The breath of slander
Date: 2025-06-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Dime novels; Romance fiction

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Title: The breath of slander
or, Virtue triumphs

Author: Ida Reade Allen

Release date: June 14, 2025 [eBook #76289]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Street & Smith, 1899

Credits: Demian Katz and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BREATH OF SLANDER ***

NEW EAGLE SERIES No. 1124

The BREATH of
SLANDER

BY
Ida
Reade
Allen

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. A MOUNTAIN STORM.
CHAPTER II. A MOUNTAIN MAIDEN.
CHAPTER III. IN THE WAY OF HISTORY.
CHAPTER IV. LETTIE ALLAN.
CHAPTER V. THE STRANGER’S CONVALESCENCE.
CHAPTER VI. CLINTON’S STORY.
CHAPTER VII. “I HAVE LOST HER!”
CHAPTER VIII. NORINE’S WEDDING.
CHAPTER IX. MIXED HAPPINESS.
CHAPTER X. UNMIXED MISERY.
CHAPTER XI. NORINE’S POSITION.
CHAPTER XII. CONWAY’S VISITOR.
CHAPTER XIII. A RISING YOUNG MAN.
CHAPTER XIV. ELWELL’S DIVORCE.
CHAPTER XV. FANNY MORAIN.
CHAPTER XVI. AUNT MARY’S ANSWER.
CHAPTER XVII. A VIGOROUS ASSAULT.
CHAPTER XVIII. A SUCCESSFUL SPECULATION.
CHAPTER XIX. A CHANGE OF BASE.
CHAPTER XX. THE MEETING.
CHAPTER XXI. CONTENTMENT.
CHAPTER XXII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
CHAPTER XXIII. PETER SHOWS HIS HAND.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE SUMMER TIME.
CHAPTER XXV. ELWELL’S POPULARITY.
CHAPTER XXVI. A BOMB.
CHAPTER XXVII. “OUR CONGRESSMAN-ELECT.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD FRIENDS.
CHAPTER XXIX. CLOSING IN.
CHAPTER XXX. HOW ELWELL ESCAPED.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE TWO WIDOWS.
CHAPTER XXXII. NORINE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

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1 | — | Queen Bess | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2 | — | Ruby’s Reward | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7 | — | Two Keys | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
9 | — | The Virginia Heiress | By May Agnes Fleming
12 | — | Edrie’s Legacy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
17 | — | Leslie’s Loyalty | By Charles Garvice
| (His Love So True)
22 | — | Elaine | By Charles Garvice
24 | — | A Wasted Love | By Charles Garvice
| (On Love’s Altar)
41 | — | Her Heart’s Desire | By Charles Garvice
| (An Innocent Girl)
44 | — | That Dowdy | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
50 | — | Her Ransom | By Charles Garvice
| (Paid For)
55 | — | Thrice Wedded | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66 | — | Witch Hazel | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
70 | — | Sydney | By Charles Garvice
| (A Wilful Young Woman)
73 | — | The Marquis | By Charles Garvice
77 | — | Tina | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
79 | — | Out of the Past | By Charles Garvice
| (Marjorie)
84 | — | Imogene | By Charles Garvice
| (Dumaresq’s Temptation)
85 | — | Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold | By Charles Garvice
88 | — | Virgie’s Inheritance | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
95 | — | A Wilful Maid | By Charles Garvice
| (Philippa)
98 | — | Claire | By Charles Garvice
| (The Mistress of Court Regna)
99 | — | Audrey’s Recompense | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
102 | — | Sweet Cymbeline | By Charles Garvice
| (Bellmaire)
109 | — | Signa’s Sweetheart | By Charles Garvice
| (Lord Delamere’s Bride)
111 | — | Faithful Shirley | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
117 | — | She Loved Him | By Charles Garvice
119 | — | ’Twixt Smile and Tear | By Charles Garvice
| (Dulcie)
122 | — | Grazia’s Mistake | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
130 | — | A Passion Flower | By Charles Garvice
| (Madge)
133 | — | Max | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
136 | — | The Unseen Bridegroom | By May Agnes Fleming
138 | — | A Fatal Wooing | By Laura Jean Libbey
141 | — | Lady Evelyn | By May Agnes Fleming
144 | — | Dorothy’s Jewels | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
146 | — | Magdalen’s Vow | By May Agnes Fleming
151 | — | The Heiress of Glen Gower | By May Agnes Fleming
155 | — | Nameless Dell | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
157 | — | Who Wins | By May Agnes Fleming
166 | — | The Masked Bridal | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
168 | — | Thrice Lost, Thrice Won | By May Agnes Fleming
174 | — | His Guardian Angel | By Charles Garvice
177 | — | A True Aristocrat | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
181 | — | The Baronet’s Bride | By May Agnes Fleming
188 | — | Dorothy Arnold’s Escape | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199 | — | Geoffrey’s Victory | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
203 | — | Only One Love | By Charles Garvice
210 | — | Wild Oats | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
213 | — | The Heiress of Egremont | By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
215 | — | Only a Girl’s Love | By Charles Garvice
219 | — | Lost: A Pearle | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222 | — | The Lily of Mordaunt | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
223 | — | Leola Dale’s Fortune | By Charles Garvice
231 | — | The Earl’s Heir | By Charles Garvice
| (Lady Norah)
233 | — | Nora | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
236 | — | Her Humble Lover | By Charles Garvice
| (The Usurper; or, The Gipsy Peer)
242 | — | A Wounded Heart | By Charles Garvice
| (Sweet as a Rose)
244 | — | A Hoiden’s Conquest | By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

The Breath of Slander;

OR,

Virtue Triumphs

BY

IDA READE ALLEN

AUTHOR OF

“The Man and His Millions,” “A Forced Promise,” “Told in the Twilight,” “From Tears to Smiles.”

STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York

Copyright, 1899
GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS

The Breath of Slander

(Printed in the United States of America)

THE BREATH OF SLANDER.

CHAPTER I.

A MOUNTAIN STORM.

It was a warm spring day—an oppressively warm day—although the stormy month of March was not half gone, and the snow still lingered in the hollows and around the roots of the scrub oaks where the warm rays of the sun could not reach it.

March had come in like a lamb, and here it was the fourteenth day of that usually boisterous month, and there had not been a stormy or disagreeable day yet.

It was a wonderfully early spring—quite unprecedented. Even those chronic liars, “the oldest inhabitants,” could not remember a warmer one. So they sat around the village store, while they droned about the hot summers and cold winters they had seen, being content to let the present season alone as being beyond even their fertile imaginations.

The scene opens at a little wayside village among the mountains of Pennsylvania. A very little village it was, with the usual blacksmith shop sending forth the musical jingle and clang of hammer and anvil, and the usual general store, keeping for sale or exchange the usual stock of everything from medicine to hardware, and from books to boots and shoes, not to mention such little matters as stoves and farm tools. In front of this establishment was the usual oaken railing, supported by stout oaken posts, and used for the double purpose of hitching horses and furnishing a comfortable seat for the village loafers.

A little farther down the road, and on the opposite side, there stood the usual village tavern, with its ample stoop or veranda, littered with the usual number of stools and chairs in the usual state of dilapidation.

This was about all there was of the little village, and one might have sat on the tavern stoop, where the fat, sleepy-looking host was sitting now, and look in vain for more.

He, however, did not appear to be looking for more, or, in fact, for anything: for he sat and smoked, and stared placidly around him, where everything was flooded with the yellow sunshine, and where a few flies and other insects—adventurous fellows, who had ventured out of their winter’s nap rather earlier than usual—now buzzed languidly around him, as if they were hardly decided if it was worth their while to remain awake.

Beyond this there was nothing to see but the mountain road that wound in and out and around all obstructions, and stretched out in the distance like a very dirty ribbon—only this, and the low-lying mountain in front of him, and a hazy view of higher ones beyond.

It was all calm and slumberous, and mine host had sat placidly smoking his after-dinner pipe for some time without interruption—not that the interruption appeared to disturb him any when it did come, for he had been spoken to several times from the interior of the house without deigning a reply—when he was joined by a tall, fine-appearing young man, whom he addressed briefly with “Mornin’.”

“Good morning,” replied the young man civilly, though it was afternoon. “How far do you call it to the nearest town, landlord?”

“Well, sir. I calls thet diffrunt ’cordin’ to ther way you goes. Ef you goes round by th’ road, it’s a good, fair twenty-eight miles; but ef you goes over th’ mounting, it’s a mighty scant fifteen miles.”

The fat, lazy landlord looked on placidly while his guest made the necessary preparations for departure. He was a fat, not over-cleanly man, was the village landlord; not much given to talking, and—probably for that reason—bearing the reputation among his village cronies of being a powerful thinker; very slow in his movements, and still slower, if possible, with his thoughts, so, by the time he appeared to realize his misfortune in losing the only guest his house had entertained for some days, the traveler had made all snug, and was filling his short brier pipe ready for the road.

“Now, landlord,” he said briskly, after taking one or two preparatory whiffs, “if you will just show me the road, I’ll make a start.”

Somewhat discomfited by his guest’s promptness, the landlord, after closely examining the interior of his pipe, as if for inspiration, and shaking his head profoundly after, as if he failed in finding any—probably because the pipe was empty—pointed his fat index finger down the road.

“I know that,” said the young man, testily; “but where is this mountain road?”

“Ain’t none—leastwise no road. There’s er kind er path fer th’ first few miles, en then yer get to ther top, an’ kin see yer way down.”

“Where is this path?” demanded the young man, impatiently.

Now, instead of answering this simple question, the landlord sauntered heavily to the door, and after staring for some moments at the horizon, sauntered as heavily back to the bar, and proceeded slowly and carefully to fill his pipe, a proceeding that seemed to tax the good nature of the traveler severely.

“Guess you didn’t hear my question, did you?” he inquired sarcastically.

The landlord nodded his head slowly, and lighted his pipe.

“Then why don’t you answer it?” demanded the young man, with increased impatience. “Where is that confounded path?”

“Stranger, ye’ll hev ter take th’ road,” replied the host, puffing calmly. “Yer can’t go over th’ mounting ter-day.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause, stranger, hit’s a-goin’ ter storm,” replied the landlord, with an air of having definitely settled the whole matter.

The stranger saw the flood of sunshine covering everything with its golden gleam, glanced rapidly at the cloudless sky overhead, and burst into a hearty laugh at the transparent ruse. Who but a tavern-keeper could think of a storm on such a day?

“Now landlord,” he said, after exhausting his mirth, “I’m really sorry that I am obliged to leave you to-day; but I’m going, and I’m going by way of the mountain; so the sooner you point out the beginning of that confounded path, the sooner I can get on my way. Now, where does it start from?”

Without a word in reply, the host marched heavily to the door, and pointed to an opening in the scrubby timber directly in front of the house, and only separated therefrom by the road and a stretch of field devoted apparently to the cultivation of stones; and that was all it seemed capable of bearing.

Without a word, the traveler slung his bag over his shoulder, and started out.

“Say, stranger!” called the landlord.

The young man stopped.

“Hit’s a-goin’ ter rain.”

“Let it rain,” replied the stranger cheerfully, at the same time starting away.

“An’ hit’s a-goin’ to blow.”

If the stranger heard him this time, he paid no attention, but continued his way through the gate and into the field.

“Ah, stranger, hit’s er goin’ ter sto-r-r-r-m!” called the landlord, with both hands to his mouth, trumpet-like.

But the stranger only looked back and laughed mockingly, and when he reached the opening in the woods he again turned. The landlord was standing in the same place, apparently making further dismal predictions as to the weather.

With a wave of his hand, the traveler turned and entered the woods; a step more carried him out of sight, as he was already out of hearing; and turning his face resolutely to the path, he started sturdily on his journey.

Not a very resolute face, this man’s, but a good-natured face framed by dark hair, with a shrewd, good-natured pair of dark eyes—a pair of eyes that could laugh, though perhaps with something more of scorn than merriment. But for all their merry twinkle, they looked changeable. In fact, viewing him as he trudged along, one would have noticed an unstable look on every feature.

There was nothing wicked in the face, though it betrayed some traces of passion; nothing even mean about it—a face, taken altogether, that was likely to create a good impression at first sight; better at first sight, perhaps, than after a more extended acquaintance.

There was a restless energy in his stride that spoke well for his physical training, and his long, swinging step had carried him through the patch of scrub oak and to the base of the mountain before he had done laughing at the stupid landlord.

“Storm! ha, ha!” he laughed, as he emerged into the bright spring sunshine, and inhaled deep breaths of the bracing mountain air. “A storm to-day, the stupid!” and he laughed contemptuously.

Not so stupid after all, if he had but known, for the storm was nearer than he thought, but he trudged on, content to be in the sunshine on his side of the mountain, and neither knowing nor caring for the thick bank of clouds that were rapidly nearing him, and that were darkening all the face of nature with their gloom.

They were on the other side of the mountain as yet, so he laughed at the landlord’s stupidity and trudged merrily along.

Somewhat rougher was the road now, and harder climbing, and the rougher and harder it became the higher he ascended. Still he trudged on, stopping now at times to rest on some wayside stone, and muttering a curse over the roughness of the road.

He was well up the mountain before he realized the truth of the landlord’s prediction.

“The old rascal told the truth after all,” he muttered discontentedly; “and I suppose I am in for a wetting unless I can find some shelter.”

But there was very little time to look for shelter now, for the mountain storm was on him, and over him, and all around him, before he fairly realized his danger—with a roaring and thundering as if all of heaven’s artillery had been drawn into action at once, with lightning and rain and wind all hustling and bustling around him, as if the gods had doomed his insect life to extermination, and had called out all their forces to execute the order.

Insect; ay, so he felt himself to be. What but an insect when compared with the awful majesty of this storm? Still, insect-like, and with all the insect tenacity of life, he labored on, clutching at every root and shrub in his path, sometimes lying flat on his face and clinging to the very earth; sometimes thrown down and whirled over and over by the violence of the wind, only to crawl painfully upward again as soon as he could obtain a foothold.

So he climbed on, stopping for shelter wherever he could find a bush or projecting rock, only to struggle on again after he had got his breath. And so the day passed and the darkness came to increase his misery and danger—not slowly, or with any faint premonitions of a change, but suddenly and completely, as if all the light of the universe had been extinguished at once.

There seemed to be no twilight on this gloomy mountainside, and the darkness of midnight came down and infolded him as completely as if he were buried in a cloud, and then came fright and despair.

He had long since lost the path, and could only struggle on a foot at a time, as he could feel his way ahead of him. Still he struggled upward.

At last in his despair he stopped, and turning his back to a stone, tried to rest. He was numb and cold, and so completely exhausted that it seemed impossible to struggle longer. Would this black night never pass, or this storm cease, he wondered?

As yet the storm had abated nothing of its violence, but roared and thundered and tore at him, as if it raged at his daring to maintain his feeble life, and was determined to wrest it from him.

He was going down now, but whether he had crossed the ridge of the mountain, or was going down the path he came, he did not know. He only knew that the storm was at his back, and that it required a greater effort to keep his footing.

He hardly realized that he was wounded and bleeding; but weak and wounded as he was, he fully realized the necessity of continued exertion; and so he struggled on, fighting hard and stubbornly for his life, as only brave men fight in the face of danger that seems impossible to surmount, and when they regard death as inevitable.

Morning at last, thank God: and ah, how fervent and heartfelt were those thanks, for with the early dawn there came a break in the black clouds overhead; and as suddenly as the storm had overtaken him, it passed away, rumbling and growling sullenly, as if angry that his life had lasted in spite of its awful rage.

He was down the mountain now and in a patch of scrubby timber; but whether the same he had gone through on the preceding day or not he could not tell.

As the morning light became stronger and clearer, he discovered a small hut or cabin—deserted and partly ruined. To this he wearily made his way, and sunk exhausted and senseless on the floor.

And the sun came out bright and warm, and all nature gloried in its rays. Birds sung, insects hummed and chirped, and all things animate and inanimate seemed to rejoice in the coming of spring—as if storms were not.

CHAPTER II.

A MOUNTAIN MAIDEN.

Lester Conway, physician in ordinary to the inhabitants of —— County, Pennsylvania, was placidly jogging along the mountain road, on his regular round among his patients.

He was a young man yet was Lester Conway. He was a successful one—a strong, self-reliant man, and a talented man withal. One need only look at his massive brow and well-shaped head to see that; and there was more than talent in this man’s face. There was firmness and a patient determination, that proved him likely to gain any high point he might set his heart on.

But success does not always imply gain, and for all his extensive practice, Doctor Conway was far from being rich. Not that his poverty troubled him any; he had enough to get along on, and, generally speaking, was perfectly contented with his lot in life.

Just at present, however, he looked a trifle doubtful, for he was pondering over a great problem, as his pony jogged along the quiet road—a problem that most of us ponder over at some period of our lives. And we solve it, too, in several ways, and generally, be it confessed, to our greater comfort and happiness; for this great problem that occupied the doctor’s mind, even to the exclusion of his practice, was the old, old, but ever new problem of love and matrimony.

