dilapidation of the old chair was a comfort to
 her. With her own hands she would build it up again,
 renew the faded colors, give plumpness and elasticity to the
 flattened cushion, darn in the damask flowers with such
 embroidery as she knew how to weave, stitch by stitch, as
 well as the best artist in Europe. So each day, through
 this mist of joy and pain, she examined the silken cushions
 and touched the frayed places with caressing fingers, sighing
 tenderly, as if an old friend had just returned to her
 needing care and help.

 Sometimes the poor lady smiled as she worked; for now
 and then bright memories would crowd the shadows back
 from her heart, and throw gleams of sunshine through it,
 spite of all the trouble that surrounded her. She had been
 a joyous, beautiful, and most favored woman in her time,
 the mistress of a magnificent home, which had been dashed
 into ruin for her, as it were by a single blow. Then she had
 started life again to see her property shrink, year by year,
 into nothingness, until the only vestiges left of her first
 home were a few worn articles of what had been a rich wardrobe.
 Of her second estate nothing now remained but that
 shabby easy-chair, and an old work-table, gleaming with
 mother-of-pearl, broken here and there in its delicate workmanship
 far beyond her mending, clever as she was but exquisite
 as a work of art, and oh! how dear to the poor lady
 in her loneliness.

 It was no wonder that Mrs. Holt prolonged that task of
 love, and never would consider the old chair perfectly renovated;
 but each day found some new flaw in the damask,
 which must be mended, or some stain to be removed.

 One morning, feeling very sad and disheartened, she
 began early at her work. She had been delayed more than
 once from want of materials, or the means to purchase them—for
 small sums are, to a proud person, often as difficult
 of attainment as large ones; and necessity had delayed her
 task when she was eager to go on, especially this morning,
 when she had not a shilling at command in the wide world.

 But a sudden thought seized her. Perhaps the work-table
 might contain the material she wanted among the debris
 of some former prodigal supply. She opened the table with
 eager haste, and searched among the skeleton reels and
 empty spools for such tints of silk as she needed. She
 found some tangled fragments of floss, and began to assort
 them as well as she could through the dull mist that floated
 before her eyes.

 Then she knelt before the chair, and began to work in
 earnest, weaving in the threads dexterously, as only a
 thoroughbred lady can use her needle. She was greatly
 depressed that morning, and as she worked, a swarm of memories
 came, like ravens, croaking and flapping their wings
 around her—such memories as ask the soul why it did this
 rash thing, or that wild deed, and how it could evoke such
 bitter penalties as must hunt down the after life with ten
 thousand sorrows.

 She remembered herself in the old country, young, beautiful,
 and lovely among the highest aristocracy of the land—a
 brilliant creature, for whom the best sunshine of the
 world seemed too dim and tame. Then she was on the Continent,
 with a father whom the statesmen of the land had
 selected to negotiate weighty matters of national interest;
 a motherless girl, impetuous from ill regulated genius, and
 wilful, either in the wrong or the right—so wilful, that the
 first step of her life was taken in defiance of that father,
 who understood the character of the man she married, and
 would gladly have saved her from the destiny she was
 madly shaping for herself.

 Then came a few years of reckless extravagance; seasons
 at Baden, alternate poverty and prodigality; children
 that died for lack of care, one only that lived in spite of
 neglect; memories of a reckless life, over which she had
 lost all control. Then came her father's death—a grand
 funeral, picturesque in its solemn mournfulness; regrets
 deep and bitter, a sense of desolation, and a yearning desire
 to follow that kind, lost one even into eternity, claim forgiveness
 of him, and set her soul free from the remorse which,
 for a time, threatened her very life.

 So far as he could, the wronged father had forgiven her.
 All that the next heir might not claim by entail he gave to
 his daughter, thus crowning her with coals of living fire,
 under which her wounded conscience writhed in mingled
 grief and pain. She would have given up every shilling
 gladly for one word of love from her father's lips. But he,
 her husband, had no such regrets; but ruthless in that, as
 in all things else, gathered up his wife's gold, and having
 exhausted his career in Europe, brought her and their only
 child to America.

 The United States Senate was then a glory to the nation.
 Clay, Webster, Calhoun, and many another great man, held
 the people's love and trust in their hands with a noble sense
 of its importance; social life had not been entirely merged
 in the love of gold; and intellect held a high place even
 against wealth in those days.

 Among those people who had engrafted much of the
 high-breeding of the old world upon the vivid genius that
 thrives so lustily in free air, this woman came with her
 beauty, her genius, and that wealth which an unprincipled
 husband lavished freely on her, thinking himself generous
 because he restrained her in nothing—she who, with proper
 restraint, would have been a glorious woman.

 As it was, for a time, she moved like a goddess among
 those truly great Americans. Her intellect found itself
 fairly matched; her beauty fascinated those who could not
 comprehend the brilliancy of her mind. This was the great
 scene of her triumphs, and the color mounted into her worn
 face, as she remembered them, even so many years after,
 while on her knees darning that old easy-chair.

 Then the faint red died out of those shrunken cheeks,
 and a look of iron, cold and bitter, crept over the countenance.
 She was thinking of the disgrace and humiliation
 that man brought upon her, when her wealth was wasted;
 of the struggle she had made to secure her child, and prevent
 the power which had crushed her from controlling
 him. Then came death and partial release!

 Had she used her freedom wisely? She dared not ask
 the question even of her own heart.

 After this, her mind wandered over a series of such difficulties
 as few women, bred like her, could have found the
 power to conquer. Even then, such was the force of early
 aristocratic education, she felt almost as much shame at the
 remembrance of these honest exertions for a livelihood, as
 burned in her heart when the panorama of her husband's
 baseness swept athwart her mind. But hers was a life of
 strange vicissitudes. In the midst of her honorable exertions,
 and after the bloom of her youth had faded out and
 was clouded over with harassing anxieties, prosperity came
 to her again through the almost idolatrous love of a man
 fifteen years younger than herself. Once more she had
 wealth; once more she became a star in social life—once
 more a leader. Yet this woman, with love and care heaped
 upon her, amid such luxuries as few women ever enjoy, felt
 a certain shame that her high birth had mated itself with a
 self-made man of the new world. The disgrace of her first
 husband had not more completely severed her from her aristocratic
 relatives, than the honorable marriage which had
 given a father to her son, and affluence back to herself. She
 had loved this man—she loved him yet; but trouble and
 humiliation had not exalted her nature. Besides, she had
 all those elements of self-torture and distrust, which growing
 age sometimes brings most bitterly into the life of a
 beautiful woman just upon her wane. At any rate, this
 mature wife was not altogether happy with her young husband,
 handsome and liberal though he was.

 Did the woman wonder now why this had been so? Did
 she recognize in her own character those warring elements
 which had shipwrecked their happiness, and, perhaps, at
 last their worldly fortunes? Did she compare the middle-aged
 husband, still carrying under his dissipated life the
 vestiges of a gentleman, but whose harsh tones and bitter
 taunts, sometimes, made her tremble, with the splendid
 young man who had sworn to her a thousand times that she
 could never grow old to him; that the time could never
 come when she would not be in his sight the best and most
 beautiful of women?

 How cruel he was to her now. Time and improvidence
 had swept all his possessions away; this marriage, by which
 love seemed to have defied time, wrecked the man both in
 character and fortune. I cannot tell how it was, perhaps in
 giving him everything else, this woman had failed in conferring
 that home content which is the soul of happiness. It
 was her doom to see everything that loved her sink into
 ruin. Why was it that she had dwarfed the moral natures
 of every man that had loved her?

 Had Mrs. Holt asked these questions years before, the
 fate that lay so heavily upon her then might have been
 averted. But she had plunged into the whirling current of
 life, and, exhilarated by its excitement, made no effort to
 seek the deeper and purer waters, which should bear every
 woman forward toward the eternal life, where all true
 womanhood must seek perfection. It was too late, then—yes,
 too late for any hope of influence over that one man.
 His life was wrecked, and with it her old age went down
 utterly like the hull of a vessel, from which masts, rigging,
 boats, and bulwarks, have all been swept away. Mrs. Holt
 knew and felt all this. She thought it over with keen
 regret as her needle flew in and out of that old silk, weaving
 it together as the broken texture of her life never could
 be mended. As the lady worked, her mind slowly swerved
 round to the present, and a more gloomy prospect never
 presented itself to the mind of a weary-hearted woman.
 That morning her husband had gone forth to his business
 as he called it, taunting her for being an incumbrance to
 him, and reviling her because she had, in fear and trembling,
 given him a note from Mrs. Wheeler, which contained an
 urgent demand for the unpaid bill.

 When things came to this pass with the unhappy pair, it
 frequently happened that Holt would not come home for
 weeks together, leaving the poor wife to the pain and dread
 that was sure to follow. She did not expect him now. It
 might be that some caprice would keep him away forever!
 for with her there was nothing to lure him back. Her
 grief angered him; her age gave him a subject for cruel
 taunts. How could she wish him to return?




 CHAPTER XXIII.

 LITTLE RHODA AS A BUSINESS WOMAN.


 As Mrs. Holt sat over her work, thinking these bitter
 thoughts, a soft step came up the stairs, and a timid knock
 made her start upright and listen.

 "Come in," she said, at last, seating herself with dignity,
 and fixing her anxious eyes on the door; for she was dreading
 the face of her landlady, as only a proud woman can
 dread the person she owes money to. "Come in."

 Faint as the words were, they reached Rhoda Weeks,
 who opened the door and crept through, timidly, looking
 around as if she dreaded that some third person might be
 present.

 "Ah! you have come again," said Mrs. Holt, brightening
 out of the apprehension that had seized upon her.
 "What have you got to sell?"

 "Nothing, marm; that is, nothing that I haven't promised
 to regular customers; but if you please, I—I want;
 that is, if you wouldn't think anything——"

 "Why, Rhoda, what has come over you to blush and
 stammer in this way?" cried the lady, who had never seen
 a shade of embarrassment in the child before.

 "Me? Oh, nothing! But I want you to do something
 for me, and—and don't know how to ask it."

 "Want something of me?" faltered the lady, thinking
 of her empty purse. "If I can; but tell me what it is."

 "Mrs. Holt, marm, what do you think about savings-banks?"

 "Savings-banks, Rhoda?—what a question!"

 "As for me," said Rhoda, dropping into her old business
 tone, "I ain't going to trust 'em. What if they were to
 break up and go to smash with one's money in their
 pockets?"

 Mrs. Holt laughed a little. This financial conversation
 with little Rhoda surprised, and, for the moment, amused
 her.

 "But you have no money in any bank, have you, little
 girl?"

 "No, not now—nothing to speak of; that is because I
 drew it all out this morning—mean to put it in private
 hands, where it will do——Mrs. Holt, will you just be
 good enough to keep this fifty dollars for me?"

 "Fifty dollars for you, Rhoda? No, no! I will not
 touch it!"

 The proud, and at heart honorable woman, drew back,
 and put the roll of bank-notes held toward her, back with
 her hand, almost shuddering under the temptation so suddenly
 presented before her.

 "Don't say that, marm, because I've set my heart on it.
 You see it is money that I have saved for Luke's education,
 but it will be a long time before he wants it; and both he
 and I think that you could take it now, and do what you
 please with it, and—and pay us just as much back ever so
 many years from now. I tell you, marm, it's my belief
 that them banks aren't to be trusted. Only five per cent,
 interest, just think of it; for my part, I'd rather have
 nothing—it's just a tantilization. If you would be so kind
 now!"

 Mrs. Holt was sorely tempted. The woman from below
 stairs had just been up under the influence of a sharp dun
 from her landlord, and demanded her money with that decision
 which springs out of a sharp necessity. Mrs. Holt,
 poor thing! had temporized and promised, while her cheeks
 grew hot with shame, and her nerves quivering under the
 pressure of this eternally repeated humiliation; but she
 knew that the time and means of payment were, to say the
 least, uncertain, and shrunk from taking the money from
 that hard-working little creature, who seemed so anxious
 to be robbed of her small savings.

 "No, Rhoda, I cannot take it. You are a dear, good girl,
 but I—I do not need——That is, I will not deprive you
 of your money."

 "Of course, you don't need it—who ever thought of such
 a thing?" said Rhoda, fixing her pleading eyes on the lady.

 "But it is I—I and Luke that want some one to take care
 of our money; and—and I think it real unkind—there, I
 do, after all you did for mother, to give us up, and say you
 won't help us."

 Mrs. Holt walked to the window and looked out; but
 though the day was fine, everything seemed misty to her.
 She was making a great sacrifice when she refused Rhoda's
 money—for never was a poor woman in greater need of it
 than she was that very moment. A slight rustle of paper,
 and a noise at the door, made her turn. The room was
 empty, and lying among the ruined paraphernalia of her
 work-table, Mrs. Holt saw the roll of bills placed conspicuously.

 Then she sat down in her easy-chair, rested her warm
 cheek against its cushion and began to cry. She had no tears
 to shed when trouble was upon her, but gratitude brought
 them out, bright and clear, like the crystal drops that come
 so easily in childhood. In all the world it seemed as if that
 little girl were her only friend.

 Footsteps on the stairs, that made the nerves of that poor
 woman quiver, a knock at the door, and Mrs. Wheeler came
 in, looking half grieved, half angry; forcing herself to act
 like a women of iron, when she was, in fact, a kindly-hearted
 person, urged against her will, to be hard and
 cruel.

 "Mrs. Holt," she said, sharply, as if out of patience with
 herself and every one else, "I cannot help it; the landlord
 is down upon me harder than ever. If you cannot pay me
 right away, I—I must have the room."

 Mrs. Holt started up in her chair and turned a wild look
 on the roll of money she had resolved not to touch. She
 seemed afraid that the landlady would seize upon it, and
 half reached forth her hand.

 Mrs. Wheeler followed that anxious look with her eyes,
 saw the money, and burst out in a volley of thanks so
 exuberant and full of joy that Mrs. Holt smiled in spite
 of herself.

 "Oh! I am so glad! It will save me from a world of
 trouble. I'm so sorry. Did I say anything that was not
 pleasant, Mrs. Holt? It was not my wish; but sometimes
 that man drives me so."

 Mrs. Holt arose with the dignity of a woman who had
 thousands at command, and taking up little Rhoda's money,
 gave it to the woman who reached out her hand, eager to
 receive it.

 "I think that is the amount, Mrs. Wheeler. No, you
 said nothing very unpleasant, and I can make allowances;
 only pray be a little more patient the next time. I am not
 accustomed to these things."

 Poor woman, how she strove to cover up the memory of
 those old wounds to her pride, which never would cease to
 pain her! Not accustomed to being dunned? God help her;
 for months and months she had known little else than the
 shrinking and distress which unpaid debts are sure to bring
 upon a person of sensitive honor. She had not intended to
 use that money. It seemed to her scarcely better than robbery
 to take it without some more certain means of repayment
 than she possessed—but the thing was done. Rhoda's
 bank-notes were grasped in Mrs. Wheeler's hands with such
 eager gratitude that, for a moment, her debtor forgot how
 the money had been obtained.

 After Mrs. Wheeler went out, profuse in thanks and
 glowing with delight, her lodger threw herself into the easy-chair,
 and, covering her face with both hands, moaned to
 herself, "This child, too—this poor child! Am I to ruin
 everything that comes near me?"




 CHAPTER XXIV.

 CRUEL REPROACHES.


 "Well, what is all this about?"

 Mrs. Holt dropped the hands from her face, and looked
 toward the door, where a tall, well-formed man stood frowning,
 with a soft hat grasped hard in one hand, as if the
 sight of his wife's trouble had angered him.

 "Is it you, Holt? I did not expect you so early," she
 said, making an effort to appear pleased.

 He looked at her keenly, and spoke in a slight, questioning
 voice, "Crying again!"

 "No, no, I have not shed a tear. That does not often
 happen to me now."

 Holt gave her another sharp glance, flung his hat on a
 table, and sat down in the easy-chair that his wife had just
 left.

 "So you have got at this old thing again," he said. "Confound
 it, here's a needle half run through my hand. What
 have you been about. Darning the ragged silk? Just like
 you. I have half a mind to pitch the old hencoop into the
 street."

 The lady did not speak; but this rudeness seemed to
 shock her, for the muscles about her mouth were strained,
 and she walked nervously around the room, moving things
 backward and forward in a helpless way.

 "Well, never mind the needle, though it was confoundedly
 careless. I'm glad you are not drooping and moaning
 after the old fashion just now, for I want you to help me
 again. Don't look white, and wince so—it is nothing very
 dreadful; but I want fifty—say a hundred dollars, and
 don't know where else to come for it. You can get it, if
 you will."

 "A hundred dollars!" faltered the poor woman, with a
 shock of inward cold. "Mason, you know I have not got
 it."

 "I know that you are a dear, kind old party, and that
 you always manage to help me out of my scrapes somehow.
 I can always trust in you when everybody else fails."

 "But, Mason, I haven't got a dollar in the world."

 "Well, what of that? You can borrow."

 "Borrow? No, I cannot do that. Since we needed
 friends, they have all dropped away."

 "But you must look them up. I tell you I'm awfully
 in for it—owe everybody, to say nothing of this old cat,
 Wheeler."

 "But this hundred dollars, if I had it, would not pay
 half that you have told me of."

 "Certainly not; but it would take me out of the crowd
 and give me a new start. The long and short of it is, I
 must go. There are chances out West, and I mean to take
 some of them. It's of no use staying here. You always
 could get along better without me, when the duns were
 upon us."

 Mrs. Holt sat down in the nearest chair, simply because
 she had no strength to stand, her withered face turned
 white as parchment, her lips contracted painfully; she felt
 as if the last blow fate had to give was falling upon her
 then.

 "Are you going to leave me?"

 "To leave you? One would think it a terrible misfortune.
 Why, you have told me a thousand times that——"

 "Oh, don't! I cannot bear it now. If we are to part,
 let it be in peace," cried the poor wife out of the depths of
 her anguish. "Remember, it may be forever!"

 "In the course of nature, that is very probable,"
 answered the man, who had sworn a thousand times that
 the woman before him never could grow old. "Is there
 anything so very heart-breaking about my going, that it
 makes you sit choking and panting like a frog out of water.
 I can remember when you had more vim."

 "Can you?" she questioned, drearily. "Yes, I dare
 say; but I am old now."

 "Old! I like that. You own up to it at last. Old! Of
 course, you are, and infernally nagging, too, if things don't
 go to please you."

 "I do not intend to be unkind or disagreeable, Mason,
 but you should make allowances sometimes. When one is
 very unhappy, it is hard always to appear cheerful. I—I
 am so miserable."

 "You need not go over that old song; I've heard it
 croaked till it makes me sick. Do try and look less like a
 confounded mummy, and get the whine out of your throat
 There, now, begin to shiver and grow moist about the eyes.
 Hang it, don't you know that you are an infernal sight too
 old for that dodge. It used to tell on me wonderfully when
 I was spooney, and you younger, but now——"

 The man made a gesture of contempt with his hand, as if
 he wished to sweep away all her pretensions at once, and
 settle her down into the miserable old woman which he had
 made her, more certainly than time itself.

 "How about the money?" he added, in the tone of an
 injured creditor. "I must have enough to carry me west
 of the Mississippi."

 "But I have no money!" she answered him, in a burst
 of sharp impatience. "How am I to get it?"

 Holt laughed, took a soiled handkerchief from his hat
 and wiped his flushed face.

 "Come, come—no more lies, old lady! Where did you
 get the money to pay Mrs. Wheeler with? Not a cent this
 morning, and fifty dollars the next hour. I could hardly
 keep the widow from embracing me when I came up-stairs,
 spite of the brandy in my breath, as she calls it—hang her
 impudence! What does she know about a gentleman's tod.
 But I take such things gracefully. Didn't know what she
 was driving at for ten minutes; but accepted the situation,
 and swallowed all thanks for the fifty dollars I had left for
 her; told her not to say another word; was glad if my
 promptness had relieved her from any embarrassment,
 spread my hands once or twice in delicate refusal of so
 much gratitude, and come up hereto find out just how flush
 you are."

 "I have told you—I have told you," pleaded the woman.

 "Stuff and nonsense! You have not left the house;
 and no human being but a miserable little match-girl has
 been here since I went out—you see I have taken a little
 pains to inform myself. How just be up to the truth once,
 and tell me where the hoard is."

 "I tell you, upon my honor, I have not a cent in the
 world," answered the harassed woman—"not one."

 "On your honor! How I like that."

 "I will take an oath if you cannot believe me."

 "But where did you get that money?"

 "I—I borrowed it of the little match-girl."

 Holt crushed his hat between both hands, and then flung
 it half way to the ceiling, distorting himself with a burst
 of laughter, so deep and genuine that his wife smiled in
 spite of all the anguish at her heart.

 "Borrowed it of the match-girl? Mark Anthony, this
 is too much; and she wishes me to believe it. Ho! ho! ha!
 ha!"

 "I know it seems strange and incredible, but Rhoda
 Weeks lent me that money as certainly as you and I live,"
 she said, with a calm seriousness that almost took away his
 breath.

 "And has she got any more, that is the principal thing
 now?" said Holt, catching his hat and crushing it impatiently,
 for he was too much in earnest for continued mirth.
 "I do not ask where the imp gets such sums of money—that's
 none of my business; but has she got any more
 stamps that you can get hold of?"

 "I do not think that she has got another dollar in the
 world, Mason. In fact, I know that this was all she had."

 Holt's laugh hardened down to a sneer now, for he was
 convinced that she spoke the truth; and his hopes of money
 faded rapidly—at any rate, from that quarter.

 "And so you have taken to financiering among the
 match-girls and boot-blacks. Of course, the noble blood
 that we boast of does not fire up at the idea. Pride and
 poverty have given up fighting, ha!"

 "I did not ask the child for her money, and would not
 have taken it if—"

 "If you hadn't wanted it to throw away on that ugly
 dun down stairs. Why, woman, that money would have
 taken me out West."

 "But where is it you wish to go, Mason?"

 "On to the Pacific railroad—I don't much care which
 route. I have patches of land in both directions."

 "You have land?"

 "Yes, I have; ventures made in the old prosperous days,
 that may come into market now. Who knows, this black
 luck may not last forever. I should have sold it fifty times
 over if anybody would have bought it."

 "And you are going West to stay, to live? Oh, Mason!
 take me with you!"

 "Take you with me? Well, old girl, on one condition I
 will. Raise me money enough to go out, and I'll send for
 you."

 "Send for me? No, no! I must not be left behind. It
 would kill me. Besides, how could I live? How could I
 live?"

 The poor woman began to tremble, and writhe visibly before
 her husband's eyes. He was not naturally a hard-hearted
 man, and for the moment took compassion on her.

 "Don't tremble so, old girl—why should you?" he said,
 with a gleam of loving kindness. "I'll go out, you know,
 and see how the land lies. If it promises well, what do you
 say to a log-cabin on the edge of some prairie, or at the foot
 of a hill, with a stream in sight? If we could get clear away
 from the world, that would be the very best thing we could
 do. I worked in the woods once a whole winter, and that,
 compared to raising corn on a prairie where the black soil
 is rich six feet deep, is mere baby's play."

 "Oh! If I were but a few years younger," she said piteously,
 "then a log-house with you, and away from the whole
 world, would be heaven."

 Holt laughed, and coming toward her, leaned upon her
 chair in an old, familiar attitude, which made her heart
 swell. He saw the crimson of an almost uncontrollable
 emotion sweep slowly up to her face, and began to play with
 a tiny curl that fell over her forehead. She started up,
 went to the window, and he could see by the motion of her
 head and shoulders that she was crying bitterly.

 "Come, come," he said, "there is nothing to cry about.
 It is always wrath or tears when I am alone with you,
 though, I must say, tears have been scarce with you of late.
 Why, you are getting to be childish."

 "The second childhood!" she answered, smiling bitterly
 through her tears.

 "What nonsense; but let us talk seriously about the
 money. Can you get it for me?"

 "God help me! I do not know how," she answered.

 "Could you not get it from the young lord?"

 "The young lord. You mean my son? Oh Mason! I
 have been such a burden to him already."

 "But he would give it to you?"

 "If he had it. Yes, I do not doubt that; but I would
 almost rather die than ask him."

 "But you will do it for my sake?"

 "For your sake, Mason, I would do anything."

 She looked into his face, her own quivered all over; her
 eyes, blue as the heavens once, took back a gleam of youth.
 He stooped down and kissed her.

 "Then, for my sake, ask him. I will turn over a new
 leaf in this far West. Don't remember the last few years—I
 have not been altogether myself. Come, help me this
 time. We will make a fresh start, then, and build up a real
 home for ourselves."

 "Oh! that we could, on the prairie, in the wilderness—anywhere,
 so long as it was a home, and our own," she
 cried, reaching out her arms like a weary child. "In this
 life we are so far apart, Mason."

 "I know it—I am sorry now."

 "Are you, my husband?"

 "Indeed, I am. Only help me out of this abominable
 nest of duns, and you will find the old nature coming back.
 Say, now, will you ask William about it?"

 "I—I will get the money. Depend on me, I will!"

 "I always could trust you to work out possibilities; and
 sometimes, it seems to me, impossibilities. After all, there
 are few women like you."

 She smiled pleasantly in his face. His praise seemed to
 take off ten years from her life.

 "Yes, you will do it, I see that," he said, smoothing her
 hair. "Who says you are growing old? Not I, for one."

 "Then I shall go with you?" she questioned, anxiously.

 "No, not _with_ me. I will go first and prepare some sort
 of a home for you; then you shall come out, and we will
 settle down and grow into nice old people."

 "But you _will_ do this?"

 "Indeed, I will. Only help me out of this heap of brownstone
 and bricks, and you shall be the better for it all your
 life."

 She threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him
 with pathetic tenderness.

 "I will get it! Never fear, I will get it."

 For a moment she was strained to his heart fervently, as
 in the first days of their marriage; then he snatched up
 his hat and went away, perhaps ashamed that so much good
 was left in him.




 CHAPTER XXV.

 OLD HEIR-LOOMS.


 When Mrs. Holt heard her husband's footsteps on the
 stairs she gave a sudden start and went after him eager to
 look upon his very shadow as it passed away from her.
 Then she went back into the room, sat down in the great
 easy-chair, and leaning her cheek against its cushions, closed
 her eyes with a sensation of heavenly thankfulness that
 beamed over her whole face.

 "He loves me yet—he loves me yet; he does—he does!
 I am not so very old, if it were not for this pining. Great
 heavens! how beautiful life can be for us away from every
 one—away from the evils that tempt him here, with the
 fresh, bright things of God all around us. Had this been
 given me from the first, how different it might have been;
 but while there is life there is hope. Let me think—let me
 dream; and, above all, let me thank the good God who forgives
 so much, and blesses us, in spite of our ingratitude."

 She sighed heavily, casting off a load of pain with each
 breath; then a smile dawned on her lips, and her hands
 clasped each other gently, as young birds creep together in
 one nest. She was not asleep; but a full hour passed before
 she moved from that chair, the feeling of rest was so complete.

 After a time the thought of what she had to do broke
 into her repose. She sat up, smiling and thoughtful, her
 intellect all alert, as if a stone had been rolled away from
 her brain, and a mountain of ice from her heart.

 How should she get this money? Not from her son, that
 source had been taxed too heavily already. She could not
 again appeal to his generosity, knowing, as she did, how
 hard it was for him to earn, with his own hands, the honorable
 independence which it was his pride to maintain.

 Of late she remembered, with some anxiety, that the
 young man had been straitened in his means, and that he
 came less frequently to her assistance; he grew pale and
 careworn, too, like a man who was preparing himself for
 some inevitable burden. No, let what would come, she
 must not go to her first husband's son, William Sterling,
 for help, not even to secure that home in the far West, in
 which Mason Holt was to become himself again.

 This conclusion once arrived at, Mrs. Holt began to
 search about for some other means of obtaining money.
 There was one resource by which she might realize the sum
 she wanted.

 Through all her poverty, and against every pressure, she
 had retained two or three valuable heir-looms, which had
 descended to her from the proud house in England, to which
 she undoubtedly belonged. For years she had not dared to
 look at these things, the very sight of them was so full of
 regretful pain. Sometimes the clamor of immediate need
 had been so loud and strong, that she had dragged them
 forth as men commit murders and burglaries, determined to
 sell them, and free herself from the cry of money, money,
 which pursued her like the baying of blood-hounds; but
 something had always held her back. It seemed like tearing
 up that proud, ancestral tree by the roots, when she
 thought of parting with the articles that had been owned
 and worn by her mother.

 Now a new motive, and a more holy purpose swept many
 of these feelings aside. She was about to begin a new life,
 to throw up a hopeless struggle, and the bitter experience
 of years, for the freedom of primitive existence. What had
 she in common with the pride and ambition, the pomp and
 splendor of which these fragmentary treasures were a part?
 Had she not long ago given up her own lofty birth-right,
 and held her son back from the privileges of his class
 because she wished to be forgotten by those who had known
 her in the glory of her youth, and the pride of a position
 now divided from her by so many years, that it seemed like
 a mocking dream? Now she was going away farther still,
 to the very centre of the new world, through which iron
 roads were already cleaving a passage from ocean to ocean.
 Why should she keep these relics? Who would appreciate
 them in the far-off home to which her best hopes turned?
 For once she would tear up her pride by the roots; the man
 she had married was a son of the new world—she had made
 sacrifices for him, why not add this one, the greatest and the
 last?

 From under her bed, Mrs. Holt dragged a small camphor-wood
 trunk, clamped with brass, and fastened with a curious
 lock. From her work-table she took a key which fitted
 this lock, and opened the trunk with it. A strong aromatic
 smell of camphor, cedar-chips, and sandal-wood came up
 from the chest, almost stifling her. She turned white and
 struggled for breath, but did not close the lid, though it
 shook under her hands, and at first almost fell.

 Layer after layer of paper and fine linen was unfolded;
 then the rich tints and heavy fabric of an India shawl
 gleamed up from the waves of tissue-paper that enfolded it.
 She took the shawl up with desperate courage, as if it had
 been the shroud of some dear friend, and flung it across her
 arm. Then she drew forth a web of old cardinal point-lace,
 the spoil from some monastic altar, into which a whole convent
 of nuns had worked all the bloom of their lives, and
 offered it back to God in a wonderful mechanism.

 This lace had descended in her mother's family, from lady
 to lady, many a hundred years; and now she was about to
 sell it for so much gold. The thought made her faint. It
 seemed a terrible sacrilege, even in the state of generous
 exaltation to which she had lifted herself. She held up the
 marvelous web, yellow and rich with the golden hue which
 time leaves on all whiteness, and looked at the delicate pattern
 with longing, wistful eyes. The rich tracery gleamed
 like hoary frost-work between her and the window. It fell
 from her arm, yard after yard, a miraculous web, which
 nothing could replace. This lace had gleamed on her
 mother's bridal-dress and on her own. How could she
 sell it?

 A hundred dollars! Surely the India shawl would bring
 more than that if she only knew where to sell it. She would
 put back the lace, at least for the present; it seemed impossible
 for her to part with that. Was it not woven into
 the very woof of her birth-right, with its rich yellow threads
 stretching back for centuries? The proud women of her
 house would stir in their graves if she sold that.

 One thing more she had on which her trembling hand fell
 with reverence. It was a jewel-case of crimson morocco,
 worn and faded, which fell open in her clasp—for the spring
 was broken—and the beautiful eyes of a woman looked up
 to her, as if haughtily asking why she had been intruded
 upon. Then Mrs. Holt's mouth began to quiver, and her
 eyes grew so dim that she could not see how those lovely eyes
 seemed to soften and look into hers, and how wonderfully
 beautiful the face was.

 "Oh! mother, mother!" she cried out, "had you but
 lived, had you but lived!"

 She turned the picture over in her hands. It was set in
 pure, heavy gold; and in the back was an oval-shaped
 crystal, in which two rich locks of hair lay in one silken
 coil, held together by a band of large diamonds. At first
 she had intended to remove these diamonds and sell them,
 but her hand faltered in its task. She literally could not so
 despoil her mother's picture. She clasped the case in her
 hand, thrust the miniature back to its place in the box, hurried
 the lace in, wave after wave, pressed it down with both
 her hands, and closed the lid. The shawl she might part
 with; but the dead in their coffins were not more sacred to
 her than the picture and the lace, which had been a portion
 of her mother's wedding-dress.

 Other things of value were in that camphor-wood box; a
 huge Bible, every page of which was an illuminated manuscript,
 and noble orders, from which the jewels had been
 taken; but these the woman never touched. To unlock
 that box at all, was like opening a tomb; she was in haste
 to close it, and held her breath till the bolt was turned.
 Then she took up the shawl, and moving like a ghost toward
 that easy-chair, sat down with all its mingled colors gleaming
 in her lap. But she was cold and white, as if the thing
 she had taken were a shroud, and the place she had
 despoiled, a grave.




 CHAPTER XXVI.

 THE BLUE SILK DRESS.


 She came and bent over her husband as he was at work,
 stealing a white arm around his neck, and laying a cheek,
 all one flush of roses, close to his, as women will when a fit
 of over fondness is upon them, or when some object of
 doubtful result is to be attained.

 "William, are you angry with me yet?"

 "Angry? No; but very busy, Constance," was the
 rather brief reply, which seemed curt and strange after her
 caressing tones.

 The young wife drew back a little, and a sense of rebuff
 sent a momentary pout to her lips.

 "After all," she resumed, tightening her arm around his
 neck again, "after all, I haven't enjoyed it very much.
 The dancing is splendid; but what is the use of that when
 I cannot dress like other people, and look like other people
 when I am dressed?"

 "I thought your dress pretty enough," Sterling answered,
 laying down his graver; for there was no use in
 attempting to work with that white hand so near his lips.

 "Yes, just for once; but one cannot go on turning old
 silks forever, especially when there is but one to turn. Besides,
 William, I wish you could have seen the difference.
 Why, the other ladies swept along with the soft, low sound
 of a wave coming in when the sea is calm, their silks were
 so subtle and rich; but mine rattled like dead leaves every
 step I took. It almost made me cry to feel the difference,
 dear."

 "I dare say that you were, in fact, prettier than any of
 them."

 "Of course, I was; you may be sure the men thought
 so. One read that plain enough in their eyes."

 "Constance!"

 She started a little, for his tone was sharp with rebuke,
 but turned the subject with a mellow laugh, delightfully
 reassuring.

 "How I do love to tease you, darling. Indeed, indeed,
 I did not look in the face of a single man in the class.
 Why should I, when that which is dearest and most beautiful
 to me in all the world was absent? But I could see
 those proud girls glance at each other and smile knowingly,
 as if I had no business to breathe the same air with them—the
 stuck-up things."

 "The what, Constance?"

 "Dear me, I am always putting my foot—There it is
 again. How tedious it all is."

 "You see, my girl, that something more than a new dress
 is wanted before those proud girls you speak of will recognise
 you as an equal," said Sterling, with a gentle smile.

 "But they shall—they shall! Oh! how I would like to
 ride over them and trample them down!"

 A wild light came into her eyes; she clenched and unclenched
 her hand almost savagely.

 Sterling looked at her, half amused, half wonderingly; a
 hot rose-color burned in her cheeks, and her red lips curved
 like a bent bow. She really looked as if it would give her
 pleasure to trample some one to the earth in making an upward
 path for her impetuous feet.

 "But why do you wish it, Constance? These thoughts
 are unfit for a poor man's wife."

 "A poor man's wife! But I shall not always be that."

 "I hope not, dear; but there will be long waiting and
 much work before you can hope for anything else."

 "Long waiting and much work," she repeated, impatiently.
 "I don't care for work; but waiting, that I will
 not undertake for—why, it would eat up half one's life."

 "Still, Constance, the great secret of success is in knowing
 how to wait, and when to act."

 "But I won't wait. Why should the youth of one poor
 girl be given up to impatient hopes, while others enjoy? I
 tell you, William, it is unfair."

 "Have you no present? Is my love—the entire devotion
 of one true heart nothing?" questioned Sterling, speaking
 low, but with intense and most painful reproach in his
 voice. "Has it come to that between us so early, my
 wife?"

 "Of course, I didn't mean that," she answered, and tears
 flashed up through the angry light in her eyes. "You are
 a dear good fellow, and I love you—oh! ever so much; but
 other people have lots of things besides love. Now don't
 they?"

 "And, among other things, you want a new dress?"

 "Yes, dear; and something else. Don't look cross now;
 but let me cover your eyes while I tell it."

 She laid one of her pretty hands softly over his eyes, surprised
 his lips with a kiss, soft as the fall of a rose-leaf,
 and whispered hurriedly, "There is to be a grand ball,
 something wonderfully beautiful; and I want to see it so
 much."

 "A ball—a public ball! Who on earth put that into
 your head, Constance?"

 She pressed her hand closer to his eyes, though he
 attempted to shake it off, and stopped his speech with
 kisses warmer and more eager than the one by which she
 had prepared him for this audacious request.

 "It isn't _very_ public, you know; the tickets are so high
 that common people cannot get them."

 "Then how are we to purchase them?" questioned the
 husband.

 "Only this once; but I do want to see it awfully. Besides,
 I did not calculate on going with you. People might
 think that strange, not knowing the truth as we do, and—and——"

 The girl was beginning to blush and stammer painfully,
 for by this time Sterling had forced her hand from his
 eyes, and was gazing, with a look of stern perplexity, into
 hers.

 "What does all this mean, Constance?"

 "Nothing, nothing at all, if you are going to be angry
 about it. Father has got a ticket, and would take me, if
 it were not for you. But you are cross as fire, and won't
 let me enjoy myself even with my own father."

 "Why, child, you did not even mention your father."

 "But I do now."

 "And he wishes you to go with him to this ball?"

 "Yes, he does; and I can't tell him why it is impossible.
 Oh, dear! this having a husband and master in
 secret is a trial!"

 "Yes, it must be a terrible trial, if you can feel it so."

 "But I don't—only just a little now and then. Well, it
 is settled nicely about my going; but the dress—father
 will give me something toward it; but he hasn't the least
 idea how much a stunning silk will cost."

 "Well, Constance, if you must go, I will work night
 and day before you shall want proper garments."

 "Oh, you darling! you precious old boy! how I love
 you. What shall the color be—blue, cherry, amber, scarlet,
 with a long, long train sweeping back ever so far?"

 Sterling smiled. The young creature's pleasure was so
 fresh and genuine that he could not help sharing it a little.

 "I think it shall be blue."

 "Light blue, then?"

 "Yes; just the tint of the sky when you see a break in
 some storm-cloud."

 "And scarlet flowers in my hair?"

 "No; moss-roses of a delicate pink, or white if——"

 "No, no. Let me have pink roses, if it is not to be scarlet—something
 a little stunning, you know; but you must
 give me lots of money—father will never dream how much
 it costs."

 "I will do my best, Constance."

 "Hark! what is that? Some one by the door."

 Constance ran to her seat, and fell to work with great
 vigor, calling out in a natural voice for the person who
 knocked, to come in.

 The door opened gently, and Rhoda Weeks came in, with
 her basket, half emptied of its matches, on one arm, and a
 note in her disengaged hand.

 "Here, Mr. Sterling, this is for you," she said, giving
 him the note. "I promised your mother—though I didn't
 know as she was your mother till now—promised to give it
 into your own hand, and here it is. She wants an answer
 right away."

 Sterling took the note, which was in a very common
 envelope, but daintily sealed, with a crest stamped on a
 drop of pale green wax, and read it through without looking
 up; but his eyes grew troubled as they glanced from
 line to line; and at last he folded the note with slow hesitation,
 and cast an appealing look on Constance, who was
 regarding him with sidelong glances from beneath her drooping
 lashes as she pretended to work. She caught the look,
 and feeling that something was expected of her, arose and
 went close to her husband.

 "What is it?" she said, in a low voice. "Any bad
 news?"

 "It is from my mother," he said, gently.

 "Oh! is that all?"

 She spoke almost insolently; and the gesture with which
 she flung away from him would have been coarse in a less
 beautiful person.

 Young Sterling loved his mother dearly, and this gesture
 stung him like a taunt upon the being be held most sacred.
 He turned suddenly upon his wife, pale to the lips, and answered
 her in a voice she was not likely soon to forget.

 "No, it is not all. My mother is in great need of money,
 and I have none to send her, unless—"

 "Well, unless what?"

 "Unless you will release me from my promise, and give
 up the dress."

 "Give up the dress? I, and the ball, too—for that goes
 with it. William Sterling, I would not do it to save her
 life."

 The last vestige of blood left Sterling's face. She could
 see that his very hands were quivering with suppressed
 pain.

 "But she needs this money. It is a matter almost of life
 and death with her."

 Constance turned upon him angrily, but her eyes fell on
 Rhoda Weeks, and she curbed herself.

 "Rhoda," she said, "you can go up stairs. Mr. Sterling
 will send the answer."




 CHAPTER XXVII.

 BETWEEN THE MOTHER AND THE WIFE.


 Rhoda went out; then Sterling advanced close to his
 wife.

 "You were talking for effect; I did not remember that
 she was listening," he said, with a forced smile. "Of course,
 you will make this sacrifice for my mother?"

 "And so give up the first bit of real pleasure that has
 ever come in my way? No, thank you, sir! Your mother
 is, doubtless, a nice old party—but what is that to me? I
 don't know her, and don't want to know her, especially if
 she's always going to be after you for money, coming between
 you and your lawful wife."

 "But she does not know that you are my wife!" said
 Sterling, in a voice so deep and still that it almost frightened
 her.

 "I know it, and you know it. What has she, or any one
 else but me in the wide world to do with your money?"

 "Constance, you are trying me too far."

 "And you are trying me too far."

 "You force me, then, to refuse my mother's request."

 "If she wants the money you have just promised to me?
 Yes. What right has any mother to be hunting down her
 married son for money?"

 The young man took his hat and walked out of the house.
 Constance watched him askance with sharp anxiety at her
 heart; but the stern pallor of his face forbade her following
 him; and after a vain attempt to resume her work, she left
 it altogether.

 On entering the parlor, she was surprised to find Mr.
 Church seated in the easiest chair to be found in the room,
 solacing his solitude with a segar, so nearly consumed that
 the waves of his steel-gray beard emitted smoke like smouldering
 brushwood. He started up when Constance appeared,
 and flung the end of his segar into the grate.

 "Ha! my queen of roses, is it you at last? I have been
 waiting with the patience of twenty saints for this advent.
 Sit down and tell me at least, that my coming gives you a
 little pleasure."

 "Pleasure? Indeed, it does, for I have had scarcely anything
 but torment since you left us that evening."

 "Torment! Who dares torment an angel? But I will
 not ask. If torment makes you so beautiful, you should ask
 nothing better during the rest of your life."

 "You—you think I have improved, then?" she said,
 uplifted by his broad flattery, as only a coarser nature
 could be.

 "Improved? Why, child, you are perfect. My friend,
 your father has acted on my hint, I see. Society has given
 you an air—something queenly; nothing like plenty of
 money to bring out the richness of female beauty. My dear
 child, have you any idea how captivating you really are?
 Why, you might marry a prince."

 "Marry? I? Oh! no, no!"

 Constance faltered and flushed guiltily as she spoke. The
 very name of marriage made her heart shrink; for she knew
 how impossible it was, even if the prince should come.

 Church surveyed her from head to foot with a glance that
 kept the hot blood in her face; for, with a natural revolt she
 was made half angry, by his cool assumption.

 "Marry! Why, girl, I am almost tempted—"

 Constance broke into a light, mocking laugh.

 "Tempted to overwhelm me with another dose of flattery—but
 I have become a little used to it since you were here,
 let me tell you that."

 "I dare say—I dare say. But where is your father?"

 "Gone out. I have not seen him since morning."

 "So much the better—it will give us time for a little
 quiet chat."

 "But some one else may come in."

 "What, the handsome young fellow who was so bitter and
 so sweet the other night? Does he come so frequently,
 then?"

 "He has just gone away."

 "And you are grieving about it, that is what made your
 eyelashes so wet, ha? Never mind, he will come back again—such
 fellows always do."

 "I almost wish he never would," said the girl, with a
 saucy lift of her head.

 "Indeed?"

 "Yes, indeed!"

 "I'm sure I wish so from the bottom of my heart."

 "Why, the young man is nothing to you?"

 "But you are a great deal to me!"

 The man spoke in a low voice, and very seriously. His
 face, full of thought and feeling, was bent toward her; his
 eyes met hers with a sort of evil fascination. She had a
 great deal of pure womanliness left in her yet, and felt
 how like a serpent he was, but fluttered nearer to him all
 the while.

 "I—I don't understand, sir. How can I be anything to
 you? We have never seen each other but once."

 "You mistake—I have seen you a good many times."

 "Where, and how?" Constance asked, breathlessly.

 "No matter about that. I have seen you often enough
 to love you dearly."

 "Me, sir? You—you forget," Constance spoke proudly,
 remembering whose wife she was.

 "Forget what? that you fancied yourself half in love
 with that young fellow? Nonsense! It isn't in him to
 win the heart of a woman like you."

 "Sir, you go too far. What if I told you that I——"

 "Love him already. Oh! I understand all that. But
 when you once know what love is, this fancy will make
 you laugh, as I do."

 "It will not be a pleasant laugh, then, let me tell you
 that," she said, saucily.

 "Witty, too! Did I not say how much you had improved?
 Why, girl, in a little while you will be distracting."

 "If you go on at this rate, I shall certainly be distracted."

 "Not altogether bad; but never make an effort to be
 witty."

 "I shall never make an effort to be anything when you
 are by."

 Constance was angry now, and became worse than
 savage, she was both rude and coarse; but I think this bad
 man liked her the better for it. His intellect appreciated
 refinement, but his moral nature had sunk far below that
 years ago.

 "Come, come, what are you and I about? Wasting all
 this precious time like two children. Let me hear a little
 of what you have been doing. How do the arts prosper?"

 "There, now, I can talk with you without getting
 angry," she said, opening a closet. "Come and look for
 yourself."

 Church took some proofs from her hand eagerly, and
 began to examine them. He did not speak, but his eyes
 kindled, and a slow, satisfied smile crept over his mouth.

 "And you did this?" he said, at last.

 "Every line of it!"

 "And this young man—did he——"

 "No, no; I never told him a word about it—my father
 forbade me talking about anything you said or did."

 "Your father was wise, and you are a genius—that one
 thing richer and higher than beauty, let me tell you. I
 hope your father has not forgotten to give you a full share
 of the money I left with him."

 Constance gave her shoulders a sudden lift, and a flood
 of angry crimson swept over her face.

 "Did you tell him that a part of it was for me to use as
 I pleased?"

 "Did I tell him? Of course, I did. If it had not been
 for you he never would have got a dollar of it."

 "For me? Why?"

 "Because—because. Well, I will let you know some
 day; but if the old fellow has not dealt generously with
 you, we must set it right between ourselves."

 "But why? What claim——"

 "Oh! it is an affair between me and your father. You
 have only to take the money and make yourself more beautiful
 with it."

 He handed her a roll of bank-notes, fresh and green, like
 those he had given her father on the first evening she had
 met him. There was something in her acceptance of this
 money which brought a glow of shame into her face, and
 she was half angry with the man for daring to give it to
 her. Still her hand clenched the notes tightly, and an
 eager smile parted her lips, till the white teeth beneath
 them gleamed to the sight.

 "If you owe this to my father, I suppose it is right,"
 she said, deliberately cheating herself.

 Church laughed, and thrust the porte-monnaie, from
 which he had taken the bills, deep into his pocket.

 "Between us, you see, perhaps the less said to the old
 gentleman about this the better," he suggested.

 "Not tell him? Why?"

 "Because he might want to have the spending of it."

 "Ah, indeed!"

 Constance thrust the roll of notes into her bosom; and
 fastened her little double-breasted jacket of scarlet cloth
 tightly over it, with an emphatic twist of the fingers
 around each button.

 Church nodded his head approvingly, and muttered,
 "You'll do—you'll do!" at which Constance laughed off
 her natural confusion, and acted as if she had received a
 compliment.

 "Now, tell me, have you been studying hard, improving
 yourself, since I saw you?" questioned Church, seating
 himself by Constance on the shabby little sofa.

 "Do I seem improved?"

 "Marvelously! But the dancing, the music—has your
 father kept his word with me?"

 "Can't you judge for yourself?"

 "I see that he has done his duty so far; but how are we
 to bring these accomplishments into play, pretty Constance?"

 "Oh! I am going to the great ball—a masquerade, I
 think they call it."

 "Going to a masquerade-ball? When?"

 "Next week. He has consented."

 "Ha!"

 Her face was scarlet again, and her eyes fell under his
 keen glance.

 "My father, I mean!" she faltered.

 "Indeed!"

 The word was uttered like a sneer, and that brought her
 courage back—for the girl was recklessly brave, even to
 audacity.

 "Yes, my father has promised. He is going with me!"

 "Perhaps he will give me that pleasure if I press the
 matter?" said Church, with a strange smile. "He is
 usually very obliging."

 "But I——"

 "Oh! a good girl allows her father to direct; and you
 are charmingly good, Miss Constance."

