Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

The Discarded Daughter
OR
The Children of the Isle

BY

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

Author of “Ishmael,” “The Hidden Hand,” “The Bride’s Fate,” “The Changed Brides,” etc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS: NEW YORK

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY.
ST. CLARA’S ISLE.

The Island lies nine leagues away.

Along its solitary shore

Of craggy rock and sandy bay,

No sound but ocean’s roar,

Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home,

Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

—R. H. Dana.

The scenes of our story lie along the Western shore of Maryland, near the mouth of the Potomac River, and among the islets of the Chesapeake Bay.

Nothing can be more beautiful, grand, and inspiring than the scenery of this region.

The great Potomac, a mighty and invincible monarch of rivers, even from her first stormy conquest, in which she rent apart the everlasting mountains, and forced herself a passage to the sea—widens and broadens her channel, extending the area of her empire continually as she goes on her irresistible way in a vast, calm, majestic flow of waters to the ocean.

At the mouth of the river on the north, or Maryland side, is Point Lookout; on the south, or Virginia side, is Smith’s Point, with an expanse of water twenty miles in width between them.

The shore on the Maryland side is broken by the most beautiful creeks and inlets, and dotted by the most beautiful islets that imagination can depict—creeks whose crystal-clear waters reflect every undulating hill and vale, every shadowy tree and bright flower lying upon their banks, and every soft and dark, or sun-gilded and glorious cloud floating in the skies above their bosoms; islets whose dewy, fresh and green luxuriance of vegetation, darksome trees and profound solitude, tempt one into poetic dreams of an ideal hermitage. The beauty and interest of this shore is enhanced by the occasional glimpses of rural homes—magnificent, or simply picturesque—seen indistinctly through the trees, at the head of some creek, on the summit of some distant hill, or in the shades of some thick grove.

Nothing can surpass the pleasure of the opposite but delightfully blended emotions inspired by this scene.

On the one hand the near shore, with its inlets and islands, its sunny hills and shadowy dells, its old forests, its cornfields, and its sweet, sequestered homes, yields that dear sense of safety and repose which the most adventurous never like to lose entirely.

On the other hand, looking out to the sea, the broad expanse of waters, the free and unobstructed pathway to all parts of the world, fills and dilates the heart with an exultant sense of boundless freedom!

I said that the islets of the Potomac were fertile, verdant, and luxurious in vegetation. This is because their sandy soil is mixed freely with clay and marl; because it is enriched with the deposits of the vast flocks of water-fowl that hover upon them for safe repose; and finally, because, unlike the worn-out lands of the peninsula, the soil is a virgin one, where for ages vegetation has budded, bloomed, and decayed, and returned to the earth to fertilize it. (And here let me be pardoned for saying that it is a matter of surprise to me that the attention of enterprising men has never been turned to these islands as a source of agricultural wealth; for, besides the rich fertility of the soil, the salubrity of the air, and the beauty and grandeur of the land and water scenery, these islands are rich in shoals of fish, crabs, and oysters, and in vast flocks of water-fowl. But we ever overlook and leave the near to seek the far-off goal.)

Beyond the mouth of the river, however, and up the coast of the bay, the islands are sandy and poor—nearly unproductive, or entirely barren.

Anyone who will turn to the map of Maryland will see that the Chesapeake Bay is interspersed with numerous islands of all sizes, from the largest—Kent Island—to the smallest, nameless sand bank; that the eastern and western shores of Maryland are beautifully diversified with every modification of land and water scenery; that the inlets and islands of the coast form the most charming features of the landscape.

Some distance above Point Lookout, at the mouth of the Potomac River, up the western shore of Maryland, there is a beautiful inlet, or small bay, making up about three miles into the land, called St. Clara’s Bay by one of the early Roman Catholic settlers. At the headwaters of this inlet is a small, very old hamlet, the site of one of the first settlements of the State, intended once, no doubt, for a great colonial seaport, and christened by the same sponsor St. Clarasville. With its fine harbor and great commercial facilities, whatever could have arrested its growth and withered it in its prime I do not know—possibly the very abundance of other good harbors on the coast—probably the frequent and violent dissensions between the pre-emption freebooters of the Bay Isles and the legal proprietors and settlers of the mainland. Lying two miles off the mouth of this inlet, and stretching across in front of it, is an oblong, sandy, and nearly barren island—rich, however, in fish, crabs, oysters, and water-fowl, and upon this account a great resort in early colonial times, and baptized by the same devout claimant of the bay and town St. Clara’s Isle, in honor of his patron saint.

But there was another claimant of the island, inlet, and township; a freebooter, who, believing in and acknowledging no greater personage than himself, had named the isle, the bay, and town also, when it was laid out, after himself. So they were first and most frequently called Hutton’s Island, Bay, and Town.

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER

CHAPTER I.
MOUNT CALM.

A proud, aristocratic hall it seems,

Not courting, but discouraging approach.

—Moultrie.

Let me introduce you to Mount Calm, the seat of General Aaron Garnet. Even from the bay you can see the mansion house, with its broad white front, as it crowns the highest of a distant range of hills. After passing through the village of Hutton, and going up and down the grassy hills that rise one above the other beyond it, you enter a deep hollow, thickly grown with woods, and passing through it, begin to ascend by a heavily shaded forest road, the last and highest hill of the range—Mount Calm. When about halfway up this hill you come to the brick walls inclosing the private grounds, and passing through the porter’s gate you enter a heavily-shaded carriage drive, that, sweeping around in an ascending half-circle, brings you up before the mansion house.

Behind the house was a green slope and a thick grove that concealed from view the extensive outbuildings connected with the establishment. Extensive fields of corn, wheat, rye, oats, tobacco, etc., spread all over the undulatory land. The estate itself comprised several thousands of the best acres in old St. Mary’s County, and there were several hundred of them under the best cultivation and in the richest state of productiveness.

This princely estate had remained in the possession of the Chesters since the first settlement of the county, and unlike the usual fate of old Maryland plantations, the property had not only been carefully preserved, but had steadily increased in value up to the time of the Revolution, when it had reached its highest importance.

The estate was then in the hands of Charles Chester, Esq., Justice of the Peace and Associate Judge of the Provincial Court. His family consisted of a wife, two sons, and a daughter.

