DR. GRANT.
Morris had served out his time as surgeon in the army, had added to it an extra six months, and by his humanity, his skill and Christian kindness, made for himself a name which would be long remembered by the living to whom he had ministered so carefully, while many a dying soldier had blessed him for pointing out the way which leadeth to the life everlasting, and in many a mourning family his name was a household word for the good he had done to a dying son and brother. But Morris' hospital work was over. He had gone a little too far, incurring too much risk, until his own strength had failed from long-continued toil, and now in the month of June, when Linwood was bright with the early summer blossoms, he was coming back, with health greatly impaired and a dark cloud before his vision, so that he could not see how beautiful his home was looking, or gaze into the faces of those who waited so anxiously to welcome again their beloved physician. Blind, some said he was, but the few lines sent to Helen announcing the day of his arrival contradicted that report. His eyes were very much diseased, his amanuensis wrote, but he trusted that the pure air of his native hills and the influence of old scenes and associations would soon effect a cure. If not too much trouble, he added, please see that the house is made comfortable, and have John meet me on Friday at the station.
Helen had just returned from New York, where she could not remain any longer, for the scenes of gayety in which she was sometimes compelled to mingle were utterly distasteful to her, and she longed for the seclusion of the farmhouse and the quiet there is among the hills. She was glad Morris was coming home, for he always did her good; he could comfort her better than any other, unless it were Katy, whose loving, gentle words of hope were very soothing to her.
"Poor Morris!" she sighed, as she finished his letter, and then took it to the family sitting upon the pleasant piazza, which, at Katy's expense and her own, had been added to the house, overlooking Fairy Pond and the pleasant hills beyond.
"Morris is coming home," she said, as Aunt Betsy asked: "What news?" "He will be here on Friday, and he wishes us to see that all things are in order at Linwood for his reception. His eyes are badly diseased, but he is not blind, and he hopes that coming back to us will cure him," she added, glancing aside at Katy, who sat upon a step of the piazza, her hands folded together upon her lap and her blue eyes looking far off into the fading sunset, just as Evangeline sits looking down the Mississippi River.
When she heard Morris' name she turned her head a little, so that the ripple of her golden hair was more distinctly visible beneath the silken net she wore, and a deep tinge of red dyed her cheeks; but she made no comment or showed by any sign that she heard what they were saying. Katy was very lovely and consistent in her young widowhood, and not a whisper of gossip had the Silvertonians coupled with her name since she came to them, leaving her husband in Greenwood. There had been no parading of her grief before the public or assumption of greater sorrow than many others had known; but the soberness of her demeanor, and the calm, subdued expression of her face, attested to what she had suffered. Sixteen months had passed since Wilford died, and she still wore her deep mourning weeds, except the widow's cap, which, at her mother's and Aunt Betsy's earnest solicitations, she had laid aside, substituting in its place a simple net, which confined her waving hair and kept it from breaking out in flowing curls, as it was disposed to do. Against this fashion Aunt Betsy also inveighed.
"Couldn't a body curl their hair when nater intended it to curl, and mourn a-plenty, too?" For her part, she believed it people's duty to look as well as they could, mournin' or not mournin', and Katy couldn't look much wus' than she did, with her hair shoved back under that net, unless it was when she wore that heathenish cap, which made her look so like a grandmother.
This was Aunt Betsy's opinion, but to others there was something singularly sweet and beautiful in the childish face, from which the golden hair was brushed back so plainly, waving softly about the forehead, and occasionally escaping from its confinement in a graceful curl, which Katy suffered to remain for Aunt Betsy's sake. Katy had never been prettier than she was now, in her mature womanhood, and to the poor and sorrowful, whose homes she cheered so often, she was an angel of goodness.
Truly she had been purified by suffering; the dross had been burned out, and only the gold remained, shedding its brightness on all with which it came in contact.
They would miss her at the farmhouse now far more than they did when she first went away, for she made the sunshine of their home, filling Helen's place when she was in New York, and when she came back proving to her a stay and comforter. Indeed, but for Katy's presence, Helen often felt that she could not endure the sickening suspense and doubt which hung so darkly over her husband's fate.
"He is alive; he will come back," Katy always said, and from her perfect faith, Helen, too, caught a glimpse of hope.