He could not have told even himself when he had first fallen in love with pretty Norine Bright. But that he was in love there could not be the slightest doubt. Perhaps he had never really fallen in love at all. It was not like him to feel any sudden accession of passion; but ever since he had chosen Jim Bright as his one particular friend, he had felt a regard almost akin to reverence for his favorite sister. He had drifted into love, and that passion, being of slow growth, became, in course of time, part of his being.

Whether he was loved in return, he did not know, for he had never dared to find out. But now he was determined to satisfy himself on that point, and hoped, when his pony jogged back over the quiet mountain road, he—the doctor, not the pony—would have solved the problem to his satisfaction.

Surely it was a good omen to find Miss Norine leaning over the gate in front of the little cottage when he rode up, and surely the doctor might have derived considerable encouragement from the bright smile of welcome he received.

A very difficult matter to describe, this young lady, as she stood chatting pleasantly with her friend. Not because she was beautiful—for an artist probably would not have called her so—and yet her face was very fair to look upon. Not on account of her dress, for I doubt if any of my lady friends would have envied the plain though neat calico dress and heavy calfskin shoes; but they might well have envied the clear, sunlit complexion and massive coils of golden-brown hair that were wound so tightly over the small, well-set head, and no artist would have endangered his reputation by venturing to praise the contour of her form or the light, willowy grace of every movement.

“Oh, doctor,” she cried merrily, “I hope you did not expect to find a patient here. We are dreadfully healthy, I assure you.”

“Now, that is just my luck,” answered Conway, with mock gravity. “I have received a new supply of drugs, and I am anxious to try if they are effective. I don’t suppose now you would have any objection to my dosing Jim a little in the cause of science?”

“Indeed, sir! Just let me catch you at it. You would be sure to make him dreadfully sick.”

“Only to make him well again, I assure you,” replied the doctor. “I have to call at Higgins’, however, and shall probably get some practice there.”

“I should think they gave you practice enough,” returned Norine gravely. “It is dreadful the way they live. What is it now—an accident or the fever again?”

“Only the fever this time,” said Conway cheerfully. “Do you know, I feel quite grateful to that family. They are worth a great deal to me in the way of experience.”

“If you could only teach them to derive some benefit from experience, you would have some cause for gratitude,” replied the girl gravely. “But I suppose there is no hope for that. I will go over this afternoon and give them a lecture.”

“I don’t imagine your lecture will hurt them much,” retorted the doctor. “It is generally in the nature of jelly, isn’t it, or chickens? I wouldn’t mind being lectured that way myself. But you must not rob Jim and yourself for those people.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Norine; “I never do that. Of course we send them little things sometimes, when they are ill, if only to offset the nasty medicine you give them. They are so poor,” she added—“poorer even than we are,” this with a little sigh.

“Well,” said the doctor, throwing his old-fashioned saddlebags over his shoulder, “I will walk over through the woods, and perhaps you will be charitable enough to give me some dinner when I return?”

“You know you are welcome,” said Norine quietly. “I am only sorry that Jim will not be here—he has gone to the village.”

Doctor Conway was not at all sorry that she would be alone, but he did not say so.

“Has Jim gone to the village on business?” he inquired.

“No—not business exactly,” replied the girl, with a troubled look. “The fact is, doctor,” she said frankly, after a moment’s hesitation, “we have written to our Aunt Darling—she must be so lonesome now in her old age, and we thought—Jim and I—that it was time that ridiculous family quarrel came to an end. She is our aunt, you know,” she added, apologetically, “even if she did treat father shamefully.”

“And you have invited her up here, I suppose, with the intention of paying her for her past neglect by taking care of her for the rest of her life?”

“Yes,” answered Norine simply. “If she will come.”

“Well, then,” cried the doctor impatiently, “I hope she won’t come. She doesn’t deserve such treatment, I’m sure.”

“No,” said Norine demurely, “I suppose not. If she were only an object for practice now?”

“Ah! Miss Norine,” laughed her friend, “you should know by this time that a doctor never takes his own medicine—always remember that. And now I must get on there before they have another accident,” and with a merry nod, he struck through the woods and soon disappeared.

Norine stood leaning over the gate, in the bright sunshine, until the doctor passed out of sight. Then she entered the house and set about preparing a basket with such delicacies as the humble place afforded. After fixing this to her satisfaction, she flitted around from one household duty to another, like the busiest of busy bees, or more like a sensible, modern everyday household fairy.

“There!” she exclaimed ruefully, “if it ain’t just provoking! Not a thing in the house to eat, and the doctor coming to dinner,” and she gave a little sigh of vexation. “I suppose I could kill a chicken,” she mused, “but I hate to. I guess I’d better take that basket over first. Perhaps I can get one of the boys to come over and do it for me.”

Getting a shawl and pinning it closely around her, she put on her hat and was ready to start. It was not necessary to lock the doors of the little cottage; she simply closed them against the predatory instincts of the chickens, and taking the basket, she started on a rapid walk through the woods.

It was not at all pleasant walking after the storm of last night, but her feet were well protected from the wet, and her plain calico dress was not likely to be injured any by it. So she went rapidly along, only stopping occasionally to pluck an early blossom, or one of the younger and more feathery of the ferns.

She had accomplished rather more than one-half her journey, when she came to a deserted cabin—deserted, by the way, by these same Higginses who were so generally ill.

It stood in a little clearing—some two or three acres, perhaps—that at one time had been a garden, but was now overgrown with weeds, and the very picture of desolation.

Her path led within a few feet of the door; she could see the imprint of the doctor’s footsteps leading on in front of her. He had passed the door without stopping, and she was passing it when—how small a thing can change a human life—the mere floating of an insect past her face, and the involuntary turning of her eyes to follow its flight, caused her to look directly into the open door of the cabin.

Now, Miss Norine was not timid by any means; her semi-solitary life had taught her self-reliance. But there were tramps around at times, and when she saw the figure of a man stretched on the floor, face downward, she started from the door in great haste, her heart palpitating with fright.

But the figure lay so still she could not help glancing at it again. There was a dark pool beside the man’s face. What was it? Blood?

She was very pale now, but not at all frightened. Some one, whoever he was, was evidently hurt, and she drew closer, half in fear that he might be dead.

She spoke to him in rather a quavering voice, but still bravely. There was no answer. She drew nearer still, and called to him again, but there was no movement in the body to show that her voice had been heard.

Frightened now, but not for herself, she bent down and touched him. He was still alive, but seemed utterly insensible.

She unbuckled the strap that held the crushed and battered knapsack to his back, and tried as well as she could to move him into an easier position, uttering little cries of pity and excitement all the time she was doing it. Then, with a glance at the dark, handsome face to see if he still lived, she started and ran as she had never run before through the woods.

It was no great distance to the shanty occupied by the ailing Higginses, but the distance seemed interminable to the flying girl. Panting and breathless, she burst into the little cabin, and sank into a chair.

“Norine! Norine! what is the matter?” cried Doctor Conway, astonished and frightened.

“A man!” gasped Norine—“in the old cabin! He is dying—come quick!”

And she grasped the doctor’s arm and pulled him toward the door.

“Wait—sit down,” commanded Doctor Conway, calmly. “Now tell me what it is.”

Commanding herself as well as she could, Norine gasped out the story of her discovery, and in the doctor’s company, and followed by all the Higginses that did not happen to be sick that day, she returned to the shanty in the woods.

The doctor knelt down by the side of the prostrate man, and carefully examined him, and Norine could see by the grave expression of his face that there was more chance for death than life in this new patient.

“How can you move him, doctor?” she inquired, anxiously.

“It is where I can move him to that troubles me most,” replied the doctor, as he forced a few drops of some liquid between the set teeth.

“Will he live, do you think?”

“He may. It will depend on the care he receives,” replied Conway shortly. “I suppose, Mike,” he said, turning to the elder Higgins, “we can take him up to your place for a day or two?”

But Norine interfered.

“You say he wants good care? Bring him down to our place. It is not much farther, and we can give him better care.”

The doctor remonstrated feebly. Of course it would be better for this unknown, but she must remember that he was unknown; and think of the work it would entail on her.

Norine, however, paid no attention to this; but calling the eldest Higgins girl to follow her, and telling the doctor that she would have a bed prepared by the time they got there, she started rapidly homeward.

It was no easy job to get the inanimate figure through the woods; but they managed, with the aid of the last shutter the cabin could boast of, to extemporize a sort of litter. Placing the man on this, they succeeded, after overcoming many difficulties, in placing him in the bed prepared for him.

It was many hours, however, before Lester Conway left his new patient. But when he did so, it was with the assurance that the man would live.

“He will have no one but you to thank for it, Miss Norine,” he said, on leaving. “I hope he will not prove ungrateful.”

And then the doctor, mild and sedate as ever, mounted his little pony and jogged home.

CHAPTER III.

IN THE WAY OF HISTORY.

About the time these events were taking place at the farm, the manager and part owner thereof was striding over the fields at a good round pace on his way to the nearest village.

A tall, well-formed man of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years, marching along with head erect and shoulders set well back; long, very long legs incased in trousers of the all-pervading gray homespun; close-fitting sack coat of the same material buttoned closely around him; a peakless round cap set somewhat jauntily over the curly brown hair—that was James, or, more commonly, “Jim,” Bright.

If you had seen him now, as his long legs carried him over the ground at the rate of a good four miles an hour, you might have taken him to be anything rather than a small farmer. He had the erect figure and careless grace of a trained athlete—more like a soldier than a farmer, you would have thought.

There was something in his commanding figure and watchful eye that caused an undefined wonder that he should be content to bury himself in this barren region; something incongruous, too, in the idea of coupling reaping, plowing, and the petty daily routine of the small farmer with that strong, upright figure and firm face.

But he was a farmer for all that, and a good one, too, albeit somewhat original in his methods. “A clever boy,” the neighbors thought, and then they would shake their heads doubtfully. They could not understand him; but they all respected him, and the greater part of them liked him.

He was unlike the rest in all he did—and in all he said, too, for the matter of that.

The worthy pastor of the little country church had given him up long ago, called him an atheist, and shook his head sorrowfully when the young man’s name was mentioned in his presence.

Yet Jim Bright paid a good share of the meagre salary doled out to this same pastor, and was generally the first one to be called upon for aid when more than the usual destitution prevailed.

“He is not a Christian, I am afraid,” sighed the minister, in a tone of genuine sorrow. “I wish he was, for he is good.”

And so it was with the rest. They could not understand this young man’s ideas; did not, as a rule, approve of his methods; but they would all unite in admitting that both Jim Bright and his sister were good, and in this homely phrase they bestowed the greatest praise possible. They were not to blame that they could not understand him better.

James and Norine Bright had lived all their lives on that little mountainside farm. They had begun life in that modest cottage, and had taken their first view of this world from its little pinched-up windows. The windows were small, and the cottage itself was small. The farm was small, Jim thought; and, in fact, the only object of any size—with the exception of the mountains in front of it—was the big red barn behind it. That was large, and it needed to be; for although the farm was small, being somewhat less than fifty acres, it had been brought, after years of care, to a very high state of production, and the big red barn, large as it was, had hardly room enough to store away the wheat, oats, corn, and other grains and grasses that were annually carted through its swinging doors.

Oh, a very productive farm was the Bright farm, quite a marvel of a farm in that region of poor land; but the old men of the neighborhood would shake their heads sagely when they mentioned it.

“A good bit of land, that, but not cultivated as old Pat Bright used to cultivate it.”

It was he, the grandfather of these two, who had first started to hew a competence out of this land. He it was that built the little cottage and the big barn, and very little had been done, the neighbors would tell you, to improve the place since old Pat died.

For the father of these two had been a gentleman, and not at all adapted to the management of a farm—a gentleman indeed, inasmuch as he had been well born—one of the old Darlings of Virginia—well reared, and so far as the requirements of this workaday world went, perfectly helpless. But still he had been a gentleman, and so there was no wonder that his family had been greatly shocked when he lost his head and his heart to pretty Nora Bright.

Not much of a loss, perhaps, but a great shock to the family; for Pat Bright was undoubtedly ignorant—a “clod-hopper,” I believe they called him, in their refined, gentlemanly way—and so, of course, they could expect nothing better of his daughter than that she should try, in her ignorant way, to captivate a gentleman.

Of course it was all right for James to amuse himself with this poor girl; but the idea of marriage was not to be thought of. But as this gentlemanly family were down in Virginia and pretty Nora Bright among the mountains of Pennsylvania, they were not in a position to use their family influence effectively.

But they published their ukase for all that, which was to the effect that James must relinquish this artful girl, or be banished forever from the family.

But James did not relinquish the girl, being commonplace and ungentlemanly enough to marry her after having won her heart. So he submitted to being banished with as good grace as possible.

Only once in all those years had that banishment been broken. That was shortly after the birth of Norine. Then, indeed, they had received a visit from his only sister. The visit was of very short duration, in fact, not longer than one short half-hour. It had been long enough, however, to permit of many bitter words on both sides, and to complete the banishment forever.

It had done more than that. It had made this man so bitterly ashamed of his sister’s heartless proposition, that he resented it by banishing the name, as the family had already banished him. And from that day, James Darling was satisfied to become plain James Bright; and so in time, old Pat being obliged to die, whether he wanted to or not, was well enough satisfied with his children to leave them the farm that he had struggled so hard to obtain.

And his daughter had been satisfied to work for and wait on her gentlemanly husband—whom it is presumed she loved—and to care for and educate her two children, whom she adored, until at last she was obliged to die too; and then this gentleman, knowing that thereafter he would be obliged to wait upon himself, was better satisfied to join his wife; so without having injured the world one particle by his gentlemanly sojourn in it, he died. As for the good he had done—well, that was nearly as hard to define as was the injury. He had been an honorable man, of high breeding, and he had left the impress of his better qualities upon his children, and without troubling himself greatly about their education, he had instilled into them something of the grace and gentle manners that he had been accustomed to in polite society. It might be doubted that he had benefited them much in this. It had only served as yet to make them conspicuous. They spoke a different language from their neighbors; Norine alone retaining a slight, almost imperceptible trace of the soft Gaelic of her mother’s tongue—just enough to give at times a quaint piquancy to her conversation.

In all other points they were essentially well-bred, with a taste for reading polite literature not altogether compatible with their surroundings.

Their father, apparently, had never noticed the incongruity of this, for he died pleased with the thought that his son would be a gentleman, and his daughter a lady, in the highest and best meaning of the terms.

And so this brother and sister had become the joint owners of the Bright farm, and in all these years the writ of banishment had never been annulled.

It had often served as a topic of conversation between the brother and sister, and for years they had felt very bitter against their father’s family; but as they grew older, and the family in question grew smaller, until at last it had dwindled down to this one sister of their father’s, they had grown charitable over the wrongs that had caused them no suffering, until at last they had determined on making this poor, lonesome old woman an offer of peace and forgetfulness.

They always thought of her as poor and lonesome, though they knew nothing about her beyond the fact that she was old and unmarried. That was sufficient, Norine thought; and she must be very lonesome indeed. And so it was decided that they would write to her and invite her to pay them a visit.

But here they found two difficulties to contend with. First, they had to find her address; that took them a matter of six months; and then they had to write the letter, and that took them nearly as long.

There never was such a difficult task, Norine thought; and Jim smoked innumerable pipes over it, and wasted enough paper to have lasted him a lifetime of ordinary correspondence.

For, you see, they had pride themselves, and while they were willing, nay, anxious, to conciliate this old woman, they had not the slightest idea of admitting anything that could be considered as a reflection on the course adopted by their parents.

“You see, Jim, it has got to be done some time, and we may as well get it over now,” said Norine, one evening, as they sat by the fire. “So suppose we just sit down and write a simple letter of invitation, and say nothing at all about the old misery?”

“Well, Norry,” replied Jim, “you sit down and write your simple letter of invitation, and if it proves satisfactory, I will mail it for you, and you can have all the honor.”

“Yes, and all the work and worry, too, you lazy thing,” pouted Norine. “But I will write it,” she said, stamping her little foot energetically, “if it is only to get it done.”

And she made a great show of setting out writing materials, knitting her brows meanwhile with a vast assumption of importance.

“Jim,” she said, after she had sat and stared at the lamp for a few minutes, “would you call her your dear aunt?”

“No,” said Jim, “I think not.”

“Why, Jim?”

“Because,” said Jim, “I should consider it presumptuous to use terms of endearment in addressing a total stranger.”

“Now, Jim,” said Norine coaxingly, “how would you address her?”

“How would ‘Aunt Darling’ do?” suggested Jim.

“‘Dear Aunt Darling,’” corrected Norine; “that will do, Jim. Now, what next?”

“Well,” replied Jim, rising and filling his pipe, “if I was doing the writing, I should probably know what was coming next; but as you are doing it, I have not the slightest idea.”

“Now, Jim, don’t be mean,” coaxed Norine; “you might help a little, you know.”

