Hills of the Shatemuc

by Susan Warner

CHAPTER I.

Ha, ha! what a fool honesty is! and trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! WINTER'S TALE.

Poor Winnie held to her resolution, though half unconsciously and quite involuntarily. She did not enjoy her ride, and therefore did not seem to enjoy it; for it was not in her nature to seem other than she was. Neither did she take or shew any but a very qualified pleasure in Miss Haye's company; and for this reason or for others Miss Haye made her visits few.

But this did not a bit help the main question; and in the want of data and the absence of all opportunity for making observations, Winnie had full chance to weary herself with fancies and fears. She could not get courage enough to say anything about Miss Haye again to her brother; and he never spoke of her. There was no change in him; he was always as careful of his little sister; always bestowed his time upon her in the same way; was always at home in the evenings. Unless when, very rarely, he made an arrangement that she should spend one with Mrs. Nettley and Mr. Inchbald. These times were seldom; and Winnie generally knew where he was going and that it was not to Mr. Haye's. But she was not sure of the integrity of her possession of him; and that want of security opened the sluice-gates to a flood-tide of wearisome possibilities; and Winnie's nervous and morbid sensibilities made the most of them. It was intolerable, to think that Winthrop should love anybody as he did her; that he should love anybody better, happily for Winnie, never entered her imaginings. She could not endure to think that those lips, which were to her the sweetest of earthly things, should touch any other cheek or mouth but her own. They were hers. It was bitter as wormwood to think that his strong arm could ever hold and guide another as it held and guided his little sister. "But guide? — she'd never let him guide her!" — said Winnie in a great fit of sisterly indignation. And her thoughts would tumble and toss the matter about, till her cheek was in a flush; she was generally too eager to cry. It wore upon her; she grew thinner and more haggard; but nobody knew the cause and no one could reach the remedy.

With all this the end of summer came, and Rufus. He came to establish himself under Mr. Haye's direction. "For the time," — as Winthrop told Winnie, when she asked him if Rufus was going to turn merchant. And when she asked him further "what for?" — he answered that Rufus was a spice merchant and dealt in variety. With the end of autumn came Winthrop's admission to the bar.

And Winnie drew a mental long breath. Winthrop was a lawyer himself, and no longer in a lawyer's office. Winthrop had an office of his own. The bark was shoved from the shore, with her sails set; and Winnie, no more than her brother, doubted not that the gales of prosperity would soon fill them. Rufus was greatly amused with her.

"You think it's a great thing to be a lawyer, don't you?" said he one night.

"I think it's a great thing to be such a lawyer as Governor will be," said Winnie.

At which Rufus laughed prodigiously.

"I think it's a great thing to be such a governor as this lawyer will be," he said when he had recovered himself. "Nothing less, Governor! You have your title beforehand."

"'Once a judge always a judge,'" said Winthrop. "I am afraid if you reverse the terms, so you will the conclusion."

"Terms!" said Rufus. "You will be governor of this state, and
I shall be your financial secretary — on any terms you please.
By the way — what keeps you from Haye's now-a-days? Not this
girl?"

"No," said Winthrop.

It was that same 'no' over again. Winnie knew it, and her heart throbbed.

"What then? I haven't seen you there since I've been in town."

"How often are you there yourself?"

"O! — every evening almost. What keeps you?"

"Duty —" said Winthrop.

"But what sort of duty! What on earth can hinder your coming there as you used to do, to spend a rational hour now and then?"

"My dear sir, it is enough for any man to know his own duty; it is not always possible for him to know that of another man."

"And therefore I ask you!" said Rufus.

"What?"

"Why! — what's your reason for keeping away."

"In brief — my engagements."

"You've nothing to do with briefs yet," said Rufus; "have the goodness to enlarge a little. You've not been more busy lately than you were a while ago."

"Yes I have."

"Yes, I suppose you have," — said Rufus meditatively. "But not so much more as to make that a reason?"

"If my reasons were not only 'as plenty' but as precious, as blackberries," said his brother, "you could not shew more eagerness for them."

"I am afraid the blackberries would be the more savoury," said Rufus laughing a little. "But you didn't use to make such a hermit of yourself, Winthrop."

"I don't intend to be a hermit always. But as I told you, duty and inclination have combined to make me one lately."

Winnie could not make much of this conversation. The words might seem to mean something, but Winthrop's manner had been so perfectly cool and at ease that she was at a loss to know whether they meant anything.

Winthrop's first cause was not a very dignified one — it was something about a man's horse. Winnie did not think much of it; except that it was his first cause, and it was gained; but that she was sure beforehand it would be. However, more dignified pieces of business did follow, and came fast; and at every new one Winnie's eyes sparkled and glistened, and her nervous troubles for the moment laid themselves down beneath joy, and pride in her brother, and thankfulness for his success. Before many months had passed away, something offered that in better measure answered her wishes for his opportunity.

Their attic room had one evening a very unwonted visiter in the shape of Mr. Herder. Beside Mr. Inchbald and his sister, Rufus was the sole one that ever made a third in the little company. Winthrop's friends, for many reasons, had not the entrance there. But this evening, near the beginning of the new year, there came a knock at the door, and Mr. Herder's round face walked in rounder than ever.

"Good evening! — How is all wiz you, Wint'rop? — and you? — I would not let no one come up wiz me — I knew I should find you."

"How did you know that, Mr. Herder?"

"O! — I have not looked so long for strange things on the earth — and in the earth — that I cannot find a friend — de most strange thing of all."

"Is that your conclusion, Mr. Herder? I didn't know you had quite so desperate an opinion of mankind."

"It is not despairate," said the naturalist; — "I do not despair of nobody. Dere is much good among de world — dere might be more — a good deal. I hope all will be good one day — it will be — then we shall have no more trouble. How is it wiz you, Wint'rop?"

"Nothing to complain of, Mr. Herder."

"Does he never have nozing to complain of?" said the naturalist turning to Winnie.

"He never thinks he has," said Winnie. She had answered the naturalist's quick eye with a quick smile, and then turned on Winthrop a look that spoke of many a thing he must have passed over to make her words good. Mr. Herder's eye followed hers.

"How is everything with you, Mr. Herder?"

"It is well enough," said the naturalist, — "like the common. I do not complain, neizer. I never have found time to complain. Wint'rop, I am come to give you some work."

"What do you want me to do, sir?"

"I do not know," said the naturalist; — "I do not know nozing about what is to be done; but I want you to do something."

"I hope you will give me something more to go to work upon, sir. What is the matter?"

"It is not my matter," said the naturalist; — "I did never get in such a quarrel but one, and I will never again in anozer — it is my brother, or the man who married my sister — his name is Jean Lansing."

"What is the matter with him?"

"Dere is too many things the matter wiz him," said Mr. Herder, "for he is sick abed — that is why I am here. I am come to tell you his business and to get you to do it."

"I shall think I am working for you, Mr. Herder," Winthrop said, as he tied up a bundle of papers which had been lying loose about the table.

"Have you got plenty to do?" said the naturalist, giving them a good-humoured eye.

"Can't have too much, sir. Now what is your brother's affair?"

"I do not know as I can tell you," said the other, his bright jovial face looking uncommonly mystified, — "it seems to me he does not know very well himself. He does not know that anybody has done nozing, but he is not satisfied."

"And my business is to satisfy him?"

"If you can do that — you shall be satisfied too!" said the naturalist. "He does not know that any one has wronged him: but he thinks one has."

"Who?"

"Ryle — John Ryle. He was Mr. Lansing's partner in business for years — I do not know how many."

"Here?"

"In Mannahatta — here — they were partners; and Ryle had brothers in England, and he was the foreign partner and Lansing was here, for the American part of the business. Well, they were working togezer for years; — and at the end of them, when they break up the business, it is found that Ryle has made himself money, and that my brother has not made none! So he is poor, and my sister, and Ryle is rich."

"How is that?"

"It is that way as I tell you; and Ryle has plenty, and
Lansing and Therésa they have not."

"But has Mr. Lansing no notion how this may have come about?"

"He knows nozing!" said the naturalist, — "no more than you know — except he knows he is left wizout nozing, and Ryle has not left himself so. Dat is all he knows."

"Can I see Mr. Lansing?"

"He is too sick. And he could tell you nozing. But he is not satisfied."

"Is John Ryle of this city?"

"He is of this city. He is not doing business no more, but he lives here."

"Well, we can try, Mr. Herder," said Winthrop, tapping his bundle of papers on the table, in a quiet wise that was a strong contrast to the ardent face and gestures of the philosopher. It was the action, too, of a man who knew how to try and was in no doubt as to his own power. The naturalist felt it.

"What will you do, Wint'rop?"

"You wish me to set about it?"

"I do. I put it in your hands."

"I will try, Mr. Herder, what can be done."

"What will you do first?" said the naturalist.

"File a bill in equity," said Winthrop smiling.

"A bill? — what is that?"

"A paper setting forth certain charges, made on supposition and suspicion only, to which charges they must answer on oath."

"Who will answer?"

"Ryle and his brothers."

"Dere is but one of them alive."

"Well, Ryle and his brother, then."

"But what charges will you make? We do not know nozing to charge."

"Our charges will be merely on supposition and suspicion — it's not needful to swear to them."

"And they must swear how it is?"

"They must swear to their answers,"

"That will do!" said the naturalist, looking 'satisfied' already. "That will do. We will see what they will say. — Do you do nozing but write bills all night, every night, and tie up papers? — you do not come to my room no more since a long time."

"Not for want of will, Mr. Herder. I have not been able to go."

"Bring your little sister and let her look at my things some time — while you and me we look at each other. It is good to look at one's friend sometime."

"I have often found it so, Mr. Herder. I will certainly bring
Winnie if I can."

"Do you not go nowhere?" said the naturalist as if a thought had struck him. "What is de reason that I do not meet you at Mr. Haye's no more?"

"I go almost nowhere, sir."

"You are wrong," said the naturalist. "You are not right. Dere is more will miss you than me; and there is somebody there who wants you to take care of her."

"I hope you are mistaken, sir."

"She wants somebody to take care of her," said Mr. Herder; "and I do not know nobody so good as you. I am serious. She is just as afraid as ever one should take care of her, and poor thing she wants it all the more. She will not let your brother do it neizer."

"Do you think he is trying, Mr. Herder?" Winthrop said coolly.

"I believe he would be too glad! he looks at her so hard as he can; but she will not look at the tops of his fingers. She does not know what she shall do wiz herself, she is so mad wiz her father's new wife."

"What has she been doing?" Winthrop asked.

"Who, Rose? — she has not done nozing, but to marry Elisabet's father, and for that she never will forgive her. I am sorry — he was foolish man. — Wint'rop, you must not shut yourself up here — you will be directly rich — you must find yourself a wife next thing."

"Why should a lawyer have a wife any more than a philosopher?" said Winthrop.

"A philosopher," said Mr. Herder, with the slightest comical expression upon his broad face, — "has enough for him to do to take care of truth — he has not time to take care of his wife too. While I was hunting after de truth, my wife would forget me."

"Does it take you so long for a hunt?"

"I am doing it all de time," said the naturalist; "it is what
I spend my life for. I live for that."

The last words were spoken with a quiet deliberation which told their truth. And if the grave mouth of the other might have said 'I live for truth' too, it would not have belied his thoughts. But it was truth of another kind.

Winnie watched the course of this piece of business of Mr. Herder's with the most eager anxiety. That is, what there was to watch, for proceedings were slow. The very folio pages of that 'Bill,' that she saw Winthrop writing, were scrolls of interest and mysterious charm to Winnie's eyes, like nothing surely that other eyes could find in them. Certainly not the eyes of Mr. Ryle and his lawyer. Winnie watched the bill folded up and superscribed, standing over her brother with her hand on his shoulder.

"What is that about, now, Governor? — what is it to do?"

"It charges Mr. Ryle and his brother with malpractices, Winnie — with dealing unfairly by Mr. Lansing."

"But you don't know that they have done anything?"

"They can shew it, in that case; and the object of this bill is to make them shew one thing or the other, by their answer."

"And, dear Governor, how soon will they answer?"

"In forty days, Winnie, they must."

Winnie drew a breath of patience and impatience, and went back to her seat.

But before the forty days were gone by, Winthrop came home one night and told Winnie he had got the answer; and smiled at her face of eagerness and pleasure. Winnie thought his smiles were not very often, and welcomed every one.

"But it is not likely this answer will settle the question,
Winnie," he remarked.

"O no, I suppose not; but I want to know what they say."

So they had supper; and after supper she watched while he sat reading it; as leaf after leaf was turned over, from the close-written and close-lying package in Winthrop's hand to the array of pages that had already been turned back and lay loose piled on the table; while Winthrop's pencil now and then made an admonitory note in the margin. How his sister admired him! — and at last forgot the bill in studying the face of the bill-reader. It was very little changed from its old wont; and what difference there might be, was not the effect of a business life. The cool and invariable self-possession and self-command of the character had kept and promised to keep him himself, in the midst of these and any other concerns, however entangling or engrossing. The change, if any, was traceable to somewhat else; or to somewhat else Winnie laid it, — though she would not have called it a change, but only an added touch of perfection. She could not tell, as she looked, what that touch had done; if told, perhaps it might be, that it had added sweetness to the gravity and gravity to the sweetness that was there before. How Winnie loved that broad brow, and the very hand it rested on! All the well-known lines of calmness and strength about the face her eye went over and over again; she had quite forgotten Mr. Ryle; and she saw Winthrop folding up the voluminous "answer," and she hardly cared to ask what was in it. She watched the hands that were doing it. They seemed to speak his character, too; she thought they did; calmness and decision were in the very fingers. Before her curiosity had recovered itself enough to speak, Mr. Herder came in.

They talked for awhile about other things; and then Winthrop told him of the answer.

"You have it!" cried the naturalist. "And what do they say?"

'Nothing, fully and honestly."

"Ah ha! — And do they grant — do they allow anything of your charges, that you made in your bill?"

"Yes — in a vague and unsatisfactory way, they do."

"Vague —?" said the naturalist.

"Not open and clear. But the other day in the street I was stopped by Mr. Brick —"

"Who is Brick?" said Mr. Herder.

"He is Ryle's lawyer. He stopped me a few days ago and told me there was one matter in the answer with which perhaps I would not be satisfied — which perhaps I should not think sufficiently full; but he said, he, who had drawn the answer, knew, personally, all about it; and he assured me that the answer in this matter granted all, and more, than I could gain in any other way; and that if I carried the proceedings further, in hopes to gain more for my client, the effect would only be an endless delay."

"Do they offer to give him something?" said the naturalist.

"The answer does make disclosures, which though, as I said, vague and imperfect, still promise to give him something."

"And you think it might be more?"

"Brick assures me, on his own knowledge, that by going on with the matter we shall only gain an endless lawsuit."

"What do you think, Wint'rop?"

"I want you to give this paper to Mr. Lansing, and ask him what he thinks. Ask him to read it, and tell him what Brick says; and then let him make up his mind whether we had better go on or not."

"I do not care for nobody's mind but yours," said the naturalist.

"Let us have Mr. Lansing's first."

So Mr. Herder carried away the answer to Mr. Lansing, and in a few days came back to report progress.

"He has read it," said Mr. Herder, "and he says he do not make anything of it at all. He leaves the whole thing wiz you."

"Does he understand what is hinted at by these half disclosures?"

"He says he does not understand nozing of it — he knows not what they mean — he does not know whether to go on, whether to stop here. He says, and I say, you judge and do what you please."

"I confess, Mr. Herder, that Mr. Brick's kind warning has made me suspicious of his and his principal's good faith; and my will would be to go on."

"Go on, then!" said the naturalist — "I say so too — go on! I do not trust that Brick no more than you do; and Mr. Ryle, him I do not trust. Now what will you do next?"

"Take exceptions to the answer, where it seems to be insufficient, and make them answer again."

"Exception —?" said the naturalist.

In answer to which Winthrop went into explanations at some length; from which at least this much was clearly made out by Mr. Herder and Winnie, — that the cause would come to a hearing probably in May, before Chancellor Justice; when Winthrop and Mr. Brick would stand openly pitted against each other and have an opportunity of trying their mutual strength, or the strength of their principles; when also it would, according to the issue of said conflict, be decided whether the Ryles must or not reply to Winthrop's further demands upon them.

"And this Chancellor Justice — is he good man?" said Mr.
Herder.

"As good a man as I want to argue before," said Winthrop. "I ask no better. All is safe in that quarter."

That all was safe in another quarter, both Mr. Herder and Winnie felt sure; and both looked eagerly forward to May; both too with very much the same feeling of pride and interest in their champion.

Winnie's heart jumped again at hearing a few days after, that Mr. Satterthwaite had put his affairs into Winthrop's hands; partly, Winthrop said he supposed, out of friendship for him, and partly out of confidence in him. It was rather a mark of the former, that he insisted upon paying a handsome retaining fee.

"Now where's Mr. Cool and his affairs?" said Winnie.

"I suppose Mr. Cool is at Coldstream, where he keeps 'cool' all the year round, I understand."

"But he promised to put his affairs into your hands."

"Then he'll do it. Perhaps they keep cool too."

"I wish May would be here," said Winnie.

Winthrop was at the table one evening, — while it still wanted some weeks of the May term, — writing, as usual, with heaps of folio papers scattered all about him; writing fast; and Winnie was either reading or looking at him, who was the book she loved best to study; when Rufus came in. Both looked up and welcomed him smilingly; but then Winthrop went on with his writing; while Winnie's book was laid down. She had enough else now to do. Rufus took a seat by the fire and did as she often did, — looked at Winthrop.

"Are you always writing?" said he somewhat gloomily.

"Not always," said Winthrop. "I sometimes read, for variety."

"Law papers?"

"Law papers — when I can't read anything else."

"That's pretty much all the time, isn't it?"

"O no," said Winnie; — "he reads a great deal to me — we were reading a while ago, before you came in — we read every evening."

Rufus brought his attention round upon her, not, as it seemed, with perfect complacency.

"What time does this girl go to bed?"

How Winnie's face changed. Winthrop answered without stopping his pen. —

"When she is tired of sitting up — not until then."

"She ought to have a regular hour — and an early one."

"You are an adviser upon theory, you see," said Winthrop going on with his writing; — "I have the advantage of practice."

"I fancy any adviser would tell you the same in this case," said the elder brother somewhat stiffly.

"I can go now," Winifred said rising, and speaking with a trembling lip and a tremulous voice, — "if you want to talk about anything."

She lit a candle and had got to the door, when her other brother said,

"Winnie! —"

Winnie stopped and turned with the door in her hand. Winthrop was busy clearing some books and papers from a chair by his side. He did not speak again; when he had done he looked up and towards her; and obeying the wish of his face, as she would have done had it been any other conceivable thing, Winnie shut the door, set her candle down, and came and took the chair beside him. But then, when she felt his arm put round her, she threw her head down upon him and burst into a fit of nervously passionate tears. That was not his wish, she knew, but she could not help it.

"Mr. Landholm," said Winthrop, "may I trouble you to put out that candle. We are not so extravagant here as to burn bedlights till we want them. — Hush, Winnie, —" softly said his voice in her ear and his arm at the same time.

"Absurd!" said Rufus, getting up to do as he was bid.

"What?" said his brother.

"Why I really want to talk to you."

"I am really very willing to listen."

"But I do not want to talk to anybody beside you."

"Winnie hears everything that is said here, Will," said the younger brother gravely, at the same time restraining with his arm the motion he felt Winnie made to go.

"It don't signify!" said Rufus, getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room gloomily.

"What doesn't signify?"

"Anything! —"

The steps were quicker and heavier, with concealed feeling. Winthrop looked at him and was silent; while Rufus seemed to be combating some unseen grievance, by the set of his lip and nostril.

"What do you think Haye has done?" — he broke out, like a horse that is champing the bit.

"What?" said Winthrop.

"He has sued me."

"Sued you!" exclaimed Winthrop, while even Winnie forgot her tears and started up. Rufus walked.

"What do you mean, Will?"

"I mean he has sued me!" — said Rufus stopping short and facing them with eyes that for the moment had established a natural pyrotechny of their own.

"How, and what for?"

"How? — by the usual means! What for? — I will tell you!"

Which he sat down to do; Winthrop and Winnie both his most earnest auditors.

"You know it was Haye's own proposition, urged by himself, that I should go into business with him. Nobody asked him — it was his own doing; it was his declared purpose and wish, unsolicited by me or my father or by anybody, to set me forward in his own line and put me in the way of making my fortune! — as he said."

Winthrop knew it, and had never liked it. He did not tell Rufus so now; he gave him nothing but the attention of his calm face; into which Rufus looked while he talked, as if it were the safe, due, and appointed treasury in which to bestow all his grievances and passionate sense of them.

"Well! — you know he offered, a year ago or more, that by way of making a beginning, I should take off his hands some cotton which he had lying in storage, and ship it to Liverpool on my own account; and as I had no money, I was to pay him by drawing bills in his favour upon the consignees."

"I remember very well," said Winthrop.

"Well sir! — the cotton reached Liverpool and was found good for nothing!"

"Literally?"

"Literally, sir! — wasn't worth near the amount of my bills, which of course were returned — and Haye has sued me for the rest!"

Rufus's face looked as if a spark from it might easily have burnt up the whole consignment of cotton, if it had happened to be in the neighbourhood.

"How was the cotton? — damaged?"

"Damaged? — of course! — kept in vaults here till it was spoiled; and he knew it!"

"For what amount has he sued you?" said Winthrop when Rufus had fed his fire silently for a couple of minutes.

"For more than I can pay — or will! —"

"How much does that stand for, in present circumstances?"

"How much? A matter of several hundreds!"

"How many?"

"So many, as I should leave myself penniless to pay, and then not pay. You know I lost money down there."

"I know," said his brother.

Winifred brought her eyes round to Winthrop; and Winthrop looked grave; and Rufus, as before, fiery; and there was a silence this time of more than two minutes.

"My dependence is on you, Governor," Rufus said at last.

"I wish I could help you, Will."

"How can I get out of this scrape?"

"You have no defence in law."

"But there must be a defence somewhere!" said Rufus drawing himself up, with the whole spirit of the common law apparently within him, energizing the movement.

"The only hope of relief would be in the equity courts."

"How there?" said Rufus.

Winthrop hesitated.

"A plea of fraud — alleging that Mr. Haye has overreached you, putting off upon you goods which he knew to be worthless."

"To be sure he did!" said Rufus. "Knew it as well as he does now. It was nothing but a fraud. An outrageous fraud!"

Winthrop made no answer, and the brothers paused again, each in his meditations. Winnie, passing her eyes from one to the other, thought Winthrop looked as if his were very grave.

"I depend upon you, Governor," the elder brother said more quietly.

"To do what?"

"Why! —" said Rufus firing again, — "to do whatever is necessary to relieve me! Who should do it?"

"I wish you could get somebody else, Will," said the other.

"I am sorry I cannot!" said Rufus. "If I had the money I would pay it and submit to be trodden upon — I would rather take it some ways than some others — but unhappily necessity is laid upon me. I cannot pay, and I am unwilling to go to jail, and I must ask you to help me, painful as it is."

Winthrop was silent, grave and calm as usual; but Winnie's heart ached to see how grave his eye was. Did she read it right? He was silent still; and so was Rufus, though watching for him to speak.

"Well!" said Rufus at last getting up with a start, "I will relieve you! I am sorry I troubled you needlessly — I shall know better than to do it again! —"

He was rushing off, but before he reached the door Winthrop had planted himself in front of it.

"Stand out of my way."

"I am not in it. Go back, Will."

"I won't, if you please. — I'll thank you to let me open the door."

"I will not. Go back to your seat, Rufus — I want to speak to you."

"I was under the impression you did not," said Rufus, standing still. "I waited for you to speak."

"It is safe to conclude that when a man makes you wait, he has something to say."

"You are more certain of it when he lets you know what it is," said Rufus.

"Provided he knows first himself."

"How long does it take you to find out what you have to say?" said Rufus, returning to his ordinary manner and his seat at once. The fire seemed to have thrown itself off in that last jet of flame.

"I sometimes find I have too much; and then there is apt to be a little delay of choice."

"A delay to choose? — or a choice of delay?" said Rufus.

"Sometimes one and sometimes the other."

One or the other seemed still in force with Winthrop's present matter of speech, for he came before the fire and stood mending it, and said nothing.

"Winthrop," said Rufus gravely, "have you any particular reason to decline doing this business for me?"

Winthrop hesitated slightly, and then came forth one of those same "no's," that Winnie knew by heart.

"Have you any particular reason to dislike it?"

"Yes. They were my friends once."

"But is your friendship for them stronger than for anybody else?"

"It does not stand in the way of my duty to you, Will."

"Your duty to me, —" said the other.

"Yes. I cannot in this instance call it pleasure."

It was the turn of Rufus to hesitate; for the face of his brother expressed an absence of pleasure that to him, in the circumstances, was remarkable.

"Then you do not refuse to undertake this job for me?"

"I will do what I can," said Winthrop, working at a large forestick on the fire. How Winnie wished he would let it alone, and place himself so that she could see him.

"And don't you think there is good prospect of our succeeding?"

"If Chancery don't give it you, I'll take it to the Court of Errors," said Winthrop, arranging the log to his satisfaction, and then putting the rest of the fire in order.

"I'm sorry to give you trouble, Governor," his brother said thoughtfully.

"I'm sorry you've got it to give, Will."

But Rufus went on looking into the fire, and seeming to get deeper into the depths of something less bright as he looked.

"After all I am much the most to be pitied," he began. "I thought to-day, Governor — I did not know what would become of me!"

"I can tell you that beforehand," said his brother. "You will become, exactly, what you choose to make yourself."

"That is what you always say," returned Rufus a little cynically.

"That is what I have found in my own practice," said Winthrop. He put up the tongs and took his old seat by Winnie. Rufus looked still into the fire.

"I am thrown out of this employment now," he said; — "I am disgusted with it — and if I were not, there is no way for me to follow it with advantage."

"I am not sorry for that, Will. I never liked it for you, nor you for it."

"I have nothing to do. — I am a loose pin in the Mosaic of society — the pattern is all made up without me."

"What pin has got your place?" said Winthrop.

"What do you mean?"

"Simply, that as in the nature of things there cannot be too many pins, a pin that is out of place must be such by a derelict of duty."

"What is my place?"

"If my word would set you in it, I would tell you."

"Tell me, and perhaps it will."

"I should bid you return to your engineer's work and serve God in it."

"Very poor chance for serving God or man, in that work," said
Rufus. "Or myself."

"And no chance at all so long as you are doing nothing."

"I cannot bear to compare myself with you," — Rufus went on moodily.

"Compare yourself with yourself, Will, — the actual with the possible, — and then go forward."

"What is possible in an engineer's life!" said Rufus.

"Everything is possible, in any place where Providence has put you, for the future at least. And the firm purpose of serving God in it, will dignify for the present any life.

"'A man that looks on glass
"'On it may stay his eye;
"'Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
"'And then the heaven espy!'"

Rufus met the grave slight smile on his brother's face, and his eye watered.

"You are better than I am," he said with one of very different meaning.

"If that be true to-day, Will, don't let it be true to- morrow."

They wrung each other's hands, and the elder brother went soberly away.

CHAPTER II.

An't be any way, it must be with valour; for Policy I hate: I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. TWELFTH NIGHT.

The family at No. 11 on the Parade, were seated at breakfast one morning towards the latter end of May; the old trio, only with Elizabeth and Rose in each other's places.

"What is the reason Winthrop Landholm don't come here any more?" said the latter lady.

"I don't know," said Mr. Haye, when the silence had threatened the failure of any answer at all.

"What's the reason, Lizzie?"

"I don't know! — how should I?"

"I am sure I can't tell," said Rose, "but I didn't know but you did. I wish you'd ask him to come again, Mr. Haye — do you know how he is getting up in the world?"

"I know how cotton is falling," said Mr. Haye, swallowing his tea and the newspaper apparently both at the same time.

"Cotton! —" said Rose. "Now Mr. Haye, just put down that paper and listen to me; — do you know how Winthrop Landholm is holding his head up?"

"No," said Mr. Haye, looking at the pretty little head which was holding itself up, over against him.

"Well, he is. You didn't hear what Mr. Satterthwaite was saying about him last night, did you?"

"I didn't hear Mr. Satterthwaite say anything."

"Well he says he's had quite a great cause come on, now, just a few days ago —"

"Who has? Mr. Satterthwaite?"

"Why no, Mr. Haye! — of course! — I mean Mr. Landholm has — a cause that he was to argue, you know — that's what I mean — before Chancellor Justice — and Mr. Satterthwaite says he did it splendidly! — he said everybody stood and looked; — and the Chancellor gave him everything he asked for — made all his exceptions, he said, whatever that means —"

"Allowed his exceptions," said Elizabeth.

"O you could listen when Mr. Satterthwaite was speaking of
Winthrop Landholm!"

"Mr. Satterthwaite don't often have so good a subject. I listened certainly, and was very much interested; — the only time I ever remember Mr. Satterthwaite's saying anything I cared to hear."

"Well, now, Mr. Haye, why isn't it just as well to say 'made an exception,' as 'allowed an exception'? I don't think 'allowed an exception' is good English."

"It is good law English, I suppose, Rose."

"Well, I don't care — at any rate, he said the Chancellor allowed every one of Mr. Landholm's exceptions, — suppose you understand it; — and wouldn't allow a single thing to Mr. Brick; and Mr. Brick was the lawyer on the other side; and Mr. Satterthwaite said it was a great triumph for Mr. Landholm."

"Dustus O. Brick?" said Mr. Haye.

"Yes," said Elizabeth.

"I don't know," said Rose; "he said Mr. Brick, — or the noted
Mr. Brick — I suppose that's the man."

"Dustus O. Brick!" said Mr. Haye — "he's one of the best men in the bar, and a very clever man too; a distinguished lawyer; there's no one more thought of."

"That's what Mr. Satterthwaite said, — he said so, — he said it was a great triumph for Mr. Landholm; — and now Mr. Haye, won't you ask him to come here again as he used to?"

"Who?"

"Winthrop Landholm."

"What for?"

"Why I want to see him — and so do you, Mr. Haye. Now Mr. Haye, won't you? — Though I don't know but Elizabeth would be the best one to ask him."

"Why?" dryly said the master of the house.

"I guess he'd be more likely to come."

"If I thought so, and it were my part to do it, I certainly should ask him," said Elizabeth. "There isn't any person so pleasant as he to take his place, among all that come here."

"You were glad of what Mr. Satterthwaite told us last night weren't you?" said Rose with a sinister smile.

"Very glad!"

"Did you ever hear Mr. Satterthwaite go on so about anybody? One would have thought Mr. Landholm was his own brother. I wonder if that was for your sake, Lizzie?"

"I presume it was for his own sake," said Elizabeth. "I should think anybody who had the privilege of being Mr. Landholm's friend, would know how to value it."

"You would value it, for instance, I suppose?"

"I have no doubt I should."

"It seems to me you are a little too sure of valuing it," said
Mr. Haye, — "for a young lady who has not that privilege."

Elizabeth's cheeks burned on the instant, but her eye was steady, and it looked full on her father while she asked him,

"Why, sir?"

"It is not worth while for you to like other people faster than they like you?"

"Why not?" — said Elizabeth, her cheek and eye both deepening in their fire, but her look as steady and full, — "Why not? — if it should happen that I am less likeable than they?"

"Pshaw!" said Mr. Haye.

"If I were to gauge the respect and esteem I give others, by the respect and esteem they might be able to give me, — I should cut off maybe the best pleasures of my life."

"Are respect and esteem the best pleasures of your life?" said
Rose satirically.

"I have never known any superior to them," said Elizabeth. But she brought, as she spoke, her eye of fire to bear upon her cousin, who gave way before it and was mum.

"And what may respect and esteem lead to?" said Mr. Haye.

"I don't know," said Elizabeth. "And I don't care — even to ask."

"Suppose they are not returned?"

"I have supposed that in the first place," she answered.

"At that rate you might be over head and ears in your regard for several people at once, none of whom cared a straw for you," said Mr. Haye.

"When I find several, men or women, that deserve the sort of respect and esteem I am talking of," said Elizabeth — "I am not talking of a common kind, that you can give common people — I shall be in a new world!"

"And have you this sort of 'respect and esteem' for Mr.
Winthrop Landholm?" said her father.

"That's another question," said Elizabeth, for the first time dropping her eye and speaking more quietly; — "I was talking of the general principle."

"And I am asking of the particular instance. Have you this respect and esteem for this particular person of your acquaintance?"

"I never gave it to many people in my life," said Elizabeth, colouring again somewhat. "He has as fair a share of it as most have."

"A little more?" said Mr. Haye smiling.

This time the answer she flashed at him was of proud and indignant bar to any further questioning — with her eyes only; her lips did not move.

"Does he know it, Elizabeth?"

"Know what, sir?"

"This favour you have expressed for him."

"I have expressed nothing but what I would express for any one to whom I thought it due."

"But I ask, does he know it?"

"I feel injured, father, by your asking me such questions! — I presume he does not know, since he has not had the honour of being told!"

The air with which this was given was regal.

"I wouldn't tell him, Lizzie," said her father quietly.

But at the insinuation conveyed in these words, Elizabeth's mood took another turn.

"I will tell whomsoever it may concern to know, at any time when I see occasion," she answered. "It is not a thing to be ashamed of; and I will neither do nor think anything I am unwilling to own."

"You had better reform public opinion in the first place," said Mr. Haye dryly.

"Why?" she said with startling quickness.

"It is apt to hold rather light of young ladies who tell their minds without being asked."

"How can you speak so, father! — I said, when I saw occasion — it seems I have very much misjudged in the present instance."

"And as that might happen again," said Mr. Haye, "it is just as safe, on the whole, that the person in question does not come here any more. I am glad that I have advertised his place for sale."

"What!" exclaimed Elizabeth and Rose both at once.

"Hush — don't fire at a man in that way. His father's place, I should say."

"What have you done to it?" said Elizabeth.

"Advertised it for sale. You don't hear me as well as you do
Mr. Satterthwaite, it seems."

"How come you to have it to sell?"

"Because it was mortgaged to me — years ago — and I can't get either principal or interest; so I am taking the best way I can to secure my rights."

"But Mr. Landholm was your friend?"

"Certainly — but I am a better friend to myself. Can't do business with your friends on different principles from those you go upon with other people, Lizzie."

Elizabeth looked at him, with eyes that would have annihilated a large portion of Mr. Haye's principles, if they had been sentient things. Rose began a running fire of entreaties that he would have nothing to do with Shahweetah, for that she could not bear the place. Elizabeth brought her eyes back to her plate, but probably she still saw Mr. Haye there, for the expression of them did not change.

"I'm not going to have anything to do with the place, Rose," said Mr. Haye — "further than to get it off my hands. I don't want to live there any more than you do. All I want to do is to pay myself."

"Father," said Elizabeth looking up quietly, "I'll buy it of you."

"You!" said Mr. Haye, — while Rose went off into a succession of soft laughs.

"Do you care who does it, so that you get the money?"

"No, — but what will you do with it?"

"Find a way, in time, of conveying it back to its right owners," said Rose. "Don't you see, Mr. Haye?"

Elizabeth favoured her with a look which effectually spiked that little gun, for the time, and turned her attention again to her father.

"Do you care who buys it of you, so that you get the money?"

"Why, no — but you don't want such a piece of property,
Lizzie."

"I want just such a piece of property."

"But my child, you can't manage it. It would be an absurd spending of your money. There's a farm of two or three hundred acres — more, — besides woodland. What could you do with it?"

"Trust me to take care of my own. May I have it, father?"

"Mr. Haye! —" Rose put in, pouting and whimpering, — "I wish you'd tell Lizzie she's not to look at me so! —"

"Will you sell it to me?" pursued Elizabeth.

"If you'll promise it shall not go back to the original owners in any such way as Rose hinted."

"Are those your terms of sale?" said Elizabeth. "Because, though I may not choose to submit myself to them, I can find you another purchaser."

"What do you want of a great piece of land like that?"

"Nothing; I want the land itself."

"You can't do anything with it."

"It don't signify, if it all grows up to nettles!" said Elizabeth. "Will you take the money of me and let me take the land of you?"

"Hum —" said Mr. Haye, — "I think you have enlightened me too much this morning. No — I'll find a more disinterested purchaser; and let it teach you to take care of your eyes as well as your tongue."

Rose bridled. Mr. Haye got up leisurely from the breakfast- table and was proceeding slowly to the door, when his path was crossed by his daughter. She stood still before him.

He might well tell her to take care of her eyes. They glowed in their sockets as she confronted him, while her cheek was as blanched as a fire at the heart could leave it. Mr. Haye was absolutely startled and stood as still as she.

"Father," she said, "take care how you drive me too far! You have had some place in my heart, but I warn you it is in danger. — If you care for it, I warn you! — "

She was gone, like a flash; and Mr. Haye after casting a sort of scared look behind him at his wife, went off too; probably thinking he had got enough for one morning.

No doubt Elizabeth felt so for her part. She had gone to her own room, where she put herself on a low seat by the window and sat with labouring breath and heaving bosom, and the fire in her heart and in her eyes glowing still, though she looked now as if it were more likely to consume herself than anybody else. If herself was not present to her thoughts, they were busy with nothing then present; but the fire burned.

While she sat there, Clam came in, now one of the smartest of gay-turbaned handmaidens, and began an elaborate dusting of the apartment. She began at the door, and by the time she had worked round to Elizabeth at the window, she had made by many times a more careful survey of her mistress than of any piece of furniture in the room. Elizabeth's head had drooped; and her eyes were looking, not vacantly, but with no object in view, out of the window.

"I guess you want my friend here just now, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam, her lips parting just enough to show the line of white between them.

"Whom do you mean by your friend?"

"O — Governor Landholm, to be sure — he used to fix everybody straight whenever he come home to Wuttle Quttle."

Elizabeth passed over the implication that she wanted 'fixing,' and asked, "How? —"

"I don' know. He used to put 'em all in order, in less'n no time," said Clam, going over and over the dressing-table with her duster, as that piece of furniture kept her near her mistress. "Mis' Landholm used to get her face straight the minute his two feet sounded outside the house, and she'd keep it up as long as he stayed; and Winifred stopped to be queer and behaved like a Christian; and nobody else in the house hadn't a chance to take airs but himself."

"What sort of airs did he take?" said Elizabeth.

"O I don' know," said Clam; — "his sort; — they wa'n't like nobody else's sort."

"But what do you mean by airs?"

"Can't tell," said Clam, — "nothin' like yours, Miss 'Lizabeth, — I take a notion to wish he was here, once in a while — it wouldn't do some folks no harm."

"Didn't his coming put you in order too?"

Clam gave a little toss of her head, infinitely knowing and satisfied at the same time, and once more and more broadly shewed the white ivory between her not unpretty parted teeth.

"I think you want putting in order now," said her mistress.

"Always did," said Clam with a slight arch of her eyebrows, — "always shall. Best get him to manage it, Miss 'Lizabeth — he can do it quicker'n anybody else — for me, — and I dare say he would for you."

"I don't believe you ever were put in order," said Elizabeth, — "to stay."

"I didn't use to do a wrong thing as long as he was in the house!" said Clam. "Didn't want to. — You wouldn't neither, if you was in the house with him."

"What do you mean by Mrs. Landholm's getting her face straight when he came? — was'nt it always so?"

"'Twa'n't always so," said Clam, — "for when he come, half the wrinkles went away, and the grey hairs all turned black again."

There came such a pang to Elizabeth's heart, such a gush to her eyes, that she hid her face on her knees and heard nothing of what her handmaid said for a long time after. If Clam talked, she had the talk all to herself; and when Elizabeth at last raised her head, her handmaiden was standing on the other side of the fireplace looking at her, and probably making up her mind that she wanted 'fixing' very much. There was no further discussion of the subject, however; for Miss Haye immediately called for her bonnet and veil, wrapped herself in a light scarf and went out. The door had hardly closed upon her when the bell rang again, and she came running up-stairs to her room.

"Clam, get me the newspaper."

"What news, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"All the newspapers — every one you can find; — yesterday's and to-day's, or the day before."

Much wondering, Clam hunted the house and brought the fruits of her search; and much more wondering, she saw her mistress spend one hour in closely poring over the columns of page after page; she who never took five minutes a day to read the papers. At last a little bit was carefully cut from one of those Clam had brought up, and Elizabeth again prepared herself to go forth.

"If it had been Mr. Winthrop, now, who was doing that," said Clam, "he'd have took off his hat most likely, and sat down to it. How you do look, Miss 'Lizabeth!"

"Mr. Winthrop and I are two different people," said Elizabeth, hurriedly putting on the one glove she had drawn off.

"Must grow a little more like before you'll be one and the same," observed Clam.

Elizabeth let down her veil over her face and went out again.

With a quick nervous step she went, though the day was warm, making no delay and suffering no interruption; till she reached the University where Professor Herder made his daily and nightly abode. The professor was attending one of his classes. Elizabeth asked to be shewn to his room.

She felt as if she was on a queer errand, as she followed her conductor up the wide stone stairs and along the broad corridors, where the marks were evidently of only man's use and habitation, and now and then a man's whistle or footstep echoed from the distance through the halls. But she went on swiftly, from one corridor to another, till the guide opened a door and she stepped out from the public haunts of life to a bit of quite seclusion.

It was a pleasant enough place that Mr. Herder called home. A large, airy, light, high-ceiled apartment, where plainly even to a stranger's eye, the naturalist had grouped and bestowed around him all the things he best liked to live among. Enormous glass cases, filled with the illustrations of science, and not less of the philosopher's investigating patience, lined all the room; except where dark-filled shelves of books ran up between them from the floor to the ceiling. A pleasant cloth-covered table, with books and philosophical instruments, stood towards one side of the room, a little table with a lamp at the other; and scattered about, all over, were big stout comfortable well-worn leather arm-chairs, that said study and learning sat easy there and often received visits of pleasure in that room. Elizabeth felt herself as little akin to pleasure as to learning or study, just then. She put herself in one of the great leather chairs, with a sense of being out of her element — a little piece of busy, bustling, practical life, within the very palings of science and wisdom.

She sat and waited. But that pulse of busy life beat never the cooler for all the cool aspect of the place and the grave shade of wisdom that lingered there; nay, it throbbed faster and more flutteringly. She got up to try the power of distraction the glass cases might hold; but her eye roved restlessly and carelessly over object and object of interest that withheld its interest from her; and weariedly she went back to her arm-chair and covered her face with her hands, that her mind might be at least uninterruptedly busy in its own way.

It must have been very busy, or the quick little step of the German professor must have been very soft withal; for he had come within a few feet of her before he knew who she was or she knew that he was there.

"Miss Elisabet'!" he exclaimed with a most good-humoured face of wonderment, — "I never was so honoured before! How did you get in my arm-chair?"

Elizabeth jumped up and shook hands with him, laughing in very relief to see him come.

"How did I get here? — I came up through the sun, Mr. Herder."

"I have asked you to come in better time," said the naturalist, — "that is, better for you — dis is very good time for me. I have nozing to do, and I will give you lesson in whatever you want."

"No sir, — I am come to give you a lesson, Mr. Herder."

"Me? Well, I will take it," said the naturalist, who began at the same time to run about his room and open closet doors and jingle glasses together, apparently on his own business, — "I like always to take lessons, — it is not often that I have such a teacher. I will learn the best I can — after I have got you some lemonade. I have two lemons here, — somevere, — ah! — "

"I don't want it, Mr. Herder."

"I cannot learn nozing till you have had it," said Mr. Herder bringing his lemons and glasses to the table; — "that sun is beating my head what was beating yours, and it cannot think of nozing till I have had something to cool him off. —"

Elizabeth sat still, and looked, and thought, with her heart beating.

"I did not know what was in my room when I see you in my chair wiz your head down — you must be study more hard than me, Miss Elisabet' — I never put my head down, for nozing."

"Nor your heart either, I wonder?" thought Elizabeth.

"I was studying, Mr. Herder, — pretty hard."

"Is that what you are going to give me to study?" said the naturalist.

"Not exactly — it was something about it. I want you to do something for me, Mr. Herder, — if I may ask you, — and if you will be so very kind as to take some trouble for me."

"I do not like trouble," said the naturalist shaking his head good-humouredly over a squeeze of his lemon; — "dere is no use in having trouble — I get out of it so soon as I can — but I will get in it wiz pleasure for you, Miss Elisabet' — what you tell me — if you will tell me if that is too much sucker."

"To take trouble, and to be in trouble, are not quite the same thing, Mr. Herder," said Elizabeth, having at the moment a vivid realization of the difference.

"I thought trouble was trouble," said the naturalist, finishing the preparing his own glass of lemonade. "If you will lesson me to find trouble is no trouble — Miss Elisabet' — I will thank you much for that."

Elizabeth heartily wished anybody could teach her that particular lesson. She sipped her lemonade, slowly and abstractedly, busy yet with the study which Mr. Herder had broken off; while he talked benignly and kindly, to ears that did not hear. But the last of Elizabeth's glass was swallowed hastily and the glass set down.

"Mr. Herder, I have come to ask you to do something for me."

"I am honoured, Miss Elisabet'," said the philosopher bowing.

"Will you not speak of it to anybody?"

"Not speak of it!" said the naturalist. "Then it is a secret?"

The quick energetic little bend of Elizabeth's head said before her lips spoke the word, "Yes!"

"It is more honour yet," he said. "What am I to do, Miss
Elisabet'?"

"Nothing, if it will be any real trouble to you, Mr. Herder.
Promise me that first."

"Promise? — what shall I promise?" said Mr. Herder.

"Promise me that if what I am going to ask would be any real trouble to you or to your business, you will tell me so."

"I do not love to be troubled," said the naturalist. "It shall not be no trouble to me."