 "But he—I mean people—might think it strange."

 "How are they to know? The disguise of a masquerade
 is generally sufficient."

 "But he—my father, never will let me go without him;
 besides, I should be afraid."

 "Not of me, I hope, your father's old friend?"

 Church took her hand as he spoke, and held it with a firm,
 gentle pressure, which had something of quiet control in it.

 "But we will arrange all that hereafter, for here comes
 your father."




 CHAPTER XXVIII.

 FALSE AND FAIR.


 Constance started up in sudden affright, opened the door
 into the hall, and looked down the stair-case, where she saw,
 not her father, but the husband she had offended, mounting
 slowly toward the room where they usually worked together.
 His head was bent forward, and he looked dejected.

 Constance stepped into the parlor, asked the man on the
 sofa to excuse her, and, as she spoke, stepped into the hall,
 closing the door.

 "Oh! is it you, Constance?" said Sterling, wearily, as
 the fair young creature stood in his way, half frightened, half
 smiling. "So eager, too; never fear, you shall have the
 money. I have almost broken my mother's heart in refusing
 it to her; but you shall have the dress."

 Constance threw both arms around his neck, and laughed
 lightly through the tears that sprang to her eyes at the sight
 of his depression.

 "Never mind it, dear! Give the money to your mother,
 I will do without it."

 "And stay at home from the ball? Will you do that for
 me, Constance?"

 "Oh! that is asking too much; but father must give me
 money, or I will wear that old silk that rattles like dead
 grass, and be content, so that you look happy again."

 "Will you, and willingly? Oh, Constance! how unjust
 I have been! What elements of nobility lie under all this
 childishness. You make me ashamed of my anger."

 Sterling took her in his arms in a passion of tender
 remorse, and begged her to forgive him over and over again.
 Now Constance had the elements of a great actress in her
 composition, and accepted the situation as if her generosity
 had been real; though she felt the notes rustle in her bosom
 close to his beating heart, and knew how false were all her
 claims to his gratitude—this idea of her self-sacrifice was not
 the less real to her. She blushed under it, and offered her
 mouth to his kisses, half bashfully, as if shrinking from too
 much display of her own goodness, exactly as an actress in
 the part might have done.

 "And you have done all this for me?" whispered the
 young husband, gratefully.

 "Who else could I do it for? Your mother, I have never
 seen her—not lady enough for that as yet, I suppose. But
 never mind, the time will come."

 "Yes, child, the time will come when she will love you
 dearly, and know your worth as I do."

 "Oh! I can wait!"

 The girl could not resist that little toss of the head when
 Sterling's mother was spoken of; for, without knowing the
 poor lady, she had been mortified and angered by the young
 man's reluctance to make that mother the confidant of his
 marriage. It was a personal slight which she brooded over
 more than he thought possible.

 "It shall not be for long," said Sterling, giving her a
 farewell kiss. "I am so proud of you, Constance, and love
 you so dearly, that we must soon become a united family.
 Let my poor mother get over her present troubles a little,
 and she shall know all."

 Sterling took up his hat as if preparing to go out.

 "What, are you leaving me so soon?" said Constance,
 with well simulated surprise.

 "Yes, I must carry this good news to my mother. Her
 husband is going out West, and has no means, except such
 as I can give her, to defray the expenses of his journey.
 She was in great distress about it, for it seems that Holt
 has a fair prospect, if he can only get to some land he owns
 out yonder."

 "And will she go with him?"

 "Not yet—it is impossible. All the money I can raise
 will not do more than take him out to his land. She must
 remain behind."

 "Poor lady, I pity her so much! You must go at once."

 The voice and manner of this young woman was so kind,
 that no one could have blamed Sterling for coming back to
 smooth her rich hair with his hands, and whisper grateful
 blessings over her before he went to his mother.

 Constance stood in the door and watched her husband,
 with what seemed the most loving interest, till he went
 down stairs. When he was out of sight, she went back to
 the parlor, and found Church waiting for her patiently, as
 if he had been an inmate of the family from her birth up.
 But just as she was about to renew her conversation with
 him, her father's step sounded distinctly on the stairs, and
 she withdrew into the working-chamber again, reluctant to
 meet him with that secret pressing against her bosom. But
 she had established a confidence, and shared a secret with
 that man, which might well have made her tremble, had
 fear been a passion known to her audacious nature.




 CHAPTER XXIX.

 THE STARTLING PROPOSAL.


 Mr. Hudson and Church met with some cordiality on the
 surface; but there was distrust, and many an element of
 discord between the two, which both were glad to suppress,
 for each feared the other. There was a great deal of talk
 in low voices, and occasionally a sharp, angry word leaped
 out of the monotony of sound, as if poisoned arrows were
 passing to and fro. At last these words knit themselves
 into sentences, and broke out in force always in expostulation
 by Hudson, but the threats came bard and keen from
 Church, as if he were conscious of some power over the
 other man, which he did not wish to urge in force just then;
 but was compelled to use sparingly, as a good horseman
 admonishes a restive horse with the curb and spur.

 "I tell you, sir, this is no idle fancy. I love the girl like
 an idiot, like a fool, if you please, but I love her all the
 same—and where could you find a better match? I am
 rich, five times as rich as you know of; stand high among
 those trusted by men in power; and am not so very old, if
 you count by feelings—younger than you are, at any rate.
 What more can you ask for this splendid creature, or can
 she ask for herself? Love! Why, Hudson, have you
 known me so long, and doubt that I can make any woman
 love me, especially a bold, talented, ambitious creature like
 that. She has a spice of the evil one in her nature, and
 would pine herself to death with a good man, I tell you.
 Give her to me! Give her to me, Hudson! I will place
 her in a position that you never dreamed of for a child of
 yours!"

 "But I fear, I almost know, that she loves this young
 man!" said Hudson, timidly. "It is a pity, but the attachment
 was formed long before this idea of yours was thought
 of. At the time it was a good match for the girl."

 "A good match? Why, man, she is the mate of an
 emperor. Let me but have control of her a year, and she may
 look down the highest and most beautiful woman in America.
 Give her to me, and I will make her envied among women,
 and you rich among men."

 "And if I do, always supposing it possible, will that
 change or break up our past relations?"

 "No; my marriage with the girl will consolidate our
 interests. As for your child, she will have everything the
 proudest woman in America can desire. I tell you, few men
 even in this Empire city can match gold with me."

 "Then why run more risk?"

 "Because I like the excitement, and the greed of gold is
 strong in me almost as love. Because the father of my
 wife must be rich, and stand high among men; my ambition
 demands it—her beauty demands it. After that, poverty
 shall be an unknown word to her."

 Hudson looked up with keen wistfulness, searching the
 tempter's face with his eyes as a serpent regards his enemy.

 "And you seriously mean all this?"

 "Seriously. Do you consent?"

 "And if I say no?"

 "You will not; but even then I should marry her."

 "Why ask consent, then, of a man you are so ready to
 defy?"

 "Hudson, I want no quarrels. Personally I like you.
 As her father, I wish your advancement, which goes hand-in-hand
 with my own. Without me you can do nothing;
 against me comes certain ruin. Neither your safety nor
 your girl's ambition can be accomplished except through me.
 Is it a bargain then?"

 "Have you spoken to Constance?"

 "No."

 "And you will not till I have talked with her?"

 "Of course not. I am no boy to spoil my chances by
 too much haste. Talk to her as much as you please; but
 remember this—the girl is mine, or you——"

 Hudson threw out both his hands, thus checking the
 words he dreaded upon those cruel lips.

 "I will do my best to act for her good," he said.

 "Then the whole affair is settled."

 Church took his hat, lighted another cigar, and sauntered
 down the stairs, humming softly to himself, as a cat
 purrs when satisfied with the warm hearth it sleeps on.

 Hudson sat down in the solitary room, and, holding his
 head between both hands, fell into a train of dreary
 thought. However bad this man might have been, he
 loved his daughter, and shrunk from giving her to a person
 whom he knew to be cruel and depraved. But even this
 pure outgush of manly nature was strangled by the
 thought that one great sin had placed him in the power of
 this most ruthless being. Had Church asked a greater sacrifice
 than that of his daughter Constance, in marriage,
 the unhappy father felt that he would not have dared to
 resist it.

 Hudson made a faint struggle in favor of a hope which
 had dawned in his heart regarding his daughter and young
 Sterling, for all the better portion of his nature rose up in
 revolt against plunging his child into the dark path which
 he found so full of thorns, so difficult to extricate himself
 from. But Hudson knew that such thoughts were hopeless
 now; and felt in all its bitterness, that no chains ever
 forged from strength and fire, were so strong as those which
 crime links about a human heart. The day had been when
 he considered Sterling as a means of salvation for his
 child.

 A gentleman in education and habit, a man of genius,
 too, he was so far above the girl, and so likely to draw her
 to his own level, that a really pure ambition had turned the
 father's hopes that way. But it was all over now. The
 power of this strong, bad man was upon him and upon her.
 Turn as he would, there was no way by which the unhappy
 father could escape from this stern fact. He sat a long
 time in the room as Church had left him, with both hands
 locked and falling heavily between the knees on which his
 elbows rested, his face bowed down, and bitter tears, each
 drop wrung from struggling memories, filling his eyes as
 rain breaks through a dusky night. There was no hope in
 the man's face; no hope in his heart. Even this young
 girl, his own child, could not be rescued from the miserable
 destiny that pursued him. In giving her to Church, he
 was certain that perdition lay at the end of all the brilliant
 prospects held out to him, for he knew the man.

 "Not yet," he said, starting up desperately and pacing
 the floor to and fro. "He may change his mind; I will
 not speak yet. Oh, if I had the power to break away from
 him! My God! my God! help me to save her, for in myself
 I am helpless."

 Hudson took his hat and went out, hurrying down the
 stairs in haste, as if some task-master were behind him.




 CHAPTER XXX.

 CONSTANCE COUNTS HER MONEY.


 Constance had shut herself up in the little bed-room,
 which was all the means of privacy she possessed. When
 the door was locked and bolted, she crushed some paper
 into the keyhole, and, still with a feeling of unsafety, sat
 down on the bed, with one hand under her scarlet jacket,
 afraid to draw out the roll of money it clasped, lest some
 chink or crevice might still make observation possible.
 But all was still, and after a moment of breathless hesitation,
 she drew the roll forth and opened it, with a quick
 gasp of astonishment. The first bill she saw was one for
 fifty dollars, and her hand clenched ten of the same denomination.

 "Five hundred dollars! Mercy, how rich he must be!"

 With this exclamation she dropped the money into her
 lap, and gazed down upon it, shaken with fear and eager
 with delight.

 "All for me—all for me! I was not to tell father, and I
 won't. He would take it himself and use it. I never saw
 a cent of the last. I don't believe he used it to pay for my
 dancing lessons even."

 She folded up the money, after counting it over again and
 again, each time with a keener sense of possession. Then
 she replaced it in her bosom, and folding both arms over it,
 seemed to be embracing herself in a spirit of intense congratulation.

 "Five hundred dollars! Five hundred dollars! How
 can I spend it? How shall I dare to spend it? They
 will both be watching me. Father might be cheated into
 thinking anything I wished about dry goods, but William
 understands himself too well. I cannot wear a thread that
 he will not notice, and guess the price. Oh! if he would
 but let me alone. That's him coming in now. It can't be
 father, for I just heard him going out. Well, I have got
 to face him again, and may as well do it at once. But with
 five hundred dollars in my bosom; it seems like witchcraft.
 I wonder what he would say——"

 "Constance! Constance!"

 "Yes, William! I just came in here to wash my hands.
 How good you were to come back so soon."

 "I was in haste to thank you again, Constance. My
 mother is so pleased; she wanted money so much to help
 Holt reach the West with. I am glad he is going, and
 never spent money more willingly; but she is broken-hearted
 at parting with him. It is painful to see any woman love a
 worthless man so devotedly."

 "Why does she stay behind?" asked Constance, assuming
 deep interest in the subject. "If she loves him so much,
 a new country ought not to frighten her."

 "But she is an old woman."

 "What, then, if she loves her husband?"

 Sterling's eyes brightened, a sudden flush came over his
 face, illuminating it with wonderful beauty.

 "What, if I went there—would you go with me?" he
 asked, laying a hand caressingly on each of her shoulders,
 and reading her face with his hopeful eyes.

 "I—I? Yes, of course, when people know that I am
 your wife," she answered, coloring angrily at the trap she
 seemed to have laid for herself; "that is, if father would
 let me."

 The young man's countenance fell.

 "I see you would not like it," he said.

 "How can one say that? I don't know what the West
 is."

 "Well, well, child, we are not likely to try it for many a
 day, I fear; but sometimes I have my dreams of a pretty
 home on some prairie, with a yoke of oxen, a couple of cows,
 and the brightest woman in all the world cooking venison
 for my supper."

 "That means me," said Constance, with a forced laugh.
 "Well, go on."

 "And my mother sitting at the window."

 "Oh! your mother—always your mother."

 "Of course. She is one of the great objects in my home-pictures,
 God bless her!"

 "And how much would this home cost, William?"

 "Very little. The price of a velvet cloak would almost
 build a comfortable log-house."

 Constance thought of the five hundred dollars in her
 bosom, and wondered if that would be enough. For a
 moment, she was rather taken with this idea of a home on
 the prairie, and asked a good many questions about it;
 more, in fact, to keep up a conversation at variance with her
 thoughts that she wished to conceal, than from any settled
 interest in the matter.

 Sterling seized upon the idea, and began to work it out
 in his mind with downright earnestness. With him it was
 the solution of a question that had troubled him for months.
 It would take Constance from the city, remove her from all
 those influences that made her advancement so uncertain,
 and in the pure air and broad liberty of a new life, bring
 out all that was truly good and beautiful in her character.
 Then, indeed, he could present her to his mother and claim
 her before the whole world. Now his artist-life was a drudgery,
 his hopes of advancement so limited, that each day
 made his marriage seem a rash and almost wicked step.
 Besides all this, he began to see that wedlock had not increased
 his influence, which at one time had been supreme
 with Constance. On the contrary, it seemed to have aroused
 hopes and a species of ambition which startled him. Still
 she was very beautiful, and sometimes passionately loving,
 with wonderful capabilities of improvement, if the right
 influences could only be brought to bear upon her.

 Besides all this, Constance had been generous and self-sacrificing
 in a frank, cordial way regarding his mother,
 which inspired him with fresh confidence. Yes, that life in
 the prairie would be a paradise, in which the fine, fresh
 capacities of that young creature might expand into the
 perfections of womanhood.

 This idea brightened on the young man like an inspiration.
 But the five hundred dollars that lay close to the
 heart of his wife, built up a wall between his aspirations
 and hers. While he thought of a pure, bright home in the
 West, Constance was planning within herself how she could
 spend her money undiscovered. She grew impatient at last,
 said she was tired, had a headache, and besides, wanted
 some things for the house. There was no use in trying to
 work with that pain in her temples. She must have fresh
 air.

 Sterling offered to go out with her, but she put him off,
 having so many places to call at, which would tire him to
 death. So Constance went out alone, and, for the first time
 in her life, tasted the pleasure of shopping with plenty of
 money in her pocket. One advantage she had undoubtedly
 received from Sterling's companionship, which stood her in
 great stead now. Her quick intellect had seized upon his
 artistic taste, and, if a little brilliant in her choice of colors,
 she was saved from all possibility of a vulgar selection.

 Constance went out alone; but on her way home she
 met Church. The whole thing seemed accidental—but
 few chance events ever fell into that man's life. He had
 foreseen that she would be in haste to spend her money,
 and so lay in wait for her, trusting to his own personal influence
 much more certainly than to her father's reluctant
 promises.

 Did this man love the woman he was snaring with generous
 gifts and subtle flattery? I cannot answer. At the
 bottom even of a depraved heart there may be some pure
 outgush of feeling, which to us would seem impossible, just
 as water from a crystaline spring may run through a tangle
 of poisonous plants, and keep the bright sweetness with
 which it left the living rock; but it must be a keen
 searcher of human motives who can decide that the feelings
 of a man are untainted when his actions are evil continually.

 For my part, I doubt if Church would ever have thought
 of this young creature if she had not been necessary to his
 grasping avarice; and if it had not been his invariable
 policy to hold all his instruments under some sort of personal
 control. On the other hand, her beauty, and a certain
 free grace of manner, which sometimes shocked Sterling,
 had a strong fascination for the man of hard, coarse
 fibre, to whom genuine refinement must have been a
 reproach. At any rate, Church met Constance in her walk
 home, and it was dark before she hurried up the stairs,
 afraid to meet her father while so many exciting thoughts
 were unfitting her for his scrutiny.




 CHAPTER XXXI.

 THE PLACE OF REST.


 Constance need not have been anxious—Hudson was
 from home. Seized with a sudden panic of remorse, he
 had wandered in the streets, and when tired out with walking,
 stopped in a remote street, not altogether unlike his
 own neighborhood, and entered a little two-story house,
 with which he seemed to be familiar, for he mounted the
 frail stairs at once, and knocked at the door of an upper
 room as if quite at home there.

 A cry of surprise or delight reached him through the
 ill-fitting door. Directly it was opened, and a young girl
 stood on the threshold holding some needle-work in one
 hand, while she extended the other with a gesture of welcome,
 which might have warmed the heart of any man.

 "Are you glad to see me, Constance?" he said, in a
 voice so sweet and gentle, that you would not have recognized
 him as the same man who had just parted from
 Church.

 "When did you come here that I was not glad?"
 answered the girl, with a slow, sweet smile, full of tenderness.
 "Dear, dear uncle, what happiness can I know like
 that of having you with me?"

 Hudson stooped down and kissed her with a tenderness
 his own child had never experienced. Then she made
 haste to welcome him. Her Boston rocking-chair, with a
 cushion in it made from pieces of gay silk, was drawn
 toward him; a single rose, that stood in an old-fashioned
 wine-glass on the table, was drawn into sight; two or three
 books were re-arranged, and then the girl sat down with a
 deep drawn sigh, so full of delight, that Hudson recognised
 it with another sigh, so deep and painful, that hers ended
 in a faint sob.

 "What is it that troubles you, uncle?" she said, moving
 a low stool close to his feet, and sitting down upon it as a
 little child might have done. "If it is anything I have
 done——"

 "My poor child! Anything you have done? You who
 give me nothing but happiness, however badly I may
 deserve it. No, no! It is because I have made my own
 sorrows that they are so hard to endure."

 "If I could only bear them for you. Indeed, indeed, I
 would, dear uncle!"

 "I know it—I know it, poor child; but as we sow so
 shall we reap; and I have made a thorny harvest for myself.
 There, there, turn your eyes away, nothing very terrible
 has happened. Now tell me, child, how you get
 along?"

 "Oh, nicely! Since you paid up the rent, and got in
 my stock of coal, there has been no room for trouble."

 "But are you not lonesome, Constance?"

 "Not much—one hasn't time for that. There is lots of
 company in hard work."

 "I think you are cheating now," said Hudson, observing
 that a mist of tears stole over her eyes in spite of the smile
 she wore. "This must be a lonely life."

 "Not if you could be here a little oftener."

 "It may chance—it may happen that I can be with you
 altogether."

 The girl sprung up with a burst of joy, and flung her
 arms about his neck.

 "Oh, uncle."

 "Will it make you happy, child?"

 "Happy? Ah! so happy!"

 "Well, child, God may so arrange it for us."

 "I will pray for it every night of my life, and so must
 you, dear uncle."

 "I—I pray? Sometimes in outer darkness it seems so
 impossible that God should listen to me; but you—child—the
 prayers of children, you know, are most powerful."

 "How good you are!"

 "Am I? Well, you must always be good. It is my
 great comfort that no evil has reached you."

 "How could it? She took such sweet care of me always;
 and now that I am left alone—that is, almost alone—she
 seems to be more with me than ever."

 Hudson shook his head, and bending his eyes sadly upon
 her, murmured something about wishing that he could
 think so; and the girl saw that his eyes filled with a
 gloomy moisture.

 "You might think so, if you could understand how safe
 and protected I feel," she said, pressing his hand to her
 cheek and lips. "Sometimes I almost hear her voice again
 as she prayed for you."

 Hudson started and shrunk together in his chair, as if
 some one had struck him a sudden blow.

 "You did not tell me of this," he said.

 "Didn't I? Well, I suppose it was because you had
 more trouble than you could bear, when you came here and
 found the room so empty. But I do not think you ever
 knew how much she loved you."

 Hudson covered his face with his hands. His shoulders
 began to heave; and then he fell into a shaking fit, which
 frightened the girl till she entreated him to be still, and
 made a tender effort to soothe him.

 "Don't, don't! It would make her feel so badly if she
 knew it. For her sake, try and bear up. I was so wrong
 to say a word about it."

 "No," answered the man, conquering himself and speaking
 with infinite tenderness. "I am glad to know; if only—only——she
 had lived till I came."

 "I understand, I understand, and never will again.
 There, you are almost smiling. Shall I get you a nice cup
 of tea, and anything you like best? Does that mean yes?
 Oh! how pleasant it is!"

 She started up and would have filled the little tin tea-kettle,
 but Hudson stopped her, declaring that he could not
 drink a mouthful of anything, and must go in a few minutes,
 he had so many things to attend to.

 "Are you going down yonder, uncle?" said the girl,
 taking her little bonnet from a nail on which it hung. "Of
 course you will want me, so many people are sick just now."

 "No, dear, you must not run such risks again; contagious
 diseases are creeping into the families you have been to
 see."

 "But some one must take care of them, uncle?"

 "Yes, but it must not be my sister's child. Sit down at
 my feet again, or rather you may get a cup of tea ready.
 It will make me stronger for my work."

 The girl untied her bonnet, and disappeared with a little
 tea-kettle in her hand, leaving Hudson for a time alone.

 How sad and humble his face looked as he drew his chair
 up to the work-stand on which his niece had laid the garment
 she was toiling over when his step disturbed her. A
 large old bible lay on the stand. He opened it reverently
 at the leaves which had been filled in with a family record.
 There was the marriage of his father, John Hudson to Constance
 Barret, in a hand writing clear and firm as copperplate
 printing, but old fashioned and faded in the ink, for
 his father had written it many years before that gloomy
 evening. Then came the birth of two children, a son and
 a daughter, himself and a lovely woman whose death he
 mourned even yet, with the tender bitterness of self reproachful
 love.

 Another record. The marriage of this sister, and the
 birth of a child, named like herself, Constance, thus making
 three generations of the name, which in every case had
 brought wonderful beauty and womanly goodness with it.

 Hudson closed the book with a sigh. There was no register
 of his marriage there, no mention of his child, and he
 was glad of it. The woman he had married, possessed no
 right to mingle even her name with the pure and gentle
 beings who had left an honorable record there. She was
 dead now, but all the evil that had fallen upon his life, had
 been trailed through it by her misdeeds and her fatal influence
 over himself.

 A daughter had been born to him on the very year that
 gave the girl who had just left him to his sister. He remembered
 the mingled joy and bitterness of that hour, the
 almost holy reverence with which he had given his mother's
 name to the child, as if that could purify the evil nature
 which she must inherit from a parent at once beautiful,
 crafty, and wicked at heart.

 A mournful smile crept over the lips of that poor man
 when he thought of the strange sympathy that had induced
 himself and his sister to give their children the name of
 their own mother almost simultaneously, each ignorant that
 the other had become a parent at all.

 How differently those children had grown up in the
 world, strangers to each other, and so utterly unlike in character.
 But Hudson would have shrunk painfully from
 bringing them together, had not the solemn request made
 by his sister, in writing before she died, prohibited all intimacy
 between her child and the daughter of a woman who
 had broken up the life of her only brother.

 It was a hard condition to make with him, a man whose
 child was very dear to him, but Hudson held this dying
 wish of his sister as a sacred command. Years after,
 when the father of his niece died insolvent, and she was
 cast upon the world, this man, harassed and broken down
 as he was, took charge of her and spared enough out of his
 own slender means to keep her in tolerable comfort.

 This one good act gave a sort of haven of rest to the
 unhappy man, for his own child held little sympathy with
 him as we have seen,—here nature herself seemed to join
 with fate in persecuting him. From the Hudsons she
 inherited all her great personal beauty, but the selfish,
 ambitious, reckless soul was that of the woman whose death
 had been to father and child a mercy and a relief.

 Never, perhaps, had two persons more closely resembled
 each other than these cousins, who had never met. The
 same rare beauty of form and color, the same graceful
 movement, the voice sweet and caressing in its general
 tones, belonged to them alike. The expression, however,
 was utterly different. Through one face looked the soul of
 a high-toned, truthful, and highly poetic woman, full of
 tenderness, and courageous goodness. There is little need
 of describing the other. Character gives expression; hers
 changed, sparkled, grew sullen and stormed, as events
 brought forth its reckless qualities.

 "Ah, I see what makes you so sad, uncle; I will not have
 the bible out if you are always searching that page. What,
 tears in your eyes. I thought you were always to be happy
 here. See, I have brought out my mother's china cup,
 which belonged to your mother once, and _such_ tea. There
 there! isn't this snug?"

 Constance Ellery cleared her workstand, covered it with
 a snow white napkin, and set the cup of delicate old-fashioned
 china before her uncle, while she filled a less costly one for
 herself.

 "Now," she said, "you must forget everything else, and
 tell me about these poor people. O, uncle, when I think of
 the good you are doing among them, my own life seems so
 worthless. It is only when you take me with you, that I
 feel of any use in the world."

 "Then you shall go with me to-night, child. Heaven forbid
 that I should deprive my sister's child of the happiness
 of helping her fellow-creatures."

 "That is like my own dear uncle," said the girl, smiling
 upon her visitor as he drained the china cup she had given
 him. "I think our patients like it best when we come
 together."

 "It would be strange if they did not," said Hudson,
 looking tenderly on the lovely face which was now all aglow
 with animation. "The very sight of your face, dear, seems
 to light up their miserable dens, and the sound of your
 voice is as sweet as a prayer to them."

 "Then I will not forget to thank God for my face and
 the voice that gives them comfort. Now I am ready,
 uncle."

 Constance Hudson had never felt half the pleasure in
 departing for her dancing classes, that this other Constance
 experienced while preparing to go forth on an errand of
 mercy into such haunts of poverty as an ordinary woman
 would have shrunk from.

 With a cheap shawl covering her dress, and a thick veil
 thrown over her mite of a bonnet, the girl stood ready for
 one of the grandest errands that a brave, kind heart can
 undertake,—that of carrying counsel to the vicious, and
 help to the poor.




 CHAPTER XXXII.

 NIGHT WATCHES.


 Mrs. Holt had been left alone for several weeks. Solitary,
 almost penniless, and weary of her very life, she pined
 away in that dull boarding-house, thinking of the past till
 her heart sickened beneath its memories, and turned like a
 weary animal for some place of rest. She had given the last
 dollar of young Sterling's money to her husband, who went
 with it at once to the West, little heeding what became of
 her. Indeed, such was his faith in the talent and resources
 of his wife, that he rather depended on them in his own need,
 than thought of providing for her. The man, in his selfishness,
 forgot that most frequently a woman is sensitive to the
 same degree that she is talented; and the power to accomplish
 anything is often enforced at the sacrifice of pride, delicacy,
 and all the womanliness that often underlies great tact
 and energy. Still the man who could comprehend all this
 would put such traits of character to the test in extreme
 cases only. Holt could only understand the result, and had
 no mercy upon this poor woman. Thus he left her, penniless
 and alone, to battle for herself; never doubting that she
 would, to use his own words at parting, "Get along some
 way."

 Poor, proud, unhappy woman! She smiled at this, kissed
 him with a cold return, and tried her best to think it a compliment.
 Thus he went away, leaving tears among the fine
 wrinkles on her cheek, and the saddest heart that ever beat
 in a woman's bosom. The dead existence which he had left
 to her became in a short time monotonous, and heavy as
 lead. For a week or two Mrs. Wheeler gave her rest from
 absolute dunning; then came hints, complaints of dull times,
 and touching accounts of a hard-hearted landlord; all of
 which the distressed lady understood, and shrank from, as
 proud women do shrink from humiliation of this kind.

 Mrs. Holt loved her husband with that intense concentration
 of affection, which sometimes makes the love of
 advanced age more absorbing than the first passion of youth
 can ever be. When ambition, pleasure, all gay distractions
 fall away from the life of a woman, love remains firmer and
 deeper-rooted in the heart than ever. That is the one passion
 and grain of earthliness which her soul carries away,
 purified by death, into the eternal heavens, where all is
 love.

 Thus it was that Mrs. Holt worshipped her selfish husband;
 the strongest and deepest passion of her lifetime came
 in its autumn, after all other sources of happiness had turned
 to ashes around her feet. In the arrogant ambition of her
 youth, love had been one of its passions. Now it was
 everything; and the man she loved had left her, sometimes
 she thought it might be purposely and forever.

 When this idea first stung the woman, it was in the night,
 when pain becomes sharp as steel, and thought concentrates
 terribly in the mind. Was it possible? Had he,
 wearied by her unhappiness, sought a new existence where
 he could live apart from her? Was this a silent abandonment?
 She started up in her bed and wrung both
 hands in the darkness, as this question went through and
 through her heart like the point of a dagger. Was she so
 old as that? Had all her talent, and the fascinations that
 had once worked such marvels in society, shrunk into such
 weakness that they could not hold one man to his sworn
 faith?

 The bed on which she sat moaning became unendurable.
 She left it, and paced up and down the floor, moving to and
 fro in the darkness, making it blacker by her movements,
 for there was no light by which the shimmer of her garments
 could be seen. Her footsteps were noiseless, for
 those bare feet made no sound on the old carpet; and
 you could only have told where she was by the low moans
 of pain that broke from her lips.

 Sometimes she stood motionless in the black shadows,
 straining her hands together with a hard clasp of agony,
 and then her moans broke into speech, and the cry was,

 "He has left me! He has left me!"

 The daylight found her still wandering up and down that
 chamber, her small feet blue with cold, and her whole frame
 shivering. When the room was full of light, she crept into
 bed, cold, exhausted and crying like a child. In the night
 she had not cried; but hope came with the morning—and
 tears are often more akin to hope than despair. After the
 tears came sleep and dreams, that made her face look gray
 on its pillow.

 Days went by; no letter came from Holt; and those
 fears, born of the night, haunted her in every hour of the
 twenty-four till suspense became torture, and she resolved
 to follow her husband. But how? Where was the money
 coming from? Sterling had told her with what effort he
 had spared the last to her urgent solicitation, and she saw
 that, for some reason, he had no power to aid her farther.
 Still she must have money.

 Once more the India shawl was taken from that tattered
 old trunk, not lingeringly as before, but in quick haste.
 There was no hesitation now. It had been the gift of an
 Eastern satrap to her father when, in the first bloom of her
 girlhood, she had accompanied him to the Orient to settle
 some treaty, and for that reason she had clung to it, hid it
 away, and refused it even to the clamors of poverty, fiercely
 as it had hunted her down.

 There was no lingering over the costly fabric now. In
 her intense desire to be gone, it was of no more value than
 a handful of shavings, only as it might bring her the means
 by which she could join her husband.

 As Mrs. Holt went down stairs, Mrs. Wheeler was standing
 in the door of her parlor. A look of deep injury came
 to her face when she saw that her lodger was wearing a rich
 shawl that she had never seen before, and she gave her head
 a little indignant toss, as if she intended to commence an
 attack. But the lady glided by her, with a gentle bow of
 the head, and went out; after which Mrs. Wheeler withdrew
 into her parlor, muttering her discontent that ladies
 who could afford to wear things like that Ingy shawl—she
 knew that it was Ingy by its mixed up colors, and because
 it looked so every which way—didn't even try to pay their
 bills.

 After dusk that night, Mrs. Holt came back without the
 shawl, and shivering a little from the cold; but she let
 herself in and asked for a cup of tea in her room, so that
 Mrs. Wheeler was quite unconscious that the India shawl
 never came back again.




 CHAPTER XXXIII.

 THE INDIA SHAWL.


 There was one person, however, who was so deeply interested
 in the shawl, that she did not sleep all night. This
 person was little Rhoda Weeks. That afternoon she had
 reached home after a hard day's work, and was preparing
 tea for her father and little brother, who had gone out on
 the promised tramp into the country, when a low knock
 brought her to the door. There stood Mrs. Holt, with anxiety
 in her face, hesitating and panting for breath, for the
 effort of mounting so many stairs had been too much for her
 strength, active as she still was.

 "Oh, ma'am! Oh, lady! I—I am so glad to see you!
 Please walk in and sit down. I'm so sorry father is away,
 and Luke, too. It would be nuts and apples for them to
 see you here."

 The active little thing dusted a chair, which was neat
 enough to require no such service, and placed it near the
 window.

 Mrs. Holt looked around the nice little room with a faint
 smile on her lips. Spite of the anxiety which had brought
 her there, she could not but recognize, with a sensation of
 pleasure, the exquisite neatness which surrounded her.
 The table had not yet been drawn from the wall, and
 Rhoda, on a kneading-board, white as wood is ever scoured,
 had been moulding a little mound of dough into tea-biscuits.
 There was flour on her hands when she lifted
 them in surprise at the coming of her visitor, and a ridge
 of whiteness across the linen apron that almost covered her
 tiny person. But she began to rub the flour from her
 hands, and untie her apron the moment her guest was
 seated, and was preparing herself to sit in prim hospitality
 during the remainder of Mrs. Holt's visit, but that lady
 bade her go on with her work and not heed her in the
 least. Rhoda hesitated a moment, rolled up her sleeves
 again, revealing two plump baby arms to the shoulder, and
 plunged into her work with fresh vigor.

 "Isn't it pleasant sitting there at the window, with the
 sky so close, ma'am?" she said, cutting off a fragment of
 dough, and rolling it into a dainty ball between her small
 hands. "That is Luke's seat; the sunset is just coming
 on, and you'll see how grand it is, red,—and blue, and
 green."

 Here Rhoda stopped talking long enough to put her biscuit
 on a row with half a dozen others, that rounded up
 from a tin pan on the table, and patted it down, with her
 head on one side, like a canary-bird examining its seed.
 When the biscuit entirely suited her, she ran on again.

 "Isn't it lovely, I mean, to have any one enjoy things as
 Luke does? He sees bridges, and castles, and lakes up
 there, just as if such things could be built out of fire!
 Now I never could make out anything but the red, and
 purple, and yellow colors; but he——"

 Rhoda paused, and looked around suddenly.

 "Why, ma'am, it seems as if you were in trouble, or
 something. Wait till I get this pan into the stove, and
 then, mebby, you'll tell me all about it."

 She took the biscuit between her hands, opened the
 oven, thrust it in with haste, and fastened the door, twisting
 one corner of her apron over the hand she was using
 to keep it from the hot iron. Then she crept up to the
 window and lifted her honest eyes to the woman.

 "Now tell me, please? I—I hope it isn't any trouble
 about—about paying that——"

 Mrs. Holt winced visibly, for that obligation had been
 the last thing in her mind.

 "No," she said, and the color came into her face. "I
 hope you are not in want of it yet, Rhoda?"

 "No, no!" was the earnest protest.

 "And I am in great want of more money, little Rhoda."

 Rhoda's eyes fell. There was very little of her money
 in the savings-bank now, and she did not know what to
 say.

 "If I had it—if I only had it," she cried out, in absolute
 distress.

 "Not from you. It is not your money that I want, poor
 child!" said Mrs. Holt, touched to the heart; "but if you
 would help me sell something."

 "Won't I? Won't I?" cried the child, sparkling all
 over. "Just tell me what it is—that's all."

 "Could you sell the shawl I have on, for me, Rhoda,
 without letting any one know about it?"

 "Of course, I could," answered Rhoda, eyeing the
 shawl with wistful distrust; "but I'm afraid it wouldn't
 amount to much, 'tain't so bright as some I've seen, and—Well,
 I'll do my best; but you mustn't be disappointed if
 it doesn't bring more than five or ten dollars."

 "Five or ten dollars? Why, child, it is worth two
 thousand!"

 Rhoda fell back a step in dumb amazement, her mouth
 open, her eyes widening. Then she broke out,

 "Two thousand dollars! Oh, jimmy! you are making
 fun of me. Just as if I could believe that."

 "But I do expect you to believe it. This is a very
 valuable shawl, Rhoda, and well worth the money I mention."

 Rhoda pursed her plump mouth into a rose-bud, and sent
 an unbelieving whistle slowly through it, which ended in,

 "Oh! don't, don't! I wouldn't have believed it of you,
 Mrs. Holt."

 "But it is the truth; I have no idea of joking. Come
 here, and I will tell you all about it. This is not woven in
 a loom like other shawls, Rhoda."

 "Isn't it, marm," said Rhoda, who was beginning to feel
 a certain respect for the shawl.

 "No, indeed; it is worked by hand, you see. It would
 take ever so many persons a whole year to make this one
 shawl."

 "You don't say so!" cried Rhoda, now fully interested.

 "And all these people have to be paid, you know?"

 "Yes, of course."

 "And it is this time and labor which makes up the
 price."

 "Yes; a year's work is worth money, especially if a good
 many people are in it."

 "This work supports whole families."

 "Well, it's queer; but I should a thought all these people
 working together a whole year might a made something a
 little more scrumptious, shouldn't you now? According to
 my notion this isn't anything over particular in the way of
 beauty; but then the work."

 "Well, child, now that I have told you this, can you sell
 it for me?"

 "What, me? For two thousand dollars?"

 "I said it was worth so much; but we must take less."

 "I reckon so; a great deal less."

 "I dare say some of the dealers with whom you trade will
 understand its value."

 "Shouldn't wonder; they're mighty cute."

 "If you could find the way to any rich lady now. There
 isn't another shawl equal to this in the country, I am sure.
 Do you know any one?"

 "Not to think of this minute."

 "But you will try?"

 "Yes, I will. It's a big thing—but I'll do it."

 "Then I will leave the shawl with you—take good care
 of it."

 Mrs. Holt unwound the costly fabric from her shoulders,
 and laid it down in a rich heap on one of the chairs. For a
 moment the pressure of necessity was forgotten, and, casting
 a long, wistful look on this last remnant of her former splendor,
 she turned away, sighing heavily.

 "Don't feel bad about it," said little Rhoda, huddling the
 gorgeous mass in her arms, and carrying it into her own
 little bed-room; "the money will be worth ever so much
 more. You can do anything with that."

 "Yes," answered the lady, clasping her hands in an
 ecstacy of expectation, "it will carry me to _him_."

 A person had met Mrs. Holt going up that long flight
 of stairs, and made way for her as a richly-dressed lady;
 but when she went down, the same person jostled her
 carelessly, for all the neat poverty of her dress was exposed,
 and the lady of half an hour before had disappeared, to that
 coarse nature. So Constance Hudson stood directly in Mrs.
 Holt's way as she went down stairs, and made an imperious
 motion that she should stand aside and let her pass.

 Mrs. Holt looked in that handsome face an instant, reached
 forth her hand and put the girl gently aside; so gently and
 firmly, that the young creature blushed with unconscious
 shame, and shrunk back against the wall, muttering faint
 apologies.

 But directly Constance felt her temper rise. She had
 been put down without really knowing how. What did it
 mean? Where had her spirit gone? Who was the woman
 with gray hair on her head, and worse clad than herself who
 had struck her so suddenly with self-abasement?

 Mrs. Holt looked back as she reached the foot of the stairs,
 and gazed upon the girl, where she stood gathering up her
 subdued wrath, and stooping downward like an angry hawk
 poising itself. There was something in the physical beauty
 of the creature that fascinated her with a sort of fear rather
 than admiration. She could neither understand the feeling,
 or flee from it, for all day long the face of that girl haunted
 her with a sense of evil.




 CHAPTER XXXIV.

 DREAMS AND THEIR SAD INTERRUPTION.


 That night Luke Weeks came home full of animation.
 His pale face had a glow of color in it; his eyes were bright
 as diamonds beneath their long lashes—bright, and yet full
 of tender mistiness, as if some great joy were reacting into
 melancholy.

 During the past autumn Luke had been, for the first
 time in his life, a good deal in the open country. It was
 spring now, and in the hollows of the rocks he had found
 some early flowers, delicate as moonlight, which had withered
 in his hands long before he could bring them home;
 and this, perhaps, helped to cast that shade of thought on
 his sensitive face.

 The sunset was past its brief gorgeousness when he
 returned home; so he sat down and thought of the gray
 rocks, and the oak branches, ruddy with the unfurling of
 tender red leaves, and maple tassels fringing whole trees
 with soft beauty, till the whole world seemed an enchanted
 place to him. He tried to give Rhoda some idea of the
 pictures which were coming and going in his brain; but she
 was busy washing the supper-dishes, and could not have
 comprehended all he felt, had it been ever so eloquently
 expressed; for she was a brave, practical, industrious little
 soul, and had nothing in common with the boy but a return
 of his intense love.

 After an hour or so spent in reverie, Luke got his violin
 from the next room, and began to play. All that he felt,
 all that he had failed to express in language, came forth now
 in such strains of music as made even Rhoda pause to listen—listen
 till tears, seldom found in those bright eyes, flooded
 them so fast that both hands were scarcely enough to wipe
 them away. At last she crept to his side, and took hold of
 his arm.

 "Don't," she said, "it makes my heart ache."

 Luke laid down his violin with a deep sigh.

 "Oh, sister!" he said, "how I wish we could live in the
 country; one breathes so deep there."

 "Do you like it so much, brother?"

 "Like it? Like it? Rhoda, I have been in heaven today."

 Rhoda was a little shocked; to her heaven was something
 far away, and most sacred, in which her mother was shrined
 like a saint; so she fell to washing her dishes again in grave
 silence, by which she intended to rebuke the boy for his
 irreverence. But he did not heed this. Those glowing pictures
 came back upon him and he was lost in them.

 Rhoda looked on his beautiful face, so full of thought, so
 inspired by imagination, and wondered at it exceedingly.
 Why was it that the boy was often so far away from her,
 and yet within the reach of her hand? She marveled over
 this with some sadness, and went on with her work as if
 she were alone.

 The boy was thoughtful, and the girl still busy when
 Weeks came home from the theatre. Rhoda heard his step
 on the stairs, and stopped her work to listen, with the breath
 checked on her lips, and a keen look in her eyes. Luke
 did not hear the step, but he started up with a faint cry as
 Weeks came through the door, and instantly covered his
 face with both hands.

 Rhoda called out sharply,

 "Father!"

 The little man looked at her dreamily, shook his head
 with a gesture of unutterable rebuke, and clung to the
 frame-work of the door as if the house had been a ship
 tossed by some storm.

 "Rho—Rhoda; gir—girl, you've been loosening the
 planks in this floor. It—_it_—it'll be a mercy, a mer—mercy
 if they don't up, up, and h—hi—hit yer old pa—pat—pater—nal
 on the forehead. Then, then—where—where would
 you—you be, Rho—da?"

 "Father!" said Rhoda, going close to him and taking
 the violin from his feet, where it had fallen. "Father,
 come in and let me shut the door. You are drunk, father,
 dear, and _she_ knows it. Heaven is not so far off that she
 will not know it, and cry over it as she used to here."

 Weeks looked at the little uplifted face, and waved his
 hand drearily as he released his hold on the door-frame, and
 steadied himself on her shoulder.

 "Yes, Rhoda, shut the door—shut the door. She might
 look through and begin to cry again; fright about the loose
 boards, you—you know. She was al—always so timid.
 Shut the door, Rhoda. What—what is that? So close by,
 and crying. Dear me! dear me! You shut the door too
 late, Rhoda."

 Weeks fell into a chair by the table, and saw Luke, as it
 were, sitting in a fog, with both hands to his face, sobbing
 piteously. Curving his arms upon the table, his head fell
 upon them, and he muttered,

 "No, no! It isn't her! She has sent the boy—always
 does—always does send him."

 That day a slight, lovely-faced boy, who reminded you of
 what Edwin Booth must have been as a lad, hovered timidly
 about the leader's room at the theatre a full hour before
 he dared go in. At last he ventured forward, pale to the
 lips, and trembling from head to foot, thus drawing the
 leader's attention upon him, and a gently uttered question.

 "He is sick—my father is sick; and, if you please, sir,
 I want to take his place just for a night or two?"

 "Your father? What, little Weeks? Sick, is he?
 Sorry for that! What else was it? Some one to fill his
 place?"

 "I, sir—I would so like to play his——That is, sir, I
 know a good deal about music, and could do it."

 "You? Why, boy!"

 "Let me try—only let me try!" pleaded Luke, trembling
 with eagerness, and looking wistfully at a violin that lay on
 the leader's table.

 "Well, well, there can be no harm in that. Take hold,
 and let us see what you can do."

 Luke took up the violin and began; but at first the bow
 quivered in his hand, and gave out such sweet, tremulous
 wails, that it seemed like a spirit complaining that some
 mortal had disturbed it; but genius will always rise strong
 and free under its master passion. Music made the boy
 courageous. Directly his frail arm grew firm; his eye
 brightened; his lips parted sweetly, as if the music came
 from them, and the leader beat time, unconsciously aroused
 into keen sympathy with powers greater than his own.

 Luke slowly removed the instrument from his shoulder,
 and looked wistfully at the leader, who gazed at him in turn
 wonderingly.

 "That will do—that will do. It is something wonderful!
 Strange that your father never mentioned this!"

 "But may I come in his place till—till he is better?"
 asked the boy.

 "Come? Of course you may; and I tell you what, my
 little man, you and I will have a few rehearsals together.
 You are a long distance ahead of old Weeks' teaching.
 Come to my house, come to my house; I want to talk with
 you."

 That night Luke occupied his father's stool, and those of
 the audience who loved music felt that sounds richer and
 more plaintive than they had ever heard beneath that dome
 before, had been added to the orchestra. Some of them
 traced these exquisite strains to the delicate boy whose head
 was just visible above the orchestra-railing, like one of those
 cherubs, with deep, spiritual eyes, with which Raphael
 guards the most celebrated of his Madonnas.

 Music is grand, and full of exquisite power; but love is
 in advance of music, exactly as thought is the master of expression.
 That night Luke cast his eyes over the audience,
 in a rest of the music, and saw, occupying a seat not three
 yards from him, the beautiful young girl who had bought
 his basket of wild-flowers on the night which he still
 remembered with a feeling of humiliation. She was looking
 at him, too, with a bright, intelligent expression. Luke
 observed from beneath the thick lashes that instantly drooped
 to his burning cheeks that the girl whispered to her mother,
 and seemed to be pointing him out with a pleasant smile in
 her beautiful eyes, as the boy that brought her so many
 flowers.

 During the pauses of the music, the boy had time enough
 to observe this young lady, whose rare girlish beauty might
 have fascinated experienced men. How fresh and bright
 she looked, with that little spring hat poised upon her graceful
 head, and that one rose, with two or three buds drooping
 to the dark-brown waves of her rich hair, kindling it
 up with a crimson glow. No wonder the boy thrilled so
 many hearts with the solo which the generous leader had
 given to him that evening, for in that sweet language the
 boy seemed to breathe out the love which thrilled his own
 childlike heart, and which would henceforth go hand-in-hand
 with his genius, like twins entertwining life so completely
 that they must live or perish together.

 That evening Luke never left his stool in the orchestra
 for a single moment, but sat there entranced, looking upon
 that bright young face, yet never seeming to look upon it, till
 the glow in his heart was like the sunshine which gives crimson
 to the side of a peach in a single day, being itself full
 of the ripeness and warmth out of which passionate love
 springs. When the performance was over, he went out with
 the crowd and followed Eudora at a distance, as she walked
 home in the soft, spring moonlight with her father and
 mother. She did not see Luke; and no one was aware of
 the darkness that fell upon his young heart when the door of
 her father's house closed upon him.




 CHAPTER XXXV.

 THE DRESSMAKER AND HER CUSTOMER.


 Constance Hudson, for the marriage being a secret we
 must still call her by that name, wanted a dress-maker who
 could cut up the cerulean silk which lay concealed under
 her pillows into gores and trimmings, shapely and graceful,
 as the robes she had so coveted on the stylish girls who
 looked down upon her at the dancing-school. But she had
 no information by which to guide her search, and was sadly
 at loss. Her strangely-isolated existence had been barren
 of friends, even acquaintances; and there was no one with
 whom she could take counsel, except little Rhoda, who might
 have guided her out of this difficulty.

 Constance was afraid to trust Rhoda. The inquisitive
 little thing might insist upon interfering, and, being an
 excellent judge of prices, would probably enlighten her
 father and excite unpleasant questions.

 But the masquerade was approaching and something
 most be done. There was an old, worn-out dress-maker in
 the house, who kept herself from absolute starvation by
 altering dresses and fitting cheap garments for the poor
 people around her. She had made the rattling silk of
 which Constance complained so much, and considered it a
 miracle of elegance. Indeed, it had inspired the admiration
 of the whole neighborhood, but Constance had been
 among really well-dressed women since then, and entertained
 no idea of trusting her azure silk in the hands of
 widow Croft. Still, the old woman might be able to point
 out some more efficient person; and, in order that this might
 be done, Constance dropped into her little room one day and
 soon got the intelligence she wanted.