Could they have forgotten Mark they would have been happy at the farmhouse now, for with the budding spring and blossoming summer, Katy's spirits had returned, and her old, musical laugh rang often through the house just as it used to do in the happy days of girlhood, while the same silvery voice which led the chair in the brick church, and sang with the little children their Sunday hymns, often broke forth into snatches of songs, which made even the robins listen, as they built their nests in the trees; while Uncle Ephraim, far from condemning this lightness of spirits, thanked God, who had brought his darling safely through the cloud to where the sun was shining.
If Katy thought of Morris she never spoke of him when she could help it. It was a morbid fancy to which she clung; that duty to Wilford's memory required her to forget, or, at least, avoid the man who had so innocently come between them; and when she heard he was coming home she felt more pain than sorrow. She liked going up to Linwood, as she often did. Its quiet seclusion, and the beauty of its grounds suited her taste, and she often passed hours in the pleasant summer house, or on the broad piazza, dreaming sometimes of the past, and sometimes, it must be confessed, dreaming of a future, and wondering what it would bring her when Mark came back, as come he would, and Helen was gone for good. She would be very lonely with people so much older than herself, and who did not understand the different tastes and ways of thinking which she had acquired. She was very happy at the farmhouse, it is true, and loved its inmates with a deep, unselfish love, but Helen's frequent absences from home showed her that even the farmhouse could be dreary with no congenial spirit to sympathize with her as Helen did.
Matters were in this state when news came of Morris' intended return, and Katy, sitting on the piazza step, and gazing dreamily into the crimson clouds piled against the western sky, seemed not to hear what her sister was saying. She did hear, however, and the blood leaped more swiftly through her veins for a moment, as she thought of Morris at Linwood just as he used to be. But when she remembered Wilford's words, "He confessed to me that he loved you," she felt only a nervous dread of Morris' coming, and forthwith set to work to fortify herself at every point with a stricture of reserve which she was far from feeling.
The day of his return was balmy and beautiful as the days of June are apt to be, and at an early hour Helen went over to Linwood to see that everything was in order for his arrival.
"Mrs. Hull will have dinner waiting for him, and I shall stay," she said to Katy, adding: "I wish you would come over, too. Morris will feel grateful, I know."
Katy did not reply, but struck softly the chords of the piano and thought how foolish she was to feel as she did. Suppose Morris had loved her once, he probably did not now, and even if he did, it could do no good, for she was the same as dead to all that kind of thing. She had tried matrimony, and found it—she did not say what. She never allowed herself to think an unkind thing of Wilford if she could help it, but a tear dropped upon the piano keys as she unconsciously hummed a part of the song commencing "I would not, no, I would not, recall the past again, for mingled with the pleasure was too much grief and pain."
Katy's tears were falling fast by the time the song was ended, but she dashed them away and sprang from the stool, exclaiming:
"Crying because Morris is coming home, poor, worn-out, half-blind Morris, who has done so much for the soldiers, I will go up and welcome him. I will not be so silly as to imagine he still retains a fancy for an old woman of twenty-three, even if he had one for the girl of seventeen."
Katy felt very old just then, and walking to the glass, was almost vexed at the smooth, round face which met her view.
"I ought to look older at twenty-three," she said. "Morris will think I have not mourned a bit, nor cared for Wilford," and another tear glistened on her eyelashes as she thought of being accused of forgetfulness of the dead.
Katy did look very young for twenty-three. Her health was perfect now, and save as the change in her character showed itself upon her face, she had scarcely changed at all since the day when she came home from Canandaigua with her heart and head so full of him who now lay sleeping in Greenwood.
"I know what's the matter. It's the net," she said, frowning disapprovingly upon the silken meshes which confined her hair. "Yes, it's nothing but this net which makes me look so young. Every schoolgirl wears one, and I have followed the fashion, letting it hang down my back in a way very unbecoming to a widow of my age. I'll take it off, or at all events I won't wear it to Linwood," and tossing aside the offending net, Katy bound her luxuriant hair in bands which she coiled around the back of her head and then put on the widow's cap, discarded so many months, and from which she shrank a little as she surveyed herself in the glass.