At the breaking out of the Revolution Judge Chester and his two stalwart boys took the field among the first, and at the triumphant close of the war Colonel Chester set out on his return home with a pair of epaulettes, minus his pair of goodly sons, who were left not only dead upon the field of glory, but buried with all the honors of victorious war upon the immortal plains of Yorktown. And thus it happened that the heirship of the heavy estate, with all its burden of onerous responsibilities, fell upon the frail shoulders of young Alice Chester—a fair-skinned, golden-haired, blue-eyed girl of seventeen, the fairest, gentlest, and most fragile being that ever owed life to a stern and warlike sire. Alice, living at home with her simple-hearted, domestic mother, had been very little noticed by her father, or even by anyone else, until, by the death of his sons, she became the sole heiress of the vast estate, which was to prove the greatest misfortune of her life.

The long, long bleak winters were passed in almost inviolable seclusion, cheered only by an occasional letter from the army, and an occasional ride to church, if the road happened to be passable, which was seldom the case.

This life lasted until Alice was fifteen years of age, when an event occurred such as would make no stir at all in a city, but which will throw a quiet country neighborhood into convulsions, namely, a change of ministry—not national, but parochial! The old parson, compelled by declining health, had departed to take charge of a congregation farther south, and a young parson had come in his stead. The Rev. Milton Sinclair was handsome, graceful, and accomplished.

By the invitation of Mrs. Chester the young minister became the temporary inmate of Mount Calm, and very much he entertained and instructed, cheered and sustained the secluded mother and daughter. He became the almoner of the lady to the poor around. He directed and superintended the reading of Alice; introducing gradually, as her opening mind could bear, all the beauties and glories of science, history, philosophy, and poetry.

As the days fled, Alice and Milton Sinclair grew to love each other, and one day the minister told his great love and was made happy by Alice confessing that she returned his affection. Mrs. Chester, too, approved of the match, and she set her maids to work carding, spinning, knitting, weaving, and sewing, that Alice might have a full supply of every description of household cloth and linen. The bride’s trousseau was the last thing thought of, and there was time enough, she thought, for that when her father should arrive. She did not know when that would be, but it was well to have everything that took a great deal of time and labor, such as the house and furniture and the household stuff, ready—as for the wedding dresses and other minor preparations, of course they must be deferred until Colonel Chester’s arrival, and then they could be speedily got up.

It was in the midst of this domestic happiness, this great tense joy and hope, that the thunderbolt fell!

CHAPTER II.
THE NEW SUITOR.

How! Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?

Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blessed,

Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought

So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?

—Shakspere.

First came the news of the glorious victory of Yorktown—the final and signal triumph of the American arms. There were no railroads and telegraphic wires in those days, and very few newspapers. The report, the re-echo of this splendid victory, rolled on toward their quiet neighborhood like a storm; in clouds of doubt, in thunder and lightning of astonishment, joy, and mad triumph. The most delirious rejoicing convulsed the whole village and neighborhood for days, before any newspaper arrived with an account of the battle.

And the same mail that brought the newspaper, with a long account of the battle, headed in great capital letters line below line, brought also a letter sealed with black that sped like a bullet through the foreboding heart of Mrs. Chester, a letter from Colonel Chester, announcing the glorious death of his two brave sons upon the field of victory.

Mrs. Chester was overwhelmed with grief by the twofold bereavement, the fall of both her gallant sons, of whom she was as proud as fond.

She did not dream of the calamity, worse than death, that had befallen Alice, in the disguise of a princely inheritance, destined to darken her whole life with sorrow, while it mocked her in the face of the world with its unreal light and splendor.

But there was one who was not so forgetful—Colonel Chester. He was still with the army, but another letter was received from him, announcing his speedy return home, accompanied by his friend and companion in arms, General Garnet, a young officer, who, though but thirty years of age, had risen to the highest rank in the army, and won an immortal fame.

Colonel Chester came at length, accompanied by General Garnet. He met Alice with great empressement—for it was scarcely great affection—praised her growth and her beauty, introduced General Garnet, and, excusing himself for a few moments, passed to the sick-chamber of his wife.

Left alone with her guest Alice examined him shyly, with the curiosity of a woman and the bashfulness of a country girl. General Garnet was what young ladies call a fine, military-looking man. He certainly had a fine, martial figure and bearing, or that which is our ideal of it—a tall and elegantly proportioned figure, a calm, majestic carriage, yet withal suggestive of great reposing strength and fire. His voice was perfect harmony itself. His manner was dignified and imposing, or graceful, earnest, and seductive. Yet, sometimes, one in a sudden, vague astonishment, would feel that he was a man who could unite the utmost inflexibility, and even cruelty of purpose, with the most graceful and gracious urbanity of manner. With all his marvelous powers of fascination he was a man to darken, chill, repel a bright-spirited, warm-souled, pure-hearted girl like Alice. Yet she did the honors of her father’s house to her father’s guest until that guest merged into the lover, and then Alice felt and betrayed the utmost soul-sickened repugnance to him and his suit.

It was now that the object of Colonel Chester in inviting this distinguished visitor to Mount Calm became evident—that of bestowing the hand of his daughter and heiress upon him.

After a conversation with General Garnet he sent for Alice, and, without any preface at all, bade her make up her mind to a speedy marriage with the husband he had chosen for her, his distinguished and dear friend, General Garnet.

Alice passed from the room, mechanically pressing her hands to her temples, trying to awake as from a heart-sickening dream. And so she passed to her now frequent post of duty, her declining mother’s darkened room and sick-bed. The senses, or the intuitions, or the instincts of those on the confines of the unseen world are sometimes preternaturally acute. There was that in the falling footstep, in the very form and bearing, of Alice, as she glided through the shadows of that dark room, that revealed to the mother the existence of some heavy cloud teeming with sorrow, that was ready to burst upon the devoted head of her child.

She called Alice to her bedside, took her hand in her gentle grasp, looked with wondering sadness into her eyes—her eyes set in the stare of blank stupor—and murmured tenderly:

“What is the matter, Alice? Tell your mother?”

Her mother’s loving voice and touch unsealed the spellbound founts of tears and speech.

“Oh, mother! mother! I am ruined! ruined!” she wildly gasped, and, sinking down upon the floor, dropped her head upon the bed with hysterical sobs and gasps, and inarticulate wailings.

Her mother laid her gentle hand upon her child’s burning and throbbing head, and raised her tender eyes in silent prayer for her, while this storm raged, and until it passed, and Alice, exhausted, but calm, was able to rise, sit by her side, and while she held her hand, tell her what had happened.