 Widow Croft was lame, and had given up going out to
 day's work more than a year, but some of her old customers
 dropped in upon her, now and then, with something to
 alter or mend, and talked about other dress-makers quite
 confidentially. She had never seen the person, but there
 was a young dress-maker in P—— street, up stairs, who
 took in work, and was considered really stylish by very
 fashionable people. Mrs. Croft had the address somewhere,
 for a lady had left it with her, and thus Constance found
 her greatest difficulty removed.

 The next day the girl we call Constance Ellery, found
 herself surrounded by a cloud of billowy silk and filmy
 white lace, measuring, cutting, sewing, and searching her
 brain for some novel idea of trimming which should establish
 her in the good opinion of the most dashing, reckless,
 and profitable customer that had ever entered that humble
 apartment. The silk was rich and heavy enough to give
 forth that soft, luxurious rustle about which her customer
 had been so eloquent to her husband; and the lace that lay
 entangled in its folds like the fleecy whiteness of a cloud,
 had a value of gold in it which startled the dress-maker
 when she thought of the responsibility it imposed on her.

 The dress-maker who follows her calling from natural
 artistic taste, possesses more of genius than most persons are
 willing to admit. Labor performed under the inspiration
 of ideas ceases to be work, and exalts itself into the fine
 arts. Constance Ellery soon became interested in her task;
 the sloping gores resolved themselves into a sweeping train,
 long and flowing into rich waves of azure, softened by the
 whiteness of delicate lace, impalpable as if the frost of a
 single night had passed over it. Folds of satin were woven
 in and out of this exquisite fabric. Narrow lace lay upon
 the table ready for the corsage when that would come under
 consideration. Never was a young girl more richly surrounded,
 and never did one work more zealously.

 Toward evening the skirt was finished, and laid daintily
 across the little bed in the corner, sweeping to the floor in
 rich, sumptuous folds that might have satisfied an empress.
 The corsage, shapely as the form to which it had been fitted,
 was well in hand, and each turn of those deft fingers
 gave it new grace. Constance Ellery had promised to have
 the dress finished in two days—and this was the second on
 which she had been working. Her hands flew up and down,
 in and out, like little snow-birds picking up seed. She had
 promised the dress, and it must be done; so each moment
 found her more and more diligent, till she fairly panted for
 breath in her anxiety.

 Toward night she slackened this eager haste a little, and
 sewed on more leisurely; the sumptuous garment was
 almost finished now, and the pretty dress-maker was pleased
 with the effect. Nothing half so beautiful had ever passed
 under her hands before. She felt all the pride of creation
 in it, and broke out into scraps of song more than once as
 her task drew near its completion.

 When it was quite dark, Constance Hudson came after
 her dress, flushed and excited as if she had walked fast, and
 was still followed by some apprehension. With a quick
 glance she saw that the dress-maker had kept her promise,
 and the roses in her cheek grew vivid with pleasure.

 "What a good girl you are," she said, throwing her bonnet
 on the bed, and seizing upon the dress so eagerly that
 it was dragged half across the floor. "Oh! I am crazy to
 try it on; but if it shouldn't fit? Mercy on me! what if
 it should not fit?"

 "But it will," said the dress-maker, rescuing the dress
 from Constance. "It is sure to be all right."

 Constance Hudson was too busy divesting herself of the
 dress that she wore, for any notice of this assurance. Lifting
 the skirt over her head, she dropped it carelessly
 around her feet, and held out both white arms for the new
 garment. As she made this gesture, Constance Ellery
 paused for a moment with the rich dress in her hands, lost
 in admiration of the beautiful woman before her. Untaught
 as she was in the arts, this girl felt the effect of such rare
 beauty in all her being—the rounded arms tapering downward
 in their smooth whiteness; the sloping shoulders, and
 exquisite bust just defined through the lace of her undergarments,
 pure and white as the whitest marble, were so
 perfect that even this untaught girl felt their loveliness as if
 it had been sculptured by an artist. In taking off her bonnet,
 a long, heavy curl coiled itself down her neck; and
 Constance Hudson had given it an impatient dash on one
 side, leaving it in a sumptuous wave on her left shoulder,
 which gleamed out from under it like lilies in the shade.

 Down upon these white shoulders, overflowing them with
 brightness, came those waves of blue silk rustling, floating,
 and settling around her in soft, luxurious folds. Then the
 corsage was fitted to the slender waist; buttons of Roman
 pearl, pendant and pear-shaped, fastened it over the bust
 and gleamed out from the frost-like lace. A tangle of
 blue and lace, that seemed like floating mist, held the exquisite
 garment in place of a sleeve, scarcely concealing
 that graceful curve where the shoulder melted into the snow
 of the arm.

 "Let me look! Let me look!" exclaimed the impatient
 creature. "I feel like a queen—let me see if I am like
 one."

 She pushed the dress-maker aside, and went up to a
 rather good-sized, old-fashioned glass in a tarnished frame,
 which was the only ornament the room boasted.

 "Hold up the light—higher—higher. There! Oh
 isn't it stunning?"

 "I thought you would like it," said the dress-maker, well
 pleased that her work was appreciated. "See, this is a better
 light!"

 Constance Ellery was standing a little on one side, yet
 behind her customer, holding up the lamp which shed its
 flickering radiance alike upon them both. All at once Constance
 Hudson dropped her hands from the lace she had
 been arranging over her bosom, and fastened her eyes, with
 a steady, fascinated gaze, on the mirror. Then she turned
 and faced the dress-maker angrily, even haughtily.

 "What on earth does this mean?" she said. "There is
 something here that I do not understand."

 The dress-maker colored painfully. She had no idea
 what the girl meant by that searching look and defiant
 tone.

 "Is there anything wrong about the dress?" she questioned,
 faintly. "I—I thought it so beautiful."

 "Pooh! I am only a fool! Don't mind me," was the
 brusque reply. "It is beautiful! One would think I had
 grown into it; but my arms need bracelets, half a dozen
 of them; and I must have a necklace."

 "No, no!" protested Constance Ellery. "All this perfect
 outline would be destroyed. A moss rose-bud on the
 left shoulder, just a few in the hair, and you will be lovely."

 "That is what _he_ said," answered Constance. "Strange,
 isn't it, that you should settle on the same idea."

 "Have I been agreeing with some gentleman?" said
 the dress-maker, blushing, as she fastened the last button.
 "Well, it is a mere chance, for I scarcely know a gentleman,
 except my uncle."

 "Then you have an uncle?" asked Constance, carelessly,
 with her mind on her dress.

 "Yes, the dearest and best that ever lived."

 "I suppose every girl thinks that of her relations till she
 marries?" said Constance, still busying herself with the
 lace upon her bosom.

 "Are you married, then?" asked the dress-maker.

 "Married? Me? Oh, goodness! Do I look like a
 married woman?"

 Constance Hudson broke into a peal of mocking laughter
 as she spoke, but her face and neck turned scarlet. She
 began to unbutton the dress with more energy than was
 needed, as if something had made her angry.

 "I must hurry off the dress," she said, "or that uncle of
 yours may be coming in and catch me."

 "No danger," said the dress-maker, with a sigh; "he is
 seldom here; business keeps him away so much."

 "Just like my father; but he's a splendid old fellow, I
 can tell you."

 The dress-maker busied herself in folding the dress
 which Constance Hudson flung to her as she took it off.

 "Do it up just as small as you can," she said. "I want
 to carry it home under my shawl. You will want some
 money—how much?"

 Constance Hudson thrust one hand into her bosom, and
 drew forth a roll of bills; "How much?" she repeated.

 The dress-maker blushed a little. She always did color
 when receiving money, poor thing! and mentioned a moderate
 sum, which astonished and half-offended her customer.
 Constance had heard the young ladies of her class speak
 boastfully, regarding the enormous bills sent in by their
 dress-makers, as if extravagance were a thing to be proud
 of, and Constance's moderation rather offended her. So she
 flattered her crisp fifty-dollar notes over and over, in order
 to convince the humble girl that she was one of those who
 could afford to pay tremendous prices; then selecting just
 twice as much as Constance had charged, handed it to her
 carelessly.

 "That is about the right thing, I should say. Don't
 blush! Don't look so flustered! I shan't touch a cent
 of change. The work is done beautifully. I am quite satisfied
 at any price; in fact, another five dollar bill might
 be thrown in. Here it is—no thanks! Gracious! how you
 blush! Good evening! I will call again some day—there
 is a thing I want to make out. Do you know there is
 something about you that puzzles me?"

 "Is there?" said the dress-maker. "I cannot think
 what! But I have given you no receipt. Indeed, I do not
 know the name."

 "Oh! you never mind that! Good-evening! I shall be
 sure to come again. This blue silk isn't the only dress I
 am going to have, by a long-shot. You'll see!"

 Constance Hudson took the bundle in her arms, drew her
 shawl over it, and went out of the house so elated that she
 almost hugged the precious burden in self-gratulation.

 "I hope father won't be at home; he might insist on seeing
 it. Well, after all, what if he did? The old fellow
 doesn't know one kind of silk from another—I needn't be
 afraid of him; but William, my gracious! what _would_ he
 say?"

 Just then the shadow of a man, who had been walking
 behind her, came out boldly on the pavement, and some one
 spoke her name almost in a whisper.

 Constance Hudson jumped aside and gave a little scream.

 "Why, Mr. Church, is it you? Goodness! how you
 scared me!"

 "Yes, Constance, it is I. But what are you doing out
 alone at this late hour?"

 "Late? Is it? I didn't know."

 "With a huge bundle, too! Oh, Constance!"

 "It is my dress—my ball-dress, you know. I could not
 trust any one to bring it home because of father."

 "Oh! that is it! Well, we are near the house, run in,
 leave that enormous bundle, and come out again; I have
 something to say to you."

 "Don't wait near the door, then," was her reply—and
 our readers will need no other proof that Sterling's wife had
 become used to meeting Mr. Church oftener than her father
 or husband dreamed of.




 CHAPTER XXXVI.

 NEGOTIATING A SALE.


 "Not pretty?" said the little Rhoda Weeks, smoothing
 the camel's-hair shawl that lay upon the table with both her
 little hands, as if she had been a dry goods clerk of long
 practice. "The colors not bright, Miss Hudson? I—yes,
 I am astonished! Not bright? Why, just look how every
 thread gives its color to the next, how they sort of go into
 one another, and grow softer, and—and——Well, if I can't
 tell just how it is in words, I know that this shawl is something
 stupendous,—a great deal more stupendous, understand,
 than them red-and-yellow things that glisten so, and
 cut such a splash, or them other shawls that have white
 snakes running over them—trumpery! Don't you see! this
 shawl is made out of little pieces, worked by ever so many
 people, and stitched into this wonderful pattern, when it's
 all put together like patch-work-quilt? That's the way it's
 done off in the Inders. This was made for a fellow they call
 a Pacher, and he gave it to the father of a friend of mine,
 who has kept it in a camphor-wood trunk ever since, only
 putting it on now and then jest to show off with. It would
 take away your breath if I was to tell you half of what it is
 worth in solid gold."

 Constance Hudson, who had been regarding Mrs. Holt's
 shawl with supercilious carelessness, really believing it deficient
 in that brilliancy which her crude taste demanded in
 everything, now gave her attention more earnestly to the
 beautiful fabric, very much impressed by Rhoda's evident
 reverence for it.

 "Yes, yes, I see; on a second look one does see how rich
 it is, but a little knotty on the wrong side—don't you think
 so?"

 "Knotty!" exclaimed Rhoda, tossing her little head.
 "Why that is the very thing; that's how we make sure it's
 the genuine Inder."

 "Oh, yes I now I see," answered Constance, quite subdued
 by the child's superior knowledge. "How much did
 you say it cost?'

 "Guess?"

 "Well, a hundred dollars."

 But for her shopping experience of the last month Constance
 would have said fifty; but this had enlightened her
 a little, and she named the larger sum, expecting to be cut
 down in her estimate.

 "One hundred!" exclaimed Rhoda, with calm scorn.
 "One hundred! Miss Constance Hudson, this shawl cost
 three thousand dollars!"

 Constance rounded her beautiful lips, and gave a low
 whistle. Her eyes, expanding with amazement, were
 turned upon Rhoda, who met her gaze with a conscious
 smile.

 "Three thousand dollars—and left with you to sell?
 There, there, little Rhoda! It won't do—it won't do."

 "That means you don't believe me," said Rhoda, sitting
 very upright in her chair, and turning her head on one
 side like a furious little Jenny Wren, ready to peck. "I'm
 much obliged to you; but this shawl cost three thousand
 dollars, and I've got it to sell. Shouldn't you like to buy
 it, now, Miss Hudson?"

 "Well, perhaps I could, if I liked!" answered Constance,
 flushing scarlet with anger.

 "Exactly," chimed in the little girl. "Perhaps we
 could, if we liked; three thousand dollars is nothing to us.
 Oh, no!"

 Constance clenched her hand, and locked her white teeth
 in sudden rage. At which Rhoda lifted her tiny finger,
 and said in a grave, reproving manner worthy of her
 grandmother,

 "Oh! now you are getting angry, Miss Constance. For
 shame!"

 "Angry! angry! You provoking little tyke! What is
 it to you, I want to know, whether I've got three thousand
 dollars or not?"

 "Oh, nothing! nothing in the world! Only I know
 you haven't."

 "And you think I can't buy that shawl?"

 "I _know_ you can't. Who better? Now, just to prove
 it, I don't expect to get anything like the price this beautiful
 thing is worth."

 "You don't?"

 "No, I don't. Look at it; feel the knots. See how the
 colors run into each other like a humming-bird's neck.
 Now one thousand dollars will buy this shawl. It's got to
 be sold, and no one can be expected to pay what it's worth.
 One thousand cash down, and it is yours."

 "And you think I can't raise so much?"

 "I know you can't."

 "We shall see!"

 "Yes, we shall see."

 I am afraid little Rhoda was rather aggravating with that
 pert shake of her head, and the knowing look of her eyes.
 At any rate, the girl's exorbitant vanity was aroused, and
 she felt herself insulted. The love of spending had grown
 strong upon her. There is no power more intoxicating than
 that of squandering money, to a person whose whole life
 has been one of privation.

 "If the money would strangle you, I'd be sure and get
 it," she said, pushing the shawl in a heap to the floor; and
 with that Constance flung herself out of the room, muttering
 wrathfully in her hot anger.

 "If she, or any one else could get it, I shouldn't much
 care if it did choke me a little," muttered Rhoda, lifting
 the shawl with both arms, thus half burying herself in its
 loose folds: "but so much money isn't to be found among
 my customers. What shall I do? What can I do? If
 I'd said it couldn't be managed, she would have given it
 right up. The first word I spoke that way made her turn
 white as a ghost. Poor lady! poor lady! if I only could
 help her! But nobody will believe it is worth so much
 money. I wouldn't have thought it myself, only she made
 it so clear how long it took to make one, and how far it came
 on camels' backs. I wonder why camels really are long
 necked and humpy! I take it from what she said—curious
 how much she knows. Oh, dear! what can I do about
 this?"

 Rhoda dragged the shawl up to the table, and folding her
 arms upon it, laid her head upon them in utter despondency.
 How desperate the child must have become may be imagined,
 when she had appealed to Constance Hudson, asking
 in her extremity, if she knew of any person rich enough to
 purchase so precious a garment. The girl had mocked her
 by hinting at a wish to buy it herself, and this completed
 Rhoda's discouragement.

 While the little creature sat despondent and almost crying,
 Constance came back to her room, flushed, panting, and
 with saucy triumph flashing out from her beautiful face.

 "Here is the money—give me the shawl; but, remember,
 if it isn't worth the price, I'll take you up for swindling—I
 will, or my name isn't Constance Hudson. Get up, I say,
 and let me look at the article."

 The girl held a roll of money in her hands, which she
 opened and fluttered tauntingly before the astonished eyes
 of Rhoda. Never before had those eyes been so large, or
 the honest little face so bewildered.

 "Let me—let me look at them; are they real?" she
 gasped, reaching out her hand.

 "No you don't, till I know how real the shawl is. That's
 the first question. Just get off it with your arms; I want
 some one who is a judge to tell me how much humbug there
 is in it."

 Constance pulled the shawl from under Rhoda's arms, and
 was gathering it up in her own.

 "Stop, stop!" said Rhoda, breathless with sudden fright.
 "Is it Mr. Sterling you are going to ask?"

 For an instant Constance was taken aback. She partly
 dropped the shawl upon the table, and the color left her
 cheeks, but she recovered herself at once with a short laugh,
 and huddled it together again.

 "Nonsense! it isn't him. What does he know of such
 things; and what is Sterling to me, I'd like you to tell?"

 Rhoda was relieved, and loosened her grasp on the shawl.
 She knew well that Mrs. Holt would be terribly wounded if
 her son was made acquainted with the sacrifice she was
 making, and still hesitated.

 "More than that," said Constance, exhibiting a degree
 of anxiety that satisfied Rhoda of her earnestness, "I don't
 want him, or anybody else, to know that I've bought the
 shawl, not my own father. If I take it, the whole thing is
 a secret between you and me."

 Rhoda made no answer; but after Constance had left the
 room fell into thought, and sat for a long time with her
 elbows on the table, and her shrewd little face supported by
 a hand pressed against either cheek.

 "Where did she get the money! Old Hudson hasn't got
 so much. Can she earn it cutting those pictures on stone
 and on steel? Maybe she does, I don't know; and, anyway,
 it's none of my business, so long as the money is good
 but it's awful strange."




 CHAPTER XXXVII.

 IN THE JAWS OF THE SERPENT.


 Constance went into the room below, where she found
 Church smoking a segar, with his eyes half closed, and a
 soft, hazy vapor floating around his head. He was an ugly
 man, and gray hairs were plentiful in his beard and around
 his temples; but there was a conscious power about him
 that had its fascinations for a girl like Constance—and he
 knew it well.

 "Here it is," she said, sitting down on the carpet, like a
 sultana at his feet, and throwing out the rich folds of the
 shawl till it floated around her. "Now tell me if she
 speaks the truth. Is this thing worth all the money she
 talks about? I don't believe it."

 Church took a corner of the shawl between his hands and
 examined it closely. Then he threw it across a table, and
 leaning back, smoked luxuriously while he took the pattern,
 with its slender palm-leaves and delicate bordering, into his
 mind. Constance sat on the floor close by him, with one
 foot huddled under her, and both hands locked over the
 opposite knee—a position that was in great favor with her
 when she dared to take it, and which the man was coarse
 enough to like.

 "Well, what of it?" she inquired, after a little. "All
 a sham, I dare say."

 "A sham! Why, girl, there isn't another shawl like that
 in America. It's worth all she says it cost, and more, too."

 Constance suddenly loosened her hands and let her knee
 fall downward.

 "You don't say so. Worth three thousand dollars—second-hand,
 too?"

 "Every cent of it, and the more for its antiquity. It is
 of the purest and richest work; you can hardly find its
 equal in any market. None of your white serpents and inextricable
 tangles of color, such as are put together in Paris
 and pronounced the last style, but a garment which one
 might be proud to leave to one's grandchildren."

 Church gave this opinion in a quiet way, puffing soft
 gushes of smoke forth with his words; but Constance was
 instantly thrown into a state of excitement. She had
 cared nothing about the beauty of the shawl. Its exquisite
 perfection made no impression upon her; but when its cost
 was assured, the desire to brave and astonish little Rhoda
 with a proof of her capacity to own it, was lost in an eager
 wish for a garment so expensive, which could be got at a
 third of its real value.

 "Dear me, you don't say so; and she only asks a thousand
 dollars for it."

 Church laughed pleasantly through the smoke that enclouded
 him.

 "Only a thousand dollars!" he chuckled. "Why, one
 would think the creature had been bred in the heart of a
 gold mine."

 "You needn't laugh at me," pouted Constance, rising up
 from the floor, and putting on an awkward air of dignity.
 "I didn't ask you to buy it for me, thank goodness!"

 "But I offered to buy it, Madam Peacock, and mean to
 keep my word, that is, providing you keep yours."

 "Keep mine! What do you mean?"

 "Why, to set a day when you and I are to be married.'"

 "But I cannot do it—at least, not yet. Besides, I don't
 know as I want the shawl; it isn't anything so very stunning."

 Constance gave her head a toss, and dashed the hand,
 which Church extended to draw her toward him, rudely
 aside. "At any rate, I don't want it enough to take any
 more money from you, Mr. Church!"

 Church gave a prolonged whiff at his segar, took it from
 his mouth and folded a loose fragment of the tobacco daintily
 around it, before he made any answer. Then he seemed
 to have forgotten the direct subject of conversation, for
 he asked Constance, very abruptly, where young Sterling
 was just then.

 Again Constance gave that beautiful head a toss, which
 made all the rich masses of her hair shimmer in the light,
 and answered that she did not know anything about it.
 "What was William Sterling to her?"

 "Perhaps not much now; but he has been something
 more than I know of," said Church, still busy with his
 segar, but eyeing her with the sidelong look of a crafty
 lawyer.

 Constance turned coldly white. She shrunk back from
 the man, and, for the moment, lost all courage. Then
 Church broke from his cool self-possession and sprang upon
 her like a tiger, seizing her by the wrist.

 "Girl, is this thing true?"

 "What—what thing?"

 Her lips were white and quivering, and he felt the hand
 he held growing cold under his grasp.

 "That you love that young dandy!"

 "Love him? No!"

 "Then why are you so pale?"

 "You—you frighten me! How can I help it?"

 "Have you ever loved him? The truth, girl—I will
 have the truth!"

 She was growing bold, now, and the hot blood came rushing
 back to her face. He was furiously jealous—she could
 see that, and triumphed in it; but her secret was safe. She
 put her head on one side, and lifted a finger to her lips, as
 if making up her mind.

 "Love him? No; I really do not think I ever did," she
 said, at last, with the apparent innocence of a child. "Like
 some other people I could mention, it was all on his side."

 Church turned from her in genuine anger. The creature
 had fascinated him; and with such men fascination takes
 the semblance of love so completely, that it becomes a
 passion.

 "Then you have never loved him, and you do not love
 me?"

 "I said I had never loved him—but the other—Well,
 that is a subject for consideration. Don't you think so?"

 "Constance, tell me."

 "I haven't time now, little Rhoda will be getting impatient
 about the shawl."

 "Tell me one thing, and you shall have the shawl."

 "Well, what is it?"

 "Why does that young man hang about this house so
 constantly?"

 "Who told you that he did hang about the house?"

 "I see him go in and out with my own eyes."

 "Well, what then? He works here."

 "And you are pleased—you like it?"

 "No, I don't; sometimes I wish he was in Jericho."

 "But your father likes it. He is constantly throwing
 you into this young man's society."

 "Now don't begin to abuse my poor father. He has
 been good to me; and I won't hear it."

 "Still I know that he would drive me from the house, if
 he dared, and marry you to this young fellow."

 "But that he never will; it is beyond his power,"
 answered the girl, while a singular smile crossed her lips.

 "Constance, if it could be so arranged, would you be
 willing that this young man should be sent away?"

 "Where to?" She spoke as if the idea gave her a sudden
 pang.

 "West; Montana—the Pacific—the Sandwich Islands—anywhere,
 so it be far enough!"

 Constance stood a moment in dead silence, turning cold
 and white under the evil gaze of that bad man. He saw
 that there was a struggle going on in her heart; that some
 hope which she had cherished was dying hard, for her neck
 seemed turned to marble, and her eyes were full of sorrowful
 pain.

 "And he would never come back," she whispered to herself.
 "It would be giving him up forever."

 "You cannot answer," said Church, bitterly. "You
 love the fellow, and have been cheating me."

 Constance did not hear him. During those few moments
 her good angel stood within the door of that heart, and
 shut out his voice. The cry of a pure, holy love came out
 from the depths of her nature asking to be saved, striving
 to save her; but the evil influences soon overwhelmed it.
 The angel drew back, and the voice of the tempter stole
 through, poisoning as it went. Her eyes fell upon the
 shawl; she remembered the cerulean dress, with its cloud
 of lace which lay concealed in her closet up stairs. All
 the gorgeous future which had been so adroitly laid before
 her, day by day, if shared with that man, swept over and
 overwhelmed the good that was in her.

 "Were you speaking to me? Did you ask me anything?"
 she said, arousing herself as from a dream.

 "I asked you to choose between that man and me—his
 life and that which I can give you. The time has come,
 Constance; I will be trifled with no longer."

 "I have chosen long ago," she answered, laying one
 hand on his arm, and looking him firmly in the face.
 "But what are you going to do with him? He is nothing
 to me, you know; but father likes the young fellow, and I
 don't want to see him come to grief."

 "I will see that he goes out West."

 "What, to starve or dig?"

 The girl was suspicious, and her voice trembled; but she
 looked bold as an eagle.

 "No. He is a good artist, and understands surveying, I
 have found out. We must get him a position on the Pacific
 Railway, or give him an Indian Agency—something to
 wake up his ambition, or he would come back again."

 Once more Constance lost her color and grew cold.

 "An Indian Agency? But the savages are at war
 everywhere. He would be in danger."

 "Perhaps; but brave men like that."

 "And the frontier is full of ruffians—worse than the
 Indians. He would never come back alive—and you know
 it!"

 She spoke furiously, and her eyes glittered. The spirit
 of opposition was strong in that young heart, not because
 of the goodness there, or the love she was strangling; but
 I really think, in the abstract, she hated the man before
 her. It was only when she saw in him the embodiment of
 a splendid future, out of which came a panorama of palaces,
 horses, carriages, superb dresses, and jewels, resplendent
 enough to dazzle her whole being, that she could even fancy
 herself loving him.

 "He would never come back alive, and you know it!"
 she repeated, grasping the man's arm till he made an effort
 to shake her off.

 "Well, what is that to us?" he answered, seizing her
 hand with a force that wrenched it from his arm. "Above
 all, what is that to you?"

 "Just this, Mr. Church. Young Sterling has been real
 good to me when I had no other friends, and I am no viper
 to sting him for his kindness. Send him off to some safe
 place where he can prosper, and I will not say a word
 against it; but I won't see him led into danger. You
 shan't murder him with your plotting and your hate. I tell
 you now, if any harm comes to him by your means, there
 will be thunder and lightning about your head, and no
 mistake!"

 This dash of bravado rather pleased Church, who would
 have found a really refined woman terribly insipid.

 "You are a glorious creature!" he exclaimed, and laid
 his hand on her shoulder in a sudden transport of coarse
 admiration. Her natural loathing of the man had been intensified
 by his evident desire to tempt young Sterling out
 of his life. In her rage she struck him a sharp blow on the
 cheek, uttering a little cry of fear the next instant.

 For one moment the man stepped back and glared at her
 like a fiend; then he cast his arm around her again, drew
 her face close to his, and left a kiss upon her hot, red cheek—the
 first he had ever dared to offer her.

 "Take that for your blow!" he said, as she pushed
 him fiercely away with both hands.

 Constance threw herself into a chair, with both arms
 extended on the table, and burst into a storm of wrathful
 crying.

 "Come, come!" pleaded Church, approaching her in abject
 penitence, "there is no harm done; or if there is, my
 cheek has suffered most. I feel the mark of your hand
 burning on it yet."

 Constance looked up with the tears trembling on her
 cheeks like dew upon roses, saw the long crimson marks on
 his sallow face, and burst into a peal of laughter.

 Then came a long conversation which we need not repeat;
 for, after the storm, these two natures came to a better understanding,
 and in the hush of exasperated feelings, they
 settled many things which will hereafter be unfolded.
 Then more bank-notes passed from his hand to hers, and
 Constance gathered up the India shawl, and cast it upon the
 bed in her sleeping-room, more carelessly than she would
 have dared to act if her father had been at home. Then
 Church took his leave, and Constance crept up stairs, pale
 and trembling like a guilty thing, with the price of Mrs.
 Holt's shawl clasped in her hand.




 CHAPTER XXXVIII.

 RHODA IS FILLED WITH ASTONISHMENT AND DELIGHT.


 She found Rhoda sitting by the table in great anxiety
 and tribulation, blaming herself severely for having allowed
 an article of such value to go out of her possession, and
 wondering how she could, for a moment, have thought Constance
 Hudson a possible customer. The little creature
 could scarcely restrain the cry of satisfaction that rose to her
 lips when Constance opened the door; but when she saw
 that the girl's arms were empty, her heart gave a sudden
 leap of fear.

 "What—what have you done with the shawl?" she
 cried out, in a voice that told the girl all that had been passing
 in her mind.

 "Well, I haven't stolen it, at any rate; don't trouble
 yourself to look so wild."

 "But, what have you done with it? You know it doesn't
 belong to me one bit!"

 "No, I should think not, you ungrateful little tyke. I've
 sold the shawl for you for a thousand dollars."

 "A thousand do—dollars!" broke in Rhoda, aghast with
 surprise. "You sold it!"

 "Yes; for five times as much as it is worth, I dare say;
 for you are an awful little cheat, anyhow, from a box of
 matches up—there's no trusting you."

 "But the money—the money!" exclaimed Rhoda, too
 anxious for any recognition of the charge. "I wasn't to
 part with it on any terms without the cash down."

 "Well, here is your cash down, you little snipe."

 Constance opened her hand, dropped the roll of money
 into Rhoda's lap, and sat down by the table, enjoying the
 child's incredulous consternation with intense delight.

 "Is it? Oh! tell me if it is genuine? Don't make fun
 of me! You wouldn't think of it if you only knew how
 anxious the poor lady——that is, how anxious I am to get
 the money, or—or the shawl, you know!"

 "Just take the bills out and see if they are good; I can
 trust you, though you do seem to suspect me," said Constance,
 smiling.

 "And may I? You won't be angry? I won't be gone
 a minute. Just sit here till I come back again."

 Away the child flew, like a winged creature, down the
 stairs, which she cleared half a dozen steps at a leap, and
 into the street; entering the restaurant in which she was
 so well known, quite out of breath.

 "Is that good money? Tell me quick, for I'm in a
 dreadful hurry!" she panted, flinging the roll of bills on
 the counter.

 The man examined the bills, one by one, with great
 scrutiny, now and then looking over them at little Rhoda,
 who stood by the desk holding her very breath in suspense.

 "Yes, the money is good; but——"

 "Are you sure?"

 "Yes, quite sure, Rhoda. But how on earth did you
 come by so much money? It frightens me."

 "And me, too," answered the child, clasping her hands;
 "but I am so glad. You are certain there is no mistake."

 "Yes, I am certain, child; but——"

 "Just give me the cash, if you please; but say it again—the
 money is good."

 The excited creature began huddling the bills between
 her two little hands, which fluttered among them like
 frightened birds.

 "But where did you get them, Rhoda?"

 "No matter! Never you mind—it is all in the way of
 business."

 "But does your father know?"

 "My father? Yes, he knows all about it."

 "That is right. Now be careful of your money. What
 a smart little thing it is," said the man, looking after the
 child as she flitted up the steps, and away to her own home,
 which she entered with a burst of triumphant gratitude.

 "Oh, Miss Constance! Miss Constance! I beg your
 pardon! There never was such a wicked, ungrateful,
 good-for-nothing little snapping-turtle as I am—suspicioning
 everybody, and wanting to be sure. The very rats in
 the wall ain't meaner than I am; and as for mice, they are
 ladies compared to me. I know it, I feel it, and I'm
 ashamed of myself and as proud of you. I always
 thought you was handsome, but now you're beautiful, magnificent!
 Oh, dear! I do believe I shall get to laughing
 before this is done with."

 Here Rhoda sat down, flung her little white apron over
 her head, and did absolutely end off her excitement, under
 its shelter, in a way that made the snowy fabric shiver, protesting
 all the time, in a broken, watery voice, that she was
 so ashamed, but sometimes she couldn't help laughing in
 the wrong place.

 I think Constance forgot exactly how all this happiness
 had been brought about, and rather prided herself on being
 the cause, as if there had been no disgrace in the method.
 At any rate, the quick tears came into her own eyes, and
 she patted Rhoda's head through the apron, telling her not
 to cry—a suggestion of weakness which Rhoda resented by
 drawing down her apron like a flag, and scattering her
 tears with a laugh, that sent them flying, as a burst of sunshine
 puts an April shower to rout.

 "Now I must go—I must go right off. Where is my
 hood? Oh! hanging by the strings to my neck. And
 the match-basket? Thank you, Miss Constance. Now
 I'm all right. But tell me who it was bought the shawl?
 I didn't know there was so much money within a mile of
 here. Must tell me, now, who it was that bought it."

 "Oh! a friend of mine—rich as rich can be."

 "A friend of yours, and so awful rich?"

 "Yes; he is awful rich! You need not look so surprised.
 He is——"

 "You say he—was it a man? What did any man want
 with a shawl?"

 "Men have relations—don't they, goosey?"

 "Relations? Yes—and wives. Perhaps the gentleman
 bought it for his wife," persisted Rhoda, tying her hood on
 again.

 As the child turned to take her basket from the table, she
 saw that a flood of scarlet was just dying away from Constance's
 face and neck, leaving a strange and disagreeable
 expression there.

 "I hope you're not sorry for what you have done?" she
 said, anxiously.

 "Sorry? No! Well, perhaps I am a little."

 "Oh, dear! I hope not!" cried the child, clenching her
 tiny hand hard on the money.

 "Get along! Get along! It is all the same to you.
 But you haven't told me who the shawl belonged to."

 "Oh! I couldn't do that, you know."

 "But why not?"

 "It is a secret from every one, and she trusted me," said
 Rhoda, proudly—"only me!"

 "Well, keep your secret; what do I care! Come back!
 Come back! There is some one coming up. Is it Sterling,
 or anybody you know—just look out?"

 "It is Mr. Sterling."

 "Oh!"

 "Why, what is the matter? I thought you liked Mr.
 Sterling ever so much."

 "But I don't! You have no right to think so! It's
 impertinent!"

 The little girl was puzzled. She played with the
 matches in her basket a moment, and then lifted her eyes
 to Constance in honest doubt.

 "You seemed to, Miss Constance; and I know he likes
 you better than anything."

 Constance flung herself to the other side of the little room,
 impatiently rejecting this honest assertion; but her face
 was troubled, and Rhoda saw that she held her breath to
 listen till a door below opened and closed.

 "Well, good-bye! It's time for me to be going—the
 money burns my hand. Good-bye! Shut the door when
 you come down, and put the key under the mat, where
 father can find it."

 Away went Rhoda after this, leaving Constance in the
 room alone, listening, like a criminal, to be sure that she
 would not meet her young husband in going down. Bold
 as she was, the creature could not find courage for that.




 CHAPTER XXXIX.

 RHODA BRINGS GOOD NEWS TO HER FRIEND.


 Meantime, Rhoda found her way into Mrs. Wheeler's
 basement, up stairs to Mrs. Holt's room. She found that
 lady in deep distress; a letter had just reached her from her
 husband, in which he wrote, with some degree of tender
 regret at their enforced separation. Nothing, he said, but
 want of means would have forced him to leave her behind.

 Perhaps there was something real in this; distance, and
 that profound solitude which men born in cities feel in the
 great waste of the prairies, might have aroused memories
 and regrets enough to make what he wrote a truth. Certainly
 it had this effect upon the poor lady to whom the letter
 came. Her desire to be with this idol of her life grew
 almost into a frenzy. She walked the room, wringing her
 hands. Again and again she searched in her mind for some
 means by which she could follow him into the solitude that
 presented itself to her imagination as a paradise; but all
 her resources were exhausted. She had already strained the
 means of her son, and nothing but the shawl was left. The
 last hope that she could cling to, lay in the little girl who
 sold matches for a living—a creature who only a short
 time before had been the object of her own charity.

 What real hope could fasten itself on this child, bright
 and energetic as she was? If she failed, how could Mrs.
 Holt dispose of the property, to whom could she offer it?

 Depressed by these thoughts, and sick at heart with a
 yearning wish to join the husband she loved with such forlorn
 adoration as age feels for its last object of love, the
 poor lady had crept into her easy-chair, resolved to wait
 patiently. She was kind-hearted and generous; but I fear
 in all her troubles she seldom remembered to pray either for
 mercies or fortitude. Instead of turning her disappointed
 and faint heart to God, who must, in his infinite goodness,
 have compassion on the creatures of his own making, sensitive,
 impulsive, full of faults, yet lovable from their very
 imperfections and their capacities for suffering, she took up
 her pride and her courage, and battled on with them. The
 world had buffeted her to the earth again and again, but she
 never quite gave way, though, at times, she longed with a
 terrible desire to lie down and be at rest forever.

 Oh! if she could but get to him! The loneliness which
 had fallen upon her since he left had been so depressing, that
 she fretted under it like a sick child. Her health failed, her
 appetite fled; she grew pale and shadowy. Thus the
 woman sat, helpless, and still in that great easy-chair when
 Rhoda opened the door and stole in, so eager with the good
 news that she forgot to knock. Quick as a lapwing she
 crossed the room, and startled Mrs. Holt with her voice.

 "I have got it—the shawl, you know!"

 Mrs. Holt turned her wild face upon the child; it looked
 scared and unbelieving. Dying hopes will not revive in an
 old breast as they do among the blossoms of youth.

 "Poor child! Poor, dear child! you have done your best,
 I know! Never mind, I did not expect it!"

 "But I have sold it."

 "What!"

 The word came from her lips like a cry of pain. She
 could not yet realize that the girl was not mocking her.

 "I sold it for a thousand dollars," whispered Rhoda,
 almost disbelieving herself.

 "A thousand dollars! Dear, dear! if it could only be
 true, that would open heaven for me—absolute heaven!"

 "It's true as the gospel, lady! Yes, if you throw in
 both the old Bible and all the New Testament. I've got
 the money in my hand. See!"

 Mrs. Holt reached forth her thin, white hand, unfolded
 the notes, and counted them, one by one, but each moment
 her lips grew paler, and the broad lids settled slowly over
 her eyes, so slowly that it might have seemed as if she
 were falling asleep; but she had fainted into dead insensibility,
 while the loose notes fluttered down from her lap, and
 floated to her feet.

 Rhoda neither screamed or ran, as another child might
 have done. She went to the bureau and searched among
 the toilet-bottles for hartshorn, camphor, or any of the
 common restoratives which she remembered to have been
 used about her mother. All the bottles were empty. It
 had been a long time since that poor lady had been able to
 indulge in dainty perfumes, or even restoratives. There
 was plenty of water, however, and the child dashed a glass
 full into that white face, and held another to the white lips,
 when they began to stir with a pang of returning life.

 "Oh, dear! what have I done that you should go off so!"
 pleaded the child, shaking all over with affright. "I
 thought it would make you so happy!"

 "Happy! What can make me happy? Only one
 thing! Only one thing!"

 "Do tell me what it is. I wanted so much to make you
 happy, and have only done this," pleaded Rhoda, utterly
 despondent. If it isn't money you want, just say what it
 is. I didn't mean any harm; and now I've wet all your
 hair, and ever so much of your dress. The best thing I can
 do is to stick close to the matches; they are always to be
 depended on."

 Mrs. Holt gathered herself up and made an effort to
 arrange her hair, which was, in truth, dripping wet, but
 her hands fell feebly away from the task, and she clasped
 them in her lap with a wan smile.

 "But you were telling me something—what was it, little
 Rhoda?"

 "Don't be angry and do that again, it frightens me
 almost to death. I didn't mean any wrong, and thought
 you wanted me to do it, so I sold your shawl for a thousand
 dollars, and brought you the money. Don't! Don't turn
 so white! I'll do my very best to get it back."

 "Get it back! You have really sold it, then? And the
 money, where is it? So long as there is enough to carry
 me out to him, I do not care. Where is it, dear?"

 "Here, and here, and here," cried Rhoda, brightening
 instantaneously, and picking up the bank-notes, one by
 one. "All good as gold—I looked out for that. Oh! now
 you are happy; you look like it—you are smiling. No,
 no! don't do that!"




 CHAPTER XL.

 THAT THOUSAND DOLLARS.


 No wonder that burst of tears half terrified little Rhoda,
 and set her to pleading against the repetition of a fainting
 fit, which seemed to her like death. She could not understand
 that joy ever took that form. As the lady trembled
 all over, and uttered her sense of relief in broken fragments
 of thanksgiving, the girl accepted them confusedly
 as reproaches, and drooped under them with touching
 humility.

 "And you have done this for me," cried Mrs. Holt, laying
 her hand on Rhoda's shoulder, while the tears rained
 down her face.

 "Yes, I own up. Nobody can be more sorry, but I
 meant it for right."

 "Sorry, my child? Sorry that you have made me the
 happiest woman on earth?"

 "And are you? Are you, indeed? Then I haven't
 gone and done anything to make you worse off."

 "Oh! little Rhoda, if you could but know——"

 "That's it! Now you look like yourself, lady; and a
 great deal more so. I never saw any one get so young all
 at once. Only to think that an Ingy shawl could do it."

 "It seems to me like a miracle!" Mrs. Holt exclaimed,
 pressing the money between her hands, and kissing it with
 fervor; for, in fact, it was life and breath to her. "But
 you must take a part of it, little one. I had no idea that
 it would bring so much."

 "Well, perhaps it wouldn't, only I'm used to the trade
 now, and tucked an extra thousand on to what you said it
 was worth. 'Three thousand dollars,' says I, bold as
 brass; 'three thousand is the worth of this Ingy shawl;
 and think what a bargain it'll be for one thousand,' says I.
 If it was a whopper, I'm sure it's according to the trade—and
 what's the difference to her?"

 "To her? Then you sold it to a lady?"

 "A lady! Well, no; not exactly."

 "Did it go to a dealer, then?"

 "No; not to a dealer—the price was too heavy for
 them."

 "But it will not be put into the market and sold again,
 I hope?" said Mrs. Holt, a little anxiously.

 "No, I rather think not. She has got heaps of money,
 somehow, and will keep the shawl just because it cost so
 much. I told her all about it, how it was made, and how
 fast the colors were; but it wasn't of any use till I said,
 'that Ingy shawl is worth three thousand dollars!' then her
 eyes begun to sparkle, and she was eager as a hen-hawk.
 It was the price that did it. If it had been an Injun
 blanket she would have bought it all the same. If I did
 tell a bit of a whopper about the extra thousand, that whopper
 did the work, anyhow."

 "But it was not a whopper, Rhoda; you can hardly overestimate
 the value of a garment like that. It was the gift
 of a great man to my father, when I was a girl."

 "You don't say so!" exclaimed Rhoda, opening her eyes
 wide. "If I'd known all about that, four thousand
 wouldn't have been too much."

 "But you have got double the price I expected. In fact,
 I feel almost like a rich woman again. Come, now, let me
 pay my debts, and give you a share."

 "Pay debts! Oh, Mrs. Holt! don't now."

 "But I must put fifty dollars into the bank for you, and
 here is fifty more as your commission."

 "My—my what?" said Rhoda, drawing back and looking
 ready to cry.

 "Pay for your trouble—that is clearly your due."

 "No, it ain't. I won't touch it—nary a cent. Oh, Mrs.
 Holt! I wouldn't a believed it of you!"

 Rhoda was vexed, and tears leaped into her eyes. She
 picked up her basket of matches and made for the door.

 "But, Rhoda," pleaded the lady.

 "Nary a cent—I won't touch a red. It's of no use
 asking me, for I won't! There now!"

 "Rhoda!"

 The girl turned; there was something sweet and pleading
 in the tone of that voice, which subdued her anger in a
 moment.

 "Did you speak to me?" said the little creature,
 meekly.

 "Yes, Rhoda. I wanted to say that you are the only
 friend I have in the world."

 "What, I? I? Oh, Mrs. Holt!"

 Rhoda set her basket on the floor, and in a moment was
 leaning against the arm of Mrs. Holt's chair, smiling
 through her tears like an April morning.

 "You won't say anything more about that?" she whispered.

 "No, not if it troubles you; but you and I will put back
 the fifty dollars for Luke, now that we are so rich. It will
 be drawing interest, you know, and always be ready for us
 if we want it."

 "But will you take it if—if—"

 "If I am very much in need, of course I will ask for it."

 "Then I'll put it back."

 The child held out her little hand, and took the fifty-dollar
 note offered to her, half ashamed, as if she had been
 stealing it.

 "I hope the angels ain't looking at us all the time," she
 said, dejectedly, folding the note.

 "And why, little one?"

 "Because mother would think me mean."

 "She would think you a grateful, good little girl, and
 love you dearly as I do."

 "I'm afraid not."

 Rhoda shook her head as she expressed herself thus despondingly;
 but still hung about Mrs. Holt's chair as if she
 were waiting for something.

 "Oh! you have not told me yet who purchased the
 shawl?"

 "No, not exactly; that is, please don't ask me—I promised
 not to tell."

 "Then I will not ask you. Only, was it any one I
 know?"

 "_You_ know _her_, Mrs. Holt? Not a bit of it. She may
 set up for a lady with her fine clothes and her rolls of
 money; but you _are_ a lady."

 Mrs. Holt glanced down at her worn dress, and smiled a
 little sadly.

 "Mrs. Holt, may I ask something?"

 "Anything, child."

 "Are you going far away?"

 "Yes, dear!"

 "And forever?"

 "I—I cannot tell; that rests with God!"

 "Mrs. Holt?"

 "Well, child."

 "Will you—wont you——"

 "What is it, Rhoda? Don't look so distressed, I will do
 anything for you. What is it?"

 "Will—will you kiss me before you go?"

 "Will I? God bless you, child! God forever bless
 you!"

 Mrs. Holt took that little, round face between both her
 hands, and kissed it upon the forehead and the trembling
 mouth over and over again.

 "That is like my mother—that is like my mother!"
 cried out the child, with a great outburst of sorrowful tenderness.

 Mrs. Holt kissed the little creature again, folding her
 close, and wiping the tears from her eyes with infinite tenderness.

 "I'll go home, now," said the child, at last. "Good-bye.
 I'll go right home. It's no use trying to sell matches to-day—I
 couldn't do it."

 Mrs. Holt followed the child to the door of her room, and
 looked after her with tears in her eyes. Rhoda went down
 stairs without turning back; but when the door closed, she
 sat down on the bottom step and began to sob. Thus Mrs.
 Wheeler found her some moments after.

 "Dear me! what on earth! Is this you, Rhoda Weeks,
 crying like a baby? Well, I never!"

 Rhoda started up, wiped her eyes with one hand, holding
 up her basket with the other.

 "Did you say out of matches? Six papers in a bunch
 and splendid. Haven't sold enough to-day to buy salt."

 Mrs. Wheeler took two bundles of the matches. Rhoda
 gave change with her usual sharpness, and went away rather
 comforted by this little dash of trade.




 CHAPTER XLI.

 BLACK AND SCARLET.


 There was almost riotous enjoyment in the opera-house
 that evening. From dome to foundation the vast building
 was one blaze of light; banners and rich draperies of blue,
 white, and scarlet, waved everywhere, giving the vast scene
 a military and tent-like gorgeousness. Never in her life
 had Constance seen anything so overwhelmingly brilliant.
 The crowd itself was a wonder to her, moving, chatting,
 laughing, swaying together in masses, breaking up and
 scattering again; it was like an ocean heaving after a
 storm, with summer lightning playing over it. The grotesque
 costume, the queer effect of the masks, and strange
 voices, filled her with childlike glee. There was enchantment
 in everything around her.

 The man, on whose arm she leaned was a little annoyed
 by her outspoken delight; for she bandied words with many
 a strange figure, and carried herself with a certain abandon
 which seemed to displease him seriously. More than once
 he attempted to draw her toward one of the boxes, but she
 resisted him laughingly, and answered his remonstrances by
 casting some keen jest after the first strange man who
 looked back upon her.

 Constance did not wear her blue silk that night, it had
 been prohibited at once. The long trailing skirt and fluttering
 lace might answer for a drawing-room, Church said;
 but there must be something more piquant found for the
 masquerade.

 "One of the Seven Sisters"—a short dress that exhibited
 the feet. Well, he could not say that she had not pretty
 feet, it was only that he couldn't bear others to know it;
 but she was bent on the short dress, black with scarlet
 points, a double border, that would make her look like a
 flame.

 Church had listened to all this, smiling in his cool, crafty
 way. She was, perhaps, right in her choice, the dash and
 spirit so natural to her, would give zest and piquancy to the
 character. So Constance went as one of the "Seven Sisters"
 in dead black, all aflame with burning scarlet. Ten
 minutes of astonishment, another ten minutes for observation,
 and the girl was perfectly at home in this motley
 crowd, where she fairly appalled her companion with the
 keen brilliancy of her wit and the sarcasm of her occasional
 dialogues. She danced, too; yes, in spite of his remonstances,
 she danced with the grace of a goddess and the
 spirit of a French woman; laughing at her partners from
 under her mask, and flinging away from them whenever the
 caprice took her. The tall man whom she addressed as
 "father," with a light, mocking familiarity, kept near her
 all the time; but there was impatience in his gestures, and
 something like rage in the glitter of his eyes, through the
 mask, whenever she gave herself up with that reckless
 abandonment to the dance.