"But promise me that you will tell me, Mr. Herder."

"Suppose you was to tell me first. I cannot tell nozing till I know."

"You will not speak of it to anybody, Mr. Herder?"

"I will not speak of nozing, Miss Elisabet'."

"Mr. Herder, there is a piece of land which I want to buy; and I have come to ask you, if you can, and if you will, to buy it for me."

"Miss Elisabet'," said the naturalist looking a little surprised at his fair questioner, — "I will tell you the truth — I have no money."

"I have, Mr. Herder. But I cannot go into the market and buy for myself."

"Cer-tain-ly, you cannot do that," said Mr. Herder. "But what is it you wish to buy?"

"It is a farm, —" said Elizabeth, feeling glad that her back was to the light; — "it is a piece of land in the country — up on the Shatemuc river. I think you have been there, Mr. Herder, — it is the place where the Landholms' father lives. Wut-a-qut-o, they call it — or Shahweetah; — Wut-a-qut-o is the mountain opposite."

"Landholm!" cried the naturalist. "Is it Winthrop's place?"

Elizabeth bowed her head and answered, "His father's."

"Winthrop's place! Is that what you want, Miss Elisabet'?"

Elizabeth bowed her head again, this time without answering.

"Suppose they might not want to sell it?" said the naturalist.

"They do not — but they can't help themselves. It must be sold — they can't pay money that is owing upon it."

"Money!" — said the naturalist; — "that is de trouble of all that is in the world. I wish there was no such thing as money! It makes all the mischief."

"Or the want of it," said Elizabeth.

"No!" said the naturalist, — "it is not that! I have want money all my life, Miss Elisabet', and I have never got into no trouble at all."

"Except when you fought the duels, Mr. Herder."

"Dat was not no trouble!" said the philosopher. "There was nozing about money there; and it was not no trouble, — neizer before, neizer after."

"I have had money all my life; and it never made me any trouble."

"Ah, you have not come to the time," said Mr. Herder. "Wait, you will find it. Now you are in trouble because you want to buy this ground, and you could not do it wizout money."

"I can't do it with, unless you will help me, Mr. Herder — you or somebody."

"I could get somebody," said Mr. Herder; — "I know somebody what I could get."

"I don't know anybody who would be as good as you, sir."

"I do," said the naturalist. "Where is Mr. Haye? — is he sick?"

"No sir, — I don't wish him to know anything about it, Mr.
Herder. — He is the person making the sale."

"Your father? — do you mean that Mr. Haye is the man what is selling the ground of Mr. Landholm?"

"Yes sir. And I wish to buy it."

"Then Miss Elisabet', what for do you not ask my friend Winthrop to buy it for you? He knows all business. He will do it."

"I cannot — I have not the liberty — He is not enough a friend of mine, for me to ask him such a favour."

"But Miss Elisabet', what will you do wiz all that large ground and water?"

"Buy it, — first, sir; and then I will see. I want it."

"I see you do," said the naturalist. "Well, then I shall get it for you — if I can — I hope your money will not get me in trouble."

"If you are at all afraid of that, Mr. Herder, I will find some other way —"

"I never was afraid of nozing in my life, Miss Elisabet' — only I do not know neizer how to get money, neizer how to spend it — in this way. What will Mr. Haye say to me when I go to buy all this great land of him? He will say —"

"You're not to buy it of him, Mr. Herder."

"No?" said the naturalist. "Of who, then? I thought you said he was going to sell it."

"Yes, he is — but he has somebody else to do it for him. Here, Mr. Herder, — here is the advertisement; — see — don't read the first part, — all that has nothing to do with it, — here is the place. 'At the Merchant's Exchange, in the city of Mannahatta, on the first day of September, 1821, at 12 o'clock noon of that day' — and then comes the description of the place. It is to be sold at public auction."

"Auc-sion? —" said the naturalist.

"It's to be sold in public, to whoever offers to give most for it."

"O, I know that," said Mr. Herder.

"And dear Mr. Herder, all I ask of you is to be there, at 12 o'clock the first of September, and buy it for me; and let nobody know. Can you do it?"

"I can do so much," said the naturalist. "I think I can. But suppose somebody will give more than you."

"Do not suppose that, sir. I will give more than anybody."

"Are you sure you will?" said the naturalist. "Maybe you do not know."

"I do know, sir, and am sure."

"Well," said the naturalist, shaking his head, — "I do not know much about buying grounds — I do know a leetle of some things — but I do not know what sort of a lesson is this, Miss Elisabet'. But I will see if I can do it. Who is going to live up there wiz you?"

"Don't you suppose I can live alone, Mr. Herder."

"No, not there," said the naturalist. "You want some one to take care of you — de engineer, Miss Elisabet'," said he smiling.

Elizabeth made no answer; she had risen up to go; and he guided her through the halls and down the staircases, till she was in the open street again. Then, after a farewell squeeze of his hand and nod of her little head, she pulled her veil down and went homeward, more slowly than she had come.

"Do I want somebody to take care of me?" she thought. "I believe I do! An engineer? — I do not think the engine is under very good guidance — it is too strong for me — How could he know that? Oh what earthly thing would I give, for a hand wise and strong enough to lead me, and good enough that I could submit myself to!"

The wish was so deep drawn that her breast heaved with it, and starting tears made her draw her veil thicker before them. She bit her lip, and once more quickened her steps towards home.

CHAPTER III.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, —
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass,
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, —
Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue
That from the distance sparkle through
Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
LOWELL.

Finding that the old farm must pass out of his hands, Mr. Landholm made up his mind not to spend another summer of labour and of life upon it; but at once with his son Asahel to move off to the West. He stayed but to reap the standing crops of winter grain, dispose of stock, and gather up all the loose ends of business; and left the hills of the Shatemuc, to seek better fortunes on a Western level.

They passed through Mannahatta on their way, that they might have a short sight of Winthrop and Winifred and say good-bye to them. It was not so joyful a visit that anybody wished it to be a long one.

"It's pretty hard," said the farmer, "to start life anew again at my time of day; — but these arms are not worn out yet; I guess they'll do something — more or less — on a new field."

"Asahel's got strong arms, father," said Winifred, who was fain to put in a word of comfort when she could.

"Ay, and a strong heart too," said his father. "He's a fine fellow. He'll do, I guess, in the long run, — at the West or somewhere; and at the West if anywhere, they say. I'm not concerned much about him."

"There's no need, I think," said Winthrop.

"Where's Will? — and what's he doing?"

"Will has just set off for Charleston — on some agency business."

"Charleston in South Carolina?"

"Yes."

"Then he is not engineering now?"

"No."

"How long does he expect to be gone?"

"Some months — more or less; — I don't know."

"Is it a good business for him?"

"He has chosen it, — not I."

"I would sooner trust your choice," said the father. "There's one thing Rufus wants; and that is, judgment."

"He'll do yet," said Winthrop. "And I shall not leave you long at the West, father. You will come when I send for you?"

"No, my boy," said the farmer looking gratified; — "I'll live by my own hands as long as I have hands to live by; and as I said, mine haven't given out yet! No — if the Lord prospers us, we'll have a visit from you and Winnie out there, I expect — by and by, when we get things in order; — you and Winnie, and anybody else you've a mind to bring along!"

It was spoken heartily, but with a tear in the eye; and nobody answered; unless it were answer, the long breath which Winnie drew at the very idea of such a visit.

Winthrop heard it; but through the long weeks of summer he could give her nothing more of country refreshment than the old walks on the Green and an occasional ride or walk on the opposite shore of one or the other of the rivers that bordered the city. Business held him fast, with a grip that he must not loosen; though he saw and knew that his little sister's face grew daily more thin and pale, and that her slight frame was slighter and slighter. His arm had less and less to do, even though her need called for more. He felt as if she was slipping away from him. August came.

"Winnie," said he one evening, when he came home and found her lying on her couch as usual, — "how would you like to go up and pay Karen a visit?"

"Karen?" — said Winnie, — "where?"

"At home. — At Wut-a-qut-o."

"Wut-a-qut-o!" said Winnie; — "is Karen there? I thought
Shahweetah was sold."

"It isn't sold yet — it won't be till September — and Karen is there yet, keeping house with her brother Anderese."

"Anderese! — is old Anderese there?" said Winnie. "O I should like to go, Governor!" she said raising herself on her elbow. "Can we?"

"Yes, if you like. Hildebrand Cowslip is down here with his father's sloop — how would you like to go up in her?"

"In the sloop? — O how good!" said Winnie bringing her thin hands together. "Can we? But dear Governor, you can't be away?"

"Yes — just as well as not. There isn't much doing in August — everybody takes a resting time; and so you and I will, Winnie," said he, bending down to kiss her.

Winnie looked up at him gratefully and lovingly with her wistful large eyes, the more expressive from the setting of illness and weakness in the face.

"I'd like you to have a rest, dear Governor."

He stood stroking back the ringlets from the thin blue-veined temple.

"Wouldn't it do you good to see Wut-a-qut-o again?"

"O I am sure it would! — And you too, wouldn't it?"

"I am good enough already," said Winthrop looking down at her.

"Too good," said Winnie looking up at him. "I guess you want pulling down!"

She had learned to read his face so well, that it was with a pang she saw the look with which he turned off to his work. A stranger could not have seen in it possibly anything but his common grave look; to Winnie there was the slight shadow of something which seemed to say the "pulling down" had not to be waited for. So slight that she could hardly tell it was there, yet so shadowy she was sure it had come from something. It was not in the look merely — it was in the air, — it was, she did not know what, but she felt it and it made her miserable. She could not see it after the first minute; his face and shoulders, as he sat reading his papers, had their usual calm stability; Winnie lay looking at him, outwardly calm too, but mentally tossing and turning.

She could not bear it. She crawled off her couch and came and sat down at his feet, throwing her arms around his knee and looking up at him.

"Dear Governor! — I wish you had whatever would do you good!"

"The skill of decyphering would do me a little good just now," said her brother. She could detect nothing peculiar in look or word, though Winnie's eyes did their best.

"But somehow I don't feel as if you had," she went on to say.

"Where is your faith?" — he said quietly, as he made a note in the margin of the paper he was reading. Winnie could make nothing of him.

"Governor, when shall we go?"

"Hildebrand moves his sloop off to-morrow afternoon."

"And shall we go to-morrow?"

"If you don't object."

Winnie left the floor, clapping her hands together, and went back to her couch to think over at large the various preparations which she must make. Which pleasant business held her all the evening.

They were not large preparations, however; longer to think of than to do; especially as Winthrop took upon himself the most of what was done. One or two nick-nackeries of preparation, in the shape of a new basket, a new book, and a new shawl, seemed delightful to Winnie; though she did not immediately see what she might want of the latter in August.

"We shall find it cooler when we get under the shadow of Wut- a-qut-o, Winnie," said her brother; and Winnie was only too glad of a pretext to take the pretty warm wrapper of grey and blue worsted along.

She did not want it when they set out, the next afternoon. It was very warm in the streets, very warm on the quays; and even when the sloop pushed her way slowly out and left the quays at her back, there was little air stirring and the August sun beat down steadily on river and shore.

"This don't look much like gettin' up to Cowslip's Mill this night," said the skipper. "Ain't it powerful!"

"The wind is coming off from the South," said Winthrop.

"Yes, I felt some little puffs on my cheek," said Winnie.

"Glad to hear it," said the sloop master, a tall, bony, ill- set-together specimen of a shore and water man; — "there ain't enough now to send an egg-shell along, and I'd like to shew you a good run, Mr. Landholm, since you're goin' along with me. She looks smart, don't she?"

"If she'll only work as well," said Winthrop. "Hild', you haven't got much cargo aboard."

"Only as much as'll keep her steady," answered the skipper. "'Seems to me nobody ain't a wantin' nothin' up our ways. I guess you're the heaviest article on board, Winthrop; — she never carried a lawyer before."

"Are lawyers heavy articles?" said Winnie laughing.

"'Cordin' to what I've heern, I should say they be; ain't they, squire? — considerable, — especially when they get on folks's hands. I hope you're a better sort, Winthrop, — or ain't there much choice in 'em?"

"You shall try me when you get into trouble," said Winthrop.

"Is this Mr. Cowslip's old sloop?" said Winnie.

"She don't look old, does she?" inquired Mr. Hildebrand.

"But I mean, is it the same he used to have? — No, she looks very handsome indeed."

"She's the old one though," said the skipper, "the same old Julia Ann. What's the use o' askin' ladies' ages? — she's just as good as when she was young; and better dressed. I've had the cabin fixed up for you, Mr. Landholm, — I guess it'll be pretty comfortable in there."

"It's a great deal pleasanter here," said Winnie. "There comes the wind! — that was a puff! —"

"Well we're ready for it," said the skipper.

And stronger puffs came after, and soon a steady fair southerly breeze set up the river and sent the Julia Ann on before it. Straight up the river their course lay, without veering a point for miles. The sun was lowering towards the horizon and the heat was lessening momently, even without the south breeze which bade it be forgotten; and the blue waters of the river, so sluggish a little while ago, were briskly curling and rippling, and heading like themselves for Wut-a- qut-o.

Winnie sat still and silent in the shadow of the huge sail. Winthrop was standing close beside her, talking with the skipper; but he knew that his little sister had hold of his hand and had laid her unbonneted head against his arm; and when the skipper left him he stooped down to her.

"What do you think of it, Winnie?"

"O Winthrop! — how delicious! — Aren't you glad it is such beautiful world?"

"What are you thinking of in particular?"

"O everything. It isn't down here like Wut-a-qut-o, but everything is so delicious — the water and the shore and the sunshine and the wind! —"

"Poor Winnie," said her brother stroking her hair, — "you haven't seen it in a good while."

She looked up at him, a glance which touchingly told him that where he was she wanted nothing; and then turned her eyes again towards the river.

"I was thinking, Governor, that maybe I shall never go up here again."

"Well Winnie? —"

"I am very glad I can go this time. I am so much obliged to you for bringing me."

"Obliged to me, Winnie!"

He had placed himself behind his little sister, with one hand holding her lightly by each shoulder; and calm as his tone was, perhaps there came a sudden thought of words that he knew very well —

"There fairer flowers than Eden's bloom,
"Nor sin nor sorrow know;
"Blest seats! through rude and stormy seas
"I onward press to you." —

For he was silent, though his face wore no more than its ordinary gravity.

"Governor," said Winnie half turning her head round to him, "I wish these people were not all round here within hearing, so that we could sing. — I feel just like it."

"By and by, Winnie, I dare say we can."

"How soon do you think we shall get to Wut-a-qut-o."

"Before morning, if the wind holds."

The wind held fair and rather strengthened than lost, as the evening went on. Under fine headway the Julia Ann swept up the river, past promontory and bay, nearing and nearing her goal. Do her best, however, the Julia Ann could not bring them that night to any better sleeping advantages than her own little cabin afforded; and for those Winthrop and Winnie were in no hurry to leave the deck. After the skipper's hospitality had been doubtfully enjoyed at supper, and after they had refreshed themselves with seeing the sun set and watching the many-coloured clouds he left behind him, the moon rose in the other quarter and threw her 'silver light' across the deck, just as duskiness was beginning to steal on. The duskiness went on and shrouded the hills and the distant reaches of the river in soft gloom; but on board the Julia Ann, on her white sails and deck floor where the brother and sister were sitting, and on a broad pathway of water between them and the moon, her silver light threw itself with brightening and broadening power. By and by Mr. Hildebrand's two or three helpers disposed of themselves below deck, and nobody was left but Mr. Hildebrand himself at the helm.

"Now we can sing!" exclaimed Winnie, when one or two turns of her head had made her sure of this; and to Winthrop's surprise she struck up the very words part of which had been in his own remembrance.

"'Jerusalem! my happy home —
"'Name ever dear to me —
"'When shall my labours have an end,
"' In joy and peace in thee!"'

Winnie's voice was as sweet and clear as a bird's, if weakness left it not much stronger; that of her brother was deep, mellow, and exceeding fine; it was no wonder that the skipper turned his head and forgot his tiller to catch the fulness of every note. When the last had sounded, there was nothing to be heard but the rippling of water under the sloop's prow; the sails were steady and full, the moonlight not more noiseless; the wind swept on with them softly, just giving a silent breath to their cheeks; the skipper held his tiller with a moveless hand.

"What next, Winnie?" her brother whispered. The soft gurgle of the water had been heard for several minutes.

"How fond Karen is of that hymn," said Winifred. "Governor, do you think I shall live long in this world?"

She was leaning, half lying, upon Winthrop, with his arm round her. Her voice had put the question in precisely the same tone that it had given the remark.

"Why do you ask me that, Winnie?"

"Because — sometimes I think I sha'n't, — and I want to know what you think."

"You will live, I am sure, dear Winnie, till God has done for you all he means to do; — till he has fitted his child for heaven; — and then he will take her."

"I know that," said Winifred with a grateful half look up at him; — "but I mean — you know I am not well quite, and weak, and I don't think I get any better; — don't you think that it won't take a very great while, very likely?"

"How would you feel, Winnie, if you thought that was so?"

"I do think it sometimes — pretty often," — said Winnie, "and it don't make me feel sorry, Governor."

"You think heaven is better than earth."

"Yes, —and then — that's one good thing of my sickness — it don't seem as if I ever could do much if I lived, so it matters the less."

"Nobody knows how much he does, who does his duty," said
Winthrop.

"Why I can't do anything at all!" said Winnie.

"Every talent that isn't buried brings something into the treasury," said Winthrop.

"Yes — that's pleasant," said Winnie; — "but I don't know what mine is."

"The good that people do unconsciously is often more than that they intend."

"Unconsciously! — But then they don't know whether they do it or not?"

"It don't hurt them, not to know," said her brother smiling.

"But what sort of good-doing is that, Winthrop?"

"It only happens in the case of those persons whose eye is very single; — with their eye full of the light they are reflecting, they cannot see the reflection. But it is said of those that 'their works do follow them.'"

Winnie was tearfully silent, thinking of the ingathering of joy there would be for one that she knew; and if Winthrop's arm was drawn a little closer round her little figure, perhaps it was with a like thought for her. How bright the moonlight shone!

"That's pleasant to think, Governor, — both parts of it," said Winifred softly, beating his hand slightly with one of her own. He was silent.

"Now won't you sing something else? — for I'm tired," she said, nestling her head more heavily on his breast.

And he sang again. —

"'Vain are all terrestrial pleasures,
"' Mixed with dross the purest gold;
"'Seek we then for heavenly treasures,
"'Treasures never growing old.
"'Let our best affections centre
"'On the things around the throne;
"'There no thief can ever enter, —
"'Moth and rust are there unknown.

"'Earthly joys no longer please us,
"'Here would we renounce them all,
"'Seek our only rest in Jesus,
"'Him our Lord and Master call.
"'Faith, our languid spirits cheering,
"'Points to brighter worlds above;
"'Bids us look for his appearing,
"'Bids us triumph in his love.

"'Let our lights be always burning,
"'And our loins be girded round,
"'Waiting for our Lord's returning,
"'Longing for the joyful sound.
"'Thus the christian life adorning,
"'Never need we be afraid,
"'Should he come at night or morning,
"'Early dawn, or evening shade."'

The air was slow, tender, and plaintive, and borne by the deep voice over all the breadth of the moon-lit river. Winnie's breath was fuller drawn; the skipper held his, and forgot his helm; and in every pause of the song, the sweet interlude was played by the water under the sloop's prow.

"Governor —" said Winnie, when the bubbling water had been listened to alone for a while.

"What?"

"Do you think those words are quite true?"

"Those words of the hymn?"

"Yes — some of them. I think you like that hymn better than I do. 'Earthly joys no longer please us'; — do you think that is right? — They please me."

"It is only by comparison that they can be true, Winnie, certainly; — except in the case of those persons whose power of enjoyment is by some reason or other taken away."

"But you like that hymn very much?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"I like part of it very much, and I like the tune; but I like to be able to say all the words of a hymn. How sweet that was! — Governor, don't you think it would be pleasant to stay here all night?"

"Singing?"

"No — but talking, and sleeping."

"I am afraid it would sadly hinder to-morrow's talk, and oblige you to sleep instead."

"Then I'll go right away. Do you think we shall be at Wut-a- qut-o in the morning?"

"If the wind holds."

By Winthrop's care and management the little cabin was made not absolutely uncomfortable, and Winnie's bed was laid on the floor between door and window so that she could sleep without being smothered. He himself mounted guard outside, and sleeping or waking kept the deck for the whole night.

"Governor," said Winnie cautiously putting her head out at the door, just as the summer dawn was growing into day, — "Governor! — are we there?"

"We are here."

"Where?"

"Lying at Cowslip's Mill."

"Oh! —"

The rest of Winnie's joyous thought was worked into her shoes and dress and bonnet-strings, and put away in her bag with her night-cap. How fast it was all done! and she pushed open her cabin door and stood on the deck with Winthrop.

Yes — there was the green wooded shore — how fresh to her eyes! — There was Mr. Cowslip's brown old house and mill; there was the old stage road; and turning, there two miles off lay Shahweetah, and there rose up Wut-a-qut-o's green head. And with a sob, Winnie hid her face in Winthrop's arms. But then in another minute she raised it again, and clearing away the mute witnesses of joy and sorrow, though it was no use for they gathered again, she looked steadily. The river lay at her feet and stretched away off up to Shahweetah, its soft gray surface unbroken by a ripple or an eddy, smooth and bright and still. Diver's Rock stood out in its old rough outline, till it cut off the west end of Shahweetah and seemed to shut up the channel of the river. A little tiny thread of a north wind came down to them from Home, over the river, with sweet promise. And as they looked, the morning light was catching Wut-a-qut-o's grave head, and then hill-top after hill-top, and ridge after ridge of the high mountain land, till all of them were alight with the day's warm hues, while all beneath slept yet in the greys of the dawn. The brother and sister stood side by side, perfectly silent; only Winnie's tears ran, sometimes with such a gush that it brought her head down, and sobs that could be heard came to Winthrop's ears. They stood till they were hailed by the old miller.

"Ha! Winthrop — glad to see ye! how do you do? Haven't seen your face this great while. Winnie? is it? — Glad to see ye! She's growed a bit. Come right along into the house — we'll have something for breakfast by and by, I expect. I didn't know you was here till five minutes ago — I was late out myself — ain't as spry as I used to be; — Come!" —

"Oh Governor, let's go straight home!" said Winnie.

"There's time enough yet, Mr. Cowslip, for your purposes. What o'clock do you suppose it is?"

"Well, I s'pose it's somewhere goin' on to six, ain't it?"

"It has left five. We can breakfast with Karen yet, Winnie."

"Oh do, Governor!"

"If you'll give us a boat instead of a breakfast, Mr. Cowslip, we will thank you just as much, and maybe take your hospitality another time."

"But won't you stop and take just a mouthful first? you'd better."

"No thank you. We shall have to take it up there; and two breakfasts a day don't agree with me."

With some sorrow on Mr. Cowslip's part, this was submitted to. The boat was got out; Hildebrand dropped into it and took the oars, "guessing he wouldn't mind going himself;" and Winthrop and Winnie sat close together in the stern. Not to steer; for Hildebrand was much too accustomed an oarsman to need any such help in coasting the river for miles up and down.

CHAPTER IV.

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs —
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another's mind.
SHELLEY.

Winnie drew a breath of gratification, as the oars began to dimple the still water and the little boat rounded out from behind the wharf and headed up the river; the very same way by which Winthrop had taken Mr. Haye's two young ladies once long before. The tide was just at the turn, and Hildebrand made a straight run for the rocks.

"How pleasant it is to hear the oars again!" Winnie said.
Winthrop said nothing.

Swiftly they pulled up, dappling the smooth grey water with falling drops from the oar-blades, and leaving behind them two lines of spreading wavelets that tracked the boat's way. Cowslip's Mill fell into the distance, and all that shore, as they pulled out into the middle of the river; then they drew near the old granite ridge of Diver's Rock on the other side. The sun had got so low down as that now, and the light of years ago was on the same grey bluffs and patches of wood. It was just like years ago; the trees stood where they did, ay, and the sunlight; the same shadows fell; and the river washed the broken foot of the point with, it might be, the very same little waves and eddies. And there, a mile further on, Wut-a- qut-o's high green side rose up from the water. Winnie had taken off her bonnet and sat with her head resting upon Winthrop's side or arm, her common position whenever she could get it. And she sat and looked, first at one thing and then at another, with quiet tears running and some times streaming down her face. Then the boat struck off from Diver's Rock and pushed straight over for the rocks of Shahweetah. As it neared them, the dear old trees stood forth more plainly to view, each one for itself; and the wonted footholds, on turf and stone, could be told and could be seen, apart one from the other. Poor Winnie could not look at them then, but she put her head down and sobbed her greeting to them all.

"Winnie," — said Winthrop softly, and she felt his arm closer drawn around her, — "you must not do that."

It mattered little what Winthrop asked Winnie to do; she never failed to obey him. She stopped crying now, and in another moment was smiling to him her delight, through the drops that held their place yet in her eyes and on her cheeks.

The little boat was shoved in to the usual place among the rocks and the passengers got out.

"What's the fare, Hild'? — sloop and all?"

The skipper stood on the rocks and looked into the water.

"Will you let me come to you to clear me out, the first time I get into trouble?"

"Yes."

"Then we're square!" he said, preparing to jump back into his boat.

"Then hasn't come," said Winthrop; "let's keep things square as we go along."

"All right," said the skipper. "Couldn't take nothin' from you the first time, Governor."

And Hildebrand after giving Winthrop's hand a shake, into which there went a sort of grateful respect which he would never have yielded to one who had laid any manner of claim to it, dropped into his seat again and pushed off. Winthrop and Winnie turned their steps slowly towards the house.

Very slowly; for each step now was what they had come for. How untravelled the road was!

"How it looks as if we didn't live here, Governor," Winnie said with half a sigh.

"Old Karen and Anderese don't come this way very often," replied her brother.

"Governor, I am very sorry it has got to be sold!"

They walked a few more steps up the rocky path in silence.

"O Governor, look at that great limb of that cedar tree — all dragging! What a pity."

"Broken by the wind," said Winthrop.

"How beautifully the ivy hangs from that cedar — just as it did. Dear Governor, won't you get a saw while you're here, and take off the branch and make it look nice again? — as nice as it can; — and there's the top of that little white pine!" —

"Winter-killed," said Winthrop.

"Won't you put it in order, as you used to do, this one time more?"

"If I can get a saw, I will, Winnie, — or a hatchet."

"I'm sorry we can't do it but this one time more," said Winnie, with a second and a better defined sigh, as they reached the house level. "O how funny it looks, Governor! how the grass has run up! and how brown it is! But the cedars don't change, do they?"

"It is August, Winnie," was all Winthrop's remark.

The front of the house was shut up; they went round. Old Anderese was cutting wood at the back of the house; but without stopping to enlighten him, Winthrop passed on and led Winnie into the kitchen. There the kitchen fire was burning as of yore, and on the hearth before it stood Karen, stooping down to oversee her cooking breakfast. At Winthrop's voice she started and turned. She looked at them; and then came a long and prolonged "Oh! —" of most mingled and varied tone and expression; hands and eyes keeping it company.

"Karen, we have come to see you."

In perfect silence she shook the hand of each, and then sat down and threw her apron over her face. Winnie stood still and sobbed; Winthrop walked off.

"Oh, dear," said the old woman presently rising and coming up to Winnie, — "what's made ye come to see me again? What did you come for, dear?"

The tone was wondering and caressing, and rejoicing, all in a breath. Winnie dried her eyes and answered as well as she could.

"Why we wanted to see the old place again, Karen, and to see you; and Governor thought it would do me good to be in the country a little while; and he couldn't come before, and so we have come up now to stay a few days. And we've brought things to eat, so you needn't be troubled about that."

"Ye needn't," said old Karen. "Anderese and me'd find something for you to eat, in all the wide country — do ye think we wouldn't? And how are you, dear," said she scanning Winnie's pale face; — "are ye ever yet any stronger?"

Winnie shook her head smiling and answered, "Not much."

"I see ye ain't. Well — ye're the Lord's child. He'll do what he will with his own. Where did ye come from, dear?"

"Up from Mr. Cowslip's mill," said Winnie. "We came in his sloop last night."

"The sloop!" said Karen. "Why then ye haven't had anything to eat! — and what was I thinking of! Sit down, dear — take your own chair, till I get the other room fit for ye; and you shall have breakfast jus' so soon I can make it. Where's the Governor gone to?"

He came in; and Karen's face grew bright at the sight of him. All the while she was getting the breakfast he stood talking with her; and all the while, her old face kept the broad gleam of delight that had come into it with his entering the kitchen. With what zeal that breakfast was cooked for him; with what pleasure it was served. And while they were eating it, Karen sat in the chimney corner and looked at them, and talked.

"And isn't the place sold then, Governor?"

"Not yet, Karen — in a few weeks it will be."

"And who's goin' to buy it?"

"I don't know."

"And ye ain't goin' fur to buy it yourself?"

"No Karen — I am not rich enough to keep a country house."

"You had ought to have it," said Karen. "It don't belong to nobody else but you. And you don't know who's a goin' to have it, Governor?"

"I don't know."

"'Tain't likely they'll let the old woman stay in her corner, whoever they'll be," said Karen. "Well — 'tain't fur now to the end, — and then I'll get a better place where they won't turn me out. I wish I was there, Governor."

"'There' will be better at the end of your way, Karen, than at any other time."

"Ay — O I know it, dear; but I get so impatient, days, — I want to be gone. It's better waiting."

"Perhaps you'll have something yet to do for us, Karen," said
Winnie.

"Ye're too fur off," said the old woman. "Karen's done all she can for ye when she's took care of ye this time. But I'll find what I have to do — and I'll do it — and then I'll go!" — she said, with a curious modulation of the tones of her voice that came near some of the Methodist airs in which she delighted. "Governor'll take care o' you, Winnie; and the Lord'll take care o' him!"

Both brother and sister smiled a little at Karen's arrangement of things; but neither contradicted her.

"And how do you manage here, Karen, all alone? — do you keep comfortable?"

"I'm comfortable, Mr. Winthrop," she said with half a smile; —
"I have lived comfortable all my life. I seem to see Mis'
Landholm round now, times, jus' like she used to be; and I
know we'll be soon all together again. I think o' that when
I'm dreary."

She was a singular old figure, as she sat in the corner there with her head a little on one side, leaning her cheek on her finger, and with the quick change of energetic life and subdued patience in her manner.

"Don't get any dinner for us, Karen," said Winthrop as they rose from table. "We have enough for dinner in our basket."

"Ye must take it back again to Mannahatta," said Karen. "Ye'r dinner'll be ready — roast chickens and new potatoes and huckleberry pie — the chickens are just fat, and ye never see nicer potatoes this time o' year; and Anderese don't pick very fast, but he'll have huckleberries enough home for you to eat all the ways ye like. And milk I know ye like'm with, Governor."

"Give me the basket then, Karen, and I'll furnish the huckleberries."

"He'll do it — Anderese'll get 'em, Mr. Winthrop, — not you."

"Give me the basket! — I would rather do it, Karen. Anderese has got to dig the potatoes."

"O yes, and we'll go out and spend the morning in the woods, won't we, Governor?" said his sister.

The basket and Winnie were ready together and the brother and sister struck off into the woods to the north of the house. They had to cross but a little piece of level ground and sunshine and they were under the shade of the evergreens which skirted all the home valley. The ground as soon became uneven and rocky, broken into little heights and hollows, and strewn all over with a bedding of stones, large and small; except where narrow foot-tracks or cowpaths wound along the mimic ravines or gently climbed the hilly ridges. Among these stones and sharing the soil with them, uprose the cedars, pines, hemlocks, and a pretty intermingling of deciduous trees; not of very tall or vigorous growth, for the land favoured them not, but elegant and picturesque in varied and sweet degree. That it pleased those eyes to which it had been long familiar, and long strange, was in no measure.

Leaving the beaten paths, the brother and sister turned to the right of the first little ravine they had entered, just where a large boulder crowned with a tuft of ferns marked the spot, and toiled up a very rough and steep rising. Winthrop's help was needed here to enable Winnie to keep footing at all, much more to make her way to the top. There were steep descents of ground, spread with dead pine leaves, a pretty red-brown carpeting most dainty to the eyes but very unsure to the foot; — there were sharp turns in the rocky way, with huge granitic obstacles before and around them; — Winnie could not keep on her feet without Winthrop's strong arm; although in many a rough pitch and steep rise of the way, young hickories and oaks lent their aid to her hand that was free. Mosses and lichens, brown and black with the summer's heat, clothed the rocks and dressed out their barrenness; green tufts of fern nodded in many a nook, and kept their greenness still; and huckleberry bushes were on every hand, in every spare place, and standing full of the unreaped black and blue harvest. And in the very path, under their feet, sprang many an unassuming little green plant, that in the Spring had lifted its head in glorious beauty with some delicate crown of a flower. A stranger would have made nothing of them; but Winnie and Winthrop knew them all, crowned or uncrowned.

"It's pretty hard getting up here, Governor — I guess I haven't grown strong since I was here last; and these old yellow pines are so rotten I am afraid to take hold of anything — but your hand. It's good you are sure-footed. O look at the Solomon's Seal — don't you wish it was in flower!"

"If it was, we shouldn't have any huckleberries," said her brother.

"There's a fine parcel of them, isn't there, Winthrop? O let's stop and pick these — there are nice ones — and let me rest."

Winnie sat down to breathe, with her arm round the trunk of a pine tree, drinking in everything with her eyes, while that cluster of bushes was stripped of its most promising berries; and then a few steps more brought Winthrop and Winnie to the top of the height.

Greater barrenness of soil, or greater exposure to storms, or both causes together, had left this hill-top comparatively bare; and a few cedars that had lived and died there had been cut away by the axe, for firewood; making a still further clearance. But the shallow soil everywhere supported a covering of short grass or more luxuriant mosses; and enough cedars yet made good their hold of life and standing, to overshadow pretty well the whole ground; leaving the eye unchecked in its upward or downward rovings. The height was about two hundred feet above the level of the river, and seemed to stand in mid-channel, Shahweetah thrusting itself out between the north and southerly courses of the stream, and obliging it to bend for a little space at a sharp angle to the West. The north and south reaches, and the bend were all commanded by the height, together with the whole western shore and southern and south-eastern hills. To the northwest was Wut-a-qut-o, seen almost from the water's edge to the top; but the out-jutting woods of Shahweetah impinged upon the mountain's base, and cut the line of the river there to the eye. But north there was no obstruction. The low foreground of woods over which the hill-top looked, served but as a base to the picture, a setting on the hither side. Beyond it the Shatemuc rolled down from the north in uninterrupted view, the guardian hills, Wut-a-qut-o and its companions, standing on either side; and beyond them, far beyond, was the low western shore of the river sweeping round to the right, where the river made another angle, shewing its soft tints; and some faint and clear blue mountains still further off, the extreme distance of all. But what varied colouring, — what fresh lights and shades, — what sweet contrast of fair blue sky and fair blue river, — the one, earth's motion; the other, heaven's rest; what deep and bright greens in the foreground, and what shadowy, faint, cloud-like, tints of those far off mountains. The soft north wind that had greeted the travellers in the early morning, was blowing yet, soft and warm; it flickered the leaves of the oaks and chestnuts with a lazy summer stir; white sails spotted the broad bosom of the Shatemuc and came down with summer gentleness from the upper reaches of the river. And here and there a cloud floated over; and now and then a locust sang his monotone; and another soft breath of the North wind said that it was August; and the grasshoppers down in the dell said yes, it was.

Winnie sat or lay down under the trees, and there Winthrop left her for a while; when he came back it was with flushed face and crisped hair and a basket full of berries. He threw himself down on the ground beside Winnie, threw his hat off on the other side, and gave her the basket. Winnie set it down again, after a word of comment, and her head took its wonted place of rest with a little smothered sigh.

"How do you feel, Winnie?" said her brother, passing his hand gently over her cheek.

"O I feel very well," said Winnie. "But Governor, I wish you could keep all this! —"

"I couldn't live here and in Mannahatta too, Winnie."

"But Governor, you don't mean always to live in Mannahatta, do you? — and nowhere else?"

"My work is there, Winnie."

"Yes, but you can't play there, Governor."

"I don't want to play," he said gently and lightly.

"But why, Governor?" — said Winnie, whom the remark made uneasy, she couldn't tell why; — "why don't you want to play? why shouldn't you?"

"I feel more appetite for work."

"But you didn't use to be so," said Winnie, raising her head to look at him. "You used to like play as well as anybody, Winthrop?"

"Perhaps I do yet, Winnie, if I had a chance."

"But then what do you mean by your having more appetite for work? and not wanting to play?"

"I suppose it means no more but that the chance is wanting."

"But why is it wanting, Governor?"

"Why are your Solomon's Seals not in flower?"

Winnie turned her head to look at them, and then brought it round again with the uneasiness in full force.

"But Governor! — you don't mean to say that your life is like that?"

"Like what, Winnie?" said he with a pleasant look at her.

"Why, anything so dismal — like the Solomon's Seals with the flower gone?"

"Are they dismal?"

"Why, no, — but you would be, if you were like anything of that kind."

"Do I look like anything of that kind?"

"No," said Winnie, "indeed you don't, — you never look the least bit dismal in the world."

"I am not the least bit in the world, Winnie."

"I wish you had everything in the world that would give you pleasure!" she said, looking at him wistfully, with a vague unselfish consciousness that it might not all be for hers.

"That would be too much for any man's share, Winnie. You would make a Prince in a fairy tale of me."

"Well, what if I would?" said Winnie, half smiling, half sighing, and paying him all sort of leal homage in her heart's core.

"That is not commonly the lot of those who are to reign hereafter in a better kingdom."

Winnie rose up a little so that she could put both hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on forehead and cheeks; most loving kisses.

"But dear Governor, it isn't wrong for me to wish you to have both things, is it?"

"I hope not, dear Winnie. I don't think your wishes will do any mischief. But I am content to be here to-day."

"Are you? do you enjoy it?" she asked eagerly.

"Very much."

"I am so glad! I was afraid somehow you didn't — as much as I did. But I am sorry you can't keep it, Governor. Isn't it all beautiful? I didn't know it was so delightful as it is."

And Winnie sighed her wish over again.

"You can't have your possessions in both worlds, Winnie."

"No, — and I don't want to."

"You only wish that I could," he said smiling.

"Well, Winthrop, — I can't help that."

"I am in better hands than yours, Winnie. Look at that shadow creeping down the mountain."

"It's from that little white cloud up there," said Winnie. "O how beautiful! —"

"You see how something that is bright enough in itself may cast a shadow," he said.

"Was that what you thought of when you told me to look at it?"

"No, — not at that minute."

"But then we can see the cloud and we know that it is bright."

"And in the other case we don't see the cloud and we know that it is bright. 'We know that all things shall work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose!'"

"But Governor, what are you talking of?"

"That little cloud which is rolling away from Wut-a-qut-o."

"But what cloud is over you, or rolling away from you?"

"I thought the whole land was in shadow to you, Winnie, because I cannot buy it."

"Why no it isn't," said Winnie. "It never looked so bright to me. It never seemed near so beautiful when it was ours."

"The other land never seemed so bright and never will seem so beautiful, as when it is ours. 'Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty; they shall behold the land that is very far off.'"

Winnie smiled a most rested, pleased, gratified smile at him; and turned to another subject.

"I wonder what's become of your old little boat, Governor — the Merry-go-round?"

"I suppose it is lying in the barn-loft yet," he replied rather gravely.

"I wonder if it is all gone to pieces."

"I should think not. Why?"

"I was looking at the river and thinking how pleasant it would be to go out on it, if we could."

"If we can get home, Winnie, I'll see how the matter stands."

"I don't want to go home," said Winnie.

"But I want to have you. And Karen will want the huckleberries."

"Well — I'll go," said Winnie. "But we'll come again, Governor — won't we?"

"As often as you please. Now shall I carry you?"

"O no!"

But Winthrop presently judged of that also for himself, and taking his little sister on one arm, made his way steadily and swiftly down to the level ground.

"You're a good climber," was Winnie's remark when he set her on her feet again. "And I don't know but I was once. I've almost forgotten. But it's as good to have you carry me, and to see you do it."

The Merry-go-round was found in good condition, only with her seams a little, or not a little, opened. That trouble however was got over by the help of a little caulking and submersion and time; and she floated again as lightly as ever. Some days still passed, owing to weather or other causes, before the first evening came when they went out to try her.

That evening, — it was the seventeenth of August, and very fair, — they went down to the rocks, just when the afternoon had grown cool in the edge of the evening. Winnie put herself in the stern of the little white boat, and Winthrop took his old place and the oars. Winnie's eyes were sparkling.

"It will be harder work to pull than it used to be," she remarked joyously, — "you're so out of the habit of it."

Winthrop only replied by pushing the little skiff off.

"However," continued Winnie, "I guess it isn't much to pull me anywhere."

"Which way shall we go?" said Winthrop, one or two slow strokes of his oar sending the little boat forward in a way that made Winnie smile.

"I don't know — I want to go everywhere — Let's go up, Winthrop, and see how it looks — Let's go over under Wut-a- qut-o. O how beautiful it is, Winthrop! —"

Winthrop said nothing, but a repetition of those leisurely strokes brought the boat swiftly past the cedars and rocks of Shahweetah's shore and then out to the middle of the river, gradually drawing nearer to the other side. But when the mid- river was gained, high enough up to be clear of the obstructing point of Shahweetah, Winnie's ecstatic cry of delight brought Winthrop's head round; and with that he lay upon his oars and looked too. He might. The mountains and the northern sky and clouds were all floating as it were in a warm flush of light — it was upon the clouds, and through the air, and upon the mountains' sides, — so fair, so clear, but beyond that, so rich in its glowing suffusion of beauty, that eyes and tongue were stayed, — the one from leaving the subject, the other from touching it. Winthrop's oars lay still, the drops falling more and more slowly from the wet blades. The first word was a half awed whisper from Winnie —

"O Winthrop, — did you ever see it look so?"

The oars dipped again, and again lay still.

"Winthrop, this isn't much like Mannahatta!" Winnie said next, under breath.

The oars dipped again, and this time to purpose. The boat began to move slowly onward.

"But Winthrop you don't say anything?" Winnie said uneasily.

"I don't know how."

"I wish I could keep a picture of that," she went on with regretful accent as her eyes turned again to the wonderful scene before them in the north, floating as it seemed in that living soft glow.

"I shall keep a picture of it," said Winthrop.

Winnie sighed her regrets again, and then resigned herself to looking with her present eyes, while the little boat moved steadily on and the view was constantly changing; till they were close under the shadow of Wut-a-qut-o, and from beneath its high green and grey precipice rising just above them, only the long sunny reach of the eastern shore remained in view. They looked at it, till the sunset began to make a change.

"O Winthrop, there is Bright Spot," said Winnie, as her head came round to the less highly coloured western shore.

"Yes," — said Winthrop, letting the boat drop a little down from under the mountain.

"How it has grown up! — and what are all those bushes at the water's edge?"

"Alders. Look at those clouds in the south."

There lay, crossing the whole breadth of the river, a spread of close-folded masses of cloud, the under edges of which the sun touched, making a long network of salmon or flame-coloured lines. And then above the near bright-leaved horizon of foliage that rose over Bright Spot, the western sky was brilliantly clear; flecked with little reaches of cloud stretching upwards and coloured with fairy sunlight colours, gold, purple, and rose, in a very witchery of mingling.

Winthrop pushed the boat gently out a little further from the shore, and they sat looking, hardly bearing to take their eyes from the cloud kaleidoscope above them, or to speak, the mind had so much to do at the eyes. Only a glance now and then for contrast of beauty, at the south, and to the north where two or three little masses of grey hung in the clear sky. Gently Winthrop's oars dipped from time to time, bringing them a little further from the western shore and within fuller view of the opening in the mountains. As they went, a purplish shade came upon the grey masses in the north; — the sunlight colours over Bright Spot took richer and deeper hues of purple and red; the salmon network in the south changed for rose. And then, before they had got far, the moon's crescent, two or three days old, a glittering silver thread, hung itself out amid the bright rosy flecks of cloud in the west just hard by the mountain's brow. Winnie had to look sharp to find it.

"And there is Venus too," said Winthrop; — "look at her."

"Where?"

"In the blue — a little lower down than the moon; and further to the south — do you see? —"

"That white bright star? — O how beautiful! — in that clear blue sky. O how bright! — how much brighter than the moon, Winthrop?"

"Yes, — she has a way of looking bright."

"How did you know it was Venus, or how do you know?"

"Very much in the same way that I know it is Winnie. I have seen her before. I never saw those clouds before."

"Did you ever see such clouds before! And how long they stay,
Winthrop. O what a place!"

Slowly the little boat pulled over the river, getting further and further from Bright Spot and its bright bit of sky scenery, which faded and changed very slowly as they sailed away. They neared the high rocky point of Shahweetah, and then instead of turning down the river, kept an easterly course along the low woody shore which stretched back from the point. As they went on, and as the clouds lost their glory, the sky in the west over Wut-a-qut-o's head tinged itself with violet and grew to an opal light, the white flushing up liquidly into rosy violet, which in the northeast quarter of the horizon melted away to a clear grave blue.

"It's more beautiful than the clouds," said Winnie.

"It is a wonderful evening," said Winthrop, as he set his oars more earnestly in the water and the little boat skimmed along.

"But dear Governor, where are you going?"

"Going to land, somewhere."

"To land! But it'll be time to go home, won't it? We're a great way from there."

"We'll take a short cut home," said Winthrop, looking round for a place to execute his purpose.

"How can you?"

"Through the woods. Wouldn't you like it? You've had no exercise to-day."

"O I'd like it. But what will you do with the boat? leave her here? — O in the Aegean sea, Winthrop!"