But Jim would not help, and sauntered out to do his chores, leaving Norine alone in her perplexity. She managed to emerge, however, by the time he returned, with the following result:

“Dear Aunt Darling: My brother and I have tried so often to write to you without succeeding, that I have determined to make the attempt alone this time. We know, dear aunt, that you never forgave our poor, dear mother for having married your brother, and we are sorry for it.

“But years have passed since then, and they are both dead. I do not mean to ask your forgiveness for them—I only want to tell you how happy we are—my brother and I—and how very much we want to love you, if you will only let us.

“You must be very lonesome, dear aunt, and I hope you will come to us. We have plenty of everything, and we wish to share with you, and will try very hard to make you happy.

“Forget what has passed, dear aunt. Come to us, and let us love you and care for you. Believe me, you will be very welcome. Your niece,

“Norine Bright.”

“There, Jim,” she said nervously, “please don’t laugh at it, for I feel sure that aunt will understand what I mean. Seal it up and direct it for me, that’s a good Jim.”

He took the letter from her hand, and coolly opened it.

“That is pretty good, Norry,” he said, with condescending patronage; “almost as good as I could do myself; only”—and he hesitated a little—“don’t you think you are a trifle too affectionate to an entire stranger?”

“She is our aunt, dear,” replied Norine.

“Yes, I know that, and I don’t mind giving her a little of my bountiful affection, seeing my sister does not need it all; but, you see, I would like to know how she will take it first. I would not care to have my offers rejected.”

“I don’t think she will reject our offers,” said Norine softly. “Anyway, I am willing to risk it; so seal it up, like a good boy.”

Jim did as she wished without further parley, and the next day went to the village for the purpose of mailing it.

And so it came about in this chapter of accidents that, on his return from this charitable errand, he found a strange gentleman at his house. At present, the strange gentleman was too ill to do any harm; but I do not think that Jim was greatly pleased to find him there.

It was long after noon before Norine had finished her baking and other household duties, and resumed her place in the sick man’s chamber. He was awake, and Norine could not fail to see the flush of pleasure that welcomed her arrival.

“Was there anything he would like?” she inquired.

“Yes, a drink.”

Norine gave him a drink of some cooling mixture, and sat down by the table with her sewing. The stranger, after many struggles, succeeded in turning himself so he could see her face, and for some time lay silently watching her. At last, catching her eyes when they were raised from her work, he beckoned to her weakly.

“What is your name?” he demanded abruptly, when she approached the bed.

Norine informed him soothingly, perhaps blushingly.

“Norine!” he repeated softly—“Norine! That is an Irish name. But you are not Irish?”

Norine shook her head.

“I was born in this room,” she said.

The stranger stared thoughtfully at her for a moment.

“It is a pretty name,” he said. “I like it.”

And with that candid, albeit somewhat egotistical declaration, he sank to sleep.

CHAPTER IV.

LETTIE ALLAN.

It was late that night when Doctor Conway drove the little pony into the big barn in the rear of the comfortable dwelling occupied by good, motherly Mrs. Allan, with whom he had “taken board” on his first coming to this little town. It had been a very busy day for the good doctor—so busy that he had not had time as yet to feel the full extent of his disappointment. He was conscious of a dull, aching pain at his heart and of a feeling of impending evil, but this he ascribed to overwork and nervousness, and hastened to give the little pony his usual supper and to shake down his bed of clean, sweet-smelling straw.

The doctor had not yet risen to the dignity of maintaining an hostler, and it was some time before this was completed to his satisfaction, and the doctor at liberty to shoulder his saddlebags and trudge wearily into the house.

Late as it was, however, his supper was spread on a little round table in front of the kitchen fire, and Lettie—the orphan niece of good Mrs. Allan—stood ready to pour out his tea, and to make the bright, cleanly kitchen still brighter by her presence.

She had been cowering before the fire for hours, waiting for him, and would have waited as patiently until morning if need be, simply for the pleasure of waiting on him, and feeling that she was in some degree necessary to his comfort and happiness. And now, hearing him coming, she hastened to throw more wood on the fire, that it might shine a brighter welcome, and sought, by little feminine touches of her hair and dress, to remove any traces of her long waiting, and enhance her appearance in his eyes.

She was a handsome girl, and she fully understood that fact; but there was nothing at all coquettish about her little preparations for his coming; instead there was a curious sense of repression about her, as if she endeavored to conceal her passionate nature under a garb of quiet restraint. But the flash of her black eyes, and the sudden flush on her rounded cheeks were hard matters to conceal. Perhaps it was for that reason that she stooped over the fire, with her back to the door, when he entered.

“Why, Lettie!” exclaimed Conway, in astonishment. “You still out of bed? Don’t you know, child, that it is after midnight?”

“Yes, I know,” replied Lettie quietly. “But I was not sleepy, and you were so late I thought there might have been an accident.”

“If you had been asleep, as you should have been, you would not have known that I was late. Do you think me ungrateful?” he hastened to add, perhaps noticing the pallor that overspread her face as he spoke. “I am greatly obliged for your kindness; only you must not neglect yourself. Remember,” he went on, smiling kindly, “folks at your age need plenty of sleep.”

“I am not a child,” she retorted sullenly.

“A child by no means,” replied Conway, pleasantly. “Quite a young lady, now. Eh, Lettie? and a very pretty one at that. We’ll have no end of lovers soon, I suppose, and then there will be no one to get the doctor’s supper for him and be scolded for thanks.”

He had seated himself at the little table with an air of great satisfaction, and she was standing partly behind him, pouring out his tea.

“Will you miss me?” she asked presently.

“Miss you?” he repeated kindly; “to be sure I will, Lettie.” He leaned back in his chair, and took her hands in his over his shoulders. “I am afraid you think me very thankless,” he said; “but I am not. I do thank you for your kindness, only I have been very busy to-day and a little worried;” and he ended with something very like a sigh.

“What is it?” she asked quickly.

“There was an accident,” he replied, “or at least I suppose it was an accident. We found a stranger suffering from exposure, and—and,” he concluded, absently, “it rather put me out.”

Lettie was standing behind him now, and the look of repression deepened upon her face.

“Where did you find him?” she asked.

“I? Oh, it was Norine—that is, Miss Bright—who found him,” stammered Conway, flushing. “It was at an old hut on the mountainside,” continued Conway hurriedly, “and she—that is, we—removed him to Bright’s.”

“And was it that that put you out?” inquired Lettie intently.

“Why, yes. I wanted to bring him to the village.”

“She will nurse him,” said the girl, with a sly emphasis on the personal pronoun; “so he is sure of good care.”

Conway moved uneasily in his chair.

“Oh, he will have good enough care, I suppose,” he said indifferently.

“Does it put you out to have her nurse him?” persisted Lettie.

There was no answer to this, and she moved around the table for a moment to look into his face, but immediately returned to her old position behind his chair.

“You must care a great deal for her,” she said softly.

“Who told you that? Why do you think so?” he inquired, quickly facing her.

“No one has told me,” replied the girl, with a mingled air of pride and defiance; “but I know you do.”

Conway was not a demonstrative man by any means. His life had been full of self-restraint, and he was, from the very nature of his education, self-contained as well as self-reliant. But there is something in our nature that demands sympathy, and I am afraid that the best of men are generally prone to transfer their loads of care and vexation on to the first pair of sympathetic shoulders that are found available.

So the good doctor, thinking, no doubt, that his cherished secret was already discovered, became almost communicative; and though older, stronger, and very much wiser, was only too glad to lean on this girl’s mental strength, and to accept from her the meed of sympathy that she was ready to bestow.

“Yes,” he said simply: “it put me out to have that stranger taken to her home. I had almost hoped to bring her to mine,” and he faltered a little.

“You think a great deal of her?” said Lettie in a questioning tone.

“Yes; a great deal more than I thought I could care for any one.”

She had her hands folded over her breast now, still standing behind him. Her color came and went rapidly, and her bosom heaved tumultuously. Still she spoke softly:

“You could never care for any one else?”

“In the same way? Oh, no,” replied Conway, in the confidence of his first love; “I could never care for any one else.”

“Not even if she should not care—if you did not marry her?” asked Lettie, in her repressed tone. “Not even if she were to marry some one else?”

“Not even then,” replied Conway; and he laid his head down upon his folded hands as he added softly: “Not while I live.”

There was silence now. Conway had felt her hands fluttering over him in a mute caress; but when he lifted his head she was gone.

Though it was so late when Conway sought his bed that night, he was up early enough the next morning—so early, in fact, that he had given the little pony his breakfast, and harnessed him ready for the daily rounds, before he was called in for his own morning meal.

“I am afraid you will have to prescribe for Lettie, doctor,” said good Mrs. Allan, as he entered the kitchen. “She is quite ill this morning.”

“I shall have to order more sleep for her, and less trouble from myself,” replied Conway. “I am afraid I kept her up too late last night. I guess that rest is all she needs.” And he bolted his coffee and cakes as rapidly as possible, and retired to his office.

“Dear me!” said Mrs. Allan to herself, after he had left the room, “he has eaten nothing at all. I’m sure he needs looking after as badly as any one. And now with Lettie sick, I’m sure I——Why, Lettie!” she cried in astonishment. “Good lands, child, how you frightened me!”

“I am better,” replied Lettie quietly.

It had been but a few moments before that her aunt had left her in bed, with every symptom of a high fever, and now she entered the room neatly and prettily clothed, and, with the exception of a slight pallor, apparently as well as ever.

She kissed her aunt affectionately, poured herself out a cup of coffee, and, sitting down to the table, made a pretense of eating.

“I am better,” she said again, as she found her aunt staring at her.

“Of course you are better, child; but you are not well enough to be up. Why didn’t you lie still, and let me bring you a cup of coffee?”

The girl’s lips trembled a little, perhaps at her aunt’s kindly words. She looked up thankfully, but only repeated that she felt better.

Mrs. Allan bustled about with her morning’s work. She was a notable housekeeper, and took pride in her work. But she glanced at her niece several times with a troubled look.

There was something wrong. She could not tell what. At last she asked suddenly:

“You did not quarrel last night?”

Lettie looked up quickly.

“Quarrel?” she repeated, with a soft little laugh. “Do you suppose I could quarrel—with him?”

“What is it, then?”

“Nothing—only I am unhappy,” with a little touch of proud scorn in her tones.

“Pshaw! You must not mind that,” replied her aunt kindly. “Lands sake, child! When you get to be as old as I am, you will know what trouble means;” and her ample bosom heaved with a retrospective sigh.

Lettie echoed the sigh in a softer way, and going over to the window, she stood with her forehead pressed against the cold glass, and stared moodily into the street.

She was young yet, but she was a woman, with more than her share of womanly passion. And this was the turning point of her life. She knew what it was to be unhappy. She thought wearily, and wondered sadly, if her misery was to increase with her age.

She had been petted and spoiled, perhaps, by this kindly old woman, who loved her so dearly, and her imperiously passionate nature could not brook restraint. And she loved, and knew that she could not be loved in return. And at eighteen, that to a woman of her nature was everything.

She stood by the window, silent and sullen, for a long time. There was only one person in her narrow world that she cared for outside of her one great love, and that was her aunt. And now she was going to do what she knew would give her aunt pain. That which would bring pain and sorrow to herself as well; she knew that, but she did not care for it. She wanted to save this good woman all she could; beyond that, she was reckless of consequences.

Only she must go away. She would not stay and see the love she longed for given to another. And she stood there and chafed and fretted, staring into the village street with her great dusky eyes glowing sullenly, but seeing nothing of what passed.

“Auntie,” she called at last, “I want to tell you something.”

Mrs. Allan dropped the work she had in hand, and joined her niece at the window.

“What is it, dear?” she asked kindly.

“Something that will hurt you, I am afraid,” replied Lettie, looking resolutely out of the window, that she might not see her aunt’s face. “I am sorry, auntie,” she said huskily; “sorry for both you and myself: but I can not stand it any longer, auntie. I am going away, and I think I shall start at once.”

“Away? Where?” was all her aunt could ejaculate.

“I am going away,” repeated Lettie steadily; “going to Aunt Kate’s, and I want to go at once.”

“My lands, child! You don’t mean that you want to start for Chicago so suddenly as this?” cried Mrs. Allan, deeply wounded. “Of course, if you want to leave me,” she added, in an injured tone, “I will help you to go. But I did not think you would leave me like this.”

And the good woman broke down and sobbed.

“My dear, dear aunt!” cried Lettie, throwing her arms around her aunt’s neck. “My dearest friend, do not think so ill of me. You are the only friend I have!” she cried bitterly, kneeling down by her aunt’s side and burying her face in her aunt’s capacious apron. “You have done so much for me—my more than mother, and I love you so dearly. But I must go!” she cried passionately. “I must go, or I shall do something desperate.”

“Why, Lettie Allan, what do you mean?” cried her aunt, frightened at the girl’s vehemence.

“I mean that I must leave you for a time, and him,” said Lettie, rising dry-eyed from a tempest of sobbing. “I can not stay and stand it. I must go. Oh, aunt, aunt! You do not understand!” she cried, pacing up and down the room, her cheeks and eyes flaming with passion—“you do not understand, or you would freely forgive me, and let me go.”

“What is it, child? What is there to forgive?” exclaimed the aunt.

“Nothing,” said Lettie, turning proudly—“nothing more than my leaving you, when I should have been a daughter to you. But I do love you,” she went on, giving away to passionate tears. “And I want you to love me.”

“Land knows, child, I have always loved you!” said Mrs. Allan, wiping her eyes.

“And you will let me go?” cried Lettie.

“Let you go, child? I can’t prevent your going if you want to. But I never thought it would come like this.”

And the old woman wept bitterly.

Lettie moved restlessly around the room.

“Auntie,” she said presently, “you are a woman; you will understand some day, and forgive me. Kiss me good-by, auntie, dear, and give me your blessing. You can send my things; and some day, perhaps, we can be happy again together.”

Poor Mrs. Allan was too overcome to speak. She could only bend forward and kiss the willful girl with her trembling lips, and then, covering her head with her apron, she gave way to her surprise and grief.

Lettie kissed her fondly, and left the room. Going upstairs, she soon returned completely equipped for the street, and carrying a small traveling bag in her hands. This she must have prepared before leaving the room for breakfast. In the hall, she stopped for a moment as if hesitating, and then walking steadily, she entered the little room used by Doctor Conway as an office.

He had gone—she knew that, yet she stayed for some moments in the little office alone. When she left it, her veil was drawn closely over her face; and so she left the house, and so passed out of Lester Conway’s life for many years.

CHAPTER V.

THE STRANGER’S CONVALESCENCE.

A sensation of being suspended motionless in mid-air, with the knowledge of having been thus suspended for innumerable centuries, then a soft, floating sensation, as if he were being carried softly through space on billowy clouds; this, in turn, changing to a dreamy languor, pervaded with a consciousness of four walls and a bed, and our strange traveler had awakened from his week of fever and delirium.

There was no wonder at finding himself in this position—perhaps he had not as yet sufficiently recovered his mental strength to feel any emotion of surprise.

He only lay and stared at a damp-looking spot on the ceiling over the bed, and feebly wondered how he had managed to reach high enough to color that, and why, while he was coloring it, he had not colored it black, or blue, or green, or anything rather than that muddy brown.

After wearily revolving this in his mind for some time, he became so feebly exasperated at this haunting spot that he essayed to erase it immediately.

There was a wan, pale-looking hand lying on the counterpane in front of him. He was not distinctly conscious of its being his hand. But with an utter disregard for the rights of property, he decided on using it.

Here was a surprise, for he had no sooner thought of using the hand than it had lifted itself from the counterpane, and after fluttering in the air very much after the manner of a wounded bird, had dropped again some three or four inches from its first position.

It was trying to escape from him—there could be no doubt about that: and mingled with his aversion for that faint spot on the ceiling, there came an intense desire to obtain possession of that hand. Then he partly turned his head on the pillow, and forgot his vexation in the immensity of his second surprise.

His bed was on one side of a small, square room. Such a very small room it was, that his bed seemed to occupy the larger part of it. And yet, small as it was, it was large enough to contain a vast deal of cozy comfort.

On the side of the room opposite the bed there was an old-fashioned, red-brick fireplace, which, though small for its kind, was large enough to look ridiculously out of proportion to the size of the room.

The old-fashioned furniture—what little there was of it—was covered with a prettily checked dimity. There were one or two simple, inexpensive prints on the walls, with an occasional bunch of dried ferns or grasses.

Everything about the room was simple and inexpensive, and the few simple ornaments bore traces of home manufacture. Yet there was such an all-pervading air of homely comfort about it, such a restful look about everything in it, that it got to be quite a wonder how so very small a room could contain so much. It would have been impossible to keep from getting well in such a room.