 "Come," he said, at last, seizing her by the hand, "we
 have had enough of this. I am tired of keeping guard
 over your flirtations."

 "Oh! don't be cross, father; this is no place to scold a
 poor girl in. Dear, how you pinch my hand!"

 She was half angry, and he felt the mocking tones of her
 voice as an insult.

 "Had I dreamed of this, you should never have come
 here," he muttered, under his breath.

 She did not understand him, but heard the broken words
 and laughed.

 "Well, well," she said, taking his arm, "let us go and
 look on, it will be something to see all these people jostling
 each other; but I would rather dance. Oh! how much I
 would rather dance!"

 "Then I will dance with you," said the man, almost
 fiercely, and seizing her around the waist, he whirled her
 into the crowd, and took her breath away by this impetuous
 movement. But the girl liked it, and liked her partner the
 better that he flung aside all grace and danced like a savage.
 Her feet kept time to his, a glow of intense delight
 shone upon her face. As the black and scarlet of her dress
 flashed in and out among the dancers, she looked like a
 beautiful fiend; for the mask revealed enough of her forehead
 and exquisite mouth to provoke general curiosity; and
 nothing could conceal the laughing brilliancy of those eyes.

 "Now," said the man, as she paused, panting for breath,
 but with her foot advanced for a fresh start; and before she
 could speak, he fairly hurled himself and her into the vortex
 of dancers, and absolutely tired her down with sheer physical
 exertion.

 "Yes," she said, with a struggle for breath, as he led her
 out of the whirl, "I am ready to go home now; that was
 something like a dance. I am glad no one could guess that
 it was my father I claimed to be dancing with. Yes, I am
 ready—which way do we go?"

 The man motioned with his hand toward the door, out of
 which he wished to pass—and the two left the opera-house
 arm-in-arm.

 While standing on the pavement waiting for the carriage
 to come up, a young man, who stood near the entrance, looking
 anxiously at every person that came out, drew close
 behind them, then stepped back irresolutely. That moment
 Constance said something and broke into a laugh, soft and
 mellow, as if she had fragments of a ripe peach in her mouth.
 Then the young man stepped softly forward and whispered
 in her ear,

 "Constance, I must speak with you. Do not go to bed
 till I come."

 The girl started, and the laugh on her lips broke off in
 a faint gasp; but she whispered back,

 "Yes, yes; but do go away!"

 "What were you saying?" inquired her companion, who
 had been looking toward the line of carriages.

 Constance turned her head to make sure that young Sterling
 was gone before she answered.

 "Nothing, nothing. I was only wondering if the carriage
 would never come up. Oh! here it is!"

 Her foot was on the step the next instant, and, gathering
 her cloak about her, she sat down in a corner of the carriage,
 quite in darkness; but looking keenly through the window
 at a tall form leaning against one of the lamp-posts. All
 at once a new idea seemed to strike her; for she leaned forward
 and called out to her attendant, who was speaking
 with the coachman,

 "Father! father! what are you waiting for? I am
 cold!"

 The gaslight lay full on the young man's face; she saw it
 change and brighten. With a slight wave of the hand he
 turned away and disappeared. That word "father" had
 satisfied some anxieties that had been harassing him all the
 evening.

 "Tell the man to drive fast, I am so tired!" said Constance,
 nestling back into her corner.

 "He will drive fast enough without telling. You may
 be sure he is quite as tired as we are," was the careless
 reply. "After all, these public balls are an awful bore."

 She did not care to answer this, being too anxious and
 weary for a contest of words. What could Sterling want to
 say to her at this time of night? Did he suspect who her
 companion was?

 "It is too late, quite too late," she said, imperiously, as
 the carriage stopped. "Father will have been in bed these
 three hours; you must not come up stairs. Good-night—good-night!
 But stop, first take off the mask and domino,
 I will keep them for you."

 Church took off the garments she mentioned, and was
 about to throw them over his arm, but she snatched them
 from him laughing.

 "No you don't. I have said good-night."

 With these words the girl darted into the hall, using her
 latch-key, and shut the door behind her, leaving John
 Church, stripped of his disguise, standing on the pavement,
 rebuffed and outgeneraled.

 "What nonsense," he muttered. "I know the old fellow
 is up and watching. How he did hate it when I insisted on
 taking her. We will give him something to sulk about before
 all this is over."




 CHAPTER XLII.

 WOULD SHE PART WITH HIM.


 Scarcely had the carriage, which bore John Church
 away, passed out of the neighborhood, when Sterling came
 swiftly up the side-walk, and let himself into the tenement-house
 with his own key. Constance knew that he was
 coming, and cast an anxious glance at her father, who sat
 near the hearth with his clasped hands drooping between
 his knees, and his face bent on his chest, to all appearance
 given up to utter despondency.

 Constance went up to him in eager haste, and laid one
 hand on his shoulder.

 "Go to your room, father, dear. You look so tired."

 Hudson got up and turned his haggard face upon her.

 "Is _he_ coming up?"

 "He? Who?"

 "Church, that—that——"

 "No, father. I sent him away."

 "That's a good girl! Keep him at a distance—always
 keep him at a distance; though he kill me, I would have
 you do that. You understand, daughter? Now I will go
 to bed. I am glad you would not let him come up—it is an
 indecorous hour, but he is so persistent! Kiss me, Constance,
 and remember what I say."

 She kissed him eagerly, and hurried him up to his sleeping-room
 above, waiting at the bottom of the stairs till his
 door closed. Then she went back to the parlor, flung the
 domino across his chair, the mask on the table, and sat down
 herself, breathless and pale, for Sterling was coming up from
 the door, and she was afraid to see him.

 When the young man came into the room, she started up
 with a cry of surprise, his face was pale and locked, his eyes
 full of trouble. What could he know? These questions
 made the girl tremble. She arose and waited for him to
 speak.

 He came toward her, reached out both arms and clasped
 her to his bosom, against which she felt the heart heave and
 struggle like some wounded thing!

 "What is it? What have I done? Are you angry with
 me, William?"

 "Angry with you? No, no!"

 His voice shook, and he kissed her tenderly, as if each
 caress were a farewell.

 "What is it, then?"

 "Constance, are we to be parted? Or will you go with
 me to the house we were talking about, that log-house, you
 know, with a prairie farm?"

 "What does this mean, William?"

 "Just this, dear one. I have an appointment from
 Washington. It came today—I do not know how, or by
 whom obtained. Its duties will carry me unto the Pacific
 Railroad, to the Rocky Mountains, perhaps, and farther on
 as the road progresses. Will you go with me, Constance?"

 "With you? Me? Me?" faltered the young wife.
 "What, out there among the Indians? Oh, William!"

 "But there is no danger; I am not afraid for you or
 myself. Constance, take a little time to think of it. Of
 course, you will draw back at first, but remember, I shall be
 with you—my mother has already gone. We will let the
 whole world know of our marriage."

 While he was speaking, the sharp wits of the girl had
 arranged themselves. The shock of this intelligence subsided.
 She saw at a glance how all this had come about, and
 was making a quick calculation of the results.

 "When is it? When must you go?" she questioned,
 greatly disturbed, for she loved this man, so far as her imperfect
 nature could love, and the trial before her was a
 hard one.

 "At once. I must go at once, or refuse the best chance
 of my life—the very best, if you will go with me."

 "But my father—he has no one in the wide world but
 me."

 "Let him go with us."

 "He will not; he hates the country. But he might be
 persuaded while he knows nothing of our marriage—that
 would make him angry. Let us think of it, dear, and
 arrange what is best."

 "I was in fear that your father would be up and prevent
 me talking with you alone. It was not till I saw a light
 in his room that I ventured in."

 "Yes, he was completely tired out," answered Constance,
 taking the mask from the table, and tossing it into the chair
 with the domino. "After all, this masquerade was a disappointment
 to me and nothing but a torment to him."

 "I am glad of it," answered the young man, glancing
 at her dress. "It certainly is a disappointment to me when
 I find my own wife in a dress like that."

 "The gentlemen there seemed to think it just the thing,
 William; but you never were like other people."

 "Never mind that; we will not quarrel about your dress
 or anything else tonight; after that there will, I hope, be
 little cause, for fashion does not penetrate to the prairies."

 Constance thought of her blue dress, with all its garniture
 of filmy lace, and the prairies became more and more
 distasteful to her. Slowly but surely her heart was swaying
 back to its selfishness, out of which some generous impulses
 had aroused it for a few brief moments.

 "Well, dear, we will think all this over and make up our
 minds, I am so tired and sleepy now."

 She held up her lips sleepily for the kiss he pressed upon
 them, murmured good-night, and saw him depart reassured
 by the hope that she would accompany him.

 When quite alone, the girl took up a lamp, and holding it
 before a looking-glass, fell to examining herself curiously,
 as if she had been a third person, and the lovely head before
 her a work of high art. The dress was not altogether a
 becoming one, for though her hair was dark-brown, and her
 eyes of a deep purplish-gray, the coloring of her garments
 was more suitable for a brunette than for a person of her
 brilliant complexion. But it was impossible that Constance
 should not look well in anything she chose to wear. Thus
 the head and bust thrown back from the mirror, shadowed
 by the blackness of her corsage, and brightened by the scarlet
 of her opera-cloak, produced an artistic effect which
 might have sickened any one of a life in the far west, where
 beauty itself is of little consequence, being confined to so
 few admirers.

 "And I am to take this face and figure into a log-cabin
 for backwoodsmen and wild Indians to admire. Well, I
 hope he may get me there, that's all. But then he's so
 handsome, so good, so——Dear me! why can't such people
 have the money? It's awfully unjust."

 It was almost daylight when Constance went to bed.
 Even then she lay awake, thinking over the two lives offered
 to her, drifting sway from the right and forming excuses for
 the wrong, till the sun shone in upon her in all its brightness,
 and saw how heavy her eyes had become, and what
 shadows had crept around them during the first honorable
 contest she ever made with the good that was in her.

 "I will not refuse him; why settle anything just now?
 Let the dear old fellow go. Ten chances to one I shan't be
 able to live without him. While he is gone I can see what
 this fashionable life means. It doesn't just come up to my
 idea so far; but then I haven't really dashed into it yet.
 By-and-by the log-cabin may come in, and I'll go out to
 him, ready to be useful, and loving, and humble, and of no
 account, just as he wants me to be. Not just yet, though;
 not just yet! Gracious! how that blue silk would look
 sweeping across the floors of a log-cabin!"

 Here Constance, struck by the ludicrous idea, broke into
 a laugh that made the bed shake under her.

 "Perhaps I should go out milking in it, or picking
 blackberries, with the lace full of burs, and——Oh, dear!
 oh, dear! it is too funny!"

 The end of all this was, that Constance resolved on
 half measures. She would neither break with her husband,
 nor go with him. Some good reason might be found,
 which would seem to justify her in remaining with her father.
 She would promise to follow Sterling after awhile, when he
 got settled and ready to claim her as his wife; in fact she
 did not believe that he would have money enough to bear
 her expenses. In that case, of course, the journey was impossible.




 CHAPTER XLIII.

 THE GOOD AND THE EVIL.


 Much to the surprise of Constance, Church did not make
 his appearance at their rooms that day or the next. So she
 was left unfettered, so far as that strange man was concerned.
 This seemed to bring great relief to Mr. Hudson,
 who was depressed and miserably restless whenever Church
 was in town.

 Young Sterling came to his work the next morning. No,
 not to his work, for he was far too much excited for that;
 but he came with hope in his heart to persuade Constance
 into some liking for the new life offered them on the prairies,
 which, in his imagination, grew more and more beautiful
 each day.

 Constance appeared to enter into his plans, and took a
 strange pleasure in going over the details of their western
 life; all the while knowing in her heart that her share in
 them was an illusion. It was arranged between them that
 all things should be put in preparation for their departure,
 but that nothing should as yet be said to Mr. Hudson.

 "Father is very blue and low-spirited," she said, "and
 I know it will half kill him to part with me. Only think,
 I am all that he has in the wide world!"

 Sterling was just then very ready to believe all this.
 His generous heart yearned to her with infinite tenderness.
 What a creature she might become under the pure influences
 of a genial country life! How he longed to fling off
 the secrecy that became each day more irksome, and pronounce
 this young creature his wife before the whole world.
 Even his high-bred and delicate mother would feel the
 want of female companionship in her new life so much, that
 this beautiful creature, unformed as she was, might become
 welcome as a daughter-in-law.

 Constance seemed to share all his hopeful anticipations.
 Sometimes she did, indeed, half resolve to accompany him;
 and at night the inconsistent creature would lie awake and
 cry like a child, at the thought of parting with her husband,
 as if some force not her own kept her from his side.

 Indeed, this was the truth; wild dreams, and such vain
 thoughts as an inexperienced, ambitious, and coarse-natured
 girl alone would have harbored for a moment,
 swept her out of herself, and made her almost irresponsible,
 so completely did they predominate in her life just
 then. If she could have divided her existence, the better
 half would have gone with him, the other would have
 worked out a dashing future, in which her pleasures must
 ever have been her foremost object. As it was, she seemed
 to vacillate, but never did. It was hard to give her husband
 up, but harder still to sacrifice the brilliant dreams
 that had perverted her whole being.

 Some time, when all these delusions turned to ashes
 about her feet, the pure love might come forth from its
 burial-place in her heart; and haunt her into a miserable
 old age; for in a woman's life some period must come when
 the soul turns wearily, or in despair, to the pure and good,
 seeing their exquisite beauty, and feeling how terrible is
 their loss.

 But Constance had not come to this by many a year.
 Indeed, she had no thought that the follies of life, as well
 as its crimes, have a sure retribution.

 While Sterling was with her, she gave way to all the
 fond love that had led them on to an imprudent marriage.
 Caresses that had grown cold of late, were lavished upon
 him with what seemed inexhaustible tenderness. In this
 very extravagance of affection she sought to atone for the
 secret thoughts of future wrong which were just then
 crowded back into her heart.

 At length there was but one day left to them, and that
 found her really suffering; and if not ill, sufficiently so to
 leave her cheeks pale, and her eyes heavy beneath the purple
 shadows that gathered around them.

 "I cannot—oh! I cannot leave my poor father!" she
 pleaded, as Sterling held her shivering hands in his and
 entreated her to go with him. "He is ill; he is troubled.
 If I go, it will break his heart. Let me have a little time,
 William. Do not speak to him yet; but go away, if you
 must, and after awhile send for me. Then I will tell him
 all, and come to you on the prairie, in a log-house—anywhere,
 only don't ask me to abandon my poor father."

 At length the girl prevailed. She was so earnest and
 eager in her filial piety that it almost became real. Certainly
 he thought it so, and yielded his dearest wishes to
 this new and beautiful trait in the character of his wife.

 "I will leave you, Constance," he said; "and keep our
 secret as you wish, but it must only be for a time. The
 moment I am settled, or can find a home, you will come to
 me and share it?"

 "Indeed, I will."

 The creature meant it for the moment, and looked into
 his eyes truthfully, while her own were blinded with tears.

 It was hard to part with him. What did she care for all
 the gorgeous promises lately so potent with her? What
 did she care for any one compared to him—so graceful, so
 gentle and loving? How dared that man Church presume
 to speak of her husband so contemptuously? It sickened
 her to think of it. Of course, she would follow her husband.
 He might plant morning-glories around some log-cabin
 as soon as he liked. As for gold, there was plenty in
 the rocks and hills out yonder, and Sterling was as likely
 to find it as another. Still she would not go just then.
 Some time later, after she had enjoyed a little more of
 fashionable life, and prepared her father for the change,
 a western home would be pleasant, no doubt.

 The day had arrived. In a few hours Sterling would be
 far from her, hurrying fast as the speed of a ruthless
 engine could take him toward the far, far west, which was
 indefinite and vast as eternity to her. All night long the
 girl lay awake sobbing piteously over her griefs. She
 relented then, and reproached herself bitterly that he was
 going without her. She felt how wicked and selfish she
 had been; thought of the dangers and toil upon which he
 was entering with absolute remorse. Once she sprang out
 of bed and began to pack her clothes, resolved to join Sterling
 the next morning and go with him.

 With a shawl flung over her night-dress, and her bare
 feet upon the carpet, she moved from closet to bureau, packing
 up her belongings in eager haste. Now she folded a
 half soiled ribbon over her hand, smiling when she remembered
 who had given it to her. Then a crushed collar or a
 pair of sleeves was smoothed out on her lap, and laid in the
 corner of a battered old trunk that belonged to her father,
 and which she had dragged from under her bed. As she
 proceeded in her task, the young creature became more and
 more earnest. She seized upon the articles of her scant
 toilet, and crushed them into the trunk hurriedly, as if she
 feared the train destined to bear away her husband would
 leave her behind. She took from a corner of her bureau-drawer
 a little, old book, and opened it, where a marriage
 certificate had been lying for many weeks, hid away there
 because the sight of it, resting close to her heart, had been
 a sort of reproach. Now she put it back into the little
 silken case, which she had embroidered so tastefully when
 love was freshest in her life, and restored it to her bosom,
 which seemed to grow purer beneath its light touch.

 That was not enough. In the ecstacy of her newly-aroused
 tenderness, the precious paper must lie close to her
 heart. She attempted to place it there, when her hand came
 in contact with an obstacle which made her start as if it
 had touched an adder. It was a fold of bank-notes pinned
 to her garments just over the spot from which the marriage
 certificate had been removed.

 With a gasp and a shudder she tore the notes from their
 fastening, and dashed them to the floor. The little silken
 package fell downward into their place; with both hands
 pressed to her heart she held it there, and, seated on the
 side of her bed, began to sob and cry as if her heart were
 breaking under that passionate pressure.

 After a time she became more composed, and starting
 up went to her work again. The lowest drawer of her
 bureau was opened, and there lay the dress of azure silk, as
 yet unworn, close by the India shawl, which she had learned
 to prize at its full value.

 The sight of these garments produced a sudden revulsion
 in that unstable nature. Constance sunk down upon the
 floor and contemplated the rich fabrics with longing intensity.
 All that Church had said and hinted swept back
 upon her with vivid force. Could she give these things up,
 with the hopes of triumph and display inspired by them?
 How beautiful she had looked in that dress, even in the dim
 light of a dress-maker's room! How softly its delicate blue
 gleamed upon her now through the vapory lace! And was
 she never to wear it? After so much deception and secret
 anxiety, was it to go for nothing?

 She asked these questions of herself sitting upon the
 floor, with both white feet huddled under her scarcely
 whiter garments, and her bare arms folded on the edge of
 the drawer. The half-trimmed lamp cast its gleams of
 smoky light upon her face, as thoughts kindred to these
 questions swept through her mind. Mechanically she took
 the folded garments and laid them among the shabby things
 in her shabby trunk. The contrast brought a gleam of
 scorn into those eyes which had been so beautiful and loving
 only a few moments before; and she drew the garments
 back into her lap, as if thus separating one portion of her
 life from the other.

 The package of money lay upon the floor as she had cast
 it down, where a gleam of lamplight fell upon it. She
 slowly reached forth her hand, grasped it stealthily, and
 was about to place it in her bosom; but some feeling rose
 up against that, and lifting herself from the floor, she thrust
 it under her pillow.

 After this Constance threw off her shawl, huddled the
 things she had been packing back into the drawers of her
 bureau, and pushed the trunk to its old place under her bed.
 Then she blew out the light, and all was still in the chamber.
 Hours later the moon shone through a window close
 by her bed; and then might have been observed the glitter
 of two eyes, wakeful and bright, as if sleep never would
 visit them again.




 CHAPTER XLIV.

 CONSTANCE PARTS WITH HER HUSBAND.


 The next morning Constance went to the railroad station
 with her husband. She was very pale and still; sometimes
 a shiver ran through her frame as he tried to speak hopefully
 of the future. When he drew her toward him in the
 carriage and pressed his trembling lips to hers, the kiss she
 gave back was almost a sob. But even at the last moment
 she shed no tears, and her face kept its immovable whiteness.
 He left her in the carriage leaning against its
 cushions, her face contracted, her lips pressed together, and
 her hands clenched, as if a desire to cry out were torturing
 her.

 "God bless you, darling!"

 He strained her to his heart, left kisses on her forehead,
 her lips, and the thick waves of her hair. One long curl
 fell upon her shoulder, and his lips wandered down to that.

 "Give it to me. Oh, Constance! let me have that
 much!"

 She took a penknife from her pocket, cut the thick tress
 of hair from her head, and placed it in his outstretched
 hand, where it coiled in a soft and glittering ring, which
 his fingers could scarcely close over without crushing.

 "Take it," she said, in a strange, deep voice, which
 seemed that of another person. "But some time—some
 time——"

 "Constance, my poor darling! how white you are! How
 you shiver, and I cannot stay to comfort you. One look—one
 more kiss. Now God bless you! God bless you, my
 wife!"

 He sprang out of the carriage, and rushed into the crowd
 that hurried by them to the office. She saw him enter, and
 come forth again. He looked that way; and then, as if his
 last glance had broken her heart, she sent a wild cry after
 him—so wild and broken, that it must have called him
 back, but for the rumble and roar of the engine, which
 seized upon and carried all other sounds into its own.
 Then the sharp clang of a bell, the slow movement of the
 train sweeping out of the depot, and Constance drew back
 from the window, out of which she had been wildly leaning,
 and fell into the seat moaning piteously.

 "He is gone! He is gone! and I did love him! Oh!
 I did love him!"

 The carriage bore her homeward, and still she cried out
 in her pain, reviling herself for a hard-hearted, cruel girl,
 who deserved no good, and who was sure to be punished for
 the cruel thing she had done. Hudson met her at the door.
 He, too, was much disturbed, and looked into her face compassionately
 as she passed him.

 She did not notice his outstretched hand, or the look of
 commiseration that accompanied it, but flew up the stairs
 like a lapwing, entered her own room, and locked the door.

 Two weeks from that night Church again made his
 appearance. He had a long, and it would seem rather
 stormy talk with Hudson, from which that enslaved man
 came out apparently submissive. One thing he said just
 as Church was taking leave, which made that bad man less
 secure than usual.

 "I will speak to her," these were the words, "speak to
 her honestly, and if possible learn what her feelings are. If
 she is willing—if she does not love the young fellow who
 has left us in such strange haste, I will not interpose. But
 she must do this of her own free will, and without undue
 persuasion even, or I never will permit her to become your
 wife—not if all the choice you leave me is that or a prison."

 Church laughed, but closed the door softly that no one
 might hear; and for a long time his low, silky voice fell
 upon the atmosphere like the hum of drowsy bees. Then
 the door was opened again, and Mr. Hudson, looking white
 and anxious, called to Rhoda Weeks, who was sweeping the
 stairs.

 "Oh, yes! I will call Constance," she said, resting her
 broom against the wall. "She's up in my room."

 When Rhoda told Constance that Mr. Church was below
 and wanted to see her, the girl seemed struck with some
 shock of the nerves. The needle-work she was doing fell
 to her lap, and she looked about as if seeking some means
 of escape. But directly all this passed away. She took
 two or three resolute stitches, folded up her work with great
 deliberation, smoothed her hair before Rhoda's tiny looking-glass,
 and went down, stepping firmer and heavier than
 Rhoda had ever known her to do before.

 Constance entered the room where Church was sitting
 with her father. He came to meet her with something like
 self-distrust in his manner. She received him calmly, and
 with no visible repugnance, if she felt any. Hudson looked
 on with searching scrutiny. There was no soft flutter, no
 gentle embarrassment—nothing that bespoke affection or
 interest in her manner. Of the two, he was the most
 embarrassed.

 Constance seated herself on the sofa, and seemed to be
 waiting.

 "You sent for me, father?"

 "Yes, Constance. Mr. Church—but, perhaps, you know
 what has brought Mr. Church here so often of late?"

 "Yes, father, I think so. He has a fancy that you are
 tired of me, and is ready to take me off your hands."

 "Then he has told you this?"

 "Yes, father."

 "And you permit it?"

 "Why not? He is your friend. Any man may wish a
 thing, and say so."

 "But tell me, Constance, do you love him?"

 "Oh, father! I am ashamed of you. _He_ had better ask
 that."

 She did not change color, or even affect embarrassment.
 Her voice was clear and ringing, her air wonderfully self-possessed.

 "But I have asked it," said Church, drawing close to
 her; "and have waited for the answer as condemned men
 wait for pardon."

 Constance drew back, and replied in her usual tone,
 though he had spoken low and rapidly.

 "When I know my own mind, Mr. Church, you shall be
 the first to hear it."

 "Then you have not made up your mind, daughter?
 You have not authorized him to say what he has?" Hudson
 broke in, eagerly.

 "What has he been saying, father?"

 "That you are willing to marry him!"

 "Well, he is a little fast there. I never said that."

 "Never said that, Miss Hudson? Surely, you have forgotten."

 Church had left his chair, and was pacing up and down
 the room. The cool composure of the girl irritated him.
 In asking this question he turned sharply upon her.

 "Well, perhaps, one does not remember every light
 word or promise; but, no matter what I have said or
 forgotten, my father thinks you wish to marry me, and fears
 that I may be persuaded to marry you; the idea isn't pleasant
 to him, I can see that."

 Church darted an angry look at Hudson, who turned
 pale, but still kept his eyes resolutely fixed on Constance.

 "Father," said the girl, "why is it that you oppose Mr.
 Church?"

 "You do not care for him?" was the confused answer.

 "Oh! yes, I do!"

 "Constance!"

 "Indeed, I do, father! Just a little."

 "What, love this man?"

 "Love! Oh! as for that, the less said the better. He
 doesn't expect too much affection. Elderly people should
 be reasonable, you know."

 "Constance, be serious."

 "Father, I am."

 "And you wish to marry this man?"

 "I mean to marry him some day—that is, if he waits
 long enough."

 "Are you content, my good friend?" demanded Church.
 "Does this satisfy you that the young lady needs neither
 coercion or much persuasion? Surely she must be supposed
 to know her own mind."

 "I have done," said Hudson, heaving a deep sigh.
 "God knows I was ready to dare every thing rather than
 see her sacrificed; but if she wills it, I can make no farther
 opposition. God help the poor child!"

 "This terrible emotion is hardly complimentary," said
 Church, seating himself by Constance. "Now, as the main
 question is settled, let us fix a time. I have been waiting
 very patiently, and should be rewarded."

 Before Hudson could speak Constance broke in,

 "As to that, Mr. Church, we must let you exercise one
 of the virtues a little longer, if it is only for the novelty.
 I do not intend to be married to any one just yet. My
 education is not completed, you know."

 Church seized her hand.

 "You will not insist on delay," he said. "Do not be so
 cruel."

 She threw back his hand with a light laugh.

 "My father is not prepared to do without me yet. Be
 content with what I have promised. I will not take
 another step at present, and will marry no man until he
 need not be ashamed of an uneducated wife."

 "Oh! we will change all this," said Church, whispering
 in Hudson's ear. "You mean to baffle me with delay; but
 I will not bear it. Make the time brief, or you may be
 placed beyond the power of interference."




 CHAPTER XLV.

 CONSTANCE MAKES A SECOND VISIT TO HER DRESS-MAKER.


 Church took his hat after this, and went away, leaving
 the father alone with his child, who saw a look of sharp
 terror come over him.

 "Father, what is this?" she said, coming up to him,
 changed completely in voice and manner. "Rhoda told me
 that this man was threatening you; and that you were
 pleading with him so earnestly that she could not help
 hearing you as she swept the stairs. You looked frightened
 when I came in. You look frightened now, father.
 Tell me what the secret is?"

 "But you will marry him, and that ends all."

 "Father, I will not marry him. He wants it, I know;
 and I have let him say many things that ought to have
 been nonsense, or never spoken. Tell me the truth, and
 then I shall better know how to help you. I am weary of
 all this, sick of myself."

 "That is a terrible sickness; one never recovers from it
 in this world," answered the father, drearily.

 "Father, trust me, for I love you." She put her arms
 around his neck, and laid her cheek lovingly by his, so lovingly
 that it brought tears into his eyes. "Tell me what
 this man's power is?"

 Constance knelt down before him, and leaning one arm
 on his knee, entreated him with her eyes, as she had done
 many times when a child.

 Hudson shaded his eyes from her gaze; but she took
 down his hand, holding it between both hers lovingly—for
 at the moment she was good and affectionately resolved on
 helping her father.

 "Father, tell me!"

 "Tell you what, child?"

 "Why is it that you are so troubled when Mr. Church
 comes here?"

 "Because he tortures me; because he is an unsafe man."

 "Then why let him visit us?"

 "God forgive me, child! I cannot help myself."

 "Father, look at me!"

 "Well?"

 "Have you done anything wrong, that——"

 "Stop, Constance; I will not be questioned so."

 Hudson arose abruptly, and seizing his hat, went out of
 the house, leaving Constance alone, and greatly troubled.
 She stayed awhile, thinking over what had passed, and feeling
 the loneliness of her life very keenly; for, since Sterling's
 departure, she had bitterly repented the selfishness
 which had kept her from his side, and, at first sight, almost
 hated Church for being the cause of all this self-reproach.
 Sympathy for her father's evident unhappiness also enlisted
 her better feelings in his behalf, and she was ready to make
 any sacrifice that promised to bring him back to even comparative
 tranquillity. Some day she meant to persuade him
 to go with her out to the far west, where new and happy lives
 might be opened to them. For the time this, indeed, was
 her generous purpose. If she had seemed to encourage
 Church lately, it was from a suspicion that in some way her
 father was in his power. Indeed, that bad man had more
 than once cruelly hinted as much.

 After thinking over all the perplexities of her position
 with more honesty of purpose than usually followed her reveries,
 she was seized with a sudden desire to go forth into
 the open air. Not long before she had left some garment to
 be altered at the dress-maker's, and turned her steps that
 way, indifferent where she went. When she came in sight
 of the house, Constance was surprised to see her father
 entering it without knocking, as if he were used to the
 place. Surprised and offended, hardly knowing why, she
 followed him into the hall, and up to the top of the house,
 hearing his footsteps above her, though he was out of sight.
 She found the door of the dress-maker's room ajar, and
 heard her father's voice within, gentle and sweet, as she had
 seldom listened to it at home.

 Constance drew softly toward the door, looked through
 and saw her dress-maker with both arms folded on her own
 father's knee, and lifting her sweet face to his with a look of
 yearning fondness that made her seem beautiful as a saint.

 Constance Hudson stood a moment in dumb astonishment,
 then she turned and left the house as noiselessly as she had
 entered it.




 CHAPTER XLVI.

 PLANNING AN ESCAPE.


 She stood in the middle of the floor, pale and angry, and
 so impatient that her limbs fairly shook under her, when
 she heard her father's step on the stairs. He came in, looking
 worn and sorrowful, placed his hat on the table, and sat
 down, without regarding the young creature, or her furious
 wrath.

 "Father!"

 Hudson started up, and turned his startled eyes on the
 girl.

 "What—what is the matter, Constance?"

 "I followed you—I saw you go into that house. Who
 is she?"

 "Constance, my child, spare me. Do not speak a harsh
 word of this noble girl. She is the child of my sister, who
 is dead."

 "Your niece, and I never heard of such a person—another
 secret! Then there is this man Church, who treats you as
 if you were his slave. What does all this mean? Father,
 I will know."

 The man stood up, white and trembling, with both hands
 clasped before him, as if afraid to plead for mercy with his
 own child.

 That face and attitude touched all that was good in the
 girl's nature. With a sudden revulsion of feeling she flung
 her arms around his neck.

 "Father! father! poor, dear father! I am cruel—I am
 wicked! But tell me everything—I want to be good to you—I
 will be good. Don't be afraid of me!"

 "Afraid, Constance!"

 A wan smile flitted across his lips pitiful to look upon.

 "When shall I be other than afraid?"

 "I am never afraid!" said Constance. "Tell me."

 "I will," answered the old man, wearily. "Sit down here—no,
 not in that way, with your eyes to mine. It is not
 well that a child should look on her father's shame."

 Constance slid down to the floor, laid her head on her
 father's knee, and waited for that hesitating voice to begin.

 Hudson spoke almost in a whisper at first. By degrees
 his voice grew deep and husky, then sharp with pain. The
 girl listened, sometimes with a shrinking heart, sometimes
 with the kindle and glow of keen anger, when a fiery word
 would break from her lips, or a sob shake her bosom; but
 she seldom interrupted him, except by a half whispered
 question. Nor did she once lift her face, though his sank
 lower and lower, till his gray locks mingled with the rich
 brown of hers, as if snow had suddenly fallen there.

 "Is this all, father?"

 Constance said this with terrible constraint.

 "Yes, my child! Is it not enough?"

 "Not for me—not for me!" cried the girl, turning upon
 her knees, and lifting her arms upward. "If you had been
 a thousand times as bad, I should only love you, and hate
 him the more. Oh! how I do hate him!"

 The old man began to shake as he felt her arms around
 him; and out of his grateful agony tears came, large and
 mournful, almost blinding him.

 Constance wiped away these tears with a flimsy little
 handkerchief bordered with sham lace, and kissed the cheeks
 on which they had trembled.

 "We will go away, father, you and I, where he can
 never find us, the toad, the rattlesnake!"

 He looked at her wistfully.

 "Oh! if we could!"

 "But we will. Let him sit like a hundred-legged spider
 in his wicked old web; the world is wide, and I am a match
 for him, anyway."

 "I thought that myself once," said Hudson, mournfully;
 "but he seems gifted with a fiend's ability. Go where I
 will, he finds me out; and after every struggle I am more
 firmly his slave."

 "But it shall end here, father."

 Hudson shook his head.

 "You do not know him, Constance."

 "He does not know me. Now that I understand everything,
 he shall find his match. Don't look so wild, father—I
 won't fight him. But you and I can run away, and we
 will."

 Hudson almost smiled, but he only muttered again,

 "Oh! if we could—if we could!"

 "We will, father, make sure of that! When we get settled
 this cousin of mine shall come to us. I see now why we
 looked so much alike. It startled me. There, there, dear old
 father! don't fret, we will escape this snake."

 Hudson kissed the girl and left the room.

 When Constance went out from the room, all the force of
 character that had sustained her so long seemed to die out.
 She was pale as death, and walked unsteadily, like one just
 recovering from a hard blow; for the first time in her life
 she felt the force and burden of a dangerous confidence. In
 a single hour she had changed places with her own father.
 Henceforth she must think for him, care for and protect him,
 as the little match-girl up stairs protected and cared for the
 musician.

 There was something ennobling in this idea, which, for a
 time, lifted Constance out of herself. Then another care
 arose, which brought many a bitter reflection with it—a
 birth of love and repulsion toward a single object, which a
 day before had not been recognized in her existence. She
 went up-stairs in search of little Rhoda, for it seemed impossible
 that she could live without some human sympathy.

 Rhoda heard some one coming, and, jumping down from
 her chair, ran into the bed-room, where her father lay sleeping
 heavily.

 "Father, dear! father, dear! do try and not breathe so
 loud; they will hear you. Some one is coming."

 Weeks muttered something in his sleep, and turned in
 the bed, winding the blanket tightly around him.

 "Dear me! what can I do—he's going off worse than
 ever!"

 While these words were on her lips, she seized the coverlet
 and dragged it over the little man's face, thus smothering
 the sound she could not silence. Then she went out,
 closing the door softly behind her, and, blushing like a culprit,
 caught up Luke's tunic, which she had been mending,
 and stitched away dexterously, as if she thought that could
 drown the muffled sound which still came from the next
 room.




 CHAPTER XLVII.

 CONSTANCE MAKES A CONFIDANT OF RHODA.


 "Rhoda!"

 The little girl started up, and the work dropped to the
 floor. There was something strange in Constance's voice,
 that startled her.

 "Why—why—what is it? What makes you look so
 wild, Constance Hudson?" she cried.

 "Me? Nothing much. Only—only—Oh! Rhoda, Rhoda!
 I am so wretched!"

 Constance threw herself on a chair, flung her arm half
 across the table, and burst into a storm of hysterical sobs.

 "Don't, don't!" pleaded little Rhoda, pulling at the arm
 which Constance had curved under her face. "Has he been
 drinking—your father, I mean? Oh! I hope not, for that
 is trouble."

 Constance lifted her face, and wiped some tears away with
 her hand.

 "No, no, Rhoda! it isn't that; but I am going away—that
 is, we are going away."

 "Going away? How far?"

 "Ever so far, Rhoda. Hundreds and hundreds of miles
 away."

 "But where? You frighten me; you take away my
 breath."

 "It is a secret, Rhoda; but I must tell you. We are
 going out west."

 "Out west? Why, that is where she has gone!" cried
 Rhoda.

 "She! Who?"

 "My friend; the lady who was so good to my mother—Mrs.
 Holt."

 "Well, Rhoda, we are going to her."

 "Oh! if I was going—if I only could!" said Rhoda,
 clasping her plump little hands, as if she were about to fall
 on her knees and pray for this wild wish.

 "I wish you might, Rhoda, for you are about all the
 friend I have got; but we are going right away, father and
 I; and I want you to help us."

 "Help you! Of course, I will; know how to pack and
 fold as well as anybody. When you want me, I'm on
 hand."

 "It isn't that, Rhoda. We haven't so very much to
 pack, anyway; but there is something I want of you, and
 that no one else can be trusted with."

 "Very well," said Rhoda, smoothing her tiny apron
 with both hands; "let us know what it is."

 "We are going away, to be gone a good while; but I
 don't want any one to know about it. Don't open your
 eyes so wide; we haven't done any wrong."

 "Don't owe anybody, or nothing?" questioned Rhoda,
 to whom an unpaid debt was a great sin.

 "Not a red cent."

 Rhoda settled her apron with a jerk, and answered
 promptly,

 "Then you may count on me."

 "This is it," answered Constance. "We have taken
 our rooms for a whole year, and paid cash down in advance
 only a few weeks ago. We shall leave them in your
 hands, Rhoda; you may live in them, if you like, for we
 don't mean to move a thing of the furniture. Only I want
 people to think we are there yet, coming and going, you
 know, as father used to. If any one comes to inquire, you
 can say, 'Mr. Hudson isn't at home just now; or he's gone
 into the country for a few days, and Miss Constance is with
 him.' You well know how to do it."

 Rhoda's black eyes sparkled.

 "Oh, yes! I can manage it well enough," she said.
 "One learns lots of things keeping house, and going about.
 No one shall find out how long you are gone, or when
 you're coming back. You can depend on that."

 "If you could only say, once in a while, they were here
 only last week, or you are just too late this time—anything
 to make them believe we made it our home still, it would
 be all I could ask," said Constance, anxiously.

 "That would be rather going it—don't you think so?"

 "But for a friend, Rhoda—it is so important."

 "Well, as a general thing, I don't care to fib it much,
 but for a friend——"

 "Yes; for a _dear_ friend, Rhoda."

 "When a little fibbing is all I can do for her——"

 "Exactly!"

 "And it isn't for harm to any one?"

 "Quite the contrary; Rhoda. It will save us all from
 great harm."

 "Then I'll do it. Reckon I could; but don't say a word
 to Luke. Wouldn't have him think I could do it for the
 whole world, and California to boot—nor father; either."

 "That reminds me—where is your father?"

 "Father? Oh! he isn't just about for the once."

 "Well, I will see him when he comes in."

 "No; I had better do the talking; he won't be astonished
 at me."

 "Very well, Rhoda. I am so glad you will be my friend,
 for I need friends more than any poor girl ever did before."

 "Don't! don't cry! You see I can't bear that, though it
 does make you look pretty as a pink when the tears come.
 Never fear me! I'll fib for you like blazes, if it's only
 about coming and going. But will you never come
 back?"

 "I hope so."

 "Dear, dear! How lonesome it will be!"

 That moment a faint noise came from the next room,
 which brought the blood into Rhoda's face, and set her to
 work about the room, moving chairs, and rattling the stove
 with more bluster than was usual to her. Constance stood
 awhile near the door, apparently lost in thought; then she
 recovered herself with a start, and saying hastily, "We can
 depend on you, Rhoda?" went down stairs.

 That night Church called at the house again. Hudson
 had just gone out, but Constance received him with more
 cordiality that he had ever experienced before; perhaps he
 observed that her cheerfulness was a little exaggerated, and
 her laughter somewhat hysterical; but she was so pleasant
 and full of fun that he seemed content and even entranced,
 with all she said and did. Once she went out of the room
 for a moment, leaving him alone. Then he arose, walked
 on tip-toe to the bedroom-door, and opening it softly, looked
 in. A battered trunk stood in the middle of the floor, evidently
 packed close, and with a new strap buckled over it.
 He observed also that the bureau-drawers were half open,
 and quite empty; while all the little ornaments belonging to
 the room of a fanciful girl had disappeared. With something
 that sounded like a low chuckle, he closed the door,
 went back to his seat, and waited, with a slow smile creeping
 over his face.

 Directly Constance came in, full of life and spirits, but
 so nervously restless that she was perpetually moving about
 the room, dashing a few notes from the piano, or snatching
 up her work to fling it away after a moment for some new
 object.

 Church sat still, smiling quietly to himself; but there
 was a gleam in his eyes as he watched her, which few persons
 would have read clearly, the smile and the look so
 completely contradicted each other. At last he got up and
 prepared to go. Then Constance turned upon him, her
 eyes flashing, and her cheeks hot with excitement.

 "Good-night!" she said, reaching forth her hand, which
 burned in his as he clasped it "Do not call to-morrow, or
 next day—I shall not be at home."

 He asked no questions, and did not seem to be surprised,
 but wrung her hand a little viciously, and went away still
 smiling.




 CHAPTER XLVIII.

 THE FORCED CONSENT.


 The next morning, at day-break, a porter left that tenement-house,
 carrying a trunk on his shoulder. Some few
 minutes after a man and a woman followed the direction he
 had taken, the first carrying a heavy valise in his hand,
 the other bearing a well-filled satchel. The man who
 carried the trunk hailed a street-car going up town, and
 placed his burden in front, with the driver, while the two
 persons took a seat inside, and soon found themselves at the
 depot. Here Mr. Hudson bought some tickets, and was
 checking the valise and trunk, when a hand was laid
 gently on his arm.

 "No so far as that, my dear friend," said Church, in the
 softest and sweetest voice imaginable. "It would grieve
 me to part with you so."

 Hudson shrank away from the man's touch, and for an
 instant the look of a gladiator broke into his eyes.

 "How dare you follow me in this way," he would have
 said, but the words died on his lips, for he saw another man
 just behind Church, watching him narrowly.

 "Put that trunk upon the carriage, and take your own
 seat with the driver," he said, addressing the strange man.
 "Step in, Hudson; there is room for your valise inside. I
 will take charge of the young lady."

 Hudson turned deadly white, cast a despairing look on
 his daughter, and stood motionless as a statue while
 Church moved slowly toward the reception-room. Constance
 refused to take his arm, or surrender her satchel;
 but her face turned ashen with sudden terror, and the
 fierce light in her eyes was like a smouldering fire.

 Church gave no explanations, and asked none, but called
 aloud to Hudson that the carriage was waiting. When
 Constance was seated, he placed himself quietly by her
 side, took her hand in his, and kept it with gentle force, as
 if they had been the best friends on earth.

 After awhile the carriage stopped. The stranger, who
 had affected Hudson so much, got down from his seat, and
 looked into the carriage, as if for orders. Church leaned
 forward, and whispered a few words; the man nodded his
 head, went up the steps of a house, rang the bell, and
 entered it. Now, for the first time, Church spoke earnestly
 to his companions.

 "Constance, you have promised to marry me."

 "No, no!"

 "But you have—your father sanctions it."

 "He does not! He never will!" cried the girl, passionately.

 "But he does sanction it. Ask him."

 Constance cast a glance at her father, who sat white and
 shivering in a corner of the carriage. With that look
 came back all that he had told her, all the peril he was in—and
 she too began to shake with the fear that came over
 her.

 "You force him to it; he never did consent of his own
 free will!"

 "I fancy he has done very little of his own free will in
 many a day," was the cool reply. "That is nothing to me.
 I do not care for motives, facts are enough."

 "But his promise does not bind me."

 "Your own promise does."

 "But I revoke it. I never gave you one in dead earnest;
 never in my heart meant to marry you. Is that
 enough?"

 "Not quite. I came here to make you my wife, and
 mean to do it."

 "But I can't and won't be your wife!"

 "Nonsense, child! You are angry now; but this
 trifling is perilous to your father. He ought to teach you
 better."

 "I know what you mean—my father has told me everything.
 For his sake I might, I would; but it is no longer
 possible."

 "It is both possible and certain that you are my wife
 before the sun sets, or your father a prisoner—choose
 which."

 Constance looked at her father.

 "Is there no one to help us?" she pleaded.

 The old man turned his face away in gloomy silence.

 "What shall I do? What can I do, father?"

 Hudson was newly aroused by this cry; he sat up, and a
 gleam of color came into his face.

 "Have you no mercy?" he said. "I have told you that
 the poor girl loves another, a worthy man, who would make
 her a happy and good woman."

 "Loves him, does she? Well, I must say, circumstances
 have not warranted me in thinking so. But all this is of
 little consequence, the young fellow you speak of is out of
 my way, and out of the world. If you had read the papers
 faithfully, I need not have told you this."

 "What do you mean?"

 Constance seized him by the arm, her white face was close
 to his, her lips parted in wild terror.

 "What do you mean?"

 "Did you really care so much for the fellow, pretty Constance,
 after denying it so stoutly, too? Well, it almost
 pains me to give you the news; but the Indians have been
 making some ferocious raids on our railroad people of late,
 and young Sterling happened to be one of the victims."

 Constance grasped his arm with such fierce strength that
 he winced under it.

 "Is this thing true?"

 He had no pity for the anguish in that locked face; no
 compassion for the strained nerves which, for the moment,
 seemed made of steel, but took a morning journal, some
 three days old, and a more recent telegram from his pocket.

 "Read for yourself," he said, coldly. "You might not
 believe me."

 Constance could not read, the paper shook in her hand;
 the telegram seemed like a bit of blurred paper, for the
 letters all ran together.

 "Father, can you see? Can you read?" she cried out
 in her anguish. "Is it true? Oh! is it true?"

 Hudson took the paper and read a paragraph which had
 been sent to the public press, not aloud, he had no voice for
 that; but he made out the meaning, and told her that it
 was true. William Sterling had been killed only a few days
 after he reached the station appointed for his first duties, in
 a sudden raid of the Indians.

 When the paragraph was completed, he dropped the
 paper and turned to Constance. She had given no sign of
 distress, not even a sob broke from those ashen lips; but
 white, and still as death itself, she fell forward into the old
 man's arms.

 A face looked into the carriage-window—the same face
 that had so startled Hudson.

 "He is at home, and ready, sir."

 "Too late—the lady is ill!"

 "Have you tortured us enough? Can I take this poor
 child home?" asked Hudson, sternly.

 "It is not I that have tortured you, Hudson. As for the
 girl, you know well enough I would do anything to save her
 a moment's sorrow. Be reasonable. You were attempting
 to cheat me, and I outgeneraled you, that is all."

 "No; it is not all—you have nearly killed her. More
 than that, I solemnly believe you have been the cause of
 that young man's death. No one who crosses your path
 ever escapes."




 CHAPTER XLIX.

 THE DESPERATE BRIDAL.


 Church laughed: it might have been in derision of the
 charge which Hudson had made against him, or that he accepted
 it as a triumphant fact.

 The laugh sent a shiver through the young girl, who, till
 that moment, had rested like a dead creature on her
 father's bosom. The words of her father had aroused her
 to consciousness; that answering laugh kindled all her
 realized life into rage, silent and bitter as death. A hot,
 red color flashed in and out of her face, kindling it as with
 living fire one moment, and leaving it like ashes the next.
 The conviction that Church had conspired to murder her
 husband, fastened upon her from that moment.

 "Are you better, Constance?" Church inquired, in his
 low, soft voice.

 "Better? Oh, yes! I am much better, thank you," she
 answered, in a voice so hoarse and changed, that it disturbed
 him with momentary doubts.

 "Then why not go in, as I had arranged? The minister
 is ready; your father is willing, I answer for that. You
 shall never repent it, Constance, for I love you dearly."

 Hudson, whose arm was still around Constance, felt her
 shiver at these words as if a cold blast were sweeping by—but
 she did not speak.

 "If I have any power over your father, such as he has
 told you of, it will end the moment you become my wife."

 Again some cold blast seemed to pass over the girl. She
 leaned toward her father and whispered,

 "Is this so? Would it save you from him?"

 "He has the notes—let him give them up," was the
 faint reply.

 Church heard it, and answered,

 "Consent, Constance, and they shall be given up before
 we leave the carriage."

 She looked steadily through the carriage-window and
 spoke like one in a trance.

 "Give them to me here, and this moment! It is in me
 to break his chains now. In another hour—who knows how
 I may feel in another hour?"

 Hudson held his breath; the next moment might set him
 free of an awful fear—but he thought of the cost and interfered.

 "No, Constance."

 "Father, I will!"