"That is what I am steering for," said her brother. "But I want to see the after-glow come out first."

The 'Aegean Sea' was a little bay-like cove on the north side of Shahweetah; to which a number of little rock-heads rising out of the water, or some freak of play, had long ago given its classic name. Winthrop pushed his boat to the shore there, and made her fast; and then he and Winnie waited for the after-glow. But it was long coming and the twilight grew on; and at last they left the bay and plunged into the woods. A few steps brought them to a path, which rough and untravelled as it was, their knowledge of the land enabled them easily to follow. Easily for all but their feet. Winnie's would have faltered utterly, so rough, stony, and broken it was, without her brother's strong arm; but helped and led and lifted by him, she went on joyously through the gathering gloom and under the leafy canopy that shut out all the sky and all knowledge of the after-glow, if it came. But when they had got free of the woods, and had come out upon the little open cedar field that was on the river side of Shahweetah, near home, — there it was! Over Wut-a-qut-o's head lay a solid little long mass of cloud with its under edges close-lined with fine deep beautiful red. The opal light was all gone; the face of the heavens was all clear blue, in the gravity of twilight. Venus and the moon were there yet, almost down — bright as ever; the moon more brilliant and bright; for now the contrast of her sharp crescent was with Wut-a-qut-o's dark shadowy side.

That was the beginning of that August boating. And often again as in old times the little skiff flew over the water, in the shadow of the mountain and the sunlight of the bay, coasting the shores, making acquaintance with the evergreens and oaks that skirted them and looked over into the water's edge. Where once Elizabeth had gone, Winthrop and Winnie with swifter and surer progress went; many an hour, in the early and the late sunbeams. For those weeks that they stayed, they lived in the beauties of the land, rather than according to old Karen's wish, on the fatness of it.

But she did her best; and when at last Winthrop must return to his business, and they bid her good bye and left her and Wut- a-qut-o once more, the old woman declared even while she was wiping the eyes that would not be dry, that their coming had "done both of 'em real good — a power of it — and her too."

"He hasn't his beat in this country," she said to old Anderese her brother, as she was trying to take up again her wonted walk through the house. — "And she, dear thing! ain't long for this world; but she's ready for a better."

CHAPTER V.

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall at last a log, dry, bald, and sear.
A lily of a day
Is fairer far, in May.
BEN JONSON.

"What has become of the Landholms?" said Mr. Haye's young wife, one evening in the end of December.

"Confound the Landholms!" — was Mr. Haye's answering ejaculation, as he kicked his bootjack out of the way of his just-slippered foot.

"Why Mr. Haye!" said Rose, bridling over her netting-work.
"What have the Landholms done?"

"Done!"

"Well, what have they?"

"One of them won't pay me his dues, and the other is fighting me for trying to get them," said Mr. Haye, looking at the evening paper with infinite disgust.

"What dues?"

"And what fighting, Mr. Haye?" said Elizabeth and Rose in a breath.

"I can't answer you if you both speak at once."

"Well, what do you mean by fighting, Mr. Haye?"

"Fighting."

"Well, but what sort?" said Rose laughing, while the other lady laid down her book and waited.

"With his own cursed weapons."

"And what are those, Mr. Haye? you haven't told us which of the Landholms you mean, yet."

"One of 'em hasn't any weapons but his fists and his tongue," said Mr. Haye. "He hasn't tried the first on me — I have some small knowledge of the last."

"What has the other done?" said Elizabeth.

"He is doing what he can, to hinder my getting my rights of his brother."

"What does his brother owe you?"

"Money, —" said Mr. Haye shortly.

"I suppose so. But what for?"

"Business! What does it signify what for?"

"I should like to know, father. It must be something which can be told."

"He bought cotton of me."

"Can he pay for it?"

"I suppose so. I'll try."

"But what is his brother doing?"

"Trying to hinder, as I told you."

"But how? How can he?"

"Don't ask me what lawyers can or can't do. They can put their fingers into any dirty job that offers!"

Elizabeth sat silent a minute with a very disturbed look. Rose had gone back to her netting, only glancing up once in a while at the faces of the other two.

"Upon what plea does he pretend to hinder it, father?"

"A plea he won't be able to bear out, I fancy," said Mr. Haye, turning round in his chair so as to bring his other side to the fire, and not ceasing to look at the paper all this while.

"But what?"

"What does it signify what! Something you can't understand."

"I can understand it, father; and I want to know."

"A plea of fraud, on my part, in selling the cotton. I suppose you would like to cultivate his acquaintance after that."

Elizabeth sat back in her seat with a little start, and did not speak again during the conversation. Rose looked up from her mesh-stick and poured out a flood of indignant and somewhat incoherent words; to which Mr. Haye responded briefly, as a man who was not fond of the subject, and finally put an end to them by taking the paper and walking off. Elizabeth changed her position then for a low seat, and resting her chin on her hand sat looking into the fire with eyes in which there burned a dark glow that rivalled it.

"Lizzie," said her companion, "did you ever hear of such a thing!"

"Not 'such a thing,'" she answered.

"Aren't you as provoked as you can be?"

"'Provoked' is not exactly the word," Elizabeth replied.

"Well you know what to think of Winthrop Landholm now, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you surprised?"

"I wish I could never be surprised again," she answered, laying her head down for an instant on her lap; but then giving it the position it held before.

"You take it coolly!" said Rose, jerking away at her netting.

"Do I? You don't."

"No, and I shouldn't think you would. Don't you hate those
Landholms?"

"No."

"Don't you! You ought. What are you looking at in the fire?"

"Winthrop Landholm, — just at that minute."

"I do believe," said Rose indignantly, "you like Winthrop
Landholm better than you do Mr. Haye!"

Elizabeth's eyes glared at her, but though there seemed a moment's readiness to speak, she did not speak, but presently rose up and quitted the room. She went to her own; locked the door, and sat down. There was a moment's quiver of the lip and drawing of the brow, while the eyes in their fire seemed to throw off sparks from the volcano below; and then the head bent, with a cry of pain, and the flood of sorrow broke; so bitter, that she sometimes pressed both hands to her head, as if it were in danger of parting in two. The proud forehead was stooped to the knees, and the shoulders convulsed in her agony. And it lasted long. Half hour and half hour passed before the struggle was over and Elizabeth had quieted herself enough to go to bed. When at last she rose to begin the business of undressing, she startled not a little to see her handmaid Clam present herself.

"When did you come in?" said Elizabeth after a moment's hesitation.

"When the door opened," said Clam collectedly.

"How long ago?"

"How long have you been here, do you s'pose, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"That's not an answer to my question."

"Not ezackly," said Clam; "but if you'd tell, I could give a better guess."

Elizabeth kept a vexed silence for a little while.

"Well Clam," she said when she had made up her mind, "I have just one word to say to you — keep your tongue between your teeth about all my concerns. You are quite wise enough, and I hope, good enough for that."

"I ain't so bad I mightn't be better," said Clam picking up her mistress's scattered things. "Mr. Winthrop didn't give up all hopes of me. I 'spect he'll bring us all right some of these days."

With which sentence, delivered in a most oracular and encouraging tone, Clam departed; for Elizabeth made no answer thereto.

The next morning, after having securely locked herself into her room for an hour or more, Elizabeth summoned her handmaid.

"I want you to put on your bonnet, Clam, and take this note for me up to Mr. Landholm's; and give it with your own hand to him or to his sister."

Clam rather looked her intelligence than gave any other sign of it.

"If he's out, shall I wait till I see him?"

"No, — give it to his sister."

"I may put on more than my bonnet, mayn't I, Miss 'Lizabeth? This won't keep me warm, with the snow on the ground."

But Elizabeth did not choose to hear; and Clam went off with the note.

Much against her expectations, she found Mr. Winthrop at home and in his room, and his sister not there.

"Mornin', Mr. Winthrop!" said Clam, with more of a courtesy than she ever vouchsafed to her mistress or to any one else whomsoever. He came forward and shook her hand very kindly and made her sit down by the fire. The black girl's eyes followed him, as if, though she didn't say it, it was good to see him again.

"What's the word with you, Clam?"

"'Tain't with me — the word's with you, Mr. Winthrop."

"What is it?"

"I don' know, sir. I've nothin' to do but to bring it."

"How do you do this cold day?"

"I ain't cold," said Clam. "I bethought me to put my cloak on my shoulders. Miss 'Lizabeth wanted me to come off with only my bonnet."

And she produced the note, which Winthrop looked at and laid on the table.

"How is Miss Elizabeth?"

"She's sort o'," said Clam. "She has her ups and downs like other folks. She was down last night and she's up this mornin' — part way."

"I hope she is pleased with you, Clam."

"She ain't pleased with anything, much," said Clam; "so it can't be expected. I believe she's pleased with me as much as with anything else in our house. Last night she was cryin' as if her head would split — by the hour long."

"That is not part of your word to me, is it?"

"Not just," said Clam. "Mr. Winthrop, will you have me come back for an answer?"

"Did Miss Elizabeth desire it?"

"I guess so," said Clam. "But she didn't tell me to come but once."

"Then don't come again."

Clam rose to go and settled her cloak as she moved towards the door.

"If she sends me I may come again, mayn't I, Mr. Winthrop?" she said pausing.

"Yes," he said with a smile; but it was a very little bit of one.

"How is Winifred?" said Clam.

"She is not well."

The smile had entirely passed away; his face was more grave than ever.

"Is she more than common unwell?"

"Yes. Very much."

"Can I go in and see her, Mr. Winthrop?"

"Yes, if you please."

Clam went; and Winthrop took up Elizabeth's note.

"No 11 Parade, Dec. 20, 1821.

"I have just heard, briefly and vaguely, of the difficulties between my father and your brother, and of the remedies you, Mr. Landholm, are employing. I do not know the truth nor the details of anything beyond the bare outlines. Those are enough, and more than I know how to bear. I don't wish to have anything explained to me. But Mr. Landholm, grant me one favour — you must grant it, if you please — do not let it be explained any further to anybody. All you want, I suppose, is to see your brother righted. I will pay the utmost of what is due to him. I do not understand how the business lies — but I will furnish all the money that is wanting to set it right and put an end to these proceedings, if you will only let me know what it is. Please let me know it, and let me do this, Mr. Landholm; it is my right; and I need not ask you, keep my knowledge of it secret from everybody. I am sure you must see that what I ask is my right.

"Elizabeth Haye."

Winthrop had hardly more than time to read this when Clam put herself within his door again, shutting it at her back.

"If the Governor'll let me," she said, "I'll come and take care of her; — or I'll run up and down stairs, from the bottom to the top, — whichever's useful."

"It is very kind of you, Clam. Winnie and I thank you very much. But your mistress will want you."

"She won't. She'll want me here. Let me come, Governor. I shan't do nothin' for Miss 'Lizabeth if I stay with her."

"Go and do all she wants you to do. No, I can't let you come.
My sister is taken care of."

"She'd be that where you are," muttered Clam as she went out and went down the stairs, — "and so would anybody else. I wish some of the rest of us had a chance. Well — maybe we'll get it yet! —"

She found Elizabeth at her desk where she had left her, waiting.

"Did you find him?"

"Yes, miss."

"And you gave him the note?"

"No, miss — I mean, yes, miss."

"Don't say 'miss' in that kind of way. Put a name to it."

"What name?" said Clam.

"Any one you like. Did you see anybody else?"

"I see the brother and the sister," said Clam. "The brother was never lookin' better, and the sister was never lookin' worse; — she ain't lookin' bad, neither."

"Is she ill?"

"She's lyin' abed, and so far from bein' well that she'll never be well again."

"She hasn't been well this great while, Clam; that's nothing new."

"This is," said Clam.

"Does her brother think she is very ill?"

"He knows more about it than I do," said Clam. "I said I would go to take care of her, and he said I wouldn't, for you'd be a wantin' me."

"I don't want you at all!" said Elizabeth, — "if you could be of any use. Are you quiet and careful enough for a nurse?"

"Firstrate!" — said Clam; — "no, I guess I'm not ezackly, here; but I were, up to Wutsey-Qutsey."

"Up where?" said Elizabeth.

"Yes, miss."

"I told you not to speak to me so."

Clam stood and gave no sign.

"Do you think you could be of any use up there, Clam?"

"Mr. Winthrop says everybody can be of use."

"Then go and try; I don't want you; and stay as long as they would like to have you."

"When will I go, Mis' Landholm?"

"What?"

"I asked Mis' Landholm, when will I go."

"What do you mean, Clam!"

"You said call you any name I liked — and I like that 'bout as well as any one," said Clam sturdily.

"But it isn't my name."

"I wish 'twas," said Clam; — "no, I don' know as I do, neither; but it comes kind o' handy."

"Make some other serve your turn," said Elizabeth gravely. "Go up this afternoon, and say I don't want you and shall be most happy if you can be of any service to Miss Winifred."

"Or Mr. Winthrop —" said Clam. "I'll do all I can for both of 'em, Miss 'Lizabeth."

She was not permitted to do much. She went and stayed a night and a day, and served well; but Winifred did not like her company, and at last confessed to Winthrop that she could not bear to have her about. It was of no use to reason the matter; and Clam was sent home. The answer to Elizabeth's note came just before her handmaiden, by some other conveyance.

"Little South St. Dec. 21, 1821.

"Your note, Miss Haye, has put me in some difficulty, but after a good deal of consideration I have made up my mind to allow the 'right' you claim. It is your right, and I have no right to deprive you of it. Yet the difficulty reaches further still; for without details, which you waive, the result which you wish to know must stand upon my word alone. I dislike exceedingly it should so stand; but I am constrained here also to admit, that if you choose to trust me rather than have the trouble of the accounts, it is just that you should have your choice.

"My brother's owing to Mr. Haye, for which he is held responsible, is in the sum of eleven hundred and forty-one dollars.

"I have the honour to be, with great respect,

"Winthrop Landholm."

Elizabeth read and re-read.

"It is very polite — it is very handsome — nothing could be clearer from any shadow of implications or insinuations — no, nor of anything but 'great respect' either," she said to herself. "It's very good of him to trust and understand me and give me just what I want, without any palaver. That isn't like common people, any more. Well, my note wasn't, either. But he hasn't said a word but just what was necessary. — Well, why should he? —"

She looked up and saw Clam.

"What's brought you back again?"

"I don' know," said Clam. "My two feet ha' brought me, but I don' know what sent me."

"Why did you come then?"

"'Cause I had to," said Clam. "Nothin' else wouldn't ha' made me. I told you it was good livin' with him. I'd stay as long as I got a chance, if I was anybody!"

"Then what made you come home?"

"I don' know," said Clam. "He wouldn't let me stay. He don't stop to make everything clear; he thinks it's good enough for him to say so; and so it is, I suppose; and he told me to come."

"I am afraid you didn't do your duty well."

"I'd like to see who wouldn't," said Clam. "I did mine as well as he did his'n."

"How is Winifred?"

"She's pretty bad. I guess he don't think he'll have much more of her, and he means to have all he can these last days. And she thinks she's almost in Paradise when he's alongside of her."

Elizabeth laid her face down and asked no more questions.

But she concerned herself greatly to know how much and what she might do in the premises, to shew her kind feeling and remembrance, without doing too much. She sent Clam once with jellies; then she would not do that again. Should she go to see Winifred herself? Inclination said yes; and backed its consent with sundry arguments. It was polite and kind; and everybody likes kindness; she had known Winifred, and her brother, long ago, and had received kindness in the family, yes, even just now from Winthrop himself; and though his visiting had so long been at an end, this late intercourse of notes and business gave her an opening. And probably Winifred had very few friends in the city to look after her. And again inclination said "Go." But then came in another feeling that said "Go not. You have not opening enough. Mr. Landholm's long and utter cessation of visits, from whatever cause, says plainly enough that he does not desire the pleasure of your society; don't do anything that even looks like forcing it upon him. People will give it a name that will not please you." "But then," said inclination on the other hand, "my going could not have that air, to him, for he knows and I know that in the existing state of affairs it is perfectly impossible that he should ever enter the doors of my father's house — let me do what I will." "People don't know as much," said the other feeling; "err on the safe side if at all, and stay at home." "And I don't care much for people," — said Elizabeth.

It was so uncommon a thing for her to find any self-imposed check upon what she wished to do, that Miss Haye was very much puzzled; and tried and annoyed out of all proportion by her self-consultations. She was in a fidget of uneasiness all day long; and the next was no better.

"What is the matter, Lizzie?" said Rose, as she busily threaded her netting-needle through mesh after mesh, and Elizabeth was patiently or impatiently measuring the length of the parlour with her steps. "You look as if you had lost all your friends."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Why do you look so?"

"What is the difference between losing all one's friends, and having none to lose?"

"Why — haven't you any?"

"Whom have I?"

"Well, you might have. I am sure I have a great many."

"Friends!" said Elizabeth.

"Well — I don't know who you call friends," said Rose, breaking her silk with an impatient tug at a knot, — "There! — dear! how shall I tie it again? — I should think you needn't look so glum."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why — because. You have everything in the world."

"Have I?" said Elizabeth bitterly. "I am alone as I can be."

"Alone!" said Rose.

"Yes. I am alone. My father is buried in his business; I have nothing of him, even what I might have, or used to have — you never were anything to me. There is not a face in the world that my heart jumps to see."

"Except that one?" said Rose.

"'That one,' as you elegantly express it, I do not see, as it happens."

"It's a pity he didn't know what effect his coming and looking in at our windows might have," said Rose. "I am sure he would be good enough to do it."

But Elizabeth thought a retort unworthy of the subject; or else her mind was full of other things; for after a dignified silence of a few minutes she left Rose and went to her own quarters. Perhaps the slight antagonistic spirit which was raised by Rose's talk came in aid of her wavering inclinations, or brought back her mind to its old tone of wilfulness; for she decided at once that she would go and see Winifred. She had a further reason for going, she said to herself, in the matter of the money which she wished to convey to Winthrop's hands. She did not want to send Clam with it; she did not like to commit it to the post; there was no other way but to give it to him herself; and that, she said, she would do; or to Winifred's hands for him.

She left home accordingly, when the morning was about half gone, and set out for Little South Street; with a quick but less firm step than usual, speaking both doubt and decision. Decision enough to carry her soon and without stopping to her place of destination, and doubt enough to make her tremble when she got there. But without pausing she went in, mounted the stairs, with the same quick footstep, and tapped at the door, as she had been accustomed to do on her former visits to Winifred.

No gentle voice said "come in," however, and the step which Elizabeth heard withinside after her knock, was not Winifred's. She had not expected that it would be; she had no reason to suppose that Winifred was well enough to be moving about as usual, and she was not surprised to see Winthrop open the door. The shadow of a surprise crossed his face for an instant, — then bowing, he stepped back and opened the door wide for her to enter; but there was not the shadow of a smile.

"Well, you do look wonderfully grave!" was Elizabeth's thought as her foot crossed the threshold, — "I wonder if I am doing something dreadful —"

And the instant impulse was to account for her being there, by presenting her business — not the business she had intended to mention first.

She came in and stood by the table and began to speak; then he placed a chair for her, and after a second of hesitation she sat down. She was embarrassed for a minute, then she looked up and looked him full in the face.

"Mr. Landholm, I am exceedingly obliged to you for your kindness in this late business, — you were very good to me."

"It was not kindness — I felt you had a right to ask what I could not refuse, Miss Elizabeth."

"I have come to bring you the money which I did not like to get to you by any other means."

She handed it to him, and he took it and counted it over. Elizabeth sat looking on, musing how tremulous her own hand had been, and how very cool and firm his was; and thinking that whatever were said by some people, there certainly was character in some hands.

"This will be handed to Mr. Haye," he said, as he finished the counting, — "and all the proceedings will fall to the ground at once."

"Thank you."

"I cannot receive any thanks, Miss Elizabeth. I am merely an agent, doing what I have been obliged to conclude was my duty."

"I must thank you, though," said Elizabeth. "I feel so much relieved. You are not obliged to disclose my name to Mr. Rufus Landholm?"

"Not at all. To no one."

"That is all my excuse for being here," said Elizabeth with a slight hesitation, — "except I thought I might take the privilege of old friendship to come and see your sister."

"Thank you," he said in his turn, but without raising his eyes. Yet it was not coldly spoken. Elizabeth did not know what to think of him.

"Can I see her, Mr. Landholm? Is she well enough to see me?"

He looked up then; and there was, hardly a smile, but a singular light upon his whole face, that made Elizabeth feel exceedingly grave.

"She is well, but she will not see you again, Miss Elizabeth.
Winnie has left me."

"Left! —" said Elizabeth bewildered.

"Yes. She has gone to her home. Winnie died yesterday morning,
Miss Haye."

Elizabeth met the clear intent eye which, she did not know why, fixed hers while he spoke; and then dropping her own, trembled greatly with constrained feeling. She could not tell in the least how to answer, either words or look; but it would have been impossible for her to stir an inch from the spot where she stood.

"Does it seem terrible to you?" he said. "It need not. Will you see her?"

Elizabeth wished very strongly not; but as she hesitated how to speak, he had gently taken her hand and was leading her forward out of the room; and Elizabeth could not draw away her hand nor hinder the action of his; she let him lead her whither he would.

"Are you afraid?" he said, as he paused with his hand upon the door of the other room. Elizabeth uttered an incomprehensible 'no,' and they went in.

"There is no need," he said again in a gentle grave tone as he led her to the side of the bed and then let go her hand. Elizabeth stood where he had placed her, like a person under a spell.

'There was no need' indeed, she confessed to herself, half unconsciously, for all her thoughts were in a terrible whirl. Winnie's face looked as though it might have been the prison of a released angel. Nothing but its sweetness and purity was left, of all that disease and weariness had ever wrought there; the very fair and delicate skin and the clustering sunny locks seemed like angel trappings left behind. Innocence and rest were the two prevailing expressions of the face, — entire, both seemed. Elizabeth stood looking, at first awe- stricken; but presently thoughts and feelings, many and different ones, began to rise and crowd upon one another with struggling force. She stood still and motionless, all the more.

"There is no pain in looking there?" said her companion softly. Elizabeth's lips formed the same unintelligible 'no,' which her voice failed to bring out.

"Little sleeper!" said Winthrop, combing back with his fingers the golden curls, which returned instantly to their former position, — "she has done her work. She has begun upon her rest. I have reason to thank God that ever she lived. — I shall see the day when I can quietly thank him that she has died."

Elizabeth trembled, and in her heart prayed Winthrop not to say another word.

"Does not this face look, Miss Haye, as if its once owner had 'entered into peace?'"

If worlds had depended on Elizabeth's answering, she could not have spoken. She could not look at the eye which, she knew, as this question was put, sought hers; her own rested only on the hand that was moving back those golden locks, and on the white brow it touched; she dared not stir. The contact of those two, and the signification of them, was as much as she could bear, without any help. She knew his eye was upon her.

"Isn't it worth while," he said, "to have such a sure foothold in that other world, that the signal for removing thither shall be a signal of peace?"

Elizabeth bowed her head low in answer.

"Have you it?" was his next question. He had left the bed's side and stood by hers.

Elizabeth wrung her hands and threw them apart with almost a cry, — "Oh I would give uncounted worlds if I had! —"

And the channel being once opened, the seal of silence and reserve taken off, her passion of feeling burst forth into wild weeping that shook her from head to foot. Involuntarily she took hold of the bedpost to stay herself, and clung to it, bending her head there like a broken reed.

She felt even at the time, and remembered better afterwards, how gently and kindly she was drawn away from there and taken back into the other room and made to sit down. She could do nothing at the moment but yield to the tempest of feeling, in which it seemed as if every wind of heaven shook her by turns. When at last it had passed over, the violence of it, and she took command of herself again, it was even then with a very sobered and sad mind. As if, she thought afterwards, as if that storm had been, like some storms in the natural world, the forerunner and usher of a permanent change of weather. She looked up at Winthrop, when she was quieted and he brought her a glass of water, not like the person that had looked at him when she first came in. He waited till she had drunk the water and was to appearance quite mistress of herself again.

"You must not go yet," he said, as she was making some movement towards it; — "you are cold. You must wait till you are warmed."

He mended the fire and placed a chair for her, and handed her to it. Elizabeth did as she was bade, like a child; and sat there before the fire a little while, unable to keep quiet tears from coming and coming again.

"I don't know what you must think of me, Mr. Winthrop," she said at last, when she was about ready to go. "I could not help myself. — I have never seen death before."

"You must see it again, Miss Elizabeth; — you must meet it face to face."

She looked up at him as he said it, with eager eyes, from which tears ran yet, and that were very expressive in the intensity of their gaze. His were not less intent, but as gentle and calm as hers were troubled.

"Are you ready?" he added.

She shook her head, still looking at him, and her lips formed that voiceless 'no.' She never forgot the face with which he turned away, — the face of grave gentleness, of sweet gravity, — all the volume of reproof, of counsel, of truth, that was in that look. But it was truth that, as it was known to him, he seemed to assume to be known to her; he did not open his lips.

Elizabeth rose; she must go; she would have given a world to have him say something more. But he stood and saw her put on her gloves and arrange her cloak for going out, and he said nothing. Elizabeth longed to ask him the question, "What must I do?" — she longed and almost lingered to ask it; — but something, she did not know what, stopped her and choked her, and she did not ask it. He saw her down to the street, in silence on both sides, and they parted there, with a single grasp of the hand. That said something again; and Elizabeth cried all the way home, and was well nigh sick by the time she got there.

CHAPTER VI.

How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
TWELFTH NIGHT.

Miss Haye came down to breakfast the next morning; but after little more than a nominal presentation of herself there, she escaped from Rose's looks and words of comment and innuendo and regained her own room. And there she sat down in the window to muse, having carefully locked out Clam. She had reason. Clam would certainly have decided that her mistress 'wanted fixing,' if she could have watched the glowing intent eyes with which Elizabeth was going deep into some subject — it might be herself, or some other. Herself it was.

"Well," — she thought, very unconscious how clearly one of the houses on the opposite side of the street was defined on the retina of either eye, — "I have learned two things by my precious yesterday's expedition, that I didn't know before — or that if I did, it was in a sort of latent, unrecognized way; — two pretty important things! — That I wish I was a Christian, — yes, I do, — and that there is a person in the world who don't care a pin for me, whom I would lay down my life for! — How people would laugh at me if they knew it — and just because themselves they are not capable of it, and cannot understand it. — Why shouldn't I like what is worthy to be liked? — why shouldn't I love it? It is to my honour that I do! — Because he don't like me, people would say; — and why should he like me? or what difference does it make? It is not a fine face or a fair manner that has taken me — if it were, I should be only a fool like a great many others; — it is those things which will be as beautiful in heaven as they are here — the beauty of goodness — of truth — and fine character. — Why should I not love it when I see it? I shall not see it often in my life-time. And what has his liking of me to do with it? How should he like me! The very reasons for which I look at him would hinder his ever looking at me — and ought. I am not good, — not good enough for him to look at me; there are good things in me, but all run wild, or other things running wild over them. I am not worthy to be spoken of in the day that his name is mentioned. I wish I was good! — I wish I was a Christian! — but I know one half of that wish is because he is a Christian. —That's the sort of power that human beings have over each other! The beauty of religion, in him, has drawn me more, unspeakably, than all the sermons I ever heard in my life. What a beautiful thing such a Christian is! — what living preaching! — and without a word said. Without a word said, — it is in the eye, the brow, the lips, — the very carriage has the dignity of one who isn't a piece of this world. Why aren't there more such! — and this is the only one that ever I knew! — of all I have seen that called themselves Christians. — Would any possible combination ever make me such a person? — Never! — never. I shall be a rough piece of Christianity if ever I am one at all. But I don't even know what it is to be one. Oh, why couldn't he say three words more yesterday! But he acted — and looked — as if I could do without them. What did he mean! —"

When she had got to this point, Elizabeth left her seat by the window and crossed the room to a large wardrobe closet, on a high shelf of which sundry unused articles of lumber had found a hiding place. And having fetched a chair in, she mounted upon the top of it and rummaged, till there came to her hand a certain old bible which had belonged once to her mother or her grandmother. Elizabeth hardly knew which, but had kept a vague recollection of the book's being in existence and of its having been thrust away up on that shelf. She brought it down and dusted off the tokens of many a month's forgetfulness and dishonour; and with an odd sense of the hands to which it had once been familiar and precious, and of the distant influence under the power of which it was now in her own hands, she laid it on the bed, and half curiously, half fearfully, opened it. The book had once been in hands that loved it, for it was ready of itself to lie open at several places. Elizabeth turned the leaves aimlessly, and finally left it spread at one of these open places; and with both elbows resting on the bed and both hands supporting her head, looked to see what she was to find there. It chanced to be the beginning of the 119th psalm.

"BLESSED ARE THE UNDEFILED IN THE WAY, WHO WALK IN THE LAW OF THE LORD."

By what thread of association was it, that the water rushed to her eyes when they read this, and for some minutes hindered her seeing another word, except through a veil of tears?

"Am I becoming a Christian?" she said to herself. "But something more must be wanting than merely to be sorry that I am not what he is. How every upright look and word bear witness that this description belongs to him. And I — I am out of 'the way' altogether."

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT KEEP HIS TESTIMONIES, AND THAT SEEK HIM WITH THE WHOLE HEART."

"'Keep his testimonies,'" said Elizabeth, — "and 'seek him with the whole heart.' — I never did, or began to do, the one or the other. 'With the whole heart' — and I never gave one bit of my heart to it — and how is he to be sought? —"

"THEY ALSO DO NO INIQUITY; THEY WALK IN HIS WAYS."

The water stood in Elizabeth's eyes again.

"How far from me! — how very far I am from it! 'Do no iniquity,' — and I suppose I am always doing it — 'They walk in his ways,' and I don't even so much as know what they are. — I wish Mr. Winthrop had said a little more yesterday!" —

She pondered this verse a little, feeling if she did not recognize its high and purified atmosphere; but at the next she sprang up and went back to her window.

"THOU HAST COMMANDED US TO KEEP THY PRECEPTS DILIGENTLY."

Elizabeth and the Bible were at issue.

She could heartily wish that her character were that fair and sweet one the first three verses had lined out; but the command met a denial; or at the least a putting off of its claim. She acknowledged all that went before, even in its application to herself; but she was not willing, or certainly she was not ready, to take the pains and bear the restraint that should make her and it at one. She did not put the case so fairly before herself. She kept that fourth verse at arm's length, as it were, conscious that it held something she could not get over; unconscious what was the precise why. She rushed back to her conclusion that the Bible teaching was unsatisfactory, and that she wanted other; and so travelling round in a circle she came to the point from which she had begun. With a more saddened and sorrowful feeling, she stood looking at Winthrop's character and at her own; more certified, if that had been wanting, that she herself was astray; and well she resolved that if ever she got another chance she would ask him to tell her more about her duty, and how she should manage to do it.

But how was she to get another chance? Winthrop never came, nor could come, to Mr. Haye's; all that was at an end; she never could go again to his rooms. That singular visit of yesterday had once happened, but could never happen again by any possibility. She knew it; she must wait. And weeks went on, and still her two wishes lived in her heart; and still she waited. There was nobody else of whom she chose to ask her questions; either from want of knowledge, or from want of trust, or from want of attraction. And there were few indeed that came to the house whom she could suppose capable of answering them.

One evening it happened that Mr. Satterthwaite came in. He often did that; he had never lost the habit of finding it a pleasant place. This time he threw himself down at the tea- table, in tired fashion, just as the lady of the house asked him for the news.

"No news, Mrs. Haye — sorry I haven't any. Been all day attending court, till I presume I'm not fit for general society. I hope a cup of tea 'll do something for me."

"What's taken you into court?" said Rose, as she gave the asked-for tea.

"A large dish of my own affairs, — that is to say, my uncle's and fathers and grandfather's — which is in precious confusion."

"I hope, getting on well?" said Rose sweetly.

"Don't know," said Mr. Satterthwaite contentedly. "Don't know till we get out of the confusion. But I have the satisfaction of knowing it's getting on as well as it can get on, — from the hands it is in."

"Whose hands are they?" Elizabeth asked.

"In Mr. Landholm's. — He'll set it right, if anybody can. I know he will. Never saw such a fellow. Mrs. Haye — thank you — this bread and butter is all sufficient. Uncommon to have a friend for one's lawyer, and to know he is both a friend and a lawyer."

"Rather uncommon," said Elizabeth.

"Is Winthrop Landholm your friend?" said Rose dryly.

"Yes! The best friend I've got. I'd do anything in the world for that fellow. He deserves it."

"Mr. Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth, "that bread and butter isn't so good as these biscuits — try one."

"He don't deserve it from everybody!" said Rose, as Mr.
Satterthwaite gratefully took a biscuit.

"Why not?"

"He don't deserve it from me. I've known him to do unhandsome things. Mean!"

"Winthrop Landholm! — My dear Mrs. Haye, you are under some misapprehension. I'll stake my reputation he never did an unhandsome or a mean thing. He couldn't."

"He did," said Rose.

"Will you favour me with the particulars you have heard?"

"I haven't heard," said Rose, — "I know."

"You have heard!" said Elizabeth sternly, — "and only heard.
You forget. You may not have understood anything right."

The gentleman looked in a little astonishment from the bright- coloured cheeks of one lady to the cloudy brow of the other; but as neither added anything further, he took up the matter.

"I am almost certain Miss Elizabeth is right. I am sure Mr. Landholm would not do what you suspect him of. He could not do it."

"He is mortal, I suppose," said Rose sourly, "and so he would do what other mortals do."

"He is better than some other mortals," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I am not a religious man myself; but if anything would make me believe in it, it would be that man."

"Don't you 'believe in it,' Mr. Satterthwaite?" asked
Elizabeth.

"In a sort of way, yes, I do; — I suppose it's a thing one must come to at last."

"If you want to come to it at last, I should think you would at first," said Elizabeth, "I would. I shouldn't think it was a very safe way to put it off."

Mr. Satterthwaite mused over his tea and made no answer; clearly the conversation had got upon the wrong tack.

"Are you going to be in court to-morrow again, Mr.
Satterthwaite?" asked the lady of the house.

"I don't know — not for my own affairs — I don't know but I shall go in to hear Winthrop's cause come on against Mr. Ryle."

"I never was in court in my life," said Elizabeth.

"Suppose you go, Miss Elizabeth — If you'll allow me to have the honour of taking care of you, I shall be very happy. There'll be something to hear, between Chancellor Justice and my friend Winthrop and Mr. Brick."

"Is Mr. Brick going to speak to-morrow?" said Rose.

"Yes — he is on the other side."

"Let's go, Lizzie," said her cousin. "Will you take me too,
Mr. Brick? — Mr. Satterthwaite, I mean."

Mr. Satterthwaite declared himself honoured, prospectively; Elizabeth put no objection of her own in the way; and the scheme was agreed on.

The morrow came, and at the proper hour the trio repaired to the City Hall and mounted its high white steps.

"Don't you feel afraid, Lizzie, to be coming here?" said her cousin. "I do."

"Afraid of what, Mrs. Haye?" inquired their attendant.

"O I don't know, — it looks so; — it makes me think of prisoners and judges and all such awful things!"

Mr. Satterthwaite laughed, and stole a glance beyond Mrs. Haye to see what the other lady was thinking of. But Elizabeth said nothing and looked nothing; she marched on like an automaton beside her two companions, through the great halls, one after another, till the room was reached and they had secured their seats. Then certainly no one who had looked at her face would have taken it for an automaton. Though she was as still as a piece of machine-work, except the face. Rose was in a fidget of business, and the tip of her bonnet's white feather executed all manner of arcs and curves in the air, within imminent distance of Mr. Satterthwaite's face.

"Who's who? — and where's anybody, Mr. Satterthwaite," she inquired.

"That's the Chancellor, sitting up there at the end, do you see? — Sitting alone, and leaning back in his chair."

"That?" said Rose. "I see. Is that Chancellor Justice? A fine- looking man, very, isn't he?"

"Well — I suppose he is," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "He's a strong man."

"Strong?" said Rose; — "is he? Lizzie! — isn't Chancellor
Justice a fine-looking man?"

"Fine-looking?" — said Elizabeth, bringing her eyes in the
Chancellor's direction. "No, I should think not."

"Is there anybody that is fine-looking here?" whispered Rose in Elizabeth's bonnet.

"Our tastes are so different, it is impossible for one to tell what will please the other," replied Elizabeth coolly.

"Where's Mr. Landholm, Mr. Satterthwaite?"

"Winthrop? — He is down there — don't you see him?"

"'Down there?'" said Rose, — "There are a great many people down there —"

"There's Mr. Herder shaking hands with him now —"

"Mr. Herder? — Lizzie, do you see them?"

"Who?"

"Winthrop Landholm and Mr. Herder."

"Yes."

"Where are they?"

"Hush —"

For just then proceedings began, and Rose's tongue for a few minutes gave way in favour of her ears. And by the time she had found out that she could not make anything of what was going on, Mr. Herder had found his way to their side.

"Miss Elisabet'!" he said, — "and Mistress Haye! what has made you to come here to-day?"

"Mr. Satterthwaite wanted us to hear your favourite Mr. Landholm," said Rose, — "so I came. Lizzie didn't come for that."

Elizabeth shook hands with her friend smilingly, but said never a word as to why she was there.

"Winthrop is good to hear," said Mr. Herder, "when you can understand him. He knows how to speak. I can understand him — but I cannot understand Mr. Brick — I cannot make nozing of him when he speaks."

"What are they doing to-day, Mr. Herder?" said Elizabeth.

"It is the cause of my brother-in-law, Jean Lansing, against Mr. Ryle, — he thinks that Mr. Ryle has got some of his money, and I think so too, and so Winthrop thinks; but nobody knows, except Mr. Ryle — he knows all of it. Winthrop has been asking some questions about it, to Mr. Ryle and Mr. Brick" —

"When?"

"O a little while ago — a few weeks; — and they say no, — they do not choose to make answer to his questions. Now Winthrop is going to see if the Chancellor will not make that they must tell what he wants to know; and Mr. Brick will fight so hard as he can not to tell. But Winthrop will get what he wants."

"How do you know, Mr. Herder?"

"He does, always."

"What does he want, Mr. Herder?" said Rose.

"It is my brother-in-law's business," said the naturalist. "He wants to know if Mr. Ryle have not got a good deal of his money someveres; and Mr. Ryle, he does not want to say nozing about it; and Winthrop and Mr. Brick, they fight; and the Chancellor he says, 'Mr. Landholm, you have the right; Mr Brick, you do what he tell you.'"

"Then why isn't the cause ended?" said Elizabeth.

"Because we have not found out all yet; we are pushing them, Mr. Ryle and Mr. Brick, leetle by leetle, into the corner; and when we get 'em into the corner, then they will have to pay us to get out."

"You seem very sure about it, Mr. Herder," said Rose.

"I do not know," said the naturalist. "I am not much afraid.
My friend Winthrop — he knows what he is doing."

And to that gentleman the party presently gave their attention; as also did the sturdy strong face of Mr. Justice the Chancellor, and the extremely different physiognomy of Mr. Dustus Brick.

Winthrop and Mr. Brick spoke alternately; and as this was the case on each point, or question, — as Mr. Herder called them, — and as one at least of the speakers was particularly clear and happy in setting forth his meaning, the listeners were kept from weariness and rewarded, those of them that had minds for it, with some intellectual pleasure. It was pretty much on this occasion as Mr. Herder had given the general course of the suit to be; after every opening of a matter on Winthrop's part, the Chancellor would say, very curtly,

"I allow that exception! Mr. Brick, what have you got to say?" —

Mr. Brick generally had a good deal to say. He seemed to multiply his defences in proportion to the little he had to defend; in strong contrast to his antagonist's short, nervous, home-thrust arguments. The Court generally seemed tired with Mr. Brick.

"Oh that man! — I wish he would stop!" said Rose.

Elizabeth, who for the most part was as still as a mouse, glanced round at these words, one of her few and rare secondings of anything said by her cousin. She did not know that her glance shewed cheeks of fire, and eyes all the power of which seemed to be in full life.

"Can you understand that man?" said the naturalist.

"He don't understand himself," said Elizabeth.

"I don't understand anybody," said Rose. "But I like to hear the Chancellor speak — he's so funny, — only I'm getting tired. I wish he would stop that man. Oh that Mr. Brick! — Now see the Chancellor! —"

"I've decided that point, Mr. Brick!"

Mr. Brick could not think it decided. At least it seemed so, for he went on.

"What a stupid man!" said Rose.

"He will have the last word," said Mr. Herder.

"Miss Haye, are you tired?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite, leaning past the white feather.

"I? — No."

"I am," said Rose. "And so is the Chancellor. Now look at him —"

"Mr. Brick — I have decided that point!" came from the lips of
Mr. Justice, a little more curtly than before.

"Now he will stop, —" said Rose.

No — Mr. Brick was unmoveable.

"Very well!" said the Chancellor, throwing himself half way round on his chair with a jerk — "you may go on, and I'll read the newspaper! —"

Which he did, amid a general titter that went round the courtroom, till the discomfited Mr. Brick came to a stand. And Winthrop rose for his next point.

"Are you going to wait till it's all done, Mr. Herder?" said Rose. "I'm tired to death. Lizzie — Lizzie!" — she urged, pulling her cousin's shoulder.

"What!" said Elizabeth, giving her another sight of the same face that had flashed upon her half an hour before.

"My goodness!" said Rose. "What's the matter with you?"

"What do you want? —" said Elizabeth with a sort of fiery impatience, into which not a little disdain found its way.

"You are not interested, are you?" said Rose with a satirical smile.

"Of course I am!" —

"In that man, Lizzie?"

"What do you want!" said Elizabeth, answering the whisper in a plain voice.

"I want to go home."

"I'm not ready to go yet."

And her head went round to its former position.

"Lizzie — Lizzie!" urged Rose in a whisper, — "How can you listen to that man! — you oughtn't to. — Lizzie! —"

"Hush, Rose! be quiet! — I will listen. Let me alone."

Nor could Rose move her again by words, whispers, or pulls of her shoulder. "I am not ready," —she would coolly reply. Mrs. Haye was in despair, but constrained to keep it to herself for fear she should be obliged to accept an escort home, and because of an undefined unwillingness to leave Elizabeth there alone. She had to wait, and play the agreeable to Mr. Satterthwaite, for both her other companions were busy listening; until Winthrop had finished his argument, and the Chancellor had nodded,

"I allow that exception, Mr. Landholm — it is well taken — Mr.
Brick, what have you to say?" —

Mr. Brick rose to respond. Elizabeth rose too then, and faced about upon her companions, giving them this silent notice, for she deigned no word, that she was willing Rose's pleasure should take its course. Mr. Satterthwaite was quite ready, and they went home; Elizabeth changed to an automaton again.

But when she got into her own room she sat down, without taking off her bonnet, to think.

"This is that farmer's boy that father wouldn't help — and that he has managed to separate from himself — and from me! What did I go there for to-day? Not for my own happiness — And now perhaps I shall never see him again. But I am glad I did go; — if that is the last."

And spring months and summer months succeeded each other; and she did not see him again.

CHAPTER VII

Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose will
Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.
BEN JONSON.

One of the warm evenings in that summer, when the windows were all open of Winthrop's attic and the candles flared in the soft breeze from the sea, Rufus came in. Winthrop only gave him a look and a smile from his papers as he appeared; and Rufus flung himself, or rather dropped down, upon the empty couch where Winnie used to lie. Perhaps the thought of her came to him, for he looked exceedingly sober; only he had done that ever since he shewed his face at the door. For some minutes he sat in absorbed contemplation of Winthrop, or of somewhat else; he was certainly looking at him. Winthrop looked at nothing but his papers; and the rustling of them was all that was heard, beside the soft rush of the wind.

"Always at work?" said Rufus, in a dismal tone, half desponding and wholly disconsolate.

"Try to be. —"

"Why don't you snuff those candles?" was the next question, given with a good deal more life.

"I didn't know you wanted more light," said Winthrop, stopping to put in order the unruly wicks his brother referred to.

"What are you at there?"

"A long answer in chancery."

"Ryle's?"

"No — Mr. Eversham's case."

"How does Ryle's business get on?"

"Very satisfactorily. I've got light upon that now."

"What's the last thing done?"

"The last thing I did was to file a replication, bringing the cause to an issue for proofs; and proofs are now taking before an Examiner."

"You have succeeded in every step in that cause?"

"In every step."

"The steps must have been well taken."

Winthrop was silent, going on with his 'answer.'

"How much do you expect you'll get from them?"

"Can't tell yet. I somewhat expect to recover a very large sum."

"Winthrop — I wish I was a lawyer —" Rufus said presently with a sigh.

"Why?" said his brother calmly.

"I should — or at least I might — be doing something."

"Then you think all the work of the world rests upon the shoulders of lawyers? I knew they had a good deal to do, but not so much as that."

"I don't see anything for me to do," Rufus said despondingly.

Rufus got off his couch and began gloomily to walk up and down.

"How easily those who are doing well themselves can bear the ill haps of their friends!" he said.

Winthrop went back to his papers and studied them, with his usual calm face and in silence, for some time. Rufus walked and cogitated for half an hour.

"I ought not to have said that, Winthrop," were his first words. "But now look at me!"

"With pleasure," said Winthrop laying down his 'answer' — "I have looked at many a worse man."

"Can't you be serious?" said Rufus, a provoked smile forcing itself upon him.

"I thought I was rarely anything else," said Winthrop. "But now I look at you, I don't see anything in the world the matter."

"Yet look at our different positions — yours and mine."

"I'd as lieve be excused," said Winthrop. "You always made the best show, in any position."

"Other people don't think so," said Rufus, turning with a curious struggle of feeling in his face, and turning to hide it in his walk up and down.

"What ails you, Will? — I don't know what you mean."