Of course, our friend did not observe all this at this time. It took him some time to exhaust all the wonders of that little room. There was something else that riveted his attention now. This is what he saw:

A little square table in front of the red-brick fireplace, and a large, old-fashioned lamp, surmounted by an equally old-fashioned paper shade, was on the table. This he saw, only in an indistinct way, for every faculty he possessed seemed to be taken up and absorbed by that silent figure sitting on a low rocking-chair between the table and the open fire.

She had been reading, for the book was lying open on her lap, partly covered by the little brown hands lying upon it; and now she sat with her head bent forward in deep thought, and with the white light of the lamp on one soft cheek, and the rosy glow of the fire flickering over the other, she made a very pretty picture indeed.

Who was she? And how came she in his bedroom?

Even while he wondered, she laid the book upon the table, and, bending forward, proceeded to unlace and remove her shoes, exposing a very tantalizing pair of ankles during the operation. Then moving her chair so as to place the two little brown-stockinged feet on the fender, she sat staring into the fire, apparently in deep contemplation of a small, a very small hole that she had discovered in one of her stockings.

And he lay and stared, and wondered and wondered and stared. He had a mystified memory of a terrible storm and terrible suffering, but he could connect nothing of his past life with this girl. Who was she, and how came she there?

Moving his head restlessly on the pillow, he attracted her attention, and in a moment she was bending over him. She spoke to him in a low, soft, pleasant voice, but he was too astonished to attempt an answer.

Lifting his head gently from the pillow, she put a cup to his lips, and he drank, still staring at her. She was an angel—that was it. He must be dead, and that spot was where he had fallen through from the other world.

Satisfied of this, and finding nothing at all incongruous in the idea of an angel wearing calfskin shoes and brown hand-knit stockings, he sank peacefully to sleep and forgot it all.

It was bright day when he again opened his eyes. Perhaps he had been strengthened by his peaceful slumber, or, perhaps, the clear soft light of the spring morning was not as conducive of illusions as the mingled light of lamp and fireplace had been.

Or, perhaps, the change in the person of his nurse had something to do with it. At all events, he found nothing at all angelic in the tall, slatternly form of Mrs. Higgins, and accepted his drink and medicine from her with a peevish expression of discontent.

“Where am I?” he inquired feebly.

“Bright Farm,” answered his nurse concisely.

After waiting long enough for this bit of news to sift through his system, he inquired, not unreasonably, where the Bright Farm was; but to this question, though somewhat impatiently repeated, he received no answer.

Mrs. Higgins was not really ill-natured; unsympathetic, perhaps, and somewhat taciturn, but fully convinced of the dignity of her position as nurse; so when she informed him that “he wuz thar on ther bed,” and that he was to “shet his head until he got better,” she considered that she had fully covered the subject, and declined all further offers of conversation; and Doctor Conway only arrived in time to prevent his patient’s worrying himself into a raging fever.

Doctor Conway had looked on this case as an excellent bit of practice. Not that the good doctor had any doubt as to his fee, for he had none, being perfectly convinced in his own mind that there was not the remotest probability of his ever receiving any. But he had devoted himself assiduously to his patient, in the hope, perhaps, that he might the sooner get rid of him. For Conway was but mortal, and the thought of that handsome invalid lying there, monopolizing Norine’s time and attention, was not altogether conducive to the doctor’s peace of mind.

The patient was tossing uneasily on the bed when Conway bent over him. There was an instinctive dislike between them, that the doctor found difficult to conceal, and that his patient did not try to.

“Where am I?” he demanded at once.

“At Bright Farm, the residence of Mr. James Bright,” replied the doctor.

“She told me that,” said the sick man impatiently. “How far am I from Altoona?”

“About twenty-five miles,” replied Conway, astonished. “Did you come from Altoona?” he inquired in his turn.

“No,” said the other; “I was going there.”

“Where did you start from?”

“I started from near Ebensburg to cross the mountain,” shortly. “What is the nearest town?”

Conway gave him the required information.

“How soon can I go there?”

“Very soon, if you progress as rapidly as you have recently,” replied the doctor, inwardly determined to assist that progress by every means in his power. “What is your name?” he inquired.

“Percival—Clinton Percival,” responded the sick man weakly. “How long have I been here?”

“Over a week,” said Conway. “And now,” he added, “you have talked too much already. You are tired and feverish. Is there any one whom you would like to have notified of your position?”

“No.”

“Have you no friends who may be anxious about you?”

“No—none.”

Conway stared at his patient. It seemed incredible to him that any one should be so friendless.

The sick man turned his head on the pillow, muttering ungraciously the while, and Doctor Conway left the room to give further directions as to the broths and jellies that were to help Mr. Clinton Percival regain his strength.

Norine was in the kitchen, with her dimpled arms buried deep in the bread trough, and her supple form incased in an immense gingham apron.

“How is he?” she inquired, with some anxiety.

“Better, decidedly better,” returned Conway; “well enough to be very cross already, so I would not advise you to go near him.”

“My!” cried Norine, with her pretty eyebrows raised expressively, “has he been so cross as that?”

“He is somewhat impatient,” replied Conway gravely, passing his hand slowly over his head as he spoke. “Perhaps not more so than we should expect. He told me his name was Clinton Percival, and seemed ungraciously anxious to be moved as soon as possible.”

“Poor fellow!” said Norine sympathetically. “He has been so very ill, we must not expect too much from him at first. Did you find out where he belongs?” she asked, struggling with a mass of dough meanwhile.

“That is the strangest part of it. If he told the truth, it is a wonder he survived at all. He claims to have crossed the mountain from near Ebensburg. How he did it in that tremendous storm I can’t imagine. He must have wandered thirty or forty miles.”

Norine raised her hands and eyebrows in wonder at this achievement, and Mrs. Higgins, who had just come in, gave it as her opinion that “a man what thet wouldn’t kill waz borned to be hung, sure. Yer’d oughter a-brung ’im to our place, doc,” continued the old woman after this free expression of her opinion. “He couldn’t a-done no harm there.”

“Why, what harm can he do here?” inquired Norine laughingly.

The old woman shook her head ominously, but made no reply.

“Perhaps Mrs. Higgins has found her patient a little cross at times,” hazarded Conway.

Mrs. Higgins stopped in her work to emit a scornful snort.

“Yer don’t suppose I keer fer his tantrums, do yer?” she inquired scornfully. “’Tain’t thet at all. O’ course, he’s a little peevish jest when he’s a-gettin’ well—thet’s nat’ral. All men feel so arter they’s been a-shet up fer awhile—leastways, my man allers does. But, gosh! I’m too old ter let thet worry me enny,” and she wound up with an energetic snort.

Conway smiled gravely, and Norine laughed a jolly, ringing little laugh.

“What is the matter with him, then?” she inquired practically. “Why are you afraid of him?”

“I ain’t afeared on him,” retorted the old woman indignantly. Then she added gravely: “I’m a heap sight more afeared o’ you.”

“Of me?” exclaimed Norine, raising her eyebrows in astonishment. “Why are you afraid of me?”

Mrs. Higgins snorted expressively and looked at Conway, who had been leaning easily against the door, an amused listener. Love is sharp-sighted, for all its proverbial blindness, and Conway understood the old woman’s meaning at once. He passed his hand slowly over his head and sighed softly.

Norine, however, was greatly mystified and stared from one to the other in amazement.

“I cannot understand you at all,” she cried pettishly. “How can this poor man harm us any? I’m sure I feel very sorry for him.”

“So do I,” interposed the doctor hastily. “He is very ill, and I am glad he is getting such good care. Whether he deserves it or not, Mrs. Higgins has taken a dislike to him, that is all.”

“Well, she ought to be ashamed of it,” said Norine indignantly. “The poor man deserves our sympathy, at least.”

“Thet’s all right, an’ I don’t deny hit,” replied the old woman. “I hain’t got nothin’ ag’in him; he ain’t a-goin’ to hurt me enny. ’Tain’t likely he’ll hurt enny one, less’n hit’s you!” and Mrs. Higgins bounced out of the room indignantly.

Norine blushed hotly, and cried: “What nonsense!” But still she seemed loath to meet the doctor’s eye. So, after giving the directions that had originally brought him to the kitchen, Conway took his departure.

CHAPTER VI.

CLINTON’S STORY.

The days went on quietly at Bright Farm, and the stranger improved rapidly in health. Doctor Conway continued his daily visits at the farm, but his patient occupied but little of his time. He could do nothing more, the doctor said. It only remained to build up the wasted strength by careful diet, and nature would do the rest. Conway did not believe in dosing at any time, being a firm advocate of the old maxim, “Throw physic to the dogs.”

The doctor had remembered his patient’s impatient demand for removal, and as soon as he dared had informed that gentleman that he might change his quarters at any time, taking the chance to inform him further that there existed excellent accommodations at the village hotel.

In fact, the good doctor had even gone beyond that, for he had placed the little rough pony and springy carryall at his patient’s service for the aforesaid purpose of removal. And when we consider that there was even less good-will existing between the two than there had been at first, we must admit the doctor’s disinterestedness—a disinterestedness, however, that was doomed to go unrewarded.

It was not accepted in the right spirit, the doctor thought; for the patient, preferring the good he had to the possible ills awaiting him, declined to move, and remained in his cozy little room at the cottage, and improved in health at a great rate. And so the second week had gone by, and Clinton had improved so much that he could even sit up for a short space of time in the big easy-chair by the fire.

It was while sitting there one day, watching the angular Higgins engaged in making the bed, that it occurred to him that in all his two weeks’ stay he had never seen the master of Bright Farm—not that he had cared particularly, so long as he saw the mistress often enough—but it gave him something to think about and speculate upon.

“Mrs. Higgins,” he said, as pleasantly as possible, “is Mr. Bright at home now, do you think?”

“No, he hain’t,” returned that uncompromising female.

“Ah! gone to town, I suppose?” returned Clinton.

But Mrs. Higgins, probably taking no interest in his suppositions, made no response, but continued her struggles with the pillow she was endeavoring to entrap into a case at least two sizes too small for it.

“How soon do you expect him back?” persisted Clinton.

“Back from whar?” inquired the Higgins.

“Why, from—from town, I suppose,” returned Clinton meekly.

“Who said he was in town?” demanded Higgins, with altogether unnecessary acerbity.

“You said he was not at home,” suggested Clinton mildly.

“Well, he ain’t to home, nuther,” returned Higgins. “He’s over ’n the medder a-plowin’. Then what?”

And she shot this question at him with a suddenness that was startling.

“Why, I should be very glad to see him,” said Clinton calmly. “Will you say so to him when he comes in to dinner?”

But Higgins only replied, “that she thought it was about time he wanted to see Jim Bright.” And so, having completed her work, she left her charge to his own reflections.

Clinton was not wrong in expecting a visit from his host, and consequently was not surprised when, at about noon, the door of his room opened and admitted a tall, sunburned man of about his own age, who, judging from the flushed face and damp, brown hair, had only stopped work long enough to have performed his ablutions. He advanced to the chair.

“I hope you are getting better,” he said. “Mrs. Higgins tells me that you wished to see me.”

“You are Mr. Bright?” Clinton said, with a pleasing smile, and stretching out his hand in greeting. “Yes, I have wanted to see you badly. I have so much to thank you for, and I wanted to give you such return as I may for the kind treatment that I have received.”

He said all this in such a sincere, hearty fashion that he quite touched honest Jim, who, to tell the truth, had been more than half disposed to dislike his guest.

“You owe me no thanks,” he said quietly. “You are welcome to everything we can do for you until you recover.”

Perhaps Jim unconsciously emphasized his last few words; the emphasis was plainly discernible, and Clinton flushed a little as he repeated his thanks and hoped—with some dignity—that he would not trouble them much longer.

“I believe,” he said, in conclusion, “that I owe you for more than your hospitality, great as that debt is. I am afraid if you had not found me when you did, there would have been very little need of carrying me anywhere.”

“You are giving me more credit than I deserve,” replied Jim quietly. “I did not find you. It was my sister.”

“Norine!” exclaimed Clinton.

“Miss Norine,” said Jim, with gentle correction.

“I beg your pardon—and hers,” said Clinton. “I had supposed that you found me. I have one more favor to ask of you, Mr. Bright.”

“You are welcome to anything I can do,” replied Jim courteously.

“Well, this is not much,” said Clinton, with his pleasing smile again. “But if you have your evenings at liberty, I should be glad if you would spare me some of them. I am afraid I trouble you greatly.”

“Not at all—not at all,” said Jim heartily. “I shall be as greatly pleased as you will. We are very quiet here,” he added, “and I suppose the evenings seem long to you.”

Jim was pleased with the implied compliment, as I have no doubt Clinton intended he should be, and he was rapidly thawing out into his genial, friendly self, when the interview was brought to a close by the irrepressible voice of Mrs. Higgins.

“Jim Bright!” cried that lady, with her head thrust through the open door, “be you a-comin’ to dinner?”

“Why, yes, Mrs. Higgins,” said Jim. “I did not know that dinner was ready.”

But the unappeased Mrs. Higgins only muttered that “thanks waz cheap, and there waz no use in a-stay-in’ there all day to lay in a stock o’ ’em.”

After dinner, Norine came in as usual, with her work in her hand.

Clinton used to think that the day began about three o’clock, for she always came about the same time, and he had been very well satisfied to lay and watch her while she worked, just speaking often enough to bring her face to the light that he might watch the expressive play of every feature. But he was in a more talkative mood to-day.

“Miss Norine,” he said, when she had taken her usual low chair by the window, “why did you never tell me that it was you who found me that day?”

“Did I never tell you?” asked Norine. “Then probably it was because I did not think it of sufficient importance.”

“The finding was of very little importance,” rejoined Clinton, “and you will probably set very little value on the thanks, but they are yours, nevertheless, and they are very sincere.”

“I did not mean that,” said Norine, flushing a little and getting confused. “I only meant that it was not necessary for you to thank me. I could take your gratitude for granted. Besides,” she added, “if I had not found you, some one else might have.”

“I think not,” said Clinton. “I am a great believer in fate, and I think it was ordained that you should find me.”

“Do you believe that bug was ordained to fly over my nose and thus call my attention to you?” asked Norine laughingly.

“Why not?” returned Clinton seriously. “There are stranger things than that in this world. Perhaps the poor bug was created for that purpose, unimportant as it was. At any rate,” he continued lightly, “I was found, and I am very glad that I was found by you. I only hope that I shall be able to convince you of my gratitude.”

“That is very easy. I will absolve you.”

“Oh! but I may not be able to absolve myself!” said Clinton gravely.

There was a pause now of some moments. Clinton lay, with his eyes half closed, watching Norine’s face, and speculating upon his probable fate in case he had been found by any one else. After a while, finding that field of conjecture limitless, he broke the silence again.

“Miss Norine,” he said, “I wish you would tell me about it. How you found me, I mean. Where is that hut?”

And then Norine told him of the deserted hut and of the ailing Higgins, and of her errand in their behalf, how she had found him, and how they had brought him there.

“Do you remember anything of that awful night?” she asked, in conclusion.

“I only remember the storm,” replied Clinton, “and my fighting against it. It does not seem possible that it lasted only one day, or night, rather. It seems as if I had been for months wandering over that confounded mountain. I do not remember how or when I got hurt, neither do I remember finding the cabin.”

“There is one thing Jim and I have spoken of several times,” said Norine gently, changing the subject. “We have thought perhaps you might wish to have your friends notified.”

“My friends,” said Clinton, with a bitter laugh. “There is only one person in this world that I know of that would have felt one spark of interest if my life had been snuffed out that night.”

“Oh, you must not talk that way,” said Norine, greatly shocked. “I am sure you must be wrong. Have you no relatives?”

“None,” answered Clinton, “unless some distant cousins whom I have never seen, and whom, I doubt, know of my existence. I have neither friends nor relatives.”

“You just spoke of one friend,” suggested Norine gently.

“No, not a friend exactly in the sense you mean it. There is one person in New York with whom I left a few—a very few hundred dollars, to keep for me; but he is more a banker than a friend.”

“How terrible!” said Norine softly; “and what a very lonesome place the world must be to one without kindred or friends.”

“I have never felt it so until now,” replied Clinton. “Perhaps I have been too selfishly interested in my own existence to feel the need of other ties; but after my narrow escape on that mountain, I feel that I should not like to die without some one to mourn for me.”

“Ah, well, that is all over now,” said Norine cheerfully; “and it is always so easy for a man to make friends.”

“Why easier for a man, than one of the other sex?” interposed Clinton.

“Your late experience would answer that question,” replied Norine quietly. “A man is free to come and go. If he does not find friends at home, he can go out into the world and search for them, as you have done. But I will admit,” she continued, smiling archly, “that you sometimes get into trouble in the search.”

“That does not matter if we only accomplish our ends.”

“You can generally do that; at least, you can find friends if you wish to.”

“As I have done?”

Norine looked up quickly.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I think you have found friends here, but you will, no doubt, find better ones.”

“No kinder ones, I am sure,” replied the sick man gratefully. “They are friends whom I shall never forget.”