 "But take a little time—this news has driven you mad."

 "Then I am the more fit for this work. Yes, sir, I _am_
 mad! I thirst for something that will surely come to your
 cost if you marry me so. Have you the courage?"

 "Have I the courage to marry you, Constance? Yes;
 if I had to pass through an army of demons to reach the
 altar."

 "When you know that I do not love you; that I hate
 myself for ever having taken your gifts, or listened to you
 for one minute; that I look upon you as—as——"

 "Only look upon me as your husband; as a man who
 adores you, and will _make_ you love him. That will be
 enough!"

 "But I warn you."

 "Dear Constance, you are angry now—you think that I
 have been harsh with your father. It was you that made
 me so. When I saw you attempting to evade me, that was
 all the power I had to hold you back. I am his friend.
 When you are my wife, his interests will be mine—I will
 befriend him as no son-in-law ever did before."

 Constance lifted her hand to check him.

 "Give me those papers."

 Church beckoned to the man who had gone back to the
 side-walk, and was pacing up and down in a slow, thoughtful
 way.

 "Here," he said, reaching forth his hand, and dropping
 some money into the other's palm, "we shall not need you.
 Good-morning."

 The man bowed and walked away, whistling softly to
 himself.

 When the persons in the carriage were left to themselves,
 Church drew forth a small package from his pocket and
 handed it to Hudson, who shrank back at first; but on the
 second instant snatched at it eagerly, and began to look the
 papers over with trembling hands.

 Constance watched him steadily, her features hard and
 white, her eyes glittering.

 "They are right—they are all here; but, oh! my child,
 rather than see you so sacrificed, I would gladly go with
 that man."

 "Hush, father!"

 Constance drew the travelling shawl around her shoulders,
 and arose.

 "Come, father, and see your chains drop away."

 Church descended from the carriage and reached out his
 hand. She did not touch it, but stepped to the pavement
 without help, and walked firmly up the steps.

 Hudson followed unsteadily, like a drunken man shivering
 and reeling in his walk, holding the forged notes tightly in
 his grasp, and looking at them every other moment, as if
 they had been serpents that could sting him.

 Thus, filled with bitter antagonism, each soul in revolt
 against the other, these three persons entered the clergyman's
 dwelling.




 CHAPTER L.

 OFF INTO DARKNESS.


 That night a train going southward bore Church and
 Constance away from the city. Hudson went with them to
 the depot, haggard and miserable in spite of the sudden
 freedom that had fallen upon him; Constance seemed to
 have grown hard and stern since the ceremony of that
 morning. She neither shed a tear, or uttered a moan; but
 this cold steadiness chilled him to the heart; it was so unlike
 anything he had seen in the girl before.

 "Father, you will write to me?"

 "Yes, daughter—and you?"

 "Sometimes; but I shall come back soon!"

 "Has he promised that?"

 "_I_ have."

 There was a sneer on that beautiful lip. Truly, this man
 Church would not find the young girl he had tempted and
 distorted a facile tool, even in his adroit hands.

 "Ah! here you are, large as life; saw your face at the
 carriage·window; knew the trunk, too; cut after it with all
 my might; hadn't been gone an hour before the post-man
 brought this."

 Rhoda Weeks was all in a glow from hard running; the
 matches were tumbled about in her basket; her bonnet had
 blown back, and every article of dress around her seemed in
 commotion. She thrust a letter in Constance's hand, who
 put it mechanically into her pocket. Nothing seemed to
 have the power of arousing that poor bride from the iron
 stillness that had fallen upon her. In a moment she
 seemed to have forgotten Rhoda's presence, though the
 girl was looking wistfully into her face, expecting some
 thanks for the exertion she had made.

 "Well, if you won't speak to me, I'll go," she said, at
 last, choking down a sob of disappointment.

 Then Constance aroused herself and tried to smile.

 "You here, little Rhoda? Come to bid us good-by—that
 is kind. I—I am so glad to see you again. How long
 it is since morning—don't you think so, little Rhoda?
 Don't look so miserable, child—even days like this have an
 end; the sun is setting now. Oh! how I wish it would
 never rise again!"

 "Why, Constance, how you look. What's the matter?"

 "Do I? Oh, nothing! Kiss me, little Rhoda, we have
 been good friends."

 "Except a little spat now and then," said Rhoda, who
 was naturally a truthful creature.

 "Oh! that is nothing, child, we are friends for all of that.
 You see I have so few friends—no one but you in the wide
 world."

 Rhoda felt tears stealing into her eyes, and kneeling on
 the floor, began to assort her matches, hoping thus to conceal
 that she was crying. Lifting her head, she saw Mr.
 Church coming toward them, and starting up, prepared to be
 off.

 "Oh, mercy! if there an't old Church, with his gray
 mustacher and shiny boots. Good-by! Good-by!"

 Away the little creature darted, jerking her bonnet forward
 as she went. Constance looked after her with a wild,
 yearning wish to break away and follow her back to the old
 home, which seemed to her a paradise from which she was
 shut out forever.

 "Come, darling, the ferry-boat is here."

 With a start and a pang, which brought back all the
 present, she rejected the man's arm, but walked on board
 the boat.

 Hudson followed her in mournful silence; all the joy of
 his freedom was broken up by the certainty that, to save
 him, that poor girl was enslaved, and probably separated
 from him forevermore.

 They stood upon the platform together. Church was in
 high spirits; the indomitable vanity of the man sustained
 him, as a consciousness of right would have given hope to a
 better person. He could not doubt that a few months of
 devotion and profuse liberality in all the sources of enjoyment
 at his command, would entice this beautiful young
 creature into his life so completely, that she would be as much
 his slave as the man had been who watched them with such
 despairing eyes. As for any lasting fancy for the young
 man, from whom he had so adroitly separated his bride, he
 smiled at the idea. Where was the youth or comeliness
 which could match his plotting brain and indomitable will?
 The girl was his, married solemnly by all the ties that can
 bind a woman at the altar—the rest was in his own power.
 What woman ever had, or could resist him? Not the half-formed,
 impulsive young creature, whom he had seized so
 ruthlessly and swept into his own life that morning.

 The bell rang, the soft puffs of the engine grew louder
 and stronger, the train began to vibrate. Hudson took
 Constance in his arms, and would have blessed her, but the
 words died in his throat. She was cold as marble, but
 shook in every fibre, as marble never can.

 "Come," said Church, gently, "the train will be moving."

 Constance turned upon him quickly, her face white, her
 lips quivering; some bitter word trembled there, but it found
 no utterance. She stepped into the car, and he followed
 her, waving his hand lightly to the poor father.

 The train moved, leaving Hudson on the platform, gazing
 wildly after it. He longed to see that face once more
 looking back upon him; but it did not appear, nor the hand
 waving a last adieu, which might have softened the keen
 sense of desolation and self reproach that fell upon him.
 All was blank along that long line of windows. Then came
 a confused rattle of wheels, puffs of curling smoke followed
 the sweep of the train, which spread out into a broad curtain
 of vapory gray, and disappeared in a sombre mist, which
 seemed to wrap itself and settle all around him, filling the
 atmosphere with gloom.




 CHAPTER LI.

 RHODA HIDES AWAY HER HOUSEHOLD SKELETON.


 Luke came home from the theatre weary and saddened
 as no fatigue could have left him. His step was heavy as
 he came up stairs; his eyes dim with grief that was too
 proud for weeping. He flung his violin-case on the bed
 with a jar that made the instrument within send forth a
 faint wail. Then he lay down quietly by it, and covering
 his face with both hands, gave way to the grief that overwhelmed
 him. His mouth, so feminine in its sweetness,
 began to quiver, a flush of red glowed on such portions of
 his forehead as the hands did not conceal.

 "She did not look toward me, not once—not once!" he
 complained, turning suddenly, and throwing his arm over
 the violin, as if that had some power to comfort him.
 "Not once, and I know that she is going away. Oh! that
 terrible West! it swallows up everything that we love—the
 good lady, pretty Constance, and now her——"

 The door of the outer room opened softly, and Rhoda
 came in, leading her father by the hand, or, rather, dragging
 him along with all her little might, scolding him
 whenever she could get breath enough for speech.

 "How could you do it, you wicked, wicked, old darling?
 How could you go down there and get yourself unsteady
 again? Don't you know that the neighbors see it, and
 talk about it, and make fun? The next time I'll lock you
 in and put the key in my pocket. I will."

 "No you won't, little one—no you won't do any such
 thing, you pint of cider—you threatening your own father.
 I—I'm ashamed of you, Rhoda. I'm hu—humili—ated
 and dread—dreadfully dis—cou—couraged. Remember
 the scripters, Bi—Bible, I—I mean. Hon—hon—or thy
 fa—fa—ther and th—thy mo——"

 "Oh, father, father! don't say that! Don't mention her
 name when the drink is hot on your lips—I can't stand it,"
 cried Rhoda, seizing the little, dry hand which was waving
 to and fro, with a motion feeble as his broken speech.
 "Don't, don't mention _her_."

 "Why—why not? She was a—a splendid—a—a——"

 "Father, father! I won't hear it. Stop now this minute.
 What do you want to hurt me so, for?"

 Here Weeks was seized with a fit of maudlin tenderness,
 and throwing out his arms, half fell from his chair in attempting
 to embrace the child, who evaded him, for his hot
 breath made her faint.

 She sat down a little way off in piteous distress. "Oh,
 dear! what can I do—what can I do?" she cried out,
 wringing her little hands. "He grows worse and worse. I
 can't keep him in the house, all I can do; the neighbors
 will find us out. Oh, father, dear! please, please don't go
 down to the corner again."

 "No, not go—go to the cor—cor—ner. Who—who's
 b—been to—to—to the cor——"

 Here poor little Weeks gave out, his head drooped on his
 breast, and his eyes closed, both hands fell heavily, he
 became quite oblivious of the poor child and everything
 else.

 That moment Luke came out of the bedroom, his fine
 eyes heavy with sadness, and his lips tremulous. He stole
 up to Rhoda and put an arm around her neck. She started
 and looked around.

 "Oh! it is only you, Luke! I thought it might be some
 one else come to pity us, you know."

 "Shall I help you get him into the bed-room, Rhoda?"

 "Yes, yes; people are always coming in."

 Rhoda shook her father, who opened his heavy eyes with
 a stare, and made him attempt to stand up.

 "Wha—what is—is it? Fi—fire! N—no. It's only
 a doz—dozen candles ho—hop—ping about. Stop 'em—stop
 'em."

 "Come to bed, father, come. It's getting late, and you
 are not well," said Luke, allowing the little man to rest on
 him.

 "Never—never bet—better in my life; but, as it's you,
 I'll go to bed cer—certainly. I—I will."

 So Luke, staggering under the weight of his father's
 heavy pressure, led the old man away, and soon a deep,
 sonorous breathing proved that he had sunk into a profound
 sleep. Then Luke came into the room again, and sat down
 despondent enough, while Rhoda went up to his chair and
 leaned upon it, sighing wearily.

 "What is the matter now, Luke? Something more
 than father, I can see."

 The boy lifted his fine eyes to hers, and answered with
 frank mournfulness.

 "Rhoda, she is going away!"

 "Going away? Where?"

 "Out west."

 "How do you know, Luke?"

 "This way. Last night I followed her home from the
 theatre. I always do that, Rhoda, and I think she knows
 it; for sometimes I slip a little bunch of flowers into her
 hand; sometimes I hold the carriage-door when she gets in,
 and then she thanks me, you know. To-night she stood in
 the lobby while her father spoke to a gentleman, and I
 heard him say that the whole family were going west, to be
 gone he was not sure how long. He had interests in some
 town where the railroad is to be, and was going to live
 there. Oh, Rhoda! it seemed as if I would faint, the words
 came on me so suddenly. _She_ turned and looked at me,
 smiling; but when she saw my face, the smile was gone;
 and reaching out her hand for the flowers I held, she said
 very softly, 'Good-bye. I shall miss your music and your
 flowers where we are going.'

 "Rhoda, my hand trembled so it dropped the flowers. I
 fell on my knees to gather them up, and so kissed her foot
 under the hem of her dress, for the crowd was great, and
 no one could see how my poor heart was breaking.

 "When I gave her the flowers, she shook my hand _so_
 kindly, and said she hoped to see me again some time.
 Oh, Rhoda! that word breaks my heart. When will it
 be? When can it be?"

 "Don't fret, Luke. You have your music left," said
 Rhoda, sadly at a loss for some means of consolation; for
 her bright, practical nature found it difficult to comprehend
 the passion and sensitive refinement of his; "besides, I
 will be _so_ good to you."

 "You always are good to me," answered the lad, with a
 mist of tears in his large eyes.

 Rhoda kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair like a
 little old woman; and then the tears began to drop large
 and fast, for the boy no longer tried to restrain them.

 "No," said Rhoda, smitten with self-reproach, "I didn't
 sew the buttons on your tunic after last week's wash, and
 you had to fasten it with a pin. It shan't happen any
 more; but I was _so_ tired that night, and he came home so—but
 never mind that, you needn't trouble about buttons,
 I promise you."




 CHAPTER LII.

 MUSIC AMONG THE FLOWERS.


 Luke hardly knew what his sister was saying, though
 he looked at her earnestly all the time before he made this
 mournful answer.

 "Oh, Rhoda! shall I never see her again?"

 "Do you love her so very much, brother Luke?"

 "Love her? Do boys love angels or worship them?"

 "Well, I don't know which; but you see, Luke, this is
 all poetry, and so on. Whoever heard of an angel with a
 bird's wing on its hat, and high-heeled Butler boots on its
 feet? It isn't to reason."

 "Don't—don't talk in that way, Rhoda. It makes me
 shiver."

 Rhoda got a little out of patience here, and began to set
 back the chairs with great energy.

 "Do you want to see her again so very much, Luke?"

 "Do I want to see her? Haven't I said so?"

 "When are they going out west?"

 "I don't know. She said nothing about the time."

 "Oh, indeed! Then what are you fretting about? It
 may be months from this; you will see her fifty times.
 She will be at the theatre to-morrow night, I dare say."

 Luke brightened out of his despondency and sat upright.

 "Do you really think so, Rhoda?"

 "Think so? Of course I do. Now go to bed, and——"

 "No," said Luke, buttoning his tunic. "I—I will go
 out a little while."

 "What, this time of night?"

 "Oh! it isn't so very late. Never mind me."

 Luke went into the bedchamber, and came out again
 carrying his father's violin, which he made a vain effort to
 hide under his tunic. But Rhoda saw it, and called out,

 "Father's Cremona! What are you going to do with
 that?"

 Luke came close to her, and whispered eagerly,

 "Rhoda, don't, don't make a noise. I've done it before;
 and she looked out of the window. It doesn't make her
 angry."

 "Done—done what, Luke?

 "Why, played under her window. I have found a way
 through the garden of the corner house into theirs—a
 little place full of roses, white jasmines, and borders of
 heliotrope, with a balcony all overrun with honeysuckles.
 _Her_ room is just above the balcony. You needn't look so,
 child, it has never made her angry. Indeed, I think she
 likes it."

 "And you are going there to-night?"

 "Yes, now that you have brought me back to life. I forgot
 that there was no time mentioned. Perhaps she will
 speak to me, Rhoda."

 "Well, perhaps she will. I know that I would. If any
 boy was to bring even a jews'-harp and play it under my
 window, and there was a piece of pie or cake in the house,
 I'd drop it to him, sure."

 "Kiss me, Rhoda—I'll be back soon. Just leave the
 door on the latch."

 Luke went down stairs with a light step, carrying the
 Cremona under his arm; and after a brisk walk, and a hard
 scramble over some high yard-fences, stood in a little inclosure
 of flowers, that gave out their delicious odors to the
 night, and made respiration a pleasure as he passed through
 them. Climbing softly, he mounted to the balcony, forcing
 his way through the honeysuckles that rained a shower
 of fragrant dew on him in return; and directly the faintest
 and sweetest strains of music that ever thrilled a summer
 night with harmony, came stealing out from that shelter of
 flowers.

 A young girl lay sleeping sweetly in the room overhead.
 The moonlight stole in upon her through the volumes of
 white lace that floated over the window and the bed, silvering
 them with a delicate transparency, and etherealizing the
 lovely face that lay beneath; one soft cheek resting on her
 hand, as Murillo puts his cherubs to sleep among the clouds;
 dark hair of shadowy brown lay in waves on the pillow.
 An arm, not yet rounded to its full promise of beauty, lay
 in relief on the counterpane, looking still and white as marble,
 with the loose sleeves falling back from it and lying in
 a wave across the shoulder.

 The girl stirred in her sleep, and a smile crept over her
 mouth—that music was sighing through her young heart
 even in its slumber. Louder and sweeter the strains swelled
 up to the chamber, and with them came a soft wind and the
 curtains stirred gently as clouds float in the heavens. Then
 the girl began to move amid the whiteness of her couch; both
 hands were lifted to her face, and fell away again, leaving
 the eyes wide open and full of pleasant wonder. She rose
 to her elbow, flung back the lace, and advancing her beautiful
 head into the moonlight, listened in a trance of delight.

 "How sweet! how lovely! Oh! if papa were here to
 listen! I wonder if it will reach him! I will wake him.
 It seems wicked to enjoy this all to myself."

 Dora started up, put on a loose dress, and with her pretty
 feet gleaming like marble on the rich colors of the carpet,
 stole to the door of her father's room.

 "Papa, mamma, wake up and listen!" she said, looking
 into the darkened chamber; "that handsome boy from the
 theatre is hid away in the honeysuckles again playing like
 an angel. Listen! listen!"

 Back Eudora went to her chamber, and leaning out of
 the window, gave herself up to the music, happy because she
 knew that her delight was shared by the two beings she
 loved best, and with whom, up to this time, she had shared
 every thought of her soul.

 Luke saw the girl from his covert among the honeysuckles,
 with the moonlight glorifying her young face, and
 those masses of shadowy hair throwing it out in exquisite
 relief. A love of the beautiful was strong in the boy's heart
 as his thirst for music; and with that came the sweet agony
 of a first love, such as no man ever felt, but which sometimes
 lifts a child to a level with the angels.

 When he saw her leaning above him, a thrill, more subtle
 and exquisite than his own music, ran through his delicate
 frame, and gave a tremor to his fingers that made the notes
 beneath them shiver into a delicious silence.

 Eudora leaned forward and listened eagerly—was he
 gone? Had she aroused her parents too late?

 "Luke!"

 She had never spoken his name before. How did she
 know it? Luke! How sweetly the one syllable dropped
 from her lips; he could see them move in the moonlight like
 rose-buds cleaving together.

 She knew that he was there by the shadows gathering
 around him in the balcony, and called out again,

 "Luke! Luke!"

 The boy came out from his shelter and raised his face to
 look upon her.

 "You are not angry with me?"

 "Angry? No, no! It was like waking up in heaven.
 I never heard that air before."

 "I have another. It came to me after I had seen you.
 Please don't move—don't look away."

 The violin was lifted lovingly to his shoulder, and once
 more the music that sprang out of his own genius, clear and
 perfect as the fall of crystal water-drops on marble, made the
 flowers around him vibrate and drop their dew into the
 moonlight lovingly, like a rain of happy tears. Eudora
 never moved, but bent over the window-sill entranced. She
 heard her father's window open, and called out,

 "Oh, papa! isn't it lovely?"

 The boy got frightened, now, and leaped over the balcony,
 afraid to look upward, and burning with sensitive shame.

 But a kind voice called him back.

 "Let us have more of your music," it said, "Do not go
 away just yet."

 Luke moved under shelter of the balcony, and again filled
 the air with sweet sounds; but the zest and glory of his
 evening was gone. He dared not look up at Eudora's window
 as he had done before, and a discord now and then
 broke the harmony that had been so perfect a few minutes
 before.

 Eudora felt no such restraint, but reached out her hand
 for a tiny bouquet of white jasmines and moss rose-buds,
 which stood in a champagne-glass on her toilet, and dropped
 it through the moonlight to the boy's feet. His music
 stopped instantly; he stooped, seized upon the flowers, and
 lifting his glowing face one moment to the window, darted
 toward the fence, and disappeared over it. Once on the
 other side, he fell upon his knees, pressing the flowers to his
 lips again and again, as if they had been living things that
 could give back his caresses. He heard the windows of the
 house he had left close; and struck all at once by the stillness
 of the night, went home holding the bouquet to his
 lips from time to time as he went.

 "Is that you, Luke?" inquired Rhoda, arousing herself
 from the depths of her father's arm-chair, in which she had
 fallen sound asleep. "How long you have been!"

 She was rubbing her little fists into her eyes, and stretching
 herself like a baby, when he came up and kissed her
 with a fervor that brought her eyes wide open on the
 instant.

 "What is that? What is it you have got? My, how
 sweet it smells!"

 "Don't! Don't touch it, Rhoda! She gave it to me!"

 "She! What, the young lady?"

 "Yes; and, Rhoda, I—I almost believe—well, I know
 that she touched it with her mouth before she dropped it.

 "Oh, Luke! how can you?"

 "But she did, and her father saw it; so did her mother,
 for I am sure they were behind the curtains—so there
 couldn't be harm in it."

 "No," said Rhoda, "no harm in the world, but she might
 have flung down a half-dollar instead. What do we want
 with bouquets?"

 "A half-dollar! Rhoda Weeks, I'm ashamed of you!"
 cried out the boy, flushed red with angry pain.

 "Well," said Rhoda, fluttering around him like a frightened
 bird, "I'm sure I can't see why money isn't just as
 good as flowers; especially as it can buy 'em up like fun any
 day. But you know best, Luke; I don't want to make
 things disagreeable, only just now money is awful scarce
 with us. He uses a good deal, you know."

 Rhoda gave her thumb a little jerk over her shoulder
 toward the bed-room, and went on again. "Why, Luke, he'll
 swallow up a whole bundle of matches at a single drink,
 and keep doing it over and over again till I'm discouraged;
 that is why money seems the first thing with me."

 Luke listened to her in a bewildered way, and grew restless
 under her practical cares. Wholesome and honorable
 though they were, he felt them as a discord after the tender
 harmonies which were still haunting him.

 "Good-night," he said, gently. "It is late, I think."

 Rhoda watched him for a moment in silence, and when
 his door was shut, curled herself up in the great easy-chair,
 wondering why his eyes were so full of light, and why he
 had become so beautiful all at once.

 "Can a handsome girl, with feathers in her hat, and heels
 to her boots, do all that, I wonder, with a boy like our Luke?
 Now, I've worked and worked, and sewed buttons, and
 sold matches for him ever so long, and he don't seem to care
 for it all so much as he cares for that sneaky little bunch of
 flowers. Well, never mind, I'll push the old clothes business
 on, and get boots and heels for myself. It's them
 things that do it; and she shan't get my Luke away from
 me without a tussle. I ought to have been shut up on breadand-water
 for sending him to the theatre with them little
 baskets—they did it. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" Here Rhoda
 let herself out of the chair, and was creeping to bed, feeling
 very lonely and disconsolate, when a knock at the door
 called her back.

 It was Mr. Hudson, whom she had not seen since his
 daughter's marriage!

 "I saw a light from under your door," he said, "and
 come up for some matches."

 "Then you have come home. Dear, dear! I am so glad!
 Here are the matches, help yourself, and welcome. How
 is Miss Constance? When did you see her? Is she with
 you?"

 "She is quite well, thank you, Rhoda," answered the
 man, in a voice that struck the child as more brisk and resolute
 than that she had been used to in the old times. "How
 is Weeks and my friend, Luke? Well, I hope."

 "Oh, splendid! Anything else, Mr. Hudson?"

 "Nothing, thank you."

 Hudson stole down stairs, unlocked his parlor, and went
 into the darkness there for the first time since his daughter's
 wedding. After some moments he came out again, and
 called to Rhoda from the stairs, asking her if she would be
 kind enough to have the rooms aired and put in order, as he
 was coming back again for a time, and might bring some one
 with him.

 Rhoda promised everything he desired, and all the next
 day was busy as a bird in the spring, putting everything to
 the best advantage in that dismal little parlor.




 CHAPTER LIII.

 THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LADY IN WASHINGTON GIVES A
 DINNER PARTY.


 She stood before her mirror, preparing to descend into the
 magnificent drawing room below, in which the guests for
 a sumptuous dinner party would assemble in a few minutes,—stood
 and looked at herself with a glow of such proud satisfaction
 as perfect beauty might well bring to its possessor.

 You would not have known this beautiful woman at the
 first glance, for she was a vision of loveliness so different
 and superior to anything you have seen in Constance Hudson,
 that her best friend might have hesitated to claim her
 as the girl who had passed under that name. She seemed
 taller, for the robust health of her first youth had softened
 into exquisite delicacy of outline; violet shadows lay under
 her eyes, and the thick curling lashes seemed to have grown
 longer; but this change was nothing to the brightness and
 glory that had fallen upon her hair; a golden hue kindled
 its deep soft brown into something radiant, changing the
 whole face so materially that the woman scarcely recognised
 herself.

 "Madam can hardly recognise herself," lisped the French
 maid who stood behind her, smoothing down the loops of a
 sash in which she had mingled the gossamer lightness of a
 Brussels lace scarf, which flowed like a mist over the folds
 of her satin dress, and lost itself in the train as clouds melt
 into the blue of a summer sky, "It is superb. There will
 not be a toilet that can equal it."

 Constance turned quickly. The fire that struck from the
 diamonds on her bosom, quivered like lightning athwart the
 glass, and completely dazzled her.

 "You are right," she said, with a tone of sadness running
 through the triumph in her voice. "I should not
 know myself."

 "Here is Madame's fan, and a tiny bouquet which Monsieur
 Church desires that you should wear for his sake."

 A slight frown contracted that clear forehead, and the
 red lips curved.

 "Put them away," she said. "I do not like the perfume.
 Besides, it is enough that I have accepted his diamonds.
 Give me my fan and my handkerchief. Now
 shake out the folds of my train. I am going down."

 Standing just within the drawing-room door, and looking
 out into the broad hall, stood the master of the house,
 waiting for a first glance of the woman who had so grown
 into his heart, that his love for her had become almost
 abject worship. His heart leaped as he heard the soft rustle
 of her movement, and saw the silken-clad foot plant
 itself lightly on the first step of the broad staircase, adown
 which her dress swept in waves as she descended toward
 him in all her superb loveliness.

 The man absolutely trembled as he reached forth his
 hand to welcome her. She did not touch it even in thankfulness
 for the jewels that blazed upon her bosom, but held
 up her dress with one hand, and occupied the other with
 her handkerchief, passing him by with a careless nod and
 more careless "thank you," as she entered the drawing-room.

 "Ah, this is beautiful," she said, looking around for some
 object that made the air fragrant with odors, and advancing
 to a great vase overflowing with hot-house flowers, which took
 her by surprise. A card lay among the blossoms "From
 the President!" "How kind," she added, with a certain
 haughty carelessness, as if such gifts were common to her.

 "Few ladies in Washington can boast of a compliment
 like that, Mrs. Church," said the master of the house,
 drawing close to Constance, and attempting to steal his arm
 around her waist, but she evaded him with a graceful sweep
 of the person, saying:

 "Oh yes, I understand how pleasant such things would
 be, if they always came for the first time, and to no one
 else. Dear me, here comes another huge arrangement of
 flowers; bring them in Mr. Church, and let me know
 who they are from."

 Church took a basket of flowers from the servant who
 was bringing them in, and carried them to his wife.

 "From Senator ——," she said, opening a note that
 came with the basket—"how tiresome the man is getting to
 be. Thinks they will be pretty for my table, does he?
 Well, let them be put somewhere, among the ornaments.
 This is a bribe for the privilege of leading me in—but it's
 no go. I—" Constance checked herself, and turned crimson,
 but cast a defiant look on her husband, as if daring him
 to say a word about this little outbreak of her old character.

 "I only wish it were etiquette to lead you in myself,"
 said the husband, "to own the truth, Constance, I almost
 hate the man who takes you from my side under any pretence."

 "I dare say. You are awfully jealous, a mole might see
 that—for the life of me I cannot tell why; for these great
 men we hear so much about dwindle down to nothing when
 we get close to them. Here, John, take these and arrange
 them on the table—came from the public hot-house, I dare
 say," added the reckless woman, as the servant carried off
 her flowers. "The people taxed to pay for every blossom,
 or the men up yonder would not be half so liberal."

 "Ah, Constance, the admiration of these men has spoiled
 you," said Church, rather pleased with her imperial disdain.

 "Their admiration—no, no, Mr. Church, I am not child
 enough for that—but here comes a guest."

 There had been no sound of a carriage, but the door
 opened, and Constance caught a glimpse of a rather tall and
 spare man in black, who bent forward in his swift walk up
 the hall, moving with a sort of plunge, as if he had some
 enemy ahead which he hoped to pounce upon.

 "It is Crist," said Church, speaking under his breath, as
 if afraid that the name would not be received with favor by
 the haughty woman at his side.

 "What, that wretch! How came he with an invitation,
 I sent him none?" Constance demanded, with prompt
 repudiation in her voice and manner.

 "But I did, Mrs. Church, and it is important that you
 receive him with civility at least, if you have any regard
 for your husband's interest."

 "But he is under the ban already. Charges are made
 before some committee against him, for conduct official and
 social, that make him an unfit associate for any honest man
 or respectable woman—one of our invited guests is chairman
 of that committee."

 Church laughed and rubbed his gloved hands with infinite
 relish of the simplicity betrayed by this speech.

 "What does all that amount to? They will meet like
 bosom friends; Crist has patronage which his judges will
 not like to disturb. You will see, you will see."




 CHAPTER LIV.

 MR. CRIST.


 Mr. Crist came into the room, black from head to foot
 save for the snowy linen at his bosom and wrists, where it fell
 over a pair of immaculately white gloves. Certainly the
 man had done his best to appear like a gentleman, and even
 held himself almost upright as he came in.

 "Ah! Crist, you are welcome. I am glad you came
 early, it gives us a few minutes for conversation. My dear,
 it is Mr. Crist."

 "Yes, I know," answered Constance, reaching out a
 reluctant hand. "One sees Mr. Crist so often that he
 hardly requires a presentation. But you have something
 to say to each other."

 With a wave of her hand, Constance left the two men,
 and passing under a cloud of amber-hued silk that supplied
 the place of folding doors, entered the blue saloon
 beyond, where she sat down, flushed with indignation, angrily
 beating the carpet with her foot, and striking her fan
 against her knee with a force that shattered the delicate
 pearl handle all to pieces.

 "I hate this man," she muttered, "they are too much
 alike—always some privacy between them. If I cared
 enough about either of them to ask, their secret, whatever
 it is, would not be one long. I was born to find such things
 out; but to have him here, when every invitation was to be
 select! I have half a mind to order him out of the house."

 As Constance muttered these things to herself, a little
 confusion arose in front of the house, and Church came forward,
 looked through the curtains, and called to her,

 "Constance—Constance, your guests are at the door."

 Sure enough! a carriage drew up at the house; a gust of
 fresh air swept in through the front door, and with it came
 a rustle of silks, the gleam of white opera cloaks, and the
 fall of gliding feet as they went up to the dressing-room.
 Then another, and still another carriage, and a bevy of
 stately men and pretty women fluttered into the soft wax-light
 that flooded the drawing-room, in which the most
 beautiful and popular woman in Washington waited to receive
 them.

 The most trying position for any American lady is a dinner
 table in the national capital, where the best intellect
 and most brilliant wit of the country is sure to be met, and
 mere beauty goes to the wall, unless sustained by superior
 ability. But even here, Constance sustained herself well.
 With her, rare natural capacity took the place of elaborate
 accomplishments. From her first plunge into the fashionable
 life of the metropolis, she had measured her own quick
 wit and ready tact with others, and maintained her self-confidence
 so well, that no man or woman would have
 guessed that all these scenes were new to her.

 That night, Constance was resplendent; no hostess ever
 received her guests with finer wit, or more cordial hospitality.
 In that broad, soft light, amid the glitter of crystal
 and gleam of silver, with the sweet breath of blooming
 flowers floating around her, the girl we have known in that
 faded and stifling tenement parlor, might have passed for a
 queen among her subjects—for the woman filled her station
 with the graceful talent of a practiced diplomat.

 Church, who sat opposite his wife, watched her that night
 with a glow of genuine pride. Who among all that brilliant
 party could compare with his wife? Even the sumptuous
 wealth with which he surrounded her, seemed too little
 for a nature so fair, so witty, and so exquisitely genial. No
 wonder the man who sat next her seemed entranced by that
 clear sweet voice and sparkling conversation. But one
 thing annoyed him. Mr. Crist, by an arrangement of his
 own, had been placed at the left hand of the hostess, who
 resented the intrusion by scarcely noticing him. This made
 the fox-like face of her unwelcome guest lower ominously,
 and he cast sharp glances across the table, that pierced
 Church like arrows.

 Other things had arisen to anger this man, who was nothing
 more in fact than the head of an important bureau in
 the Treasury department, but who, by audacity and an
 adroit way of granting favors, had lifted himself into a sort
 of companionship with the statesmen who made him. But
 a disgraceful odium had been cast around the man of late;
 and the guests at that table recognized his presence with a
 coldness that disturbed both him and his host. So a strange,
 surly expression came over his face, as he sat by this brilliant
 woman, which made him look older and sterner than
 you would have thought him, if you judged him only from
 that iron gray beard and hair.

 Constance cared nothing about his discontent, but turned
 her white shoulder more decidedly upon him, and went on
 sparkling and fascinating every one around her. When she
 arose from the table, and entered the drawing-room, Church
 managed to get near her, and she saw that fierce displeasure
 burned in his eyes.

 "Woman, are you mad? Beware how you insult my
 friends in this fashion."

 Constance heard this fierce whisper, gave her husband a
 haughty stare, and went on with her conversation, though
 she heard his breath come quick, and his teeth grind together
 in ominous fury.

 When the party broke up that night, this man Crist remained
 behind; for Church had urged his stay, hoping that
 Constance would atone, by some graceful concession, for her
 dangerous rudeness. But with the lofty disdain of a goddess
 she swept from the room, and went up stairs, passing
 out of their sight like some tropical bird, heedless of snares,
 and defying all danger.




 CHAPTER LV.

 THE UNOPENED LETTER.


 It had been arranged before this dinner party was given,
 that Church was to take Constance back to visit her father,
 on the next day. She thought of this with a flutter of
 mingled delight and dread, as she left those two men together.
 Some preparations were to be made for the journey,
 and, up to this time, she had forgotten to give any
 orders regarding them.

 Letters had frequently passed between Constance and her
 father, but they were all vague and unsatisfactory on both
 sides. That which lay deepest in the heart of each, could
 not be written about; so their correspondence was mere surface
 writing,—husks incapable of satisfying any hunger of
 the soul. Up to this time, the woman had shrank from
 meeting her father face to face, lest he should see all the
 feverish misery brought on her by the sacrifice she had
 made. She was brave enough to desire concealment of the
 vulture, whose beak was forever gnawing toward her heart.
 But about this time her robust health commenced to give
 way, and a longing came upon her to speak with the old
 man for whom she had suffered so much.

 Church had consented, and in the morning they were to
 set forth. She thought of this with a thrill of expectation,
 while mounting the stairs, and then remembered another
 thing. That day was the anniversary of her marriage with
 Church. It was a year since then—a year since she had
 known herself a widow.

 This thought had shot through her soul more than once
 that day, but she resolutely put it aside. Now it would not
 be evaded, but came back upon her with overwhelming force.
 The feverish excitement of the night was over, and she had
 no power to resist the mournful truth. Notwithstanding
 her beauty, her wit, and the homage amounting almost to
 adoration that met her on every side, she was a miserable,
 miserable woman.

 A pretty dressing room opened from the bed chamber
 which Constance occupied, and in it she spent most of her
 time. She entered this apartment, feeling weary and depressed;
 for amid all this splendor the young creature had
 no real enjoyment. In her highest social triumphs the heart
 in her bosom was constantly crying out in anguish for the
 love which had passed away from her forever. Go where
 she would, say what she would, that one form was eternally
 by her side, that one voice whispered in her ear.

 This evening, the woman who had sparkled like a star in
 her drawing room, slunk with the feelings of a criminal
 into the privacy of her own chamber, and amid all its splendor
 fell into a state of utter desolation.

 A fire was burning in the grate of glittering steel, soft
 lights fell through shades that seemed moulded out of pearls—a
 delicate gleam of silk and the snowy mist of lace
 floated before the windows—but Constance saw nothing of
 these things as she came in, sick of prosperity, hating the
 success she had once been so eager in seeking. Down into
 the silken depths of an easy chair the woman dropped, and
 clasping both hands over her knees, fell into a train of harrowing
 thoughts.

 "Just a year," she murmured, "just a year! How long
 it seems! how long it seems! Oh my God, will all my
 poor life drag like this?"

 The great tears came rolling down her cheeks and dropped
 away like diamonds, that you could have counted one by
 one as they fell and were crushed in the floating lace of her
 dress. She planted her feet upon the fender, and bowed
 her face down upon her knees, shuddering and moaning
 over that one year of her life. Twelve months a widow,
 and all those twelve months a wife—the wife of a man she
 knew to be hard and vile enough to take her for a price.

 After awhile the woman arose and prepared to undress
 herself. She stood before the glass all changed and sad,
 regarding her beauty with heavy eyes that seemed to
 reproach her from its icy surface. How resplendent she
 was, how strangely the golden hair gleamed back upon her;
 that hair which should have been hidden under a widow's
 cap. The very rustle of her dress brought a shudder with
 it. One by one she took off the ornaments which he had given
 her and cast them on the table. Then, drawing a deep,
 deep breath, she folded both arms over her bosom and sat
 down in the chair again, with such feelings of freedom as a
 slave knows when the chains are shaken from his limbs.
 Thus she sat a full hour until the fire burned low, and a
 chill of cold made her tremble.

 "I am cold, I am cold!" she moaned, looking wearily
 around her. "Is it that he, my husband, my beloved, is
 near me, bringing the ice of the grave with him? Oh,
 William, William! do you hate, do you despise me, in that
 other world? I did it for my father—I did it for my
 father! have none of the angels you are among, told you
 that I look into my soul, dearest, and see how I loathe all
 this! Others would not believe it, but you will, you will!"

 Chilled and suffering from the cold, the young woman
 looked around for some garment to wrap herself in; a heap
 of diamonds flashing on the white marble of the dressing-table,
 and a few scattered flowers, mocked her coldness.
 She turned from them with sick loathing. They were
 given by the man whose voice came droning to her from
 below.

 But she must prepare for her journey. No vestige of all
 this unholy wealth should go with her.

 All at once she thought of the little trunk which had
 been so hastily packed for her journey west, on her fatal
 wedding-day. In that was a dress that Sterling had given
 her; the very garment which she had put on that morning,
 while her bosom swelled with tears, at the blessed
 thought of seeing him again. On reaching Washington,
 she had put the dress aside, for it seemed like sacrilege, to
 wear it in the presence of that man, and she held it sacred,
 as widows keep their mourning garments, long after they
 are faded out of use.

 Constance started up, and, taking a wax light from her
 dressing-table, passed into a closet in the back part of the
 house, where the little battered trunk had been stored
 away.

 Constance trembled violently, as she drew forth the
 trunk, and her face was white as snow when she opened it.
 The dove-colored dress with its modest blue trimmings, lay
 carefully folded on the top. Tears rushed into her eyes
 and blinded her, as she took it up and fled from the room,
 for she had no courage to look at anything else that trunk
 contained.

 "Poor thing, poor thing! how natural it looks!" she
 moaned, unfolding the dress as if it had been a shroud.
 "How happy we were, my beloved, that day when you
 bought it for me. I will wear it home again; nothing this
 man has given me, shall cross the threshold of that dear
 old room. The dear old room! Oh how happy we were,
 you and I, darling! Now—Oh my God! my God! I am
 that man's wife!"

 Constance fell down on her knees, and burying her face
 in the easy chair, sobbed in pitiful distress, while the voice
 of her husband came up from the lower rooms, where he
 still held a secret conference with his friend.

 Passionate grief must exhaust itself, sooner or later.
 By degrees, the sobs that filled that little room, subsided,
 and Constance seated herself by the white ashes of the
 fire, and resolutely unfolded the dress in which she was
 resolved to travel home, the next day. As she did so, a
 paper rustled under her hands. She drew it forth from
 the pocket, and leaning toward the light, saw that it was a
 letter directed to herself. She knew the hand-writing.
 All around her mouth came the white agony of an awful
 surprise. Had her young husband written her from the
 dead?

 She arose trembling from her chair, and tottering like an
 old woman, went up to the light, read the letter through,
 and fell upon the floor.

 It was the letter Rhoda Weeks had given her on the railroad
 platform just one year ago that day—a letter from her
 living husband, William Sterling, full of love, and beseeching
 her to come to him.

 In her fall the hand of that miserable woman struck the
 steel fender, and the letter fell inside. A spark from the
 embers seized upon it, grew, brightened, and spread into a
 quick flame which left nothing but a scroll of black gossamer
 quivering among the gray ashes. The flame, as it
 blazed up for one moment, revealed a deadly white face contracted
 and locked as if death had fallen upon it suddenly
 in the crisis of some great agony.

 When Church came up-stairs an hour later, he found his
 wife sitting upon the hearth rug, with both hands locked
 over her knees, gazing upon some fragments of burnt paper
 that fluttered in the ashes.

 She lifted her head as he came in, saw who he was, and
 sprang to her feet with the leap of a panther.




 CHAPTER LV.

 CONSTANCE RETURNS HOME.


 Rhoda had done her work well, and Mr. Hudson's old
 apartments were in perfect order when he reached them the
 second day after his visit, but he entered them with a sort
 of shudder, for all the associations of the place were painful
 to him, and he looked dismally about the room as a prisoner
 may be supposed to investigate the dungeon in which
 he has suffered. He flung the sash open, for the air within
 was close, and Hudson felt suffocated by it. Directly a
 carriage drove slowly up to the door, a key turned in the
 latch, and then a rustle of silks, and rapid footsteps came
 up the stairs.

 Hudson drew a white blind over the window, and hurried
 toward the door, his arms extended, his eyes full of yearning
 affection.

 "Father!"

 "My own, own child!"

 She was lighter, more delicate, and altogether a different
 person from the girl he had parted with a year before at the
 railroad station. He held her at arms-length, and saw that
 at a glance her eyes were larger, and the lashes shadowed
 them more darkly. The rich bloom in her cheeks had softened
 and almost faded away. She breathed quickly, and
 with an unequal heave of the chest, arising from the simple
 exertion of mounting those stairs. Hudson remembered
 when she would bound up them like a fawn, and never
 draw a quicker breath.

 "Constance, are you ill?"

 "Ill? No, indeed! What makes you think so?"

 "You are so changed, my child."

 "Changed? Of course I am, but not ill—not seriously
 so, at any rate."

 She coughed a little, but threw it off with a laugh.

 "Is Church with you?"

 "In the city? Yes, but not here—I came alone. Oh,
 father! I did so long to see you; besides, I must—I
 must——"

 She flung off the black-lace shawl that half-covered her
 silk dress, threw the pretty cobweb of white lace and rosebuds,
 that answered as a bonnet, from her head, and flung
 her gloves after it with one of her old impatient gestures;
 then she pushed back her hair with both hands and sat
 down, breathing deeply.

 "Father——"

 "My child?"

 "That man is a fiend!"

 "Has he treated you ill? Has he dared——?"

 "Hush, hush! don't get into a temper! Nothing of
 that! I wish he would—oh! I wish he would! Hate,
 blows—anything would be so much better than his love!"

 Hudson glanced at her dress, and the diamonds which
 flashed on her hands.

 "He seems generous, Constance."

 "Generous? You mean these?" she cried, glancing at
 her hands. "Oh, yes! he pelts me with his diamonds
 and his money—he would make me wear them that you
 might see how he had kept his promise."

 "You used to like such things."

 "Did I? Yes, I suppose so; but they might as well be
 pebbles, now."

 "But you have an elegant house; the papers speak of it
 as something superb."

 "So it is—a palace; but I like this stuffy little room
 better."

 "Would you come back here?"

 "Would I? No, unless _he_ were here, and I as—as I
 was then."

 Her voice faltered, her face grew white to the lips. She
 looked around as if expecting to see young Sterling's ghost
 among the shadows.

 Hudson took her hands in his.

 "Did you love him so, Constance?"

 "Love him so? Great heavens, father! you will never
 guess, never dream how—how——"

 "How much you loved him—is that it, Constance?"

 "Yes," she whispered.

 "And this man Church is your husband?"

 "Why do you say that? It stings me, it taunts me to
 death. Shut me up in the cage of a rattlesnake, and tell
 me it is forever—as if I didn't know it!"

 "I did not intend to wound you, Constance."

 "I know that; but I am so fractious. Don't mind it,
 poor, dear old father."

 "And you married him for my sake," said Hudson,
 mournfully. "I hoped he would make you like him; he
 has pleasant ways with women generally, and I hoped—"

 "So did I hope; but no matter, we do not quarrel."

 "That is one comfort," muttered Hudson.

 "Is it? I fancy he don't think so."

 "But he loves you."

 "Desperately!" she answered.

 "Then there is some hope."

 Constance started up and began to pace the floor. Then
 she paused before her father, and answered him in a low,
 hoarse voice, that made his heart sink.

 "Father, you know what it is to be that man's slave."

 "It was you who delivered me, Constance."

 "Father, what would you do if I were threatened with a
 like fate?"

 "Constance, you frighten me."

 "Do I? I am frightened myself—wild with terror.
 Father, William Sterling is alive."

 "Alive, and you loved him so. My poor girl!"

 "Loved him so?" she repeated, with sharp impatience.
 "Father, I was married to that man."

 "Married!"

 She did not heed the word or his appalled face.

 "I had been his wife some months when he went away."

 "Constance! Constance! Have mercy!"

 "That was the cry I sent up to God when his letter convinced
 me of the awful fraud which separated us. It is
 true, father; William Sterling was my husband. This
 moment he is working like a slave to prepare a home for us
 both in the far west; it may not be long before he will be
 here inquiring for me."

 "Oh, my God! my God! have compassion on us! He
 will demand his wife."

 "What will you say to him?" she asked, sharply.

 "What can I say?"

 "This. The girl you married was unworthy of you,—a
 coarse, uneducated, selfish creature, who loved you after her
 kind, but hankered for other things—excitement, homage,
 fine clothes, jewels for her hands, gold powder for her hair;
 everything that goes to debase a woman whose heart can be
 so satisfied. Tell him that a man came here, a wicked, low
 man, who craved her beauty, and loved her more because
 she did not love him, than for any other reason. He had
 all the trumpery objects of her desire at command, and
 tempted her with them. She played with the fire, not
 meaning to burn herself, not meaning to wrong him; but
 she tasted of this man's gold, and tangled herself in a web
 of costly gifts, which drew her to the tempter in spite of
 her struggles; but love, respect, anything which ennobles
 a woman's heart, was wanting in this. The woman was
 coarse, and vain, selfish and grasping—but she was true to
 her love."

 "My poor child, I cannot speak of you thus; he must
 know that you thought him dead."

 "No, father, better not say that. He must never know
 that I thought him dead; that I did it in my desperation
 to save my father. He must never hear that, because it
 would spare me some portion of his contempt, and that
 would bring on a struggle—for he loved me, father, with a
 deep, beautiful love, which might have made a good woman
 of me if this man had not come between us."

 "My poor, poor child!"

 "Don't pity me, father; but tell me what can be done to
 escape poor, poor—to escape my husband; for he is my husband,
 and he loves me. He will come here and ask for me.
 If I could escape—oh, father! if he could only think me
 dead and in my grave."

 Hudson shrank within himself.

 "Do not speak of death in this way, Constance, it may
 be nearer us than you think."

 "Father, it would kill me to see him."

 Hudson aroused himself from the stunning effects of this
 strange confession. He knew that in her marriage Constance
 had become more the slave of Church than he had
 ever been; that in attempting to save him she had put the
 gyves on her own hands.

 "Constance, have you told Church? Does he know?"

 "Told him of my husband, my honorable, noble, young
 husband? No, I would die first."

 "From fear?"

 "No. Still he is a terrible man, father. This crime is
 not mine or yours. I believed the story he told us."

 Hudson groaned.

 "But the legal effect; the law is on his side. Guard
 your secret, Constance, or he will slay you with it. Where
 are your proofs?"

 "Here, father."

 She took a card-case of purple velvet from her pocket,
 and, tearing out the lining, showed him her certificate of
 marriage carefully concealed underneath.

 "Who knows of this, Constance?"

 "Ourselves."

 "But the clergyman—the witnesses?"

 The girl laughed. Even in her greatest distress she
 would sometimes break into fits of merriment, like a child.

 "Oh! I met the clergyman in Washington face to face,
 only last week, and he did not know me from Adam. No
 wonder, for I was married in that rattling old brown silk
 dress, with my hair combed straight back like a Chinese;
 and when he saw me there was not a better-dressed lady in
 the rooms—sweeping train, lace flounces, low neck, and
 crimped hair besides," she added, with a sudden pathos in
 her voice. "I have grown so thin since then, and my color
 is all gone. I sometimes think William himself would not
 know me."