“I will speak to him, Alice,” she then said. “I will tell him how you and Sinclair love each other—as you could not tell him, my child. I will show him how vain—oh, how vain! are wealth, and rank, and honor, and glory, in the hour of grief, by the bed of death, in the presence of God! how love, and truth, and faith are all in all! Yes! and I will make him feel it, too. And, though he should not realize it as I do, yet he will never refuse me a request now!”

And the next morning, directly after breakfast, Colonel Chester received a message from his wife, requesting him to come to her room for a few minutes, if convenient, as she wished to speak with him.

Colonel Chester went. What passed at that interview no one knew more than what might be guessed from what followed.

Colonel Chester came out of the room, banging the door after him, with a half-uttered imprecation upon “sickly fancies,” “irritable nerves,” and “foolish women.” But immediately after this interview Mrs. Chester became much worse; her fever rose to delirium, and she was alarmingly ill for several days. Milton Sinclair heard of her state, and, little suspecting the cause, came to see her. He was met by Colonel Chester, who informed him that his wife was too ill to receive even her pastor, and requested him to walk into the library. There Colonel Chester informed him that circumstances had occurred which made it his painful duty to beg that Mr. Sinclair would temporarily suspend his visits to Mount Calm.

“Alice!” exclaimed the young man. That name contained everything, and rendered a full explanation indispensable. It was given.

Deadly pale, Sinclair walked up and down the floor, pressing his head tightly between his two palms and groaning—groaning the name, the prayer, that in the bitterest agony of the soul starts to every lip:

“My God! oh, my God! have pity on me! God have mercy on me!”

The heart-broken tone of these words touched even that hard man of the world, Colonel Chester.

“Come, come, Sinclair; you must have been prepared for this for some months past. I did not violently and at once separate you from Alice when I first came home, although you must have known that all our plans were changed. I gave you time to wean yourself gradually off. In other circumstances, indeed, I should have felt myself most honored, most happy in the alliance; but we do not control our own destinies. Good-day, Sinclair. You will forget Alice.”

CHAPTER III.
THE FATHER’S TYRANNY.

An thou be mine, I’ll give thee to my friend!

An thou be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets,

Nor what is mine shall ever do thee good,

Trust to it, bethink you! I’ll not be forsworn!

—Shakspere.

Sinclair! Sinclair! Where in the world was he? Where had he been so many days? Why did he not come? Alice could have given the world to have seen him.

She did not know that he had been forbidden the house. She was totally ignorant of everything that had passed between her father and himself. She walked wildly about the house and grounds, instinctively avoiding her feeble mother’s room, lest in her present distracted state she should kill her with agitation; afraid of meeting her father, and doubly afraid of encountering General Garnet, and wishing and praying—oh! praying, as if for dear life, that she might meet Sinclair.

One afternoon she wrote a wild letter to him, illegible and unintelligible every way except in this—that he must “come to Mount Calm immediately.” She sent the letter off, and walked up and down her chamber, trying to get calm enough to go and see her mother. While thus employed a message reached her from her mother, desiring her to come to her room. Alice went immediately. As she entered the dark chamber Mrs. Chester called her up to the side of her bed; she saw that her mother’s countenance had changed fearfully since the morning, and now a new terror and remorse seized her heart; she was about to speak, when Mrs. Chester said:

“Alice, you look frightfully pale and haggard, my dear child. Alice, we were foiled this morning. Your father has been here, and told me all about it—the projected marriage in a week, and all; but do not fear, my dear child, you shall not be sacrificed; it is not right. I have sent a message to Mr. Sinclair to come here this evening. He has not been here for some time, and when he comes I must have a talk with him.”

At this moment a servant entered the chamber, to whom Mrs. Chester turned, saying:

“Milly, mix a teaspoonful of ether with a little water, and hand it to Miss Alice. She is not well. You must take it, Alice, dear; you are really very ill, and it will compose your nerves.”

“Mr. Sinclair is downstairs, madam, and wants to know if he may come up,” said the girl, as she handed the glass to Alice.

Alice dropped the glass, untasted.

“Where is General Garnet?” said Mrs. Chester.

“In the library, writing, madam.”

“Where is Colonel Chester?”

“Gone out riding, madam.”

“Thank Heaven! Yes, request Mr. Sinclair to come up, Milly.”

After the departure of the girl the mother and daughter remained in silent expectation. At last the light, quick footstep of Sinclair was heard upon the stairs.

“Go and meet him, Alice, my darling,” said the mother, with a smile.

Alice arose, and as he opened the door and advanced into the room, started forward and threw herself weeping into his arms. What could he do but press her to his bosom? Then he led her back to her mother’s bedside—stooped over the sick lady, taking her hand, and inquiring tenderly, respectfully, after her health of body and soul. While she was making her gentle, patient reply, the attention of all three was arrested by the noise of heavy, hurried footsteps hastening up the stairs.

“It is your father, Alice! Oh, God, save us!” exclaimed Mrs. Chester, just as Colonel Chester, with one violent kick of his boot, burst open the door, and, purple and convulsed with rage, stood among them.

“Who admitted this man? Who sent for him?” he demanded, in a furious voice.

“I did. I sent for him,” said the mother, pale with fear and feebleness, but wishing to shield her daughter.

“I did! I wrote him a note,” murmured the daughter, in a dying voice, sick with terror, but wishing to save her mother.

“Traitors! Shameless household traitors! so there are a pair of you! a desirable wife and daughter! a very suitable mother and daughter! But I’ll find a way to punish you both. I’ll——”

Here he was interrupted by Sinclair, who, turning to him, said, in a composed but stern voice:

“Colonel Chester, visit your anger and reproaches upon me, who knew of your prohibition, not upon those who possibly knew nothing about it.”

“You have the insolence to tell me, sir, to remind me, that you knew of my prohibition to cross my threshold! while standing here in my house, in the very heart of my house, my wife’s bedchamber!” exclaimed Colonel Chester furiously.

“In your wife’s sick-chamber, sir, where, as a Christian minister, it is my bounden duty sometimes to come.”

“And, d—— you, from whence I’ll put you out!” exclaimed the infuriated man.

“I will go. Good-evening, Mrs. Chester; good-evening, Alice. I leave you in the care of Heaven,” said Sinclair, wishing, by all means, to avoid the disgrace of a struggle.

“Go! what, go quietly like an honored guest dismissed? No, d—— you, you came surreptitiously, and you shall depart involuntarily. No, d—— you, I will put you out!” vociferated the maniac, in an ungovernable fury, springing upon Sinclair.

A violent struggle ensued. Sinclair acted entirely upon the defensive, saying, continually, as he could make himself heard:

“Colonel Chester, let me go! I will leave quietly; I would have done so at first.”

