The abandoned farm, and Connie's mistake

by Mary Jane Holmes

Connie had not thought of that, and looked troubled until Kenneth, who had been thinking seriously on the matter for some days, said to her: “How would you like to live in the villa,—with me, I mean? We are to be married soon, and it would be better to have a home of our own than to stay with father and mother. Kitty and the baby can live with us.”

Connie hesitated a moment. She had never quite forgiven Harry for his deception, and could not at once make up her mind to live in a house which had been his. Still, she could be happy anywhere with Kenneth, and it would be a home for Kitty. It was a beautiful place, with every modern improvement possible in the country. Harry was dead. He had tried to make amends, he was sorry for what he had done, he had named his baby for her, and— Yes, she would live there, she said at last, and Kitty should be their care until something better presented itself for her. This decision was received by Kitty with a burst of glad tears and regrets for the past, when thousands had been spent so recklessly, with a belief that there were thousands more to take their place, and now she was poorer than the poorest factory girl in Millville. She could not go to the obscure boarding-house where her father lived, and Tom had no place for her. She must stay where she was, with Kenneth and Connie, who were to be married soon in New York, for the countess would have it so.

She was not pleased when she first heard of Connie’s engagement to Kenneth. “She ought to do better than marry a common country doctor,” she said. But when she saw him, her opinion underwent a rapid change. He was a country doctor still, but not a common man, either in physique or manners, and she felt that Connie had chosen well. Of the man who called himself Harold Meurice she never spoke to Connie. He had passed out of her knowledge, and his secret was buried in the churchyard at The 4 Corners. The count, grown wiser, and perhaps fonder of his wife, with two years of matrimony, continued to treat Connie in a most fatherly manner, so that her few weeks’ stay with her aunt was very pleasant, enlivened as they were by daily letters from Kenneth and two or three a week from Kitty, who was longing for her to return.

The wedding, which took place in October, was a very quiet affair, with only a few friends of the countess present, and Dr. Catherin, who happened to be in the city. Kenneth was too popular a physician, and there were too many hands stretching out to him for help, to allow of an extended trip; and the last of the month, when the hills and mountains were putting on their autumnal dress, and the country was almost as beautiful as the early summer time, he brought his bride to what was henceforth to be known as the Stannard Place, instead of the Morris Villa. Kitty was there to receive them, very lovely and sweet in her widow’s weeds, and yielding her place as mistress of the house willingly and gracefully. She knew she was a dependant, for after matters were settled there was nothing left to her but the memory of her short married life and the baby Connie, who was the pet of the household and in a fair way to be spoiled until a year later, when a little boy came to divide the honors with her.

Kitty fancied there was a look in his face like her dead husband, and said so to Connie, adding: “Would you mind calling him Harold? It is such a pretty name!”

She could not guess how Connie recoiled from the thought of calling her baby for the man who had caused her so much pain, or that she would sooner give him the old-fashioned name of Ephraim, for the grandfather who came two or three times a day to see him, and with his wife was growing young in the happiness crowning his declining years.

“Yes, Harold is a pretty name,” she said, “but baby is to be Kenneth Elliott.”

It is more than a year since the baby came, and he is now a sturdy boy, disputing his rights with his cousin Connie, a little, delicate, timid girl, who always gives up to him unless his mother interferes to prevent what might become tyranny but for her judicious treatment. Should you be at The 4 Corners some wintry day when the sleighing is good and the sun is shining warm and bright, you may perhaps see the sled on which the first Connie once rode in the mud, and on which little Connie now frequently rides in the snow, with Dr. Kenneth in front. He has built sides and back to it, and sometimes, when the day is very fine, baby Ken sits on the sled, holding in his little hands the lines his grandmother knit, and to which he occasionally gives a pull, with the only words he can fully master, “Do on,” to his willing horse. Sometimes Connie is with them, and always a dog, whom they call Chance, and who is much like the other Chance, whose grave is on the ledge where Kenneth had his Christmas tree and Connie gave herself to him.

They are very happy, Kenneth and Connie, and no shadow, however slight, has ever arisen to dim their married life. Kenneth is constantly gaining in his profession, and many offers have been made him for a more lucrative position in larger cities, but he prefers to stay where he is. His father and mother are there, and it was there Connie came to him, stirring, as he believes, all the good impulses which have made him what he is. He likes the country, and says he shall spend his life there. And now there is nothing more to tell of the story commenced on the summer morning, when Jehu and Henriet took us up the long hill and we sat on the church steps at what was once and is still, in a way, the famous 4 Corners.

THE END.