 Constance broke off with a sob, lifted her hands, and
 strove to conceal the tears that followed so quickly on her
 outburst of laughter. All at once she dropped her hands
 and looked at her father.

 "What have you done with it?"

 "The certificate?"

 "Yes, yes! I want it."

 "But you had better leave it with me, Constance. It is
 dangerous paper."

 "It is all I have—give it to me."

 "But you are so thoughtless."

 "Am I?"

 She spoke bitterly, and held out her hand for the certificate.

 "Better destroy it," said the old man, resolutely, going
 toward the lamp.

 She sprang upon him like a tigress, snatched the certificate,
 and pressed it to her lips with both hands, as if it had
 been a child rescued from the flames. Then she sat down
 and began to cry, rocking herself to and fro, entangling the
 lace shawl around the back of her chair with every movement,
 and giving herself up to a passion of grief such as
 Hudson had never witnessed in her before.




 CHAPTER LVII.

 CONSTANCE TELLS HER WRONGS.


 Hudson came toward his daughter gently, but she
 clasped the paper to her bosom, and turning her face upon
 him, cried out,

 "It is _all_ I have. Let me keep it. Let me keep it!"

 Then with her poor hands trembling and her breast heaving
 with tears, she put the paper back into the mutilated
 card-case, and hid it away in her bosom.

 Hudson remonstrated earnestly, and told her of the great
 danger which lay in the possession of a document which
 might, any moment, place her at the mercy of a man like
 Church; but she answered him with a passion of tears that
 it was all she had left, and that alone kept her heart from
 breaking.

 Then the unhappy father appeased his fears by impressing
 on the imprudent creature the peril she was in. He told
 her that her marriage with Church was a crime against the
 law; and innocent as she was, in fact, a man of his adroit
 and malignant character might easily prove that her concealment
 of the first marriage, had been from a criminal
 intent.

 These arguments made an impression upon the girl. She
 listened earnestly, and seemed to comprehend all the peril
 of her position with great clearness; but this only sufficed
 to inspire all the combativeness of her nature. The young
 creature was courageous as a lion, and by no means deficient
 in the quick intellect which sees a position, and the
 means by which it can be defended. While her father was
 talking she sat with her lips firmly compressed, and her eyes
 gathering slow fire. Sometimes she started, as if some
 sharp thought stung her; but she allowed her father to go
 on without material interruption, to the end. When he
 paused, she arose slowly and seemed preparing to go.

 "Father, I have told you all, and you have enlightened
 me. Have no fear that I shall not be careful. He shall
 not get me under his heel; but, oh! what shall I do if
 William comes in search of me? Father, I could not live
 and know that he was here, without seeing him. He will
 find me out; he loved me so dearly—indeed, he did, and in
 spite of those miserable presents and that ball, I loved him
 better than my life, better than my own soul. God help
 me, I love him yet—so madly that I would give my life
 to see him but for one hour. But we are parted; through
 all the long, long life before me I shall never see him
 again."

 "You never must see him again, Constance."

 The poor woman uttered a moan, which went to her
 father's heart.

 "I know it—I know it! This terrible man got me by a
 fraud, a foul, wicked lie! I was left to do it as a punishment
 for my lightness and horrible folly; but isn't it terrible
 that there can be no end—that I must live with this man,
 and yet hate him so?"

 "The whole thing is terrible, Constance. Had you but
 told me—had you but told me at the time."

 "Don't say that—don't reproach me! I am miserable
 enough without such words. I was crazy, worried out of
 myself with a wild wish to shine—see the world, and have
 it admire my beauty—for I am handsome, you know that.
 He told me beauty was a power; and that drove me on the
 rocks."

 "Where I had been wrecked long before," said Hudson,
 gloomily.

 "But you are saved; he cannot touch you; that deliverance,
 at least, is secured."

 "Except as he strikes my child."

 "But what can he do to me, father?"

 "A great deal, if he finds out the secret you carry in
 your bosom."

 "But what if he did? How would it harm me?"

 "It might put you on trial for bigamy."

 "Bigamy! What is that?"

 "Marrying one person when you are legally bound to
 another."

 "And is that the law? What will it do with me?"

 "Send you to prison."

 "Among common—that is, among wicked people?"

 "The lowest and worst, Constance."

 "And would they cut off my hair?—but you have not
 seen my hair. Come this way, where the light strikes it.
 Did you ever see any thing so strange? It was _his_ idea.

 "He took me to the French woman and had it done. I
 almost liked him for it—everybody admired me so; that was
 the reason the clergyman did not remember me; the girl
 he married to—to poor William had brown hair. This is
 golden, look!"

 Constance went close to the light, which sent gleams
 across her head, and kindled up a long, heavy curl, that fell
 across her bosom into a glow of golden beauty.

 "Is it false? Has he had your hair cut off?" inquired
 Hudson, amazed by the change.

 "Cut off? No; this is my own hair. Something the
 woman put on it and gave me to use, turned it to this.
 He was delighted with it, because it made my face lovely,
 he said; and then people never could trace his wife back
 to her poverty-stricken home—a place he wanted her to
 forget. I think that was his great motive."

 "I see. I think he had a deeper motive."

 "Oh, father! he has so many deep motives."

 "I know it. But now we must think only of your
 safety. What brought you here so unexpectedly? I got
 your letter, just as I was making arrangements to come
 back here for good. It made me very uneasy; I feared
 that some trouble had driven you back to me."

 "And so it did, a terrible trouble. Oh, father! it is
 only three days since I found out that William, my own,
 own husband, is alive; that the telegram and the paper
 were got up on purpose to deceive me. You remember little
 Rhoda came to the depot that day to bid me good-by?
 I was very miserable, and so near crazy that everything
 around me went in a whirl. She gave me a letter, I
 remember it now. I took it as people handle things in
 dreams, and put it in my pocket. The dress I had on that
 day was one he gave me—I mean William—I put it away
 thinking never to wear it again; but a yearning wish
 came upon me, to see my dear, old father, and I thought
 he would love me best, in some dress that I used to wear.
 I took it from-the old trunk, and found that letter in the
 pocket, his hand-writing, his dear, familiar words, a place
 on the name where he had pressed kisses that my lips were
 to take off. Oh, father, father! the words killed me; I
 felt my brain reel. I trembled all over like that poor man
 who was struck by the sun while at work last summer. I
 wanted to leap from the window, and run about the street
 blindly. I hated myself—and oh, heavens! how I hated
 that man.

 "At first I was afraid of the letter, and held it away
 from me, shivering as if a rattlesnake had been curled up
 in my hand. Then it came upon me that William was
 alive, that he loved me yet, was longing for me out there in
 his wild home, and the paper became a thousand times
 more precious than diamonds; with every kiss a sting of
 hate came to my heart for the man who had cheated me.
 The agony was too keen, father. I fainted away, the letter
 fell from my hands, and was burned up, while I was upon
 the floor. I came to, all alone, and saw scraps of my
 precious letter, flickering on the ashes. I gathered them
 up, crying all the time, but they fell away from my hands
 in black ashes.

 "At first I went wild, and resolved to charge the fraud
 upon him, tell him all the loathing I felt, and leave him
 forever. Then I thought—oh, heaven, have mercy!—where
 can I go? Not to him. He would never, never
 take me again. Not to you, father, to bring back the burdens
 and the miserable old life. Where could I go?
 What could I do?

 "I heard him coming, and hate drove me mad; that
 blackened letter filled me with such loathing of the man
 that there was no quelling the fire in my heart by fear or
 prudence. I thought of it, but the wrong was too terrible
 for restraints. He came in smiling—oh! how I hate that
 smile! and asked if I was intending to sit up all night. I
 turned upon him like a tigress, told him that I knew of his
 fraud, and had proofs that William Sterling, the man I had
 loved, and should love to my dying breath, was still living.
 Father, he laughed, and attempted to pat me on the head,
 as if I had been an angry child.

 "'I had been a pretty fool,' he said, 'to swallow his report
 so readily. In time I would learn to keep calm and
 investigate as he did. Of course, the whole thing was a lie;
 but he wanted me, and had got me, the sweetest creature
 that ever lived, and would tell ten thousand such falsehoods
 rather than lose me again.'

 "This was the brazen answer he gave me. It silenced
 my rage, it turned my heart to iron in its slow, white heat.
 I said to him calmly, as if no agony seethed beneath the
 surface,

 "'Did you love me so much, then?'

 "'Love you?' and the tears sprang into his hard eyes.
 'Yes, girl, better than my life—better than my soul—better,
 I almost think, than my gold!'

 "I felt my eyes kindle with the terrible hate that rose
 up in my soul against him. He almost thought that he
 loved me better than his gold—knowing how he loved that,
 I could measure the power of his affection for me, and knew
 that it was great. Through that love I might torture him
 as he had crushed me.

 "'And you love me?' I said.

 "'Better than anything in the world.'

 "He took me in his arms. Sick with loathing, I fainted.
 When I came to, he was bending over me, greatly troubled.

 "'You are ill, keep quiet; our journey shall be put off,'
 he said.

 "I sat up and looked around for my traveling dress, but
 he had taken it away, perhaps he guessed who gave it to me;
 for I never saw it again.

 "'No, I wish to see my father,' I said.

 "He knelt by me, and kissed my hands—that fainting-fit
 had frightened him, for the man loved me, I knew that
 well enough.

 "'You are not very angry with me, Constance?'

 "I smiled. Did he think my nature so shallow that a
 wrong like his could only make me angry?

 "Deep feeling made the man dumb. He could not find
 words in which to measure the distress that crowded upon
 him. I saw that, and rejoiced over it; by the depths of
 love he bore me I could measure my own capacities for
 revenge.

 "'You have won me by a fraud,' I said, 'and seem to
 glory in it; be it so, for henceforth I cease to recognise any
 tie between us.'

 "He started up.

 "'You will not leave me, Constance. It is not for that
 you wish to visit New York?'

 "He was breathless and white; my words had terrified
 him.

 "'No,' I said, 'that is impossible. You and I are tied
 together by a cruel bond. I will not leave you, but I will
 not even try to love you. My company shall prove your
 torment. I may be your slave but am no longer your wife.'

 "He sat down, and I saw that his limbs trembled.

 "'And in all these months you have not cared for me.'

 "His look was pitiful. No wounded dog ever appealed
 to his master for help with such dumb pathos—but I have
 no compassion.

 "'No, I have never cared for you, never shall.'

 "'And all on account of this young man.'

 "'All on account of this young man, whom I love deeply,
 hopelessly, as you love me.'

 "He sprang to his feet, clenching and unclenching his
 hand, as if it held a knife.

 "'Be careful! be careful!' he said, 'or the next report
 you get shall be true.'

 "I felt the blood leave my lips. The man is capable of
 fulfilling a threat like that, father."

 "I know it—I know it!"

 Hudson was sitting in the easy-chair, terrified by the
 scenes his daughter was describing, terrified by the feelings
 she expressed. The chains had fallen from his own limbs
 to be fastened on his child. He saw how they galled her,
 how she wrenched at them in vain. He understood the imminent
 peril she was in, and trembled under the knowledge.

 "If he had attempted to kill me, I should not have
 cared," Constance resumed; "but this threat turned my
 very heart cold."

 "No wonder!" muttered Hudson. "The poor young
 fellow is in a lonely place, and the distance would be nothing
 to Church."

 "But he shall not go; I will not leave him an hour,"
 cried Constance, taking sudden alarm. "I thought myself
 so powerful, so sure; and in a moment he finds my weak
 place, and brings me to his feet again—for I know that William
 will come here in search of his wife. He will find me
 out, and terrible things may follow. Father! father! tell me
 what can be done to save him from all knowledge of the cruel
 step I have taken; that will be enough to kill him. I sometimes
 think if he could be kept away awhile, that this cough
 might grow worse, and carry me off. Then he need only
 know that his poor young wife was dead! I wish it were
 now; but people cannot die when they please; if they only
 could, I might go into my little bedroom there and lie down
 forever."

 Hudson arose from his chair and took Constance by both
 her hands.

 "My poor child," he said, very gently, "all this sorrow
 springs out of one great sin, perpetrated years ago by your
 unhappy father. Fool that I was! to think that the burden
 would fall on me alone."

 "Don't talk this way, father. I do not complain; besides,
 it was not all that—only tell me what I can do."

 "Give me time, Constance. I will think this matter over.
 Give me a little time, and I will find help for it in some
 way."

 "I knew that my only course was to come here; the
 burden was too heavy, when I had no one to share it with.
 Good-night, father!"

 "Good-night, my child! and God help you."

 "Father, did my mother die of consumption?"

 "Yes."

 "Good-night, my dear old father!"

 She threw her arms around him, kissed him with passionate
 energy, and ran down stairs.

 Hudson stood till a carriage drove from the door, then he
 flung himself on his knees and cried out to God in the
 agony of his trouble.




 CHAPTER LVIII.

 THE ENGRAVED PLATE.


 While the old man was on his knees, the carriage dashed
 back to the door, and Constance came up the stairs again,
 pale and breathless from the excitement through which she
 had passed.

 "Father," she said, as the old man arose, "I have forgotten
 one thing, can you tell me what it means? When
 I first reached Washington it was very quiet there, and
 Church did not wish me to go out or make acquaintances.
 I was glad of that, but time hung so heavily on me that I
 took to drawing and etching a little. He led me on, I think,
 suggesting this thing and that, besides supplying me with
 everything I could need. Only this—he insisted that I
 should keep my talent that way entirely private, and do all
 my work in an attic room to which I was desired to keep a
 key. He would not, for the world, have anyone, especially
 the servants, know that I had ever learned a trade or worked
 for my living. It would ruin me in society.

 "I did not think this unreasonable, and obeyed him carefully.
 The work was a blessing; it took my mind from all
 that I had lost, and for a time I occupied myself in forming
 new designs, which carried me out of the world he lived in.

 "One day, Church brought a friend up to my studio—a
 Mr. Crist from the Treasury Department, and they looked
 over my work together.

 "'Indeed,' said the man Crist, who was hateful to me
 from the first, 'you have not overpraised the lady's genius;
 but we have people employed for the department that she
 cannot reach, though as an amateur she is wonderful.'

 "I felt my cheeks burn. The idea of calling me an amateur!
 Why, you know, father, that the best work of the
 city was given to my William, and the finest of that he left
 to me, toward the end.

 "'What do you think of that?' said Church, laughing.
 'I fancy my friend here rather underrates your ability,
 Constance.'

 "'I know he does. Let him try me,' I said.

 "'But ours is peculiar work,' answered Crist.

 "'I do not fear to undertake it, let the work be what it
 will,' I replied.

 "'And I will bet five thousand dollars against a diamond
 necklace, that my wife succeeds in anything she undertakes,'
 said Church.

 "Crist cried out at once that it was done, and Church declared
 that the diamonds were as good as mine. He did
 not know what difficult task was to be given me, but this
 he did know, I had never failed yet.

 "The whole thing pleased me, father. I was dying for
 some object of interest. The old ambition awoke in me.
 I asked Crist for a sight of the high art that I could not
 equal.

 "The man took a note for a hundred dollars from his
 pocket-book.

 "'She may as well try that,' he said, laughing, 'I select
 it at random. It is only an experiment. If she fails, you
 are five thousand dollars poorer and no great harm done.'

 "I looked at the note, and said with a glow of certainty,

 "'But I shall not fail.'

 "'Then I am five thousand dollars poorer, and you have
 a diamond necklace,' he answered.

 "'Make it ten thousand,' I urged, looking confidently at
 Crist. 'Twenty, if you like!'

 "'Done for ten,' he said.

 "'Done!'

 "I liked this. It aroused the old ambition. There was
 something for me to accomplish. I went to work with
 spirit but very privately, for Church was very earnest about
 that.

 "He even bought me an easel and paints, with a picture
 in progress, in order to deceive the servants who began to
 wonder at my long visits to the attic.

 "'It did not matter if they thought me an amateur artist,'
 he said, 'many ladies gloried in being that, but engraving
 was a trade.'

 "I did not care; the work pleased me, and I found a
 triumph in winning a bet against my own ability. I think
 the period in which I was working on that plate, was the
 happiest that I have known since we parted, father."

 "Go on," said Hudson, speaking with an effort, "tell me
 all about it."

 "Well, I finished the plate, and on his own judgment,
 the man Crist declared that it was a success—I had fairly
 earned my diamonds."

 "That week, Mr. Church brought me a splendid set of
 jewels, that Mr. Crist had given him for me. I think they
 made me happy a full day, father; then I grew sick of
 them."

 "Church took the plate away, 'to be broken up,' he said.
 'It had done its work, won me a magnificent set of jewels,
 and must now be destroyed. It was hardly worth while to
 have such things about.'

 "I did not care what became of the thing I had created.
 It had given me a triumph, and that was enough; so Church
 took it away."

 "Was that all?" demanded Hudson, in whose eyes a
 strange wild light was shining.

 "Yes, except this—sometime after, I found this very
 plate in the drawer of a desk, which no one but Mr. Church
 ever used. He had sent me there for a paper that he
 wanted, and I found the plate. Father, it had been used!"

 "Used?"

 The word broke from Hudson's lips almost with a cry of
 terror.

 "Yes, I am sure of it. What could it mean?"

 "It means the evil I dreaded from the first," said Hudson,
 excitedly. "It means that these men have made you the
 instrument of a crime."

 "A crime? I do not understand!"

 "Nor I, altogether. There must be collusion between
 Church and some person in the Treasury. This accounts
 for the sudden wealth that renders him so arrogant."

 "A crime," repeated Constance, with animation. "Father,
 I can brave this man with courage now. Let him be cautious,
 or he shall curse the day I ever darkened his door. He
 threatened the life of William Sterling."

 "Constance, I charge you be careful; do not again touch
 a graver. Search for that plate and destroy it."

 "I will search for it, father."

 The girl's face was resolute, her lips were pressed firmly
 together.

 "My child, if this bad man tempts you again, leave him
 at once, and come to me."

 "Oh! if I could!"

 "You must, Constance. He has no power over me, I can
 protect you and will."

 "But, William! who can protect him, while this wolf runs
 free."

 Constance muttered the last words under her breath.
 Then stooping to kiss her father, said,

 "Father, I think you have opened my way to the light.
 Thank you, thank you."

 She pressed a kiss on his forehead and left the room.




 CHAPTER LIX.

 AT SWORDS' POINTS.


 "Constance, come down a little while, I want you so
 much."

 Constance started back, dropped her feet from the fender,
 and looked around, like one aroused from a dream. Church
 was standing before her. He had come up the stairs so
 softly that she did not know of his presence until he spoke.

 "Who is below?" she questioned with a sort of dreary
 listlessness.

 "Crist, no one else."

 Constance turned to the fire again, and planting her feet
 on the fender, drooped forward, resting both elbows on her
 knees.

 "I do not care about going down—"

 "What is the reason, Constance, are you ill?"

 "Would it be news, if I told you so?" answered the
 woman, breaking into a hard cough.

 Church came close to the chair in which Constance sat,
 and laid his hand on her shoulder.

 "Look up," he said harshly. "I want to see your eyes.
 Ever since we came from New York, you have been hacking
 and lowering over the fire, like a consumptive. I don't
 believe in it; you assume illness in order to avoid me."

 A hot scarlet flashed over the haughty face which Constance
 turned fully upon the man who called himself her
 husband.

 "I need answer nothing," she said. "There can be no
 doubt that I wish to avoid you."

 Church turned white with rage.

 "Then if you are not pretending, what is it makes you
 crouch here from morning till night? The knowledge
 that the young hound of an artist is alive? By Heavens,
 if I were sure of it."

 "What would you do?" questioned the woman, with
 terror in her eyes.

 "Do? Why, take a journey out West," said Church
 with a bitter laugh. "After that, you will have no more
 cause for pining over the thought that he has turned up
 alive."

 "That is, you would kill him."

 "Kill him, no; that would be murder. But the man
 would surely disappear."

 "And this thought is in your heart?"

 "It will not leave my heart, girl, until you are your old
 sweet self again. I give you another week to think of it.
 In that time, if you come out of this room bright and cheerful,
 ready for the society which is pining for you, well and
 good. I ask no questions about what passed between you
 and the old man. If not—but I seldom threaten. Your
 father knows me; perhaps you will in time."

 "But I am ill—do not threaten me—I am very ill,"
 pleaded the poor woman, shivering in her chair, as he rested
 his hand on her shoulder. "I am cold."

 "Cold as ice, I know that; but it is only when I am
 near. Come, come, darling, I do not mean to be harsh with
 you, but this eternal moping is beyond all endurance; come
 down, I have just ordered a delicious little supper for you."

 "I have no appetite," answered the woman, sinking to
 her old position, and dropping her head between her hands.

 "No appetite, no strength—my wife, and pine like this
 over a man that ought to have been dead, if he is not.
 When is this to end?"

 "End! oh very soon, have a little patience. One does
 not get over a cough like mine in a minute."

 "Then you will not come down?"

 "Not to-night; another time, but just now I haven't
 strength enough."

 "Well, to-night have your own way, I do not wish to be
 hard with you. But after this we must have no more nonsense.
 I have not forgotten yet that you threatened to leave
 me—leave me!"

 "Oh, one says so many rash things," answered Constance
 faintly, "do not remind me of them to-night, I am so weary."

 "There, there," said Church, softening toward her a little.
 "Rest now. To-morrow we will have some friends to dinner,
 and you must come among them beautiful as ever—promise
 me."

 "I will promise anything; only let me rest now."

 Church stooped down, and lifting that pale face between
 his hands, kissed it with passionate violence, and left the
 room.

 When the door closed, Constance arose from her seat with
 a look of hot loathing on her face that burnt up all its pallor.
 She passed one hand across her mouth as if she would
 smite away his kisses with blows, but feeling them there
 still, she snatched a flask of cologne from a little sofa table,
 and dashed its contents over her handkerchief, rubbed her
 lips with it till they glowed out red as coral.

 "The infamous wretch! how dared he! how dared he!"

 The woman was so full of passionate wrath that she
 shook from head to foot, as these words rang out from her
 lips, like the hoarse cry of a bird.

 "I will not bear this! I cannot bear it! I will send for
 my father; he baffles me, defies me, and I am so ill!"

 The noise of a footstep, moving cautiously, hushed this
 transport of passion, and the woman held her breath. She
 listened to hear the outer door open, but the footsteps
 sounding clearer on the marble of the hall, evidently went
 another way.

 "There, there! I have heard that every night. They
 are going into the basement, after that entrance is locked,
 too, and he does not come up to his room for hours. There
 is something in this. It only happens when Crist is here.
 I will know what secret there is down yonder."

 Constance opened the door of her room softly, and listened;
 the footsteps could still be heard, but they grew
 fainter, and she detected also, a faint murmur of voices.
 The carpet on both rooms and stair-case, in that house,
 were soft as wood-moss, and the slippers of quilted satin
 that Constance wore, sunk into them with the noiseless fall
 of snow, as she glided down the stairs to the basement.
 Below that was the cellar, where she had never been in
 her life; a current of air and the suppressed murmur of
 voices, led her to the door, and she went downward over
 another flight of stairs, into the darkness of a wine cellar.
 This cellar was lighted at one end by a lamp which Church
 held upward, while his companion was busy removing a
 rack, on which a few bottles lay, with their sealed corks visible.

 Constance stood in the dark, and watched these proceedings
 with breathless interest. She saw the rack lifted aside
 from a strong wooden door sunk deep into the wall, which
 Crist opened with a key, and both men went through.

 Constance followed noiselessly, keeping in the dark.

 The house which Church occupied had grounds and shrubbery
 around it, stretching over half a block. Directly opposite
 the back entrance, on the farther side of the block,
 stood his stables—imposing buildings of brown stone—finished
 almost with the cost of a mansion.

 Toward these stables ran the subterraneous passage which
 these two men traversed with their lamp, and along its whole
 length Constance followed them.

 At last they disappeared through a door, and she was left
 in total darkness. But the passage was narrow and she
 kept along the wall, feeling with her hands for the entrance
 door.

 At last both her outstretched palms struck upon woodwork,
 and through it came a strange noise which she could
 not make out, but it emboldened her to search for some
 fastenings, and open the door far enough to look through.




 CHAPTER LX.

 THE UNDERGROUND VAULT AND THE SECRETARY'S
 RECEPTION.


 This was what Constance saw—a large vault paved and
 walled with stone, to which there was but one entrance—the
 door at which she stood; a printing press, on which two
 men in their shirt sleeves were leaning, one with a mallet
 in his hand, the other holding a lamp low down.

 "It is an ill wind which blows nobody good," she heard
 Crist say. "This obstinate fit fortunately come over your wife
 after the best part of her work was done."

 "Yes," answered Church, "but I would pitch her work
 overboard, forever, if that would bring her old self back
 again. I tell you what, Crist, I have no heart to work,
 when I think of her conduct toward me."

 "Oh, give her time, give her jewels, and plenty of new
 dresses. If they don't bring her round, I know nothing of
 women."

 "How should you know anything of such women as Constance?
 Superior creatures of her stamp do not often appear
 in the life of a man like you," answered Church, rudely
 enough. "Come now, are you ready for work?"

 "Yes, we will make the best of our time, while madame
 keeps in her sulks," said Crist. "When she makes up
 with you, there is an end of work, unless I manage to get
 along alone. Upon my word, Church, I never expected to
 find you so completely the slave of any woman."

 "It strikes me that in this affair, I have managed to
 make her my slave," answered Church, pointing to a plate
 which Crist had arranged for printing. "At any rate,
 there is no need of troubling yourself with my home affairs
 so long as I let them fill your pocket."

 "Exactly," answered Crist, laying down his mallet,
 "I'm not complaining. In fact, I rather envy you. She
 is a deuced pretty woman, and I know of more than one
 fellow up yonder who is raving about her."

 "Those fellows up yonder can save themselves the trouble,"
 answered Church, sharply. "Constance is altogether
 too fond of me, for any one else to make sure of a glance
 from her."

 "Indeed!"

 "Yes, indeed! She's not demonstrative, of course, before
 such fellows as you are, but I'm satisfied."

 "That is a good thing—now for it!"

 The noise of a press worked by these two men, broke in
 upon their conversation. But Constance stood at her post,
 and, shrouded by the darkness, looked in upon them full
 twenty minutes. Then she stole back to her room, with
 her pulse beating at fever heat.

 Her watch lay upon the dressing-table; she snatched it
 up, glanced at the time, and laid it down again.

 "Only eleven; I shall find him there," she said, ringing
 the bell with a violence that brought two servants to the
 door at once.

 "The carriage," she said to the man; "come dress me,"
 to her maid.

 Very different was this toilet to the last at which we
 have seen Constance. She literally did not seem to care
 what garments the maid brought forth, but snatched at
 them in eager haste, and put them on with her own hands,
 tearing the costly lace and wrenching at the silk quite unconscious,
 or careless of the mischief she was doing.

 In half an hour the woman swept down those stairs and
 into her carriage, with strange light in her eyes, and a burning
 red on her cheeks. Any one looking upon her then,
 would never have dreamed that she was an invalid.

 There was a reception at the house of a leading Secretary
 that night, and in a few minutes Constance found herself
 almost alone in a dressing-room, with a graceful mulatto girl
 smoothing the train of her dress.

 "Get a message taken to the Secretary of the Treasury,
 he is sure to be in one of the drawing-rooms—say I wish to
 speak with him."

 The girl went, and directly a gentleman came up to the
 door where Constance stood, beating one gloved hand with
 his fan, and expressed his happiness at being summoned to
 lead her down stairs.

 There was a presentation—a slow, interrupted sweep
 through the rooms—bright looks, pleasant words; then the
 belle of the evening disappeared, and with her the Secretary
 of the Treasury.

 For half an hour, that carriage moved up and down the
 streets, the coachman could hear a sound of voices from
 within, asking and answering questions, from which he could
 gather no meaning; for, though the words were eager and
 sometimes sharp, he could only catch one distinctly now and
 then.

 At last the man was ordered to stop at the Secretary's
 residence. The gentleman, with a latch key in his hand, got
 out, and Constance gave orders to be driven home.

 Church met her in the hall, looking tired and excited, as
 if he had just come from some sharp exercise.

 "In the name of Heaven, where have you been?" he
 demanded.

 "To the reception," she answered, smiling upon him as
 she had not done for weeks.

 "To the reception, and alone?"

 "Yes, I took a fancy to go out; you were not to be found.
 Then I started alone, and sent for the Secretary of the Treasury
 to lead me in. It was very pleasant."

 "But you complained so piteously of being ill."

 "Yes, but it has done me good to go out, I feel better
 than you can imagine."

 "This is very wild work, Constance, you should have
 waited till I came in. Crist and I only took a short walk."

 "You must have walked fast. The evening is not very
 warm, but I can see drops glistening on your forehead."

 Church took out his handkerchief and drew it hastily over
 his face.

 "Yes," he said, "Crist always rushes on like a race horse,
 but I am glad to see you so much better."

 "Thank you; I am sure to be better now." Then these
 two parted. Church went back to his accomplice in the
 subterranean vault, and Constance sat up all night in her
 room.

 About dark the next day, a man might have been
 observed walking to and fro in the neighborhood of Mr.
 Church's dwelling, but no one took an interest in the matter
 except Constance. She saw him from her dressing-room
 window as she moved up and down the room like some
 caged animal, and a look of keen satisfaction shot into her
 heavy eyes.

 Again Church came to her room, and urged her to come
 down. She refused, pleading weariness, and again the
 sound of Crist's voice and of retreating footsteps, reached
 her in the room where she sat.

 About an hour after this, Constance heard a night-key
 turned in the lock, and a muffled sound in the hall as if
 more than one person had entered it.

 "My night-key has done its work," she thought with a
 shiver. "How quietly they move!"

 She was right. Everything was still as death in the
 house. Constance could hear the watch tick in her bosom,
 and her own heart beat like a muffled drum. Directly
 there was a great scuffle in the basement; sharp, harsh
 voices, and a sound as if some one were being dragged upstairs.

 "Let me speak to my wife! Give me ten minutes, I must
 see her before you take me away."

 There seemed to be consent to this, for Church came
 heavily up the stairs, and stood before Constance, white as
 death and trembling in all his limbs.

 "I am in trouble, Constance, terrible trouble, but do not
 be frightened, come to me in the morning. You can help
 me, and I know you will. It is not like you to abandon
 your own husband in his misfortunes."

 Constance looked in the man's face so quietly that it took
 away his breath.

 "It was I who informed against you," she said, "partly
 from a love of justice, but altogether because I could break
 the bonds which shackles us together in no other way. You
 threatened, I have acted!"

 "Oh, my God! my God! is the blow from her! Woman,
 woman, you have ruined a man who loved you better than
 his own salvation."

 "And you have ruined a woman for whom there is no
 salvation," cried Constance, wringing her hands in wild excitement.

 "Come, sir, it is time."

 The officer came forward from the top of the stairs, as he
 spoke, and touched Church on the arm.

 "I am ready," said the wretched man. "Nothing that
 can be done, will harm me much now. Constance, say farewell,
 kiss me for the last time. I loved you so, I loved you
 so! Only for that!"

 Constance stood paralyzed, looking at him, fully conscious,
 perhaps, for the first time, of what she had done. He took
 her in his arms, and she did not resist; he pressed his quivering
 lips to hers, and met drops of blood instead of kisses.

 "You see," she said, drawing a hand across her mouth.
 "We are both punished."

 They took Church away, unresisting. His head drooped,
 his shoulders bent; ten years seemed to have settled on him
 since the officer's arm had first touched his person. When
 he went out of the door, Constance lay prone across the
 threshold of her own room, struggling desperately for
 breath.




 CHAPTER LXI.

 DYING.


 Hudson did not, as he had intended, return to his
 rooms after that interview with his daughter, but some
 time after there came a letter in the old man's writing,
 directed to Rhoda Weeks.

 Rhoda was brushing Luke's well-worn coat, and giving
 a last touch to his neck-tie, preparatory to his going out to
 rehearsal, when the unfortunate little maid of all work,
 who belonged to the woman down stairs, came in with the
 letter, which she handed to Rhoda.

 "What on earth!" exclaimed the energetic young
 damsel. "What do you bring that here for?"

 "'Cause it's for you," returned the little maid, with a
 snuffle habitual to her.

 "Can't be for me," answered Rhoda, positively.
 "Never had a letter in my life, and 'tisn't likely I'm going
 to begin now."

 She spoke as if she had attained the age of Methuselah,
 at least, and leveled the brush at the girl, as if warding off
 the missive which the creature extended in her much soiled
 hand.

 "The old woman said it was for you," she persisted.
 "I can't read myself; but if you can, why you'll soon find
 out whether it's for you, if you look at it."

 "There is something in that," said Rhoda, not over
 pleased at this implied doubt of her skill in caligraphy.
 "Take the brush, Luke, and don't leave all that dust on
 your shoulder."

 Rhoda snatched the letter and held it at arm's length,
 peering at it with one eye half closed, as though she
 thought there was something too suspicious in its appearance
 for her to trust it nearer.

 "Well, if ever!" she exclaimed. "No, actually, I
 never did!"

 "What is it?" Luke asked.

 "Just what I want to know," she replied. "There it
 is, big as life and twice as natural—Miss Rhoda Weeks.
 I say, Luke, we're coming up in the world when folks take
 to writing me letters, and directing them in that way."

 "Know'd it was for you," sniffled the little maid. "I
 guess I'm right, sometimes, as well as other folks."

 Rhoda turned upon her with great majesty. In this
 important crisis of her life, when she held in her hand the
 first letter she had ever received, common manners and
 words were too much out of place for her to think of employing
 them.

 "Cynthy," said she, "you mean well enough, but you had
 better go down stairs when people have business affairs
 on hand; the old lady's calling to you in a way that'll injure
 her throat, if it doesn't end in a fit."

 Cynthia sniffled more desperately than ever, quite awed
 by the match-girl's dignity, and shied away toward the
 door.

 "Cynthy!" called Rhoda, struck by a sudden thought.
 "Just say to Mrs. Dawson it's for me, and I dare say
 there'll more be coming—plenty of them; so tell her to
 take good care they are sent up at once."

 "Who is it from?" Luke asked, as the girl disappeared.

 "We shall know that by-and-by," said Rhoda, somewhat
 severely.

 She looked at the superscription again—examined the
 postmark, and finally opened the envelope with great care,
 and began to read. Luke went on with his preparations for
 a walk, but presently he was startled by a loud exclamation
 from his sister.

 "What is it?" he cried, eagerly. "What is the matter,
 Rhoda?"

 "They're coming back—somebody is sick. Oh! the poor
 thing! And I'm to dust their rooms and get them all ready
 by to-morrow."

 "The Hudsons? Is Miss Constance sick?"

 "Yes! I suppose it is her. Oh! what will the poor old
 man do! Here, read the letter, Luke; I must get the keys
 and see that everything is straight. I've swept the rooms
 two or three times; but I'll brighten 'em up now, I'll bet.
 Oh! my poor Miss Constance—I'm so sorry."

 Luke read the letter, but he had no time to do more than
 express his regret, for it was growing late; besides, good
 and gentle as he was, his mind was so completely occupied
 by its one engrossing thought, that he found it difficult to
 realize or comprehend anything outside of that beautiful
 dream.

 Rhoda passed a grand gala day in setting the rooms to
 rights, polishing up the furniture, and making Constance's
 chamber look sunny and cheerful. She was disturbed only
 by the thought that the young lady, whom she had last
 seen so lovely and joyous, could be ill and suffering.

 It was late in the afternoon of the next day, when a carriage
 drove up to the door, and Mr. Hudson got out, looking
 more worn and troubled than of old.

 Rhoda happened to be down in Mrs. Dawson's room, and
 she ran out into the hall just as Mr. Hudson lifted a female
 from her seat. The traveling-veil, which was thrown over
 her bonnet, was of barege; but Rhoda could dimly see the
 outlines of the beautiful face underneath, so changed and
 pale, save for the hectic spot burning visibly on either cheek,
 that she uttered a cry of dismay and grief, calling out involuntary,
 "Oh, my! Oh, my!"

 Hudson made a warning gesture which silenced her, and
 carried his pale burden up the steps easily as if she had been
 a child.

 "Shall I help you?" Rhoda whispered, awed by the
 man's strange manner.

 He shook his head.

 "Are the rooms ready?" he asked.

 "Yes, sir. I've just come down—everything is done."

 She ran up stairs before them, and opened the door of
 Constance's bedroom, pulling down the curtains to make a
 pleasant shadow in the chamber. She forced back the tears
 which rose to her eyes, as the suffering young creature entered
 the room and muttered,

 "A body can cry when there is nothing else to do; this
 isn't the time to be spattering salt water about! Oh! the
 poor dear! She'll die—she'll die!"

 Hudson helped the sick girl to her bed, folding her tenderly
 with his arm. Rhoda whispered to him asking if she
 should get her things off.

 "Yes—undress her," he said. "I'll have the man bring
 her trunk up. I must go for the doctor."

 Rhoda took off the thick veil, and looked at that poor,
 worn face in the dim, half light, so lovely still, but with the
 trace of death stamped on every lineament. The girl lay
 with her eyes closed, evidently conscious, but too weak and
 tired to make the least exertion.

 Suddenly she opened her eyes, and glanced about in a
 half frightened way.

 "Where is he? where am I?" she cried, feebly.

 Hudson had reached the door, but at the sound of her
 voice he hurried back to the bed, and bent over her, whispering
 some words which seemed to calm her.

 Like the sensible little woman she was, Rhoda did not
 attempt to speak to the sick girl, who had resumed her former
 passive attitude. She flew noiselessly about, got some fresh
 water in a basin, poured a little cologne in it, and began
 bathing the fevered head and wasted hands.

 "That is cool and pleasant," murmured the girl, half
 opening her eyes. "How good you are."

 It seemed to Rhoda that Constance's voice had never
 sounded so sweet; the old imperiousness had quite gone
 out of it; the face, too, had gained a gentleness and
 patience such as only suffering can bring—all this fairly
 wrung the little creature's heart.

 "Oh! don't you know me?" she exclaimed, with one
 little sob. "I'm Rhoda Weeks—I mean to take care of
 you. I know you'll be better soon."

 "Rhoda Weeks," the sick girl repeated, softly, "Yes, I
 know who it is. Will you take care of me? He said you
 would. I try to be patient; don't let him be troubled."

 Just then Hudson returned, accompanied by a man carrying
 the trunk.

 "I wish you would get fresh things out for her," he said
 to Rhoda; "I won't be gone long."

 Rhoda attacked the trunk at once, while Mr. Hudson went
 up to the bed, and stood passing his hand softly over the
 invalid's hair, telling her that he would soon be back.
 When he came into the sitting room again, Rhoda saw
 that his eyes were full of tears, and she longed, in some
 way, to show her sympathy for him.

 "I'll do everything I can," she said, pulling diligently
 at the straps of the trunk. "I'm so sorry—it breaks my
 heart. Oh, dear! this key won't go in—yes, it's all right.
 Has she been sick long?"

 "Yes," he answered, in a broken voice. "I am much
 obliged to you, Rhoda—you're a good girl."

 "Nothing to brag of," said Rhoda; "but I ain't a
 heathen quite. I'm a pretty good nurse, too—I'll show you.
 She'll see."

 "I know," he replied. "She is very weak, Rhoda, and
 can't bear being talked to—we must be very quiet."

 "As mice," said Rhoda, with her head in the trunk.

 "She has all sorts of odd fancies," continued Hudson, in
 a dry, painful tone; "sick people always do. You mustn't
 talk to her much—somehow it distresses her."

 By this time Rhoda was quite speechless. Between grief
 and astonishment, she sniffled almost as dolefully as the
 poor little handmaiden below stairs.

 Mr. Hudson went out, and Rhoda, having found the articles
 of clothing she required, returned to the chamber.

 "I'm going to undress you," she said, softly; "you'll
 feel better when you get these heavy things off."

 "I am so thirsty," pleaded the girl—"so thirsty."

 "I'll make you some lemonade in a minute," said Rhoda;
 "I've got the lemons here."

 She prepared the grateful beverage with the mingled speed
 and care which only a person who has a natural aptitude
 for nursing the sick can show. The girl drank it eagerly.

 "Thank you," she said. "You are so good to me—so
 good!"

 Rhoda could not trust her voice to answer; this gentleness
 in the woman she had known so haughty and imperious,
 touched her more than all the rest.

 Before Hudson returned with the physician, Rhoda had
 her charge comfortably arrayed in a cool, fresh night-dress;
 and she lay there quiet and apparently free from pain.

 The doctor left a prescription but said little—it was evident
 to his practiced eye what insidious disease had sapped
 her youth and strength so rapidly away. She was in the
 last stages of consumption; and he told Rhoda so when she
 crept out into the passage after him.

 "She may live for weeks," he said; "and a few days
 may end her. I do not think she has strength to last long."

 "And she went away so bright and beautiful," murmured
 Rhoda, through her tears. "It's dreadful—oh! it's dreadful!"

 There was no comfort to offer, and the doctor was hurrying
 away; but Hudson came out, and called him back while
 Rhoda returned to the sick-room.




 CHAPTER LXII.

 DEAD.


 There was no hope, Hudson knew that from the first.
 The physician only confirmed this mournful conviction.

 For three days and nights Mr. Hudson and Rhoda
 watched by the poor girl's bed, for she never sat up again.
 She did not suffer much pain, except when the regular paroxysms
 of coughing seized her; and the powerful opiates
 which were administered caused her to lie quiet and half
 dreaming the greater portion of the time.

 When they spoke to her, she would rouse herself for a
 brief space, trying to smile, thanking them for every little
 service they rendered her; and sometimes Rhoda would
 hear her praying in broken whispers—always prayers of
 resignation and faith.

 Mr. Hudson's distress was so poignant that more than
 once he was obliged to leave the room; the girl perceived it,
 and, for a little, her composure would be so disturbed that
 agitation brought back the racking cough and sharp pain
 that were wearing her life so rapidly away.

 "Don't let him grieve," she said, to Rhoda. "Tell him
 I'm very happy—very happy; I only grieve at leaving him.
 Good Rhoda! God will bless you, Rhoda!"

 It was the close of the third day; Rhoda was sitting by
 her patient, and Mr. Hudson had thrown himself on a sofa
 in the next room, quite broken down by trouble and long
 watching. The sick girl had been lying silent and motionless
 for long time; Rhoda could see that she slept at intervals,
 and that a peaceful smile beamed over her face, as if,
 in her dreams, some kind angel brought a vision of the peace
 which awaited her.

 She woke with a start, opened her eyes, glanced vaguely
 about. Her look fell upon Rhoda.

 "Did you hear it?" she whispered.

 "What?" Rhoda asked, gently.

 "The music—such beautiful music! Hark! I hear it
 yet! Listen!"

 She lifted one hand; the large eyes grew eager and wistful,
 brightening with a glory which was not of this world.

 A great awe stole over Rhoda; she knew what this change
 meant; the girl was dying.

 "Don't you hear?" she repeated.

 Rhoda could not answer, her voice was choked with tears.
 She knew that it was the low, sad strains from Luke's violin
 that the dying girl heard.

 "I know!" the girl murmured, "it is not that, but something
 beyond. I am dying! Don't cry—I'm not afraid!
 Call him, Rhoda. The music yet—the music!"

 Rhoda bent over her and kissed her forehead, with tender
 awe. Those pale lips moved and she heard that voice, grown
 supernaturally low, repeating.

 "The Lord is my shepherd! He leadeth me in green
 pastures! He maketh me to lie down beside the still
 waters!"

 Rhoda stole softly out into the outer chamber, where
 Hudson lay asleep, upon the lounge. She laid her hand on
 his shoulder; her touch roused him at once.

 "Is she worse?" he cried, staggering to his feet.

 Rhoda could not answer; one look in her face was
 enough—he knew that the end had come, and hurried into
 the chamber; Rhoda followed, and dropped on her knees
 at the foot of the bed.

 "My darling! Oh, my darling!" Rhoda heard him
 exclaim.

 The dying girl turned her eyes on his face, and she
 struggled hard for words. "Don't grieve—I'm going;
 take me in your arms."

 He sat down on the side of the bed and lifted her to his
 bosom, while the couch shook under the violent emotion he
 could no longer repress.

 "Don't cry, don't! Put your arms close around me!
 It's only for a little while—we shall meet yonder!"

 The struggles of that sweet voice died away; there was
 a heavy breath, and her head fell upon his shoulder.

 Rhoda rose from her knees and went up to the suffering
 man.

 "Don't! oh, don't! Maybe she sees, and is troubled by
 it. The angels are taking care of her now. Mother will
 be among them, for she knows I'm here."




 CHAPTER LXIII.

 THE HUSBAND'S RETURN.


 That evening Rhoda was alone in that silent death-chamber—very
 silent and mournfully white it was—the
 pale face of the dead, cold and beautiful as marble, was
 crowned with a wreath of white roses, which Luke had reverently
 laid upon it. The window was open, and the cool
 night wind stirred the snowy whiteness of the curtain, and
 a strain of heavenly music stole through with it; music
 from Luke's violin. The boy could not rest with death in
 the house, and poured his grief out in sounds that seemed
 to be calling that spirit home with soft, plaintive cries.

 Mr. Hudson had gone out. Duties awaited him among
 the famished souls gathering behind the old church, and he
 carried the burden of his sorrows down there, believing that
 the dead could hear him from that place, and know that he
 had not fainted at his post.

 Rhoda was startled in her watch by a man's footstep on
 the stairs. Thinking that it was Mr. Hudson coming home,
 she opened the door that he might be guided by the gleam
 of her lamp. But, instead of Mr. Hudson, she stood face
 to face with William Sterling.

 Rhoda started back in dumb astonishment, but Sterling
 seized her hand in both his and began to question her
 eagerly.

 "Where is she. Oh, little Rhoda, tell me that she is
 well. Go in, child, and say that I am here."

 Rhoda stood in dead silence a moment, then she stepped
 aside and pointed toward that calm marble face.

 "Oh, Mr. Sterling! She is there! Dead! Dead!"

 "Dead!" he groaned. "Oh, my God! Let me see her,
 at least! Stand out of the way—let me in!"

 Rhoda put up her hands with an appealing gesture.

 "Wait," she said, with a great effort; "there's nobody
 there, and you seem so strange."

 Sterling pushed by her, saw the pale face under its crown
 of flowers, and uttered a cry of terrible despair.

 "Dead? She can't be dead! Why wasn't I written to
 before? Why didn't you give me time to get here? Oh!
 it was cruel! cruel!"

 He flung himself on his knees by the bed, and covered
 his face with his hands.

 "I didn't write," Rhoda said; "how could I? I didn't
 know——"

 "No one ever did write to me; and I grew terribly
 anxious. I've traveled night and day, and to find her dead!
 Oh, my darling! my darling!"

 "Don't! don't! you frighten me!" said Rhoda, sobbing.

 Sterling's hands fell to his side; he turned his haggard
 face upon the child:

 "You loved her," he said, "I know that, but not as I
 did—but you stayed with her, while I kept away—and now
 she is dead, my own love, my beautiful Constance. Dead,
 and so changed; herself, and not herself. Ah, little Rhoda,
 I know you pity me, for you loved her."

 "Yes, I loved her, poor thing, and so did Luke, but it is
 of no use now."

 "And Mr. Hudson, where is he?"

 "Gone away, I don't know where. He said nothing, but
 took his hat with a great, heavy sigh, and left me here
 alone."

 "I had something to tell him, but it is all over now, my
 poor darling, all over."

 Rhoda began to sob; the young man's grief nearly broke
 her heart.

 "Don't, don't take on so," she said. "Crying won't
 bring her back."

 "I know it, I know it. Nothing will bring her back.
 Tell me, child, had she care? did she lack for anything?"

 "The best of care. I nursed her days, and he did nights.
 She was never left alone."

 "Did she never speak of me, Rhoda?"

 "Often and often, when you first went away, but after
 that she was too weak for talking."

 "And she never spoke of me at the last?"

 "No, not at the last, not once that I can think of."

 "Rhoda, will you leave me alone with her. Let me watch
 this one night?"

 "Yes, if you want to so much, I'll go."

 Rhoda cast a sorrowing look at the bed and went out of
 the room; then the plaintive music of Luke's violin stole
 through the house, undisturbed by a human voice, and so
 the dead rested till daylight. Then Rhoda came down stairs
 again, and William Sterling left the house.

 Two days after this, a humble funeral passed through the
 gates of Greenwood, and a small group of mourners stood
 by while a grave was filled. One was an old man whose
 hair seemed to have drifted into whiteness all at once. The
 others were a little, active man, who wept much, and two
 children, a boy and girl, who stood hand in hand, weeping
 as that coffin was lowered out of sight.

 After they had gone, a young man came out from a group
 of trees where he had lingered, and all that night William
 Sterling remained by the newly-made grave.




 CHAPTER LXIV.

 LUKE BECOMES DOWN-HEARTED.