And now the deathly grip and struggle went on in silence, interrupted only by the short, curt, hissing exclamations of the enraged man through his now whitened lip and clenched teeth. Sinclair was half the age and double the weight and strength of his opponent, and could easily have mastered him, but did not want the odium of doing it.

While wrestling desperately on the defensive, he expostulated once more:

“Colonel Chester—not for my sake, but for your own—for your family’s, for honor’s sake, let me depart in peace!”

“Ah, villain!” exclaimed the madman, finding his strength failing, and suddenly drawing a pistol, he pointed it at Sinclair’s temple and fired. Sinclair suddenly started, and the bullet went through the window, shattering the glass. Chester now raised the spent pistol and aimed with it a violent blow upon Sinclair’s head. Sinclair quickly caught his descending hand, when——

A power more awful than the judge’s baton, the monarch’s scepter, or the priest’s elevated crucifix arrested the combat.

Death stood in their presence! A cry of mortal anguish from Alice caused both to turn and look—both to drop their hold—and stand like conscience-stricken culprits!

There lay Mrs. Chester, the gentle, patient, long-suffering woman, stricken down, dying in her daughter’s arms.

Colonel Chester came to his senses at once, feeling all the horror and remorse of a murderer.

And Sinclair repented from his soul that he had not permitted himself to be expelled from the house with every species of ignominy rather than to have seen this.

That ashen brow—those fixed eyes—that silent tongue, and quick, gasping breath! that face of the dying! it would never depart from his memory. Oh! any personal indignity rather than this memory! if he could but save her! but she was beyond all help now, for—even as full of sorrow and remorse he gazed—with a long, deep sigh, as for the pilgrims she left behind on earth, her spirit passed to God.

Sinclair bore Alice, fainting, from the room.

Colonel Chester fell down on his knees, dropping his head upon the bed, and throwing his arms over his dead wife in a paroxysm of remorse and despair, ungovernable as his rage had been, and, alas! nearly as transient!

CHAPTER IV.
THE SUBJECTION OF ALICE.

Oh! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,

From off the battlements of yonder tower.

—Shakspere.

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason

Like sweet bells jangled out of tune and harsh!

That unmatched form and feature of blown youth

Blasted with ecstasy!

—Ibid.

After this terrible family storm, in which poor Mrs. Chester’s vital powers had suddenly failed, the peace stern death enforces reigned through the house. Alice, her heart and brain overturned by endurance, lay exhausted, almost insensible, upon her bed within her chamber.

General Garnet had taken himself off to the village tavern, whence he had been invited to pass a week or two, at Point Yocomoco, the seat of Judge Wylie.

Mr. Sinclair, in the disinterested kindness of his heart, remained at the house, superintending and directing everything, unquestioned by Colonel Chester, who, when he met, recognized him with a sigh or a groan. He remained until the funeral was over, and the house restored to its former order, and departed without seeing Alice, who, still prostrated, had not left her room. And after this, as Colonel Chester had not revoked his prohibition, he came to the house no more.

As days glided into weeks Alice recovered a portion of her strength, left the chamber, and mournfully went about her customary occupations.

Poor Alice! her spirit was very willing, but her nerves were very weak. So it was with a pang of fear that Alice heard her father at the breakfast table one morning announce the expected arrival of General Garnet that evening. Yes, Colonel Chester, thinking that now perhaps sufficient time had elapsed since her mother’s death—and sufficient strength and cheerfulness had returned to his daughter—had recalled her suitor. Alice was trembling violently—she dared not look up. She had been taught to love and venerate her father above all earthly beings, and next to God. She loved and venerated him still, and kept her thoughts reverently away from investigating his motive and judging his conduct. She had been taught to bow with implicit and reverential obedience to his will. To oppose him had not been easy in her thought—it was terrible in practice. It would have been terrible to her had her father been a man of moderate temper and self-control; but he was a man of violent and ungovernable passion; and Alice was in an agony of terror when she faltered out:

“Father, if General Garnet comes here only as your guest, I will welcome him with every possible attention; I will try to make him feel at home, and endeavor to render his sojourn with us in every other way agreeable; but if he comes here as my suitor——” Here her voice died away.

“Well!”

It is impossible to convey the short, curt, galvanic strength and abruptness with which he jerked, as it were, this syllable out, and brought Alice up. It was like throwing the lasso suddenly around her neck, and jerking her up face to face with him. And such a face! It is impossible to paint the grim determination of the locked jaws, armed with the wiry stubble beard, bristled up with fierceness, and the ferocity of the darkly-gathered frown that screwed his glance upon her pallid face, that screwed it into her very brain. Alice turned deadly sick, her eyes filmed over, and she sank back in her chair. She did not faint or lose consciousness, for the next instant she felt her father’s iron hand upon her fragile shoulder, and her father’s awful voice in that low, deep, suppressed tone of fierce, immutable determination, saying:

“Miss Chester, it is not as your suitor, but as your husband, that General Garnet will come this evening. I command you to receive him as such.”

And he left her.

CHAPTER V.
THE HUSBAND’S AUTHORITY.

Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length,

Both Love and Hope beneath the weight give way;

Then with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength,

Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,

And both supporting does the work of both.

—Coleridge.

Let us hasten over the next few hideous weeks. Alice had a serious illness, from which she recovered slowly; her spirit utterly broken; her heart utterly crushed; her very brain clouded. Her whole being bowed down by the storm of sorrow, yet with no one to support, comfort, sympathize with her. Sinclair, that only living being who could have saved her, was absent, forbidden to approach her. She was left alone, almost imbecile, and so quite defenseless in the terrible power of her father.

And what words are these to write! and what a position was hers when that divinely appointed parental authority—that protective and beneficent power—was perverted by pride, ambition, and selfishness into an engine of mighty torture, inflicting a fatal and life long calamity!

Yet the father verily believed that he was disinterestedly serving his daughter’s best interests. There is no more profoundly mournful illustration of the ruined archangel than that of any perverted love.

With the support of her feeble mother, had she lived—with the support of Sinclair, had his piety been less æscetic, more hopeful—Alice might have successfully resisted the fate impending over her; but she was alone, reduced by sorrow and illness to a state of imbecility of mind and body, and she succumbed to her destiny.

So, in just three months from the death of her mother Alice Chester, pallid, cold, nearly lifeless, whiter than the pearls in her pale hair, stood in bridal array before God’s holy altar, to vow in the hearing of men and angels to love and honor one whom she found it difficult not to hate and despise.