"You deserve it!" said Rufus, swallowing something in his mind apparently, that cost him some trouble.

"I don't know what I deserve," said Winthrop gravely. "I am afraid I have not got it."

"How oddly and rightly we were nicknamed in childhood!" Rufus went on bitterly, half communing with himself. — "I for fiery impulse, and you for calm rule."

"I don't want to rule," said Winthrop half laughing. "And I assure you I make no effort after it."

"You do it, and always will. You have the love and respect and admiration of everybody that knows you — in a very high degree; and there is not a soul in the world that cares for me, except yourself."

"I do not think that is true, Will," said Winthrop after a little pause. "But even suppose it were — those are not the things one lives for."

"What does one live for then!" Rufus said almost fiercely.

"At least they are not what I live for," said Winthrop correcting himself.

"What do you live for?"

His brother hesitated.

"For another sort of approbation — That I may hear 'Well done,' from the lips of my King, — by and by."

Rufus bit his lip and for several turns walked the room in silence — evidently because he could not speak. Perhaps the words, 'Them that honour me, I will honour,' — might have come to his mind. But when at last he began to talk, it was not upon that theme.

"Governor," — he said in a quieter tone, — "I wish you would help me."

"I will — if I can."

"Tell me what I shall do."

"Tell me your own thoughts first, Will."

"I have hardly any. The world at large seems a wretched and utter blank to me."

"Make your mark on it, then."

"Ah! — that is what we used to say. — I don't see how it is to be done."

"It is to be done in many ways, Rufus; in many courses of action; and there is hardly one you can set your hand to, in which it may not be done."

Rufus again struggled with some feeling that was too much for him.

"Your notions have changed a little from the old ones, — and I have kept mine," he said.

"I spoke of making your mark, — not of being seen to do it," his brother returned.

Again Rufus was silent.

"Well but the question is not of that now," he said, "but of doing something; — to escape from the dishonour and the misery of doing nothing."

"Still you have not told me your thoughts, Will. You are not fit for a merchant."

"I'll never enter a counting-house again! — for anything!" was
Rufus's reply.

"If I were in your place, I should take up my old trade of engineering again, just where I left it off."

Rufus walked, and walked.

"But I am fit for better things," — he said at length.

"Then you are fit for that."

"I suppose that follows," said Rufus with some disdainful expression.

"There is no more respectable profession."

"It gives a man small chance to distinguish himself," said
Rufus, — "and it takes one out of the world."

"Distinction may be attained almost anywhere," said Winthrop.

"'Who sweeps a room as for thy laws,
"'Makes that and th' action fine.'"

"I should like to see you do it!" was Rufus's scornful rejoinder.

"What?"

"Sweep rooms by way of distinction."

"I don't know about the distinction," said Winthrop; "but the thing you may see me do any morning, if you come at the right hour."

"Sweep these rooms?"

"With a broomstick."

"Why Winthrop, that's beneath you!"

"I have been thinking so lately," said Winthrop. "It wasn't, in the days when I couldn't afford to pay any one for doing it; and those days reached down to a very late point."

"Afford!" said Rufus, standing still in his walk; — "Why you have made money enough ever since you began practice, to afford such a thing as that."

"Ay — if I could have put it all on the floor."

"Where had you to put it?"

"I had Mr. Inchbald to reward for his long trust in me, and Mr. Herder to reimburse for his kindness, — and some other sources of expenditure to meet."

"Mr. Herder could have been paid out of the costs of this lawsuit."

"No, he couldn't."

"And thereupon, you would recommend the profession of a street-sweeper to me!" said Rufus, beginning his walk with renewed energy.

"On the whole, I think I would not," said Winthrop gravely. "I am of opinion you can do something better."

"I don't like engineering!" said Rufus presently.

"What do you like?"

Rufus stopped and stood looking thoughtfully on the table where Winthrop's papers lay.

"I consider that, to be as honourable, as useful, and I should think quite as pleasant a way of life, as the one I follow."

"Do you? —" said Rufus, looking at the long 'answer in
Chancery.'

"I would as lieve go into it to-morrow, and make over my inkstand to you, if I were only fit for that and you for this."

"Would you!" said Rufus, mentally conceding that his brother was 'fit' for anything.

"Just as lieve."

Rufus's brow lightened considerably, and he took up his walk again.

"What would you like better, Will?"

"I don't know —" said Rufus meditatively — "I believe I'll take your advice. There was an offer made to me a week or two ago — at least I was spoken to, in reference to a Southern piece of business —"

"Not another agency?"

"No — no, engineering; — but I threw it off, not thinking then, or not knowing, that I would have anything more to do with the matter — I dare say it's not too late yet."

"But Will," said his brother, "whatever choice you make now, it is your last choice."

"How do you know it is my last choice?" said Rufus.

"Because it ought to be."

Rufus took to silence and meditating again.

"Any profession rightly managed, will carry you to the goal of honour; but no two will, ridden alternately."

"It seems so," said Rufus bitterly.

And he walked and meditated, back and forth through the room; while Winthrop lost himself in his 'answer.' The silence lasted this time till Rufus came up to the table and extending his hand bid his brother 'good night.'

"Are you going?" said Winthrop starting up.

"Yes — going; and going South, and going to be an engineer, and if possible to reach the goal of honour on the back of that calling, by some mysterious road which as yet I see not."

"Stay here to-night, Will."

"No, I can't — I've got to see somebody."

"All night?"

"Why, no," said Rufus smiling. "I suppose I could come back; more especially as I am going bona fide away. By the way, Winthrop, do you know they say the yellow fever is here?"

"I know they say so."

"What will you do?"

"Nothing."

"I mean, of course, if the report is true."

"So I mean."

"But you will not stay here?"

"I think I will."

"But it would be much better to go out of town."

"If I think so, I'll go."

"I'll make you think so," said Rufus putting on his hat, — "or else I won't go engineering! I'll be back in an hour."

CHAPTER VIII.

Yea, men may wonder, while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say, — and through the word
I ween their blessed smile is heard, —
"He giveth his beloved sleep!"
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Notwithstanding however Rufus's assurance, he did go off to his engineering and he did not succeed in changing his brother's mind. Winthrop abode in his place, to meet whatever the summer had in store for him.

It brought the city's old plague, though not with such fearful presence as in years past. Still the name and the dread of it were abroad, and enough of its power to justify them. Many that could, ran away from the city; and business, if it was not absolutely checked, moved sluggishly. There was much less than usual done.

There was little in Winthrop's line, certainly. Yet in the days of vacant courts and laid-by court business, the tenant of Mr. Inchbald's attic went out and came in as often as formerly. What he did with his time was best known to himself.

"I wonder how he does, now, all alone," said Mrs. Nettley to her brother.

"I've a notion he isn't so much of the time alone," said Mr. Inchbald. "He's not at home any more than he used to be, nor so much. I hear him going up or down the stairs — night and day."

"Surely there are no courts now?" said Mrs. Nettley.

"Never are in August — and especially not now, of course."

"I'm afraid he's lonesome, poor fellow!"

"Never saw a fellow look less like it," said Mr. Inchbald. "He's a strong man, he is, in his heart and mind. I should expect to see one of the pyramids of Egypt come down as soon as either of 'em. Lonesome? I never saw him look lonesome."

"He has a trick of not shewing what he feels then," said his sister. "I've seen him times when I know he felt lonesome, — though as you say, I can't say he shewed it. He's a strong build of a man, too, George."

"Like body, like mind," said her brother. "Yes. I like to see a man all of a piece. But his brother has a finer figure."

"Do you think so?" said Mrs. Nettley. "That's for a painter.
Now I like Winthrop's the best."

"That's for a woman," said Mr. Inchbald laughing. "You always like what you love."

"Well, what do you suppose he finds to keep him out so much of the time?"

"I don't know," said Mr. Inchbald, — "and I daren't ask him. I doubt some poor friends of his know."

"Why do you?"

"I can't tell you why; — something — the least trifle, once or twice, has given me the idea."

"He's a Christian to look at!" said Mrs. Nettley, busying herself round her stove and speaking in rather an undertone. "He's worse than a sermon to me, many times."

Her brother turned slowly and went out, thereby confessing, his sister thought, that Winthrop had been as bad as a sermon to him.

As he went out he saw a girl just mounting the stairs.

"Is Mr. Landholm in?" she said putting her head over the balusters.

"I don't know, my girl — I think he may be."

"I'll know before long," she rejoined, taking the stairs at a rate that shewed she meant what she said. Like no client at law that ever sought his lawyer's chambers, on any errand. Before Mr. Inchbald had reached the first landing, she was posted before the desired door, and had tapped there with very alert fingers. Winthrop opened the door.

"Clam!" — said he. — "Come in."

"Mr. Winthrop," said Clam, coming in as slowly as she had mounted the stairs fast, and speaking with unusual deliberation, and not in the least out of breath, — "don't you want to help the distressed?"

"What's the matter, Clam?"

"Why Mr. Haye's took, and Miss 'Lizabeth's all alone with him; and she's a little too good to be let die of fright and worry, if she ain't perfect. Few people are."

"All alone!"

"She's keeping house with him all alone this minute."

"What do you mean by all alone?"

"When there ain't but two people in the house and one o' them's deathly sick."

"Where are the servants? and Mrs. Haye?"

"They was all afraid they'd be took — she and them both; so they all run — the first one the best feller. I stayed, 'cause I thought the yaller fever wouldn't do much with one o' my skin; and anyhow it was as good to die in the house as in the street — I'd rather."

"When did they go?" said Winthrop beginning to put up books and papers.

"Cleared out this mornin' — as soon as they knowed what was the matter with Mr. Haye."

"His wife too?" said Winthrop.

"Not she! she went off for fear she'd be scared — years ago."

"Has Miss Haye sent for no friends?"

"She says there ain't none to send to; and I guess there ain't."

"Run home to your mistress, Clam, as fast as you can. — When was Mr. Haye taken sick?"

"Some time yesterday. Then you're comin', Mr. Winthrop?"

"Yes. Run."

Clam ran home. But quick as her speed had been, when she got the handle of the door in her hand she saw a figure that she knew, coming down the street; and waited for him to come up. Winthrop and she passed into the house together.

The gentleman turned into one of the deserted parlours; and Clam with a quick and soft step ran up stairs and into the sick room. Mr. Haye lay there unconscious. Elizabeth was sitting by the side of the bed, with a face of stern and concentrated anxiety.

"Here's the stuff," said Clam, setting some medicine on the table; — "and there's a gentleman down stairs that wants to see you, Miss 'Lizabeth — on business."

"Business!" said Elizabeth, — "Did you tell him what was in the house?"

"I told him," said Clam, "and he don't care. He wants to see you."

Elizabeth had no words to waste, nor heart to speak them. She got up and went down stairs and in at the open parlour door, like a person who walks in a dream through a dreadful labyrinth of pain, made up of what used to be familiar objects of pleasure. So she went in. But so soon as her eye caught the figure standing before the fireplace, though she did not know what he had come there for, only that he was there, her heart sprang as to a pillar of hope. She stopped short and her two hands were brought together with an indescribable expression, telling of relief.

"Oh Mr. Landholm! what brought you here!"

He came forward to where she stood and took one of her hands; and felt that she was trembling like a shaking leaf.

"How is your father?" was his question.

"I don't know!" said Elizabeth bending down her head while tears began to run fast, — "I don't know anything about sickness — I never was with anybody before —"

She had felt one other time the gentle kind hands which, while her own eyes were blinded with tears, led her and placed her on the sofa. Elizabeth took the sofa cushion in both arms and laid her head upon it, turning her face from her companion; and her whole frame was racked and shaken with terrible agitation.

In a few minutes this violent expression of feeling came to an end. She took her arms from the pillow and sat up and spoke again to the friend at her side; who meanwhile had been perfectly quiet, offering neither to check nor to comfort her. Elizabeth went back to a repetition of her last remark, as if for an excuse.

"I never even tried to nurse anybody before — and the doctor couldn't stay with me this morning —"

"I will do both now," said Winthrop.

"What?" — said Elizabeth looking at him bewilderedly.

"Stay with you, and take care of Mr. Haye."

"Oh no! you must not!" she said with a sort of eager seriousness; — "I shouldn't like to have you."

"I have seen something of the disease," he said smiling slightly, "and I am not afraid of it. — Are you?"

"Oh yes! — oh yes!!"

How much was confessed in the tone of those words! — and she hid her face again. But her companion made no remark.

"Is there no friend you would like to have sent for?"

"No," said Elizabeth, — "not one! not one here — and not anywhere, that I should care to have with me."

"May I go up and see Mr. Haye now?" he said presently. "Which is the room?"

Elizabeth rose up to shew him.

"No," he said, gently motioning her back, — "I am going alone.
You must stay here."

"But I must go too, Mr. Landholm! —"

"Not if I go," he said.

"But I am his daughter, — I must."

"I am not his daughter — so as far as that goes we are even.
And by your own confession you know nothing of the matter; and
I do. No — you must not go above this floor."

"Until when, Mr. Landholm?" said Elizabeth looking terrified.

"Until new rules are made," he said quietly. "While you can do nothing in your father's room, both for him and for you it is much better that you should not be there."

"And can't I do anything?" said Elizabeth.

"If I think you are wanted, I will let you know. Meanwhile there is one thing that can be done everywhere."

He spoke, looking at her with a face of steady kind gravity. Elizabeth could not meet it; she trembled with the effort she made to control herself.

"It is the thing of all others that I cannot do, Mr.
Landholm."

"Learn it now, then. Which is the room?"

Elizabeth told him, without raising her eyes; and stood motionless on the floor where he left her, without stirring a finger, as long as she could hear the sound of his footsteps. They went first to the front door, and she heard him turn the key; then they went up the stairs.

The locking of that door went to her heart, with a sense of comfort, of dependence, of unbounded trust in the hand, the heart, the head, that had done it. It roused, or the taking off of restraint roused again, all the tumult of passions that had raged after her first coming in. She dropped on her knees by the sofa and wrapping her arms round the cushion as she had done before, she laid her head down on it, and to all feeling laid her heart down too; such bitter and deep and long sobs shook and racked her breast.

She was alive to nothing but feeling and the indulgence of it, and careless how much time the indulgence of it might take. It was passion's time. She was startled when two hands took hold of her and a grave voice said,

"If you do in this way, I shall have two patients instead of one, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth suffered herself to be lifted up and placed on the sofa, and sat down like a child. Even at the instant came a flash of recollection bringing back the time, long past, when Winthrop had lifted her out of the rattlesnake's way. She felt ashamed and rebuked.

"This is not the lesson I set you," he said gently.

Elizabeth's head drooped lower. She felt that he had two patients — if he had only known it!

"You might set me a great many lessons that I should be slow to learn, Mr. Landholm," she said sadly.

"I hope not," he said in his usual tone. "There is no present occasion for this distress. I cannot see that Mr. Haye' symptoms are particularly unfavourable."

Elizabeth could have answered a great deal to that; but she only said, tearfully,

"How good you are to take care of him!"

"I will be as good as I can," said he smiling a little. "I should like to have you promise to do as much."

"That would be to promise a great deal, Mr. Landholm," said
Elizabeth looking up earnestly.

"What then?"

Elizabeth looked down and was silent, but musing much to herself.

"Is it too much of a promise to make?" said he gravely.

"No —" said Elizabeth slowly, — "but more than I am ready to make."

"Why is that?"

"Because, Mr. Landholm," said she looking up again at him, "I don't believe I should keep it if I made it."

"You expect me to say, in that case you are quite right not to make it. No, — you are quite wrong."

He waited a little; but said no more, and Elizabeth could not. Then he left the room and she heard him going down stairs! Her first thought was to spring up and go after to help him to whatever he wanted; then she remembered that he and Clam could manage it without her, and that he would certainly choose to have it so. She curled herself up on her sofa and laying her head on the cushion in more quiet wise, she went off into a long fit of musing; for Winthrop's steps, when they came from down stairs went straight up stairs again, without turning into the parlour. She mused, on her duty, her danger, her sorrow and her joy. There was something akin to joy in the enormous comfort, rest, and pleasure she felt in Winthrop's presence. But it was very grave musing after all; for her duty, or the image of it, she shrank from; her danger she shrank from more unequivocally; and joy and sorrow could but hold a mixed and miserable reign. The loss of her father could not be to Elizabeth what the loss of his mother had been to Winthrop. Mr. Haye had never made himself a part of his daughter's daily inner life; to her his death could be only the breaking of the old name and tie and associations, which of late years had become far less dear than they used to be. Yet to Elizabeth, who had nothing else, they were very much; and she looked to the possible loss of them as to a wild and dreary setting adrift upon the sea of life without harbour or shore to make anywhere. And then rose the shadowy image of a fair port and land of safety, which conscience whispered she could gain if she would. But sailing was necessary for that; and chart-studying; and watchful care of the ship, and many an observation taken by heavenly lights; and Elizabeth had not even begun to be a sailor. She turned these things over and over in her mind a hundred times, one after another, like the visions of a dream, while the hours of the day stole away noiselessly.

The afternoon waned; the doctor came. Elizabeth sprang out to meet him, referred him to her coadjutor up stairs, and then waited for his coming down again. But the doctor when he came could tell her nothing; there was no declarative symptom as yet; he knew no more than she did; she must wait. She went back to her sofa and her musing.

The windows were open, but with the sultry breath of August little din of business came into the room; the place was very quiet. The house was empty and still; seldom a footfall could be heard overhead. Clam was busy, up stairs and down, but she went with a light step when she pleased, and she pleased it now. It was a relief to have the change of falling night; and then the breeze from the sea began to come in at the windows and freshen the hot rooms; and twilight deepened. Elizabeth wished for a light then, but for once in her life hesitated about ringing the bell; for she had heard Clam going up and down and feared she might be busied for some one else. And she thought, with a heart full, how dismal this coming on of night would have been, but for the friend up stairs. Elizabeth wished bitterly she could follow his advice.

She sat looking out of the open window into the duskiness, and at the yellow lights of the street lamps which by this time spotted it; thinking so, and feeling very miserable. By and by Clam came in with a candle and began to let down the blinds.

"What are you going to do?" said her mistress. "You needn't pull those down."

"Folks'll see in," said Clam.

"No they won't — there's no light here."

"There's goin' to be, though," said Clam. "Things is goin' straight in this house, as two folks can make 'em."

"I don't want anything — you may let the lamps alone, Clam."

"I dursn't," said Clam, going on leisurely to light the two large burners of the mantle lamps, — "Mr. Winthrop told me to get tea for you and do everything just as it was every night; so I knowed these had to be flarin' up — You ain't goin' to be allowed to sit in the shades no longer."

"I don't want anything!" said Elizabeth. "Don't bring any tea here."

"Then I'll go up and tell him his orders is contradickied," said Clam.

"Stop!" said her mistress when she had reached the door walking off, — "don't carry any foolish speech up stairs at such a time as this; — fetch what you like and do what you like, — I don't care."

The room was brilliantly lighted now; and Clam set the salver on the table and brought in the tea-urn; and miserable as she felt, Elizabeth half confessed to herself that her coadjutor up stairs was right. Better this pain than the other. If the body was nothing a gainer, the mind perhaps might be, for keeping up the wonted habits and appearances.

"Ask Mr. Landholm to come down, Clam."

"I did ask him," said the handmaiden, "and he don't want nothin' but biscuits, and he's got lots o' them."

"Won't he have a cup of tea?"

"He knows his own mind mostly," said Clam; "and he says he won't."

"What arrangements can you make for his sleeping up there to- night, Clam?"

"Him and me 'll see to it," responded Clam confidently. "I know pretty much what's in the house; and the best of it ain't too good for him."

So Elizabeth drank her cup of tea alone; and sat alone through the long evening and mused. For still it was rather musing than thinking; going over things past and things present; things future she cared not much to meddle with. It was not a good time, she said, for taking up her religious wants and duties; and in part that was true, severely as she felt them; for her mind was in such a slow fever that none of its pulses were healthful. Fear, and foreboding, for her father and for herself, — hope springing along with the fear; a strong sense that her character was different from what it ought to be, and a strong wish that it were not, — and a yet mightier leaning in another direction; — all of these, meeting and modifying each other and struggling together, seemed to run in her veins and to tell in each beat of the tiny timekeeper at her wrist. How could she disentangle one from the other, or give a quiet mind to anything, when she had it not to give?

She was just bitterly asking herself this question, when Winthrop came in at the open parlour door; and the immediate bitter thought which arose next was, did he ever have any but a quiet mind to give to anything? The two bitters were so strong upon her tongue that they kept it still; till he had walked up to the neighbourhood of her sofa.

"How is my father, Mr. Landholm?" she said rising and meeting him.

"As you mean the question I cannot answer it — There is nothing declarative, Miss Elizabeth. Yes," he said kindly, meeting and answering her face, — "you must wait yet awhile longer."

Elizabeth sat down again, and looked down.

"Are you troubled with fears for yourself?" he said gently, taking a chair near her.

"No —" Elizabeth said, and said truly. She could have told him, what indeed she could not, that since his coming into the house another feeling had overmastered that fear, and kept it under.

"At least," she added, — "I suppose I have it, but it doesn't trouble me now."

"I came down on principle," said he, — "to exchange the office of nurse for that of physician; — thinking it probably better that you should see me for a few minutes, than see nobody at all."

"I am sure you were right," said Elizabeth. "I felt awhile ago as if my head would go crazy with too many thoughts."

"Must be unruly thoughts," said Winthrop.

"They were," said she looking up.

"Can't you manage unruly thoughts?"

"No! — never could."

"Do you know what happens in that case? — They manage you."

"But how can I help it, Mr. Landholm? There they are, and here am I; — they are strong and I am weak."

"If they are the strongest, they will rule."

Elizabeth sat silent, thinking her counsellor was very unsatisfactory.

"Are you going to sit up all night, Miss Elizabeth?"

"No — I suppose not —"

"I shall; so you may feel easy about being alone down here.
There could be no disturbance, I think, without my knowing it.
Let Clam be here to keep you company; and take the best rest
you can."

It was impossible for Elizabeth to say a word of thanks, or of his kindness; the words choked her; she was mute.

"Can I do anything, Mr. Landholm?"

"Nothing in the world — but manage your thoughts," he said smiling.

Elizabeth was almost choked again, with the rising of tears this time.

"But Mr. Landholm — about that — what is wrong cannot be necessary; there must be some way of managing them?"

"You know it," he said simply.

But it finished Elizabeth's power of speech. She did not even attempt to look up; she sat pressing her chin with her hand, endeavouring to keep down her heart and to keep steady her quivering lips. Her companion, who in the midst of all her troubles she many times that evening thought was unlike any other person that ever walked, presently went out into the hall and called to Clam over the balusters.

"Is he going to give her directions about taking care of me?" thought Elizabeth in a great maze, as Winthrop came back into the parlour and sat down again. When Clam appeared however he only bade her take a seat; and then bringing forth a bible from his pocket he opened it and read the ninety-first psalm. Hardly till then it dawned upon Elizabeth what he was thinking to do; and then the words that he read went through and through her heart like drawn daggers. One after another, one after another. Little he imagined, who read, what strength her estimate of the reader's character gave them; nor how that same estimate made every word of his prayer tell, and go home to her spirit with the sharpness as well as the gentleness of Ithuriel's spear. When Elizabeth rose from her knees, it was with a bowed head which she could in no wise lift up; and after Winthrop had left the room, Clam stood looking at her mistress and thinking her own thoughts, as long as she pleased unrebuked.

"One feels sort o' good after that, now, don't they?" was her opening remark, when Elizabeth's head was at last raised from her hands. "Do you think the roof of any house would ever fall in over his head? He's better'n a regiment o' soldiers."

"Is everything attended to down stairs, Clam?"

"All's straight where the Governor is," said Clam with a sweeping bend of her head, and going about to set the room in order; — "there ain't two straws laid the wrong way."

"Where he is!" repeated Elizabeth — "He isn't in the kitchen,
I suppose, Clam."

"Whenever he's in the house, always seems to me he's all over," said Clam. "It's about that. He's a governor, you know. Now Miss 'Lizabeth, how am I goin' to fix you for the night?"

"No way," said Elizabeth. "I shall just sleep here, as I am.
Let the lamps burn, and shut down the blinds."

"And then will I go off to the second story and leave you?"

"No, indeed — Fetch something that you can lay on the floor, and stay here with me."

Which Clam presently did; nothing more than a blanket however; and remarked as she curled herself down with her head upon her arm,

"Ain't he a handsome man, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Who? —" ungraciously enough.

"Why, the Governor."

"Yes, for aught I know. Lie still and go to sleep, Clam, if you can; and let me."

Very promptly Clam obeyed this command; but her less happy mistress, as soon as the deep drawn breaths told her she was alone again, sat up on her sofa to get in a change of posture a change from pain.

How alone! — In the parlour after midnight, with the lamps burning as if the room were gay with company; herself, in her morning dress, on the sofa for a night's rest, and there on her blanket on the carpet, Clam already taking it. How it told the story, of illness and watching and desertion and danger; how it put life and death in near and strong contrast; and the summer wind blew in through the blinds and pushed the blinds themselves gently out into the room, just as Elizabeth had seen and felt in many a bright and happy hour not so long past. The same summer breath, and the summer so different! Elizabeth could hardly bear it. She longed to rush up stairs where there was somebody; but then she must not; and then the remembrance that somebody was there quieted her again. That thought stirred another train, the old contrast between him and herself, the contrast between his condition and hers, now brought more painfully than ever home. "He is ready to meet anything," she thought, — "nothing can come amiss to him; — he is as ready for that world as for this — and more!" —

The impression of the words he had read that evening came back to her afresh, and the recollection of the face with which he had read them, — calm, happy, and at rest; — and Elizabeth threw herself off the sofa and kneeled down to lay her head and arms upon it, in mere agony of wish to change something, or rather of the felt want that something should be changed. O that she were at peace like him! O that she had like him a sure home and possession beyond the reach of sickness and death! O that she were that rectified, self-contained, pure, strong spirit, that he was! — The utmost of passionate wish was in the tears that wept out these yearnings of heart — petitions they half were, — for her mind in giving them form, had a half look to the only possible power that could give them fruition. But it was with only the refreshment of tears and exhaustion that she laid herself on her couch and went to sleep.

Clam had carried away her blanket bed and put out the lamps, before Elizabeth awoke the next morning. It was a question whether the room looked drearier by night or by day. She got up and went to the window. Clam had pulled up the blinds. The light of the summer morning was rising again, but it shone only without; all was darkness inside. Except that light- surrounded watcher up stairs. How Elizabeth's heart blessed him.

The next thing was, to get ready to receive his report. That morning's toilet was soon made, and Elizabeth sat waiting. He might come soon, or he might not; for it was early, and he might not know whether she was awake and risen yet. She was unaccustomed, poor child, to a waiting of pain; and her heart felt tired and sore already from the last forty-eight hours of fears and hopes. Fears and hopes were in strong life now, but a life that had become very tender to every touch. Clam was setting the breakfast-table — Could breakfast be eaten or not? The very cups and saucers made Elizabeth's heart ache. She was glad when Clam had done her work and was gone and she sat waiting alone. But the breaths came painfully now, and her heart was weary with its own aching.

The little knock at the door came at last. Elizabeth ran to open it, and exchanged a silent grasp of the hand with the newsbearer; her eyes looked her question. He came in just as he came last night; calm and grave.

"I can tell you nothing new, Miss Elizabeth," he said. "I cannot see that Mr. Haye is any better — I do not know that he is any worse."

But Elizabeth was weak to bear longer suspense; she burst into tears and sat down hiding her face. Her companion stood near, but said nothing further.

"May I call Clam?" he asked after a few minutes.

Elizabeth gave eager assent; and the act of last night was repeated, to her unspeakable gratification. She drank in every word, and not only because she drank in the voice with them.

"Breakfast's just ready, Mr. Winthrop," said Clam when she was leaving the room; — "so you needn't go up stairs."

The breakfast was a very silent one on Elizabeth's part. Winthrop talked on indifferent subjects; but she was too full- hearted and too sick-hearted to answer him with many words. And when the short meal was ended and he was about quitting the parlour she jumped up and followed him a step or two.

"Mr. Winthrop — won't you say a word of comfort to me before you go? —"

He saw she needed it exceedingly; and came back and sat down on the sofa with her.

"I don't know what to say to you better than this, Miss Elizabeth," he said, turning over again the leaves of his little bible; — "I came to it in the course of my reading this morning; and it comforted me."

He put the book in her hands, but Elizabeth had to clear her eyes more than once from hot tears, before she could read the words to which he directed her.

"And there shall be a tabernacle for a shadow in the daytime from the heat, and for a place of refuge, and for a covert from storm and from rain."

Elizabeth looked at it.

"But I don't understand it, Mr. Landholm?" she said, raising her eyes to his face.

He said nothing; he took the book from her and turning a few leaves over, put it again in her hands. Elizabeth read; —

"And a man shall be as an hiding-place from the wind, and a covert from the tempest; as rivers of water in a dry place; as the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land."

"Is that plainer?" he asked.

"It means the Saviour?" said Elizabeth.

"Certainly it does! To whom else should we go?"

"But Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth after a minute's struggle, "why do you shew me this, when you know I can do nothing with it?"

"Will you do nothing?" he said.

The words implied that she could; an implication she would not deny; but her answer was another burst of tears. And with the book in her hand he left her.

The words were well studied that day! by a heart feeling the blast of the tempest and bitterly wanting to hide itself from the wind. But the fact of her want and of a sure remedy, was all she made clear; how to match the one with the other she did not know. The book itself she turned over with the curiosity and the interest of fresh insight into character. It was well worn, and had been carefully handled; it lay open easily anywhere, and in many places various marks of pencilling shewed that not only the eyes but the mind of its owner had been all over it. It was almost an awful book to Elizabeth's handling. It seemed a thing too good to be in her hold. It bore witness to its owner's truth of character, and to her own consequent being far astray; it gave her an opening such as she never had before to look into his mind and life and guess at the secret spring and strength of them. Of many of the marks of his pencil she could make nothing at all; she could not divine why they had been made, nor what could possibly be the notable thing in the passage pointed out; and longing to get at more of his mind than she could in one morning's hurried work, she found another bible in the house and took off a number of his notes, for future and more leisurely study.

It was a happy occupation for her that day. No other could have so softened its exceeding weariness and sadness. The doctor gave her no comfort. He said he could tell nothing yet; and Elizabeth could not fancy that this delay of amendment gave any encouragement to hope for it. She did not see Winthrop at dinner. She spent the most of the day over his bible. Sickness of heart sometimes made her throw it aside, but so surely sickness of heart made her take it up again.

The thought of Winthrop himself getting sick, did once or twice look in through the window of Elizabeth's mind; but her mind could not take it in. She had so much already to bear, that this tremendous possibility she could not bear so much as to look at; she left it a one side; and it can hardly be numbered among her recognized causes of trouble.

The day wore to an end. The evening and the sea-breeze came again. The lamps were lit and the table dressed with the salver and tea-urn. And Elizabeth was thankful the day was over; and waited impatiently for her friend to make his appearance.

She thought he looked thoughtfuller than ever when he came.
That might have been fancy.

"I don't know, Miss Elizabeth," he said, taking her hand as he had done in the morning, and answering her face. "We must wait yet. — How have you borne the day?"

"I have borne it by the help of your book," she said looking down at it and trembling.

"You could have no better help," he said with a little sigh, as he turned away to the table, — "except that of the Author of it."

The tea was very silent, for even Winthrop did not talk much; and very sad, for Elizabeth could hardly hold her head up.

"Mr. Winthrop," she said when he rose, — "can you give me a minute or two before you go? — I want to ask you a question."

"Certainly," — he said; and waited, both standing, while she opened his bible and found the place he had shewed her in the morning. She shewed it to him now.

"This — I don't quite understand it. — I see what is spoken of, and the need of it, — but — how can I make it my own?"

She looked up as she put the question, with most earnest eyes, and lips that only extreme determination kept from giving way. He looked at her, and at his book.

"By giving your trust to the Maker of the promise."

"How? —"

"The same unquestioning faith and dependence that you would give to any sure and undoubted refuge of human strength."

Elizabeth looked down and pressed her hands close together upon her breast. She knew so well how to give that! — so little how to give the other.

"Do you understand what Christ requires of those who would follow him?"

"No," she said looking up again, — "not clearly — hardly at all."

"One is — that you give up everything, even in thought, that is contrary to his authority."

He was still, and so was she, both looking at each other.

"That is what is meant by repentance. The other thing is, — that you trust yourself for all your wants — from the forgiveness of sin, to the supply of this moment's need, — to the strength and love of Jesus Christ; — and that because he has paid your price and bought you with his own blood."

"You mean," said Elizabeth slowly, "that his life was given in place of mine."

Winthrop was silent. Elizabeth stood apparently considering.

"'Everything that is contrary to his authority'" — she added after a minute, — "how can I know exactly all that?"

He still said nothing, but touched with his finger once or twice the book in his hand.

Elizabeth looked, and the tears came to her eyes.

"You know, —" she said, hesitating a little, — "what physicians say of involuntary muscular resistance, that the physical frame makes sometimes?"

He answered her with an instant's light of intelligence, and then with the darkened look of sorrow. But he took his bible away with him and said no more.

Elizabeth sat down and struggled with herself and with the different passions which had been at work in her mind, till she was wearied out; and then she slept.

She waked up in the middle of the night, to find the lamps burning bright and Clam asleep on the floor by her side; she herself was sitting yet where she had been sitting in the evening, on a low seat with her head on the sofa cushion. She got up and with a sort of new spring of hope and cheer, whence come she knew not, laid herself on the sofa and slept till the morning.

"You'd best be up, Miss 'Lizabeth," were Clam's first words.

"Why?" said Elizabeth springing up.

"It's time," said her handmaiden.

Elizabeth rose from her sofa and put her face and dress in such order as a few minutes could do. She had but come back from doing this, and was standing before the table, when Winthrop came in. It was much earlier than usual. Elizabeth looked, but he did not answer, the wonted question. He led her gently to the window and placed himself opposite to her.

"You must leave here, Miss Elizabeth," he said.

"Must I?" — said Elizabeth looking up at him and trembling.

"You must —" he answered very gently.

"Why, Mr. Landholm?" Elizabeth dared to say.

"Because there is no longer any reason why you should stay here."

She trembled exceedingly, but though her very lips trembled, she did not cry. He would have placed her on a chair, but she resisted that and stood still.

"Where do you want me to go, Mr. Winthrop?" she said presently, like a child.

"I will take you wherever you say — to some friend's house?"

She caught at his arm and her breath at once, with a kind of sob; then releasing his arm, she said,

"There isn't anywhere."

"No house in the city?"

She shook her head.

"If you will let me, I will take you to a safe and quiet place; and as soon as possible away from the city."

"When?"

"When from here? — Now, — as soon as you can be ready."

Elizabeth's eye wandered vaguely towards the table like a person in a maze.

"Mayn't I go up stairs again?" she said, her eye coming back to his.

"I would rather you did not."

She gave way then and sat down covering her face with her hands. And sobs as violent as her tremblings had been, held her for a little while. The moment she could, she rose up and looked up again, throwing off her tears as it were, though a sob now and then even while she was speaking interrupted her breath.

"But Mr. Winthrop — the house, —how can I go and leave it with everything in it?"

"I will take care, if you will trust me."

"I will trust you," she said with running tears. "But you? —"

"I will take care of it and you too. — I will try to."

"That was not what I meant —"

"I am safe," he said.

He gently seated her; and then going off to Clam at the other side of the room he bade her fetch her mistress's bonnet and shawl. He himself put them on, and taking her arm in his, they went forth of the house.

CHAPTER IX.

The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows flee;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass
Stains the clear radiance of Eternity,
Until Death shiver it to atoms.
SHELLEY.

The dawn of the summer morning was just flushing up over the city, when Winthrop and his trembling companion came out of the house. The flush came up upon a fair blue sky, into which little curls of smoke were here and there stealing; and a fresh air in the streets as yet held place of the sun's hot breath. One person felt the refreshment of it, as he descended the steps of the house and began a rather swift walk up the Parade. But those were very trembling feet that he had to guide during that early walk; though his charge was perfectly quiet. She did not weep at all; she did not speak, nor question any of his movements. Neither did he speak. He kept a steady and swift course till they reached Mr. Inchbald's house in Little South Street, and then only paused to open the door. He led Elizabeth up-stairs to his own room, and there and not before took her hand from his arm and placed her on a chair. Himself quietly went round the room, opening the windows and altering the disposition of one or two things. Then he came back to her where she sat like a statue, and in kind fashion again took one of her hands.

"I will see that you are waited upon," he said gently; "and I will send Clam to you by and by for your orders. Will you stay here for a little while? — and then I will take care of you."

How she wished his words meant more than she knew they did.
She bowed her head, thinking so.

"Can I give you anything?"

She managed to say a smothered 'no,' and he went; first pulling out of his pocket his little bible which he laid upon the table.

Was that by way of answering his own question? It might be, or he might not have wanted it in his pocket. Whether or no, Elizabeth seized it and drew it towards her, and as if it had contained the secret charm and panacea for all her troubles, she laid her hands and her head upon it, and poured out there her new and her old sorrows; wishing even then that Winthrop could have given her the foundation of strength on which his own strong spirit rested.

After a long while, or what seemed such, she heard the door softly open and some one come in. The slow careful step was none that she knew, and Elizabeth did not look up till it had gone out and the door had closed again. It was Mrs. Nettley, and Mrs. Nettley had softly left on the table a waiter of breakfast. Elizabeth looked at it, and laid her head down again.

The next interruption came an hour later and was a smarter one. Elizabeth had wearied herself with weeping, and lay comparatively quiet on the couch.

"Miss 'Lizabeth," said the new-comer, in more gentle wise than it was her fashion to look or speak, — "Mr. Winthrop said I was to come and get your orders about what you wanted."

"I can't give orders — Do what you like," said Elizabeth keeping her face hid.

"If I knowed what 'twas," — said Clam, sending her eye round the room for information or suggestion. "Mr. Winthrop said I was to come. — Why you haven't took no breakfast?"

"I didn't want any."

"You can't go out o' town that way," said Clam. "The Governor desired you would take some breakfast, and his orders must be follered. You can't drink cold coffee neither —"

And away went Clam, coffee-pot in hand.

In so short a space of time that it shewed Clam's business faculties, she was back again with the coffee smoking hot. She made a cup carefully and brought it to her mistress.

"You can't do nothin' without it," said Clam. "Mr. Winthrop would say, 'Drink it' if he was here —"

Which Elizabeth knew, and perhaps considered in swallowing the coffee. Before she had done, Clam stood at her couch again with a plate of more substantial supports.

"He would say 'Eat,' if he was here —" she remarked.

"Attend a little to what I have to say," said her mistress.

"While you're eatin'," said Clam. "I wasn't to stop to get breakfast."

A few words of directions were despatched, and Clam was off again; and Elizabeth lay still and looked at the strange room and thought over the strange meaning and significance of her being there. A moment's harbour, with a moment's friend. She was shiveringly alone in the world; she felt very much at a loss what to do, or what would become of her, She felt it, but she could not think about it. Tears came again for a long uninterrupted time.

The day had reached the afternoon, when Clam returned, and coming into Mrs. Nettley's kitchen inquired if her mistress had had any refreshment. Mrs. Nettley declared that she dursn't take it up and that she had waited for Clam. Upon which that damsel set about getting ready a cup of tea, with a sort of impatient promptitude.

"Have you got all through?" Mrs. Nettley asked in the course of this preparation.

"What?" said Clam.

"Your work."

"No," said Clam. "Never expect to. My work don't get done."

"But has Mr. Landholm got through his work, down at the house?"

"Don't know," said Clam. "He don't tell me. But if we was to work on, at the rate we've been a goin' to-day — we'd do up all Mannahatta in a week or so."

"What's been so much to do? — the funeral, I know."

"The funeral," said Clam, "and everything else. That was only one thing. There was everything to be locked up, and everything to be put up, and the rest to be packed; and the silver sent off to the Bank; and everybody to be seen to. I did all I could, and Mr. Winthrop he did the rest."

"He'll be worn out!" said Mrs. Nettley.

"No he won't," said Clam. "He ain't one o' them that have to try hard to make things go — works like oiled 'chinery — powerful too, I can tell you."

"What's going to be done?" said Mrs. Nettley meditatively.

"Can't say," said Clam. "I wish my wishes was goin' to be done — but I s'pose they ain't. People's ain't mostly, in this world." She went off with her dish of tea and what not, to her mistress up-stairs. But Elizabeth this time would endure neither her presence nor her proposal. Clam was obliged to go down again leaving her mistress as she had found her. Alone with herself.

Then, when the sun was long past the meridian, Elizabeth heard upon the stair another step, of the only friend, as it seemed to her, that she had. She raised her head and listened to it. The step went past her door, and into the other room, and she sat waiting. "How little he knows," she thought, "how much of a friend he is! how little he guesses it. How far he is from thinking that when he shall have bid me good bye — somewhere — he will have taken away all of help and comfort I have. —"

But clear and well defined as this thought was in her mind at the moment, it did not prevent her meeting her benefactor with as much outward calmness as if it had not been there. Yet the quiet meeting of hands had much that was hard to bear. Elizabeth did not dare let her thoughts take hold of it.

"Have you had what you wanted?" he said, in the way in which one asks a question of no moment when important ones are behind.

"I have had all I could have," Elizabeth answered.

There was a pause; and then he asked,

"What are your plans, Miss Elizabeth?"

"I haven't formed any. — I couldn't not, yet."

"Do you wish to stay in the city, or to go out of it?"

"Oh to go out of it!" said Elizabeth, — "if I could — if I knew where."

"Where is your cousin?"

"She was at Vantassel; but she left it for some friend's house in the country, I believe. I don't want to be where she is."

Elizabeth's tears came again.

"It seems very strange —" she said presently, trying to put a stop to them, but her words stopped.

"What?" said Winthrop.

"It seems very strange, — but I hardly know where to go. I have no friends near — no near friends, in any sense; there are some, hundreds of miles off, in distance, and further than that in kind regard. I know plenty of people, but I have no friends. — I would go up to Wut-a-qut-o, if there was anybody there," she added after a minute or two.

"Shahweetah has passed into other hands," said Winthrop.

"I know it," said Elizabeth; — "it passed into mine."

Winthrop started a little, and then after another moment's pause said quietly,

"Are you serious in wishing to go there now?"

"Very serious!" said Elizabeth, "if I had anybody to take care of me. I couldn't be there with only Clam and Karen."

"You would find things very rough and uncomfortable."

"What do you suppose I care about how rough?" said Elizabeth. "I would rather be there than in any other place I can think of."

"I am afraid you would still be much alone there — your own household would be all."

"I must be that anywhere," said Elizabeth bitterly. "I wish I could be there."

"Then I will see what I can do," said he rising.

"About what?" said Elizabeth.

"I will tell you if I succeed."

Mr. Landholm walked down stairs into Mrs. Nettley's sanctum, where the good lady was diligently at work in kitchen affairs.

"Mrs. Nettley, will you leave your brother and me to keep things together here, and go into the country with this bereaved friend of mine?"

Mrs. Nettley stood still with her hands in the dough of her bread and looked at the maker of this extraordinary proposition.

"Into the country, Mr. Landholm! — When?"

"Perhaps this afternoon — in two or three hours."

"Dear Mr. Landholm! —"

"Dear Mrs. Nettley."

"But it's impossible."

"Is it?"

"Why — What does she want me for, Mr. Landholm?"

"She is alone, and without friends at hand. She wishes to leave the city and take refuge in her own house in the country, but it is uninhabited except by servants. She does not know of my application to you, which I make believing it to be a case of charity."

Mrs. Nettley began to knead her dough with a haste and vigour which told of other matters on hand.

"Will you go, Mr. Landholm?"

"Certainly — to see you safe there — and then I will come back and take care of Mr. Inchbald."

"How far is it, sir?"

"So far as my old home, which Miss Haye has bought."

"What, Wut — that place of yours?" said Mrs. Nettley.

"Yes," Winthrop said gravely.

"And how long shall I be wanted, Mr. Landholm?"

"I do not know, Mrs. Nettley."

Mrs. Nettley hastily cut her dough into loaves and threw it into the pans.

"You are going, Mrs. Nettley?"

"Why sir — in two hours, you say?"

"Perhaps in so little as that — I am going to see."

"But Mr. Landholm," said the good lady, facing round upon him after bestowing her pans in their place, and looking somewhat concerned, — "Mr. Landholm, do you think she will like me? — Miss Haye?"

Winthrop smiled a little.

"I think she will be very thankful to you, Mrs. Nettley — I can answer no further."

"I suppose it's right to risk that," Mrs. Nettley concluded.
"I'll do what you say, Mr. Landholm."

Without more words Mr. Landholm went out and left the house.

"Are Miss Haye's things all ready?" asked Mrs. Nettley of
Clam, while she nervously untied her apron.

"All's ready that he has to do with," Clam answered a little curtly.

"But has he to do with your mistress's things?"

"He has to do with everything, just now," said Clam. "I wish the now'd last for ever!"

"How can we go to-night? — the boats and the stages and all don't set off so late."

"Boats don't stop near Wutsey Qutsey," said Clam.

Mrs. Nettley went off to make her own preparations.

When Mr. Landholm came again, after an interval of some length, he came with a carriage.

"Are you ready, Mrs. Nettley?" he said looking into that lady's quarters.

"In a little bit, Mr. Landholm! —"

Whereupon he went up-stairs.

"If you wish to go to Wut-a-qut-o, Miss Elizabeth," he said, "my friend Mrs. Nettley will go with you and stay with you, till you have made other arrangements. I can answer for her kindness of heart, and unobtrusive manners, and good sense. Would you like her for a companion?"

"I would like anybody — that you can recommend."