 Mr. Hudson did not return to his home after the funeral,
 and William Sterling sought for him there in vain, before
 he started for the West. As for little Rhoda, she had no
 time for the indulgence of her grief, but with a quick, impressionable
 nature like hers, it was impossible that an experience
 like that through which she had passed so recently,
 should not have a strong and lasting effect.

 Rhoda was as active and energetic as ever; but she seemed
 gentle, more capable of understanding Luke's wayward fancies,
 and better able to sympathize with his varying moods
 than she had ever been before.

 She could see that the poor lad was greatly changed. He
 was more restless and excitable—neither ate or slept; and
 all her importunities and efforts to prepare some dainty that
 could tempt his appetite, seemed only to distress him.

 One day, Rhoda broke down completely. She had tried
 everything in her power, and her last resources had given
 way so entirely that she really had no refuge, except the feminine
 one of tears, and that was one which the girl struggled
 bravely against.

 Only the night before, inspired by a happy thought, she
 had made a hop pillow for her brother's bed, having faith
 that it would produce some soporific effect; but Luke peevishly
 flung it on the floor, and asked her if she meant to
 suffocate him.

 To be sure, a moment after, his natural goodness of heart
 made him repent, and he exclaimed,

 "I didn't mean it, Rhoda—I'm sorry! There, go to bed,
 dear; I dare say I shall sleep."

 But he did not sleep; hours after Rhoda could hear him
 moving about his little room, and every footfall seemed
 pressing directly on her anxious heart. She absolutely
 worked herself into a nervous headache for the first time in
 her life; then abused herself for being so helpless and miserable.
 Early in the morning she was up, regardless of the
 throbbing and beating in her temples as a Spartan could
 have been, and went about to prepare breakfast. She
 remembered a dish of eggs and bread-crumbs, prepared in
 some peculiar way, that Luke had always been fond of, and
 tried her hand at that. It looked so appetizing when she
 saw it on the dish, that her hopes began to rise.

 It was all of no use, however. Luke thanked her, and
 tried to eat; but the first mouthful seemed choking him
 and he pushed the plate away.

 "I can't," he said. "Don't mind me, Rhoda, I'll get
 better soon."

 He went away, and Rhoda sat down with the breakfast
 dishes unwashed, and had a grand cry all to herself, and felt
 the better for it, as anything feminine usually does after
 such an outburst.

 It was late in the afternoon before Luke came in, and
 Rhoda had become so anxious that she was thinking of
 going round to the theatre in search of him, when he
 returned.

 He looked so pale and worn out that a new pang seized
 her; but she had learned, with a woman's quickness, that
 a display of anxiety only vexed him; so she got up as
 much of a smile as she could manage, and said cheerfully,

 "I began to think you were lost, Luke! I've got some
 hot water. Will you have a cup of tea?"

 "I don't want it," he said, wearily; "let me lie down."
 Luke stretched himself on his bed, and Rhoda sat down
 by him, her fingers busy with some knitting, for she could
 not afford to waste time, however great might be her
 trouble.

 Luke lay there in silence, with one arm thrown half
 across his face; and Rhoda saw the great tears rolling
 slowly down his cheeks.

 The girl could not bear this silent grief, but fell on her
 knees by the bed, and put her arms about him.

 "What is it, Luke? Do tell me—I can't understand; it
 breaks my heart to see you take on so."

 "You're too good, Rhoda," he answered, still keeping
 his face hidden. "I'm ashamed to be such a baby; but I
 can't help it. I'm so wretched—I'm so wretched."

 "What has happened, Luke? I know it's about her—do
 tell me."

 "She's gone, Rhoda: they've taken her away."

 "Gone? Where?"

 "Out West, to live."

 "But they'll come back some time, Luke—their home is
 here."

 "Oh, Rhoda! there's no comfort in that! I can't believe
 it—I feel as if I should never see her again. That is what
 ails me—I can't sleep or eat. You don't know, Rhoda—you
 don't know!"

 "N—not from any p—personal experience," sobbed
 Rhoda; "but I love you so well I can understand."

 Luke threw his arm about her neck and kissed her, as he
 went on with his revelations.

 "To-day I went to the rehearsal, but I couldn't play—I
 got them to let me off. So I started for her house; I knew
 one of the servants, and the old woman let me in. Oh,
 Rhoda! she showed me all over it!—such a lovely place!
 Filled with pictures and flowers; and in her father's room
 there's a portrait of her—Rhoda, I went down on my
 knees before it."

 He broke off for an instant; Rhoda soothed him and
 whispering,

 "Poor boy! poor boy!" till he could control his voice
 sufficiently to go on.

 "And her room—it's like a fairy's bower in the theatre,
 Rhoda! All pink silk and lace, her bird in its cage; the
 chair where she sits by the window, and Rhoda——"

 "Yes, dear!"

 "On the table there was a glove; when the woman wasn't
 looking, I slipped it into my vest. See!"

 He pulled out a tiny primrose-colored glove, then hastily
 pushed it into its hiding-place again, as if it were too sacred
 even for Rhoda's eyes to behold.

 He lay there, and told his sister the whole story—the
 poor, pathetic little story, that meant so much to that dreaming,
 imaginative soul.

 "I feel as if I should die if she staid West," he said.

 "When she is near, even if I don't see her, it seems to
 give me new life; but to know that she is so far away,
 makes me feel as if some chord in my heart was stretched
 until it must break. I can feel it trembling to-night,
 Rhoda."

 Rhoda did not attempt to argue with him. She listened
 patiently, soothed and caressed him, until at length he
 grew quiet, and fell asleep.

 Rhoda's knitting was forgotten. She sat curled up in a
 little heap at the foot of the bed, her forehead puckered into
 a score of wrinkles in her effort to devise some means which
 should bring a little comfort and happiness to her poor
 Luke.

 Suddenly her face brightened; she fairly clapped her
 hands in noiseless triumph, and crept away into the kitchen
 to keep the water hot for Luke's tea; sometimes muttering
 congratulations to herself, for she saw the light.

 When Rhoda heard Luke stirring, she went back to his
 room.

 "Don't get up yet," she said, "I've something to say
 first. Now, Luke, just listen to me. If you could see her
 would you promise to get well?"

 "Indeed, I would!" he exclaimed. "But what's the good
 of talking that way—you know I can't."

 "That's what we are to see about," said Rhoda, nodding
 her head sagely. "You said they were traveling from one
 city to another—Chicago, Columbus, St. Louis; and all the
 rest of those places that are just like Jonah's gourd for
 growing."

 "Yes. Well, what of it, Rhoda?"

 "I've been thinking, Luke—I don't believe in having a
 head for nothing—and I've been thinking——"

 "Do go on, Rhoda!"

 "You can play the violin like an angel—though it's
 harps, I believe, that they use! But no matter; you can
 play and sing—and father is a wonder, too, when I'm by to
 keep him straight——"

 "Oh, Rhoda! when I'm so impatient!"

 "I'm coming to it! I want you to start out and give concerts—There!
 We'll go to all the places where she is.
 They'll bring her to hear you; and you'll see her every
 evening, besides making such a lot of money that you'll be
 like a prince."

 "And I shall grow famous," cried Luke, seizing her idea
 in a fullness and breadth which it had not possessed to her
 mind. "Oh, Rhoda! we can do it—I know we can!"

 "We will," said Rhoda, stamping her foot, as if she
 defied fate itself to interfere with the plan.

 "It's a heavenly thought," Luke went on, in raptures at
 once. "You're like an angel to me, Rhoda! We will get
 ready and start next week. Father will go——you can coax
 him."

 "Of course he'll go! Just the traveling will be good
 for you, Luke."

 "Oh! I'm well now!" he exclaimed, springing off the
 bed; "you've cured me, Rhoda."

 "I'll believe that, if you'll come and eat some dinner,"
 Rhoda answered, cheerfully, while a sharp pain smote her
 heart as she watched his flushed cheeks and burning eyes,
 lighted up into new beauty by this precious hope she had
 brought to him in his darkness, for she had not nursed the
 poor young woman that was gone without learning the sad
 significance of these symptoms.

 "Yes, I can eat now," he said. "I must get strong—I
 must practice, too. I'll begin to-night. I wish father
 would come in; I want to hear what he thinks of it."

 "Just leave that to me," returned Rhoda. "I'm going
 to be the agent and business manager of this concern—you've
 too much music in your head. I shall go and see Mr.
 Thurman, the leader of the orchestra, to-morrow; he'll tell
 us just what to do."

 "I shall see her, Rhoda! She likes to hear me play—he'll
 be sure to come. And when they applaud she'll be
 pleased. Perhaps she will feel I do it all for her. Oh,
 Rhoda! Rhoda! you have made me so happy—you have
 given me new life."

 And Rhoda smiled on him, and listened to his fancies; but
 all the while the pain at her heart grew more intense as she
 noticed how the dark eyes brightened with unnatural lustre,
 and the fragile frame armed itself with a feverish strength
 which must freeze the very springs of life itself.




 CHAPTER LXV.

 ON THE PRAIRIE.


 Time swept on. The entire scene of our story changes
 from the city, with its crowds of active people, its whirl of
 gay life—its sorrows and its joys—to a broad, undulating
 prairie in the far West. It was not a vast ocean of waving
 grass, flat and monotonous, sweeping greenly to the horizon,
 but a succession of prairies, out of which ranges of heavily
 wooded hills lifted themselves in picturesque beauty, leaving
 plenty of space for the union of one beautiful sea of grass
 with another.

 These hills gave life and change to the scene, which was
 an unspeakable relief to the traveler, who tires of an eternal
 stretch of verdure, as one wearies of an ocean in its perpetual
 calm. One of these prairies was almost entirely surrounded
 by a chain of broken hills. Along the side a river,
 of considerable depth and power, swept with a broad, graceful
 curve, adding the soft chime of waters to the rush and
 sough of winds when they swayed the long grass to and fro,
 in such undulating waves as stir the ocean after a storm.

 In the curve of this river a dozen log houses were clustered,
 and one or two dwellings of buff stone taken from a quarry
 in the hills, had just beep completed. Indeed, all the
 dwellings in the place were new—some of them so recent
 in their construction that tufts of green leaves might still
 be found clinging to the logs, and close by the stone houses
 the ground was choked up with a litter of broken stones
 and half-dried beds of mortar, bits of lath, and blocks of
 refuse timber, around which the thrifty grass was still growing,
 as if nothing could suppress its exuberance.

 Spite of this newness and litter, nature was so munificent
 that the village looked rural and lovely as you approached
 it. The thrifty wild vine, trampled down by the workman,
 had started up again, and, creeping across the loose stones,
 seized upon the logs and were climbing toward the eaves of
 the cabins, scattering them with the sweetness of their
 blossoms as they grew.

 Across the prairie, there was a broad opening in the hills,
 interlinking one sea of grass with another, and through
 this, bearing in a direct line for the Rocky Mountains, the
 Pacific Railway ran, having first crossed the plain, cleaving
 it in two with a belt of iron, and filling all the solitude with
 the hum of busy workmen.

 Out of this railway, which now links two vast oceans
 together, chaining down mighty ranges of mountains in its
 progress, this village, or town, had sprung into existence, as
 many another thriving place had done, while the great
 works stretched themselves toward the mountains.

 Some keen lover of nature had chosen the site of this
 coming town. The shadows of the hills almost swept over
 it. The river wound around it like a silver bow. It was
 uplifted above the level plain, and overlooked a sea of the
 tallest and most luxuriant grass that ever tangled itself into
 gorgeousness with the vivid coloring of wild flowers, abundant
 as itself, and bright as the tints of a coming sunset.
 At nightfall the scene was more than beautiful. Then the
 hills cast down their shadows upon the river, which sent up
 sparkles of light here and there as the dying sun shed
 flashes of scarlet or gold upon it, and on the cabin windows
 with their clinging flowers, as if determined to light up the
 prairie with a double glory.

 Indeed, at this hour, it was well that the village should
 be illuminated, for then the sweetest season of domestic life
 commenced. The owners of these cabins came home from
 their work, brought back from a distance on the road they
 were building, eager for a few hours of domestic comfort
 with the loved ones who had followed them into those western
 wilds, scarcely giving a thought to the sacrifice they
 were making.

 This hour of rest had fallen upon the village. The trees
 over the topmost hills seemed set on fire by drifting flame-tints
 let loose by the setting sun. The river was partly in
 the shadow partly flashing with gleams of gold, but the
 inner curve was all one cool green shadow, in which a boat
 drifted downward with the current, forming a beautiful
 object in the stillness.

 In this boat two persons were seated, a young girl, in the
 first bloom of life, and a man of twenty-five, or thereabout,
 whose handsome face bore an impress of matured thought
 not usual to that early age. He was a fine specimen of
 manhood, tall and athletic in person, intellectual in the
 expression of his face, and earnest in everything he said or
 did.

 The girl, though scarcely yet in the perfection of the
 rare beauty which a year or two more would give to her
 tall person and sweet face, was wonderfully light and graceful
 as she sat in the little boat, trailing one hand in the
 water and listening, with downcast eyes, to that sweet
 story, which is full of witchery now as it was when Adam
 whispered it to his wife in the bowers of Paradise.

 All at once the young man flung down his oars, and took
 the hand which lay supinely in the girl's lap, between both
 his.

 "You are silent—you do not believe me, Dora."

 She lifted her eyes from the shelter of their long lashes,
 gave him one look, and veiled them again; but over her
 face flashed a smile so sudden and brilliant that he uttered
 an exclamation of delight, and, lifting her hand to his lips,
 left it rosy with his kisses.

 "Then you do love me, Dora?"

 She looked up with pleasant mischief in her smile.

 "William, who was the girl I saw you with that first
 night at the theatre?"

 The young man started, and released her hand gently
 from his clasp. She looked at him in surprise. The color
 had left his face, and a thrill of pain seemed to pass
 through him.

 "I am sorry you asked me just now, Dora, because an
 hour like this should be all joy; but I should have told you
 about this a little later, and will answer you now. That
 person was my wife."

 "Your wife!"

 A storm of crimson rushed over Dora's face. It seemed
 as if the word had passed through her heart like a bullet.

 "It grieves me. I did not intend to be so abrupt. Forgive
 me," pleaded the young man, greatly troubled by her
 agitation.

 "Your wife—and you loved her?" cried out that young
 girl, so new to pain that she thought it was killing her.

 "Yes, Dora, I loved her. Forgive me, but I did."

 "As you love me—better than you love me. How dare
 you, sir, talk as—as you have done? Take me home—take
 me home!"

 "Not till you have listened to me—not till you have forgiven
 me for that which was no crime, at least against you."

 "I—I cannot forgive you. It was a deception. I
 thought you so good—so honorable, so—so——"

 Then Dora suddenly lifted both hands to her face, and
 burst into a passion of tears.

 Sterling strove to imprison her hands and wipe away her
 tears, but she resisted him, and began to sob.

 "Dora," he said, very gently, but with firmness, "you
 must not be angry with me for a state of things that happened
 long before I knew you. If you could but understand
 how unhappy these tears make me, I am sure you would not
 be so ungenerous."

 "But you loved her—you married her."

 "Dora, give me your hands—there, look in my face, and
 tell me if it is a deceitful one. Ah! you are almost smiling.
 Thank you, dear. How lovely you are with the tears on
 those long lashes. Do you think that I ever did or ever
 could love any one as I love you?"

 "Are you sure? She was wonderfully pretty. Her eyes
 so tender, her neck so white—that girl your wife? Oh,
 William, I hate her."

 Do not say that, Dora—she is dead."

 Dora gave a little shiver, and began to cry again, but
 more quietly than before. At last she turned to him with a
 smile of heavenly forgiveness on her face and said, in a
 sweet, womanly fashion,

 "Now tell me all about it."

 Well, he told her the whole story—at least all that he
 knew of it; how his profession had thrown him in the way
 of Constance Hudson; how he had compassionated her loneliness,
 and admired her genius, untamed and rude as it was,
 helped her—pitied her—loved her, and, in the end, secretly
 married her. Then he told of the long journey he had
 taken in order to claim his wife openly, and the mournful
 news that had met him at her father's door. This was the
 reason of his secrecy. Death had put its seal upon his
 marriage, and he had shrunk from speaking of it to any
 one especially since his heart had gone out so entirely to
 another.

 Dora heard all this with mingled curiosity and pain. But
 she was, after all, a sensible girl. By degrees her tears
 abated, and I am not certain that she did not exalt the
 young man into something like a hero of romance in her
 mind. But the subject had brought too many sad memories
 upon Sterling, and the hour, which opened so brightly, closed
 in gentle sadness. He could not be entirely happy when
 the thoughts of beautiful, bright Constance Hudson had
 been so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

 Eudora had unconsciously dashed the sweetest moments
 of her own life with painful shadows, when she mentioned
 the beautiful girl who had, at first, only excited her curiosity,
 and, of late, since she had learned to love William Sterling,
 a vague jealousy. With one careless question, she had
 brought out the young man's secret, and thus dashed her
 own joy, for a moment, to the ground. But we soon reconcile
 ourselves to the inevitable. Dora was too wise and
 right-hearted for more than a passing pang when she learned
 that her own pure, first love, must accept a second place in
 the life she had hoped to fill entirely. It wounded her self-love,
 and hurt her pride, at first; but that soon passed
 away. Sterling had, in fact, committed no wrong against
 any one, save by the secrecy which sprung out of intended
 kindness. After all, this married life of his amounted to
 scarcely more than a dream. How could she remain jealous
 of a woman in her grave? Yet Dora would far rather this
 marriage had never been.

 If Sterling, also, felt unhappy, as his boat glided slowly
 adown the river, he only gave proof of it by a quiet sadness,
 which settled upon them both; and so these two
 lovers drifted on through the purple shadows almost in
 silence.

 They came back, at last, and walked into the village just
 as the stars came out, and fire-flies were filling the prairies
 with diamond-sparks. They paused before one of the new
 stone houses. Dora turned her face to the starlight as she
 hesitated to open the door. William held out his hand.
 His face was pale in that dim light, and he looked in her
 eyes entreatingly, as if he feared that some hard thought
 still lingered in her heart against him.

 "Dora!"

 "Good-night," she said, kindly, bending toward him;
 "good-night. We will never think of her again."

 "God bless you, Dora! Good-night."

 Sterling turned away, and walked past his mother's cabin,
 wanting solitude. Dora stood in the darkened hall of her
 father's house, and watched him tenderly, weeping a little,
 but more from happiness than pain.




 CHAPTER LXVI.

 THE LAST HOPE CRUSHED.


 The cabin door was open, and Mrs. Holt sat near it, looking
 out upon the river. A little time before she had seen
 the boat, containing her son and Dora, floating through the
 shadows, and the sight had set her to dreaming, as mothers
 will when the welfare of their children is at stake. Since
 this lady had taken up her life on the prairie, she had become
 better acquainted with the young girl than years of
 intimacy could have made her in the city. Thrown, as
 these two families were, into near neighborhood among the
 pioneers, surveyors, and workmen, who were busy on the
 railroad, the cohesion of natural refinement brought them
 into close relationship. Mrs. Holt saw the growing attachment
 of her son, and was made hopeful by it, for she loved
 Dora already with almost maternal fondness.

 "Let them be happy," she said, with tears of gentle
 tenderness filling her eyes, as the boat floated off through
 the purplish mist. "God forbid that their youth should
 be shipwrecked, as mine was. Oh! if we, who have
 learned how to suffer, could bear all the burdens of those
 we love, life would lose half its anxieties."

 So the boat went out of sight, winding sleepily down the
 river; and that woman's mind, in like fashion, launched itself
 on the stream of her life, but her thoughts turned up the
 stream, and floating through the dim shadows of memory
 till they became anguish, and she started up in a desperate
 effort to fling off the past, and make that log cabin
 pleasant as the palace she had been thinking of.

 At this moment, Sterling passed.

 She spread a little table of black walnut, rudely fashioned
 by some of the railroad workmen, with a cloth of snow-white
 linen—one of her hoarded treasures; brought out
 bread, and fruit, and milk, with some delicate round cakes,
 and, at last, set a vase of wild flowers just beneath the
 lamp, which scattered delicate shadows all over the snowy
 whiteness of the table. Her mind had turned from the
 young persons who had first occupied it, and was dwelling,
 somewhat anxiously, on the husband whom she had followed,
 with such devotion, into the West.

 Holt should have been home to his supper before sunset;
 and now it was getting quite dark, and, so far as she could
 discover, looking anxiously out toward the railway, no sign
 of his coming was visible. She walked out a little way
 into the wild grass, looking for him. In the distance was
 a group of shanties, where many of the workmen went for
 their meals, and where that eternal curse to civilization,
 whisky, was kept in abundance. Had he stopped there?
 Once again had his manhood given way? Were the hopes
 she had cherished so thankfully about to be trodden in the
 dust?

 Poor woman! she had made her bed among thorns and
 thistles from the first. How they pierced and wounded her
 now! At last she heard a rustling in the long grass, the
 low protest of a voice she knew, expostulating with the
 earth for rising up, swelling, and rolling so unevenly; and
 with the grass for tying up four pair of feet, that wanted to
 wade through, and could not.

 The woman's heart died within her. She knew the sound
 too well. Many, and many a time had she heard that muffled
 voice, cursing the pavement and the stars for oscillating
 under his drunken progress, as he came home from some of
 his many haunts in the city. But the prairie life had
 seemed to regenerate him. His strength and manhood had
 come back in the bright, pure air of the plains. She had
 hoped so much for him, and, of late, trust had superseded
 hope. Now both were gone, and she stood, trembling and
 broken-hearted, almost ready to die, rather than see his degradation.

 He came up, reeling and stumbling, through the thick
 grass. His hat was gone; his coat floated open at the
 bosom, and, in a fit of half-strangulation, he had torn off
 his neck-tie, leaving his throat bare to the chest.

 This was what the poor woman saw, reeling toward her in
 the pure starlight of that summer night.

 "What—what—is it you, old woman? It—it, it's my
 opinion, the prairies are—a—a—afire; sparks a—all round
 me, right—yes, right and left, every—every way. What
 do you—you keep moving back so for? Can't ye keep
 steady on yer—yer—feet, like a decent woman with—without
 dancing up and down—to—to, and fro, like a—a—like
 a woman, and a confounded old woman at that? Can't
 you hear? Stand still! It—it's indecent for a woman of
 your age, hop—hop—hopping about that way. Just wait
 till your feet get tangled in the grass, and if that don't
 trip—trip you up——There! didn't I tell you!"

 Here the drunken man gave a lurch forward, and fell to
 the ground, where he lay, wallowing in the long grass
 almost at his wife's feet, all the time rebuking her, and
 wondering at her unsteadiness. She helped him up from
 the earth with as heavy a heart as ever ached in a woman's
 bosom. While he leaned roughly on her shoulder, fairly
 bending down her delicate form under his weight, she led
 him towards home, weeping silently all the way.

 What a neat, tasteful picture was that still cabin when
 they entered it. Curtains of cloud-white muslin floated at
 the little windows. The table, with its milk, its fruit and
 flowers, stood in the middle of the room, clearly revealed by
 the radiance of the lamp. Two or three easy chairs stood
 about; luxurious, and not ungraceful affairs, scooped out of
 flour-barrels, stuffed with fine hay, and covered with stout,
 white linen, altogether an invention which sprang out of
 necessity. That long packing-box was cushioned and
 draped into a pretty article of furniture, which might not
 have been out of place in a city parlor.

 Mrs. Holt had, with great taste and industry, thus embellished
 her prairie-home, hoping and praying for the new
 life which would spring out of her husband's reformation.
 With her own hands she had covered the rough walls of her
 cabin with coarse cloth and concealed that under delicate
 paper, against which two or three fine engravings, hung in
 frames of fir-cones, acorn-cups, and vine-tendrils, that
 looked like ancient carving. If any home on earth could
 have won the heart of a wanderer to domestic ease, this
 would have done so, for here that woman had brought all
 the refinement and mechanical genius of a life-time. Love
 had made her an inventor, and her life on the prairies, instead
 of being a hardship, was like working out a poem.

 Alas! alas! how did this woman, so delicate and sensitive,
 come back to her pretty home that night, bending beneath
 the weight of a drunken man; her dress drenched
 with dew, her feet so wet that they left tracks on the matting,
 tears upon her face, ice at her heart—hopeless, utterly
 hopeless. The last prop had fallen away from her. The
 rest of her existence must be painful and humiliating endurance.

 Mrs. Holt led her husband into the house, and closed the
 door, afraid that some one might see his disgrace.

 "Sup—supper," muttered the inebriate, gathering his
 weight up from the shoulder of his wife, and staggering toward
 the table. "Told you I'd be home! but they set the
 prairies a-fire—snap, flash, lus, sparks here—sparks there;
 sp—sparks. Yes! got home to supper, in spite of 'em all.
 Come, set to, old Methuselah! What's that on your dress?
 Water? Been wading in the creek, ha! It's rainin' down
 your face, too, running down the wrinkles like gutters!
 What an old guy! Take care, you're in my way! I want
 to catch that chair when it comes round! Hello!—the
 table's getting into a whirl! Hold on!—hold on, I say!
 One, two, three, four baskets of berries! Pitchers of milk
 hopping about! Hold on!—hold on, I say!"

 Here the man squared his feet, planted them heavily on
 the floor, and pressing both hands on the table, held on to it
 in dread earnest, calling out,

 "Stop it!—stop it! By George! it whirls round like a
 cart-wheel! Steady!—steady!—steady!"

 Here he dropped into the chair his wife had placed for
 him, still holding on to the table with one hand, while he
 poured a flood of milk over the table-cloth, in vainly trying
 to fill a bowl with it.

 "My dear," said he at last, turning his heavy eye upon
 his wife, and speaking with a great effort at politeness,
 "oblige me by—by picking it up. It isn't just the thing
 to see good milk lying about loose! Pick it up, my love,
 and do it in a bowl! Run, my dear! pour out the bread,
 and I'll try and make a supper, my—my darling!"

 The poor woman had no smiles for this ridiculous address,
 but she sat down by the table, wiped the milk up with a
 napkin, filled the bowl, and crimsoned the white fluid with
 a rich supply of berries. These seemed to fill her husband
 with nothing but loathing, for he pushed the table away with
 a violent jar that shook everything upon it; got up, reeled
 toward the pretty white couch, and then threw himself
 heavily upon it. In a few moments he was asleep, and
 breathed like a man seized with apoplexy.

 Then the woman sat down in her rustic easy-chair, and,
 dropping both hands into her lap, fell into a dull lethargy
 of despair. She looked ten years older than she had done
 that morning. All the bloom which reviving hopes and the
 fresh air of a wild country had given her, was swept away.
 The very heart in her bosom was heavy as marble.

 Young Sterling came in, and found his mother sitting
 there, helpless and hopeless. He also saw the man, whom
 she loved so dearly, lying upon the whiteness of that pretty
 couch, degrading it with his besotted sleep. He paused a
 step from the door, and took in the scene with a glance full
 of pain and surprise. After months of blamelessness, had
 it come to this with the man?

 Mrs. Holt saw the scorn and sorrow in her son's look, and
 shrunk away from it with a shiver. He saw it, and went up
 to her softly, and with the tenderness of great love in his
 voice,

 "Do not let it trouble you so, mother. It may not happen
 again."

 The poor woman gave him a look of piteous gratitude, and
 her tears began to flow like rain. The kindness of her son
 thawed the ice at her heart.

 The young man let her cry in peace, and, going up to the
 couch, put a pillow under the sleeping man's head; seeing
 which the poor woman covered her face with her hands, and
 began to sob.

 "There! he is made comfortable now; let him sleep it
 off as he is, dear mother. Come, come! it is not so very
 bad. Let me help you into the other room. All will be
 right to-morrow."

 She got up, wearily, and went into the little bed-room,
 sighing forth a faint good-night. Sterling went up the
 stairs, which led to a garret under the roof, and, finding his
 humble bed, lay upon it all night, watching the moon as it
 mounted higher and higher in the sky, and flooded the garret
 with a silvery radiance, beautiful as the joy which was
 keeping him in a state of celestial wakefulness. Had he
 ever loved before? Could any previous experience be compared
 to the glory and sublime blissfulness that pervaded
 his whole being that night? Had his love for Constance
 Hudson been anything like that? Was it not pity, and
 the ardent admiration of beauty—to which his art made
 him peculiarly susceptible—rather than the intense devotion
 that pervaded his whole being now? In his desire to
 respect the dead had he not given an idea of perfect love
 for his young wife which the facts did not entirely carry
 out? How beautiful Dora had looked in her first indignant
 surprise that so vital a secret should have existed between
 them. With what sweet assurances she had forgiven
 him! Not in words—for he had rather been permitted to
 read them in the uplifting of her eyes, and the cadence of
 her low voice—but in a hundred ways she had told him,
 that, in her, love was stronger than pride. Yet Dora
 craved entire love, as every woman must who gives it as
 she did.

 No; Sterling could not say to himself there, in the still
 moonlight, that he had ever wholly loved any woman as he
 now loved this girl Dora. In the sweet companionship of
 their lives, a strong, pure feeling had rooted itself, which
 was unlike anything the young man had ever dreamed of
 before. That other passion had been of the earth; this had
 the holiness of eternity in it. He scarcely thought how
 rarely beautiful she was; for her very identity was swallowed
 up in his own being, and she seemed a part of his
 very life.

 In his sweet dreaming, the young man forgot the trouble
 that had fallen upon his own household; but when the daylight
 came, and through the thin flooring he heard the
 sobs of a woman, in such grief that she had not closed her
 eyes during the night, it went to his heart like a reproach.
 How could he dream of perfect happiness, while his mother
 was suffering so keenly?

 When Sterling came down stairs, his mother was busy
 about her household work, looking worn and haggard, as if
 the man, outstretched upon the couch, were dead, rather
 than degraded. They sat down to breakfast together in
 silence, with the door closed, that their shame might be
 shut out from the neighbors, and thus they took the first
 really uncomfortable meal in that house.




 CHAPTER LXVII.

 NEW ARRIVALS IN THE PRAIRIE.


 It was not often that mere travelers found their way
 along the construction trains on the railroad; but sometimes
 an individual, more enterprising than usual, would
 manage to get on board, and pass from settlement to settlement
 on his way to the Pacific. Still it was seldom that
 women or children were found traveling in this fashion;
 and when a little girl, with all the old-fashioned manners,
 and more than the sharpness of a woman, came into the
 settlement one night, avowedly on a trading speculation in
 second-hand clothes, it was the source of considerable
 excitement. This feeling was enhanced by the fact that
 the girl was accompanied by a little old man, who seemed
 to look up to her as his superior, and a lad of such exquisite
 beauty, that even the rudest workman turned to look upon
 him with admiration as he moved through the shanties
 standing on what would, some day, be a railroad station.

 The boy carried a violin-case under his arm, and this
 also awoke the interest of the workmen, who saw a prospective
 dance before them, at which this boy might be the
 presiding musician.

 Rhoda Weeks was very busy getting some huge trunks
 removed from among the rails and timbers, which made up
 the freight of that particular train, to a shanty of more than
 ordinary pretension, which had been pointed out to her as a
 place where food and lodging could be obtained.

 "Now you just go and tell 'em to get us some supper,
 while I see to the things," said Rhoda, with the decision of
 a brigadier. "A slice of venison, or a plump broiled quail
 for Luke, remember, and some berries after. Have them
 done nicely, or he won't be able to touch them, poor dear!
 Now go along, father, and take good care of him, you
 know!"

 Mr. Weeks obeyed her like a child, and followed Luke,
 who was walking languidly toward the shanty.

 "No quails, not a bird, and he looking so tired?" cried
 Rhoda, spreading her little hands in consternation when
 she had discussed the ways and means with the owner of
 the shanty far enough to make sure that no delicacy could
 be had for her brother. "I tell you he is sick—can't you
 see it? His poor cheeks are redder than red to-night,
 and he can hardly sit up. Get him something nice, please
 do! Never mind about father and me, anything is good
 enough for us."

 "I can get him a splendid whisky smash," said the man,
 so earnestly addressed.

 Rhoda made a wry face and flung her hand out impatiently.
 That moment Weeks came up with eager desire
 in his face.

 "I—I will take the smash," he said, rubbing his hands
 together. "It will do the boy more good in that way."

 "Father!" whispered Rhoda, "I'm ashamed of you."

 "Well, well, no matter, I can do without it," said the
 little man, retreating, almost with tears in his eyes; "but
 it's hard—it's mighty hard!" he muttered, sitting down
 disconsolately.

 Rhoda placed herself on a wooden bench on which Luke
 was lying, and took his head in her lap.

 "Are you hungry, dear?" she whispered.

 "No, not much—only _so_ tired. Shall we never find them,
 Rhoda?"

 "By-and-by—have a little patience, Luke."

 "But it is so long—months and months."

 "I know it, darling; but I think we are on the track
 now, and I'll keep it up, if we have to go clear to California."

 "I shall never get there," whispered Luke, closing his
 eyes wearily. "Don't you see, Rhoda, how weak and good-for-nothing
 I am getting."

 "Weak! Nonsense! Good-for-nothing!—how foolish!
 You are only tired and hungry. Oh! if I could only get
 you something——"

 Here Rhoda broke off with an exclamation of delight, for
 that moment a young man entered the shanty with a bunch
 of birds in one hand and a gun in the other. She did not
 look at the man, but her eyes fastened greedily on the birds;
 and removing Luke's head from her lap, she got down from
 the bench and went up to the new-comer.

 "Will you let me have one—just one? Oh, mercy!
 Father, father; Luke—why, it's him. It's Mr. Sterling
 himself. Oh! how glad I am; how—how——"

 She paused here and struggled a little, for Sterling lifted
 her from the floor, in the midst of her exclamations, and
 kissed her tenderly.

 "Dear me, you shouldn't do that; but, then, who cares?
 We've found you at last; but how you are tanned; how
 your beard has grown. Dear me, isn't this splendid?
 Luke! Luke! don't you see who it is?"

 Luke did not move, something strange had come over the
 boy. He was shivering from head to foot, and closed the
 broad, white lids over his eyes as if to shut the young man
 from his sight. Something within him shrunk and recoiled
 from that handsome face.

 "Luke! Luke! don't you see—don't you hear?" cried
 Rhoda, as Sterling set her on her feet again.

 The boy arose to a sitting posture and made a sad effort
 to smile.

 "I—I am not very well," he said, gently; "and that
 makes me feel strange; but I'm glad to see you, Mr. Sterling.
 Father will be glad, too."

 "Father! father! sure enough—where is he?" said
 Rhoda, on the alert in an instant. She turned just in time
 to see the little man place an empty tumbler on the counter,
 which answered as a bar, and surreptitiously wipe his
 lips with the back of his hand.

 "Oh, father! just because my back was turned!" she
 whispered, leading him forward. "Here he is, Mr. Sterling,
 looking splendid, isn't he? Tired out, and had to
 take a little of something, you know; always does when I
 insist on it—don't you, father?"

 Weeks, in some confusion, held out his hand and shook
 that of Sterling three times in succession.

 "Glad to see you, sir—seems like old times. My, how
 hearty you are looking. How do you think Luke is getting
 along?"

 "He always was delicate," said Sterling, looking compassionately
 on the gentle boy. "I hope the air of the
 plains will do him good."

 Luke smiled, and said he thought it was doing him good;
 then he turned a wistful glance on Rhoda, who crept toward
 him and bent her face to his.

 "Ask him about them?" he whispered.

 Rhoda nodded her head, and turned to Sterling.

 "I was so taken aback that everything went out of my
 head. Where can we find Mrs. Holt?"

 "She is here, Rhoda; you can see her house on the bend
 of the river by stepping this way."

 Rhoda clapped her hands and ran to the door, looking
 toward the distant village with eager eyes.

 "Oh! if I had but wings," she said.

 "You need not pray for them, little Rhoda," answered
 Sterling. "I have a horse and wagon here; get in, and
 we will have our birds for supper."

 "But Luke?"

 "Of course, Luke will come also; your father, too. I
 have no idea how we shall manage for beds; but the neighbors
 are very kind."

 "If you had just as lief, Rhoda, I will stay here," said
 Weeks, casting a furtive look toward the bar. "You and
 Luke will be enough for one house; besides, I must be here
 to take care of the goods."

 "Perhaps that is the best arrangement," said Sterling,
 thinking of his mother, who was in no state to assume
 extra burdens.

 "Well," said Rhoda, hesitating between her father and
 brother, "if one must be left behind, father is best."

 Luke got up eagerly from the bench and put on his cap.

 "It looks beautiful out yonder," he said." I am ready
 to go."

 A strange inspiration seemed to have seized upon the lad.
 His eyes were like diamonds: his cheeks became vividly
 red; and no coral was ever brighter than the lips through
 which his breath panted hot and fast.




 CHAPTER LXVIII.

 PLEASANT VISITORS.


 Sterling lifted Luke into his wagon, and Rhoda took
 her place beside him, laughing gleefully at the idea of meeting
 her best friend once more. They had a delightful ride
 across the prairie, and at last stopped before the log cabin.
 Rhoda sprang over the wheel, darted into the house, and
 threw herself at Mrs. Holt's feet.

 "Oh, lady! have I found you—have I found you!"

 The bright tears were on her face, her hands were uplifted—the
 young creature was wild with joy.

 Mrs. Holt was greatly affected. She raised the girl in
 her arms and kissed her again and again.

 "Rhoda! little Rhoda! it seems like a miracle to see you
 here."

 "Oh! we have been searching for you so long, traveling
 everywhere in hopes of finding you. The West is so far
 off, so wide, so long, it stretches off and off. But we are
 here at last, Luke and I, to say nothing of father."

 "And you are come to stay with me, little Rhoda?"
 said Mrs. Holt, kindly.

 "Till Luke gets better, if you will let us. Luke is sick.
 I am afraid he is getting worse, for he grows so handsome
 that it makes my heart ache."

 Here the lad, of whom they were speaking, came in.
 Mrs. Holt was so struck by the ethereal beauty of his face
 that she stood motionless, gazing upon him as if an angel
 had started up in her path. Rhoda took him by the hand
 in her brisk, protecting way, and led him to the lady.

 "You don't know Luke yet; but he remembers you, and
 loves you. Don't you, brother?"

 "Ah, yes! I do remember her so well—as well as I remember
 our mother."

 Mrs. Holt took his hand, it was hot and dry.

 "You are ill—what can I do for you?" she said, in a
 voice so sweet with compassion that it brightened the boy's
 face all over.

 "No, lady, I am well now. It seems as if I had got
 home."

 "And so it shall be your home so long as you like it,"
 said the lady; "but you must be hungry."

 "Yes, he is hungry," answered Rhoda, taking off her
 bonnet, and beginning to roll up her sleeves. "But we
 have got some birds out there, and I am going to cook them.
 Is that the kitchen I saw back of the house, with a cooking
 stove in it?"

 Before any one could answer, Rhoda ran out to the
 wagon, took the birds from under the seat, and directly was
 picking off their feathers in that little summer kitchen as if
 she had lived there all her life. Sometimes she would
 pause in her work, and sit motionless, with a bird in one
 hand, and a handful of feathers in the other; then burst out
 into a mellow laugh, wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her
 dress, and fall to work with new vigor.

 When her birds were ready for cooking, she proceeded to
 make a fire, found all the necessary utensils as if by magic;
 and before Mrs. Holt knew well what she was about, came
 smiling and bustling into the house, ready to set the table
 for the whole family.

 This was rather pleasant to the lady, who had been husbanding
 her little means so carefully that she had considered
 any servant as an extravagance. Besides, the sudden
 downfall of her hopes had broken her energies, and the
 fatigue of domestic duties pressed heavily upon her of late.
 So it was a relief to see bright, active little Rhoda taking
 the lead, and fluttering about the house like a honey-bee
 among rose-thickets.

 "There," said Rhoda, placing the last dish on the table,
 and rolling down her sleeves with dainty precision, "the
 supper is ready. Come, Mrs. Holt, come, Mr. Sterling, and
 you, Luke. Dear me, how comfortable it is to feel at home
 again."

 She placed one of the cozy chairs at the head of the
 table, and patronized Mrs. Holt with a gentle pat on the
 shoulder as she sat down in it. Then settled Luke in his
 place, and took her own seat, with a little flutter of delight,
 as a mother-bird sinks down in her nest after the young
 ones are properly fed.

 The next day Luke felt better from the rest and quietude
 which an idea of home had given him, and wandered off
 toward the river, plucking the most delicate prairie-flowers
 from the wild grasses as he went. Over his shoulder, like a
 troubadour of old, his violin was slung in its case of green
 cloth. Thus, with the flowers his taste was always longing
 for, and the instrument which he loved best of any inanimate
 thing on earth, the boy strolled forth, breathing the brightness
 of the air with languid pleasure, and feeling almost well
 again.

 On the brink of the river stood a clump of elm-trees, over
 which a wild grape-vine had tangled and trailed itself, lifted
 high in the sunshine, and sweeping downward in a bower
 of rich leafiness. At the foot of this tree, Luke seated himself,
 and taking out his violin, began to play. At first the
 wind, as it whispered and sighed along the grass, was not
 fainter than the strains he drew. The singing of the
 waters, and the hum of summer insects swelled into harmony
 with his music, which seemed natural, like the rest.

 By degrees the strains swelled out louder and more sustained;
 the air was thrilled with its sweetness; and the
 very birds in the vine above him paused, with their heads
 on one side, to listen, till the inspiration seized upon them,
 and they began to sing in chorus, jubilant with enthusiasm.

 Then the lad's face grew heavenly in its spiritual loveliness;
 a smile, that seemed born of the music, parted his
 lips; his eyes were luminous with crowding harmonies; his
 hands, delicate and white as a child's, shook and quivered
 with eagerness as they fluttered over the strings. Sometimes
 he lifted those beautiful eyes to the birds, and mocked
 their sweetest notes with his genius.

 Again the sounds came with a liquid flow from under his
 fingers, and some unseen brook seemed rippling into the
 river. Such fantasies occupied the very soul of the boy
 until the morning shadows were beginning to uplift themselves
 from the river, and the sun crept in upon him through
 the trailing grape-vines, making everything around still
 more beautiful.

 Any exertion, save that which sprang out of his genius,
 would have taxed the boy's strength most painfully; but he
 had never yet wearied of the glorious strains of which that
 violin was capable. Like a creature inspired, he filled all
 the air with melodies, throwing out the genius within him
 in a wonderful outgush, all the more wild and sweet because
 no human being was near to disturb him.




 CHAPTER LXIX.

 A BOAT ON THE RIVER.


 Up the river a little way, sheltered by some overhanging
 trees, a bark canoe was rocking on the water close by the
 shore. Its occupant, a young girl, stood up in it, gathering
 green grapes from a vine that crept over the shrubbery
 which formed a hedge-row just there, and fell like a torn
 curtain toward the water. As the first strains of that heavenly
 music reached her, Dora stood motionless with her
 hand on a cluster of fruit, and her head bent listening.

 Then she dropped to her seat in the canoe, and taking up
 the oars, allowed them to drag with the current, which bore
 her gently down stream.

 Dora made no noise, indeed scarcely breathed, for the
 music grew more distinct and clear as she approached the
 group of elm-trees; and she listened, entranced, wondering
 how the thrilling sounds were produced. The current at
 last swept her canoe close to the shore; the wind lifted the
 foliage for a moment, and she saw a young boy sitting upon
 the bank, beautiful as anything Raphael ever painted. His
 flushed cheek was resting against the violin, from which his
 delicate fingers was charming the music she had heard.

 Dora seized a branch, which stretched over the water, and
 sprang ashore. She knew the lad, and her heart leaped with
 joy at the sight of him.

 "Luke!—Luke! you dear, dear boy, how came you in
 this far-off place."

 Luke Weeks dropped his Cremona to the ground, where
 it gave out a faint wail, as if the fall had wounded it. All
 the hot scarlet died out from his face, and he began to tremble
 from head to foot, as if an angel had just appeared
 before him. Then the breath came back to his lips; his
 eyes filled with tender joy, and, clasping his hands in an
 ecstasy of thanksgiving, he cried out,

 "It is she!—it is she! I knew this was home!"

 "Are you ill? How pale you look! I hope—I do hope
 it is nothing serious," said Dora, sitting down, and putting
 her hand on the lad's shoulder. "How you tremble! Did
 I frighten you like that?"

 "Frighten me, sweet lady! Oh! no; if I tremble, it is
 because—because I am so thankful to the good God."

 Dora picked up the violin from the grass.

 "Have you broken it?" she questioned. "I hope not."

 Luke took the instrument from her lap. Next to the
 young creature by his side, it was the dearest thing to him
 in all the world. He swept his hand lightly over the
 strings, and smiled when they gave forth the usual sounds.

 That smile, so light and tender, brought the dimples
 around Dora's mouth. She took the little hand from its
 loving caress of the instrument, and held in her own.

 "Why, how frightened you must have been! This poor
 hand quivers like a bird. Or is it that you are so very
 ill?"

 "Ah! I am well, now; well, and so happy."

 Dora stole her arm around the shadowy form, and then
 drew him close to her. He seemed scarcely more than a
 child, to her; for sickness had given him back all the delicacy
 of infancy. He laid his head upon her shoulder, and the
 healthy bloom of her cheek touched the burning glow of his.
 The boy sighed sadly, and closed his eyes.

 "Are you tired, Luke?"

 He attempted to say "No," but the word died on his
 lips, in a smile of ineffable happiness.

 "By-and-by," she said, very quietly "you will tell me
 how it happened that I found you here. It seems so
 strange!"

 "Not strange to me!—not to me! God does these things,
 I do believe. He listens when we pray!"

 Dora grew quiet, and almost solemn, as she listened. It
 seemed as if some angel had folded his wings, and nestled
 close to her, on his way to heaven.

 "We have been traveling a long time," said the boy;
 "months and months, but could find no trace of any one we
 wanted. But we are here, at last—and this is rest."

 "You were looking for Mrs. Holt. She used to talk of
 you so much," said Dora.

 "Did she? Rhoda loves her so! She never was happy
 till we came in search of our best friends."

 "You mean her son, Mr. Sterling," said Dora, blushing
 like a rose.

 "Yes; he was always kind to us. How strong and well
 he looks."

 "Ah! that is the fresh prairie breezes! You will soon
 get well under them, and be like the rest of us."

 A faint expression of denial came to the boy's face, but
 he said nothing. After awhile he sat upright, and was astonished
 at the strength within him.

 "How beautiful everything is," he said. "I did not
 mind it so much before! The sunlight, there, upon the
 water, is like a silver flame!"




 CHAPTER LXX.

 MUSIC ON THE RIVER.


 Dora looked out upon the river, smiling pleasantly, as
 if she had heard what Luke was saying, and dreamed over
 it. At last she started and answered him.

 "Would you like to see the river closer? I have a
 canoe here—it will hold us both."

 "A canoe; that is a little boat used by the Indians.
 But I cannot row, my hands are not strong enough."

 "But I can."

 "You, row a boat?"

 The boy laughed, and looked at her with his bright,
 large eyes, evidently amused.

 "You may laugh; but I can. How else did I come
 here?"

 "From heaven, it seemed to me. If it only were so, I
 should be glad to go there, too! But such things are only
 true in dreams."

 "Well, Luke, if I cannot take you quite to Paradise, we
 may have a nice trip up or down the river. If you doubt
 it, come here."

 Dora went down to the bank, and, parting the bushes
 with her arms, revealed her pretty canoe rocking on the
 water.

 "Come!"

 She sprang into the frail craft, holding out her arms for
 the boy, who was by her side in an instant. Dora took up
 her oars, and, telling Luke to sit down in the bow, pushed
 into the stream, laughing merrily.

 "Now," she said, "I have got you and the Cremona all
 to myself; let us give the birds some music. You were
 playing a heavenly air when I came up and frightened you
 so—go on with it!"

 "Oh! not that!" cried the boy, taking up his instrument,
 "it was too sad; this must be jubilant! My heart
 is brimful of it. You shall just touch the water with your
 oars, for an accompaniment, and I——Ah! if the Cremona
 had the power to speak out so much happiness; but
 nothing can do that!"

 With this Luke took up his instrument, and, stooping
 gently forward, began to play; not as he had done a little
 time before, but with an outgush of joyousness that made
 the heart leap as it listened. Dora, in the glow of her enthusiasm—for
 she loved music with a passion—dipped her
 oars in and out, dropping diamonds in the sunshine as an
 accompaniment, and, tapping her little foot on the bottom
 of the canoe as if impatient for a triumphal march.

 Thus these two young creatures floated down stream
 together; Dora feeling as if a beautiful child had been intrusted
 to her keeping; Luke wondering in his soul if the
 brightest places in Paradise could be equal to that river,
 and if the angels who haunt them were more lovely than
 the fair girl whose presence had filled him with a new life!