It was not exactly unbecoming; nothing could be unbecoming to that fair, open face, which, surrounded by the white border, looked much like a sweet baby's face, except that it was older; but it was now so long since Katy had seen anything of the kind, and as habit is everything, she was not quite as well pleased with her headgear as in New York, where such things were common. Nevertheless, she would wear it to Linwood, and she went for her round straw hat, but, alas, the sun hat which made her look so frightfully young was not made for the widow's cap, and casting it aside, Katy threw a thick black veil over her head, and then stepping to the door of the room where her mother and Aunt Betsy were busy at work, she said:
"I am going to Linwood, and shall stay there to dinner."
"In the name of the people, what has the child rigged herself out in that shape for?" Aunt Betsy exclaimed, letting fall the knife with which she was chopping cheese curd, and staring in astonishment. "I'd enough sight rather you'd frizzle your hair over rats, as Helen does, making herself look like some horned critter, than wear that heathenish thing. Why do you do it, Catherine?"
Catherine could not tell her, and laughing merrily at her aunt's animadversions against her own and Helen's style of hairdressing, she hurried away across the fields to Linwood. Aunt Betsy's surprise was in a measure shared by Helen, who, understanding Katy better, made no comments on her appearance, but smiled quietly at the air of matronly dignity which Katy had assumed, and which really sat so prettily upon her as she went from room to room to see what had been done, lingering longest in Morris' own apartment, opening from the library, where she made some alterations in the arrangement of the furniture, putting one chair a little more to the right, and pushing a stand or table to the left, just as her artistic eye dictated. By some oversight, no flowers had been put in there, but Katy gathered an exquisite bouquet and left it on the mantel, just where she remembered to have seen flowers when Morris was at home.
"He will he tired," she said. "He will lie down after dinner," and she laid a few sweet English violets upon the pillow, thinking their perfume might be grateful to him after the pent-up air of the hospital and cars. "He will think Helen put them there, or Mrs. Hull," she thought, as she stole softly out and shut the door behind her, glancing next at the clock, and feeling a little impatient that a whole hour must elapse before they could expect him.
Poor Morris! he did not dream how anxiously he was waited for at home, nor yet of the crowd assembled at the depot to welcome back the loved physician, whom they had missed so much, and whose name they had so often heard coupled with praise as a true hero, even though his post was not in the front of the battle. Thousands had been cared for by him, their gaping wounds dressed skillfully, their aching heads soothed tenderly, and their last moments made happier by the words he spoke to them of the world to which they were going, where there is no more war or shedding of man's blood. In the churchyard at Silverton there were three soldiers' graves, whose pale occupants had each died with Dr. Grant's hand held tightly in his, as if afraid that he would leave them before the dark river was crossed, while in more than one Silverton home there was a wasted form on which the soldier coat hung loosely, who never tired of telling Dr. Morris' praise and dwelling on his goodness. But Dr. Morris was not thinking of this as, faint and sick, with the green shade before his eyes, he leaned against the pile of shawls his companion had placed for his back and wondered if they were almost there.
"I smell the pond lilies; we must he near Silverton," he said, and a sigh escaped his lips as he thought of coming home and not being able to see it or the woods and fields around it. "Thy will be done," he had said many times since the fear first crept into his heart that for him the light had faded.
But now, when home was almost reached, and he began to breathe the air from the New England hills and the perfume of the New England lilies, the flesh rebelled again, and he cried out within himself: "Oh, I cannot be blind! God will not deal thus by me!" while keen as the cut of a sharpened knife was the pang with which he thought of Katy, and wondered would she care if he were blind.
Just then the long train stopped at Silverton, and, led by his attendant, he stepped feebly into the crowd, which sent up deafening cheers for Dr. Grant come home again. At the sight of his helplessness, however, a feeling of awe fell upon them, and whispering to each other, "I did not suppose he was so bad," they pressed around him, offering their hands and inquiring anxiously how he was.
"I have been sick, but I shall get better now. The very sound of your friendly voices does me good, even though I cannot see you distinctly," he said, as he went slowly to his carriage, led now by Uncle Ephraim, who could not keep back his tears as he saw how weak Morris was, panting for breath as he leaned back among the cushions.