Norine made no reply, and shortly after left the room to find her favorite seat upon the doorstep, where she fell into a profound reverie.

It became the custom for the brother and sister to join their guest in the evening. He could sit up in bed and play cribbage with Jim, while Norine, with her work or a book, would sit by the little table, coming over to the bedside occasionally when the game became more than usually interesting.

It was a very happy time for all, although I have no doubt Clinton enjoyed it the most.

He was something of a vagabond, and had seen a great many things that were new to these simple country people; and as he was clever and entertaining, his stories lost nothing in interest from his manner of relating them.

On the other hand, he found in this brother and sister, neither of whom had ever been fifty miles away from their little farm, two remarkably intelligent and well-read people. It was astonishing, he thought, that, isolated as they were, they should acquire so many of the graces that usually can only be obtained by mingling in the society of cultured people.

He hinted at this once to Jim; but as that gentleman considered it unnecessary to explain matters of family history to this stranger, he got very little satisfaction.

“I read a great deal and think a little,” Jim had said shortly; and Clinton was too wise to push the matter further.

True, he once tried to interrogate Mrs. Higgins delicately as to the history of his host, but he got even less satisfaction there. That good woman informed him that:

“A fox onct was er peekin’ er round ther barn, expectin’ ter find er chicken; instead o’ which, a steel trap found him.”

Having posted him on that bit of farmyard history, she snorted once or twice significantly, but said no more, and Clinton gave up all hopes of obtaining any information from her.

Still, his curiosity did not detract any from the pleasure of their company, and so the pleasant evenings came and went until the bed was no longer necessary, and they gathered around the kitchen fireplace instead; but still they enjoyed themselves, and still Clinton continued to improve. He was nearly well now, but nothing had been said about him leaving Bright Farm.

Of course Jim could not mention the matter, and Clinton did not choose to do so, and so he stayed on.

Sometimes—not very often—Doctor Conway would join the little circle in front of the kitchen fire: but these evenings were not very enjoyable to him. Clinton rather monopolized the conversation—and monopolized Norine also, Conway thought; so he only dropped in once in a while, and joined in the game of cards, or the discussion that happened to be in progress.

He had just come in one evening, and found the young people discussing a visit they had received from the pastor of the little church.

“He is a good, kind-hearted man,” Jim was saying, “and does a great deal for the poor people of the neighborhood, though he has very little to do it with. I like him very much.”

“He seems to be kind enough,” replied Clinton, carelessly; “but he hardly impresses me with his ability as a teacher. Besides, he talks ‘shop’ too much.”

“That is his mission,” interposed Norine.

“Less his mission than his profession, perhaps,” replied Clinton in that careless, almost sneering tone. “After all, it is only another way of making a living.”

“I doubt that,” said Jim warmly. “I do not believe as he does, but I think that he is undoubtedly sincere. Besides that, Carlton is a very clever fellow in his way, and very poorly paid. I feel sure that if it were only a question of money he could do better in other ways.”

“He is certainly not very original,” sneered Clinton, repressing a yawn. “I have heard those same expressions of faith before.”

“They may be none the less sincere for that,” replied Jim sternly. “I hold that sincere faith is always worthy of respect.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Clinton, not at all abashed. “You must pardon my criticism. I did not know that you were such an earnest believer.”

Conway laughed. Jim was not considered a very earnest believer by his neighbors.

“That is the first time I ever heard you complimented in that way, Jim.”

“I do not deserve the compliment,” replied Jim soberly. “Not but that I am sincere in my belief.”

“What is that?” inquired Clinton, with an appearance of interest.

“Oh, Jim is what you might call a believer in nature,” interposed Norine. “Just as you believe in fate, and Doctor Conway in—I don’t know what.”

“Say in you, for instance,” said Conway quietly.

Norine blushed a little.

“We are talking of religious matters now, sir,” she pouted.

“I doubt if any of us would pass as orthodox,” said Clinton, paying no attention to this little by-play. “As for me, I am in doubt. I am something of a fatalist, as Miss Norine has said. And yet at times I am undecided in my mind, and inclined to believe that we are all the result of chance.”

“Would you trust your hereafter to chance?” inquired Jim quietly.

“I am hardly sure that I believe in a life after this,” replied the young man. “I have never seen any proof of it. Have you?” he inquired in his turn.

“Yes, a great many,” said Jim. “In fact, that is the one point of all others that I hold to be indisputably proven.”

Clinton looked doubtful.

“I would be glad to see the proof,” he said.

“Do you believe in the possibility of destruction?”

“In the possibility, yes.”

Jim reached down on the hearth and picked up a sliver of wood.

“Can you destroy that?” he asked.

“Certainly,” replied Clinton promptly, and he tossed it into the glowing fire. “There,” he said, “fire has completely destroyed it.”

Jim smiled.

“Don’t you see,” he inquired scornfully, “that you have only changed its form? You can not destroy. You often hear the term used, but I do not believe destruction is possible. Take the smallest grain of sand possible to find. Let the best chemists and scientists combine to destroy it—completely destroy it, understand; not merely change its form—and if they succeed, I will believe destruction possible. But until they are able to destroy the smallest thing in nature, I will not believe in the destruction or extinction of soul.”

“Horatio, thou reasonest well,” quoted Clinton. “But why, if there is a world beyond this, is there no communication with it? Or do you hold it possible that we may return to this world after death?”

“I do not know,” replied Jim thoughtfully. “We may not desire to return. The grub may think he will return to his fellows after death. But what reason would the butterfly have for entering into communication with the grubs? Then, again, as the grub can not understand or care for the butterfly, so we, too, may be surrounded by friends who have merely changed their forms and yet are beyond our comprehension.”

“I do not believe that!” cried Clinton. “If there is any life after this, I would find some way of returning; and if I had suffered a wrong in this world, I should try to return, if only to express my anger.”

“Fy!” cried Norine, shuddering; “what a cruel belief!”

And she remembered that expression long after.

Jim smiled superior.

“You think so now,” he said; “but your opinions may change with your existence.”

“I doubt it,” replied Clinton; “but it is possible. What is your opinion, doctor?”

Conway rose and buttoned his coat, ready to depart.

“I think there are two subjects that should be tabooed in ordinary conversation,” he said coolly. “They are politics and religion. In regard to the latter question, I think we are all on the same footing. We know that we are here—we may differ in opinion as to how we came, or where we are going—but that really sums up our knowledge of the subject. After that, what we don’t know would make more volumes than our actual knowledge of the matter would pages. I think we are all alike—equally ignorant.”

And with that candid expression of opinion, the doctor departed.

After this, these discussions came to be of almost nightly occurrence, and Clinton soon understood why his host was looked upon by his neighbors as an “original.”

Jim had original views of almost everything, but particularly of religion. He was sincerely earnest in all he said, and very tolerant of the opinions of others.

But he was original. He had got his ideas from a close communication with nature. He was religious by nature.

It was one of the anomalies of that fruitful theme of discussion that Clinton, scornful and rather superficial, should uphold sectarianism and all its superstitions, as it was preached in that little country chapel, with all the decidedly fervent descriptions of hell-fire and burning brimstone, while Jim, pious and earnest in all he thought and did, should reject this preposterous idea of eternal punishment, accepting instead the grander thoughts of eternal love that nature had taught him.

There was very little good obtained by these discussions—there seldom is—but they served as a zest for their quiet life, furnishing the spice necessary to make their quiet evenings enjoyable.

CHAPTER VII.

“I HAVE LOST HER!”

Of course there was love in it all. What else could result from such an accident? When a young man, good-looking, well enough educated, with pleasing manners—when the rascal chose to exert them, as he certainly did now—and a young and healthy female, heart and fancy free, are thrown into constant and familiar intercourse, there will generally result a violent passion, either of love or hate. But add to the first cause the additional ones of illness on one side, and a desire to alleviate it on the other, and what could result but love?

Young men have been injured and nursed, and have fallen in love with their nurses time and again; so often in fact, that the result has become so commonplace as to cease to be romantic. And if there was nothing of greater interest to result from this accidental illness than the love of Norine Bright and Clinton Percival, there would be very little use in my trying to tell the story.

There was love in it—there could be no doubt about that—and I think this had been expected by all but Norine. So, in turn, Norine was the last one of all to realize the actual result. And I think if it had so happened that this young man, instead of staying to get unreasonably well, had coolly walked off some day, leaving nothing but his thanks, Norine would have been the only one at Bright Farm free from disappointment.

They all saw it with this exception. And Mrs. Higgins became so mixed, between her pride in the fact that her dear Norry had a “bo,” and her own decided and inextinguishable dislike for the aforesaid “bo,” that she was halfway between hugging the one and hitting the other all the time. Out of her love for Norine she would concoct the choicest and most delicate dishes for their guest, and would fervently wish that he might choke himself to death with one of them.

Clinton might and did mollify Jim at least into a state of neutrality, and he could, and unfortunately did, rather ignore the doctor: but he could neither ignore nor mollify Mrs. Higgins. She was impervious to flattery. She was the one thorn in his side; all the rest were like the odor of roses.

There was nothing said now about his leaving the farm, though Norine used to wonder a little at his protracted stay. So the days went on, and he increased in health and strength with every one.

Doctor Conway came very seldom now; not so often by any means as he had been in the habit of coming before Clinton’s arrival. He looked a trifle paler, too, Norine thought, and passed his hand slowly over his head, in that thoughtful way of his, very often. He was none the less friendly to Norine and Jim, and his smile was as bright as ever—when it came; but it was not as frequent as it had been.

I am afraid Clinton and Norine rather monopolized the happiness of the little party. The doctor certainly did not seem to have much of it, unless it was in the contemplation of Norine’s happiness.

She was very happy in those sweet summer days—so happy that she would sometimes stop and wonder how long it would all last.

Clinton was well enough now to be outdoors the greater part of the day, and they devoted part of every afternoon to a ramble in the woods opposite the little cottage. These rambles gradually became more extended as Clinton regained his strength, and the companionship became greatly cemented thereby.

It was the very essence of life, Clinton thought. Day after day they would stroll through the woods together, or in the shade of some big oak Norine would sit and stitch industriously, while Clinton would lie at her feet, content to simply look at her.

“Norine,” he said one day. “I am getting so strong now that I think I must get you to show me the cabin where you first found me.”

“Do you care to go?” she asked.

“Yes; I am impatient to go; I wish to see it; and if I could I would trace myself back, step by step, over all my wanderings of that night.”

Norine turned pale, and her lips quivered a little, but she said nothing.

“Well,” he said softly, after waiting a moment, “will you go with me?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, starting a little; “I will go if you wish it; but I can not understand why you care to see the place?”

“Perhaps I have some regard for the place where we first met.”

“You were not conscious of the meeting, sir,” said Norine, smiling archly; “and there was very little in it to flatter your vanity.”

“No, I suppose not,” laughed Clinton. “But then I was not trying to look my best; for, you see, I had no idea of receiving company. I should like to know what you thought of me at first sight.”

“You would not find it very flattering, I am afraid.”

“No,” he responded coolly, “I suppose not; but you have changed your opinion since then.”

“Indeed, sir!” cried Norine, with her expressive eyebrows raised as high as possible. “How did you become aware of any change in my opinion?”

“I do not know how I did,” said Clinton thoughtfully; “but I am fully aware of it.”

“Well,” said Norine, with a rosy flush on her downcast face, “does the change gratify you any?”

She tried to look at him and meet the answering look in his eyes, but she could not. She could only bend her head very low over her work, and flutter and blush and pant a little, telling the story of her opinion, to those watchful eyes of his, as plainly, yet as unconsciously, as possible; and when he rose from his lounging position at her feet there was a satisfied look on his face that plainly said the world was his.

It was on the next day after this that they started for the dismantled cabin in the woods. They sauntered slowly along the forest path; sometimes side by side, oftener, as the path was narrow, with Norine in front leading the way.

Clinton was very grave and preoccupied—thinking over his narrow escape, Norine thought; and not wishing to disturb him, she too walked on in silence. They had been silent for so long that she, somewhat in advance, and overcome by the dreamy languor of the summer afternoon, had almost forgotten his presence.

While passing through a little open glade she had plucked a handful of great yellow-hearted daisies, and now she was plucking the white petals from them, one by one, murmuring as she did so:

“Loves me, loves me not; loves me, loves me not.”

But the perverse flowers would never come right, and she cast them from her petulantly, and turned to look for her companion. He was just seating himself on a fallen log, and she turned slowly back and joined him.

“Norine,” he said thoughtfully, “do you remember what you said when I spoke of my desolate condition that day?”

“That you would make friends?” answered Norine—“yes.”

“There are closer ties than those of friendship, Norine; and I am very lonely.”

There was no answer. Norine sat silently apprehensive.

“There are dearer ties than those of friendship, Norine,” he repeated, “and I am going to form them, Norine. I am going to get married.”

Norine was mute. She felt something cold clutch at her heart, and for a moment she was numb with anguish.

She knew now that she loved him—loved him with the first and purest love of her life. Why did he tell her this? She knew that her cheek was bloodless, but she would have rather died than have let him see it.

So she started along the path, making him a little gesture to follow. She walked faster than she knew, for her trembling limbs tried to keep pace with her thoughts. She loved him. She knew now that he was the one lover of her life. To lose him now was to lose all the brightness of her future. Yet the daisies had been right. She had only found him to lose him again. Ah, why had they ever met?

She hurried on, reached the edge of the clearing, and before she thought, she was standing in the open door of the cabin.

She heard his footsteps close behind her, but she could not trust herself to look at him yet. Then, while she was struggling for composure, an arm stole around her waist, and his voice whispered in her ear:

“Norine, ’twas here you saw me first; here that you saved my life. And, Norine, I want you to tell me here that you love me and will be my wife.”

She could not speak; the reaction was too great. She turned in his arms and looked at him. Ah, such a look!

What need was there of words, when she told him all he cared to know in that one look?

And what words were necessary for Lester Conway, who, just returning from a visit at the Higgins’, had come out into the clearing in time to see Clinton’s arm steal around Norine’s waist—in time to see the two figures blend together as she sank into his arms?

He caught a glimpse of her face over her lover’s shoulder, and what need had he of words to tell the story? It was told in the blackened sunshine, repeated by every bird, and leaf, and tree; repeated and repeated by his throbbing heart as he dashed, bare-headed and desperate, through the woods.

The strong, self-contained man sank down at the root of an old tree and wept bitter, passionate tears as he tore at the earth with his hands, and repeated again and again:

“I have lost her—lost her—lost her!”

CHAPTER VIII.

NORINE’S WEDDING.

And what a walk back that was! When the lovers had exhausted the shanty—and that took some time, for Norine had to relate how she had found him lying on his face upon the floor, and how she had tried in vain to turn him into an easier position; and how she had run on to the Higgins’ and brought back help; and as the story was told falteringly, and interrupted by frequent demonstrations on the part of Clinton, all of which Norine permitted from necessity, it took some little time to fully illustrate the adventure; for Clinton had fallen face downward on the floor—much to Norine’s dismay—and had insisted upon her kneeling by his side and trying to lift his head as she had done. And when she had placed her soft arms around his neck, the graceless scamp had held them close and tight, while Norine blushingly protested that nothing of the sort had happened, and that he was not acting his part properly at all.

And when at last they did start homeward, what a pleasant walk it was!

Why, the very birds seemed to partake of their enjoyment, and one saucy chipmunk scampered along the path, and, running up on an old log, had sat and rubbed his face with his little paws and frisked his tail, nodded at them mischievously, and scampered off again, probably overcome by the sight of so much happiness.

And to see Norine pitying her lover’s weakness, making little blushing offers of assistance, until, unable to resist the temptation longer, he had gathered her up in his arms and held her there until she was fain to admit that he was plenty strong enough.

And when they were a little less idiotically happy, but still far too happy for mere words, they walked silently along, hand in hand, and finding the path plenty wide enough for them.

How happy they were! They had never seen such a pleasant afternoon, they said, not knowing, nor even caring, that they were never likely to see such another.

There was very little said during the walk. Clinton wondered what Jim would say; and Norine answered, with her eyes wide open with astonishment at the question, that Jim would be very glad. What could he say when he knew that she was so happy?

“We must never leave poor Jim, Clinton,” she said. “He has been such a good brother, and I am all he has got.”

And Clinton, probably remembering his own forlorn state in the past, promised that she should never leave her brother unless she chose.

“I will go and tell him as soon as we get home,” said Clinton.

But Norine begged him not to.

“I must tell him,” she said. “He loves me, and when I tell him that our love will make no difference in the future, he will not mind it so much.”

“I suppose he must have known that you would get married some time?” said Clinton.

“Do you think so?” inquired Norine, considering the matter. “But I have never thought of it myself, sir,” with a bewitching raise of the eyebrows. “But,” she added thoughtfully, “I do not think Jim will ever marry, and I feel as if I were sacrificing his happiness for mine.”

Clinton protested vigorously against this view of the case, showing her that Jim would be the happier for seeing her happiness, and that Jim would be his brother, and that he—Clinton—would do all he could to contribute to his brother’s happiness.