"My friend Cowslip's little sloop sets sail for the neighbourhood of Wut-a-qut-o this evening."

"Oh thank you! —Will she take us?"

"If you wish it."

"Oh thank you! —"

"Would you not be better to wait till to-morrow? — I can make the sloop wait."

"Oh no, let us go," said Elizabeth rising. "But your friend is very good — your friend who is going with me, I mean."

"Mrs. Nettley. But you need not move yet — rest while you can."

"Rest!" — said Elizabeth. And tears said what words did not.

"There is only one rest," said Winthrop gravely; "and it is in Christ's hand. 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.'" —

Elizabeth's sobs were bitter. Her counsellor added no more however; he left the room after a little while, and soon returned to tell her that all was ready. She was ready too by that time.

"But Mr. Winthrop," she said looking at him earnestly, "is everything here so that you can leave it?"

She dared not put the whole of her meaning into words. But Winthrop understood, and answered a quiet "yes;" and Elizabeth lowered her veil and her head together and let him lead her to the carriage.

A few minutes brought them to the pier at the end of which the
Julia Ann lay.

"You're sharp upon the time, Mr. Landholm," said her master; — "we're just goin' to cast off. But we shouldn't have done it, nother, till you come. All right!"

"Is all right in the cabin?" said Winthrop as they came on board.

"Well, it's slicked up all it could be on such short notice," said the skipper. "I guess you wont have to live in it long; the wind's coming up pretty smart ahind us. Haul away there! — "

It was past six o'clock, and the August sun had much lessened of its heat, when, as once before with Mr. Landholm for a passenger, the Julia Ann stood out into the middle of the river with her head set for the North.

Mrs. Nettley and Clam hid themselves straightway in the precincts of the cabin. Elizabeth stood still where she had first placed herself on the deck, in a cold abstracted sort of carelessness, conscious only that her protector was standing by her side, and that she was not willing to lose sight of him. The vessel, and her crew, and their work before her very eyes, she could hardly be said to see. The sloop got clear of the wharf and edged out into the mid-channel, where she stood bravely along before the fair wind. Slowly the trees and houses along shore were dropped behind, and fresher the wind and fairer the green river-side seemed to become. Elizabeth's senses hardly knew it, or only in a kind of underhand way; not recognized.

"Will you go into the cabin? or will you have a seat here?" she heard Winthrop say.

Mechanically she looked about for one. He brought a chair and placed her in it, and she sat down; choosing rather the open air and free sky than any shut-up place, and his neighbourhood rather than where he was not; but with a dulled and impassive state of feeling that refused to take up anything, past, present or future. It was not rest, it was not relief, though there was a seeming of rest about it. She knew then it would not last. It was only a little lull between storms; the enforced quiet of wearied and worn-out powers. She sat mazily taking in the sunlight, and the view of the sunlighted earth and water, the breath of the sweeping fresh air, the creaking of the sloop's cordage, in the one consciousness that Winthrop kept his place at her side all this time. How she thanked him for that! though she could not ask him to sit down, nor make any sort of a speech about it.

Down went the sun, and the shadows and the sunlight were swept away together; and yet fresher came the sweet wind. It was a sort of consolation to Elizabeth, that her distress gave Winthrop a right and a reason to attend upon her; she had had all along a vague feeling of it, and the feeling was very present now. It was all of comfort she could lay hold of; and she clutched at it with even then a foreboding sense of the desolation there would be when that comfort was gone. She had it now; she had it, and she held it; and she sat there in her chair on the deck in a curious half stupor, half quiet, her mind clinging to that one single point where it could lean.

There came a break-up however. Supper was declared to be ready; and though nobody but Winthrop attended the skipper's table, Elizabeth was obliged to take some refreshments of her own, along with a cup of the sloop's tea, which most certainly she would have taken from no hand but the one that presented it to her. And after it, Elizabeth was so strongly advised to go to the cabin and take some rest, that she could not help going; resting, she had no thought of. Her companions were of easier mind; for they soon addressed themselves to such sleeping conveniencies as the little cabin could boast. Miss Haye watched them begin and end their preparations and bestow themselves in resting positions to sleep; and then drawing a breath of comparative rest herself, she placed herself just within the cabin threshold, on the floor, where she could look out and have a good view of the deck through the partly open door.

It was this night as on the former occasion, a brilliant moonlight; and the vessel had no lamps up to hinder its power. The mast and sails and lines stood out in sharp light and shadow. The man at the helm Elizabeth could not see; the moonlight poured down upon Winthrop, walking slowly back and forth on the deck, his face and figure at every turn given fully and clearly to view. Elizabeth herself was in shadow; he could not look within the cabin door and see her; she could look out and see him right well, and she did. He was pacing slowly up and down, with a thoughtful face, but so calm in its thoughtfulness that it was a grievous contrast to Elizabeth's own troubled and tossed nature. It was all the more fascinating to her gaze; while it was bitter to her admiration. The firm quiet tread, — the manly grave repose of the face, — spoke of somewhat in the character and life so unlike what she knew in her own, and so beautiful to her sense of just and right, that she looked in a maze of admiration and self-condemning; rating herself lower and lower and Winthrop higher and higher, at every fair view the moonlight gave, at every turn that brought him near or took him further from her. And tears — curious tears — that came from some very deep wells of her nature, blinded her eyes, and rolled hot down her cheeks, and were wiped away that she might look. "What shall I do when he gets tired of that walk and goes somewhere else?" — she thought; and with the thought, as instantly, Elizabeth gathered herself up from off the floor, wiped her cheeks from the tears, and stepped out into the moonlight. "I can't say anything, but I suppose he will," was her meditation. "Nobody knows when I shall have another chance." —

"They could not make it comfortable for you in there?" said
Winthrop coming up to her.

"I don't know — yes, — I have not tried."

"Are you very much fatigued?"

"I suppose so. — I don't feel it."

"Can I do anything for you?"

The real answer nearly burst Elizabeth's bounds of self- control, but nevertheless her words were quietly given.

"Yes, — if you will only let me stay out here a little while."

He put a chair for her instantly, and himself remained standing near, as he had done before.

"Walk on, if you wish," said Elizabeth. "Don't mind me."

But instead of that he drew up another chair, and sat down.

There was silence then that might be felt. The moonlight poured down noiselessly on the water, and over the low dusky distant shore; the ripples murmured under the sloop's prow; the wind breathed gently through the sails. Now and then the creak of the rudder sounded, but the very stars were not more calmly peaceful than everything else.

"There is quiet and soothing in the speech of such a scene as this," Winthrop said after a time.

"Quiet!" said Elizabeth. Her voice choked, and it was a little while before she could go on. — "Nothing is quiet to a mind in utter confusion."

"Is yours so?"

"Yes."

The sobs were at her very lips, but the word got out first.

"It is no wonder," he observed gently.

"Yes it is wonder," said Elizabeth; — "or at least it is what needn't be. Yours wouldn't be so in any circumstances."

"What makes the confusion?" — he asked, in a gentle considerate tone that did not press for an answer.

"The want of a single fixed thing that my thoughts can cling to."

He was silent a good while after that.

"There is nothing fixed in this world," he said at length.

"Yes there is," said Elizabeth bitterly. "There are friends — and there is a self-reliant spirit — and there is a settled mind."

"Settled — about what?"

"What it will and what it ought to do."

"Is yours not settled on the latter point?" he asked.

"If it were," said Elizabeth with a little hesitation and struggling, — "that don't make it settled."

"It shews where the settling point is."

"Which leaves it as far as ever from being settled," said
Elizabeth, almost impatiently.

"A self-reliant spirit, if it be not poised on another foundation than its own, hath no fixedness that is worth anything, Miss Elizabeth; — and friends are not safe things to trust to."

"Some of them are," said Elizabeth.

"No, for they are not sure. There is but one friend that cannot be taken away from us."

"But to know that, and to know everything else about him, does not make him our friend," said Elizabeth in a voice that trembled.

"To agree to everything about him, does."

"To agree? — How? — I do agree to it," said Elizabeth.

"Do you? Are you willing to have him for a King to reign over you? — as well as a Saviour to make you and keep you safe?"

She did not answer.

"You do not know everything about him, neither."

"What don't I know?"

"Almost all. You cannot, till you begin to obey him; for till then he will not shew himself to you. The epitome of all beauty is in those two words — Jesus Christ."

She made no answer yet, with her head bowed, and striving to check the straining sobs with which her breast was heaving. She had a feeling that he was looking on compassionately; but it was a good while before she could restrain herself into calmness; and during that time he added nothing more. When she could look up, she found he was not looking at her; his eyes were turned upon the river, where the moon made a broad and broadening streak of wavy brightness. But Elizabeth looked at the quiet of his brow, and it smote her; though there was now somewhat of thoughtful care upon the face. The tears that she thought she had driven back, rushed fresh to her eyes again.

"Do you believe what I last said, Miss Elizabeth?" he said turning round to her.

"About the epitome of all beauty?"

"Yes. Do you believe it?"

"You say so — I don't understand it," she said sadly and somewhat perplexed.

"I told you so," he answered, looking round to the moonlight again.

"But Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth in evident distress, "won't you tell me something more?"

"I cannot."

"Oh yes you can, — a great deal more," she said weeping.

"I could," he said gravely, — "yet I should tell you nothing — you would not understand me. You must, find it out for yourself."

"How in the world can I?"

"There is a promise, — 'If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine.'"

"I don't know how to begin, nor anything about it," said
Elizabeth, weeping still.

"Begin anywhere."

"How? What do you mean?"

"Open the Bible at the first chapter of Matthew, and read. Ask honestly, of your own conscience and of God, at each step, what obligation upon you grows out of what you are reading. If you follow his leading he will lead you on, — to himself."

Elizabeth sobbed in silence for some little time; then she said,

"I will do it, Mr. Landholm."

"If you do," said he, "you will find you can do nothing."

"Nothing!" said Elizabeth.

"You will find you are dependent upon the good pleasure of God for power to take the smallest step."

"His good pleasure! — Suppose it should not be given me."

"There is no 'suppose' about that," Winthrop answered, with a slight smile, which seen as it was through a veil of tears, Elizabeth never forgot, and to which she often looked back in after time; — "'Whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.' But he does not always get a draught at the first asking. The water of life was not bought so cheap as that. However, 'to him that knocketh, it shall be opened.'"

Elizabeth hearkened to him, with a curious mixture of yielding and rebellion at once in her mind. She felt them both there. But the rebellion was against the words; her yielding was for the voice that brought the words to her ear. She paused awhile.

"At that rate, people might be discouraged before they got what they wanted," she observed, when the silence had lasted some little time.

"They might," said Winthrop quietly.

"I should think many might."

"Many have been," he answered.

"What then?" she asked a little abruptly.

"They did not get what they wanted."

Elizabeth started a little, and shivered, and tears began to come again.

"What's to hinder their being discouraged, Mr. Landholm?" she asked in a tone that was a little querulous.

"Believing God's word."

So sweet the words came, her tears ceased at that; the power of the truth sank for a moment with calming effect upon her rebellious feeling; but with this came also as truly the thought, "You have a marvellous beautiful way of saying things quietly!" — However for the time her objections were silenced; and she sat still, looking out upon the water, and thinking that with the first quiet opportunity she would begin the first chapter of Matthew.

For a little while they both were motionless and silent; and then rising, Winthrop began his walk up and down the deck again. Elizabeth was left to her meditations; which sometimes roved hither and thither, and sometimes concentred themselves upon the beat of his feet, which indeed formed a sort of background of cadence to them all. It was such a soothing reminder of one strong and sure stay that she might for the present lean upon; and the knowledge that she might soon lose it, made the reminder only the more precious. She was weeping most bitter tears during some of that time; but those footsteps behind her were like quiet music through all. She listened to them sometimes, and felt them always, with a secret gratification of knowing they would not quit the deck till she did. Then she had some qualms about his getting tired; and then she said to herself that she could not put a stop to what was so much to her and which she was not to have again. So she sat and listened to them, weary and half bewildered with the changes and pain of the last few days and hours; hardly recognizing the reality of her own situation, or that the sloop, Winthrop's walk behind her, the moonlight, her lonely seat on the deck, and her truly lonely place in the world, were not all parts of a curious phantasm. Or if realizing them, with senses so tried and blunted with recent wear and tear, that they refused to act and left her to realize it quietly and almost it seemed stupidly. She called it so to herself, but she could not help it; and she was in a manner thankful for that. She would wake up again. She would have liked to sit there all night under that moonlight and with the regular fall of Winthrop's step to and fro on the vessel.

"How long can you stand this?" said he, pausing beside her.

"What?" said Elizabeth looking up.

"How long can you do without resting?"

"I am resting. — I couldn't rest so well anywhere else."

"Couldn't you?"

"No! —" she said earnestly.

He turned away and went on walking. Elizabeth blessed him for it.

The moon shone, and the wind blew, and steadily the vessel sailed on; till higher grounds began to rise on either side of her, and hills stood back of hills, ambitious of each other's standing, and threw their deep shadows all along the margin of the river. As the sloop entered between these narrowing and lifting walls of the river channel, the draught of air became gentler, often hindered by some outstanding high point she had left behind; more slowly she made her way past hill and hill- embayed curves of the river, less stoutly her sails were filled, more gently her prow rippled over the smoother water. Sometimes she passed within the shadow of a lofty hill-side; and then slipped out again into the clear fair sparkling water where the moon shone.

"Are we near there?" said Elizabeth suddenly, turning her head to arrest her walking companion. He came to the back of the chair.

"Near Wut-a-qut-o?"

"Yes."

"No. Nearing it, but not near it yet."

"How soon shall we be?"

"If the wind holds, I should think in two hours."

"Where do we stop?"

"At the sloop's quarters — the old mill —about two miles down the river from Shahweetah."

"Why wouldn't she carry us straight up to the place?"

"It would be inconvenient landing there, and would very much delay the sloop's getting to her moorings."

"I'll pay for that! —"

"We can get home as well in another way."

"But then we shall have to stay here all night."

"Here, on the sloop, you mean? The night is far gone already."

"Not half!" said Elizabeth. "It's only a little past twelve."

"Aren't you tired?"

"I suppose so, but I don't feel it."

"Don't you want to take some sleep before morning?"

"No, I can't. But you needn't walk there to take care of me,
Mr. Winthrop. I shall be quite safe alone."

"No, you will not," he said; and going to some of the sloop's receptacles, he drew out an old sail and laying it on the deck by her side he placed himself upon it, in a half sitting, half reclining posture, which told of some need of rest on his part.

"You are tired," she said earnestly. "Please don't stay here for me!"

"It pleases me to stay," he said lightly. "It is no hardship, under ordinary circumstances, to pass such a night as this out of doors."

"What is it in these circumstances?" said Elizabeth quickly.

"Not a hardship."

"You don't say much more than you are obliged to," thought Elizabeth bitterly. "It is 'not a hardship' to stay there to take care of me; — and there is not in the world another person left to me who could say even as much." —

"There is a silent peace-speaking in such a scene as this," presently said Winthrop, lying on his sail and looking at the river.

"I dare say there is," Elizabeth answered sadly.

"You cannot feel it, perhaps?"

"Not a particle. I can just see that it might be."

"The Bible makes such constant use of natural imagery, that to one familiar with it, the objects of nature bring back as constantly its teachings — its warnings — its consolations."

"What now?" said Elizabeth.

"Many things. Look at those deep and overlapping shadows. 'As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about his people, from henceforth'" —

"Stop, Mr. Winthrop!" Elizabeth exclaimed; — "Stop! I can't bear it."

"Why?"

"I can't bear it," she repeated, in a passion of tears.

"Why?" said he again in the same tone, when a minute had gone by.

"Those words don't belong to me — I've nothing to do with them," she said, raising her head and dashing her tears right and left.

But Winthrop made no sort of answer to that, and a dead silence fell between the parties. Again the prow of the sloop was heard rippling against the waves; and slowly she glided past mountain and shadow, and other hills rose and other deep shadows lay before them. Elizabeth, between other thoughts, was tempted to think that her companion was as impassive and cold as the moonlight, and as moveless as the dark mountain lines that stood against the sky. And yet she knew and trusted him better than that. It was but the working of passing impatience and bitter feeling; it was only the chafing of passion against what seemed so self-contained and so calm. And yet that very self-continence and calmness was what passion liked, and what passion involuntarily bent down before.

She had not got over yet the stunned effect of the past days and nights. She sat feeling coldly miserable and forlorn and solitary; conscious that one interest was living at her heart yet, but also conscious that it was to live and die by its own strength as it might; and that in all the world she had nothing else; no, nor never should have anything else. She could not have a father again; and even he had been nothing for the companionship of such a spirit as hers, not what she wanted to make her either good or happy. But little as he had done of late to make her either, the name, and even the nominal guardianship, and what the old childish affection had clung to, were gone — and never could come back; and Elizabeth wept sometimes with a very bowed head and heart, and sometimes sat stiff and quiet, gazing at the varying mountain outline, and the fathomless shadows that repeated it upon the water.

The night drew on, as the hills closed in more and more upon the narrowing river channel, and the mountain heads lifted themselves more high, and the shadows spread out broader upon the river. Every light along shore had long been out; but now one glimmered down at them faintly from under a high thick wooded bluff, on the east shore; and the Julia Ann as she came up towards it, edged down a little constantly to that side of the river.

"Where are we going?" said Elizabeth presently. "We're getting out of the channel."

But she saw immediately that Winthrop was asleep. It made her feel more utterly alone and forlorn than she had done before. With a sort of additional chill at her heart, she looked round for some one else of whom to ask her question, and saw the skipper just come on deck. Elizabeth got up to speak to him.

"Aren't we getting out of our course?"

"Eg-zackly," said Mr. Hildebrand. "Most out of it. That light's the Mill, marm."

"The Mill! Cowslip's Mill?"

"Well, it's called along o' my father, 'cause he's lived there, I s'pose, — and made it, — and owns to it, too, as far as that goes; — I s'pose it's as good a right to have his name as any one's."

Elizabeth sat down and looked at the light, which now had a particularly cheerless and hopeless look for her. It was the token of somebody's home, shining upon one who had none; it was a signal of the near ending of a guardianship and society which for the moment had taken home's place; a reminder that presently she must be thrown upon her own guidance; left to take care of herself alone in the world, as best she might. The journey, with all its pain, had been a sort of little set- off from the rest of her life, where the contrasts of the past and the future did not meet. They were coming back now. She felt their shadows lying cold upon her. It was one of the times in her life of greatest desolation, the while the sloop was drawing down to her berth under the home light, and making fast in her moorings. The moon was riding high, and dimly shewed Elizabeth the but half-remembered points and outlines; — and there was a contrast! She did not cry; she looked, with a cold chilled feeling of eye and mind that would have been almost despair, if it had not been for the one friend asleep at her side. And he was nothing to her. Nothing. He was nothing to her. Elizabeth said it to herself; but for all that he was there, and it was a comfort to see him there.

The sails rattled down to the deck; and with wind and headway the sloop gently swung up to her appointed place. Another light came out of the house, in a lantern; and another hand on shore aided the sloop's crew in making her fast.

"How can he sleep through it all!" thought Elizabeth. "I wonder if anything ever could shake him out of his settled composure — asleep or awake, it's all the same."

"Ain't you goin' ashore?" said the skipper at her side.

"No — not now."

"They'll slick up a better place for you than we could fix up in this here little hulk. Though she ain't a small sloop neither, by no means."

"What have you got aboard there, Hild'?" called out a voice that came from somewhere in the neighbourhood of the lantern. "Gals?"

"Governor Landholm and some company," said the skipper in a more moderate tone. The other voice took no hint of moderation.

"Governor Landholm? — is he along? Well — glad to see him. Run from the yallow fever, eh?"

"Is mother up, father?"

"Up? — no! — What on arth!"

"Tell her to get up, and make some beds for folks that couldn't sleep aboard sloop; and have been navigatin' all night."

"Go, and I'll look after the sloop till morning, Captain," said Winthrop sitting up on his sail.

"Won't you come ashore and be comfortable?" said father and son at once.

"I am comfortable."

"But you'll be better off there, Governor."

"Don't think I could, Hild'. I'm bound to stay by the ship."

"Won't you come, Miss?" said the skipper addressing Elizabeth.
"You'll be better ashore."

"Oh yes — come along — all of you," said the old sloop-master on the land.

"I'm in charge of the passengers, Captain," said Winthrop; "and I don't think it is safe for any of them to go off before morning."

The request was urged to Elizabeth. But Winthrop quietly negatived it every time it was made; and the sloop's masters at last withdrew. Elizabeth had not spoken at all.

"How do you do?" said Winthrop gravely, when the Cowslips, father and son, had turned their backs upon the vessel.

"Thank you —" said Elizabeth, — and stopped there.

"You are worn out."

"No," — Elizabeth answered under her breath; and then gathering it, went on, — "I am afraid you are."

"I am perfectly well," he said. "But you ought to rest."

"I will, — by and by," said Elizabeth desperately. "I will stay here till the daylight comes. It will not be long, will it?"

He made no answer. The sloop's deck was in parts blockaded with a load of shingles. Winthrop went to these, and taking down bundle after bundle, disposed them so as to make a resting-place of greater capabilities than the armless wooden chair in which Elizabeth had been sitting all night. Over this, seat, back, sides and all, he spread the sail on which he had been lying.

"Is there nothing in the shape of a pillow or cushion that you could get out of the cabin now?" said he.

"But you have given me your sail," said Elizabeth.

"I'm master of the sloop now. Can't you get a pillow?"

Since so much had been done for her, Elizabeth consented to do this for herself. She fetched a pillow from the cabin; and Winthrop himself bestowed it in the proper position; and with a choking feeling of gratitude and pleasure that did not permit her to utter one word, Elizabeth placed herself in the box seat made for her, took off her bonnet and laid her head down. She knew that Winthrop laid her light shawl over her head; but she did not stir. Her thanks reached only her pillow, in the shape of two or three hot tears; then she slept.

CHAPTER X.

Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side,
I sat a weeping; in the whole world wide
There was no one to ask me why I wept, —
And so I kept
Brimming the water-lily cups with tears
Cold as my fears.
SHELLEY.

The dawn had fairly broken, but that was all, when Winthrop and old Mr. Cowslip met on the little wharf landing which served instead of courtyard to the house. The hands clasped each other cordially.

"How do you do? Glad to see you in these parts!" was the hearty salutation of the old man to the young.

"Thank you, Mr. Cowslip," said Winthrop, returning the grasp of the hand.

"I don't see but you keep your own," the old man went on, looking at him wistfully. "Why don't you come up our way oftener? It wouldn't hurt you."

"I don't know about that," said Winthrop. "My business lies that way, you know."

"Ah! — 'tain't as good business as our'n, now," said Mr. Cowslip. "You'd better by half be up there on the old place, with your wife and half a dozen children about you. Ain't married yet, Governor, be you?"

"No sir."

"Goin' to be?"

"I don't know what I am going to be, sir."

"Ah! —" said the old miller with a sly smile. "Is that what you've got here in the sloop with you now? I guessed it, and Hild' said it wa'n't — not as he knowed on — but I told him he didn't know everything."

"Hild' is quite right. But there are two ladies here who are going up to Shahweetah. Can you give us a boat, Mr. Cowslip?"

"A boat? — How many of you?"

"Four — and baggage. Your boat is large enough — used to be when I went in her."

"Used to be when I went in her," said the old skipper; "but there it is! She won't hold nobody now."

"What's the matter?"

"She took too many passengers the other day, — that is, she took one too many. Shipped a cargo of fresh meat, sir, and it wa'n't stowed in right, and the 'Bessie Bell' broke her heart about it. Like to ha' gone to the bottom."

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I was comin' home from Diver's Rock the other day — just a week ago last Saturday — I had been round there up the shore after fish; — you know the rock where the horse mackerel comes? — me and little Archie; lucky enough we had no more along. By the by, I hope you'll go fishing, Winthrop — the mackerel's fine this year. How long you're goin' to stay?"

"Only a day or two, sir."

"Ah! — Well — we were comin' home with a good mess o' fine fish, and when we were just about in the middle of the river, comin' over, — the fish had been jumping all along the afternoon, shewing their heads and tails more than common; and I'd been sayin' to Archie it was a sign o' rain — 'tis, you know, — and just as we were in the deepest of the river, about half way over, one of 'em came up and put himself aboard of us."

"A sturgeon?"

"Just that, sir; as sound a fellow as ever you saw in your life — just the length of one of my little oars — longer than I be — eight feet wanting one inch, he measured, for the blade of that oar has been broken off a bit — several inches, — and what do you think he weighed? — Two hundred and forty pound."

"So it seems you got him safe to land, where you could weigh him."

"And measure him. I forgot I was talkin' to a lawyer," said the old man laughing. "Yes, I didn't think much how long he was at the time, I guess! He came in as handsome as ever you saw anything done — just slipped himself over the gunwale so — and duv under one of the th'arts, and druv his nose through the bottom of the boat."

"Kept it there, I hope?"

"Ha, ha! Not so fast but there came in a'most water enough to float him again by the time we got to land. He was a power of a fellow!"

"And the 'Bessie' don't float?"

"No; she's laid up with three broken ribs."

"No other boat on hand?"

"There's a little punt out there, that Hild' goes a fishin' in — that'd carry two or three people. But it wouldn't take the hull on ye."

"There's the sloop's boat."

"She leaks," said the miller. "She wants to be laid up as bad as the 'Bessie.'"

"Have you any sort of a team, Mr. Cowslip?"

"Yes! — there's my little wagon — it'll hold two. But you ain't wanting it yet, be you?"

"As soon as it can go — if it can go. Is there a horse to the wagon?"

"Sartain! But won't you stop and take a bit?"

"No sir. If you will let some of the boys take up the punt with her load, I'll drive the wagon myself, and as soon as you can let me have it."

"Jock! — tackle up the wagon! —that 'ere little red one in the barn," shouted the miller. "Hild' 'll see to the boat-load — or I will, — and send it right along. I'm sorry you won't stop."

Winthrop turned back to the sloop. Elizabeth met him there with the question, "if she might not go now?"

"As soon as you please. I am going to drive you up to Shahweetah. The boat will carry the rest, but it is too small to take all of us."

"I'm very glad!" — Elizabeth could not help saying.

She granted half a word of explanation to Mrs. Nettley, her bonnet was hastily thrown on, and she stood with Winthrop on the wharf before the little wagon was fairly ready. But Jock was not tardy neither; and a very few minutes saw them seated and the horse's head turned from the Mill.

The dawn was fresh and fair yet, hardly yielding to day. In utter silence they drove swiftly along the road, through the woods and out upon the crest of tableland overlooking the bay; just above the shore where the huckleberry party had coasted along, that afternoon years before. By the time they got there, the day had begun to assert itself. Little clouds over Wut-a-qut-o's head were flushing into loveliness, and casting down rosy tints on the water; the mountain slopes were growing bright, and a soft warm colouring flung through all the air from the coming rays of the coming sun. The cat-birds were wide awake and very busy; the song sparrows full of gladness; and now and then, further off, a wood-thrush, less worldly than the one and less unchastened than the other, told of hidden and higher sweets, in tones further removed from Earth than his companions knew. The wild, pure, ethereal notes thrilled like a voice from some clear region where earthly defilement had been overcome, and earthly sorrows had lost their power. Between whiles, the little song sparrows strained their throats with rejoicing; but that was the joy of hilarious nature that sorrows and defilement had never touched. The cat-birds spoke of business, and sung over it, ambitious and self-gratulatory, and proud. And then by turns came the strange thrush's note, saying, as if they knew it and had proved it,

"WHEN HE GIVETH QUIETNESS, THEN WHO CAN MAKE TROUBLE?"

The travellers had ridden so far without speaking a word. If Elizabeth was sometimes weeping, she kept herself very quiet, and perfectly still. The sights and sounds that were abroad entered her mind by a side door, if they entered at all. Winthrop might have taken the benefit of them; but up to the bend of the bay he had driven fast and attentively. Here he suffered the horse to slacken his pace and come even to a walk, while his eye took note of the flushing morning, and perhaps the song of the birds reached his ear. It was not of them he spoke.

"Do you mean to begin upon the first chapter of Matthew?" he said, when the horse had walked the length of some two or three minutes.

"Yes! — I do" — said Elizabeth, turning her face towards him.

"According to the rules?"

The answer was spoken more hesitatingly, but again it was 'yes.'

"I am glad of that," he said.

"Mr. Winthrop," said Elizabeth presently, speaking it seemed with some effort, — "if I get into any difficulty — if I cannot understand, — I mean, if I am in any real trouble, — may I write to you to ask about it?"

"With great pleasure. I mean, it would give me great pleasure to have you do so."

"I should be very much obliged to you," she said humbly.

She did not see, for she did not look to see, a tiny show of a smile which spread itself over her companion's face. They drove on fast, till the bottom of the bay was left and they descended from the tableland, by Sam Doolittle's, to the road which skirted the south side of Shahweetah. Winthrop looked keenly as he passed at the old fields and hillsides. They were uncultivated now; fallow lands and unmown grass pastures held the place of the waving harvests of grain and new-reaped stubblefields that used to be there in the old time. The pastures grew rank, for there were even no cattle to feed them; and the fallows were grown with thistles and weeds. But over what might have been desolate lay the soft warmth of the summer morning; and rank pasture and uncared fallow ground took varied rich and bright hues under the early sun's rays. Those rays had now waked the hilltops and sky and river, and were just tipping the woods and slopes of the lower ground. By the bend meadow Winthrop drew in his horse again and looked fixedly.

"Does it seem pleasant to you?" he asked.

"How should it, Mr. Winthrop?" Elizabeth said coldly.

"Do you change your mind about wishing to be here?"

"No, not at all. I might as well be here as anywhere. I would rather — I have nowhere else to go."

He made no comment, but drove on fast again, till he drew up once more at the old back door of the old house. It seemed a part of the solitude, for nothing was stirring. Elizabeth sat and watched Winthrop tie the horse; then he came and helped her out of the wagon.

"Lean on me," said he. "You are trembling all over."

He put her arm within his, and led her up to the door and knocked.

"Karen is up — unless she has forgotten her old ways," said
Winthrop. He knocked again.

A minute after, the door slowly opened its upper half, and Karen's wrinkled face and white cap and red shortgown were before them. Winthrop did not speak. Karen looked in bewilderment; then her bewilderment changed into joy.

"Mr. Winthrop! — Governor!" —

And her hand was stretched out, and clasped his in a long mute stringent clasp, which her eyes at least said was all she could do.

"How do you do, Karen?"

"I'm well — the Lord has kept me. But you —"

"I am well," said Winthrop. "Will you let us come in, Karen? — This lady has been up all night, and wants rest and refreshment."

Karen looked suspiciously at 'this lady,' as she unbolted the lower half of the door and let them in; and again when Winthrop carefully placed her in a chair and then went off into the inner room for one which he knew was more easy, and made her change the first for it.

"And what have ye come up for now, governor?" she said, when she had watched them both, with an unsatisfied look upon her face and a tone of deep satisfaction coming out in her words.

"Breakfast, Karen. What's to be had?"

"Breakfast? La!" — said the old woman, — "if you had told me you's coming — What do you expect I'll have in the house for my breakfast, Governor?"

"Something —," said Winthrop, taking the tongs and settling the sticks of wood in the chimney to burn better. Karen stood and looked at him.

"What have you got, Karen?" said Winthrop, setting up the tongs.

"I ha'n't got nothing for company," said Karen, grinning.

"That'll do very well," said Winthrop. "Give me the coffee and I'll make it; and you see to the bread, Karen. You have milk and cream, haven't you?"

"Yes, Governor."

"And eggs?"

"La! yes."

"Where are they?"

"Mr. Landholm, don't trouble yourself, pray!" said Elizabeth.
"I am in no hurry for anything. Pray don't!"

"I don't intend it," said he. "Don't trouble your self. Would you rather go into another room?"

Elizabeth would not; and therefore and thereafter kept herself quiet, watching the motions of Karen and her temporary master. Karen seemed in a maze; but a few practical advices from Winthrop at last brought her back to the usual possession of her senses and faculties.

"Who is she?" Elizabeth heard her whisper as she began to bustle about. And Winthrop's answer, not whispered,

"How long ago do you suppose this coffee was parched?"

"No longer ago than yesterday. La sakes! Governor, — I'll do some fresh for you if you want it."

"No time for that, Karen. You get on with those cakes."

Elizabeth watched Winthrop with odd admiration and curiosity, mixed for the moment with not a little of gratified feeling; but the sense of desolation sitting back of all. He seemed to have come out in a new character, or rather to have taken up an old one; for no one could suppose it worn for the first time. Karen had been set to making cakes with all speed. Winthrop seemed to have taken the rest of the breakfast upon himself. He had found the whereabout of the eggs, and ground some coffee, and made it and set it to boil in Karen's tin coffeepot.

"What are you after now, Mr. Winthrop?" said Karen, looking round from her pan and moulding board. "These'll be in the spider before your coffee's boiled."

"They'll have to be quick, then," said Winthrop, going on with his rummaging.

"What are you after, Governor? — there's nothin' there but the pots and kittles."

One of which, however, Winthrop brought out as if it was the thing wanted, and put upon the fire with water in it. Going back to the receptacle of 'pots and kittles,' he next came forth with the article Karen had designated as the 'spider,' and set that in order due upon its appropriate bed of coals.

"La sakes! Governor!" said Karen, in a sort of fond admiration, — "ha'n't you forgot nothin'?"

"Now Karen," said Winthrop, when she had covered the bottom of the hot iron with her thin cakes, — "you set the table and I'll take care of 'em."

"There's the knife, then," said Karen. "Will ye know when to turn them? There ain't fire enough to bake 'em by the blaze."

"I've not forgotten so much," said Winthrop. "Let's have a cup and saucer and plate, Karen."

"Ye sha'n't have one," said Karen, casting another inquisitive and doubtful glance towards the silent, pale, fixed figure sitting in the middle of her kitchen. He did have one, however, before she had got the two ready; despatched Karen from the table for sugar and cream; and then poured out himself a cup of his own preparation, and set it on Karen's half-spread table, and came to Elizabeth. He did not ask her if she would have it, nor say anything in fact; but gently raising her with one hand, he brought forward her chair with the other, and placed both where he wanted them to be, in the close neighbourhood of the steaming coffee. Once before, Elizabeth had known him take the same sort of superintending care of her, when she was in no condition to take care of herself. It was inexpressibly soothing; and yet she felt as if she could have knelt down on the floor, and given forth her very life in tears. She looked at the coffee with a motionless face, till his hand held it out to her. Not to drink it was impossible, though she was scarcely conscious of swallowing anything but tears. When she took the cup from her lips, she found an egg, hot out of the water, on her plate, which was already supplied also with butter. Her provider was just adding one of the cakes he had been baking.

"I can't eat!" said Elizabeth, looking up.

"You must, —" Winthrop answered.

In the same tone in which he had been acting. Elizabeth obeyed it as involuntarily.

"Who is the lady, Governor?" Karen ventured, when she had possessed herself of the cake-knife, and had got Winthrop fairly seated at his breakfast.

"This lady is the mistress of the place, Karen."

"The mistress! Ain't you the master?" — Karen inquired instantly.

"No. I have no right here any longer, Karen."

"I heered it was selled, but I didn't rightly believe it," the old woman said sadly. "And the mistress 'll be turning me away now?"

"Tell her no," whispered Elizabeth.

"I believe not, Karen, unless you wish it."

"What should I wish it for? I've been here ever since I come with Mis' Landholm, when she come first, and she left me here; and I want to stay here, in her old place, till I'm called to be with her again. D'ye think it'll be long, Governor?"

"Are you in haste, Karen?"

"I don't want fur to stay" said the old woman. "She's gone, and I can't take care o' you no longer, nor no one. I'd like to be gone, too — yes, I would."

"You have work to do yet, Karen. You may take as good care as you can of this lady."

Again Karen looked curiously and suspiciously at her, for a minute in silence.

"Is she one of the Lord's people?" she asked suddenly.

Elizabeth looked up on the instant, in utter astonishment at the question; first at Karen and then at Winthrop. The next thing was a back-sweeping tide of feeling, which made her drop her bread and her cup from her hands, and hide her face in them with a bitter burst of tears. Winthrop looked concerned, and Karen confounded. But she presently repeated her question in a half whisper at Winthrop.

"Is she? —"

"There is more company coming, Karen, for you to take care of," he said quietly. "I hope you have cakes enough. Miss Haye — I see the boat-load has arrived — will you go into the other room?"

She rose, and not seeing where she went, let him lead her. The front part of the house was unfurnished; but to the little square passage-way where the open door let in the breeze from the river, Winthrop brought a chair, and there she sat down. He left her there and went back to see to the other members of the party, and as she guessed to keep them from intruding upon her. She was long alone.

The fresh sweet air blew in upon her hot face and hands, reminding her what sort of a world it came from; and after the first few violent bursts of pain, Elizabeth presently raised her head to look out and see, in a sort of dogged willingness to take the contrast which she knew was there. The soft fair hilly outlines she remembered, in the same August light; — the bright bend of the river — a sloop sail or two pushing lazily up; — the same blue of a summer morning overhead; — the little green lawn immediately at her feet, and the everlasting cedars, with their pointed tops and their hues of patient sobriety — all stood nearly as she had left them, how many years before. And herself — Elizabeth felt as if she could have laid herself down on the doorstep and died, for mere heart-heaviness. In this bright sunny world, what had she to do? The sun had gone out of her heart. What was to become of her? What miserable part should she play, all alone by herself? She despised herself for having eaten breakfast that morning. What business had she to eat, or to have any appetite to eat, when she felt so? But Winthrop had made her do it. What for? Why should he? It was mere aggravation, to take care of her for a day, and then throw her off for ever to take care of herself. How soon would he do that? —

She was musing, her eyes on the ground; and had quite forgotten the sunny landscape before her with all its gentle suggestions; when Winthrop's voice sounded pleasantly in her ear, asking if she felt better. Elizabeth looked up.

"I was thinking," she said, "that if there were nothing better to be had in another world, I could almost find it in my heart to wish I had never been born into this!"

She expected that he would make some answer to her, but he did not. He was quite silent; and Elizabeth presently began to question with herself whether she had said something dreadful. She was busily taking up her own words, since he had not saved her the trouble. She found herself growing very much ashamed of them.

"I suppose that was a foolish speech," she said, after a few moments of perfect silence, — "a speech of impatience."

But Winthrop neither endorsed nor denied her opinion; he said nothing about it; and Elizabeth was exceedingly mortified.

"If you wanted to rebuke me," she thought, "you could not have done it better. I suppose there is no rebuke so sharp as that one is obliged to administer to oneself. And your cool keeping silence is about as effectual a way of telling me that you have no interest in my concerns as even you could have devised."

Elizabeth's eyes must have swallowed the landscape whole, for they certainly took in no distinct part of it.

"How are you going to make yourself comfortable here?" said
Winthrop presently; — "these rooms are unfurnished."

She might have said that she did not expect to be comfortable anywhere; but she swallowed that too.

"I will go and see what I can do in the way of getting some furniture together," he went on. "I hope you will be able to find some way of taking rest in the mean time — though I confess I do not see how."

"Pray do not!" said Elizabeth starting up, and her whole manner and expression changing. "I am sure you are tired to death now."

"Not at all. I slept last night."

"How much? Pray do not go looking after anything! You will trouble me very much."

"I should be sorry to do that."

"I can get all the rest I want."

"Where?"

"On the rocks — on the grass."

"Might do for a little while," said Winthrop; — "I hope it will; but I must try for something better."

"Where can you find anything — in this region?"

"I don't know," said he; "but it must be found. If not in this region, in some other."

"To-morrow, Mr. Landholm."

"To-morrow — has its own work," said he; and went.

"Will he go to-morrow?" thought Elizabeth, with a pang at her heart. "Oh, I wish — no, I dare not wish — that I had never been born! What am I to do with myself?"

Conscience suggested very quietly that something might be done; but Elizabeth bade conscience wait for another time, though granting all it advanced. She put that by, as she did Mrs. Nettley and Clam who both presently came where Winthrop had been standing, to make advances of a different nature.

"What'll I do, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the latter, in a tone that argued a somewhat dismal view of affairs.

"Anything you can find to do."

"Can't find nothin, —" said Clam, "'cept Karen. One corner of the house is filled enough with her; and the rest ha'n't got nothin' in it."

"Let Karen alone, and take care of your own business, Clam."

"If I knowed what 'twas," said the persevering damsel. "I can't make the beds, for there ain't none; nor set the furnitur to rights, for the rooms is 'stressed empty."

"You can let me alone, at all events. The rooms will have something in them before long. You know what to do as well as any one; — if you don't, ask Mr. Landholm."

"Guess I will!" said Clam; "when I want to feel foolisher than
I do. Did the furnitur come by the sloop?"

"No. Mr. Landholm will send some. I don't care anything about it."

"Ha! then if he's goin' to send it," said Clam turning away, "the place 'll have to be ready for it, I s'pose."

Mrs. Nettley appeared in Clam's place. Elizabeth was still sitting on the door-step, and though she knew by a side view that one had given place to the other, she did not seem to know it and sat looking straight before her at the sunny landscape.

"It's a beautiful place," said Mrs. Nettley after a little pause of doubt.

"Very beautiful," said Elizabeth coldly.

"I did not know it was so beautiful. And a healthy place, I should suppose."

Elizabeth left the supposition unquestioned.

"You are sadly fatigued, Miss Haye," said Mrs. Nettley after a longer pause than before.

"I suppose I am," said Elizabeth rising, for patience had drawn her last breath; — "I am going down by the water to rest. Don't let any one follow me or call me — I want nothing — only to rest by myself."

And drawing her scarf round her, she strode through the rank grass to the foot of the lawn, and then between scattered rocks and sweetbriars and wild rose-bushes, to the fringe of cedar trees which there clothed the rocks down to the water. Between and beneath them, just where she came out upon the river, an outlooking mass of granite spread itself smooth and wide enough to seat two or three people. The sun's rays could not reach there, except through thick cedar boughs. Cedar trees and the fall of ground hid it from the house; and in front a clear opening gave her a view of the river and opposite shore, and of a cedar-covered point of her own land, outjutting a little distance further on. Solitude, silence, and beauty invited her gently; and Elizabeth threw herself down on the grey lichen-grown stone; but rest was not there.

"Rest!" — she said to herself in great bitterness; — "rest!
How can I rest? — or where can there be rest for me? —"

And then passionate nature took its will, and poured out to itself and drank all the deep draughts of pain that passion alone can fill and refill for its own food. Elizabeth's proud head bowed there, to the very rock she sat on. Yet the proud heart would not lay itself down as well; that stood up to breast pain and wrestle with it, and take the full fierce power of the blast that came. Till nature was tired out, — till the frame subsided from convulsions that racked it, into weary repose, — so long the struggle lasted; and then the struggle was not ended, but only the forces on either side had lost the power of carrying it on. And then she sat, leaning against a cedar trunk that gave her its welcome support, which every member and muscle craved; not relieved, but with that curious respite from pain which the dulled senses take when they have borne suffering as long and as sharply as they can.

It was hot in the sun; but only a warm breath of summer air played about Elizabeth where she sat. The little waves of the river glittered and shone and rolled lazily down upon the channel, or curled up in rippling eddies towards the shore. The sunlight was growing ardent upon the hills and the river; but over Elizabeth's head the shade was still unbroken. A soft aromatic smell came from the cedars, now and then broken in upon by a faint puff of fresher air from the surface of the water. Hardly any sound, but the murmur of the ripple at the water's edge and the cheruping of busy grasshoppers upon the lawn. Now and then a locust did sing out; he only said it was August and that the sun was shining hot and sleepily everywhere but under the cedar trees. His song was irresistible. Elizabeth closed her eyes and listened to it, in a queer kind of luxurious rest-taking which was had because mind and body would have it. Pain was put away, in a sort; for the senses of pain were blurred. The aromatic smell of the evergreens was wafted about her; and then came a touch, a most gentle touch, of the south river-breeze upon her face; and then the long dreamy cry of the locust; and the soft plashing sound of the water at her feet. All Elizabeth's faculties were crying for sleep; and sleep came, handed in by the locust and the summer air, and laid its kind touch of forgetfulness upon mind and body. At first she lost herself leaning against the cedar tree, waking up by turns to place herself better; and at last yielding to the overpowering influences without and within, she curled her head down upon a thick bed of moss at her side and gave herself up to such rest as she might.

What sort of rest? Only the rest of the body, which had made a truce with the mind for the purpose. A quiet which knew that storms were not over, but which would be quiet nevertheless. Elizabeth felt that, in her intervals of half-consciousness. But all the closer she clung to her pillow of dry moss. She had a dispensation from sorrow there. When her head left it, it would be to ache again. It should not ache now. Sweet moss! — sweet summer air! — sweet sound of plashing water! — sweet dreamy lullaby of the locust! — Oh if they could put her to sleep for ever! — sing pain out and joy in! —

A vague, half-realized notion of the fight that must be gone through before rest 'for ever' could in any wise be hoped for — of the things that must be gained and the things that must be lost before that 'for ever' rest could in any sort be looked forward to, — and dismissing the thought, Elizabeth blessed her fragrant moss pillow of Lethe and went to sleep again.

How she dreaded getting rested; how she longed for that overpowering fatigue and exhaustion of mind and body to prolong itself! And as the hours went on, she knew that she was getting rested, and that she would have to wake up to everything again by and by. It should not be at anybody's bidding.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! —" sounded Clam's voice in the midst of her slumbers.

"Go away, Clam!" said the sleeper, without opening her eyes.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, ain't ye goin' to eat nothin'?"

"No — Go away."

"Miss 'Lizabeth! — dinner's ready."

"Well! —"

"You're a goin' to kill yourself."

"Don't you kill me!" said Elizabeth impatiently. "Go off."