It was very pleasant that afternoon, and Morris enjoyed the drive so much, assuring Uncle Ephraim that he was growing better every moment. He did seem stronger when at last the carriage stopped at Linwood, and his step was more rapid as he went up the steps where Helen, Katy and Mrs. Hull were waiting for him. He could not see them sufficiently to distinguish one from the other, but even without the aid of her voice he would have known when Katy's hand was put in his, it was so small, so soft, and trembled so as he held it. Her cap had been worn for nothing, nor did she think of it in her sorrow at finding him so helpless. Pity was the strongest feeling of which she was conscious, and it manifested itself in various ways.
"Let me lead you, Cousin Morris," she said, as she saw him groping his way to his room, and without waiting for his reply, she held his hand again in hers and led him to his room, where the sweet English violets were.
"I used to lead you, Katy," Morris said, as he took his seat by the window, "and I little thought then that you would one day return the compliment. It is very hard to be blind."
The tone of his voice was inexpressibly sad, but his smile was as cheerful as ever as his face turned toward Katy, who could not answer for her tears. It seemed so terrible to see a strong man so stricken, and that strong man Morris—terrible to watch him in his helplessness, trying to appear as of old, so as to cast on others no part of the shadow resting so darkly on himself. When dinner was over and the sun began to decline, many of his former friends came in, but he looked so pale and weary that they did not tarry long, and when the last one was gone, Morris was led back to his room, which he did not leave again until the summer was over and the luscious fruits of September were ripening upon the trees.
Toward the middle of July, Helen, whose health was suffering from her restless anxiety concerning Mark, was taken by Mrs. Banker to Nahant, where Mark's sister, Mrs. Ernst, was spending the summer, and thus on Katy alone fell the duty of paying to Morris those little acts of sisterly attentions such as no other member of the family knew how to pay. In the room where he lay so helpless Katy was not afraid of him, nor did she deem herself faithless to Wilford's memory, because each day found her at Linwood, sometimes bathing Morris' inflamed eyes, sometimes bringing him the cooling drink, and again reading to him by the hour, until, soothed by the music of her voice, he would fall away to sleep and dream it was an angel there with him.
"My eyes are getting better," he said to her one day toward the latter part of August, when she came as usual to his room. "I knew last night that Mrs. Hull's dress was blue, and I saw the sun shine through the shutters. Soon, very soon, I hope to see you, Katy, and know if you have changed."
She was standing close by him, and as he talked he raised his hand as if to rest it on her head, but, with a sudden movement, Katy eluded the touch, and stepped a little farther from him.
She did not go to Linwood the next day, nor the next; and when she went again there was in her manner a shade more of dignity, which had both amused and interested Morris. He did not know for certain that Wilford had told Katy of the confession made that memorable night when her recovery seemed so doubtful, but he more than half suspected it from the shyness of her manner and from the various excuses she now made for not coming to Linwood every day, as she had heretofore done.
"You do not need me as much as you did," she said to him one morning in September, when he complained of his loneliness, and told how he had waited for her the previous day until night shut down, and he knew she would not come. "You can see better than you did. You are able to sit up all day, and walk about a little, so if I come I am not needed," and seating herself at a respectful distance from him, Katy folded her white hands demurely over her black dress, after having first adjusted the cap worn constantly since the time when she learned that Morris' sight was improving.
"I sometimes think I need you more than I did then, and if you must stay away now, I am ungrateful enough to wish you had not come at all," Morris replied, and Katy's cheeks burned crimson as she felt that the dim eyes, seen through the green shades, were trying to study her as they had not studied her before. "What is that on your head?" Morris asked, rather abruptly. "I have tried to make it out, wondering if it were a handkerchief, and why it was worn."
"It is my cap—the widow's cap—worn for Wilford's sake," was the reply, which silenced Morris for that time, making him feel that between Katy Lennox, the girl, and Katy Cameron, the widow, there was a vast difference, and awakening in his heart a fear lest Wilford Cameron dead should prove as strong a rival as Wilford living had been.
In his great pity for Katy when she was first a widow, Morris had scarcely remembered that she was free, or if it did flash upon his mind, he thrust the thought aside as injustice to the dead; but as the months and the year went by, and he heard constantly from Helen of Katy's increasing cheerfulness, it was not in his nature never to think of what might be, and more than once he had prayed that, if consistent with his Father's will, that the woman he had loved so well should be his yet. If not, he could go his way alone, just as he had always done, knowing that it was right.