Immediately after the marriage they set out upon a bridal tour through the North. They were absent all summer. Early in autumn they returned to Mount Calm, where, at the earnest desire of Colonel Chester, they took up their residence. Alice would have preferred it otherwise.

After their marriage, and during their long and varied bridal tour, she had, as it were, lost her identity, seeming to herself to be someone else. The varied scenes of her journey—the stage-offices, turnpike roads, country taverns, great cities with their masses of brick and mortar, public edifices, forests of shipping, gay shops, theaters, concerts, balls, illuminations, dancings, splendid attire, stage pageantry, the ranting and the after silence, land journeys, water journeys—all haunted by one painful presence—had passed before her like a phantasmagoria; like a continuation of her brain fever, with its nervous delirium and grotesque or hideous visions and hallucinations. So all had seemed to her, while she seemed to all a pale, pretty, silent girl.

There is a point of suffering beyond which sorrow destroys itself—is not felt as real—just as there is a crisis at which physical agony superinduces insensibility. So it had been with Alice, until she re-entered her native State, and memory and association were at work again,

“And the accustomed train

Of things grew round her brain again”;

then it was with the shrinking dread with which a burned child would approach fire that Alice drew near her home. She would have preferred to remain away for ever, amid the kaleidoscopic changes of her new, wandering, unreal life, rather than have awakened from the strange, painful, but very vague dream; rather than have consciousness forced upon her by the dear, old familiar scenes and associations of her home—her once peaceful, hopeful, happy home, as by

“Some monstrous torture-engine’s whole

Strength.”

The day of their arrival at home a large company had been invited to meet them at dinner. The days that followed were filled up with dinner parties. At length, late in the fall, they were quietly settled, and the monotonous routine of daily country life commenced. One thing Alice dreaded and avoided—appearing at church again under her new position and name. But Sinclair had accepted a “call” to a church in the West, which opened to him a new field of labor and usefulness. His departure followed; and this was a great relief to Alice, who, with the “sigh of a great deliverance, tried to leave the past with all its gloom and terror,” and turn to the future with some hope.

Two events of great domestic importance occurred in the second year of their marriage; one was the death of Colonel Chester, who died, as all their neighbors said, of nothing more than his diabolical temper; as their physician said, of congestion of the brain, brought on by excitement. And what do you think was the cause of this fatal excitement? That the child of Alice happened to be a girl instead of a boy, which he had set his heart upon.

CHAPTER VI.
COUNTRY NEIGHBORS.

Blest those abodes where want and pain repair

And every stranger finds a ready chair;

Blest be those feasts, with joyous plenty crowned,

Where all the blooming family around,

Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,

Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale,

Or press the weary traveler to his food,

And feel the luxury of doing good.

—Goldsmith.

Alice was almost in solitary confinement in the cold, stern prison of her home, for General Garnet discouraged association with old friends, who at least suggested the past, if they did not openly refer to it.

But there was one family, and that family the very warmest and most steadfast among the few friends of Sinclair, from whom General Garnet had not the will to separate his young wife—the Wylies of Yocomoco, or Point Pleasant, as their seat was more frequently called by their delighted visitors. Who, indeed, had the will or the power to do aught to annoy the delightful host of Point Pleasant?

Who in all the South has not heard of Judge Jacky Wylie, still called judge because he had once sat upon the bench, though not finding the seat comfortable, he had abandoned it, affirming that he had “not the heart” for the business? That was a favorite phrase of the judge, who was always asserting that he “hadn’t the heart,” when everyone knew that he had the largest heart in all old Maryland.

And there was his mother, a gentlewoman of the old school, without any state about her, a Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood, without any pretensions.

Who did not know and love old Mrs. Wylie?

How she was adored by the large, miscellaneous family Jack had gathered together! To be sure, all Jacky’s unprovided nieces and nephews were her grandchildren, and it was partly for love of her, to please her, to let her gather all her second brood under her wing, that her son Jacky collected them. Yes, she was adored by all that household of laughing girls and roystering boys, the tide of whose love and fondness for her was so great that it sometimes overflowed the barriers of veneration—just as Jacky’s confidence in God sometimes swamped his reverence!—but most of all was she idolized by the adopted son of Judge Jacky, Ulysses Roebuck.

Next to his grandmother Ulysses loved his smallest cousin, little Ambrosia, the only child of Judge Jacky, and the little goddess of the whole household of grown-up and growing young men and maidens. Little Ambrosia, named after her Uncle Ambrose, who had been the elder and only brother of Jacky, and the favorite of his mother, but who had died in youth. And it was to please his mother that Jacky, having no son, called his little daughter after his brother. And it was a lovely name, too, he thought—a lovely, tempting, caressable name! really better than one could have hoped; for Ambrose was old-fashioned and ugly—low be it spoken.

I think the negroes must have conceived it to be a “tempting” name, too; for, with their inevitable fault of corrupting language, they called the little seraph, with her charming face and sunny hair, “Miss Ambush.”

And “Marse Useless” and “Miss Ambush” were the prime favorites of the plantation, notwithstanding, or perhaps, because of, the dare-devil, don’t care-ishness of the former.

It was with this family, then, that General and Mrs. Garnet interchanged frequent visits. Often the old lady, Mrs. Wylie, accompanied by little Ambrosia and a waiting-maid, would drive up to Mount Calm in their old-fashioned phaeton, to spend the day; or else two or three of the girls and young men would ride up to pass an evening, and return by starlight. And not unfrequently young Mrs. Garnet would go down with her little Alice and pass a day and night at Point Pleasant.

There was yet another family with whom the Garnets were upon terms of close intimacy and friendship—their next neighbors, the Hardcastles of Hemlock Hollow, whose estate joined Mount Calm, lying immediately behind and below it, and extending further inland. The family at the Hollow consisted of Lionel Hardcastle, High Sheriff of the State; his only son, Lionel, Jr., a youth of fifteen, and his nephew, Magnus, a boy of ten years old.

Lionel Hardcastle was the only man in the county with whom General Garnet could be said to be on terms of close intimacy. Their estates, as I said, joined; their rank in life was upon a par, and their country interests almost identical. They were also of the same party in politics, of the same denomination in religion, and of like opinion upon all common and local questions; so that there was very little to differ about, while there was a great deal to attract them to each other in their very opposite temperaments and characters, experiences, and mental acquisitions.

Mrs. Garnet had always been strongly attached to the family at the Hollow, and though there was no lady at the head of the establishment to receive her, she continued to accept the invitations to dinner extended to General Garnet and herself, and always accompanied him thither.