And Norine thanked him with a glance from eyes dewy with happiness and love; and so, hand in hand they came out of the woods in front of the cottage.

They could see Jim, swinging along through the fields on his way home, as they crossed the road; and Norine could hardly refrain from running to meet him, and telling him then and there. She thought better of it, however, and entered the cottage to assist Mrs. Higgins in her preparations for supper.

There was no need of telling Mrs. Higgins. That penetrating female had arrived at a full and complete knowledge of the case as soon as she caught sight of Norine’s blushing face.

Mrs. Higgins snorted a little as she looked at Clinton, but her face softened wonderfully as Norine entered the kitchen.

“I wish ye ji, Norry,” she said.

“What on?” inquired Norine, blushing.

“On yer bo,” replied Mrs. Higgins sententiously.

And then Norine laid her head on the motherly breast, and cried silently but heartily for a moment, while Mrs. Higgins, fully understanding the case, smoothed her hair carelessly and wiped her own eyes furtively.

But when Norine had run away to bathe her eyes, lest Jim might see her crying, and misunderstand the cause, Mrs. Higgins went up to the closed door of Clinton’s room, and shook her fists at its unresponsive panels.

After shaking first one fist, and then the other, and then both at once, and finding herself greatly benefited by this vigorous exercise, she resumed her work with her face as stony and imperturbable as ever.

It was Jim’s habit, after the evening chores were done, to sit in front of the wide, old-fashioned kitchen fire and smoke. Norine took advantage of this habit to-night to tell him her secret.

So, when Jim came in, after making the animals comfortable for the night, he found her bustling around, making a great pretense of filling his pipe, and arranging things for his comfort. Jim noticed this, but being a wise young man, and probably somewhat prepared for what was to come, said nothing, but took his pipe from her with a look of thanks, and, sitting down, commenced to smoke. There was a tired, thoughtful look on the young man’s face—a discontented look almost—but Norine, too full of her own happiness, for once did not notice it.

“Jim,” she said softly, leaning over his chair from behind, with a round, soft arm on either shoulder, “Jim, I have something to tell you.”

“I am afraid I know it, Norry.”

“Afraid, Jim? You do not mean that, or you can not know what I was about to say.”

Jim said nothing, only stared into the blackened fireplace with a thoughtful face. His pipe was out, but from time to time he made a pretense of smoking.

“You are not angry, Jim?” asked Norine in a pitiful tone.

“Was I ever angry with you, my little sister?”

“No, Jim. You have been the best of loving brothers, and I want you to be so always. But you do not seem pleased, Jim.”

“Do you care for him, Norry?”

“I love him, Jim,” said Norine softly; “I love him better than I can tell, and he loves me.” And the glad lovelight filled her eyes.

Jim sat silent for a moment, and sighed heavily.

“I shall be very lonely without you, Norry,” he said, “but I have no wish but for your happiness. If you love him, dear, go to him, and I will help you all I can.”

Norine’s heart was deeply touched, and she wondered if this new love, that had so soon become a part of her being, would be as unselfish as the brotherly love she was leaving—no, not leaving—and she told Jim all that had been said by her lover and herself in the woods that day.

“I am not to leave you, Jim,” she said. “We want to stay here with you, and I want you to love him a little for my sake.”

And Jim kissed her and promised, and when he saw the look of contentment come back into her eyes he sent her away to join her lover.

But he could not clear his own brow so easily. Gentlemen visitors had never brought happiness to Bright Farm, and he could not dismiss the dark forebodings that filled his heart. This man was not likely to remain long content on that little mountain farm, and when he took Norine away among strangers, who would watch over her happiness?

He was sitting thus, absorbed in heavy thought, when they entered the room. He arose from his seat when he found them standing near him.

“We do not want you to sit alone, Jim,” said Norine, putting her arms around his neck and laying her soft cheek against his; “we want you to help us to be happy.”

What could he do? There was no use in clouding that happy face. What must be will be. And with this philosophical conclusion in his mind, Jim shook hands with Clinton and wished him joy, showing, Clinton thought, an amount of brotherly affection as delightful as it was unexpected. He even managed to joke with them a little as they gathered in their usual places around the kitchen fire. The jokes were rather lame, but still they were jokes, and even poor jokes are better than anger or discontent.

Jim was at first inclined to object to an immediate marriage.

“Norine is young,” he said, “and you can both afford to wait a while. Perhaps it would be better for you,” he added quizzically, “if you wait a year or two. You will at least be sure of your own minds.”

“If that is all we need wait for, there need be no delay,” cried Clinton confidently. “I am sure that Norine loves me, and neither one year nor twenty could make any difference in my love for her.”

Norine looked at him proudly.

“I will wait if you think best, Jim,” she said quietly.

But Jim could hardly insist upon it; in fact, he could find no just reason for delay. They were both old enough to know their own minds, and as long as they did not intend leaving the farm, and were going to be married anyway, there was no valid reason why they should not be married at once.

After this was settled to the satisfaction of the lovers, Clinton left the little farm to be gone two weeks, and Jim drove Norine into town to make the few purchases necessary for her simple trousseau.

Another member of the Higgins family was impressed for duty at the little cottage, and for a short time all was bustle and excitement over the preparations for the simple wedding.

It was a very simple wedding, entirely without bridesmaids or other useless display; still, it was none the less impressive for the few friends that gathered at the simple ceremony, combined with the bright sunshine, the singing birds, and sweet flowers with which the cottage was decked to make the day a happy one.

Not that Norine needed any help; she was happy. Very, very happy!

Doctor Conway was there, laughing joyfully—too joyfully, perhaps, to be entirely natural, and his cheerfulness was belied somewhat by his set, white face and dim eyes.

I think Norine felt something of the truth when she put her face confidingly up to his to be kissed.

The memory of that confidence and that kiss made Lester Conway stronger forever after.

CHAPTER IX.

MIXED HAPPINESS.

They had gone away, Clinton and Norine, on their simple, inexpensive wedding tour. A very simple little trip of two weeks it was to be, for although Clinton would gladly have extended it in the pride he felt for his girl-wife, and the desire he had to exhibit his happiness, he had been obliged to limit it out of deference to Norine’s wishes.

This was the first time that the brother and sister had ever been separated, and Jim found the little cottage amazingly dull without her.

Doctor Conway drove over every day, and it was touching to see the affectionate consideration that these two men showed for each other.

The object of Conway’s affection had never been mentioned between them, yet Jim fully understood it, and tried in his quiet way to console his friend for his loss; not that the matter was ever spoken of openly between them.

Sympathy can be shown without words, and Lester Conway felt it in every hand-clasp and every kindly look his friend gave him.

Still, it was a dull, weary life at the farm, lightened somewhat, however, by Norine’s happy letters that Conway brought over almost daily, but rendered gloomy again by the deserted look of the little rooms, and still more to Jim by his dark forebodings of the future.

Jim berated himself sadly during this time for what he considered his moral cowardice. Norine had always been his idol; he would gladly have sacrificed his own happiness if he could thereby promote hers. And now that she was away from him, he felt that he had done wrong in consenting to this hasty wedding.

True, he had done so only after Norine had protested that it was her one chance for happiness in the future, and he knew that she would have been very unhappy had he withheld his consent.

But Jim was too honest to exonerate himself for that reason. He had done something wrong and he knew it, and was very miserable in consequence.

And then, Mrs. Higgins, not the most cheerful companion at the best of times, was particularly depressing during Norine’s absence, and made life galling to good-natured Jim.

Still, two weeks is not a very long time, and it did pass away, though very slowly; and promptly upon the day set, Norine and her husband returned to the cottage.

“Are you glad to see me, Jim?” she cried, between a sob and a laugh, as she threw herself into her brother’s arms.

“Very glad, Norry,” he said. “I never passed such a dismal time in all my life.”

“Was not Mrs. Higgins good to you, dear?” she laughed, kissing him. “Well, I will make it all up to you. And, Jim, do you know I have made a discovery?”

“What is it?” inquired Jim, getting a hand free to offer Clinton. “What is it, dear?”

“Why, it is that there is no place in the world like the little farm, and that no girl was ever blessed with such a good brother and husband as I am.”

And she danced off and saluted Mrs. Higgins with a hug and a kiss, and then donning one of those immense gingham aprons, that seemed to infold her in a most coquettish manner, she bustled around, intent on her household duties, with such a charming assumption of matronliness that she most certainly would have won the heart of any man who could have seen it.

As for the hearts of those two, why, she already owned them.

And then to see her when the supper work was all done, and the room straightened up again! To see her then perched on the arm of her brother’s chair, detailing to him all the adventures of that marvelous two weeks!

How happy she was, and how fondly Clinton would look at her! No wonder Jim thought less of the future. Forebodings would have to be very dark indeed that Norine’s bright face could not banish. And, in fact, Jim’s doubts for the future very soon disappeared.

Clinton proved himself such a wonderful fellow around the farm; there was scarcely a tool or an appliance about the place that he did not improve in some respect. Not that he was at all energetic; he spent far more time in lounging around the house than Jim did, and would very often laugh at himself for a lazy fellow that was always pottering around. Yet, he pottered around effectively, Jim thought.

And when he, with certain pulleys and a rope, arranged a complicated affair in the loft of the big red barn that would actually unload and store away the hay almost automatically, Jim thought he was a wonderful fellow indeed, and began to feel quite proud of his talented brother-in-law.

So the summer and fall passed, and the storms of winter were raging around the little cottage before Clinton showed any signs of dissatisfaction with his life on the farm. Then, indeed, he did get a little gloomy, and at times uncertain as to his temper.

He had not entirely recovered his strength, and the farm life in winter was very dull to one accustomed, as he had been, to the roar and excitement of a large city.

And thinking thus, they bore with him patiently, and only Jim began to think his old fears were well-founded.

But the winter passed without any outbreak to mar their happiness, and with the summer came Norine’s baby. Such a baby, Mrs. Higgins testified, there never had been before!

And Doctor Conway vowed that he was proud to be professionally connected with such a child. Of course Norine believed them. It was not necessary that they should tell her so; she knew that there never was such a baby before. And she devoted herself to it, showing all the loveliest grace of maternity, and looking so beautiful in her young dignity that the men folks thought her almost as wonderful as the baby.

The coming of the baby had its effect on Clinton; but not in the way Norine hoped for. He was very proud of both the baby and her, and very fond of both; but latterly he talked a great deal about money.

The little capital he had had on his arrival at Bright Farm had remained untouched. But now he said that there was a necessity for increasing it.

Norine laughed when he spoke of making provision for the child.

“He will have the farm,” she said; “and we will be able to give him a good education. What more will he need?”

“My love,” said Clinton, “you do not expect to keep the child cooped up on this little farm all his life?”

“Why not?” inquired Norine, raising her eyebrows. “I have been here all my life, and have been very happy.”

“Ah! you are a woman,” said Clinton, with something very like a sneer. “Girls naturally prefer to stay at home; but he is a boy, and you will find him different. He will want to get out into the world, and be something. All boys do,” he added inconsequentially.

“Jim has been here all his life, and I am sure he would not care to change.”

“Jim is the best fellow in the world,” replied Clinton, “but I do not expect my child will be like him; besides, we will have to respect the child’s inclinations when they become formed. You would not care to keep him on this little farm if he should prove talented?”

Norine could not answer this. She had no doubt whatever of the child’s talent.

“What will you do?” she asked meekly.

“I think I will go to Altoona,” said Clinton, “and see if I can not get into something there.”

“I am sure, dear,” said Norine, raising her wet eyes from the child to his father, “that little Clinton would rather stay on the farm all his life than to be the means of separating you and me.”

“Why, who thought of separating?” cried Clinton impatiently. “I shall not be gone longer than a week at a time; and if I am successful, it will not take long to make as much money as we shall need. It is like a woman,” he added in an injured tone. “You would risk your child’s future rather than make a little sacrifice for him now.”

“Very well, dear,” said Norine, drying her eyes. “Do as you think best, and I will try and not be selfish.”

“Now that is my own dear little wife again,” said Clinton, kissing her gayly. “Remember, dear, how proud you will be to have your son, perhaps, famous.”

Norine said nothing, but she smiled at him through her tears, and assisted in his preparations for departure as cheerfully as possible. After he had really gone, she locked herself into her own room with the baby, and wept the first bitter tears of her life.

So the summer passed away, and autumn came with its beautiful changes, and they all prospered, and little Clinton grew daily in strength and beauty. His father came home at irregular intervals; sometimes only coming to stay over Sunday, sometimes staying contentedly at the farm for over a week at a time.

Norine asked no questions as to his business. She would not seek his confidence, but was always pleased whenever he would volunteer any information.

If he was successful while away from the farm, he was not improved thereby, for his temper became more uncertain with every visit.

But Norine never spoke of it, and so Jim, whose blood very often boiled over some passionate word, was disarmed. He had a great dread of interfering between man and wife, had Jim, and so he held himself in check, only waiting until Norine should seek his help.

“Jim,” said Norine, one evening, when they were sitting before the kitchen fire, with little Clinton asleep in his crib between them, “is it not strange that we have never heard from Aunt Darling?”

“I suppose if she wanted us to hear she would have written,” replied Jim a little gruffly.

“Do you think we had better write again, Jim?”

“No,” said Jim, rising, and knocking the ashes out of his pipe, “I don’t. If she wants to see us, let her come here.”

“I should like so much to have her see my baby,” said Norine musingly; “but I don’t suppose she ever will.”

“He will probably live just as long if she doesn’t,” replied Jim testily. “I think we have done our share, and rather more. Now it is her turn.”

“Perhaps she never received our letter,” hazarded Norine.

“Received it? Of course she received it,” asserted Jim scornfully. “If she had not received it, it would have been returned to us. It is easy enough to see that she wants to have nothing to do with us, and you had better forget her as quickly as possible.”

And he stamped out of the little kitchen, feeling very indignant and determined, while Norine, busied with her household cares, took his advice and forgot for a time, at least, all about their unfriendly relative.

CHAPTER X.

UNMIXED MISERY.

“Norine,” said Clinton, one day when he had returned to the farm after a more than usually prolonged absence, “what is this I hear about the doctor?”

“What is it, Clinton? Nothing serious, I hope?” said Norine. “He is not ill?”

“No, he is not ill that I know of,” replied Clinton, “so you need not exhibit so much anxiety.”

There was something in her husband’s tone so like a sneer that it grated on Norine’s feelings. She looked up at him inquiringly.

“Am I not right to feel anxious about so good a friend?” she asked.

“Friend!” repeated Clinton sneeringly. “He has been a very good friend to you!”

“Has he not been a good friend to you, Clinton?”

“Friend to me? No; we have never been friends in the past, and we are still less likely to be friendly in the future.”

“Oh, Clinton!” cried Norine pleadingly. “You forget, dear husband. You would not say that if you were not angry. What is this you have heard, dear? Something wrong, I am sure.”

And she stood before him with her hands crossed over her breast in an attitude that was unconsciously supplicating.

“I have heard that he was your lover!”

The blow was struck brutally, and Norine turned white, and her eyes opened staringly as she received it.

“You do not believe that, my husband?” she said simply.

Clinton did not answer. He only moved uneasily in his chair, looking doggedly at his feet to avoid his wife’s gaze.

“You do not believe that, my husband?” repeated Norine. “I know you don’t.”

“You have not denied it yet,” he said sulkily.

“No, Clinton; I did not think it necessary to deny it. Oh, Clinton!”

“Well, ‘oh, Clinton!’” mimicked her husband—“‘oh, Clinton’ has said nothing more than common report does. Was he not your lover?”

“He has been the best friend I have ever had,” said Norine quietly, “and I respect him above all others. But he never spoke a word of love to me in all his life.”

“Well, I wish he would not come here so often,” replied Clinton doggedly. “It is not pleasant to be away from home and know that another man comes almost daily to see your wife.”

“Why do you go away from home so much, dear?” pleaded Norine. “There is no need of it, believe me; and it has changed you so greatly. We used to be so happy.”

And her voice broke down into a quivering little sigh.

He made no answer to this, and it was a long time before the subject was mentioned again by either. But it rankled deeply in the hearts of both. Clinton had never doubted his wife; but this was the first time that he had expressed a wish that was not promptly and quietly heeded, and it irritated him.

Then, too, the farm life galled him more than ever, from comparison with what had become his usual mode of existence. He had never suggested the idea of leaving the farm to Norine. He was not even sure that he wanted her to leave it. But to come from his easy, almost luxurious, life in the city to this little cottage, where everything looked so pinched and bare by contrast, was a trial to him that not even his love for his wife and child could render easy.

And Norine! If he had struck her a blow in the face she would not have been more hurt or surprised.

She had felt in her heart that her husband was losing his love for her, and she had tried with all her loving heart to save him from himself. But now there seemed no hope for the future but in her child, and on him she showered all the love of her aching heart.