 Meantime Rhoda had taken a fancy to explore a little,
 and came down to the river, wondering at everything she
 saw on the way. If a bird started up from her feet, thus
 exposing its nest to full view, it all seemed like magic to
 her, and she would watch it, with widening eyes, circling
 and circling around her, then cast her eyes down upon the
 nest, touch the eggs cautiously, and laugh to herself that
 anything so pretty should be afraid of her. The green fruit,
 as it hung on vine or tree, was a marvel to her. She was
 constantly wondering if this or that was good to eat; for an
 honest idea of usefulness was as natural to little Rhoda as
 music and poetical fancies were to her brother.

 At length Rhoda came upon the river's bank, and sitting
 down with her feet almost in the water, took a survey of the
 scenery. Just where she sat a fine old forest tree lifted the
 bank into a green knoll with its roots, which crept into the
 water, and gleamed through it like a knot of huge serpents.
 The trunk of this tree had been hollowed out and burnt in
 by some prairie fire, making a little cavern, from which a
 yard or two of rich turf sloped into the water.

 "What a lovely place for washing," said thrifty Rhoda.
 "A fire just there, and a great brass kettle swung over it
 would be beautiful; plenty of water, and no end of drying
 room. What would some of the women in our yard say?
 There wouldn't be one of 'em that didn't take in washing.
 Oh, my! what's that?"

 Up Rhoda jumped, and, shading her eyes with one hand,
 looked up the river, where she saw a pretty canoe cutting
 the water like an arrow, and in it her brother giving out
 the best music of his soul to the beautiful girl they had
 been searching for so long.

 "Oh! he has found her! He has found her!" she cried,
 tying her bonnet eagerly, as if she must run off and tell the
 joyous news to some one. "Now we can stay; he will rest—he
 will get well. Yes, I think I will walk right across to
 the railroad and tell father."

 But while she hesitated the canoe came opposite, curved
 with a graceful sweep, and drew close up to the bank.
 Dora had seen the little stranger, asked who she was, and
 called out,

 "Jump in! jump in, little girl! there is room enough
 for us all."

 Rhoda tied the last knot in her bonnet-strings with a
 jerk, made a jump to the lower bank, and another from
 that, landing in the bottom of the canoe, where she settled
 down still and watchful as a mouse.

 "What a queer little woman it is," thought Dora, smiling
 under the scrutiny of those keen eyes; "his sister, yet so
 very unlike him. She really does not seen to care for his
 exquisite music."

 Not she! Such music with little Rhoda was only one
 source of the family living; she gave just as much importance
 to the sound of her own smoothing-irons, or the flash
 of her matches. Everything that brought in money and
 household comfort was music to that thrifty child. You
 might have known that by her action in the canoe.

 After examining Dora from head to foot, astonished that
 she was really a young lady, she discovered a pile of green
 grapes in the bow of the canoe, and seizing upon a bunch,
 held it up, and broke out in the midst of a most pathetic
 passage of the music.

 "What are they?"

 Dora shook her head, and still listening with all her soul,
 whispered,

 "Grapes."

 "Good to eat?" persisted Rhoda, crushing all the sourness
 out of one between her little white teeth, and making
 a terribly wry face over the taste.

 "They should be cooked," whispered Dora again, shaking
 her head and striving to listen.

 "Oh! stewed with sugar; I know. Just set me ashore
 by that vine. I'll get some for Mrs. Holt—sweet and sour
 together makes tremendous preserves. She'll like 'em.
 There! do set me ashore. I don't like this; it seems like
 being a baby and rocked in a cradle."

 Dora was very glad to oblige the little thing, who had
 broken up half the charm of her brother's music. So, with
 a sweep of the oars, she shot her arrowy little craft to
 the bank, and Rhoda was soon half buried in the trailing
 foliage of a grape-vine, so laden with fruit that she uttered
 a gleeful shout on looking upward to a tree on which the
 vine had clambered. No wonder; a host of graceful clusters
 flung their delicate shadows between her and the sunshine,
 which came through and around them in gleams of
 silvery light.

 "Oh! what a heap! Enough for preserves, and pies,
 and pickles, and everything. Father must come down and
 help me get at 'em. I'll just pick a few for tea, and come
 down again to-morrow."

 Rhoda gathered a quantity of the fruit in the skirt of
 her dress, and scrambled out of the thicket, glorying in her
 prize; but she had scarcely walked a dozen yards when
 young Sterling came toward her, looking pale and excited.
 He paused a moment on seeing her, and asked quickly if
 she had seen Miss ——. Then, remembering that Rhoda
 knew no one in that place, he checked himself before the
 name was uttered, and looked out upon the river.

 "Oh, yes!" answered Rhoda, "I have just been a rocking
 with her; that is, canoeing in the river. Listen, and
 you can hear Luke's Cremona whispering to the leaves."

 "She is with some one, then."

 "Yes, sir; the young lady is with my own brother, and
 delighted with him—no wonder."




 CHAPTER LXXI.

 MOTHER AND SON.


 Sterling turned back reluctantly. He was ill at ease,
 and in the heat of his disappointment had gone blindly in
 search of Dora. That morning he had asked her father's
 consent to their marriage, and had been refused, not rudely,
 but with that delicate firmness from which there was little
 hopes of appeal. When Sterling asked for the reasons,
 they were given. The young man had neither position,
 family, wealth, or any one of the requisites which would
 warrant him in proposing to the only daughter of a man
 who had earned all these things for himself. This was said
 kindly, but with sufficient force to kill all hope in the
 proud young man. Every word of these objections was
 true. Sterling was uncertain of his future as any man of
 six-and-twenty could be. A good education, active genius,
 and his present situation, were all he had to depend on.
 These he had offered with all due humility, and they were
 rejected.

 In the first pang of his wounded pride he sought for
 Dora, but she was not alone; so he went back to the house,
 and betook himself to the next dearest creature to him on
 earth—his mother. Rhoda saw that something was wrong,
 and, with her usual shrewd tact, betook herself to the summer
 kitchen, where she fell to picking over her grapes, and
 sifting sugar with energy, now and then casting anxious
 glances through a back window of the cabin, where Sterling
 and his mother sat in earnest conversation.

 This was what they were saying:

 "And he said this."

 Mrs. Holt spoke in a low voice; the color in her cheek
 grew warm and red. Sterling marked this; he saw, too,
 that her hand trembled as she made an effort to continue
 the work she was doing.

 "It was his chief objection. Had I possessed a family
 and connections, I think he would have been less positive;
 but I had only Mr. Holt, and he——"

 Mrs. Holt shrunk within herself, and answered quickly,

 "Yes, I know—I know!"

 "Mother, you have never told me anything about myself."

 Sterling looked at his mother, then, and saw that she
 was deadly pale.

 "Is there nothing that ought to soften this man's prejudice,
 mother?"

 She did not answer his question, but abruptly asked one
 herself.

 "Do you love this girl so much, William?"

 "Love her? Great heavens! can you ask this when I
 have gone, with all my disadvantages, and besought her
 proud father to let me have her? It was like death to do
 it, knowing how little I had to offer."

 "Yes," Mrs. Holt answered, as if talking to herself; "I
 only wonder the proud blood could so force itself."

 "Mother, you have not answered me!"

 Again she evaded him with a question.

 "And she loves you? This is no light passion—no
 fancy that will die out. Boy, boy, tell me, have you discovered,
 of a truth, what real love is?"

 "Mother, it is enough, we love each other truly, deeply,
 in such earnest as admits of no doubt."

 "But it is your first love, Sterling."

 Then the young man grew white in all his features, and
 after the dead silence of a minute, told his mother everything;
 how he had been married—all, all that the reader
 knows. Mrs. Holt, remembering the young beauty she had
 seen on the stairs of that tenement-house, thanked God
 that her son had broken the fetters which would have
 chained him down to earthliness forever. This entire confidence
 drew the mother and son close together, and she
 answered his question kindly, but not with the fullness he
 desired.

 "We will talk this over again; you have taken me by
 surprise. I saw that it might come in time; but now it
 finds me unprepared."

 Sterling kissed his mother and went out, comforted, without
 just reason, perhaps; but he had great faith both in
 the love and ability of his mother, who had always been a
 guardian and friend outside of the affection which all mothers
 are expected to feel for their offspring.

 After he was gone, the effect of this interview became
 painfully visible in the lady. She sat for a long time, with
 her hands locked in her lap, gazing on the floor in deep
 thought. The exigencies of this case demanded some great
 sacrifice of her, which it was almost death to make—that
 appeared certain.

 The battered old chest of camphor-wood, which was invariably
 her companion, let her go where she would, was now
 drawn out from under her bed, and from it the lady took a
 malachite-box, mounted and bound with bands of gold,
 somewhat dimmed by time, but an article of great beauty
 and value, such as the Czars of Russia give their favorite
 ambassadors when they wish to be generous. She unlocked
 this casket with some difficulty, for it was a long time since
 it had been opened, and took from it a quantity of papers,
 one or two of which were partly printed.

 Mrs. Holt read these papers over with a sort of dumb
 shock, which left her face ashen, and her lips blue. It
 seemed to be the order from some court, for a seal was
 attached, on which the arms of England were stamped, and
 the document was written on vellum. You might have seen
 that it was killing the woman to read the words that stood
 out from that vellum; but she went through them twice,
 the first time in shivering haste, then again slowly, but
 shrinking into colder whiteness, as if every word had been
 a poisoned arrow, killing her slowly.

 This paper, with two others, which seemed to be marriage
 or baptismal certificates, perhaps both, with a sealed letter,
 she took from the box, and placed about her person, as if
 for use. After this she sat down by the window, and drearily
 watched little Rhoda as she went about her work in the
 back kitchen. This lasted, perhaps, ten minutes, but it
 seemed to her an hour. Then she started up and beckoned
 to Rhoda, who was looking that way. At heart Mrs. Holt
 was a courageous woman, and with such the impulse to
 meet any evil thing, face to face, when it becomes necessary
 to meet it at all, is sure to arise.

 "Go, tell my son I wish to see him at once," she said,
 frightening little Rhoda by her abruptness and her pallor.

 Rhoda went on the instant, and directly young Sterling
 returned from a sharp walk along the wagon-road which led
 to the village, and entered the cabin. Mrs. Holt was walking
 up and down the room trembling, but resolute. Sterling
 closed the door after him, and then observed that she had
 rolled down the paper blinds, and drawn the muslin curtains,
 leaving the room in dim twilight, in the midst of which she
 stood like a ghost.

 "Come here," said the lady, seating herself on the couch.
 "Come here, Sterling, and kiss me once more with the old
 love, before I make you hate me forever."

 Sterling went up to the couch, and dropping upon his
 knees, wound both arms around his mother, kissing her cold
 hands and white face with pathetic tenderness, for he loved
 her dearly, and saw that she was suffering.

 She shivered under his caresses, and pushed him from
 her, then drew him closer, and kissed him passionately, crying
 out, "It is the last—the last! One hour more, and
 these lips will recoil from mine!"

 "Mother, you are wild; you do not know how much I
 love you!"

 "Not enough to overcome disgrace—infamy!" she said,
 in a hoarse, low voice, while her eyes, full of shrinking pain,
 searched his face.

 "Enough to overcome everything, be it misfortune or be
 it crime. The one holy fact that you are my mother, will
 lift me above it all."

 Then the woman burst into tears, and sobbed piteously.

 "I would not tell you; I would never have done it, but
 that your own happiness was at stake. I am an old woman,
 Sterling, worn, broken, incapable of much beyond sorrow.
 You are young, ardent; with my shame I will purchase
 your happiness. Read it; my lips refuse to say the things
 you must know. I wrote it, thinking to die, in silence;
 hoping that, with the grave between us, you might not feel
 it so much. But God will not let this cup pass from me. I
 only pray that it may earn you happiness."

 She laid a sealed letter in his hands, with the legal
 papers which she had taken with it from the malachite-box.
 He looked at the door as if thinking to go out, but she
 pointed to the window and said,

 "No, read it there."

 Sterling sat down, raised the blind a little, and took up
 the vellum with its seal. A stream of light fell directly
 upon his face, and along the paper he was reading, while
 Mrs. Holt sat almost in darkness, watching him as a criminal
 reads the features of his judge. The young man felt
 the searching wildness of those eyes, and gave little sign of
 agitation. Sometimes his face flushed and his eyes kindled,
 then she could see that his hand pressed the paper fiercely;
 but after he broke open the letter it relaxed, a look of tender
 commiseration stole into his eyes, and she felt that he was
 thinking of her as if already in her grave, as she had always
 hoped to be before her son read that narrative.

 All this time, the dead silence of the room was terrible.
 The poor woman could hear her own heart beat out its pain
 audibly. When the paper rustled in her son's hand, a faint
 shriek died in her throat. She sat there like a poor hunted
 antelope, watching for the bullet which was sure to pierce
 its heart. Of all her hard, wretched life, this one hour was
 the most wounding in its still bitterness.

 Sterling got up at length, grasping the papers in his
 hand. She saw that he moved unsteadily, and looked
 downward on the floor, as if afraid that his eyes might
 wound her. Feeling this, she shrunk back, breathless. The
 motion that she made, faint as it was, struck him with something
 like remorse. That instant he was kneeling by her;
 again his lips pressed hers with a tenderness unknown to
 them before.

 "My mother! My poor, poor mother!"

 Here his manhood gave way, and, with her withered
 cheek pressed against his, wept like a child.

 "And all this misery you have suffered without a word to
 your own son," he said, smoothing her gray hair with the
 hand with which he had just wiped away her tears.

 "My sorrow would have made you sad, my shame degraded
 you," she answered.

 "Do not speak of shame like that. Such words are not
 for a son to hear, even from his own mother. If there was
 wrong, a lifetime of atonement is enough."

 She interrupted him. "No, not enough. Atonement is
 not a thing of this world, Sterling. The time which God
 gives us is all his own; we cannot take one portion in which
 to redeem another. What human soul can atone for pain
 once given, or wrong done. Like a stone cast into the
 waters of a lake, the wrong has sent forth its circles
 which nothing can arrest. Repentance may be ours, and
 forgiveness; but atonement is seldom to be hoped for."

 "How sadly you talk, mother."

 "Because I feel sadly, but more at rest since this heavy
 secret has left me. Use it, Sterling, and be happy with
 this sweet girl. Her father will consent when he knows
 who my son is."

 "No," answered the young man, firmly. "Let this rest
 between us two. I will not use it to win even Dora. Her
 father shall yet give her to me for what I am."

 Mrs. Holt drew a deep breath; a stone seemed rolled
 away from her heart. She held out her hand.

 "It will not be long, Sterling. I am getting near the
 end now."

 Sterling kissed the hand she held out, and went away
 greatly disturbed, but filled with compassion for the woman
 he left prostrate on that dainty couch, weak and weeping.




 CHAPTER LXXII.

 DYING MUSIC.


 Sterling was right. It was not many days before the
 caresses of Dora, and a natural sense of justice, won a full
 consent to the young people's marriage; but the engagement
 was to last a year, and was not to be made a matter
 of general knowledge at all. Indeed, the secluded life the
 persons concerned were leading, rendered this easy; there
 really existed few persons on the prairie who would have
 been interested in the matter.

 Meantime, Rhoda and her brother settled down in that
 prairie cabin perfectly at home, while old Mr. Weeks took
 the opportunity and spent his days at the shanty, helping
 the landlord serve out mint-julips, whiskey-smashes, and an
 assortment of drinks, whose mere names are beyond my limited
 knowledge, and the very fumes of which were enough to
 keep any moderate man in a state of semi-intoxication. He
 sometimes came over and did a little gardening for Mrs.
 Holt, at which times he appeared prim and decorous enough
 to make Rhoda proud of him, and give her faith in the
 country air as a corrective of intemperance and idleness.
 But the poor girl had her troubles, which would not be put
 aside with delusion.

 After the first few days Luke began to droop again. He
 was never at rest unless Dora was somewhere in sight; and
 would sit hours together at the window, watching the door
 of her home with such longing in those beautiful eyes, that
 Mrs. Holt, in very compassion, managed to keep the girl
 half the time by her side. When she was away, he never
 touched the Cremona; but sometimes, when he caught a
 sight of her in the garden, or by the river, he would take
 up the instrument, and with its plaintive strains call her to
 him clearly, almost as if he had spoken in words.

 Dora pitied the boy, and was fascinated by his music—so
 all this was no constraint upon her. Besides, she was very
 happy in those days, and it became a pleasure to give the
 radiance of her own joy to everything less fortunate than
 herself. She did not realize that the lad was dying, and
 that her presence, as he approached "the valley and
 shadow," was like that of an angel; for youth is unreasoningly
 hopeful, and puts aside the very idea of death; but
 she knew that he grew thinner and whiter each day; that
 unearthly harmonies seemed most natural to his violin; and
 the beauty of his face was like that of a seraph pining for
 companionship. So that bright girl would sit for hours and
 hours listening to him, holding his hand in hers, soothing
 his brow with her sweet, sisterly kisses, and talking of the
 time when he would give concerts in the city, and she would
 bring half the world to listen.

 There had been a time when Luke talked freely of dying
 to his sister, and found angelic pleasure therein; but now
 he would speak of nothing but life—some bright, heavenly
 life, in which Dora would always be first and foremost. It
 was a sweet dream, full of visionary happiness, in which the
 boy floated slowly to his grave.

 One day, in the restlessness of disease, he went down to
 the river, and rested himself in the very place he had occupied
 on the morning he first saw Dora coming toward him
 in her canoe. The grape-vines, which had seized upon the
 branches of the elms, weaving themselves insidiously up
 them, had grown thick and heavy since then, trailing to the
 earth in places, and even escaping along the grass, yielded
 a cool, green shelter, which protected him from the sun, and,
 in some directions, entirely from sight.

 Luke had left his violin behind him, being too weak and
 weary even for so light a burden. But he carried a soft, low
 melody in his mind, and it came in sighs to his lips, brightening
 them with a beauty only known to creative genius.
 As he lay thus, inspired but quiet, the sound of footsteps,
 sweeping through the grass, disturbed him a little, for he
 wanted to be alone. Directly he heard a voice that made
 his heart leap. It was speaking with sweet earnestness to
 some one who seemed delighted to listen.

 "No, William, let us be patient," it said, "father has
 been very kind to yield so much; for if he was ambitious for
 anything on earth, it is in behalf of his child. The idea
 of wealth and immediate position he has given up; but
 something we must do in return. His interests in this railroad
 are enormous. All that he has now is vested in
 these wild lands; help him to carry out his plans, convince
 him that you have the will and ability which makes prosperous
 business men, that will be all he desires. A year is
 but little, William, when we think of it."

 "But, Dora, one year is an eternity when it keeps you
 from me. Time, I do believe, is the natural enemy of true
 love."

 "I think it is the sunshine which ripens a blossom into
 most delicious fruit. Why, each day, William, this love of
 ours grows deeper and sweeter from thinking of that eternal
 companionship which is to come."

 "Ah, Dora! you have been talking with my mother."

 "Talking with her? Of course, I have. Almost everything
 I think or feel, that has good in it, comes from her.
 Is she not your mother? I cannot tell you everything; but
 with her I feel like a little child."

 "I am glad you love my mother, Dora."

 "Love her! Why, isn't she a part of your own self?
 Sometimes, when I love you so much that it seems wicked,
 I go to her and grow myself again."

 "Is this true, Dora? Am I so very dear to you?"

 "Dear! And you can ask that? Why, William Sterling,
 there is not on this earth any one being that I love one
 quarter so much."

 They were passing the elm-trees, and paused a moment
 in the earnestness of this conversation. The boy, lying
 under these sheltering vines, lifted himself to one elbow, and
 through the clustering leaves saw William Sterling, with
 both Dora's hands in his, reading her face with such smiles
 as love gives back to love. The two passed on after this
 brief pause. Luke fell slowly back to the earth, and lay
 there with his face buried in the grass, from which two gasping
 sobs came, minute after minute, leaving him still and
 quite motionless at last.

 It must have been a full hour before the boy sat up and
 looked around him. Then his face was white as snow, and
 it seemed as if some violets, hidden in the grass, must have
 left their shadows on his lips, they were so blue and cold.
 No, no, it was not that, for on one cheek, near his mouth,
 was a red stain; and the bent grass, where his face had been
 lying, rose up slowly from the pressure which had held it
 down, and each spire was ensanguined with a drop of
 blood.

 Luke turned his eyes mournfully upon the reddened grass,
 and, after one or two feeble efforts, arose to his feet. Slowly
 he crept along the footpath leading to the cabin. Once or
 twice he was compelled to sit down; but he reached home at
 last, and, finding the room empty, lay down on his couch,
 and remained there with his eyes closed.

 A little while after this Rhoda came in from the kitchen.
 Thinking him asleep, she walked up to the couch on tip-toe
 and kissed his white forehead, lightly as the shadow falls
 from a flower. Sometimes little Rhoda would steal such
 kisses from the dying boy, and hoard them away as precious
 memories for the hereafter; for, with all its practicability,
 that heart of hers was brimful of affection, and she almost
 worshiped her brother. The good creature looked down
 upon his sleep, as she supposed, and saw a faint quiver of
 pain pass over his white face; then she crept away, fearing
 that her fondness had disturbed him. She had no courage
 to go back to her work in the kitchen, but sat near the
 window, still and watchful as a hospital nurse, waiting for
 him to recognize her presence.

 At length the boy arose to a sitting posture, and called
 Rhoda by name. She went to him eagerly.

 "The Cremona," she said, following the direction of his
 wild, bright eyes, and taking the violin from the wall. He
 reached out his arms for the instrument, but the smile upon
 his face almost broke Rhoda's heart.

 Luke's hand trembled as it took the bow, and the first
 notes it drew forth were vague and quivering; but the
 spirit within that delicate form was stronger even than the
 death-angel. Once more that shadowy hand passed over
 the strings, and music, that seemed an expression of more
 than mortal anguish, went wailing through the cabin. It
 was the cry of a soul breaking up for eternity. The birds,
 that had been singing all day in the thickets, hushed themselves
 and listened. A deer, going down to the river for
 drink, paused on the bank and looked around wonderingly.
 Mrs. Holt, sitting alone in her bed-room, stole softly to the
 door, holding her breath. The two lovers, strolling homeward
 from a walk by the river, turned toward the cabin and
 paused near the door, not daring to enter. As Dora's foot
 touched the threshold-stone, the magnetism of her presence
 made itself felt even in the music. That cry of the soul
 softened; a mist of tears seemed passing through it, subduing
 its anguish into pathetic mournfulness. It was like a
 spirit at the gates of heaven, entreating the angels to let
 him in.

 Dora was thrilled through and through with the music.
 It seemed calling to her with heavenly tenderness from the
 "dark valley." She felt that those bright, beautiful eyes
 were searching for her through the music; her shadow fell
 across the open door; her face, wet with unconscious tears,
 became visible to those eyes turned that way in mournful
 expectation.

 As she crossed the room, moving slowly, as it were to
 the sadness of the music, a heavenly smile broke over the
 face of that gentle boy; the strings of the Cremona quivered
 under one wild inspiration of joy that never was fully
 uttered, and dropped from those lifeless fingers to the floor,
 with a wail that seemed almost human, for the instrument
 was broken with the young life it had inspired.




 CHAPTER LXXIII.

 ON THE TRACK.


 A month or more after they had laid that gentle boy
 among the prairie flowers, one of the construction trains
 brought two strangers to that cluster of shanties, who,
 from their appearance, were quite as unlikely to find business
 along the Pacific line as any travelers that had ever
 appeared there.

 One of these persons was a tall, spare man, with the
 dress and appearance of a clergyman; the other, a young
 woman, who must have been beautiful once, but was then a
 wreck, and nothing more. Pale, emaciated and feeble, she
 clung to the man's arm with the heavy, downward weight
 of entire weariness, as they proceeded to the rude building
 where Rhoda Weeks had first met young Sterling. This
 building had two apartments on the ground floor—one
 which answered as a bar-room, the other was for general
 family use. The female traveller was led into this latter
 apartment, where she sat down wearily on a stiff, wooden
 chair, and leaning back rested her head against the wall,
 moaning faintly as if in pain.

 As the woman sat thus, with her face to the light, the
 door connecting with the bar-room opened, and the good-natured
 face of old Mr. Weeks looked in. He held a
 sugar-crusher in one hand, and a pitcher in the other, which
 he was intending to fill with water from a pail which stood
 just within the door; but the moment his eyes fell on this
 woman the pitcher fell, with a crash, to his feet, and grasping
 the sugar-crusher with both hands, he cried out,

 "Goodness mercy! who is this? Who is this?"

 The young woman opened her wild blue eyes, and
 brighter than they had ever been in health. When she
 saw little Weeks so stricken with amazement, holding on
 to the sugar-stick as if it were a pillar of strength, a look
 of comical amazement came over her thin features, and she
 laughed outright one of those hollow, unearthly laughs,
 that have no real cheerfulness in them.

 "Why, little Weeks," she said, holding out her hand,
 "Is it really you? How your hair stands up! What on
 earth frightens you so?"

 Weeks stared at her an instant with his mouth half open,
 then turned and fled into the bar-room, where he met young
 Sterling just coming in with a surveying party. Weeks
 seized him by the arm.

 "Come in—come in here, and tell me if it is her or not!"
 exclaimed the little man, dragging Sterling forward. "Look
 there!"

 Sterling did look, and saw Constance, his wife, sitting
 before him, pale and thin, the ghost of her former self. He
 did not speak; he did not move, but stood like a statue in
 the door-way, with all warmth and life stricken out of him.

 As for the woman, she attempted to rise, struggled with
 herself wildly a moment, and fell back insensible.

 Then Mr. Hudson came into the room, pushing the
 young man on one side in his anxiety and distress.

 "Is she dead?"

 The voice was so cold and hollow which asked this question,
 that it startled the old man. He looked up, terrified
 and recognized his daughter's husband.

 "No, she is not dead. It is that which we came to tell
 you."

 Sterling looked wildly from the old man to that face which
 appeared so like death. All at once the horror of his position
 came over him, and he cried out,

 "Oh, my God! My God! what have I done to deserve
 this?"

 "Hush, young man, she is coming to. Have patience,
 and find some compassion for her in your heart. If she
 has sinned, the God of heaven alone knows how she has
 suffered!"

 Sterling did not answer, perhaps he did not hear, for his
 soul was absorbed by the shock of that woman's appearance.
 At last he spoke.

 "She is alive—my wife, in this place, among all these
 people. See, they are looking through the door, wondering
 about us. There is a room up stairs. Come!"

 Sterling took the insensible woman in his arms, and carried
 her up the ladder-like steps which led to the upper story.
 The rough frame-work of the stairs trembled under him, but
 he carried his burden firmly, and laid her on a bed neatly
 made up in the unplastered garret.

 The pressure of those strong arms, brought the woman
 back to consciousness. When she saw her husband bending
 over her, a faint smile came across her face, and she lifted
 her arms toward him like a weary child in sight of its
 mother. A thought of Dora came upon the young man
 with such a pang of agony, that he shrunk back groaning.
 Those feeble arms dropped heavily, and an answering sob,
 dry and hard, broke from the woman. She was fully conscious
 now, stung into life by terrible pain.

 "Forgive me. I forgot the gulf—the awful, black gulf
 that lies between you and me. Yet if you could have kissed
 me without knowing—only once without knowing."

 She muttered this in a broken undertone, and to him the
 words lacked connection.

 "Constance," he said, struggling manfully for calmness,
 "you are here and alive. I mourned for you—God only
 knows how I mourned for you!"

 "Did you? Oh, Sterling! did you really mourn?"

 Constance started up in bed, put back the still bright
 and glorious waves of hair from her temples, and searched
 his features eagerly for some vestige of the love and grief
 he spoke of. She saw only a hard, set face, cold as marble
 that covers the dead. All the ardent youthfulness seemed
 to have gone out from it forever. He was glad of an opportunity
 of turning away from those imploring eyes.

 "I have a wagon here," he said, addressing Hudson, "and
 a home not far off. She is my wife; I will take her there."
 Then he thought of Dora, covered his face with both hands,
 and would have wept, had the pain at his heart been less.

 "She will not go," said Hudson, shaking his head mournfully.
 "It was not for that we came in search of you."

 "Let me speak with him—let me tell him," said Constance,
 sitting upright, with that sudden strength which
 springs from desperation. "Go away, father! let me be
 alone with him once more; this once, William, I will never
 ask it again. Sit down here. Will you take my hand?
 See how thin and wasted it is; yours is so healthy, yet it
 trembles. My coming terrified you; but take comfort, I
 am dying. Cannot you see that a very little while will end
 it all?"

 Sterling did not answer, but his hand closed on the fragile
 thing in his, and held it firmly. After all, she had been
 his wife, and he had loved her.

 "Sterling, they told me that you were dead, killed in a
 massacre by the Indians. I believed it, and married another
 man."

 Sterling dropped her hand, and sat on the side of the bed,
 staring at her dumbly. He could not comprehend the
 thing she told him.

 "You cannot believe it. No wonder—no wonder! Still
 it is the solemn truth; but for that falsehood my love would
 have saved me. I was coming to you. We tried to get
 away from him."

 "Constance! Constance! What is this you are saying?"
 cried the young man, taking her hand again, and
 wringing it till she moaned under the pain. "Tell me clearly,
 and be brief, what all this means."

 Constance clung to his hand. "Let it be—let it be!
 This clasp gives me strength. I want to tell you everything—that
 is what we came for; but give me a glass of
 wine, brandy; you will find it in that basket."

 Sterling found a traveling-flask in the basket she pointed
 out, and, mixing some of the brandy it contained with
 water, gave it to her.

 "Now sit by me," she said, holding out her hand, while
 a hot flush came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone like
 stars. "Sit here; I am strong as a lion now, and I will
 tell you everything."




 CHAPTER LXXIV.

 THE WIFE'S CONFESSION.


 Constance did reveal all to her husband, faithfully and
 clearly, as if she herself had been a third party, all of her
 history—her struggles, temptations, and inner wickedness,
 up to the time of that fatal marriage. Sometimes she wept,
 sometimes she besought him to give her a merciful judgment,
 and pleaded her own cause piteously. Even that
 marriage she extenuated, and could not yet see that, thinking
 her husband dead, it was not, in some sort, an act of
 heroism, a desperate effort to save her father.

 "William, my father was once a good man, and might
 have been a great man," she said.

 "He is good, now, but broken in all his hopes; but his
 wife, my mother—oh, she must have been selfish and vain
 as I was only a little time ago. He trusted her as you
 trusted me, but she led him downward. This man Church,
 in some way, attained a strong influence over her, and
 through her, my honest, confiding father, became as I did
 afterward, a tool and a victim. He was an engraver of
 wonderful skill, as you know. Church employed my father,
 reporting himself as the agent of a Banking House in
 New York; paid him in money struck off from his own
 forged plates; traced the money back and kept it in evidence
 against him, as a deliberate counterfeiter.

 "My poor father had studied for the ministry, and only
 took up engraving from the force of his own genius, and as
 a means of earning a little more money than a country
 clergyman could command. Church saw that he was not
 to be trusted to carry out a fraud, and led him into that
 cruel net, in order to make sure of his silence. It was in
 this way that my father became the slave of Church.

 "The time came when my father suspected that some
 evil use was being made of his genius. Then this wretch
 owned the truth, and revealed the wicked plot by which he
 had been, unconsciously, made the participant of a great
 sin. Church had expected to bind him down to his
 interests, forever, by the power he held, but my father
 broke loose from him, gave up his parish, and fled to the
 covert of a great city, taking my mother and her child with
 him.

 "In the midst of this trouble, my mother died. I was a
 little thing then, so young that I cannot remember her death,
 but I know what care he took of me, how he worked night
 and day, for my support, dressed me with his own hands,
 and prayed over me, before I went to sleep, at the close of
 each day. Oh William, it is not my father's fault, if it went
 wrong in the end.

 "William, you saw him, one night, at his duties as a
 city missionary, and can believe that he never gave up the
 hopes of doing some good, as a minister, while I was doubting
 him, and thinking such evil things, because he left me
 alone; you know how he spent his nights, after many a
 hard day's work.

 "You remember when Church first came among us. I
 cannot go on—to think of that period kills me. He brought
 that old proof against my father. He seized upon me when
 we were flying to you, made me believe that you were dead,
 and in the insanity of my terror and grief made me his
 wife.

 "From the very first, I disliked this man, William.
 From the time that he forced me to marry him, I hated
 him; when I had lived with him a year, and found how
 worthless was everything he could give me, this feeling
 grew into absolute loathing. At this time, I found your
 letter, and learned that in our hideous marriage, he had
 added fraud to compulsion; that you, my husband—my
 own true husband, were alive.

 "Oh William, if you had hated me, if you had loathed
 me, as I loathed him, the sight of my distress would have
 touched you with pity. I cannot tell you how I suffered;
 how I detested myself, and went mad with a wild, wild
 wish to come after you, throw myself at your feet and beg
 you to have compassion on my wretchedness, for I loved
 you, William! Oh, do not shrink away from me! I did!
 I did!"

 William Sterling covered his free with both hands, and
 shook from head to foot.

 "I broke down, then; during the whole year, I had
 been struggling for happiness, as drowning men beat the
 waters in a storm. It was all a wild, whirling stream, full
 of vanity, triumph, and unutterable desolation. I broke
 down utterly; the disease that is killing me, clutched upon
 my lungs like a vulture. That morning I awoke with
 blood upon my lips; it has been there often and often
 since."

 Sterling uncovered his face and looked down upon the
 poor woman with tears in his eyes. It was hard to be angry
 with a creature so utterly broken, and prostrate.

 "Thank you, oh William, I do thank you for that look,"
 she said, beginning to cry, "bear with me while I tell you
 all, then try and pity me a little.

 "I told that bad man, what I had discovered—told him
 how dearly I loved you, how bitterly I hated him, how determined
 I was never on this earth to be his wife, again, in
 anything but the hated name. I was very brave then,
 but he broke me down with threats against you. I think
 he would have followed on your track and killed you, had I
 left his house.

 "I went home to my father, and told him the truth; that
 I had been married to you, was then your wife. But what
 could he do for me, my poor oppressed father. It was something
 that one other human being knew how wretched I was,
 even though he was powerless to help me.

 "One thing I had not told Church, and that was the absolute
 fact of my marriage to you. That would have made
 me his slave, and I knew it. But I never forgot it; no, not
 for one moment. From that hour, heart and soul, I rejected
 him. His roof sheltered me; his wealth surrounded me
 with luxuries that I had learned to detest, but he knew
 well how abhorrent his very presence was to me. That I
 could tell him without endangering you, and it was a little
 satisfaction. William, out of that man's crimes I, at last,
 won my freedom. When he married me I thought it was
 from all absorbing love, for I was a vain, arrogant girl, and
 set a high value on my poor attractions.

 "The man was so eager to win me, so fiercely resolute, that
 I could give him no other motive. But a time came when
 I knew that it was as much avarice as love. The man
 wanted a safe tool in his wife by which to grasp more evil
 wealth.

 "One night I discovered with horror, followed by a fierce
 sense of triumph, that all the wealth which tempted me
 had been obtained by a fraud on the Government, and that
 he had craftily made me an accomplice. I had the proofs
 in my hand. I held him in my power. He threatened
 you, (the miserable wild beast,) and I had him caged in a
 prison. He is there yet, sentenced for fifteen years, and he
 knows that I put the shackles on his hands. When the
 whole world looks black before me, I think of that and
 rejoice.

 "But oh, how I longed to flee from his house, then; but
 the excitement had made me worse; for a long time I was
 very, very ill. Besides, where could I go? to you? Oh,
 how I pined for one look of your face, one word from your
 lips! But I dared not come. I dared not ask you to forgive
 me. Tell me, tell me, now, if I had crept to your
 feet, would you have spurned me from them?"

 "Oh, Heaven, it is useless to ask such questions, now!"
 exclaimed Sterling; "all that time I was working for you,
 waiting, longing for you. Then I thought you dead. So
 help me, Heaven! I saw you lying dead, or believed so.
 Would to God it had been the truth!"

 "Oh if it had, if it only had!" moaned the poor
 woman, wringing her shadowy hands.

 "Was that also a fraud?" demanded Sterling, gloomily.

 "No, no! as I hope for salvation, no! The poor girl
 you saw was my cousin, a better person than I ever was.
 Little Rhoda helped to deceive you, but she was deceived
 herself; my cousin was so like me. Rhoda knew nothing
 of my marriage, nothing of my cousin's existence. To
 this day, she believes that it was my sick bed that she
 watched, my grave that she stood by in Greenwood. You
 did not wait to see my father, and he alone could have told
 you. Rhoda deceived herself."

 "When my father came to me at last, and took me back
 to the old place, the whole Weeks family had left it. He
 told me of my cousin's death, and all that he had learned
 from Rhoda, about your presence in the house, that night.
 Then I understood that you thought me dead, and knowing
 nothing of my sin, might mourn for me as the innocent
 wife, that I could never, never be again. I was getting
 weaker and weaker all the time, and thought how sweet it
 would be when my poor broken-hearted father laid me in
 the grave that you should always think kindly of me. It
 was hard to live and feel that I was eternally dead to you,
 but I was very ill and had not the courage to make you
 hate my memory."

 "But your father?"

 "My poor father could not find the heart to resist me
 when I pleaded with him for silence. Do not blame him,
 how could he deny me when he knew that a little time
 would end everything."

 "But this cousin, who was she?"

 "My father had an only sister, who was left a widow
 with a child of my own age, and so like me, always, my
 father says that we could hardly have been told apart.

 "After her mother died, she learned a trade, and partly
 earned her own living, poor thing! I believe father was
 afraid to have me with her, or let her know anything about
 our set—and I don't much blame him. So he stayed with
 her a good deal after my aunt died, and made a home for
 me—you know where and how. In this way, father had
 two lives. One calm, and sweet, and holy, with her, and
 that which led to perdition, with me.

 "I discovered this girl at last. I wanted some one to
 make up a dress for me—it was after we were married—the
 dress was for that masquerade ball. While trying it on, we
 stood before the glass together, and I saw at once the wonderful
 likeness that there was between us. It frightened
 me a little, and I began to dislike this Constance Ellery.
 One night I saw my father go up to her room. Oh! how
 glad she was to see him! I went home and sat in wait for
 him, determined to know what it all meant. He told me
 then, for the first time, that I had a cousin.

 "It was this girl who died in our rooms, William. She
 was so like me that even Rhoda Weeks thought that sickness
 had made all the change she saw; there was little need
 of deception afterward. They believed that I was dead,
 and told you so; all but my poor, poor father, who afterward
 allowed you to be deceived in order to save me."

 "Oh, my God, it was a terrible deception. Cruel, cruel!
 What ruin it might have brought, what sorrows it will
 occasion!"

 "I know it," answered the sick woman, humbly. "Do
 not reproach me, it was for your sake; to me life had become
 a burden terrible to endure; but I thought that you
 might be spared any portion of my misery and a knowledge
 of my disgrace."

 "Wretched, wretched woman! do you know—can you
 guess the cruel evil that has sprung from this concealment?"
 cried the young man, giving way in the midst of
 his anguish.

 "Yes, I know, William, Rhoda Weeks sent a letter to my
 father, telling him how poor Luke had died. In that letter,
 also, came news that scarcely left me alive; but love gave
 me strength to come here and tell you all. I arose from a
 sick bed, after reading that letter, made strong by terrible
 excitement.

 "I went to my father, a broken down, patient old man,
 who was looking around for some good work that he could
 do, in atonement, before he died. A way had been graciously
 opened to him. Missionaries were wanted among
 the Indians. I was glad of that; I longed to get away from
 cities, where I had been so miserable, and die in the wilderness.
 I had but one hope on earth—to see you, tell the
 whole truth, and die. I knew that this was needful for your
 own salvation; that my coming would break up your life
 afresh, and bring sorrow to an innocent girl. It was a hard
 task—I almost prayed not to find you. Have patience, only
 a little patience. It will not be long—it will not be
 long!"

 Constance closed her eyes in weariness, and Sterling could
 see great tears stealing through her long lashes, while the
 mouth, that had been so beautiful, quivered with inward
 pain.

 "Leave her, now," said Mr. Hudson, in a low voice.
 "She is better alone with me."

 Sterling wrung the old man's hand.

 "Tomorrow I will come and take you home; my mother
 will gladly receive her."

 Sterling spoke kindly, but with deep mournfulness; he
 compassionated that poor creature, but her coming filled his
 soul with trouble.

 Hudson made only this reply:

 "You are very kind, and God will bless you for it. Now
 let her rest."

 Sterling went home at once, and told Mrs. Holt of the
 new calamity that had fallen upon them. He had no courage
 to see Dora, but wandered off into the prairies all night,
 a weary, wretched man.




 CHAPTER LXXV.

 CONCLUSION.


 That evening Dora was kneeling at Mrs. Holt's feet, in
 the privacy of that lady's bed-room. She had evidently
 heard all, for sobs of passionate grief filled the room; and
 the poor girl cried out in the sudden anguish that had come
 upon her.

 "Oh! tell me, tell me, what can I do? She will be
 here; have some mercy, and tell me how to bear all this?"

 Mrs. Holt knew how futile any efforts of consolation
 would be just then, so she gently smoothed the young creature's
 hair, and only said, in her sweet way,

 "Have patience, darling—a little patience."

 Dora lifted her lovely face, all wet with tears.

 "Does he love her? Will he ever love her again," she
 said.

 "My dear, she is dying."

 "Oh! God forgive me! How wicked I have been; but
 it was so sudden. Tell me, please—where is he now?"

 "He wandered off alone at nightfall, darling, quite alone;
 the poor boy had no courage to meet any one."

 "Poor fellow! poor fellow! Tell him, please, how sorry
 I am. No, you must not say that; tell him nothing, only
 that I will try to bear it."

 Dora arose from the floor, and turned to go away, but she
 hesitated, and went back to Mrs. Holt's chair.

 "Must I tell any one, Mrs. Holt?"

 "Not yet, darling. My son must do that when it becomes
 needful."

 "Oh! thank you! It would have been so hard for me!
 You will not forget to tell him how strong I am, and how
 well I—I——Oh, Mrs. Holt! I believe my heart is
 breaking!"

 Again Mrs. Holt took the unhappy girl in her arms, and
 strove by gentle caresses to quiet her. At last Dora went
 home and stole up to her room, afraid that some one of the
 household should guess at her sorrow.

 The next morning, Sterling, who had been wandering
 about the prairies all night, appeared at the shanty, prepared
 to take Constance home to his mother. But the travelers
 had gone. They had left the house before daylight;
 construction trains were passing each way continually, but
 no one could tell what direction they had taken. As Sterling
 was going out, old Mr. Weeks stole after him, mysteriously,
 and placed a note in his hand, whispering, "I saw
 them safe off."

 "Where? Which way?"

 "They told me not to tell, and I won't—so don't ask
 me."

 Sterling opened the note.

 "We have gone forward toward the mission, which God
 has awarded to me. Do not attempt to follow us, but
 leave my child alone to His infinite mercies. She goes
 away peaceful though sad, knowing that you have forgiven
 her. When she is at rest you will hear from me again.

 HUDSON."

       *       *       *       *       *

Was this letter a relief? Did Sterling breathe more freely when he
found that he might yet be silent, save where he was bound in honor to
speak of the unhappy woman who had crossed his path only to disappear
from it like the ghost she seemed? Be this as it may, he went within
the week to another section of the road, only coming home once a
fortnight, and never asking to see Dora.

One day, when he returned home, after an absence of two weeks, Mrs.
Holt placed a letter in his hand, which had been left at the shanty
by a traveler coming across the plains. The young man knew what it
contained, and turned cold as marble when he broke the seal.

"She is gone," he said, handing the note to his mother. "My poor, poor
wife!"

The next day Sterling returned to the distant station again, quiet and
sad, but thankful for all that had been spared him.

The shock of Constance's appearance and death had broken into the happy
tranquillity of those two families for a brief space, but no real evil
sprung out of it—and with them the dead past was left to bury the past.

       *       *       *       *       *

Months went by—tranquil, uneventful months, which brought Sterling home
again, and renewed the intercourse of those two families in all its
cordiality. The probation which was to test the young man's endurance
and ability was drawing to a close. Energy, manhood, and industry had
wrought out their usual work, and the proudest man among all those who
carried their wealth and energies into that new region, would have
welcomed Sterling into his family; for he had developed what was better
than station or wealth, an abundant power to create and seize upon
both.

If there had been anything worthy of record in the papers Mrs. Holt
had given him, it seemed to have passed from his mind, for he had only
renewed all his exertions, and performed his promise of inducing Dora's
father to accept him at his own worth.

Still the mother had been less patient. For herself ambition had failed
long ago; but with women like her, it casts vigorous shoots for the
next generation; and she was sometimes disturbed with a proud longing
for something higher and grander than that prairie life for her son.
Still it was a subject which she never spoke of to the young man
however much it might fill her own mind.

One day, some months before that appointed for his marriage, Sterling
brought home a package of newspapers from the depot, which his mother,
who was a craving reader seized upon with smiling avidity. All at once
she uttered a sharp cry, and the young man, turning quickly, saw that
she sat upright in her chair, white as snow, with the paper grasped
tightly in a hand far too unsteady for reading.

Sterling gently forced the paper from her grasp, for she was holding it
out to him, and his eyes fell upon this paragraph.

"Died at Nashton Castle, Lincolnshire, Nelson Sterling, eleventh Earl
of Marsborough, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. Lord Marsborough
has been a long time excluded from the world. Although one of the
richest peers in England, it will be remembered that he was made the
object of a social romance, some years ago, by a divorce from his
wife, a beautiful and highly accomplished lady, whom many persons
refuse to believe was ever really guilty of the wrong charged upon
her. The scandal of that time has been painfully renewed by the
earl's death, as it leaves a singular doubt in connection with the
succession. Immediately after the divorce, the Countess of Marsborough
disappeared, and with her the only child and heir, then a boy five
years of age. It is supposed that she went to Australia or America,
under a changed name; but from that day to this all efforts to find the
lady or her child have been unavailing.

"At one time there was a rumor that the Countess had married again, and
settled in New York; but years brought no confirmation of this, and it
is now supposed that both mother and son are dead. In that case the
title and estates will fall to a remote branch of the family."

Mrs. Holt sat in perfect silence while her son read the paragraph; then
she held out her hand and made a sad effort to smile.

"You will go at once," she said; "the proofs are unbroken—there can be
no impediment."

"And you, mother? The good fortune which comes to me will be nothing if
you cannot share it."

Mrs. Holt shook her head. "No, my son, I shall never see old England
again. Do not look upon me, William, as if you doubted it. You will not
believe that shame keeps me back. No wife ever lived, more innocent
of wrong to a husband than I was; yet I was driven forth from that
court a branded woman. The memory of that undeserved shame makes me
shudder even now. After loading me with infamy they would have robbed
me of my child; but I would not allow them to wrong me so much. Before
they could force you away from me I fled—one great blessing God has
permitted to me; through it all, even in my errors, you have clung to
me, William."

"To me, mother, you have no errors."

Mrs. Holt shook her head. "It is for these I must suffer; though
divorced by the law, and free by the law, I wronged you myself, and the
unhappy man who is my Nemesis, by a second marriage. But I loved him;
and, God forgive me! I had never loved before. Even now I would rather
stay here with him, than share all the great fortune that falls upon
you."

"My dear mother, I do not ask you to forsake Mr. Holt. Heaven forbid. I
cannot forget how kind he was to us both when we most needed kindness,
or how liberal he was with his fortune. Come with me, and your husband.
I never thought of any other arrangement. Nashton, surely, will be
large enough for us all."

"No," said the lady, smiling in her gentle sadness, "the prairie is
best for him, and pleasantest for me. Dora shall take my old place at
Nashton. She will make a lovely Countess."

"But, mother!"

"No, no, you must not urge me, William. When I married Mr. Holt, the
Countess of Marsborough died. Some day, you and your wife will come to
us. Indeed, I think you are too thoroughly a frontiersman to be content
even on that grand old estate. We shall have you with us half the time,
I hope."

"Indeed you will—but now shall I tell Dora."

"Not yet."

"Well, well, but the time must be shortened now, for if you will not
go, mother, I must take her with me. I would not leave her behind, for
the best earldom in England."

"Say as much to her father, William, but only as a Sterling; when Dora
becomes your wife she must not know that the ceremony puts a coronet on
her head."

"Nor must the father; he has taken me at my own worth; after a while,
we can throw in the old earldom as a sort of make weight, ha, mother!"

The young man took his hat, and went directly over to Mr. Foster's
dwelling; in an hour he came back again, stepping lightly as a young
Apollo.

"It is all settled, mother; a week from today we are to start on our
wedding-trip, it is arranged that the ceremony will be over by that
time. Rather singular, isn't it, Mr. Foster wishes us to go over to
England on some railroad business, and promises that the commissioners
shall recommend me as a promising young fellow, well acquainted with
the business of the road. It is a great step, he says. I wonder what he
will think when we come back?"

Mrs. Holt smiled, wiped a few bright tears from her eyes, and called
Little Rhoda from the kitchen, to tell her that William would be
married that week, and was going to England for his wedding trip.


                                THE END.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


  Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
  Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79843 ***