But Mrs. Garnet had her favorite among the Hardcastles—this was young Magnus Hardcastle, the nephew, a fine, handsome, spirited, and generous boy, devotedly fond of his beautiful neighbor, and her sweet little girl. Very often would Mrs. Garnet take Magnus home with her to spend several days or weeks at Mount Calm. And when he was not staying there, still every day would the boy find his way to Mount Calm, with some little childish love-offering to its sweet mistress. In spring it would be a bunch of wood violets, or wild sweet-briar roses, gathered in the thicket, and of which Alice was very fond; in summer, a little flag-basket of wild strawberries or raspberries, which Alice loved better than hothouse or garden fruit; in autumn, a hat full of chestnuts and chinkapins, gathered in the forest, and hulled by himself; even in winter the little fellow might be seen trudging on, knee-deep in snow, with a bunch of snow-birds which he had caught in his trap for pretty Cousin Alice, as he called Mrs. Garnet.

Very bright would grow Mrs. Garnet’s pleasant chamber when Magnus, with his sunny smile, would break in upon the pensive lady and the little child, and light up all the room with his gladness. Very often the lady would open her arms to receive the joyous boy, and fold him to her bosom in a most loving clasp, grateful for the new life and joy he ever brought her.

Mrs. Garnet loved her own beautiful and gentle child, but it was with a profound, earnest, almost mournful and foreboding love.

But Magnus was a perpetual day-spring of gladness and delight to her. She could not look upon the boy without a thrill of sympathetic joy and hope.

And so the years had passed, and Alice grew happy in their flight, until the second trial of her life approached.

CHAPTER VII.
HUTTON OF THE ISLES.

Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong,

As earth’s first kings—the Argo’s gallant sailors—

Heroes in history, and gods in song.

—Halleck.

The Huttons, proprietors by pre-emption right of St. Clara’s town, bay, and isle for more than two hundred years, had settled among the islets of the bay many years previous to the date of that patent by which James I. granted the province of Maryland to George Calvert.

At the commencement of the American Revolution a certain Captain Hugh Hutton, the then representative and head of the family, fired with an enthusiastic passion for liberty, or—fighting! sold a great portion of his patrimony, and purchased, fitted out, and manned a privateer, and sailed against the British flag.

He served gallantly and with various success during the whole period of the war.

At the glorious close of the revolutionary struggle, ruined in fortune and riddled with wounds, Captain Hugh Hutton, the sailor-patriot and martyr, retired to the last foothold of his once kingly estate, to the little island of St. Clara’s, otherwise called Hutton’s Island—there to die in obscurity.

A few days previous to his death he called his only son, Hugh, to his bedside, and enjoined him never to demand—never even to accept compensation from Congress for his services and his losses during the war.

“My fortune, my labor, my life-blood were not sold, but given to the cause of liberty and of my country,” he said, and these were the last words of the sailor-patriot.

Hugh Hutton, the son, and now the sole representative of the family, was at this time about eighteen years old. Having lost his mother at an early age he had been taken by his father as a companion in all his sea voyages.

He had sailed with him in his first privateering expedition against the British ships. At first as a childish and innocent spectator, afterward as a youthful and enthusiastic actor, he had figured in all the sea-fights in which his father’s ships had been engaged during the whole course of the war.

Thus all education, except that exclusively of the sailor and soldier, had been denied him. And thus Hugh Hutton, though tall, strong, handsome, and gallant, like all his race, was yet rude, unschooled, and unpolished.

He was faithful to the dying injunctions of his father. With many claims upon his country’s remembrance and gratitude he set forth none.

Loving the ocean with the passionate enthusiasm of all his father’s nature, he took to it as his natural element.

First he engaged in the humble capacity of mate on board the Little Agnes, a small schooner plying between Hutton Town and Baltimore or Alexandria, as the freight or market demanded.

After serving many years in this situation, an unexpected turn in the wheel of fortune gave him the means of purchasing a larger vessel of his own, and of extending the area of his trade and the length of his voyages. This was the death of the old ship-owner and captain with whom he had sailed for many years, and who, dying, left him all his moderate possessions on condition of his marrying his only daughter, then a mere child of fifteen years of age, and constituted him her guardian until the marriage. The heart of the brave young sailor had seldom or never turned on love or marriage—it was not the nature of his free, wild, adventurous race. But when he had buried his old captain in Baltimore, where he died, and taken the command of the little schooner to return home to Hutton Town to find his little ward and wife—then—ah! then all sorts of strange, sweet, solemn, and tender thoughts of beauty, and love, and home, and repose swarmed about his heart.

It was late in the afternoon of a glorious October day that the schooner, with her crew, put into the harbor of Hutton’s Inlet. In striking contrast to the warm-hued, deep-toned, refulgent natural scenery was the cold, white front of a mansion house standing upon a distant hill against the western horizon, and girt around with its old ancestral trees. This was Mount Calm, the seat of General Aaron Garnet.

The little schooner, with its white sail, glided swiftly and smoothly into the inlet, and cast anchor near the hamlet. Leaving the vessel in charge of the mate, Captain Hutton took a boat and went on shore. A crowd of villagers, as usual, thronged the beach, anxious to hear and to tell the news, and hearty greetings and noisy questions met him as he stepped upon the strand, such questions as:

“How is the old captain? How is old Seabright? Why don’t he come ashore?—though there is evil news enough to meet him when he does come! Where is the jolly old dog, then? I guess he’s wanting up at home there?” were some of the storm of words hailed upon him.

“Friends,” replied the young sailor, shaking hands right and left as he pushed on, “our old captain is outward bound to that distant seaport whence no voyager ever returns. Permit me now to go on and break the sad news to his child.”

“Stay! Poor old man, when did he die? What ailed him?” exclaimed two or three of the most persevering, detaining him.

“To-night, friends—to-night at the ‘Neptune and Pan,’ I will tell you all about it. Permit me now to pass on and take his last letter to his daughter,” said the skipper good-humoredly, elbowing and pushing his way through the crowd.

“Stop! What’s to become of the young girl—pretty Agnes Seabright? How did he leave his bit of property?”

“To-night, comrades—to-night, at the ‘Neptune and Pan,’ I will meet you. You shall have a supper, and drink to the memory of the outward-bound while I tell you all about it. I must go now!” impatiently exclaimed the captain, shaking off the pertinacious, and hastening away up the straggling street of the hamlet.