And as the winter passed on, and the little fellow grew in every infantile grace, she drew him closer and closer to her heart, and devoted herself to him as her only consolation.

She had never mentioned this quarrel to Jim. But Clinton never failed to ask how many times the doctor had been there during his absence. And from his tone and manner when speaking of Conway, Jim arrived at a pretty fair knowledge of the matter.

“The hound!” muttered the irate young man to himself, when alone in the big red barn. “To speak that way of the man who saved his worthless life!”

Jim was very angry over it, and when at last Clinton spoke to him of the frequency of the doctor’s visits, Jim told him in plain language that “Conway was his friend, and as long as he had a house, Lester Conway would be welcome there.”

And then honest Jim regretted having spoken so sharply, and thought remorsefully that it would all be visited on poor Norine, whom he could see was daily becoming paler and more sorrowful.

How Conway ever became acquainted with the true state of affairs, will never be known, but he solved that trouble by discontinuing his visits altogether.

Yet, if there was not one trouble there was always another, and the little family were far from being happy.

And the winter passed away and spring came again without bringing any promise of a better condition of affairs.

Clinton grew more and more changeable as the time went on, sometimes coming home as affectionate as he had ever been in those old days that seemed so long ago. Then Norine would be flushed and happy, and the baby would be brought out crowing and kicking.

Jim would smoke away, in placid contentment, and the little cottage would assume the old look of comfort and happiness. At other times, and they were far more frequent, he would come in a state described by Mrs. Higgins as “crosser nor a b’ar with his ha’r off,” and then the little cottage became a very miserable place indeed.

He was in this disagreeable state one blustering day in March, and Jim, greatly chafed in temper, had retired to the kitchen, where he was smoking dismally, and keeping very much in Mrs. Higgins’ way.

That good woman, for a wonder, was not out of temper, and she walked around him without even a snort of protest.

This unusual conduct became so marked at last that even Jim noticed it, and gazed at her in wonder. She was busy preparing their evening meal, but evidently thinking of something far more serious, for she moved about the little kitchen in such a nervous, apprehensive way, her withered face working with emotion, that Jim stared at her curiously.

“What is it?” he said at last; “is there anything wrong?”

She started nervously at the sound of his voice.

“Yes, there is,” she said; “somethin’ mighty wrong.”

“What is it?”

“Jim Bright,” she said, coming up to him and laying her shriveled, work-hardened hand upon his arm, “do you remember such a storm as this before?”

Jim bent to listen to the howling of the wind outside, and slightly shook his head.

“Just two years ergo, Jim Bright,” she said nervously; “just two years ergo.”

Jim looked at her wonderingly, and not understanding her, shook his head again.

“This is the fourteenth er March, Jim,” said the old woman, impressively, changing her hand from his sleeve to his breast. “An’ on the fourteenth er March two years ergo ther war just sich er storm as this, an’ on the fifteenth er March he war bro’t ’ere,” with a shake of her thumb toward the next room. “You mark my words, Jim Bright, ther devil’s a-callin’ for his own, and there’ll be trouble here afore mornin’.”

Jim could not smile at the old woman—she was too impressive for that—and she looked too much in earnest as she went on with her work with that quiet, watchful look on her old face, that her words affected Jim in spite of himself.

“Pshaw!” he said, shouldering his way through the wind to the barn, “the idea of my worrying so over an old woman’s whims!”

But he could not help thinking of it, and it was almost with the hope that it would come true, for Jim was getting very tired of this state of affairs.

Nothing could be done about it, however, so Jim shook off the nervous feeling as well as he could, and reëntered the house for supper.

Little Clinton was ailing somewhat, and correspondingly peevish. When Jim went in, Norine was walking up and down the room with him in her arms, trying to quiet his cries.

“Here,” said Jim, “let me take that fellow,” and he took the child from her arms, and noted the sigh of relief she gave.

“My, Jim!” she said, “he is getting dreadfully heavy;” and she looked proudly at the child as he lay in her brother’s arms.

“Why did you not ask me to take him?” demanded Clinton, somewhat roughly.

“I was not very tired, dear,” replied Norine sweetly; while Jim muttered something about taking the child without being asked.

“Here, I will take him now,” said Clinton, taking the little one from Jim’s arms.

Jim gave up the child quietly, but with a look that said a great deal.

Clinton walked back and forth across the room, trying in vain to quiet the child.

“Let me take him,” pleaded Norine. “He wants to come to me.”

“No; I will make the little rascal mind me!” said Clinton; and he shook him crossly.

With her eyes flashing fire, and a bound that resembled the swoop of a bird, Norine snatched the child from his arms and retreated to the other end of the kitchen.

“Put the child down!” ordered Clinton.

Norine made no answer, only rocked the child to and fro on her breast.

“Will you put him down?” commanded Clinton.

“No, I will not!” returned Norine. “You are an unnatural parent to shake your child so, and you can not have him again.”

“Norine, put him down,” commanded Clinton. “It is time he was taught to obey, and you shall put him down.”

“You shall not speak to my sister in that way!” said Jim, looking very erect as he stood with his arms folded over his breast.

“Your sister is my wife, and I will not brook interference in my family,” said Clinton, in that same tone of suppressed passion. “That is my child, and I will do with him as I think best. Norine, I command you, put him down!” and he glowered at her, with his face white with passion.

“Oh, Clinton—Jim, please do not get angry! See, the dear baby is asleep now, and I will lay him on the bed,” and Norine made a trembling move toward the door.

“Let me have him,” said Clinton, starting forward; but Jim stood between them, quiet, but very determined. “Out of my way!” cried Clinton, trying to push him one side.

Jim put his hands on the other’s shoulders and pushed him back.

“I am not going to move,” he said. “You shall not abuse either the child or its mother.”

Clinton, white-faced and raging, sprang forward and seized him around the waist. Jim tried to shake him off in vain, until, losing his own head, he struck the white, upturned face, once, twice, thrice.

Clinton staggered back, with his face covered with blood, and laid his hand on the table to support himself. It closed upon a knife lying there. Then there was a spring forward, a savage yell, a cry from Norine, a slamming open of the doors, and Clinton Percival had rushed out into the storm, leaving Jim Bright weltering in his blood upon the floor.

“I knew hit was er comin’,” cried Mrs. Higgins, as, after stanching the flow of blood, and bringing Norine back to consciousness, she was running along the road in search of help. “I knew hit was er comin’. He’s a-took ter ther mountain, an’ he’ll never get across alive, thank ther Lord! Oh, Doctor Conway, is that you? Is that you, doctor?” and her voice rose to a shriek.

“Yes, yes!” cried Conway, bending down from the little rough pony. “Who is it?”

“Norine, doctor—quick!” gasped Mrs. Higgins; and she had hardly uttered the name before the doctor was rushing the little pony through the wind in the wildest way possible.

It was late that night—or rather, early the next morning—when a dark figure went skulking through the woods in the direction of the old shanty. Reaching this, he skulked into the darkest corner, looking far more like a wild animal than a human being.

He had hardly stretched himself down when the sound of approaching voices made him start out of his lair. They were too close; he dare not try the door; so, with one spring, he seized the low rafters overhead and drew himself up on them.

The voices were those of Doctor Conway and the elder Higgins.

“Are you sure?” the doctor was saying.

“Dead sure, doctor,” replied the other voice. “They seed him goin’ directly fer ther ravine; he’s dead, doc—deader nor a door nail.”

“Do you think the body can be recovered?” inquired Conway.

“Hit might be, doc,” replied Higgins, striking a light for his pipe; “but, yer see, ther branch is purty full now, an’ ef he’s found at all, it’ll be way down below. How’s Jim?”

“Oh, he’ll get over it all right,” replied the doctor. “He got a nasty cut, but it is not at all dangerous.”

“Hit’s a good thing ther skunk’s dead,” said the other voice, as they moved off. “No one’ll ever miss him but ther divil!”

The figure dropped lightly to the floor as they moved away.

“I’ll be dead enough for them!” he muttered hoarsely. “If I can find that cursed ravine, I will leave them evidence enough!” and he skulked away through the woods, looking rather more like a wild animal than ever.

And the closest search satisfied all that Clinton Percival was dead. His hat and one glove were found on the edge of the most dangerous ravine for miles around, and hanging to the bushes, halfway down, were found shreds of cloth that had been part of his coat.

There could be no question as to his death. And although his body could not be found, even after the most diligent search, there was no possible doubt as to his fate. He was dead.

CHAPTER XI.

NORINE’S POSITION.

Yes, he was dead. Norine never doubted it. The proofs were too strong to admit of doubt, even if she had been disposed to admit one; but she never dreamed of questioning the matter. She was certain of her desolation, certain of her widowhood, and she mourned as only a tender, loving woman can mourn.

His faults were all forgotten now, and she remembered him only as her girlhood lover and the father of her child. She reproached herself bitterly, passionately, as having been the cause of the quarrel.

If she had only been more considerate, she thought, and had not given way to her wicked, foolish temper, this would never have happened. And now——Ah, her punishment was greater than she could bear.

And so she mourned, woman-like, accepting all the blame, and refusing to hear one word that would reflect on her husband’s memory. Nor was she alone at this, for Jim—weak from the loss of blood, suffered far more in mind than body.

He did not admit himself to be in the wrong in protecting his sister, but his interference had plainly caused the trouble, and he dreaded, yet longed, to see Norine.

“She will never forgive me,” he thought. “She will never forgive me;” and he moaned in bitterness of spirit.

And poor Norine only dreaded meeting him, lest he should reproach her. She was very weak after her great shock, and very ill, so for a time the brother and sister were separated from necessity.

Doctor Conway was greatly troubled over his patients at the farm. Norine did not rally as well as he could wish, but lay weak and silent, only moving to care for her child.

She was perfectly passive, and accepted all he did for her; grateful apparently for his attentions, but perfectly indifferent as to the result.

Jim, on the other hand, was plainly worrying himself into a fever, and Conway feared the result.

He could heal the cut in Jim’s breast, but he acknowledged his inability to minister to a mind diseased.

Norine was the stronger, and must be roused to a sense of her responsibility. And Conway, who would gladly have taken a share of their pain upon himself, resolved to rouse her.

“Norine,” he said gently, as he sat beside her bed, “Norine, you know that Jim is very ill?”

“Yes,” said Norine, startled; “but he is getting better. You said that he would recover.”

“I did say so,” replied Conway, “and I say so now. He will recover; he must recover! But, Norine, it depends more on you than it does on me.”

“On me!” exclaimed Norine. “What can I do for him?”

“You can see him and comfort him. Norine, you will forgive an old friend for saying this, but you are unjust to one of the best men on earth.”

“Oh, I was unjust to my husband!” moaned Norine. “I was so unjust!”

“I do not understand why you accuse yourself,” said Conway somewhat sharply. “I do not think that you were ever unjust before in your life, and you must not be unjust to Jim now.”

“What have I done to poor Jim, doctor?” cried Norine. “How am I unjust, when I love him so? He is all I have left now—he and Clinton.” And her tears broke out afresh.

Poor Conway longed to tell her that there was another one left who needed her love as badly; but he only said gently:

“You know, Norine, that, right or wrong, he received his wound while endeavoring to protect you.”

“Can I ever forget it?” cried Norine passionately. “Can I ever cease to reproach myself for it?”

“You have nothing to reproach yourself for, and you should not reproach him.”

“I reproach him?” said Norine wonderingly. “How have I reproached him?”

“He longs to see you,” replied Conway, “but he fears your blame. He thinks you will love him less for what has happened.”

“Poor Jim!” exclaimed Norine. “I must see him at once. I am strong enough to get up, doctor. Can I see my brother?”

Conway gave his consent, and left the room elated.

“Jim, I have come to see you,” said Norine, as she feebly entered her brother’s room, and sank down by the side of his bed. “Dear, dear Jim, I have come to tell you how much I love you.”

“Oh, Norine!” was all Jim could say.

Norine tried to say something soothing, but she could not do it. Those few days had made such a change in her brother—he looked so pale and feeble lying there, that she could only sink down on his bed and clasp her arms around him, murmuring broken terms of endearment, and then tears came to her relief, and the brother and sister wept together.

“Better than medicine, much better than medicine,” said Conway joyfully, as he left the house—“much better than medicine,” he repeated, as he jogged away upon his little pony; and he repeated it somewhat proudly, too, as if he thought he had made a mistake in adopting the practice of medicine, and was not quite sure, after all, but diplomacy was his forte.

Doctor Conway was justified in his elation, for his patients recovered rapidly from that date.

Without feeling the less regret for the dead, Norine accepted the duty to the living, and found in it, if not freedom, at least relief from her sorrow.

She devoted herself to her brother and little Clinton, and as the summer passed away and they recovered their health, the little household at the farm gradually resumed the simple routine that had been their custom before their strange guest had come; and had it not been for the presence of little Clinton, Jim might have thought it all a troubled dream.

But little Clinton was there, and insisted on being seen, and heard, too, very often. Of course, he ruled the family as only a child can rule one, and there was not a day passed over his sunny little head that did not develop some new grace of mind or body.

After the coming of a new tooth ceased to be a novelty, and he had taken his first toddling steps across the floor, to the great pleasure and amazement of all, he would develop some new and astonishing trait daily.

He was a merry little fellow, always tumbling in and out of mischief, and taking his bumps as something that had to be gone through with, and the sooner he got them over with the better.

They were all his willing slaves, but he would debase Jim more than all the rest; and Jim would declare proudly that he hardly dared to light his pipe now, for fear the little chap would want something.

“Dim do,” or “Dim dive,” were words constantly in use by this young autocrat. As to how Jim was to do or to give impossible things, he did not concern himself. It was for him to order and them to obey.

The summer had passed away and the big red barn had been duly filled with the bountiful crops, when Norine received an unexpected visitor.

He was a very slick, smooth-spoken man, genteel and sedate in all his movements.

He was a tall man—an exceedingly tall man, Norine thought—who seemed to be made up principally of mouth and whiskers, and he introduced himself as the general agent of the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Life Insurance Company of New York, and he expressed a desire to see the widow of the late Clinton Percival.

“Is this Mrs. Clinton Percival?” he asked, as Norine entered the room, rising out of his chair in sections as he spoke, like an exaggerated carpenter’s rule.

Norine bowed.

“My dear madam,” he said, smoothly, almost affectionately, “I have come a long distance to see you. We had expected to hear from you before this, but of course we can understand your great affliction. Pardon me when I say that the Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company fully appreciate your loss—and our own.”

Norine motioned to a chair, and he folded himself up in it and waited for her to speak.

“I am afraid, sir,” she said, after an embarrassing pause, “that I hardly understand you. Was my husband connected with your company?”

“Connected with my company?” repeated the agent, with a look of astonishment directed at Norine’s feet.

“Did you not know, madam, that your late husband had a policy in the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company?”

“I knew very little about my husband’s business,” said Norine, with a choking sensation in her throat.

“Ah, madam, you will fully appreciate your late husband’s cleverness in choosing our company from all others, when I assure you that the very provision he made for you might have been lost in any other company by your not understanding the form and requirements of the policy. But with us how different. We protect our policy holders, and all our policies are incontestable. Is there any gentleman in the family?” he inquired with great interest.

“My brother,” said Norine, who had been trying hard to follow and understand the stranger’s rapid speech.

“Ah, a brother; I must certainly explain our plans to him before I go; but first, madam, if you will permit me, I will finish our business.”

“I do not understand,” cried Norine. “You say my husband had his life insured?”

The stranger bowed.

“What was the amount of the policy?” inquired Norine.

“Two thousand dollars,” said the agent, with an air of having stated an immense amount.

“And what am I to do?” cried Norine, again.

“Only to give me certain papers, make out, in fact, the proofs of death.”

“Will you excuse me,” said Norine, “if I refer you to my brother. I presume he can act for me?”

The stranger assented eagerly, perhaps scenting a chance for further business, and Norine left the room in search for Jim.

The agent unfolded himself to make a bow as she left the room, and folding himself up with a satisfied smirk when she had gone.

It proved quite a business to make out the necessary proofs of death, but they were made out at last to the company’s satisfaction, and Norine in time received a draft for the two thousand dollars.

“We will not touch it,” she said to Jim. “It is for Clinton.”

And the money was duly invested with the object of ultimately benefiting Master Clinton, who did not seem in the least spoiled by his good fortune.

And if any doubt had existed as to the fate of Clinton Percival it was set at rest now forever. He was dead, dead beyond the possibility of a doubt, and even Lester Conway, who had been living all these months in silent fear that the body of the missing man might be found among the living, was at last satisfied, if not sorrowful. Clinton was dead, and nothing stood between himself and Norine but time.

CHAPTER XII.

CONWAY’S VISITOR.

The year had passed away, and spring had come again without bringing any changes to the little family at Bright Farm.

Conway was, of course, a frequent visitor; but since Norine’s year of widowhood had expired he found excuses for calling even more frequently than usual, the excuses generally being in the nature of candy, or something equally indigestible, for little Clinton.