Such was the state of Morris' mind when he returned from Washington, but now it was somewhat different. The weary weeks of sickness, during which Katy had ministered to him so kindly, had not been without their effect, and if Morris had loved the frolicsome, childlike Katy Lennox much, he loved far more the gentle, beautiful woman whose character had been so wonderfully developed by suffering, and who was now far more worthy of his love than in her early girlhood.
"I cannot lose her now," was the thought constantly in Morris' mind, as he experienced more and more how desolate were the days which did not bring her to him. "It is twenty months, just, since Wilford died; and George Washington asked Martha Custis for her hand within less time than that after her husband's death," he said to himself one wet October afternoon, when he sat listening dreamily to the patter of the rain falling upon the windows, and looking occasionally across the fields to the farmhouse, in the vain hope of spying in the distance the little airy form, which, in its waterproof and cloud, had braved worse storms than this at the time he was so ill.
But no such figure appeared. He hardly expected it would, but he watched the pathway just the same, and the smoke wreaths rising so high above the farmhouse. The deacon burned out his chimney that day, and Morris, whose sight had greatly improved of late, knew it by the dense, black volume of smoke, mingled with rings of fire, which rose above the roof, remembering so well another rainy day, twenty years ago, when the deacon's chimney was cleaned, and a little, toddling girl, in scarlet gown and white pinafore, had amused herself with throwing into the blazing fire upon the hearth a straw at a time, almost upsetting herself with standing so far back and making such efforts to reach the flames. A great deal had passed since then. The little girl in the pinafore had been both wife and mother. She was a widow now, and Morris glanced across his hearth toward the empty chair he had never seen in imagination filled by any but herself.
Surely, she would some day be his own, and leaning his head upon the cane he carried, he prayed earnestly for the good he coveted, keeping his head down so long that, until it had left the strip of woods and emerged into the open fields, he did not see the figure, wrapped in waterproof and hood, with a huge umbrella over its head and a basket upon its arm, which came picking its way daintily toward the house, stopping occasionally, and lifting up the little, high-heeled Balmoral, which the mud was ruining so completely. Katy was coming to Linwood. It had been baking day at the farmhouse, and remembering how much Morris used to love her custards, Aunt Betsy had prepared him some, which she warranted to "melt in his mouth," and then asked Katy to take them over, so he could have them for tea.
"The rain won't hurt you an atom," she said, as Katy began to demur and glance at the lowering sky. "You can wear your waterproof boots and my shaker, if you like, and I do so want Morris to have them to-night."
Thus importuned, Katy consented to go, but declined the loan of Aunt Betsy's shaker, which being large of the kind, and capeless, too, was not the most becoming headgear a woman could wear. With the basket of custards, and cup of jelly she made herself, Katy finally started forth, Aunt Betsy saying to her, as in the door she stopped to take up her dress: "It must he dretful lonesome for Morris to-day. S'posin' you stay to supper with him, and when it's growin' dark I'll come over for you. You'll find the custards fust-rate."
Katy did not think it very probable that she should stay to tea with Morris, but she made no reply, and walked away, while Aunt Betsy went back to the coat she was patching for her brother, saying to herself:
"I'm bound to fetch that 'round. It's a shame for two young folks, just fitted to each other, to live apart when they might be so happy, with Hannah, and Lucy, and me, close by, to see to 'em, and allus make their soap, and see to the butcherin', besides savin' peneryle and catnip for the children, if there was any."
Aunt Betsy had turned matchmaker in her old age, and day and night she planned how to bring about the match between Morris and Katy. That they were made for each other she had no doubt. From something which Helen inadvertantly let fall she had guessed that Morris wanted Katy prior to her marriage with Wilford. She had suspected as much before, she was sure of it now, and straightway put her wits at work "to make it go," as she expressed it. But Katy was too shy to suit her, and since Morris' convalescence had stayed too much from Linwood. To-day, however, Aunt Betsy "felt it in her bones" that, if properly managed, something would happen, and the custards were but the means to the desired end. With no suspicion whatever of the good dame's intentions, Katy picked her way to Linwood, and leaving her damp garments in the hall, lest Morris should take cold, went at once into the library, where he was sitting near to a large chair kept sacred for her, his face looking unusually cheerful, and the room unusually pleasant, with the bright wood fire on the hearth. She knew he was glad she had come, that he thought more of her being there than of the custards she brought him.