Hugh Hutton, like all his fathers, was far above the usual height of men—indeed, all his characteristics were not only marked, but extravagant; thus he was very tall, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, very muscular and thin, with a very dark complexion, with black hair and eyes, and very high, commanding features. Honest, brave, and frank even to rashness, generous even to extravagance, unselfish to the degree that the worldly-wise would call fatuity; yet he had never known a mother’s care, a sister’s companionship, and his indifference to home joys was as profound as his ignorance of love and of woman. Brought up on a ship’s deck by a rough sailor father, he learned to love the ocean and wild liberty with a profound and passionate enthusiasm.

But now he had a little girl left to him. He must make a home for her, take care of her, and make her happy if he could. This was a very novel duty indeed, and set him very keenly to thinking. The first natural, strange, sweet fancies that had been awakened by the idea of this lovely living legacy had fallen asleep again, and left him to his normal, free, glad, but hard, unloving nature. And now the thought of pretty Agnes Seabright fretted him like a fetter.

He pursued his walk up through the village, up over the hills rising one beyond the other, until he came to the arm of the forest stretching around the base of that tallest distant hill, upon which stood the white-fronted mansion house of Mount Calm. He pursued his walk on through this arm of the forest, ascending the hill until he came to a small cleared space, in which was a little cot inclosed within a narrow garden and nearly hidden with trees. He opened the small gate and passed up the narrow walk between rows of marigolds, crimson, white, and yellow chrysanthemums, scarlet verbena and other bright fall flowers, to the little door at which he rapped.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE BRIDE OF THE ISLES.

A beautiful and happy girl,

With step as soft as summer air,

And fresh young lips and brow of pearl

Shadowed by many a careless curl

Of unconfined and flowing hair;

A seeming child in everything,

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,

As nature wears the smile of spring,

When sinking into summer’s arms.

—Whittier.

The door was opened by a beautiful girl between fourteen and fifteen years old, not tall for her age, but full-formed and exquisitely proportioned. Her features were regular, with the “sweet, low brow,” and straight nose and arched lips of the Grecian profile; her eyes were of dark and melting hue, and her dark, rich auburn hair, parted over a forehead of snowy fairness, dropped in a mass of irregular ringlets down cheeks of carnation dye. The idea she inspired was that of a richness and fullness of life.

She stood within the door with a smile, awaiting the pleasure of the stranger, whose knock had summoned her. Captain Hugh had never seen Agnes Seabright before, so that he handed her the letter, saying:

“I think that this is for you?”

She took it, and was about in her haste to break the seal and possess herself of the contents, when her eyes alighted on these words, written on the corner: “To make my little girl acquainted with Mr. Hutton, my mate and good friend.” Then she raised her eyes from the letter in her hand to Hugh Hutton’s face. Then she offered her hand shyly but kindly, while she said, simply:

“How do you do, Mr. Hutton? Will you walk in and sit down, and excuse me while I read father’s letter? I have not heard from him for so long,” she said, as they walked into the parlor.

He sat down in a large flag-bottomed chair and began to draw figures on the sanded floor with a stick, while she retired to an end window to read her father’s farewell letter.

Captain Hutton watched her growing pale and paler as she read the letter to its close—as she folded it and advanced trembling to his side—as she laid her hand heavy from faintness on his arm, and speaking in thick, faltering tones, said:

“Tell me! I don’t—I’m afraid to understand what this means! But, my father—where is he gone?”

Hugh took both her hands in his, while the folded letter fell to the ground, looked full, looked kindly and gravely into her set and anxious eyes, and answered slowly:

“To heaven, Agnes.”

He would have held her hands longer, gazed longer upon that beautiful but troubled countenance, as to impart his own strength and composure, but she withdrew her fingers, sank down upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands. Soon between the fingers copious tears flowed. Then she arose and slowly left the room.

What was to be done with this young and beautiful girl? To be sure, there was Hugh’s own home on Hutton Island, and there was Miss Josephine Cotter, Hugh’s maiden aunt; but the home was so poor, and Miss Joe—so queer! There was no knowing how Miss Joe might receive this poor child, so much in need of love and sympathy and care just now. After ruminating a long time he could think of no better plan than to at least consult Miss Joe upon the subject. So, his hours for the evening being all pre-engaged, he determined to go home early the next morning to break the news to his aunt.

“You must perceive, Aunt Joe, that I’m in a serious dilemma.”

“Well, then, here! take this reel and wind off this hank o’ yarn, while I foot my stocking. People needn’t be idle while they’re talking. More idle time is spent talking than any other way—as if people’s hands and tongues would not go at the same time.”

Hugh obeyed with a good-humored laugh. At last:

“Well, aunt?” he said.

“Well, Hugh! Now begin, and tell me all over, all about it, for I don’t know as I understand it—quite!”

Hugh recapitulated the history of Captain Seabright’s illness and death, his last will and testament, and finally the embarrassment in which he found Agnes Seabright and the relation in which he stood toward her, concluding with:

“Now, what am I to do with her, aunt?”

“Marry her, Hugh. There is no home open to the orphan but this—nor this, unless you marry her first. You promised to wed her—you mean to wed her—why not do it at once? Will the marriage rite hurt or inconvenience you? Just let the marriage ceremony, which gives you a lawful claim to her, and which gives her the right to live here in this house as its mistress, and which will shut the mouths of the gossips for ever—be performed. ‘An ounce of preventive is better than a pound of cure,’ even in matters of gossip. Then bring her here to me. I’ll be a mother to the child. I’ll do the best I can for her. I’ll make her feel at home, and make her happy, even on this lonesome island.”

The next morning Hugh spent with Agnes Seabright. And after that he visited her every day, until the orphan’s tears were nearly dried and the maiden’s heart won.

For the reception of the bride Miss Joe was making every preparation which she could make without spending, or, as she called it, “heaving away of” money. Hugh schemed “to draw all points to one,” so that the marriage should take place upon the very day on which he was to sail for Baltimore preparatory to a longer trip to the West Indies. So, very early on a glorious autumn morning, while the rising sun was shining splendidly into the chapel windows, the marriage ceremony was quietly performed in the village church by the village parson.

Immediately after the ceremony was concluded Hugh tucked Agnes under one arm and Miss Joe under the other, and hurried down to the beach to get them on board the boat. He lifted Agnes into the skiff, handed Miss Joe after her, and, entering himself, laid his hand vigorously to the oar, and they sped down the stream and over the bright waters.