"To be sure," said Clam as she turned away, — "there ain't much company."

It was very vexing to be disturbed. But just as she was getting quiet again, came the tread of Mrs. Nettley's foot behind her, and Elizabeth knew another colloquy was at hand.

"Are you asleep, Miss Haye?" said the good lady a little timidly.

"No," said Elizabeth lifting her head wearily, — "I wish I were."

"There's dinner got ready for you in the house."

"Let anybody eat it that can. — I can't."

"Wouldn't you be better for taking a little something? I'm afraid you'll give way if you do not."

"I don't care," said Elizabeth. "Let me give way — only let me alone!"

She curled her head down determinately again.

"I am afraid, Miss Haye, you will be ill," said poor Mrs.
Nettley.

"I am willing," — said Elizabeth. "I don't care about anything, but to be quiet! —"

Mrs. Nettley went off in despair; and Elizabeth in despair also, found that vexation had effectually driven away sleep. In vain the locust sang and the moss smelled sweet; the tide of feeling had made head again, and back came a rush of disagreeable things, worse after worse; till Elizabeth's brow quitted the moss pillow to be buried in her hands, and her half-quieted spirit shook anew with the fresh-raised tempest. Exhaustion came back again; and thankfully she once more laid herself down to sleep and forgetfulness.

Her sleep was sound this time. The body asserted its rights; and long, long she lay still upon her moss pillow, while the regular deep-drawn breath came and went, fetching slow supplies of strength and refreshment. The sun quitted its overhead position and dipped towards Wut-a-qut-o, behind the high brow of which, in summer-time, it used to hide itself. A slant ray found an opening in the thick tree-tops, and shone full upon Elizabeth's face; but it failed to rouse her; and it soon went up higher and touched a little song sparrow that was twittering in a cedar tree close by. Then the shadows of the trees fell long over the grass towards the rocks on the east.

Elizabeth was awakened at last by a familiar adjuration.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! — you'll catch a Typhus, or an agur, or somethin' dreadful, down there! Don't ye want to live no more in the world?"

Elizabeth sat up, and rested her face on her knees, feeling giddy and sick.

"Don't ye feel bad?"

"Hush, Clam! —"

"I'm sent after ye," said Clam, — "I dursn't hush. Folks thinks it is time you was back in the house."

"Hush! — I don't care what folks think."

"Not what nobody thinks?" said Clam.

"What do you mean!" said Elizabeth flashing round upon her.
"Go back into the house. — I will come when I am ready."

"You're ready now," said Clam. "Miss 'Lizabeth, ye ain't fit for anything, for want of eatin'. Come! — they want ye."

"Not much," — thought Elizabeth bitterly, — "if they left it to her to bring me in."

"Are you sick, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"No."

"He's come home," Clam went on; — "and you never saw the things he has brought! Him and me's been puttin' 'em up and down. Lots o' things. Ain't he a man!"

"'Up and down!'" repeated Elizabeth.

"Egg-zackly," — said Clam; — "Floor-spreads — what-d'ye- call'ems? — and bedsteads — and chairs. He said if he'd know'd the house was all stripped, he'd never have fetched you up here."

"Yes he would," said Elizabeth. "What do I care for a stripped house!" — "with a stripped heart," her thought finished it.

"Well don't you care for supper neither? — for that old thing is a fixin' it," said Clam.

"You must not call her names to me."

"Ain't she old?" said Clam.

"She is a very good old woman, I believe."

"Ain't you comin' Miss 'Lizabeth? They won't sit down without you."

"Who sent you out here?"

"Karen axed where you was; and Mrs. Nettley said she dursn't go look for you; and Mr. Landholm said I was to come and bring you in."

"He didn't, Clam! —"

"As likely as your head's been in the moss there, he did, Miss
'Lizabeth."

"Go yourself back into the house. I'll come when I am ready, and I am not ready yet."

"He ha'n't had nothin' to eat to-day, I don't believe," said Clam, by way of a parting argument. But Elizabeth let her go without seeming to hear her.

She sat with her hands clasped round her knees, looking down upon the water; her eyes slowly filling with proud and bitter tears. Yet she saw and felt how coolly the lowering sunbeams were touching the river now; that evening's sweet breath was beginning to freshen up among the hills; that the daintiest, lightest, cheeriest gilding was upon every mountain top, and wavelet, and pebble, and stem of a tree. "Peace be to thee, fair nature, and thy scenes!" — and peace from them seems to come too. But oh how to have it! Elizabeth clasped her hands tight together and then wrung them mutely. "O mountains — O river — O birds!" — she thought, — "If I could but be as senseless as you — or as good for something!"

CHAPTER XI.

When cockleshells turn silver bells,
When wine dreips red frae ilka tree,
When frost and snaw will warm us a',
Then I'll come doun an' dine wi' thee.
JEANNIE DOUGLASS.

The sun was low, near Wut-a-qut-o's brow, when at last slowly and lingeringly, and with feet that, as it were, spurned each step they made, Elizabeth took her way to the house. But no sooner did her feet touch the doorstep than her listless and sullen mood gave place to a fit of lively curiosity — to see what Winthrop had done. She turned to the left into the old keeping-room.

It had been very bare in the morning. Now, it was stocked with neat cane-bottomed chairs, of bird's-eye maple. In the middle of the floor rested an ambitious little mahogany table with claw feet. A stack of green window-blinds stood against the pier between the windows, and at the bottom on the floor lay a paper of screws and hinges. The floor was still bare, to be sure, and so was the room, but yet it looked hopeful compared with the morning's condition. Elizabeth stood opening her eyes in a sort of mazed bewilderment; then hearing a little noise of hammering in the other part of the house, she turned and crossed over to the east room — her sleeping-room of old and now. She went within the door and stood fast.

Her feet were upon a green carpet which covered the room. Round about were more of the maple chairs, looking quite handsome on their green footing. There was a decent dressing- table and chest of drawers of the same wood, in their places; and a round mahogany stand which seemed to be meant for no particular place but to do duty anywhere. And in the corner of the room was Winthrop, with Mrs. Nettley and Clam for assistants, busy putting up a bedstead. He looked up slightly from his work when Elizabeth shewed herself, but gave her no further attention. Clam grinned. Mrs. Nettley was far too intent upon holding her leg of the bedstead true and steady, to notice or know anything else whatever.

Elizabeth looked for a moment, without being able to utter a word; and then turned about and went and stood at the open door, her breast heaving thick and her eyes too full to see a thing before her. Then she heard Winthrop pass behind her and go into the other room. Elizabeth followed quickly. He had stooped to the paper of screws, but stood up when she came in, to speak to her.

"I am ashamed of myself for having so carelessly brought you to a dismantled house. I had entirely forgotten that it was so, in this degree, — though I suppose I must at some time have heard it."

"It would have made no difference, —" said Elizabeth, and said no more.

"I will return to the city to-morrow, and send you up immediately whatever you will give order for. It can be here in a very few days."

Elizabeth looked at the maple chairs and the mahogany table, and she could not speak, for her words choked her. Winthrop stooped again to his paper of screws and hinges and began turning them over.

"What are you going to do?" said Elizabeth, coming a step nearer.

"I am going to see if I can put up these blinds?"

"Blinds!" said Elizabeth.

"Yes. — I was fortunate enough to find some that were not very far from the breadth of the windows. They were too long; and I made the man shorten them. I think they will do."

"What did you take all that trouble for?"

"It was no trouble."

"Where did all these things come from?"

"From Starlings — I hadn't to go any further than that for them."

"How far is it?"

"Twelve miles."

"Twelve miles there and back!"

"Makes twenty-four."

"In this hot day! — I am very sorry, Mr. Landholm!"

"For what?" said he, shouldering one of the green blinds.

"You are not going to put those on yourself?"

"I am going to try — as I said."

"You have done enough day's work," said Elizabeth. "Pray don't, at least to-night. It's quite late. Please don't! —"

"If I don't to-night, I can't to-morrow," said Winthrop, marching out. "I must go home to-morrow."

Home! It shook Elizabeth's heart to hear him speak the old word. But she only caught her breath a little, and then spoke, following him out to the front of the house.

"I would rather they were not put up, Mr. Landholm. I can get somebody to do it."

"Not unless I fail."

"It troubles me very much that you should have such a day."

"I have had just such a day — as I wanted," said Winthrop, measuring with his eye and rule the blind and the window-frame respectively.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, Karen's got the tea all ready, she says," Clam announced from the door; "and she hopes everybody's tired of waitin'."

"You've not had tea! —" exclaimed Elizabeth. "Come then, Mr.
Winthrop."

"Not now," said he, driving in his gimlet, — "I must finish this first. 'The night cometh wherein no man can work.'"

Elizabeth shrank inwardly, and struggled with herself.

"But the morning comes also," she said.

Winthrop's eye went up to the top hinge of the blind, and down to the lower one, and up to the top again; busy and cool, it seemed to consider nothing but the hinges. Elizabeth struggled with herself again. She was mortified. But she could not let go the matter.

"Pray leave those things!" she said in another minute. "Come in, and take what is more necessary."

"When my work is done," said he. "Go in, Miss Elizabeth. Karen will give me something by and by."

Elizabeth turned; she could do nothing more in the way of persuasion. As she set her foot heavily on the door-step, she saw Clam standing in the little passage, her lips slightly parted in a satisfied bit of a smile. Elizabeth was vexed, proud, and vexed again, in as many successive quarter seconds. Her foot was heavy no longer.

"Have you nothing to do, Clam?"

"Lots," said the damsel.

"Why aren't you about it, then?"

"I was waitin' till you was about your'n, Miss 'Lizabeth. I like folks to be out o' my way."

"Do you! Take care and keep out of mine," said her mistress.
"What are you going to do now?"

"Settle your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth. It's good we've got linen enough, anyhow."

"Linen, —" said Elizabeth, — "and a bedstead, — have you got a bed to put on it?"

"There's been care took for that," said Clam, with the same satisfied expression and a little turn of her head.

Half angry and half sick, Elizabeth left her, and went in through her new-furnished keeping-room, to Karen's apartment where the table was bountifully spread and Mrs. Nettley and Karen awaited her coming. Elizabeth silently sat down.

"Ain't he comin'?" said Karen.

"No — I am very sorry — Mr. Landholm thinks he must finish what he is about first."

"He has lots o' thoughts," said Karen discontentedly, — "he'd think just as well after eatin'. — Well, Miss — Karen's done her best — There's been worse chickens than those be — Mis' Landholm used to cook 'em that way, and she didn't cook 'em no better. I s'pose he'll eat some by'm by — when he's done thinkin'."

She went off, and Elizabeth was punctually and silently taken care of by Mrs. Nettley. The meal over, she did not go back to her own premises; but took a stand in the open kitchen door, for a variety of reasons, and stood there, looking alternately out and in. The sun had set, the darkness was slowly gathering; soft purple clouds floated up from the west, over Wut-a-qut-o's head, which however the nearer heads of pines and cedars prevented her seeing. A delicate fringe of evergreen foliage edged upon the clear white sky. The fresher evening air breathed through the pine and cedar branches, hardly stirred their stiff leaves, but brought from them tokens of rare sweetness; brought them to Elizabeth's sorrowful face, and passed on. Elizabeth turned her face from the wind and looked into the house. Karen had made her appearance again, and was diligently taking away broken meats and soiled dishes and refreshing the look of the table; setting some things to warm and some things to cool; giving the spare plate and knife and fork the advantage of the best place at table; brushing away crumbs, and smoothing down the salt-cellar. "You are over particular!" thought Elizabeth; — "it would do him no harm to come after me in handling the salt-spoon! — that even that trace of me should be removed." She looked out again.

Her friend the locust now and then was reminding her of the long hot day they had passed through together; and the intervals between were filled up by a chorus of grasshoppers and crickets and katydids. Soft and sweet blew the west wind again; that spoke not of the bygone day, with its burden and heat; but of rest, and repose, and the change that cometh even to sorrowful things. The day was passed and gone. "But if one day is passed, another is coming," — thought Elizabeth; and tears, hot and bitter tears, sprang to her eyes. How could those clouds float so softly! — how could the light and shadow rest so lovely on them! — how could the blue ether look so still and clear! "Can one be like that?" — thought Elizabeth. "Can I? — with this boiling depth of passion and will in my nature? — One can —" and she again turned her eyes within. But nothing was there, save the table, the supper, and Karen. The question arose, what she herself was standing there for? but passion and will said they did not care! she would stand there; and she did. It was pleasant to stand there; for passion and will, though they had their way, seemed to her feeling to be quieted down under nature's influences. Perhaps the most prominent thought now was of a great discord between nature and her, between her and right, — which was to be made up. But still, while her face was towards the western sky and soft wind, and her mind thought this, her ear listened for a step on the kitchen floor. The colours of the western sky had grown graver and cooler before it came.

It came, and there was the scrape of a chair on the wooden floor. He had sat down, and Karen had got up; but Elizabeth would not look in.

"Are ye hungry enough now, Governor?"

"I hope so, Karen, — for your sake."

"Ye don't care much for your own," said Karen discontentedly.

Perhaps Winthrop — perhaps Elizabeth, thought that she made up his lack of it. Elizabeth watched, stealthily, to see how the old woman waited upon him — hovered about him — supplied his wants, actual and possible, and stood looking at him when she could do nothing else. She could not understand the low word or two with which Winthrop now and then rewarded her. Bitter feeling overcame her at last; she turned away, too much out of tune with nature to notice any more, unless by way of contrast, what nature had spread about her and over her. She went round the house again to the front and sat down in the doorway. The stars were out, the moonlight lay soft on the water, the dews fell heavily.

"Miss Lizzie! — you'll catch seven deaths out there! — the day's bad enough, but the night's five times worse," — Clam exclaimed.

"I shan't catch but one," Elizabeth said gloomily.

"Your muslin's all wet, drinchin'!"

"It will dry."

"I can hang it up, I s'pose; but what'll I do with you if you get sick?"

"Nothing whatever! Let me alone, Clam."

"Mis' Nettles! —" said Clam going in towards the kitchen, — "Mis' Nettles! — where's Mr. Landholm? — Governor Winthrop — here's Miss 'Lizabeth unhookin' all them blinds you've been a hookin' up."

"What do you mean, Clam?"

"I don't mean no harm," said Clam lowering her tone, — "but Miss 'Lizabeth does. I wish you would go and see what she is doing, Mr. Winthrop; she's makin' work for somebody; and if it ain't nobody else, it's the doctor."

Winthrop however sat still, and Clam departed in ignorance how he had received her information. Presently however his supper was finished, and he sauntered round to the front of the house. He paused before the doorway where its mistress sat.

"It is too damp for you there."

"I don't feel it."

"I do."

"I am not afraid of it."

"If the fact were according to your fears, that would be a sufficient answer."

"It will do me no harm."

"It must not; and that it may not, you must go in," he said gravely.

"But you are out in it," said Elizabeth, who was possessed with an uncompromising spirit just then.

"I am out in it. Well?"

"Only — that I may venture —" she did not like to finish her sentence.

"What right have you to venture anything?"

"The same right that other people have."

"I risk nothing," said he gravely.

"I haven't much to risk."

"You may risk your life."

"My life!" said Elizabeth. "What does it signify! —" But she jumped up and ran into the house.

The next morning there was an early breakfast, for which Elizabeth was ready. Then Winthrop took her directions for things to be forwarded from Mannahatta. Then there was a quiet leave-taking; on his part kind and cool, on hers too full of impassioned feeling to be guarded or constrained. But there was reason and excuse enough for that, as she knew, or guard and restraint would both have been there. When she quitted his hand, it was to hide herself in her room and have one struggle with the feeling of desolation. It was a long one.

Elizabeth came out at last, book in hand.

"Dear Miss Haye!" Mrs. Nettley exclaimed — "you're dreadful worn with this hot weather and being out of doors all day yesterday!"

"I am going out again," said Elizabeth. "Clam will know where to find me."

"If you had wings, I'd know where to find you," said Clam; "but on your feet 'taint so certain."

"You needn't try, unless it is necessary," said Elizabeth dryly.

"But dear Miss Haye!" pleaded Mrs. Nettley, — "you're not surely going out to try the sun again to-day?"

Elizabeth's lip quivered.

"It's the pleasantest place, Mrs. Nettley — I am quite in the shade — I can't be better than I am there, thank you."

"Don't she look dreadful!" said the good lady, as Elizabeth went from the house. "Oh, I never have seen anybody so changed!"

"She's pulled down a bit since she come," said Karen, who gave
Elizabeth but a moderate share of her good will at any time.
"She's got her mind up high enough, anyway, for all she's gone
through."

"Who hain't?" said Clam. "Hain't the Governor his mind up high enough? And you can't pull him down, but you can her."

"His don't never need," said Karen.

"Well — I don' know, —" said Clam, picking up several things about the floor — "but them high minds is a trial."

"Hain't you got one yourself, girl?" said old Karen.

"Hope so, ma'am. I take after my admirers. That's all the way
I live, — keeping my head up — always did."

Karen deigned no reply, but went off.

"Mis' Nettles," said Clam, "do you think Miss Haye 'll ever stand it up here all alone in this here place?"

"Why not?" said Mrs. Nettley innocently.

"I guess your head ain't high enough up for to see her'n," said Clam, in scornful impatience. And she too quitted the conversation in disgust.

CHAPTER XII.

'Resolve,' the haughty moralist would say,
'The single act is all that we demand.'
Alas! such wisdom bids a creature fly
Whose very sorrow is, that time hath shorn
His natural wings.
WORDSWORTH.

The book in Elizabeth's hand was her bible. It was the next thing, and the only thing to be done after Winthrop's going away, that she could think of, to begin upon the first chapter of Matthew. It was action, and she craved action. It was an undertaking; for her mind remembered and laid hold of Winthrop's words — "Ask honestly, of your own conscience and of God, at each step, what obligation upon you grows out of what you read." And it was an undertaking that Winthrop had set her upon. So she sought out her yesterday's couch of moss with its cedar canopy, and sat down in very different mood from yesterday's mood, and put her bible on her lap. It was a feeling of dull passive pain now; a mood that did not want to sleep.

The day itself was very like yesterday. Elizabeth listened a minute to the sparrow and the locust and the summer wind, but presently she felt that they were overcoming her; and she opened her book to the first chapter of Matthew. She was very curious to find her first obligation. Not that she was unconscious of many resting upon her already; but those were vague, old, dimly recognized obligations; she meant to take them up now definitely, in the order in which they might come.

She half paused at the name in the first verse, — was there not a shadow of obligation hanging around that? But if there were, she would find it more clearly set forth and in detail as she went on. She passed it for the present.

From that she went on smoothly as far as the twenty-first verse. That stopped her.

"And she shall bring forth a son; and thou shalt call his name
Jesus; for he shall save his people from their sins."

"'His people,' —" thought Elizabeth. "I am not one of his people. Ought I not to be?"

The words of the passage did not say; but an imperative whisper at her heart said "Ay!"

"His people! — but how can I be one of his people?" she thought again. And impatience bade her turn over the leaf, and find something more or something else; but conscience said, "Stop — and deal with this obligation first."

"What obligation? — 'He shall save his people from their sins.' Then certainly I ought to let him save me from mine — that is the least I can do. But what is the first thing — the first step to be taken? I wish Mr. Landholm was here to tell me. —"

She allowed herself to read on to the end of the page, but that gave her not much additional light. She would not turn over the leaf; she had no business with the second obligation till the first was mastered; she sat looking at the words in a sort of impatient puzzle; and not permitting herself to look forward, she turned back a leaf. That gave her but the titlepage of the New Testament. She turned back another, to the last chapter of the Old. Its opening words caught her eye.

"For behold, the day cometh that shall burn as an oven; and all the proud, yea, and all that do wickedly, shall be stubble; and the day that cometh shall burn them up, saith the Lord of Hosts, that it shall leave them neither root nor branch."

"The proud, and they that do wickedly — that is my character and name truly," thought Elizabeth. "I am of them. — And it is from this, and this fate, that 'his people' shall be delivered. But how shall I get to be of them?" Her eye glanced restlessly up to the next words above —

"Then shall ye return and discern between the righteous and the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth him not."

"'Then,' — in that day," — thought Elizabeth, "I can discern between them now, without waiting for that. — Winthrop Landholm is one that serveth God — I am one that serve him not. There is difference enough, I can see now — but this speaks of the difference at that day; another sort of difference. — Then I ought to be a servant of God —"

The obligation was pretty plain.

"Well, I will, when I find out how," — she began. But conscience checked her.

"This is not the first chapter of Matthew," she said then. "I will go back to that."

Her eye fell lower, to the words,

"But unto you that fear my name shall the Sun of Righteousness arise with healing in his wings."

The tears started to Elizabeth's eyes. "This is that same who will save his people from their sins, — is it? — and that is his healing? Oh, I want it! — There is too much difference between me and them. He shall save his people from their sins, — I have plenty, — plenty. But how? — and what shall I do? It don't tell me here."

It did not; yet Elizabeth could not pass on. She was honest; she felt an obligation, arising from these words, which yet she did not at once recognize. It stayed her. She must do something — what could she do? It was a most unwelcome answer that at last slid itself into her mind. Ask to be made one of 'his people' — or to be taught how to become one? Her very soul started. Ask? — but now the obligation stood full and strong before her, and she could cease to see it no more. Ask? — why she never did such a thing in her whole life as ask God to do anything for her. Not of her own mind, at her own choice, and in simplicity; her thoughts and feelings had perhaps at some time joined in prayers made by another, and in church, and in solemn time. But here? with the blue sky over her, in broad day, and in open air? It did not seem like praying time. Elizabeth shut her book. Her heart beat. Duty and she were at a struggle now; she knew which must give way, but she was not ready yet. It never entered her head to question the power or the will to which she must apply herself, no more than if she had been a child. Herself she doubted; she doubted not him. Elizabeth knew very little of his works or word, beyond a vague general outline, got from sermons; but she knew one servant of God. That servant glorified him; and in the light which she saw and loved, Elizabeth could do no other but, in her measure, to glorify him too. She did not doubt, but she hesitated, and trembled. The song of the birds and the flow of the water mocked her hesitancy and difficulty. But Elizabeth was honest; and though she trembled she would not and could not disobey the voice of conscience which set before her one clear, plain duty. She was in great doubt whether to stand or to kneel; she was afraid of being seen if she knelt; she would not be so irreverent as to pray sitting; she rose to her feet, and clasping a cedar tree with her arms, she leaned her head beside the trunk, and whispered her prayer, to him who saves his people from their sins, that he would make her one of them, she did not know how, she confessed; she prayed that he would teach her.

She kept her position and did not move her bended head, till the tears which had gathered were fallen or dried; then she sat down and took up her book again and looked down into the water. What had she done? Entered a pledge, she felt, to be what she had prayed to be; else her prayer would be but a mockery, and Elizabeth was in earnest. "What a full-grown fair specimen he is of his class," she thought, her mind recurring again to her adviser and exemplar; "and I — a poor ignorant thing in the dark, groping for a bit of light to begin!" — The tears gathered again; she opened the second chapter of Matthew.

She looked off again to feel glad. Was a pledge entered only on her side? — was there not an assurance given somewhere, by lips that cannot lie, that prayer earnestly offered should not be in vain? She could not recall the words, but she was sure of the thing; and there was more than one throb of pleasure, and a tiny shoot of grateful feeling in her heart, before Elizabeth went back to her book. What was the next 'obligation'? She was all ready for it.

Nothing stopped her much in the second chapter. The 'next obligation' did not start up till the words of John the Baptist in the beginning of the third —

"Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."

"What is repentance? — and what is the kingdom of heaven?" pondered Elizabeth. "I wish somebody was here to tell me. Repent? — I know what it is to repent — it is to change one's mind about something, and to will just against what one willed before. — And what ought I to repent about? — Everything wrong! Everything wrong! — That is, to turn about and set my face just the other way from what it has been all my life! — I might as good take hold of this moving earth with my two fingers and give it a twist to go westwards. —"

Elizabeth shut up her book, and laid it on the moss beside her.

"Repent? — yes, it's an obligation. Oh what shall I do with it! —"

She would have liked to do with it as she did with her head — lay it down.

"These wrong things are iron-strong in me — how can I unscrew them from their fastenings, and change all the out-goings and in-comings of my mind? — when the very hands that must do the work have a bent the wrong way. How can I? — I am strong for evil — I am weak as a child for good."

"I will try!" she said the next instant, lifting her head up — "I will try to do what I can. — But that is not changing my whole inner way of feeling — that is not repenting. Perhaps it will come. Or is this determination of mine to try, the beginning of it? I do not know that it is — I cannot be sure that it is. No — one might wish to be a good lawyer, without at all being willing to go through all the labour and pains for it which Winthrop Landholm has taken. — No, this is not, or it may not be, repentance — I cannot be sure that it is anything. But will it not come? or how can I get it? How alone I am from all counsel and help! — Still it must be my duty to try — to try to do particular things right, as they come up, even though I cannot feel right all at once. And if I try, won't the help come, and the knowledge? — What a confusion it is! In the midst of it all it is my duty to repent, and I haven't the least idea how to set about it, and I can't do it! O I wish Winthrop Landholm was here! —"

Elizabeth pondered the matter a good deal; and the more she thought about it, the worse the confusion grew. The duty seemed more imminent, the difficulty more obstinate. She was driven at last, unwillingly again, to her former ressource — what she could not give herself, to ask to have given her. She did it, with tears again, that were wrung from breaking pride and weary wishing. More quietly then she resolved to lay off perplexing care, and to strive to meet the moment's duty, as it arose. And by this time with a very humbled and quieted brow, she went on with her chapter. The words of the next verse caught her eye and her mind at once.

"For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, The voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight."

"Is not this it?" cried Elizabeth. "If I do my part — all I can — is not that preparing the way for him to do what I cannot do?"

She thought so, at any rate, and it comforted her.

"Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam, just behind her, "Karen wants to know what time you'll have dinner?"

"I don't care."

"That's 'zackly Karen's time o' day," said Clam discontentedly.

"I don't care at all, Clam."

"And she says, what 'll you have?"

"Nothing — or anything. Don't talk to me about it."

"Ain't much good in choosing," said Clam, "when there ain't three things to choose from. How long can you live on pork, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

Elizabeth looked up impatiently.

"Longer than you can. Clam! —"

"Ma'am?"

"Let me alone. I don't care about anything."

Clam went off; but ten minutes had not gone when she was back again.

"Miss Lizzie, — Anderese wants to know if he'll go on cuttin' wood just as he's a mind to?"

"Anderese? — who's he?"

"Karen and him used to be brother and sister when they was little."

"What does he want?"

"Wants to know if he shall go on cuttin' wood just as ever."

"Cutting wood! — what wood?"

"I s'pect it's your trees."

"Mine! What trees?"

"Why the trees in the woods, Miss Lizzie. As long as they was nobody's, Anderese used to cut 'em for the fire; now they're yourn, he wants to know what he shall do with 'em."

"Let 'em alone, certainly! Don't let him cut any more."

"Then the next question is, where'll he go for something to make a fire?"

"To make a fire!"

"Yes, Miss Lizzie — unless no time 'll do for dinner as well as any time. Can't cook pork without a fire. And then you'd want the kettle boiled for tea, I reckon."

"Can't he get wood anywhere, Clam? without cutting down trees."

"There ain't none to sell anywheres — he says."

"What trees has he been cutting?" said Elizabeth, rousing herself in despair.

"Any that come handy, I s'pose, Miss Lizzie — they'll all burn, once get 'em in the chimney."

"He mustn't do that. Tell him — but you can't tell him— and I can't. —"

She hesitated, between the intense desire to bid him cut whatever he had a mind, and the notion of attending to all her duties, which was strong upon her.

"Tell him to cut anything he pleases, for to-day — I'll see about it myself the next time."

Two minutes' peace; and then Clam was at her back again.

"Miss Lizzie, he don't know nothin' and he wants to know a heap. Do you want him to cut down a cedar, he says, or an oak, or somethin' else. There's the most cedars, he says; but Karen says they snap all to pieces."

Elizabeth rose to her feet.

"I suppose I can find a tree in a minute that he can cut without doing any harm. — Bring me a parasol, Clam, — and come along with me."

Clam and the parasol came out at one door, and Anderese and his axe at another, as Elizabeth slowly paced towards the house. The three joined company. Anderese was an old grey- haired negro, many years younger however than his sister. Elizabeth asked him, "Which way?"

"Which way the young lady pleases."

"I don't please about it," said Elizabeth, — "I don't know anything about it — lead to the nearest place — where a tree can be soonest found."

The old man shouldered his axe and went before, presently entering a little wood path; of which many struck off into the leafy wilderness which bordered the house. Leaves overhead, rock and moss under foot; a winding, jagged, up and down, stony, and soft green way, sometimes the one, sometimes the other. Elizabeth's bible was still in her hand, her finger still kept it open at the second chapter of Matthew; she went musingly along over grey lichens and sunny green beds of moss, thinking of many things. How she was wandering in Winthrop's old haunts, where the trees had once upon a time been cut by him, she now to order the cutting of the fellow trees. Strange it was! How she was desolate and alone, nobody but herself there to do it; her father gone; and she without another protector or friend to care for the trees or her either. There were times when the weight of pain, like the pressure of the atmosphere, seemed so equally distributed that it was distinctly felt nowhere, — or else so mighty that the nerves of feeling were benumbed. Elizabeth wandered along in a kind of maze, half wondering half indignant at herself that she could walk and think at all. She did not execute much thinking, to do her justice; she passed through the sweet broken sunlight and still shadows, among the rough trunks of the cedars, as if it had been the scenery of dreamland. On every hand were up-shooting young pines, struggling oaks that were caught in thickets of cedar, and ashes and elms that were humbly asking leave to spread and see the light and reach their heads up to freedom and free air. They asked in vain. Elizabeth was only conscious of the struggling hopes and wishes that seemed crushed for ever, her own.

"She don't see nothin'," whispered Clam to Anderese, whom she had joined in front. "She's lookin' into vacancy. If you don't stop, our axe and parasol 'll walk all round the place, and one 'll do as much work as the other. I can't put up my awning till you cut down something to let the sun in."

The old man glanced back over his shoulder at his young lady.

"What be I goin' to do?" he whispered, with a sidelong glance at Clam.

"Fling your axe into something," said Clam. "That'll bring her up."

The old man presently stepped aside to a young sapling oak, which having outgrown its strength bent its slim altitude in a beautiful parabolic curve athwart the sturdy stems of cedars and yellow pines which lined the path. Anderese stopped there and looked at Elizabeth. She had stopped too, without noticing him, and stood sending an intent, fixed, far-going look into the pretty wilderness of rock and wood on the other side of the way. All three stood silently.

"Will this do to come down, young lady?" inquired Anderese, with his axe on his shoulder. Elizabeth faced about.

"'Twon't grow up to make a good tree — it's slantin' off so among the others." He brought his axe down.

"That?" said Elizabeth, — "that reaching-over one? O no! you mustn't touch that. What is it?"

"It's an oak, miss; it's good wood."

"It's a better tree. No indeed — leave that. Never cut such trees. Won't some of those old things do?"

"Them? — them are cedars, young lady."

"Well, won't they do?"

"They'd fly all over and burn the house up," said Clam.

"What do you want?"

"Some o' the best there is, I guess," said Clam.

"Hard wood is the best, young lady."

"What's that?"

"Oak — maple — hickory — and there's ash, and birch — 'tain't very good."

Elizabeth sighed, and led the way on again, while the old negro shouldered his axe and followed with Clam; probably sighing on his own part, if habitual gentleness of spirit did not prevent. Nobody ever knew Clam do such a thing.

"Look at her!" muttered the damsel; — "going with her head down, — when'll she see a tree? Ain't we on a march! Miss 'Lizabeth! — the tree won't walk home after it's cut."

"What?" said her mistress.

"How'll it get there?"

"What?"

"The tree, Miss Lizzie — when Anderese has cut it."

"Can't he carry some home?"

"He'll be a good while about it — if he takes one stick at a time — and we ain't nigh home, neither."

Elizabeth came to a stand, and finally turned in another direction, homewards. But she broke from the path then, and took up the quest in earnest, leading her panting followers over rocks and moss-beds and fallen cedars and tangled vines and undergrowth, which in many places hindered their way. She found trees enough at last, and near enough home; but both she and her companions had had tree-hunting to their satisfaction. Elizabeth commissioned Anderese to find fuel in another way; and herself in some disgust at her new charge, returned to her rock and her bible. She tried to go through with the third chapter of Matthew; and her eye did go over it, though often swimming in tears. But that was the end of her studies at that time. Sorrow claimed the rest of the day for its own, and held the whole ground. Her household and its perplexities — her bible and its teachings — her ignorance and her necessities, — faded away from view; and instead thereof rose up the lost father, the lost home, and the lost friend yet dearer than all.

"What's become of Miss Haye?" whispered Mrs. Nettley late in the evening.

"Don' know," answered Clam. "Melted away — all that can melt, and shaken down — all that can shake, of her. That ain't all, so I s'pose there's somethin' left."

"Poor thing! — no wonder she takes it hard," said the good lady.

"No," said Clam, — she never did take nothin' easy."

"Has she been crying all the afternoon?"

"Don' know," said Clam; "the eye of curiosity ain't invited; but she don't take that easy neither, when she's about it. I've seen her cry — once; she'd do a year o' your crying in half an hour."

CHAPTER XIII.

O Land of Quiet! to thy shore the surf
Of the perturbed Present rolls and sleeps;
Our storms breathe soft as June upon thy turf,
And lure out blossoms.
LOWELL.

They were days of violent grief which for a little while followed each other. Elizabeth spent them out of doors; in the woods, on the rocks, by the water's edge. She would take her bible out with her, and sometimes try to read a little; but a very few words would generally touch some spring which set her off upon a torrent of sorrow. Pleasant things past or out of her reach, the present time a blank, the future worse than a blank, — she knew nothing else. She did often in her distress repeat the prayer she had made over the first chapter of Matthew; but that was rather the fruit of past thought; she did not think in those days; she gave up to feeling; and the hours were a change from bitter and violent sorrow to dull and listless quiet. Conscience sometimes spoke of duties resolved upon; impatient pain always answered that their time was not now.

The first thing that roused her was a little letter from Winthrop, which came with the pieces of furniture and stores he sent up to her order. It was but a word, — or two words; one of business, to say what he had done for her; and one of kindness, to say what he hoped she was doing for herself. Both words were brief, and cool; but with them, with the very handwriting of them, came a waft of that atmosphere of influence — that silent breath of truth which every character breathes — which in this instance was sweetened with airs from heaven. The image of the writer rose before her brightly, in its truth and uprightness and high and fixed principle; and though Elizabeth wept bitter tears at the miserable contrast of her own, they were more healing tears than she had shed all those days. When she dried them, it was with a new mind, to live no more hours like those she had been living. Something less distantly unlike him she could be, and would be. She rose and went into the house, while her eyes were yet red, and gave her patient and unwearied attention, for hours, to details of household arrangements that needed it. Her wits were not wandering, nor her eyes; nor did they suffer others to wander. Then, when it was all done, she took her bonnet and went back to her old wood-place and her bible, with an humbler and quieter spirit than she had ever brought to it before. It was the fifth chapter of Matthew now.

The first beatitude puzzled her. She did not know what was meant by 'poor in spirit,' and she could not satisfy herself. She passed it as something to be made out by and by, and went on to the others. There were obligations enough.

"'Meek?'" said Elizabeth, — "I suppose if there is anything in the world I am not, it is meek. I am the very, very opposite. What can I do with this? It is like a fire in my veins. Can I cool it? And if I could control the outward seeming of it, that would not be the change of the thing itself. Besides, I couldn't, I must be meek, if I am ever to seem so."

She went on sorrowfully to the next.

"'Hunger and thirst after righteousness' — I do desire it — I do not 'hunger and thirst.' I don't think I do — and it is those and those only to whom the promise is given. I am so miserable that I cannot even wish enough for what I need most. O God, help me to know what I am seeking, and to seek it more earnestly! —"

"'Merciful?'" she went on with tears in her eyes — "I think I am merciful. — I haven't been tried, but I am pretty sure I am merciful. But there it is — one must have all the marks, I suppose, to be a Christian. Some people may be merciful by nature — I suppose I am. —"

"Blessed are the pure in heart."

She stopped there, and even shut up her book, in utter sorrow and shame, that if 'pure in heart' meant pure to the All- seeing eye, hers was so very, very far from it. There was not a little scrap of her heart fit for looking into. And what could she do with it? The words of Job recurred to her, — "Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? not one."

Elizabeth was growing 'poor in spirit' before she knew what the words meant. She went on carefully, sorrowfully, earnestly — till she came to the twenty-fourth verse of the sixth chapter. It startled her.

"No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he will hold to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and Mammon."

"That is to say then," said Elizabeth, "that I must devote myself entirely to God — or not at all. All my life and possessions and aims. It means all that! —"

And for 'all that' she felt she was not ready. One corner for self-will and doing her own pleasure she wanted somewhere; and wanted so obstinately, that she felt, as it were, a mountain of strong unwillingness rise up between God's requirements and her; an iron lock upon the door of her heart, the key of which she could not turn, shutting and barring it fast against his entrance and rule. And she sat down before the strong mountain and the locked door, as before something which must, and could not, give way; with a desperate feeling that it must — with another desperate feeling that it would not.

Now was Elizabeth very uncomfortable, and she hated discomfort. She would have given a great deal to make herself right; if a movement of her hand could have changed her and cleared away the hindrance, it would have been made on the instant; her judgment and her wish were clear; but her will was not. Unconditional submission she thought she was ready for; unconditional obedience was a stumbling-block before which she stopped short. She knew there would come up occasions when her own will would take its way — she could not promise for it that it would not; and she was afraid to give up her freedom utterly and engage to serve God in everything. An enormous engagement, she felt! How was she to meet with ten thousand the enemy that came against her with twenty thousand? — Ay, how? But if he were not met — if she were to be the servant of sin for ever — all was lost then! And she was not going to be lost; therefore she was going to be the unconditional servant of God. When? —

The tears came, but they did not flow; they could not, for the fever of doubt and questioning. She dashed them away as impertinent asides. What were they to the matter in hand. Elizabeth was in distress. But at the same time it was distress that she was resolved to get out of. She did not know just what to do; but neither would she go into the house till something was done.

"If Mr. Landholm were here! —"

"What could he do?" answered conscience; "there is the question before you, for you to deal with. You must deal with it. It's a plain question."

"I cannot" — and "Who will undertake for me?" — were
Elizabeth's answering cry.

Her heart involuntarily turned to the great helper, but what could or would he do for her? — it was his will she was thwarting. Nevertheless, "to whom should she go?" — the shaken needle of her mind's compass turned more and more steadily to its great centre. There was light in no other quarter but on that 'wicket-gate' towards which Bunyan's Pilgrim first long ago set off to run. With some such sorrowful blind looking, she opened to her chapter of Matthew again, and carelessly and sadly turned over a leaf or two; till she saw a word which though printed in the ordinary type of the rest, stood out to her eyes like the lettering on a signboard. "ASK." —

"Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you."

The tears came then with a gush.

"Ask what? — it doesn't say, —but it must be whatever my difficulty needs — there is no restriction. 'Knock'! — I will — till it is opened to me — as it will be! —"

The difficulty was not gone — the mountain had not suddenly sunk to a level; but she had got a clue to get over the one, and daylight had broken through the other. Elizabeth felt not changed at all; no better, and no tenderer; but she laid hold of those words as one who has but uncertain footing puts his arms round a strong tree, — she clung as one clings there; and clasped them with assurance of life. Ask? — did she not ask, with tears that streamed now; she knocked, clasping that stronghold with more glad and sure clasp; she knew then that everything would be 'made plain' in the rough places of her heart.

She did not sit still long then for meditation or to rest; her mood was action. She took her bible from the moss, and with a strong beating sense both of the hopeful and of the forlorn in her condition, she walked slowly through the grass to the steps of her house door. As she mounted them a new thought suddenly struck her, and instead of turning to the right she turned to the left.

"Mrs. Nettley," said Elizabeth as she entered the sitting- room, "isn't it very inconvenient for you to be staying here with me?"

Good Mrs. Nettley was sitting quietly at her work, and looked up at this quite startled.

"Isn't it inconvenient for you?" Elizabeth repeated.

"Miss Haye! — it isn't inconvenient; — I am very glad to do it — if I can be of any service —"

"It is very kind of you, and very pleasant to me; but aren't you wanted at home?"

"I don't think I am wanted, Miss Haye, — at least I am sure my brother is very glad to have me do anything for Mr. Landholm, or for you, I am sure; — if I can."

Elizabeth's eye flashed; but then in an instant she called herself a fool, and in the same breath wondered why it should be, that Winthrop's benevolence must put him in the way of giving her so much pain.

"Who fills your place at home, while you are taking care of me here, Mrs. Nettley?"

"I don't suppose any of 'em can just do that," said the good lady with a little bit of a laugh at the idea.

"Well, is there any one to take care of your house and your brother?"

"Mr. Landholm — he said he'd see to it."

"Mr. Landholm! —"

"He promised he'd take care of George and the house as well. —
I dare say they don't manage much amiss."

"But who takes care of Mr. Landholm?"

"Nobody does, if he don't himself," said Mrs. Nettley with a shake of her head. "He don't give that pleasure to any other living person."

"Not when you are at home?"

"It makes no difference, Miss Haye," said Mrs. Nettley going on with her sewing. "He never will. He never did."

"But surely he boards somewhere, don't he? He don't live entirely by himself in that room?"

"That's what he always used," said Mrs. Nettley; "he does take his dinners somewhere now, I believe. But nothing else. He makes his own tea and breakfast, — that is! — for he don't drink anything. If it was any one else, one would be apt to say one would grow unsociable, living in such a way; but it don't make any change in him, no more than in the sun, what sort of a place he lives in."

Elizabeth stood for a minute very still; and then said gently,

"Mrs. Nettley, I mustn't let you stay here with me."

"Why not, Miss Haye? — I am sure they don't want me. I can just as well stay as not. I am very glad to stay."

"You are wanted more there than here. I must learn to get along alone. — It don't matter how soon I begin."

"Dear Miss Haye, not yet. Never mind now — we'll talk about it by and by," said Mrs. Nettley hurriedly and somewhat anxiously. She was a little afraid of Elizabeth.

"How could you get home from this place?"

"O by and by — there'll be ways — when the time comes."

"The time must come, Mrs. Nettley. You are very good — I'm very much obliged to you for coming and staying with me, — but in conscience I cannot let you stay any longer. It don't make any difference, a little sooner or later."

"Later is better, Miss Elizabeth."

"No — I shall feel more comfortable to think you are at home, than to think I am keeping you here. I would rather you should make your arrangements and choose what day you will go; and I will find some way for you to go."

"I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth," said Mrs. Nettley most unaffectedly. "I am sure Mr. Landholm would a great deal rather I should stay."

It was the last word Elizabeth could stand. Her lip trembled, as she crossed the passage to her own room and bolted the door; and then she threw herself on her knees by the bedside and hid the quivering face in her hands.

Why should it, that kind care of his, pierce her like thorns and arrows? why give her that when he could give her no more? "But it will all be over," she thought to herself, — "this struggle like all other struggles will come to an end; meanwhile I have it to bear and my work to do. Perhaps I shall get over this feeling in time — time wears out so much. — But I should despise myself if I did. No, when I have taken up a liking on so good and solid grounds, I hope I am of good enough stuff to keep it to the end of my days."

Then came over her the feeling of forlornness, of loneliness, well and thoroughly realized; with the single gleam of better things that sprung from the promise her heart had embraced that day. True and strong it was, and her soul clung to it. But yet its real brightness, to her apprehension, shone upon a "land that is very far off;" and left all the way thereunto with but a twilight earnest of good things to come; and Elizabeth did not like looking forward; she wanted some sweetness in hand. Yet she clung to that, her one stand-by. She had a vague notion that its gleam might lead to more brightness even this side of heaven; that there might be a sort of comfort growing out of doing one's duty, and the favour of him whose service duty is. Winthrop Landholm was always bright, — and what else had he to make him so? She would try what virtue there might be in it; she would essay those paths of wisdom which are said to be 'pleasantness;' but again came the longing for help; she felt that she knew so little. Again the word 'ask' — came back to her; and at last, half comforted, wholly wearied, she rose from her long meditation by the bed-side and went towards the window.

There was such a sparkling beauty on everything outside, under the clear evening sun, that its brilliancy half rebuked her. The very shadows seemed bright, so bright were the lines of light between them, where the tall pointed cedars were casting their mantle on the grass. Elizabeth stood by the open window, wondering. She looked back to the time when she had been there before, when she was as bright, though not as pure, as all things else; and now — father and friend were away from her, and she was alone. Yet still the sun shone — might it not again some time for her? Poor child, as she stood there the tears dropped fast, at that meeting of hope and sorrow; hope as intangible as the light, sorrow a thicker mantle than that of the cedar trees. And now the sunlight seemed to say 'Ask' — and the green glittering earth responded — "and ye shall receive." Elizabeth looked; — she heard them say it constantly. She did not question the one word or the other. It seemed very sweet to her, the thought of doing her duty; and yet, — the tears which had stayed, ran fast again when she thought of Mrs. Nettley's going away and how utterly alone she should be.

She had sat down and was resting her arm on the window-sill; and Miss Haye's face was in a state of humbled and saddened gravity which no one ever saw it in before these days. As she sat there, Karen's voice reached her from the back of the house somewhere; and it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that it might be as well for her to acquaint herself somewhat better with one of her few remaining inmates, since their number was to be so lessened. She dried her eyes, and went out with quick step through the kitchen till she neared the door of the little back porch where Karen was at work. There she paused.