"I have been so lonely, with no company but the rain," he said, pushing the chair a little toward her, and bidding her sit near the fire, where she could dry her feet.
Katy obeyed, and sat down so near to him that had he chose he might have touched her head, which this day was minus cap, or even net, the golden hair combed back and fastened in heavy coils low down on her neck, giving to her a very girlish appearance, as Morris thought, for he could see her now, and while she dried her feet he looked at her eagerly, wondering that the fierce storm she had encountered had left so few traces upon her face. Just about the mouth there was a deep-cut line, but this was all; the remainder of the face was fair and smooth as in her early girlhood, and far more beautiful, just as her character was lovelier, and more to be admired.
Morris had done well to wait if he could win her now. Perhaps he thought so, too, and this was why his spirits became so gay as he kept talking to her, suggesting at last that she should stay to tea. The rain was falling in torrents when he made the proposition. She could not go then, even had she wished it, and though it was earlier than his usual tea time, Morris at once rang for Mrs. Hull, and ordered that tea be served in there as soon as possible.
"I ought not to stay. It is not proper, and my cap at home, too," Katy kept thinking as she fidgeted in her chair, and watched the girl setting the table so cosily for two, and occasionally deferring some debatable point to her as if she were mistress there.
"Shall we have some thin slices of cold chicken to go with the jelly?" she asked, looking at Katy, who answered in the affirmative, wishing she was at home, and deploring again the absence of her cap.
"You can go now, Reekie," Morris said, when the boiling water was poured into the silver kettle, and tea was on the table. "If we need you we will ring."
With a vague wonder as to who would toast the doctor's bread and butter it, Reekie departed, and the two were left together. It was Katy who toasted the bread, kneeling upon the marble hearth, nearly blistering her hands, burning her face and scorching the bread in her nervousness at the novel position in which she so unexpectedly found herself. It was Katy, too, who prepared Morris' tea, and tried to eat, but could not. She was not hungry, she said, and the custard was the only thing she tasted, besides the tea, which she sipped at frequent intervals, so as to make Morris think she was eating more than she was. But Morris was not deceived, nor yet disheartened. Possibly she suspected his intention, and if so, the sooner he reached the point the better. So when the tea equipage was put away, and she began again to speak of going home, he said:
"No, Katy, you can't go yet till I have said what's in my mind to say," and laying his hand upon her shoulder he made her sit down beside him and listen while he told her the love he had borne for her long before she knew the meaning of that word as she knew it now—of the struggle to keep that love in bounds after its indulgence was a sin, of his temptations and victories, of his sincere regret for Wilford, and of his deep respect for her grief, which made her for a time as a sister to him. But that time had passed. She was not his sister now, nor ever could be again. She was Katy, dearer, more precious, more desired even than before another called her wife, and he asked her to be his, to come up there to Linwood and live with him, making the rainy days brighter, balmier, than the sunniest had ever been, and helping him in his work of caring for the poor and sick around them.
"Will Katy come? Will she be the wife of Cousin Morris?"
There was a world of pathos and pleading in the voice which asked this question, just as there was a world of tenderness in the manner in which Morris smoothed and caressed and fondled the bowed head resting on the chair arm. And Katy felt it all, understanding what it was to be offered such a love as Morris offered, but only comprehending in part what it would be to refuse that love. For, alas! her blinded judgment said she must refuse it. Had there been no sad memories springing from that grave in Greenwood, no bitter reminiscences connected with her married life—had Wilford never heard of Morris' love and taunted her with it so often, she might perhaps consent, for she craved the rest there would be with Morris to lean upon. But the happiness was too great for her to accept. It would seem too much like faithlessness to Wilford, too much as if he had been right when he charged her with preferring Morris to himself.
"It cannot be—oh, Morris, it cannot be," she sobbed, when he pressed her for answer. "Don't ask me why—don't ever mention it again, for I tell you it cannot be. My answer is final; it cannot be. I am sorry for you, so sorry. I wish you had never loved me, for it cannot be."
She writhed herself from the arms which tried to detain her, and rising to her feet left the room suddenly, and throwing on her wrappings, quitted the house without another word, leaving basket and umbrella behind, and never knowing she had left them, or how the rain was pouring down upon her unsheltered person until, as she entered the narrow strip of woodland, she was met by Aunt Betsy, who exclaimed at seeing her, and asked:
"What has become of your umberell? Your silk one, too. It's hopeful you haven't lost it. What has happened you?" and coming closer to Katy, Aunt Betsy looked searchingly in her face. It was not so dark that she could not see the traces of recent tears, and instinctively suspecting their nature, she continued: "Catherine, have you gin Morris the mitten?"