It was a golden morning—grand, exultant, inspiring! Out before them rolled the boundless, the magnificent sea, with its myriads beyond myriads of waves, leaping, flashing, sparkling, scintillating like fluid emeralds in the dazzling splendor of the morning sun.

As he looked upon this scene Hugh’s eyes kindled, blazed. He did not see how sad was the brow of his young bride. No! the sea-king had already risen above the lover.

At last the island lay before them like a line of gold. He rowed swiftly for it. Soon they landed on the glittering strand. It was here they parted.

“And—be kind to my little Agnes!” he whispered, as he took leave of the old lady.

“Now, Agnes,” he said, as he folded her to his bosom and pressed his first and farewell kiss upon her lips.

Then he sprang into the boat and struck out to sea in the direction of his vessel, riding at anchor at about a half league’s distance, and which was to sail with the tide.

“Come, Agnes,” said Miss Joe, kindly taking her arm to draw it within her own.

“Not yet—not just yet! And, if you please, just let me watch until the boat gets out of sight.”

“Honey, it will put your eyes out to try to look upon this sparkling sea. Come; breakfast is waiting for us, I know.”

“I wish he had only stayed to breakfast with us! I could have parted with him better then, if I had known he had eaten a good, warm breakfast.”

“The tide wouldn’t wait, you know, child, and he will get his breakfast on board his vessel. Why, what’s the matter, Agnes? I do believe you like him already! I do believe you’re sorry he’s gone!”

“He was my only friend! Since father died I was getting used to him,” said Agnes, bursting into tears.

“Well, I declare to man, if it is not wonderful! All them Huttons had never seemed to value woman’s love—have every one of them always got more than they deserved. Come, Agnes; the boat is quite out of sight now; come home and take a cup of coffee, child; it will cheer you up.”

“Do you think he is safe on board of his vessel yet?”

“Oh, yes, of course! Come, a cup of coffee is first-rate for trouble—’cause, you see, I’ve tried it! Come, honey!”

And Miss Joe drew Agnes’ arm within her own and walked up the isle toward the cottage.

CHAPTER IX.
HUTTON LODGE.

A snug thatch house; before the door a green;

Hens in the middling; ducks and geese are seen;

On this side stands a coop; on that a pen;

A wood-pile joins.

—Allan Ramsay.

Hutton Lodge, on Hutton’s Island, had been built in the palmy days of the family’s prosperity.

It was to this lodge that Captain Hugh Hutton of Revolutionary memory had retired with his sole female relative, his sister-in-law, Miss Josephine Cotter. And here, after his death, had the good woman continued to live.

And here was Hugh Hutton’s home whenever his ship would be in port. And finally, it was to this lodge, or cottage, as he called it, that Miss Joe conducted her young charge, the widowed bride.

The days were all occupied with work—yes, hard work. All day long the whir of the flying shuttle, and the dull, monotonous clap-clap of the warp-rammer would be heard, as Miss Joe sat at her loom; and the hum of the great spinning-wheel as Agnes stood and spun. Agnes had no motive under the sun for her industry but Hugh’s interest and Hugh’s pleasure. To become an efficient help-meet for Hugh—to be an industrious and saving little housekeeper for Hugh’s profit. And when Miss Joe praised her docility and perseverance, poor girl, she felt as though she were receiving Hugh’s approval. Sometimes she would be tempted to think a little hardly of his having gone to sea so instantly after their marriage, but when this thought took the hue of blame she banished it at once. But—did he love her at all, when he could leave her so soon, and with so little emotion? She feared not. Would he ever love her as she loved him—as she wished to be loved? She knew herself to be beautiful and attractive. She would have been an idiot not to have known it. In her deep and secret heart, while never acknowledging her purpose to herself, she sought to adapt herself to her circumstances and duties, and fit herself to win Hugh’s approval and love. Such were her silent dreams and reveries by day, while her spinning-wheel whirled under her hand, and the incessant clap-clap of Miss Joe’s loom sounded on her ear from the other corner. And so November and the greater part of December passed, when a letter came from Hugh announcing his speedy return home.

At length the important day dawned; it was Christmas Eve. The snow was two feet deep on the ground, and crusted with a coat of ice thick enough to bear the heaviest footsteps without breaking through. The day was cold, crisp, but clear.

It was nearly sunset when Agnes went up into her room for the fiftieth time that day to look at the sea for a sail. It was very cold, and there was no fire, so Agnes thought just to give one sweeping glance over the waters and then retire, when her eye alighted on a distant sail making toward the isle. She wrapped a large woolen shawl around herself and sat down to watch what might come. The vessel bore down rapidly upon the island. When within about a quarter of a mile and bearing away westward toward the mainland, she lowered a boat with two rowers, who pulled swiftly toward the island landing. Agnes recognized Hugh and one of his crew. She started and ran downstairs, exclaiming as she burst into the kitchen:

“Hugh is coming! Hugh is almost here, aunt! I saw him in the boat!”

“Is he?” said the old lady quietly. “Well, then, honey, do you take some water upstairs in—in—in my—no, your room for him to wash, while I put up the supper, so that he needn’t wait.”

Agnes complied, arranging everything neatly and conveniently, and then returned to the kitchen to assist Miss Joe in arranging the supper on the table.

They had scarcely completed their task before a sharp rap was instantly followed by the pushing open of the door, and Hugh entered alone, vigorously stamping the snow off his feet.

Miss Joe looked at the snow and her soiled floor, and sighed heavily and shook her head before she even advanced to welcome her nephew.

That greeting over, Hugh extended his hand to his young wife with a “How do you do, Agnes, my dear?” and threw himself heavily into a great armchair by the fire.

Yes! it seemed but too true! The little love Agnes had inspired him with during their short acquaintance had all evaporated during the not much longer sea voyage!

Would he go to his room and change his dress? Would he have water? Everything was in readiness for him upstairs.

No! he would stay here in this armchair by the chimney corner until they should sit down to tea. He did not wish to give anybody any trouble. He begged that they would take none. Besides, he was so glad to see his good aunt and little Agnes that he did not wish to lose a single moment of their company for the little time that he had to stay with them.

Then Miss Joe invited him, as soon as he should feel himself sufficiently rested, to take off his overcoat and sit down to supper.

Then Hugh arose, and Agnes quietly took his hat and Miss Joe drew off his overcoat and inducted him into his seat at the table. The supper was a feast. Besides the usual indispensables of coffee, rich cream, fresh butter and light bread, there were oysters and wild duck, stewed fruit, cakes, and so on.

Hugh asked Agnes how she liked her island home. This was the first question he had put to her since his return.