The old woman was singing one of her Methodist songs, in a voice that had once very likely been sweet and strong. It was trembling and cracked now. Yet none of the fire and spirit of old was wanting; as was shewn, not indeed by the power of the notes, but by the loving flow or cadence the singer gave them. Elizabeth lingered just within the door to listen. The melody was as wild and sweet as suited the words. The first of the song she had lost; it went on —

"Till Jesus shall come,
"Protect and defend me until I'm called home;
"Though worms my poor body may claim as their prey,
"'Twill outshine, when rising, the sun at noon-day.

"The sun shall be darkened, the moon turned to blood,
"The mountains all melt at the presence of God;
"Red lightnings may flash, and loud thunders may roar,
"All this cannot daunt me on Canaan's blest shore.

"A glimpse of bright glory surprises my soul,
"I sink in sweet visions to view the bright goal;
"My soul, while I'm singing, is leaping to go,
"This moment for heaven I'd leave all below.

"Farewell, my dear brethren — my Lord bids me come;
"Farewell, my dear sisters —I'm now going home;
"Bright angels are whispering so sweet in my ear, —
"Away to my Saviour my spirit they'll bear.

"I am going — I'm going — but what do I see! —"

She was interrupted.

"Do you mean all that, Karen?" said Elizabeth, stepping without the door.

Karen stopped her song and looked round.

"Do you mean all that you are singing, Karen?"

"What I'm singing? —"

"Yes. I've been listening to you. — Do you feel and mean all those words of your hymn?"

"I don't say no words I don't mean," said Karen, going on with her work; — "anyhow, I don't mean to."

"But those words you have been singing — do you mean that you feel them all?"

Karen stood up and faced her as she answered,

"Yes!"

"Do you mean that you would rather die than live?"

"If 'twas the Lord's will, I would," said Karen, without moving her face.

"Why?"

Karen looked at her still, but her face unbent in a little bit of a smile.

"You ain't one of the Lord's people, be you, young lady?"

"I don't know —" said Elizabeth, blushing and hesitating, — "I mean to be."

"Do you mean to be one of 'em?" said Karen.

"I wish to be — yes, I mean to be, — if I can."

The old woman dried her hand which had been busy in water, and coming up took one of Elizabeth's, — looked at its delicate tints in her own wrinkled and black fingers, and then lifting a moistened eye to Elizabeth's face, she answered expressively,

"Then you'll know."

"But I want to know something about it now," said the young lady as Karen went back to her work. "Tell me. How can you wish to 'leave all for heaven,' as you were singing a moment ago?"

"I'd ha' done that plenty o' years ago," said Karen. "I'd got enough of this world by that time."

"Is that the reason?"

"What reason?" said Karen.

"Is that the reason you would like to go to heaven?"

"It's the reason why I'm willing to leave the earth," said
Karen. "It hain't nothin' to do with heaven."

"Anybody might be willing to go to heaven at that rate," said
Elizabeth.

"That ain't all, young lady," said Karen, working away while she spoke. "I'm not only willin' to go — I'm willin' to be there when I get there — and I'm ready too, thank the Lord!"

"How can one be 'ready' for it, Karen? — It seems such a change."

"It'll be a good change," said Karen. "Mis' Landholm thinks it is."

Elizabeth stood silent, the tears swelling; she got little light from Karen.

"You wa'n't one of the Lord's people when you come? — be you? —" said Karen suddenly, looking round at her.

"I hardly know whether I am one now, Karen, — but I mean to try."

"Tryin' ain't no use," said Karen. "If you want to be one of the Lord's people, you've only to knock, and it shall be opened to you."

"Did you never know that fail?"

"I never tried it but once — it didn't fail me then," said the old woman. "The Lord keeps his promises. — I tried it a good while — it don't do to stop knockin'."

"But I must — one must try to do something — I must try to do my duty," said Elizabeth.

"Surely!" said Karen, facing round upon her again, "but you can't help that. Do you s'pose you can love Jesus Christ, and not love to please him? 'Tain't in natur' — you can't help it."

"But suppose I don't love him, Karen?" said Elizabeth, her voice choking as she said it. "I don't know him yet — I don't know him enough to love him."

There was a little pause; and then without looking at her, Karen said in her trembling voice, a little more trembling than it was,

"I don't know, Miss 'Lizabeth — 'To them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them that believe on his name!' — I heard a man preach that once."

The tears rushed in full measure to Elizabeth's eyes. She stood, not heeding Karen nor anything else, and the thick veil of tears hiding everything from her sight. It was a moment of strong joy; for she knew she believed in him! She was, or she would be, one of 'his people.' Her strong pillar of assurance she clasped again, and leaned her heart upon, with unspeakable rest.

She stood, till the water had cleared itself from her eyes; and then she was turning into the house, but turned back again, and went close up to the old black woman.

"Thank you, Karen," said she. "You have given me comfort."

"You hain't got it all," said Karen without looking at her.

"What do you mean?"

"Did you ever read a book called the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' young lady?"

"No."

"I ain't much like the people there," said Karen, "but they was always glad to hear of one more that was going to be a pilgrim; and clapped their hands, they did."

"Did you ever read it, Karen?"

"I hearn Mis' Landholm read it — and the Governor."

Elizabeth turned away, and she had not half crossed the kitchen when she heard Karen strike up, in a sweet refrain,

"I'll march to Canaan's land,
"I'll land on Canaan's shore," —

Then something stopped the song, and Elizabeth came back to her room. She sat down by the window. The light was changed. There seemed a strange clear brightness on all things without that they had not a little while ago, and that they never had before. And her bread was sweet to her that night.

CHAPTER XIV.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do;
Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike
As if we had them not.
SHAKSPEARE.

Much against Mrs. Nettley's will, she was despatched on her journey homewards within a few days after. She begged to be allowed to stay yet a week or two, or three; but Elizabeth was unmoveable. "It would make no difference," she said, "or at least I would rather you should go. You ought to be there — and I may as well learn at once to get used to it."

"But it will be very bad for you, Miss Elizabeth."

"I think it is right, Mrs. Nettley."

So Mrs. Nettley went; and how their young lady passed her days and bore the quietude and the sorrow of them, the rest of the household marvelled together.

"She'd die, if there was dyin' stuff in her," said Clam; "but there ain't."

"What for should she die?" said Karen.

"I'm as near dead as I can be, myself," was Clam's conclusive reply.

"What ails you, girl?"

"I can't catch my breath good among all these mountains," said
Clam. "I guess the hills spiles the air hereabouts."

"Your young lady don't think so."

"No," said Clam, — "she looks at the mountains as if she'd swaller them whole — them and her Bible; — only she looks into that as if it would swaller her."

"Poor bird! she's beat down; — its too lonesome up here for her!" said Karen more tenderly than her wont was.

"That ain't no sign she'll go," said Clam. "She's as notional as the Governor himself, when she takes a notion; only there's some sense in his, and you never know where the sense of hers is till it comes out."

"The house is so still, it's pitiful to hear it," said Karen. "I never minded it when there wa'n't nobody in it — I knowed the old family was all gone — but now I hear it, seems to me, the whole day long. You can't hear a foot, when you ain't in there."

"That'll last awhile, maybe," said Clam; "and then you'll have a row. 'Tain't in her to keep still more'n a certain length o' time; and when she comes out, there'll be a firing up, I tell ye."

"The Lord 'll keep his own," said Karen rising from the table.
Which sentence Clam made nothing of.

Spite of her anticipations, the days, and the weeks, sped on smoothly and noiselessly. Indeed more quietness, and not less, seemed to be the order of them. Probably too much for Elizabeth's good, if such a state of mere mind-life had been of long lasting. It would not long have been healthy. The stir of passion, at first, was fresh enough to keep her thoughts fresh; but as time went on there were fewer tears and a more settled borne-down look of sorrow. Even her Bible, constantly studied, — even prayer, constantly made over it, did not hinder this. Her active nature was in an unnatural state; it could not be well so. And it sometimes burst the bounds she had set to it, and indulged in a passionate wrestling with the image of joys lost and longed for. Meanwhile, the hot days of August were passed, the first heats of September were slowly gone; and days and nights began to cool off in earnest towards the frosty weather.

"If there ain't some way found to keep Miss Haye's eyes from cryin', she won't have 'em to do anything else with. And she'll want 'em, some day."

Clam, like Elizabeth of old, having nobody else to speak to, was sometimes driven to speak to the nearest at hand.

"Is she cryin', now?" said Karen.

"I don' know what you'd call it," said Clam. "'Tain't much like other folks' cryin'."

"Well there's a letter Anderese fetched — you'd better take it to her as soon as it'll do. Maybe it'll do her good."

"Where from?" said Clam seizing it.

"Anderese fetched it from Mountain Spring."

"Now I wish 'twas — but it ain't! —" said Clam. "I'll take it to her anyhow."

Elizabeth knew that it wasn't, as soon as she took it. The letter was from the gentleman who had been her father's lawyer in the city.

Mannahatta, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear madam,

"Upon arrangement of Mr. Haye's affairs, I regret to say, we find it will take nearly all his effects to meet the standing liabilities and cover the failure of two or three large operations in which Mr. Haye had ventured more upon uncertain contingencies than was his general habit in business matters. So little indeed will be left, at the best issue we can hope for, that Mrs. Haye's interest, whose whole property, I suppose you are aware, was involved, I grieve to say will amount to little or nothing. It were greatly to be wished that some settlement had in time been made for her benefit; but nothing of the kind was done, nor I suppose in the circumstances latterly was possible. The will makes ample provision, but I am deeply pained to say, is, as matters stand, but a nullity. I enclose a copy.

"I have thought it right to advertise you of these painful tidings, and am,

"Dear madam, with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"Dustus O. Brick."

Elizabeth had read this letter, and pondered over it by turns half the day, when a startling thought for the first time flashed into her mind. Rose's desolate condition! Less desolate than her own indeed, in so far that Rose had less strength to feel; but more desolate by far, because being as friendless she was much more helpless than herself. "What will she do, without money and friends? — for she never had any near and dear friends but father and me. Where can she live? — "

Elizabeth jumped up and ran into the house to get away from the inference. But when she had sat down in her chair the inference stood before her.

"Bring her here! — I cannot. I cannot. It would ruin my life."
Then, clear and fair, stood the words she had been reading —
'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you —'

"But there is no bed-room for her but this — or else there will be no sitting-room for either of us; — and then we must eat in the kitchen! —"

"She has neither house, nor home, nor friend, nor money. What wouldst thou, in her place? —"

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and almost groaned. She took it up and looked out, but in all bright nature she could find nothing which did not side against her. She got up and walked the room; then she sat down and began to consider what arrangements would be necessary, and what would be possible. Then confessed to herself that it would not be all bad to have somebody to break her solitude, even anybody; then got over another qualm of repugnance, and drew the table near her and opened her desk.

Shahweetah, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear Rose,

"I am all alone, like you. Will you come here and let us do the best we can together? I am at a place you don't like, but I shall not stay here all the time, and I think you can bear it with me for a while. I shall have things arranged so as to make you as comfortable as you can be in such straitened quarters, and expect you will come as soon as you can get a good opportunity. Whether you come by boat or not, part of the way, you will have to take the stage-coach from Pimpernel here; and you must stop at the little village of Mountain Spring, opposite Wut-a-qut-o. From there you can get here by wagon or boat. I can't send for you, for I have neither one nor the other.

"Yours truly, dear Rose,

"Elizabeth Haye."

With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth went forth to the kitchen.

"Karen, is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at Mountain
Spring?"

"What's that?" said Karen.

"Is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at the village? — a cabinet-maker, — somebody that makes tables and bedsteads, and that sort of thing?"

"A furnitur' shop?" said Karen.

"Yes — something of that kind. Is there such a thing in
Mountain Spring?"

Karen shook her head.

"They don't make nothin' at Mountain Spring."

"Where do the people get their tables and chairs? where do they go for them?"

"They go 'most any place," said Karen; — "sometimes they goes to Pimpernel, — and maybe to Starlings, or to Deerford; they don't go much nowheres."

"Can I get such things at Pimpernel?"

"If you was there, you could, I s'pose," said Karen.

"Could Anderese get a horse and cart at the village, to go for me?"

"I guess he can find a wagon round somewheres," said Karen.
"You couldn't go in a cart handy."

"I! — no, but I want to send him, to fetch home a load of things."

"How'll he know what to get?"

"I will tell him. Couldn't he do it?"

"If he knowed what was wanted, he could," said Karen. "Me and him 'll go, Miss Lizzie, and we'll do it."

"You, Karen! I don't want to send you."

"Guess I'll do the best," said the old woman. "Anderese mightn't know what to fetch. What you want, Miss Lizzie?"

Elizabeth thought a moment whether she should ask Winthrop to send up the things for her; but she could not bear to do it.

"I want a bedstead, Karen, in the first place."

"What sort'll a one?"

"The best you can find."

"That'll be what'll spend the most money," said Karen musingly.

"I don't care about that, but the nicest sort you can meet with. And a bureau —"

"What's that?" said Karen. "I dun' know what that means."

"To hold clothes — with drawers — like that in my room."

"A cupboard?" said Karen; — "some sort like that?"

"No, no; I'll shew you what I mean, in my room; it is called a bureau. And a washstand — a large one, if you can find it. And a rocking-chair — the handsomest one that can be had."

"I know them two," said Karen. "That'll be a load, Miss
Lizzie. I don't b'lieve the wagon 'll hold no more."

"The first fine day, Karen, I want you to go."

"The days is all fine, I speck, hereabouts," said Karen.
"We'll start as quick as Anderese gets a wagon."

"Who's comin', Miss 'Lizabeth?" said Clam as she met her young lady coming out of the kitchen.

"I don't know — possibly Mrs. Haye. I wish all things to be in readiness for her."

"Where'll she sleep, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam with opening eyes.

"Here."

"Will she have this for her bedroom? — And what'll you do,
Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"If she comes, we will eat in the kitchen." And with the thought the young lady stepped back.

"I forgot — Karen, do you think the wagon will hold no more? Anderese must get a large one. I want a few neat chairs — plain ones — cane-bottomed, or rush-bottomed will do; I want them for this room; for if this lady comes we shall have to take this for our eating-room. I don't want a table; we can make this do; — or we can take the one I use now; but we want the chairs."

"Well, Miss Lizzie, you'll have to have 'em — we'll manage to pile 'em on someways."

And Miss Haye withdrew.

"Ain't this a start now?" said Clam after she had rubbed her knives in silence for several minutes. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"Tell what?" said Karen.

"Why! that Miss 'Lizabeth couldn't keep quiet more'n long enough to get her spunk up. What in the name of variety is she at work at now!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Karen.

"Why I tell you," said Clam facing round, "them two love each other like pison!"

"That's a queer way to love," said Karen.

"They hate each other then — do you understand me? they hate so, one wouldn't thaw a piece of ice off the other's head if it was freezin' her!"

"Maybe 'tain't jus' so," said Karen.

"What do you know about it!" said Clam contemptuously.

"What do you, perhaps?" suggested Karen.

"I know my young lady," said Clam rubbing her knives, "and I know t'other one. There ain't but one person in this world that can make Miss 'Lizabeth keep her fire down — but she does have an idee of mindin' him."

"Who's that?" said Karen.

"Somebody you don't know, I guess," said Clam.

"If 'twas all true, she wouldn't want her here," said Karen.

"It's all true," said Clam, — "'cept the last. You don't know nothin', Karen. We'll see what a time there'll be when she comes. Eat in here! —"

"She's eat in here afore now — and I guess she can again," said old Karen, in a tone of voice which spoke her by no means so discomposed as Clam's words would seem to justify.

Perhaps Elizabeth herself had a thought or two on the close quarters which would be the infallible result of Mrs. Haye's seizure of the old 'keeping-room.'

The twenty-seventh, spite of Karen's understanding of the weather, was a rainy day. The twenty-eighth, Karen and Anderese went to Pimpernel on their furniture hunting, and came back at night with the articles, selected somewhat in accordance with a limited experience of the usual contents of a cabinet-maker's warehouse. The very next day, Elizabeth set Anderese to foisting out and putting together her little old boat, the Merry-go-round. Putting together, literally; she was dropping to pieces from the effects of years and confinement. Anderese was hardly equal to the business; Elizabeth sent for better help from Mountain Spring, and watched rather eagerly the restoring of her favourite to strength and beauty. Watched and pressed the work, as if she was in a hurry. But after tightening and caulking, the boat must be repainted. Elizabeth watched the doing of that; and bargained for a pair of light oars with her friend the workman. He was an old, respectable- looking man, of no particular calling, that appeared.

"Where was this here boat built?" he inquired one day as he was at work and Elizabeth looking on.

"It was built in Mannahatta."

"A good while ago, likely?"

"Yes, it was."

"Did this here belong to old Squire Landholm?"

"No."

"'Twa'n't fetched here lately, I guess, was it?"

"No — it has lain here a long time."

"Who did it belong to, then?"

"It belonged to me."

"Is it your'n now?" said the man looking up at her.

"No," said Elizabeth colouring, — "it is not; but it belongs to a friend of mine."

"Was you ever in these parts before?"

"Some time ago."

"Then you knew the old family, likely?"

"Yes, I did."

"There was fine stuff in them Landholms," said the old man, perhaps supplied with the figure by the timber he was nailing, — "real what I call good stuff — parents and children. There was a great deal of good in all of 'em; only the boys took notions they wouldn't be nothin' but ministers or lawyers or some sort o' people that wears black coats and don't have to roll up their trowsers for nothin'. They were clever lads, too. I don't mean to say nothin' agin 'em."

"Do you know how they're gettin' on?" he asked after a pause on his part and on Elizabeth's.

"I believe Asahel is with his father, — gone West."

"Ay, ay; but I mean the others — them two that went to College. I ha'n't seen Rufus for a great spell — I went down and fetched up Winthrop when his mother died."

"Will you have paint enough to finish that gunwale?"

"Guess so," said the old man looking into his paint-pot.
"There's more oil in the bottle. What be them two doing now?
Winthrop's a lawyer, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's made a smart one, ha'n't he? — ain't he about as smart as any one they've got in Mannahatta?"

"I'm not a judge," said Elizabeth, who could not quite keep her countenance. "I dare say he is."

"He was my favourite, always, Winthrop was, — the Governor, as they called him. Well — I'd vote for him if he was sot up for that office — or any other office — if they'd do it while I'm above ground. Where is he now? — in Mannahatta?"

"Yes."

"Where's t'other one — the oldest — Rufus — where's he?"

"I don't know where he is. How soon will this do to be put in the water, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well — I guess it'll want somethin' of a dryin' fust. You can get along without it till next week, can't you?"

"Next week! and this is Tuesday! —"

"Yes — will you want it afore that? It hadn't ought to be put in the water one day afore Monday — if you want it to look handsome — or to wear worth speakin' of."

Miss Haye was silent, and the old man's brush made long sweeps back and forward over the shining gunwale.

"You see," Mr. Underhill went on, "it'll be all of night afore I get the bottom of this here done. — What's Rufus doin'? is he got to be a minister yet?"

"No."

"Another lawyer?"

"No."

"What is he then?"

"I don't know — I believe he was an engineer."

"An engineer?" said the old man standing up and looking at her. "Do you mean he's one o' them fellers that sees to the ingines on the boats? — that ain't much gettin' up in the world. I see one o' them once — I went to Mannahatta in the boat, just to see what 'twas — is Rufus one o' them smutty fellers standing over the fires there?"

"Not at all; it's a very different business, and as respectable as that of a clergyman or lawyer."

"There ain't anything more respectable than what his father was," said Mr. Underhill. "But Rufus was too handsome — he wanted to wear shiny boots always."

Elizabeth walked off.

So it was not till the early part of October that the little boat was painted and dried and in the water; and very nice she looked. Painted in the old colours; Elizabeth had been particular about that. Rose in the meantime had been heard from. She was coming, very soon, only staying for something, it wasn't very clearly made out what, that would however let her go in a few days. Elizabeth threw the letter down, with the mental conclusion that it was "just like Rose;" and resolved that her arms should be in a good state of training before the 'few days' were over.

"Who's goin' in this little concern?" said Mr. Underhill as he pushed it into the water. "Looks kind o' handsome, don't it?"

"Very nice!" said Elizabeth.

"That old black feller ain't up to rowin' you anywhere, is he?
I don't believe he is."

"I'll find a way to get about in her, somehow."

"You must come over and see our folks — over the other side. My old mother's a great notion to see you —" said he, pulling the boat round into place, — "and I like she should have what she's a fancy for."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his burrow. But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak again.

"Have you a mother living, sir?"

"Ay," he said with a little laugh, "she ain't a great deal older than I be. She's as spry in her mind, as she was when she was sixteen. Now — will you get into this?"

"Not now. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, — "the only house you can see, under the mountain there — just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little 'Merry-go-round.'

"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, — how gracefully they rose and fell — how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms — how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.

"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? —"

"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm — give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."

"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land," she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

"And this is only one old woman," went on the other quiet whisper, — "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. —"

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" — and she knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a minute. "I'll go," — she said to herself.

Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves — a yellow-headed butternut, partly bare — a ruddying dogwood or dogwood's family connection, — a hickory shewing suspicions of tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand; and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of them, could not make her be other than downcast and desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world, with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering. Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor uncheered. — "But he is very different from me; he has been long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" — And once Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat, and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.

Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that she was approaching them in a right direction, she was startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled, because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill, nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything. Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? — No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again? She did not till she must; then her look went first to the rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing above them, seen and not seen — she guided her boat in carefully — then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.

The nervousness and the flutter quieted themselves, almost; but probably Elizabeth could not have told then by the impulse of what feeling or feelings it was, that she coolly looked down again and gave her attention so steadily and minutely to the careful bestowment of her skiff, before she would set foot on the rocks and give her hand and eye to the person who had been waiting to claim them. By what impulse also she left it to him entirely to say what he was there for, and gave him no help whatever in her capacity of hostess.

"You are surprised to see me," said Rufus after he had shaken the lady's hand and helped her on shore.

"Rather. I could not imagine at first who it might be."

"I am glad to find you looking so well," said the gentleman gravely. "Very well indeed."

"It is the flush of exercise," said Elizabeth. "I was not looking well, a little while ago; and shall not be, in a little time to come."

"Rowing is good for you," said Rufus.

"It is pleasant," said Elizabeth. "I do it for the pleasantness, not for the goodness."

"Rather severe exercise, isn't it?"

"Not at all!" said Elizabeth a little scornfully. "I am not strong-armed just now — but it is nothing to move a boat like that."

"Some ladies would not think so."

They had been slowly moving up the path towards the house. As they reached the level of the grassy garden ground, where the path took a turn, Rufus stopped and faced about upon the river. The fair October evening air and light were there, over the water and over the land.

"It is beautiful!" he said somewhat abstractedly.

"You are not so fond of it as your brother, Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth.

"What makes you think so?"

There was quick annoyance in his tone, but Miss Haye was not careful.

"Am I wrong? Are you as fond of it?"

"I don't know," said Rufus. "His life has been as steadily given to his pursuits as mine has to mine."

"Perhaps more. But what then? I always thought you loved the city."

"Yes," Rufus said thoughtfully, — "I did; — but I love this too. It would be a very cold head and heart that did not."

Elizabeth made no reply; and the two enjoyed it in silence for a minute or two longer.

"For what do you suppose I have intruded upon you at this time, Miss Haye?"

"For some particular purpose — what, I don't know. I have been trying to think."

"I did not venture to presume upon making an ordinary call of civility."

What less are you going to do? — thought Elizabeth, looking at him with her eyes a little opened.

"I have been — for a few months past — constantly engaged in business at the South; and it is but a chance which permitted me to come here lately — I mean, to Mannahatta — on a visit to my brother. I am not willing to let slip any such opportunity."

"I should think you would not," said Elizabeth, wondering.

"There I heard of you. — Shall we walk down again?"

"If you please. I don't care whether up or down."

"I could not go home without turning a little out of my way to pay this visit to you. I hope I shall be forgiven."

"I don't know what I have to forgive, yet," said Elizabeth.

He was silent, and bit his lip nervously.

"Will you permit me to say — that I look back with great pleasure to former times passed in your society — in Mannahatta; — that in those days I once ventured to entertain a thought which I abandoned as hopeless, — I had no right to hope, — but that since I have heard of the misfortunes which have befallen you, it has come back to me again with a power I have not had the strength to resist — along with my sympathy for those misfortunes. Dear Miss Haye, I hope for your forgiveness and noble interpretation, when I say that I have dared to confess this to you from the impulse of the very circumstances which make it seem most daring."

"The misfortunes you allude to, are but one," said Elizabeth.

"One — yes, — but not one in the consequences it involved."

"At that rate of reckoning," said Elizabeth, "there would be to such a thing as one misfortune in the world."

"I was not thinking of one," said Rufus quietly. "The actual loss you have suffered is one shared by many — pardon me, it does not always imply equal deprivation, nor the same need of a strong and helping friendly hand."

Elizabeth answered with as much quietness, —

"It is probably good for me that I have care on my hands — it would be a weak wish, however natural, to wish that I could throw off on some agent the charge of my affairs."

"The charge I should better like," said Rufus looking at her, — "the only charge I should care for, — would be the charge of their mistress."

An involuntary quick movement of Elizabeth put several feet between them; then after half a minute, with a flushed face and somewhat excited breathing, she said, not knowing precisely what she said,

"I would rather give you the charge of my property, sir. The other is, you don't very well know what."

"My brother would be the better person to perform the first duty, probably," Rufus returned, with a little of his old- fashioned haughtiness of style.

Elizabeth's lips parted and her eye flashed, but as she was not looking at him, it only flashed into the water. Both stood proudly silent and still. Elizabeth was the first to speak, and her tone was gentle, whatever the words might be.

"You cannot have your wish in this matter, Mr. Landholm, and it would be no blessing to you if you could. I trust it will be no great grief to you that you cannot."

"My grief is my own," said Rufus with a mixture of expressions. "How should that be no blessing to me, which it is the greatest desire of my life to obtain, Miss Haye?"

"I don't think it is," said Elizabeth. "At least it will not be. You will find that it is not. It is not the desire of mine, Mr. Landholm."

There was silence again, a mortified silence on one part, — for a little space.

"You will do justice to my motives?" he said. "I have a right to ask that, for I deserve so much of you. If my suit had been an ungenerous one, it might better have been pressed years ago than now."

"Why was it not?" said Elizabeth.

It was the turn of Rufus's eyes to flash, and his lips and teeth saluted each other vexedly.

"It would probably have been as unavailing then as now," he replied. "I bid you good evening, Miss Haye. I ask nothing from you. I beg pardon for my unfortunate and inopportune intrusion just now. I shall annoy you no more."

Elizabeth returned his parting bow, and then stood quite still where he left her while he walked up the path they had just come down. She did not move, except her head, till he had passed out of sight and was quite gone; then she seated herself on one of the rocks near which her boat was moored, and clasping her hands round her knees, looked down into the water. What to find there? — the grounds of the disturbance in which her whole nature was working? it lay deeper than that. It wrought and wrought, whatever it was — the colour flushed and the lips moved tremulously, — her brow knit, — till at last the hands came to her eyes and her face sunk down, and passionate tears, passionate sobbing, told what Elizabeth could tell in no other way. Tears proud and humble — rebelling and submitting.

"It is good for me, I suppose," she said as she at last rose to her feet, fearing that her handmaid might come to seek her, — "my proud heart needed to be brought down in some such way — needed to be mortified even to this. Even to this last point of humiliation. To have my desire come and mock me so and as it were shake my wish in my face! But how could he think of me? — he could not — he is too good — and I am a poor thing, that may be made good, I suppose —"

Tears flowed again, hot and unbidden; for she was walking up to the house and did not want anybody to see them. And in truth before she was near the house Clam came out and met her half way down the path.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, — I don' know as you want to see nobody —"

"Who is there for me to see?"

"Well — there's an arrival — I s'pect we'll have to have supper in the kitchen to-night."

CHAPTER XV.

With weary steps I loiter on,
Though always under altered skies;
The purple from the distance dies,
My prospect and horizon gone.
TENNYSON.

Whether or not Elizabeth wanted to see anybody she did not say — except to herself. She walked into the house, fortified with all the muniments of her spirit for the meeting. It was a quiet one on the whole. Rose cried a good deal, but Elizabeth bore it without any giving way; saving once or twice a slight twinkling of lip and eye, instantly commanded back. Rose had all the demonstration to herself, of whatever kind. Elizabeth sat still, silent and pale; and when she could get free went and ordered supper.

The supper was in Mrs. Landholm's old kitchen; they two alone at the table. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of the old time, perhaps her thoughts had enough to do with the present; she was silent, grave and stern, not wanting in any kind care nevertheless. Rose took tears and bread and butter by turns; and then sat with her face in her handkerchief all the evening. It seemed a very, very long evening to her hostess, whose face bespoke her more tired, weary, and grave, with every succeeding half hour. Why was this companion, whose company of all others she least loved, to be yet her sole and only companion, of all the world? Elizabeth by turns fretted and by turns scolded herself for being ungrateful, since she confessed that even Rose was better for her than to be utterly alone. Yet Rose was a blessing that greatly irritated her composure and peace of mind. So the evening literally wore away. But when at last Rose was kissing her hostess for good night, between sobs she stammered, "I am very glad to be here Lizzie, — it seems like being at home again."

Elizabeth gave her no answer besides the answering kiss; but her eyes filled full at that, and as soon as she reached her own room the tears came in long and swift flow, but sweeter and gentler and softer than they had flowed lately. And very thankful that she had done right, very soothed and refreshed that her right doing had promised to work good, she laid herself down to sleep.

But her eyes had hardly closed when the click of her door- latch made them open again. Rose's pretty night-cap was presenting itself.

"Lizzie! — aren't you afraid without a man in the house?"

"There is a man in the house."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Anderese — Karen's brother."

"But he is old."

"He's a man."

"But aren't you ever afraid?"

"It's no use to be afraid," said Elizabeth. "I am accustomed to it. I don't often think of it."

"I heard such queer noises," said Rose whispering. "I didn't think of anything before, either. May I come in here?"

"It's of no use, Rose," said Elizabeth. "You would be just as much afraid to-morrow night. There is nothing in the world to be afraid of."

Rose slowly took her night-cap away and Elizabeth's head went down on her pillow. But her closing eyes opened again at the click of the latch of the other door.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! —"

"Well, Clam? —"

"Karen's all alive, and says she ain't goin' to live no longer."

"What! —"

"Karen."

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe she's goin', as she says she is; but I think maybe she ain't."

"Where is she?" said Elizabeth jumping up.

"In here," said Clam. "She won't die out of the kitchen."

Elizabeth threw on her dressing-gown and hurried out; thinking by the way that she had got into a thorn forest of difficulties, and wishing the daylight would look through. Karen was sitting before the fire, wrapped up in shawls, in the rocking-chair.

"What's the matter, Karen?"

Karen's reply was to break forth into a tremulous scrap of her old song, —

"'I'm going, — I'm going, — I'm going, —'"

"Stop," said Elizabeth. "Don't sing. Tell me what's the matter."

"It's nothin' else, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "I'm goin' — I think I be."

"Why do you think so? How do you feel?"

"I don't feel no ways, somehow; — it's a kinder givin' away. I think I'm just goin', ma'am."

"But what ails you, Karen?"

"It's time," said Karen, jerking herself backwards and forwards in her rocking-chair. "I'm seventy years and more old. I hain't got no more work to do. I'm goin'; and I'm ready, praise the Lord! They're most all gone; — and the rest is comin' after; — it's time old Karen was there."

"But that's no sign you mayn't live longer," said Elizabeth.
"Seventy years is nothing. How do you feel sick?"

"It's all over, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "Its givin' away. I'm goin' — I know I be. The time's come."

"I will send Anderese for a doctor — where is there one?"

Karen shivered and put her head in her hands, before she spoke.

"There ain't none — I don't want none — there was Doctor Kipp to Mountain Spring, but he ain't no' count; and he's gone away."

"Clam, do speak to Anderese and ask him about it, and tell him to go directly, if there is any one he can go for. — What can I do for you, Karen?"

"I guess nothin', Miss Lizzie. — If the Governor was here, he'd pray for me; but it ain't no matter — I've been prayin' all my life — It's no matter if I can't pray good just right now. The Lord knows all."

Elizabeth stood silent and still.

"Shall I — would you like to have me read for you?" she asked somewhat timidly.

"No," said Karen — "not now — I couldn't hear. Read for yourself, Miss Lizzie. I wish the Governor was here."

What a throbbing wish to the same effect was in Elizabeth's heart! She stood, silent, sorrowful, dismayed, watching Karen, wondering at herself in her changed circumstances and life and occupation; and wondering if she were only going down into the valley of humiliation, or if she had got to the bottom. And, almost thinking Karen to be envied if she were, as she said, 'going.'

"What's the matter?" said Rose and her night-cap at the other door.

"Karen don't feel very well. Don't come here, Rose."

"What are you there for?"

"I want to be here. You go to bed and keep quiet — I'll tell you another time."

"Is she sick?"

"Yes — I don't know — Go in, Rose, and be quiet!"

Which Rose did. Clam came back and reported that there was no doctor to be sent for, short of a great many miles. Elizabeth's heart sunk fearfully. What could she and her companions do with a dying woman? — if she were really that. Karen crept nearer the fire, and Clam built it up and made it blaze. Then she stood on one side, and her young mistress on the other.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam. "I'll see to her."

But Elizabeth did not move so much as an eyelid.

"I don't want nothin'," said Karen presently. "Miss Lizzie, if you see the Governor — tell him —"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him to hold on, — will you? — the way his mother went and the way he's a goin'. Tell him to hold on till he gets there. Will you tell him?"

"Certainly! I will tell him anything you please."

Karen was silent for a little space, and then began again.

"Is't your way?"

Elizabeth's lips moved a little, but they closed and she made no answer.

"Mis' Landholm went that way, and Governor's goin', and I'm goin' too.

"'I'm going, — I'm going, — I'm —'"

"Do you feel better, Karen?" said Elizabeth interrupting her.

"I'm goin' — I don' know how soon axactly, Miss Lizzie — but I feel it. I am all givin' away. It's time. I've seen my life all through, and I'm ready. I'm ready — praise the Lord. I was ready a great while ago, but it wa'n't the Lord's time and now if he pleases, I'm ready."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you were to go to your own room and lie down?"

Karen made no answer for some time and then only was half understood to say that "this was the best place." Elizabeth did not move. Clam fetched a thick coarse coverlid and wrapping herself in it, lay down at full length on the floor.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth, — I'm settled. I'll see to her. I guess she ain't goin' afore mornin'."

"You will go to sleep, Clam, and then she will have nobody to do anything for her."

"I'll wake up once in a while, Miss 'Lizabeth, to see she don't do nothin' to me."

Elizabeth stood another minute, thinking bitterly how invaluable Winthrop would be, in the very place where she knew herself so valueless. Another sharp contrast of their two selves; and then she drew up a chair to the fire and sat down too; determined at least to do the little she could do, give her eyes and her presence. Clam's entreaties and representations were of no avail. Karen made none.

They watched by her, or at least Elizabeth did, through hour after hour. She watched alone, for Clam slept and snored most comfortably; and Karen's poor head much of the time rested in her hands. Whether conscious or unconscious, she was very quiet; and her watcher trimmed the fire and mused with no interruption. At first with much fear and trembling; for she did not know how soon Karen's prophecy might come true; but as the night wore on and no change was to be seen or felt, this feeling quieted down and changed into a very sober and sad review of all the things of her own life, in the past and in the future. The present was but a point, she did not dwell on it; yet in that point was the sweetest and fairest thing her mind had in possession; her beginning of a new life and her hold of the promise which assured her that strength should not be wanting to live it until the end. She did look over her several present duties and made up her mind to the self- denying and faithful performance of them; but then her longing came back, for a human hand to hold her and help her on the journey's way. And her head bowed to the chair-back; and it was a good while before she recollected again to look at the fire or at her charge in front of it.

Karen's attitude was more easy; and Elizabeth excessively fatigued, with pain as well as weariness, felt inclined to steal off to bed and leave her door open, that she might readily hear if she was wanted. But it occurred to her that Winthrop for his own ease never would have deserted his post. She dismissed the thought of sleep and rest; and disposed herself to wear out the remnant of the night as she had begun it; in attendance on what she was not sure needed her attendance.

A longer night Elizabeth never knew, and with fear in the first part and watching in the last part of' it, the morning found her really haggard and ill. But Karen was no worse; and not knowing what to think about her, but comforting herself with the hope that at least her danger was not imminent, Elizabeth went to bed, coveting sleep inexpressibly, for its forgetfulness as well as its rest. But sleep was not to be had so promptly.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! —" And there stood Clam before her opening eyes, as fresh and as black as ever, with a clean turban in the last state of smartness.

"What is the matter?"

"Where will you have breakfast? Karen ain't goin' at all at present. Where will you have it?"

"Nowhere."

"Will I clear her out of the kitchen?"

"No! — let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast in her mistress's room — I don't want anything — but sleep. Let Karen have and do just what she wants."

"Won't Clam do as much!" — said the toss of the clean turban as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked dubious.

"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was to take it."

"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,

"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."

Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!" said Clam to herself. "That put her down."

And with a "Now you'll sleep —" Clam carried off the breakfast tray, and took care her mistress should have no second disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from her; so slept her sleep out.

It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in their green with a frost-spot — yellow, or tawny, or red; the river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.

"So bright without! — and so dark within!" — Elizabeth thought. "When will it end — or is it only beginning? Such a flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, — and now, there is one burden in one room, and another in another room, and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life has nothing to look forward to — in this world — and heaven is not enough; I want something in this world. — Yes, I do. — Yet Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason? Why is his face always so at rest, — so bright — so strong? Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! — he has more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than I do. — Then religion might be more to me. — It shall be — I will try; — but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in all my life, how well his single example would make me know that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be! I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven — he does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is pleasant to owe so much to him — and it's bitter! —"

"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."

Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began to handle her dressing-comb.

"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."

"Clam!" — said her mistress facing about.

"Well, Miss Lizzie —"

"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."

"She don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."

"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."

With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but her brow changed as her cousin came in.

"Lizzie — Why you've been up all night, Emma says."

"That's nothing. I have been down all day."

"But what's the matter with this old woman?"

"I don't know. She don't know herself."

"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"

"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."

"Dying! — is she!" said Rose with a little scream.

"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no worse to-night."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing — more than I have done."

"But are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, Rose! —"

"Yes — I mean — who's going to take care of her? And isn't she your cook?"

A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face; it settled graver than before.

"Clam can cook all you and I want."

"But who's going to take care of her?"

"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."

"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"

"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number of miles."

"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"

"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."

"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"

Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.

"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Is Karen in the kitchen?"

"Oh! — I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her old little screams.

"Let it be here, Clam."

"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Anything you please."

"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam; "and you've had no dinner."

"Bread and butter and tea — and boil an egg."

"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining out of every feature; — "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs when she ain't round."

"Bread and butter and tea, then."

"Butter's gone," said Clam.

"Bread and cold meat, then."

"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye don't make no 'count of ham."

Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.

"Lizzie — what makes you live in such a place?"

"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin, with a tone of suppressed feeling.

"It's so lonely!" said Rose.

"It suited me."

"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to you, with nobody about, — what would you do?"

"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth.
"I haven't thought about it."

"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"

"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I want to see?"

"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be in a desert so."

Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of thoughts at work.

"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"

"No!"

"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, — "I can't live so. It makes me feel dreadfully."

"Whom do you want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she was dealing with.

"I don't care who — any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this great empty place."

"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh. "Well! — you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves don't shake much to-day."

"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either, good for anything — I didn't sleep a wink till after one o'clock."

"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance than the wind?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think you're very unkind! —"

"What would you like me to do, Rose?"

"Let's go away from here."

"Where?"

"I don't care — to Mannahatta."

"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"

"Why, nothing, — what everybody does — live like other people.
I shall die here."

"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company already?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! — I think you're very unkind! —"

Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only moved to tremble.

"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."

"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said
Elizabeth.

"There must be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on, sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine. Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have it."

"Rose! —"

Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.

"Rose! — do not dare speak to me in that way! — ever again! — whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your senses."

With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.

It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes, to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help her out.

"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real smart."

"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."

"Step up on there, can't you — I'll hold her, — can you jump?" —

"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. —"

"What aint? —"

"That gravel — grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."

"'Twon't do nothin' — it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, — real handsome!"

"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."

Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.

The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, — how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.

"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.

"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, — the young lady from Shahweetah — she's here."

The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter, got up and curtseyed.

"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr.
Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."

"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"

"In a boat — in the boat he mended for me."

"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"

"I rowed myself over."

"Why did ye? — ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the country."

"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an instant sense that several pairs of eyes not blind were comparing the report with the reality.

"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"

"Yes."

"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"

"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of his sons; the others are in different places."

"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"

"Winnie? — yes."

Elizabeth knew that!

"The mother was gone first — to a better place. She had a fine lot o' children. Will was a pictur; — the farmer, he was a fine man too; — but there was one — the second boy — Winthrop, — he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."

There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break it.

"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently.
Winthrop had made himself pleasant there! —

"Yes."

"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"

"Quite as well, I believe."

"Is he gettin' along well?"

"Yes — I believe so — very well."

"Whatever he does 'll prosper, I believe," said Mrs. Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"

"Not much —" said Elizabeth hesitating.

"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."

"What makes him think so?"

"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm belong to you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome, particular, as 'Siah says?"

Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh, somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! —"

"Whisht!" — said the old woman; — "I'm not talkin' like you.
I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know.
She can tell me."

"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.

"I can tell better from what she says," said Mrs. Underhill, turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be you uncommon fair and handsome? — or not more than the common?"

The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she answered, not without some hesitation,

"I believe — more than the common."

A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.

"Handsome, and rich. Well — Be you happy too, young lady, above the common?"

"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; — so I am not always happy."

"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a good one. Let me see your hand?"

Elizabeth drew near and gave it.

"It's a pretty hand," — said the old woman. "It's soft — it hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you give it to no one who will help you to forget that the blessing of God is better than silver and gold."

"Thank you. I will not."

"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"

"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some hesitation. "Not a good one."

The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair, only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,

"Come and see me again — I'll be pleased to see ye."

"If I do! —" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat. The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant thought, — "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How far I am — how far! — from where he stands!" —

She walked slowly down to the water's edge.

"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the boat which he held for her, — "I have forgotten, while I was at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of provisions — have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to spare?"

"Eggs?" — said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, — "what else would you like along of eggs?"

"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."

"Chickens? — we've got some o' them."

"Very glad of them indeed, — or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir — tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them! such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere. The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, — nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, — the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr. Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, — "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs — if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please — there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait — let me get in first, Mr. Underhill — Are they tied so they can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, — "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! — it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess — you'll go home easy. Come again! — and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" —

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant — as she went all the way over the river home. Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, — "where have you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! —"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine — down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose —"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose — look up at me —"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well —"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so — I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it — will you?"

"It was very unkind!" — said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, — "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish —"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea — I'm very hungry."

CHAPTER XVI.

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings,
And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings,
Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller,
Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar.
BEN JONSON.

A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour; the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' — Mrs. Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window, with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the broad and bright hills and river — which probably Mrs. Haye did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, — that there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain
Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? — it's so dismal."

"We mustn't — I must."

"Why?"

"I would rather — and I think it is right."

"To take care of that old woman?"

"No — I can't do much for her — but I can see that she is taken care of."

"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it, seeing that I am here."

"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old nurse."

Elizabeth did not answer.

"But how long do you mean to stay here, Lizzie? — any how?"

"Till I must go — till it is less pleasant here than somewhere else."

"And when will you think that?"

"Not for a good while."

"But when, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in earnest."

"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders. "I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What sort of cold weather do you mean?"

"I mean snow and ice."

"Snow and ice — And then you will go — where will you go?" said Rose discontentedly.

"I suppose, to Mannahatta."

"Will you go the first snow?"

"I cannot tell yet, Rose."

There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked steadily out of the window.

"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.

"Yes! — more lonely than here."

"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some one."

"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."

"Lizzie! —"

"Not that I know of."

"Lizzie! — Mr. Landholm?"

"I mean, not one that I am like to see."

"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose unbelievingly.

"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."

"To do what?"

"I don't know — I suppose I shall find my work."

"Work? — what work?" — said Rose wonderingly.

"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in the world — so I have, — and you have."

"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like to do?"

"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like it, if I am to do it well."

"What do you mean? — what are you talking of, Lizzie?"

"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you think God has given us nothing to do for him?"

"I haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop Landholm's notions?"

There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers, in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said nothing.

"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"

"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."

"I guess he can tell you, — if you were to ask him," said Rose meaningly.

Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.

"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might see and be seen, — "look at me and listen to me."

Rose obeyed.

"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."

"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said Rose pouting, — "and one needn't be commanded like a child or a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"

Elizabeth rose and came near to her.

"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me, nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me, which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose? clearly?"

Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood again with a very different face and voice before her guest.

"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough. You mustn't say that sort of thing to me — I can't bear it. I am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to you just now."

And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.

"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her mistress as she entered the kitchen. "I don't believe! She's a goin' to stay."

Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.

"Is the Governor comin'?"

"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.

"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"

"No — I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"

"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."

"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you will see him by and by — I don't know how soon."

"I'll see him there," said the old woman. "I can't stay here long."

"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you going to be well again?"

"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."

"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."

"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner.
"I thought he'd be here."

It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other people would do.

"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he could do better?"

"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."

"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.

"Could ye send for him?" said Karen earnestly.

"Not in time. No, Karen, — there'd be no time to send a message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."

She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to have the Bible read.

Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two. Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" — sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" — sometimes, and very often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were most of the time little underbreath words said to herself, words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them; but the next sighing "That's true!" — checked her; if it was such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself, and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new, unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether this, — this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, — were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward to, or find in this life; — and Elizabeth's heart confessed to a longing desire for something else. And then her attention suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly, "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" — Elizabeth stopped short; she was choked.

At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.

"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."

The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was for form's sake, who had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for she only repeated her words.

"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Where is he?"

"He ain't come yet — he's comin'."

"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"

"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up the walk from the boat — I see him by the moon."

"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and then you can bring me word."

Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what she should do with herself. She knew, — it darted into her mind, — that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside and for the opening of the door.

"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered
Winthrop's offered hand.

"I am glad I am in time," he said.

"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night — but I don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious, that she is in particular danger."

"I shall be all the more welcome, at any rate."

"I don't know whether that is possible, in Karen's case. But did you know she wanted you? — did you know she was ill?"

"Do you suppose nothing but an errand of mercy could bring me?" he answered slightly, though with a little opening of the eyes which Elizabeth afterwards remembered and speculated upon. But for the present she was content with the pleasant implication of his words. Clam was ordered to bring refreshments. These Winthrop declined; he had had all he wanted. Then Elizabeth asked if he would like to see Karen.

She opened the door, which she had taken care to shut, and went in with him.

"Karen — here is the Governor, that you were wishing for."

The old woman turned her face towards them; then stretched out her hand, and spoke with an accent of satisfied longing that went at least to one heart.

"I thought he'd come," she said. "Governor! —"

Winthrop leaned over to speak to her and take her hand. Elizabeth longed to hear what he would say, but she had no business there; she went out, softly closing the door.

She was alone then; and she stood on the hearth before the fire in a little tumult of pleasure, thinking how she should dispose of her guest and what she might do for him.

"Once more I have a chance," she thought; "and I may never in the world have another — He will not come here again before I go back to Mannahatta, he cannot stay in my house there, — and another summer is very far off, and very uncertain. He'll not be very likely to come here — he may be married — and I am very sure I shall not want to see his wife here — I shall not do it. — Though I might ask her for his sake — No! I should better break with him at once and have no more to do with him; it would be only misery." "And what is it now?" said something else. And "Not misery" — was the answer.

"Where will I put him, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the voice of Clam softly at her elbow. Elizabeth started.

"You must take my room. I will sleep with Mrs. Haye. Clam — what have we got in the house? and what can you do in the way of cooking?"

"I can do some things — for some folks," said Clam. "Wa'n't my cream gravy good the other day?"

"Cream gravy! — with what?"

"Fresh lamb, — mutton, I would say."

"But you have got no fresh mutton now, have you?"

"Maybe Mr. Underhill has," said Clam with a twinkle of her bright eye.

"Mr. Underhill's fresh mutton is on the other side of the river. What have we got on this side?"

"Pretty much of nothing," said Clam, "this side o' Mountain Spring. Anderese ain't no good but to make the fire — it takes mor'n him to find somethin' to put over it."

"Then you'll have to go to Mountain Spring before breakfast,
Clam."

"Well, m'm. Who'll take care of the house while I'm gone, Miss
'Lizabeth?"

"Mrs. Cives — can't she?"

"Mis' Cives is gone off home."

"Gone home! — what, to Mountain Spring?"

"That's where her home is, she says."

"What for? and without asking?"

"She wanted to spend to-night at home, she said; and she asked no questions and went."

"To night of all nights! when Karen seems so much worse!"

"It's good we've got the Governor," said Clam.

"But he can't sit up all night with her."

"Guess he will," said Clam. "Pretty much like him. You can sleep in your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth."

"You go and get the room ready — he must not sit up all night — and we'll see in the morning about Mountain Spring. Somebody must go."

"He'll go if you ask him," said Clam. "He'd do the marketing best, now, of all of us. He knows just where everything is. 'Fact is, we want him in the family pretty much all the time."

"Let him know when his room is ready, and offer him refreshments, — and call me if I am wanted."

Clam departed; but Elizabeth, instead of doing the same, took a chair on the kitchen hearth and sat down to await any possible demands upon her. She could hear a quiet sound of talking in Karen's room; now and then the old woman's less regulated voice, more low or more shrill, broke in upon the subdued tones of the other. Elizabeth thought she would have given anything to be a hearer of what was said and listened to there; but the door was shut; it was all for Karen and not for her; and she gave up at last in despair and retreated to her cousin's room.

"So he's come?" said Rose.

"Yes! — he's come. Did you know he was coming?"

"I! — No, — I didn't know he was coming. How should I?"

"Did you think he was coming, Rose?"

"I didn't know but he'd come," said Rose a little awkwardly,
"I didn't know anything about it."

Elizabeth chose to ask no further question. Somewhat mortified already, she would not give herself any more certain ground of mortification, not at that time. She would talk no more with Rose. She went to bed; and long after her companion was asleep, she listened for Winthrop's coming out or Clam's colloquy with him, and for any possible enquiry after herself. She heard Clam tap at the door — she heard the undistinguished sound of words, and only gathered that Winthrop probably was declining all proffered comforts and luxuries and choosing to spend the night by Karen's pillow. And weary and sorry and sick of everything in the world, Elizabeth went to sleep.

She waked up in the morning to hear the twittering of the birds around the house. They were singing busily of the coming day, but the day had not come yet; at least it was some time before sunrise. Elizabeth softly got up, softly dressed herself, and went out into the kitchen. That messenger must be despatched for something for breakfast.

She was met by Clam coming in from another door.

"Well, Clam," said her mistress, "where is everybody this morning?"

"I don't know where I am yet," said Clam. "Everybody's abed and asleep, I 'spose. Where be you, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?"

"'Most. He said 'twas near upon two o'clock."

"When?"

"When he had done sittin' up, and went to bed."

"How was Karen?"

"I 'spose she was goin', but she ain't in no hurry — she ain't gone yet."

"Then she was no worse?"

"She was better. She was slicked up wonderful after seein' the
Governor, she telled me. I wonder who ain't."

"He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?"

"I hope he haint," said Clam, "or I don' know when we'll get breakfast — 'less he turns to and helps us."

"He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday's journey. Where's Anderese?"

"He took some bread and milk," said Clam.

"Well — where's Anderese? we must send him to Mountain
Spring."

"He's got to go after wood, Miss 'Lizabeth — there ain't three sticks more 'n 'll set the fire agoing."

"Must he! Then you must go, Clam."

"Very good. Who'll set the table, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Emma can. Or you can, after you get back."

"And there's the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the knives to clean, and the bread to make —"

"Bread! —" said Miss Haye.

"Or cakes," said Clam. "One or t'other 'll be wanted. I don't care which."

"Don't Emma know how?"

"She don't know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye's curls over a stick — when she ain't doin' her own."

"Then give me a basket — I'll go to Mountain Spring myself."

"Who'll bring the meat and things home?"

"I will; — or fish, or eggs, — something, whatever I can get."

"It 'll tire you, Miss 'Lizabeth — I guess, before you get back."

"You find me a basket — while I put on my bonnet," said Clam's mistress. And the one thing was done as soon as the other.

"I 'spect I'll wake up some morning and find myself playing on the pianny-forty," said Clam, as she watched her young mistress walking off with the basket.

CHAPTER XVII.

When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled?
Or looked the earth more green upon the world?
Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled?
When did the air so smile, the wind so chime,
As quiristers of season, and the prime?
BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot though it was.

For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light- touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her way.

From the valley meadow for half a mile, it was not much more or much better than a cow-path, beaten a little by the feet of the herdsman seeking his cattle or of an occasional foot- traveller to Mountain Spring. It was very rough indeed. Often Elizabeth must make quite a circuit among cat-briars and huckleberry bushes and young underwood, or keep the path at the expense of stepping up and stepping down again over a great stone or rock blocking up the whole way. Sometimes the track was only marked over the grey lichens of an immense head of granite that refused moss and vegetation of every other kind; sometimes it wound among thick alder bushes by the edge of wet ground; and at all times its course was among a wilderness of uncared-for woodland, overgrown with creepers and vines tangled with underbrush, and thickly strewn with larger and smaller fragments and boulders of granite rock. But how beautiful it was! The alders, reddish and soft-tinted, looked when the sun struck through them as if they were exotics out of witch-land; the Cornus family, from beautiful dogwood a dozen feet high stretching over Elizabeth's head, to little humble nameless plants at her feet, had edged and parted their green leaves with most dainty clear hues of madder lake; white birches and hickories glimmered in the sunlight like trees of gold, the first with stems of silver; sear leaves strewed the way; and fresh pines and hemlocks stretched out their arms amidst the changing foliage, with their evergreen promise and performance. The morning air and the morning walk no doubt had something to do with the effect of the whole; but Elizabeth thought, with all the beauty her eyes had ever seen they had never been more bewitched than they were that day.

With such a mood upon her, it was no wonder that on arriving at Mountain Spring she speedily made out her errand. She found whom and what she had come for; she filled her basket with no loss of time or pleasure; and very proud of her success set out again through the wood-path homeward.

Half way back to the bit of tree-enclosed meadow-ground, the path and the north shore of Shahweetah approached each other, where a little bay curve, no other than the AEgean Sea, swept in among the rocks. Through the stems of the trees Elizabeth could see the blue water with the brightness of the hour upon it. Its sparkle tempted her. She had plenty of time, or she resolved that she had, and she wanted to look at the fair broad view she knew the shore edge would give her. She hesitated, and turned, A few bounding and plunging steps amid rocks and huckleberry bushes brought her where she wished to be. She stood on the border, where no trees came in the way of the northern view. The mountains were full before her, and the wide Shatemuc rolled down between them, ruffled with little waves, every one sparkling cool in the sunlight. Elizabeth looked at the water a minute, and turned to the west. Wut-a- qut-o's head had caught more of the frosts than Shahweetah had felt yet; there were broad belts of buff and yellow along the mountain, even changing into sear where its sides felt the north wind. On all that shore the full sunlight lay. The opposite hills, on the east, were in dainty sunshine and shadow, every undulation, every ridge and hollow, softly marked out. With what wonderful sharp outline the mountain edges rose against the bright sky; how wonderful soft the changes of shade and colour adown their sloping sides; what brilliant little ripples of water rolled up to the pebbles at Elizabeth's feet. She stood and looked at it all, at one thing and the other, half dazzled with the beauty; until she recollected herself, and with a deep sighful expression of thoughts and wishes unknown, turned away to find her path again.

But she could not find it. Whereabouts it was, she was sure; but the where was an unfindable thing. And she dared not strike forward without the track; she might get further and further from it, and never get home to breakfast at all! — There was nothing for it but to grope about seeking for indications; and Miss Haye's eyes were untrained to wood-work. The woodland was a mazy wilderness now indeed. Points of stone, beds of moss, cat-briar vines and huckleberry bushes, in every direction; and between which of them lay that little invisible track of a footpath? The more she looked the more she got perplexed. She could remember no waymarks. The way was all cat-briars, moss, bushes, and rocks; and rocks, bushes, moss and cat-briars were in every variety all around her. She turned her face towards the quarter from which she had come and tried to recognize some tree or waymark she could remember having passed. One part of the wood looked just like another; but for the mountains and the river she could not have told where lay Mountain Spring.

Then a little sound of rustling leaves and crackling twigs reached her ear from behind her.

"There is a cow!" thought Elizabeth; — "now I can find the path by her. But then! — cows don't always —"

Her eye had been sweeping round the woody skirts of her position, in search of her expected four-footed guide, when her thoughts were suddenly brought to a point by seeing a two- footed creature approaching, and one whom she instantly knew.

"It is Winthrop Landholm! — he is going to Mountain Spring to take an early coach, without his breakfast! — Well, you fool, what is it to you?" was the next thought. "What does it signify whether he goes sooner or later, when it would be better for you not to see him at all, if your heart is going to start in that fashion at every time. —"

Meanwhile she was making her way as well as she could, over rocks and briars, towards the new-comer; and did not look up till she answered his greeting —

"Good morning! —"

It was very cheerfully spoken.

"Good morning," said Elizabeth, entangled in a cat-briar, from which with a desperate effort she broke free before any help could be given her.

"Those are naughty things."

"No," said Elizabeth, "they look beautiful now when they are growing tawny, as a contrast with the other creepers and the deep green cedars. And they are a beautiful green at other times."

"Make the best of them. What were you looking at, a minute ago?"

"Looking for my way. I had lost it."

"You don't know it very well, I guess."

"Yes. — No, not very well, but I could follow it, and did, till coming home I thought I had time to look at the view; and then I couldn't find it again. I got turned about."

"You were completely turned about when I saw you."

"O I was not going that way — I knew better than that. I was trying to discover some waymark."

"How did you get out of the way?"

"I went to look at the view — from the water's edge there."

"Have you a mind to go back to the river edge again? I have not seen that view in a long while. I shall not lose the path."

"Then you cannot be intending to go by an early coach," thought Elizabeth, as she picked her way back over rocks and moss to the water's edge. But Winthrop knew the ground, and brought her a few steps further to a broad standing-place of rock where the look-out was freer. There was again before her the sparkling river, the frost-touched mountain, the sharp outlines, the varying shadows, that she had looked at a few minutes back. Elizabeth looked at them again, thinking now not of them but of something different at every turn.

"The rock is too wet," said Winthrop, "or I should propose your sitting down."

"You certainly must have had your breakfast," thought
Elizabeth, "and not know that I haven't had mine."

"I don't want to sit down," she said quietly. A pang of fear again came to her heart, that in another minute or two he would be off to Mountain Spring. But his next movement negatived that. It was to take her basket, which she had till then tried to carry so that it would not be noticed. She was thankful he did not know what was in it.

"Do you often take such early walks as this?"

"No, not often," said Elizabeth guiltily. "I row more."

"So early?"

"No, not generally. Though there is no time more pleasant."

"You are looking well," he said gravely. "Better than I ever saw you look."

"It's very odd," thought Elizabeth, — "it must be the flush of my walk — I didn't look so this morning in the glass — nor last night. —" But she looked up and said boldly, laughing,

"I thought you came here to see the prospect, Mr. Landholm."

"I have been looking at it," he said quietly. "I need not say anything about that — it never changes."

"Do you mean that I do?" said Elizabeth.

"Everybody ought to change for the better, always," he said with a little smile, — "so I hope you are capable of that."

Elizabeth thought in her heart, though she was no better, yet that she had truly changed for the better, since former times; she half wanted to tell him so, the friend who had had most to do with changing her. But a consciousness of many things and an honest fear of speaking good of herself, kept her lips shut; though her heart beat with the wish and the doubt. Winthrop's next words in a few minutes decided it.

"What is the fact, Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth hesitated, — and hesitated. He looked at her.

"I hope I am changed, a little, Mr. Landholm; but there is a great deal more to change!"

Her face was very ingenuous and somewhat sorrowful, as she turned it towards him; but his looked so much brighter than she had ever seen it, that the meeting of the two tides was just more than her spirits could bear. The power of commanding herself, which for the last few minutes had been growing less and less, gave way. Her look shrank from his. Winthrop had come nearer to her, and had clasped the hand that was nearest him and held it in his own. It was a further expression of the pleasure she had seen in his smile. Elizabeth was glad that her own face was hidden by her sunbonnet. She would not have either its pain or its pleasure to be seen. Both were sharp enough just then. But strong necessity made her keep outwardly quiet.

"What does the change date from?"

"As to time, do you mean?" said Elizabeth struggling.

"As to time, and motive."

"The time is but lately," she said with a tremulous voice, — "though I have thought about it, more or less, for a good while."

"Thought what?"

"Felt that you were right and I was wrong, Mr. Landholm."

"What made you think you were wrong?"

"I felt that I was — I knew it."

"What makes you think you are changed now?"

"I hardly dare speak of it — it is so little."

"You may, I hope, — to me."

"It is hardly I that am changed, so much as my motives and views."

"And they — how?" he said after waiting a moment.

"It seems to me," she said slowly, "lately, that I am willing to go by a new rule of life from that I used to follow."

"What is the new rule?"

"Well — Not my own will, Mr. Landholm."

He stood silent a little while. Her hand was still held in his. Elizabeth would have thought he had forgotten it, but that it was held in a free clasp which did not seem to imply forgetfulness. It was enough to forbid it on her part.

"How does the new rule work?" was his next question.

"It works hard, Mr. Landholm!" said Elizabeth, turning her face suddenly upon him for an instant. His look was bright, but she felt that her own eyes were swimming.

"Do you know that I am very glad to hear all this?" he said after another little pause.

"Yes," said Elizabeth under breath, — "I supposed you would be. — I knew you would."

"I hope you like being catechized," he said in a lighter tone.

"Yes — I do — by anybody that has a right to do it."

"I have taken the right."

"Certainly! — You have the best in the world."

"I am glad you think so, though I don't exactly see how you make it out."

"Why! — it's not necessary to explain how I make it out," said
Elizabeth.

"No, — especially as I am going to ask you to give it to me for the future."

"What?" — said she looking at him.

He became grave.

"Miss Haye, I have a great boon to ask of you."

"Well?" — said Elizabeth eagerly. "I am very glad you have!"

"Why?"

"Why? — why, because it's pleasant."

"You don't know what it is, yet."

"No," said Elizabeth, — "but my words are safe."

"I want you to give me something."

"You preface it as if it were some great thing, and you look as if it was nothing," thought Elizabeth a little in wonderment. But she said only,

"You may have it. What is it?"

"Guess."

"I can't possibly."

"You are incautious. You don't know what you are giving away."

"What is it?" said Elizabeth a little impatiently.

"Yourself."

Elizabeth looked quick away, not to see anything, with the mind's eye or any other, for a blur came over both. She was no fainter; she was strong of mind and body; but the one and the other were shaken; and for that bit of time, and it was several minutes, her senses performed no office at all. And when consciousness of distinct things began to come back, there came among all her other feelings an odd perverse fear of shewing the uppermost one or two, and a sort of mortified unreadiness to strike her colours and yield at once without having made a bit of fight for it. Yet these were not the uppermost feelings, but they were there, among them and struggling with them. She stood quite still, her face hidden by her sunbonnet, and her companion was quite still too, with her hand still in his, held in the same free light clasp; and she had a vexed consciousness of his being far the cooler of the two. While she was thus silent, however, Elizabeth's head, and her very figure, was bowed lower and lower with intensity of feeling.

"What is the matter?" Winthrop said; and the tone of those words conquered her. The proud Miss Haye made a very humble answer.

"I am very glad, Mr. Landholm — but I am not good enough."

"For what?"

But Elizabeth did not answer.

"I will take my risk of that," said he kindly. "Besides, you have confessed the power of changing."

The risk, or something else, seemed to lie upon Elizabeth's mind, from the efforts she was making to overcome emotion. Winthrop observed her for a moment.

"But you have not spoken, yet," said he. "I want a confirmation of my grant."

She knew from his tone that his mood was the very reverse of hers; and it roused the struggle again. "Provoking man!" she thought, "why couldn't he ask me in any other way! — And why need he smile when I am crying! —" She commanded herself to raise her head, however, though she did not dare look.

"Am I to have it?"

"To have what?"

"An answer."

"I don't know what it's to be, Mr. Landholm," Elizabeth stammered. "What do you want?"

"Will you give me what I asked you for?"

"I thought you knew you had it already," she said, not a little vexed to have the words drawn from her.

"It is mine, then?"

"Yes —"

"Then," said he, coming in full view of her blushing face and taking the other hand, — "what are you troubled for?"

Elizabeth could not have borne it one instant, to meet his eye, without breaking into a flood of tears she had no hands to cover. As her only way of escape, she sprang to one side freeing one of her hands on the sudden, and jumped down the rock, muttering something very unintelligibly about 'breakfast.' But her other hand was fast still, and so was she at the foot of the rock.

"Stop," said Winthrop, — "we must take this basket along. — I don't know if there is anything very precious in it." —

He reached after it as he spoke, and then they went on; and by the help of his hand her backward journey over rocks, stones, and trunks of trees in the path, was easily and lightly made; till they reached the little bit of meadow. Which backward journey Elizabeth accomplished in about two minutes and a quarter. There Winthrop transferred to his arm the hand that had rested in his, and walked more leisurely.

"Are you in such a hurry for your breakfast?" said he. "I have had mine."

"Had it! — before you came out?"

"No," — said he smiling, — "since."

"Are you laughing at me? — or have you had it?" said Elizabeth looking puzzled.

"Both," said Winthrop. "What are you trembling so for?"

It hushed Elizabeth again, till they got quit of the meadow, and began more slowly still, the ascent of the rough half-made wheel-road.

"Miss Haye —" said Winthrop gently.

She paused in her walk, looking at him.

"What are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of! —"

"Yes. You don't look as happy as I feel."

"I am," — she said.

"How do you know?"

What a colour spread over Elizabeth's face! But she laughed too, so perhaps his end was gained.

"I was thinking," she said, with the desperate need of saying something, — "a little while ago, when you were helping me through the woods, — how a very few minutes before, I had been so quite alone in the world."

"Don't forget there is one arm that never can fail you," he replied gravely. "Mine may."

Elizabeth looked at him rather timidly, and his face changed.

"There was no harm in that," he said, with so bright an expression as she had never before seen given to her. "What will you say, if I tell you that I myself at that same time was thinking over in my mind very much the same thing — with relation to myself, I mean."

Elizabeth's heart beat and her breath came short. That was what she had never thought of. Like many another woman, what he was to her, she knew well; what she might be to him, it had never entered her head to think. It seemed almost a new and superfluous addition to her joy, yet not superfluous from that time forth for ever. Once known, it was too precious a thought to be again untasted. She hung her head over it; she stepped all unwittingly on rocks and short grass and wet places and dry, wherever she was led. It made her heart beat thick to think she could be so valued. How was it possible! How she wished — how keenly — that she could have been of the solid purity of silver or gold, to answer the value put upon her. But instead of that — what a far-off difference! Winthrop could not know how great, or he would never have said that, or felt it; nor could he. What about her could possibly have attracted it?

She had not much leisure to ponder the question, for her attention was called off to answer present demands. And there was another subject for pondering — Winthrop did not seem like the same person she had known under the same name, he was so much more free and pleasant and bright to talk than he had ever been to her before, or in her observation, to anybody. He talked to a very silent listener, albeit she lost never a word nor a tone. She wondered at him and at everything, and stepped along wondering, with a heart too full to speak, almost too full to hide its agitation.

They were nearing home, they had got quit of the woodway road, and were in a cleared field, grown with tall cedars, which skirted the river. Half way across it, Elizabeth's foot paused, and came to a full stop. What was the matter?

Elizabeth faced round a little, as if addressing her judge, though she spoke without lifting her eyes.

"Mr. Landholm — do you know that I am full of faults?"

"Yes."

"And aren't you afraid of them?"

"No, — not at all," he said, smiling, Elizabeth knew. But she answered very gravely,

"I am."

"Which is the best reason in the world why I should not be. It is written 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'"

"I am afraid — you don't know me."

"I don't know," said he smiling. "You haven't told me anything new yet."

"I am afraid you think of me, somehow, better than I deserve."

"What is the remedy for that?"

Elizabeth hesitated, with an instant's vexed consciousness of his provoking coolness; then looking up met his eye for a second, laughed, and went on perfectly contented. But she wondered with a little secret mortification, that Winthrop was as perfectly at home and at his ease in the newly established relations between them as if they had subsisted for six months. "Is it nothing new to him?" she said to herself. "Did he know that it only depended on him to speak? — or is it his way with all the world?" It was not that she was undervalued, or slightly regarded, but valued and regarded with such unchanged self-possession. Meanwhile they reached the edge of the woodland, from which the house and garden were to be seen close at hand.

"Stay here," said Winthrop; — "I will carry this basket in and let them know you may be expected to breakfast."

"But if you do that, —" said Elizabeth colouring —

"What then?"

"I don't know what they will think."

"They may think what they have a mind," said he with a little bit of a smile again. "I want to speak to you."

Elizabeth winced a bit. He was gone, and she stood thinking, among other things, that he might have asked what she would like. And how did he know but breakfast was ready then? Or did he know everything? And how quietly and unqualifiedly, to be sure, he had taken her consignment that morning. She did not know whether to like it or not like it, — till she saw him coming again from the house.

"After all," said he, "I think we had better go in and take breakfast, and talk afterwards. It seems to be in a good state of forwardness."

CHAPTER XVIII.

From eastern quarters now
The sun's up-wandering,
His rays on the rock's brow
And hill-side squandering;
Be glad my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure,
Fly from the house of dust,
Up with thy thanks and trust
To heaven's azure!
THOMAS KINGO.

It was sufficiently proven at that breakfast, to Elizabeth's satisfaction, that it is possible for one to be at the same time both very happy and a little uncomfortable. She had a degree of consciousness upon her that amounted to that, more especially as she had a vexed knowledge that it was shared by at least one person in the room. The line of Clam's white teeth had never glimmered more mischievously. Elizabeth dared not look at her. And she dared not look at Winthrop, and she dared not look at Rose. But Rose, to do her justice, seemed to be troubled with no consciousness beyond what was usual with her, and which generally concerned only herself; and she and Winthrop kept up the spirit of talk with great ease all breakfast time.

"Now how in the world are we going to get away?" thought
Elizabeth when breakfast was finishing; — "without saying flat
and bald why we do it. Rose will want to go too, for she likes
Winthrop quite well enough for that." —

And with the consciousness that she could not make the slightest manoeuvre, Elizabeth rose from table.

"How soon must you go, Mr. Landholm?" said Rose winningly.

"Presently, ma'am."

"I am sorry you must go so soon! But we haven't a room to ask you to sit down in, if you were to stay."

"I am afraid I shouldn't wait to be asked, if I stayed," said Winthrop. "But as I am not to sit down again — Miss Haye — if you will put on your bonnet and give me your company a little part of my way, I will keep my promise."

"What promise?" said Rose.

"I will do better than my promise, for I mean to shew Miss Haye a point of her property which perhaps she has not looked at lately."

"Oh will you shew it to me too?" said Rose.

"I will if there is time enough after I have brought Miss Haye back — I can't take both at once."

Rose looked mystified, and Elizabeth very glad to put on her bonnet, was the first out of the house; half laughing, and half trembling with the excitement of getting off.

"There is no need to be in such a hurry," said Winthrop as he came up, — "now that breakfast is over."

Elizabeth was silent, troubled with that consciousness still, though now alone with the subject of it. He turned off from the road, and led her back into the woods a little way, in the same path by which she had once gone hunting for a tree to cut down.

"It isn't as pretty a time of day as when I went out this morning," she said, forcing herself to say something.

But Winthrop seemed in a state of pre-occupation too; till they reached a boulder capped with green ferns.

"Now give me your hand," said he. "Can you climb?"

They turned short by the boulder and began to mount the steep rugged hill-path, down which he had once carried his little sister. Elizabeth could make better footing than poor Winifred; and very soon they stood on the old height from which they could see the fair Shatemuc coming down between the hills and sweeping round their own little woody Shahweetah and off to the South Bend. The sun was bright on all the land now, though the cedars shielded the bit of hill-top well; and Wut- a-qut-o looked down upon them in all his gay Autumn attire. The sun was bright, but the air was clear and soft and free from mist and cloud and obscurity, as no sky is but October's.

"Sit down," said Winthrop, throwing himself on the bank which was carpeted with very short green grass.

"I would just as lieve stand," said Elizabeth.

"I wouldn't as lieve have you. You've been on your feet long enough to-day. Come! —"

She yielded to the gentle pulling of her hand, and sat down on the grass; half amused and half fretted; wondering what he was going to say next. Winthrop was silent for a little space; and Elizabeth sat looking straight before her, or rather with her head a little turned to the right, from her companion, towards Wut-a-qut-o; the deep sides of her sun-bonnet shutting out all but a little framed picture of the gay woody foreground, a bit of the blue river, and the mountain's yellow side.

"How beautiful it was all down there, three or four hours ago," said Elizabeth.

"I didn't know you had so much romance in your disposition — to go there this morning to meet me."

"I didn't go there to meet you."

"Yes you did."

"I didn't!" said Elizabeth. "I never thought of such a thing as meeting you."

"Nevertheless, in the regular chain and sequence of events, you went there to meet me — if you hadn't gone you wouldn't have met me."

"O, if you put it in that way," said Elizabeth, — "there's no harm in that."

"There is no harm in it at all. Quite the contrary."

"I think it was the prettiest walk I ever took in my life," said Elizabeth, — "before that, I mean," she added blushing.

"My experience would say, after it," said Winthrop, in an amused tone.

"It was rather a confused walk after that," said Elizabeth. "I never was quite so much surprised."

"You see I had not that disadvantage. I was only — gratified."

"Why," said Elizabeth, her jealous fear instantly starting again, "you didn't know what my answer would be before you asked me?"

She waited for Winthrop's answer, but none came. Elizabeth could not bear it.

"Did you?" she said, looking round in her eagerness.

He hesitated an instant, and then answered,

"Did you?"

Elizabeth had no words. Her face sought the shelter of her sunbonnet again, and she almost felt as if she would have liked to seek the shelter of the earth bodily, by diving down into it. Her brain was swimming. There was a rush of thoughts and ideas, a train of scattered causes and consequences, which then she had no power to set in order; but the rush almost overwhelmed her, and what was wanting, shame added. She was vexed with herself for her jealousy in divining and her impatience in asking foolish questions; and in her vexation was ready to be vexed with Winthrop, — if she only knew how. She longed to lay her head down in her hands, but pride kept it up. She rested her chin on one hand and wondered when Winthrop would speak again, — she could not, — and what he would say; gazing at the blue bit of water and gay mountain- side, and thinking that she was not giving him a particularly favourable specimen of herself that morning, and vexed out of measure to think it.

Then upon this, a very quietly spoken "Elizabeth!" — came to her ear. It was the first time Winthrop had called her so; but that was not all. Quietly spoken as it was, there was not only a little inquiry, there was a little amusement and a little admonition, in the tone. It stirred Elizabeth to her spirit's depths, but with several feelings; and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

"What is the reason you should hide your face so carefully from me?" he went on presently, much in the same tone. "Mine is open to you — it isn't fair play."

Elizabeth could have laughed if she had not been afraid of crying. She kept herself hid in her sunbonnet and made no reply.

"Suppose you take that thing off, and let me look at you."

"It shades my face from the sun."

"The cedar trees will do that for you."

"No — they wouldn't."

And she kept her face steadily fixed upon the opposite shore, only brought straight before her now; thinking to herself that she would carry this point at any rate. But in another minute she was somewhat astounded to find Winthrop's left hand, he was supporting himself carelessly on his right, quietly, very quietly, untying her sunbonnet strings; and then rousing himself, with the other hand he lifted the bonnet from her head. It gave a full view then of hair in very nice order and a face not quite so; for the colour had now flushed to her very temples with more feelings than one, and her eye was downcast, not caring to shew its revelations. She knew that Winthrop took an observation of all, to his heart's content; but she could not look at him for an instant. Then without saying anything, he got up and went off to a little distance where he made himself busy among some of the bushes and vines which were gay with the fall colouring Elizabeth sat drooping her head on her knees, for she could not absolutely hold it up. She looked at her sunbonnet lying on the bank beside her; but it is not an improper use of language to say that she dared not put it on.

"I have met my master now," she thought, and her eyes sparkled, — "once for all — if I never did before. — What a fool I am!"

For she knew, she acknowledged to herself at the same moment, that she did not like him the less for it — she liked him exceedingly the more; in spite of a twinge of deep mortification about it, and though there was bitter shame that he should know or guess any of her feeling. If her eyes sparkled, they sparkled through tears.

The tears were got rid of, for Winthrop came back and threw himself down again. Then with that he began to put wreaths of the orange and red winterberries and sprays of wych hazel and bits of exquisite ivy, one after the other, into her hands. Her hands took them mechanically, one after the other. Her eyes buried themselves in them. She wished for her sunbonnet shield again.

"What do you bring these to me for?" she said rather abruptly.

"Don't you like to have them?" said he, putting into her fingers another magnificent piece of Virginia creeper.

"Yes indeed — very much — but —"

"It will be some time before I see you again," said he as he added the last piece of his bunch. "These will be all gone."

"Some time!" said Elizabeth.

"Yes. There is work on my hands down yonder that admits of no delay. I could but just snatch time enough to come up here."

"I am very much obliged to you for these!" said Elizabeth, returning to her bunch of brilliant vine branches.

"You can pay me for them in any way you please."

The colour started again, but it was a very gentle, humble, and frank look which she turned round upon him. His was bright enough.

"How soon do you think of coming to Mannahatta?"

"I don't know, —" said Elizabeth, not choosing to say exactly the words that came to her tongue.

"If I could be here too, I should say this is the best place."

"Can't you come often enough?"

"How often would be often enough?" said he with an amused look.

"Leave definitions on one side, and please answer me."

"Willingly. I leave the definition on your side. I don't like to speak in the dark."

"Well, can't you come tolerably often?" said Elizabeth colouring.

He smiled.

"Not for some time. My hands are very full just now."

"You contrive to have them so always, don't you?"

"I like to have them so. It is not always my contrivance."

"What has become of that suit — I don't know the names now — in which you were engaged two or three years ago — in which you took so many objections, and the Chancellor allowed them all, against Mr. Brick?"

"Ryle?"

"Yes! — I believe that's the name."

"For a man called Jean Lessing?"

"I don't know anything about Lessing — I think Ryle was the other name —You were against Ryle."

"Lessing was Mr. Herder's brother-in-law."

"I don't remember Mr. Herder's brother-in-law — though I believe Mr. Herder did have something to do with the case, or some interest in it."

"How did you know anything about it?"

"You haven't answered me," said Elizabeth, laughing and colouring brightly.

"One question is as good as another," said Winthrop smiling.

"But one answer is much better than another," said Elizabeth in a little confusion.

"The suit against Ryle was very successful. I recovered for him some ninety thousand dollars."

"Ninety thousand dollars!" — Her thoughts took somewhat of a wide circle and came back.

"The amount recovered is hardly a fair criterion of the skill employed, in every instance. I must correct your judgment."

"I know more about it than that," said Elizabeth. "How far your education has gone! — and mine is only just beginning."

"I should be sorry to think mine was much more than beginning.
Now do you know we must go down? — for I must be at Mountain
Spring to meet the stage-coach."

"How soon?" said Elizabeth springing up.

"There is time enough, but I want not to hurry you down the hill."

He had put her sunbonnet on her head again and was retying it.

"Mr. Landholm —"

"You must not call me that," he said.

"Let me, till I can get courage to call you something else."

"How much courage does it want?"

"If you don't stop," said Elizabeth, her eyes filling with tears, "I shall not be able to say one word of what I want to say."

He stood still, holding the strings of her sunbonnet in either hand. Elizabeth gathered breath, or courage, and went on.

"A little while ago I was grieving myself to think that you did not know me — now, I am very much ashamed to think that you do." —

He did not move, nor she.

"I know I am not worthy to have you look at me. My only hope is, that you will make me better."

The bonnet did not hide her face this time. He looked at it a little, at the simplicity of ingenuous trouble which was working in it, — and then pushing the bonnet a little back, kissed first one cheek and then the lips, which by that time were bent down almost out of reach. But he reached them; and Elizabeth was obliged to take her answer, in which there was as much of gentle forgiveness and promise as of affection.

"You see what you have to expect, if you talk to me in this strain," said he lightly. "I think I shall not be troubled with much more of it. I don't like to leave you in this frame of mind. I would take you to Mountain Spring in the boat — if I could bring you back again."

"I could bring myself back," said Elizabeth. They were going down the hill; in the course of which, it may be remarked, Winthrop had no reason to suppose that she once saw anything but the ground.

"I am afraid you are too tired."

"No indeed I am not. I should like it — if there is time."

"Go in less time that way than the other."

So they presently reached the lower ground.

"Do you want anything from the house?" said Winthrop as they came near it.

"Only the oars — If you will get those, I will untie the boat."

"Then I'll not get the oars. I'll get them on condition that you stand still here."

So they went down together to the rocks, and Elizabeth put herself in the stern of the little boat and they pushed off.

To any people who could think of anything but each other, October offered enough to fill eyes, ears, and understanding; that is, if ears can be filled with silence, which perhaps is predicable. Absolute silence on this occasion was wanting, as there was a good deal of talking; but for eyes and understanding, perhaps it may safely be said that those of the two people in the Merry-go-round took the benefit of everything they passed on their way; with a reduplication of pleasure which arose from the throwing and catching of that ball of conversation, in which, like the herb-stuffed ball of the Arabian physician of old, — lay perdu certain hidden virtues, of sympathy. But Shahweetah's low rocky shore never offered more beauty to any eyes, than to theirs that day, as they coasted slowly round it. Colours, colours! If October had been a dyer, he could not have shewn a greater variety of samples.

There were some locust trees in the open cedar-grown field by the river; trees that Mr. Landholm had planted long ago. They were slow to turn, yet they were changing. One soft feathery head was in yellowish green, another of more neutral colour; and blending with them were the tints of a few reddish soft- tinted alders below. That group was not gay. Further on were a thicket of dull coloured alders at the edge of some flags, and above them blazed a giant huckleberry bush in bright flame colour; close by that were the purple red tufts of some common sumachs — the one beautifully rich, the other beautifully striking. A little way from them stood a tulip tree, its green changing with yellow. Beyond came cedars, in groups, wreathed with bright tawny grape vines and splendid Virginia creepers, now in full glory. Above their tops, on the higher ground, was a rich green belt of pines — above them, the changing trees of the forest again.

Here shewed an elm its straw-coloured head — there stood an ash in beautiful grey-purple; very stately. The cornus family in rich crimson — others crimson purple; maples shewing yellow and flame-colour and red all at once; one beauty still in green was orange-tipped with rich orange. The birches were a darker hue of the same colour; hickories bright as gold.

Then came the rocks, and rocky precipitous point of Shahweetah; and the echo of the row-locks from the wall. Then the point was turned, and the little boat sought the bottom of the bay, nearing Mountain Spring all the while. The water was glassy smooth; the boat went — too fast.

Down in the bay the character of the woodland was a little different. It was of fuller growth, and with many fewer evergreens, and some addition to the variety of the changing deciduous leaves. When they got quite to the bottom of the bay and were coasting along close under the shore, there was perhaps a more striking display of Autumn's glories at their side, than the rocks of Shahweetah could shew them. They coasted slowly along, looking and talking. The combinations were beautiful.

There was the dark fine bright red of some pepperidges shewing behind the green of an unchanged maple; near by stood another maple the leaves of which were all seemingly withered, a plain reddish light wood-colour; while below its withered foliage a thrifty poison sumach wreathing round its trunk and lower branches, was in a beautiful confusion of fresh green and the orange and red changes, yet but just begun. Then another slight maple with the same dead wood-coloured leaves, into which to the very top a Virginia creeper had twined itself, and that was now brilliantly scarlet, magnificent in the last degree. Another like it a few trees off — both reflected gorgeously in the still water. Rock oaks were part green and part sear; at the edge of the shore below them a quantity of reddish low shrubbery; the cornus, dark crimson and red brown, with its white berries shewing underneath, and more pepperidges in very bright red. One maple stood with its leaves parti-coloured reddish and green — another with beautiful orange-coloured foliage. Ashes in superb very dark purple; they were all changed. Then alders, oaks, and chestnuts still green. A kaleidoscope view, on water and land, as the little boat glided along sending rainbow ripples in towards the shore.

In the bottom of the bay Winthrop brought the boat to land, under a great red oak which stood in its fair dark green beauty yet at the very edge of the water. Mountain Spring was a little way off, hidden by an outsetting point of woods. As the boat touched the tree-roots, Winthrop laid in the oars and came and took a seat by the boat's mistress.

"Are you going to walk to Mountain Spring the rest of the way?" she said.

"No."

"Will the stage-coach take you up here?"

"If it comes, it will. What are you going to do with yourself now, till I see you again?"

"There's enough to do," said Elizabeth sighing. "I am going to try to behave myself. How soon will the coach be here now?"

"I think, not until I have seen you about half way over the bay on your way home."

"O you will not see me," said Elizabeth. "I am not going before the coach does."

"Yes you are."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because it will not come till I have seen you at least, I should judge, half across the bay."

"But I don't want to go."

"You are so unaccustomed to doing things you don't want to do, that it is good discipline for you."

"Do you mean that seriously?" said Elizabeth, looking a little disturbed.

"I mean it half seriously," said he laughing, getting up to push the boat to shore, which had swung a little off.

"But nobody likes, or wants, self-imposed discipline," said
Elizabeth.

"This isn't self-imposed — I impose it," said he throwing the rope round a branch of the tree. "I don't mean anything that need make you look so," he added as he came back to his place.

Elizabeth looked up and her brow cleared.

"I dare say you are right," she said. "I will do just as you please."

"Stop a minute," said he gently taking her hand — "What do you 'dare say' I am right about?"

"This — or anything," Elizabeth said, her eye wavering between the water and the shore.

"I don't want you to think that."

"But how am I going to help it?"

He smiled a little and looked grave too.

"I am going to give you a lesson to study."

"Well? —" said Elizabeth with quick pleasure; and she watched, very like a child, while Winthrop sought in his pocket and brought out an old letter, tore off a piece of the back and wrote on his knee with a pencil.

Then he gave it to her.

But it was the precept, —

'Little children, keep yourselves from idols.'

Elizabeth's face changed, and her eyes lifted themselves not up again. The colour rose, and spread, and deepened, and her head only bent lower down over the paper. That thrust was with a barbed weapon. And there was a profound hush, and a bended head and a pained brow, till a hand came gently between her eyes and the paper and occupied the fingers that held it. It was the same hand that her fancy had once seen full of character — she saw it again now; her thoughts made a spring hack to that time and then to this. She looked up.

It was a look to see. There was a witching mingling of the frank, the childlike, and the womanly, in her troubled face; frankness that would not deny the truth that her monitor seemed to have read, a childlike simplicity of shame that he should have divined it, and a womanly self-respect that owned it had nothing to be ashamed of. These were not all the feelings that were at work, nor that shewed their working; and it was a face of brilliant expression that Elizabeth lifted to her companion. In the cheeks the blood spoke brightly; in the eyes, fire; there was more than one tear there, too; and the curve of the lips was unbent with a little tremulous play. Winthrop must have been a man of self-command to have stood it; but he looked apparently no more concerned than if old Karen had lifted up her face at him.

"Do you know," she said, and the moved line of the lips might plainly be seen, — "you are making it the more hard for me to learn your lesson, even in the very giving it me?"

"What shall I do?"

Elizabeth hesitated, and conquered herself.

"I guess you needn't do anything," she said half laughing.
"I'll try and do my part."

There was a little answer of the face then, that sent
Elizabeth's eyes to the ground.

"What do you mean by these words?" she said looking at them again.

"I don't mean anything. I simply give them to you."

"Yes, and I might see an old musket standing round the house; but if you take it up and present it at me, it is fair to ask, what you mean?"

"It is not an old musket, to begin with," said Winthrop laughing; "and if it goes off, it will shoot you through the heart."

"You have the advantage of me entirely, this morning!" said Elizabeth. "I give up. I hope the next time you have the pleasure of seeing me, I shall be myself."

"I hope so. I intend to keep my identity. Now as that stage- coach will not come till you get half over the bay —"

And a few minutes thereafter, the little boat was skimming back for the point of Shahweetah, though not quite so swiftly as it had come. But Elizabeth was not a mean oarsman; and in good time she got home, and moored the Merry-go-round in its place.

She was walking up to the house then, in very happy mood, one hand depending musingly at either string of her sunbonnet, when she was met by her cousin.

"Well," said Rose, — "have you been out in the woods all this while?"

"No."

"I suppose it's all settled between you and Mr. Landholm?"

Elizabeth stood an instant, with hands depending as aforesaid, and then with a little inclination of her person, somewhat stately and more graceful, gave Rose to understand, that she had no contradiction to make to this insinuation.

"Is it!" said Rose. "Did he come up for that?"

"I suppose you know what he came for better than I do."

"Did you know I wrote a letter to him?"

"I guessed it afterwards. Rose!" — said Elizabeth suddenly, "there was nothing but about Karen in it?"

"Nothing in the world!" said Rose quickly. "What should there be?"

"What did you write for?"

"I was frightened to death, and I wanted to see somebody; and
I knew you wouldn't send for him. Wasn't it good I did! —"

Rose clapped her hands. The colour in Elizabeth's face was gradually getting brilliant. She passed on.

"And now you' ll live in Mannahatta?"

Elizabeth did not answer.

"And will you send for old Mr. Landholm to come back and take care of this place again?"

"Hush, Rose! — Mr. Landholm will do what he pleases."

"You don't please about it, I suppose?"

"Yes I do, Rose, — not to talk at all on the subject!"

THE END.

PRINTED BY BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

Typographical errors silently corrected:

volume 1 chapter 1 : =to give you the best ;= silently corrected as =to give you the best,=

chapter 1 : =Winthrops eyes= silently corrected as =Winthrop's eyes=

chapter 2 : =we will launch, A vessel= silently corrected as we =will launch A vessel=

chapter 5 : =William what?"= silently corrected as ="William what?"=

chapter 7 : =For ought I see= silently corrected as =For aught I see=

chapter 8 : =certainly very pretty,= silently corrected as =certainly very pretty.=

chapter 10 : ='It was a soft grey day= silently corrected as =It was a soft grey day=

chapter 10 : =It will find out more= silently corrected as =I will find out more=

chapter 13 : =repay you; my dear= silently corrected as =repay you, my dear=

chapter 17 : =of no use to you;= silently corrected as =of no use to you,=

chapter 18 : =they all fight= silently corrected as ="they all fight=

chapter 20 : =very unsatisfactory?= silently corrected as =very unsatisfactory!=

chapter 24 : =used depatch= silently corrected as =used despatch=

chapter 26 : ="Winnie's eye keenly= silently corrected as =Winnie's eye keenly=