"Aunt Betsy, is it possible that you and Morris contrived this plan?" Katy asked, half indignantly, as she began in part to understand her aunt's great anxiety for her to visit Linwood that afternoon.
"Morris had nothing to do with it," Aunt Betsy replied. "It was my doin's wholly, and this is the thanks I git. You quarrel with him and git mad at me, who thought only of your good. Catherine, you know you like Morris Grant, and if he asked you to have him why don't you?"
"I can't, Aunt Betsy. I can't, after all that has passed. It would be unjust to Wilford."
"Unjust to Wilford—fiddlesticks!" was Aunt Betsy's expressive reply, as she started on toward Linwood, saying she was going after the umberell before it got lost, with nobody there to tend to things as they should be tended to. "Have you any word to send?" she asked, hoping Katy had relented.
But Katy had not; and with a toss of her head, which shook the raindrops from her capeless shaker, Aunt Betsy went on her way, and was soon confronting Morris, sitting just where Katy had left him, and looking very pale and sad.
He was not glad to see Aunt Betsy. He would rather be alone until such time as he could control himself and still his throbbing heart. But with his usual affability, he bade Aunt Betsy sit down, shivering a little when he saw her in the chair where Katy had sat, her thin, angular body presenting a striking contrast to the graceful, girlish figure which had sat there an hour since, and the huge India rubbers she held up to the fire as unlike as possible to the boot of fairy dimensions he had admired so much when it was drying on the hearth.
"I met Catherine," Aunt Betsy began, "and mistrusted at once that something was to pay, for a girl don't leave her umberell in such a rain and go cryin' home for nothin'."
Morris colored, resenting for an instant this interference by a third party; but Aunt Betsy was so honest and simple-hearted that he could not be angry long, and listened calmly while she continued:
"I have not lived sixty-odd years for nothing, and I know the signs pretty well. I've been through the mill myself."
Here Aunt Betsy's voice grew lower in its tone, and Morris looked up with real interest, while she went on:
"There's Joel Upham—you know Joel—keeps a tin shop now, and seats the folks in meetin'. He asked me once for my company, and to be smart I told him 'no,' when all the time I meant 'yes,' thinkin' he would ask ag'in, but he didn't, and the next I knew he was keepin' company with Patty Adams, now his wife. I remember I sniveled a little at being taken at my word, but it served me right for saying one thing when I meant another. However, it don't matter now. Joel is as clever as the day is long, but he is a shiftless critter, never splits his kindlin's till jest bedtime, and Patty is pestered to death for wood, while his snorin' nights, she says, is awful, and that I never could abide; so, on the whole, I'm better off than Patty."
Morris laughed a loud, hearty laugh, which did him good, and emboldened his visitor to say more than she had intended saying:
"You just ask her ag'in. Once ain't nothing at all, and she'll come to. She likes you; 'tain't that which made her say no. It's some foolish idea about faithfulness to Wilford, as if he deserved that she should be faithful. They never orto have had one another—never; and now that he is well in heaven, as I do suppose he is, it ain't I who hanker for him to come back. Neither does Katy, and all she needs is a little urging to tell you yes. So ask her again, will you?"
"I think it very doubtful. Katy knew what she was doing, and meant what she said," Morris replied; and with the consoling remark that if young folks would be fools it was none of her business to bother with them, Aunt Betsy pinned her shawl across her chest, and hunting up both basket and umbrella, bade Morris good-night, and went back across the fields to the farmhouse, hearing from Mrs. Lennox that Katy had gone to bed with a racking headache.
"Just the way I felt when I heard about Joel and Patty," Aunt Betsy said to herself, and as she remembered what had helped her then, so, fifteen minutes later, she appeared at Katy's bedside, with a cup of strong sage tea which she bade Katy swallow, telling her it was good for her complaint.
To prevent being urged and annoyed, Katy drank the tea, and then without a question concerning Aunt Betsy's call at Linwood, lay down upon her pillow, asking to be left alone.