If the year just passed had brought no change to the family at the farm, it had certainly left its imprint on Lester Conway. He looked far more contented than he had in the past, and there was a certain buoyant expression on his face that betokened peace of mind and possible hope.

He had waited patiently throughout the year, saying nothing to either Jim or Norine of his hopes for the future. He loved her far too well to obtrude his love on her.

He had never even spoken of it, and yet he felt very hopeful. She had been taken from him once, he thought, but there could be no danger of losing her again. Surely she would come to value his great love in time, and then would come the payment for his years of waiting and longing.

The recompense would surely come. And was it not worth the waiting? Ay, even though he had to wait his seven years, as Jacob did, he was content if only the recompense came at last.

He was preparing for a visit to the farm now, and had already secreted certain toys in his overcoat pocket, when the door of his office was pushed open without the usual formality of a knock, and he was confronted by a strange old lady.

She was a tall, thin woman, dressed entirely in black, without one speck of color from her chin to her feet to mar the awful sombreness of her attire. She wore a heavy fur-lined circular that reached nearly to the ground. And even Conway could see that, for all her plainness, his visitor was very expensively dressed. Not that he noticed it then, for all his attention was fixed on the woman’s face—a face so strange in its expression that it looked unlike a face belonging to this world.

She had high cheek bones, pale, colorless eyes that were perpetually fixed upon vacancy, and a mouth so wide and thin-lipped that the face looked—with the yellow skin stretched tightly over it—not unlike a skeleton face, or very much like the face of one long dead.

There was only one emotion expressed by this face. That was determination inflexible and persistent.

Conway bowed his professional bow, and handed a chair, but for a moment he was speechless.

“You are Doctor Conway?” his visitor said in a strangely hollow tone.

The doctor bowed again.

“I believe you are acquainted with a family named Darling,” said his visitor.

It was not a question, although she stared fixedly at him while waiting his reply. It was an assertion, and left no possible doubt as to her knowledge of the acquaintanceship.

Conway looked puzzled, and was about to return a negative reply, when the old lady continued in the same hollow, monotonous tones:

“I refer to James and Norine Darling.”

“Oh, the Brights?” said Conway, blushing a little. “Yes, I believe—that is, I know them very well;” and he blushed again, vividly for a man.

Some wise man has said that a blush on a man’s face is proof positive of truth and honor, and I am inclined to believe him, for very few men blush nowadays—successfully.

“The name is Darling,” insisted the lady in an inflexible tone.

“Darling? Yes, I believe it is,” stammered Conway, who had begun to guess the identity of his visitor. “How can I assist you?” he inquired politely.

“Please tell me all you know of this brother and sister,” said the lady. “I have come from New York to find out about them, perhaps for their benefit.”

“There is so much to tell,” said Conway. “And the history of those two is so strange in some particulars, that, really, to a stranger——”

And he stopped, embarrassed.

“I am not a stranger,” said his visitor, “although I have never seen those two. You need not fear to tell me anything you know of them. What are their dispositions?”

Conway spoke very highly of their dispositions. In fact, he was rapidly becoming enthusiastic, when a glance from his visitor checked him.

“I see you are a good friend of theirs,” she said coldly. “Please tell me what you can about them as briefly as possible.”

Conway had made a guess as to the identity of his visitor, and he had so little doubt as to the correctness of his guess that on receiving this check he proceeded as quietly as possible to give a detailed history of the brother and sister, only suppressing such things as he thought might prove offensive to his visitor.

“Have they any relatives?” inquired the lady, when he had finished.

“Only one aunt, I believe,” said Conway, “whom they believe to be old and very poor.”

“Do they believe that?” demanded the lady, with some degree of interest.

Conway bowed.

There was silence now for some moments, and, although his visitor stared steadily into vacancy without moving a muscle of her face, Conway thought he could discern a softer, somewhat less implacable look about her.

“Do you go there very often?” she inquired abruptly at last.

“Why, yes,” replied the doctor, blushing again. “I go there quite often; in fact,” he added, in a burst of candor, “I was just about to start for the farm when you entered.”

“Humph!” said the lady, so impressively that Conway blushed again.

“Is that your conveyance?” she said, looking out at the little rough pony and shabby gig in front of the office.

Conway admitted that it was.

“I will go with you,” she said, as abruptly as possible. And though Conway felt very ill at ease, and not altogether pleased at this turn of affairs, there was nothing left to do but hand his visitor into the old-fashioned gig and start the pony in the direction of the farm.

There was very little said as the little pony jogged steadily along. The woman sat bolt upright, with her hands folded in her lap, and stared straight over the pony’s ears, while Conway stole sidelong glances at her, and wondered if he were going to be the means of helping his friends by this ride, or if he were bringing them more trouble.

“There,” said the doctor, as a turn in the road brought them in sight of the place. “That is Bright Farm.”

His companion looked at the little cottage and big red barn, and altogether unconsciously murmured, “Unchanged, altogether unchanged after all these years.”

Conway suddenly halted the pony.

“Why do you stop?” she inquired.

“See!” said Conway softly, as he pointed to the other side of the road. “There is Norine.”

The old lady turned her head and looked. Norine was sitting upon a fallen log at the edge of the woods, in an attitude of deep thought. Her child lay asleep on her lap, with the bright sunshine turning his hair to gold. It was a very pretty picture, with the budding woods as an efficient background, and the sun shining lovingly on the mother and child. A very pretty picture, Conway thought, and he had quite lost himself in contemplation of it, when he was aroused by a touch from his companion. “Turn around,” she said softly, as if in fear of waking Norine from her thoughts.

And Conway, catching her meaning, turned the little pony around. “Go ahead!” said the woman impatiently.

“Back?” inquired Conway, in amazement. “Do you not want to see them?”

“I have seen all I want to,” said the woman coldly. And, although Conway had not seen all he wanted to, by any means, he drove back obediently.

They rode back in complete silence, until Conway assisted the lady out at the door of his office. Then she said:

“You are a good man, a very good man, I think, as men go”—qualifying her phrase a little. “Do you expect to marry Norine?”

“I cannot say that I expect to,” replied Conway, drawing himself up. “But I certainly hope to.”

“Did she love that scoundrel, do you think?”

Conway said “Yes,” sturdily, but he sighed a little sadly when he said it.

“I am sorry for you,” said this strange visitor, almost kindly, “but the Darlings love strong and well.” And then, without another word, she turned and left him as unceremoniously as she had entered his office.

“Thank the Lord she is only half Darling,” thought the doctor cheerfully; her departure taking a load off his spirits. “If I can get the Bright half to love me, I’ll take my chances for the rest;” and he thoughtfully reëntered his gig and chirped to the little pony.

“Perhaps it will be as well not to mention it,” he thought, referring mentally to his strange visitor. “There is really very little to tell, and no use in raising false hopes. Yes,” he concluded thoughtfully, “better not to mention it at all.” And having made this wise resolve, Conway chirped to the little pony again, and drove cheerfully on his way.

And so Norine was left in ignorance of the fact that she had formed part of a very pleasing picture for the edification of a strange—a very strange woman.

CHAPTER XIII.

A RISING YOUNG MAN.

Mr. James Elwell was sealed in a pleasant apartment in one of the many large apartment buildings of Chicago; the windows were open to admit the soft evening air that blew, strong and cool, from its passage over the great lake. The room was comfortably, even luxuriously furnished, and James Elwell, seated in an easy-chair by one of the large windows, with his slippered feet elevated to a comfortable degree, and a cigar in his mouth, was in perfect keeping with the rest of the room.

Rather a handsome man was Mr. James Elwell, though the lines were deeply graven in his face, and his dark hair was slightly streaked here and there with gray.

He was what is generally termed a rising young man, though his friends would have been puzzled to have told what he had risen from. All they knew of him was that he had got on ’Change a twelvemonth before, and had been on ’Change ever since. He had not occupied these pleasant apartments at that time; his apartments then consisted of one room in a South Side boarding house; but Mr. James Elwell had done a great deal in that year. For, although he had been limited at first in his dealings on ’Change, he had speculated with an audacity that rather astonished the old heads.

“Too bad,” he muttered, as he impatiently knocked the ash from his cigar; “too bad, but it’s just my luck. Now that I have fallen on my feet for the first time in my life, I am tied up by that old business, and likely at any time to be pulled down again.” And then a look of pity, almost sorrow, overspread his face, and he murmured: “Poor little thing! I wonder if she still mourns for me?”

Just then his meditations were interrupted by a thunderous knock at the door.

He called out “Come in!” and half arose from his chair with an expectant look upon his face, which quickly changed to one of indifference as the intruder entered the room.

“Hello, Coleman!” he said. “What blew you around here?”

“Hello!” replied his visitor, who was a short, fat, jolly-looking little man, with shrewd eyes and a turned-up nose. “This is a nice state of affairs. What’s the matter? Got the blues, or only thinking of how you’ll do them up on the board to-morrow?”

“Why, what is the matter?” inquired Elwell placidly. “Don’t things suit you to-night?”

“No, they don’t,” replied his visitor coolly. “It never suits me to mope, or to see my friends mope. Life is too short for that.”

“Well, you have a reputation to sustain,” said Elwell, with a touch of contempt in his quiet tone. “Every one expects you to be a jolly dog.”

“Quite right, too,” said Mr. Peter Coleman, who was commonly called Short, or Shorty, by his intimate friends. “I get more enjoyment out of life in one week by being jolly, than I would in a dozen years if I carried a face as long as some folks,” and he laughed in proof of his assertion.

“Quite a compliment to the length of my visage, I suppose,” said Elwell quietly.

“Well, you are a little trying at times,” admitted Coleman, with great candor; “but you have improved greatly since I first met you.”

“Owing altogether to your good example,” replied Elwell sarcastically. Whereat his friend removed the hat he still wore, and made him a low, mocking bow. “What did you intend doing this evening?” inquired Elwell, paying no attention to this ceremony.

“I did think of going to Hooley’s,” said Coleman; “but I hate going alone, so I thought I would come and get you. After that, if I am sober enough, I am going to study up a little.”

“I will go with you,” said Elwell, rising to get his shoes, “if only to see that you are sober enough. A little study will do you good. But what particular case excites your attention now?”

“Oh, only a little matter of divorce,” replied Coleman, who was an attorney with a limited practice.

Elwell was putting on his shoes. He now looked up with one shoe in his hand.

“Divorce, did you say?” he inquired. “I don’t suppose you have much practice in that line now?”

“By Jove! you are right there,” replied Coleman, with another hearty laugh. “And you might have added the other lines, too, and then not find me crowded.”

“I suppose not,” assented Elwell; “but I meant in proportion to your other business.”

And he put on his other shoe, but with a look of deep attention.

“It is out of proportion to my other business, for I do more of it; but you don’t always see my name connected with the cases,” replied Coleman, with a look of great cunning.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean, my inquisitive friend?” repeated Coleman, helping himself to one of his friend’s cigars, “I mean that there are often reasons for procuring a divorce quietly; and while the business is too profitable for a poor devil like me to refuse, it is not exactly the line of business that one would care to build his reputation on; and for that reason I keep my name out of it.”

“I understand,” said Elwell. “I have seen the advertisements—divorces obtained without publicity—but I did not think a legal divorce could be obtained without going through a public court, and being reported in the papers, and all that sort of thing.”

He said all of this carelessly, but still in a questioning way, and he looked at his friend as if he expected him to continue the conversation on the subject.

“Oh, as to the legality——” replied Coleman.

He had started as if he intended to say more; but catching the intent look on his friend’s face he stopped, and walking to one of the windows, stood looking out.

“Well, what about the legality?” asked Elwell, impatiently.

“There can be no question about the legality,” replied Peter, in a peculiar tone.

“Legal, and still perfectly quiet,” said Elwell, in a musing tone, after they had got out into the street. “Perfectly quiet, I think you said?” turning to Coleman.

“Oh, perfectly quiet. If they could not be obtained quietly, there would be less business in that line.”

“Ah! a strange business yours,” continued Elwell, in that same musing tone. “You learn a great many secrets now, I suppose?”

“Yes; and keep them, too,” replied Coleman shortly.

“Keep them? Of course,” said Elwell, “that is part of your business. I suppose we are always known to our physician and our lawyer?”

“Yes, I suppose we are,” assented Coleman, much as if he were considering an abstract problem.

They went to Hooley’s, and from there went to several other places, but Peter remained perfectly sober—unusually sober, in fact, and rather taciturn—while Elwell, on the other hand, was unusually voluble.

It would have appeared even as if Mr. Elwell—rising young man as he was—had altogether forgotten that he had started out with the expressed idea of keeping his friend sober.

“And now we are going home to study our divorce, eh?” said Elwell, as they stopped. He had one hand upon each of Coleman’s shoulders, and gently rolled him back and forth, as he spoke, in a very jovial way. “Going to get up our points, eh?”

Yes, Peter was going to take a turn at it, it appeared.

“What an industrious fellow,” continued Elwell. “And so knowing! Now, what are the main requirements for obtaining one of those quiet divorces?”

“Money,” responded Peter, with great promptness.

“Oh, money of course,” said Elwell, not quite so jovially. “Money of course; but what else, now?”

“Well, with money,” replied Coleman, speaking very soberly, “there is not much else actually necessary, excepting that one of the parties should have continued to reside in this State for one year preceding the application.”

Elwell said nothing more about it; but bidding his friend good-night, entered the house, seemingly in a very pleasant humor indeed.

Peter Coleman, on the contrary, appeared to get even more sober as he passed along the street on his way home.

And when he got there, he sat in an easy-chair, with his short legs extended as straight as possible in front of him, his hat on the back of his head, and his hands in his trousers pockets, and sitting thus, he whistled softly for a short time.

At last he arose, muttering such phrases as: “Clever fellow! How well he did it.” And “Who would have thought it!”

He retired to bed, having first congratulated himself on running onto such a good case, and promising to “bleed” some unknown person as much as possible.

CHAPTER XIV.

ELWELL’S DIVORCE.

Mr. Peter Coleman had an office in among the nest of other offices in one of the large office buildings on La Salle Street.

The office of Mr. Peter Coleman was very small, situated in a nothoroughfare of a hall, and conveyed the impression of having wandered around until it had lost itself, and had never been able to properly locate itself again.

A very small office, like a small case in court, and, like the small case in court, it was generally closed. But for some days after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, the little office had been open all day. And the card stating that “Mr. Coleman was at court, and would return in thirty minutes,” had been taken from its usual place on the door.

The fact that Peter’s office had been open continuously for the past three days was a subject for remark among his brother practitioners.

To find Peter in his office an hour at a time was unusual, for that jolly young man was not noted for his application to business, and now, for three whole days, the door of his little den had stood invitingly open. And Peter had actually been there all day on each one of these three days.

This was an unusual proceeding, and not a very pleasant one for Peter. For not only were the hours very slow in passing, but his presence in the office made it necessary for him to confer with the holders of a number of “little bills” that he had heretofore managed to avoid.

Still, Peter kept the office door invitingly open, and appeared to be waiting as patiently as possible for the arrival of some one whom he felt reasonably sure would come in time.

In fact, he was waiting for a client, and perhaps Mr. James Elwell was the client expected; but Mr. Coleman betrayed no surprise when that gentleman entered his office, only brought forward a chair in a professional manner, and then waited for his visitor to declare himself.

“I happened to be in the building,” said Elwell, in a nervous, hesitating way, “and thought I would look you up.”

Coleman bowed his head in acknowledgment of this, and waited for more.

“The fact is,” continued Mr. Elwell, after waiting in vain for some encouragement, “that I have been thinking over what you said the other night.”

Mr. Coleman bowed again.

“You see,” his client went on, “your conversation happened to be of interest to me. You had no idea that I was married?” he asked suspiciously.

Peter protested that he had not the slightest idea of it.

“Well, I am,” admitted Mr. Elwell; and then he interrupted himself to say half inquiringly: “Of course this is strictly confidential?”

“I treat all statements made in the way of business with strict confidence,” said the lawyer, with a slight emphasis on the word business.

“Well, this is business, and good business for you if it can be managed right,” said Elwell.

The lawyer said that he would try to manage it right.

“Well, you see,” said Elwell nervously, trying to wet his parched lips, “I am married, but my wife thinks me dead. Now is it possible for me to obtain a divorce—a legal divorce—without her knowing that I am still alive?”

“All things are possible with money,” answered the lawyer dryly.

“How much will it cost?” inquired his client.

“It would cost a couple of hundred down, and perhaps would require more than that. It would depend largely upon the case. Where is your wife now?”

“She is not in this State; she is in Pennsylvania,” replied Elwell.

“Were you married under your own name?” inquired the lawyer.

Elwell shook his head.

“Then I presume your present name has been assumed?”

Another shake of the head from his visitor.

“Can you bring any charge against your wife?” inquired Coleman.

Elwell flushed almost indignantly.

“No; there is no charge to be made, only we have not got on well together.”

“Incompatibility of temper,” said Peter. “That will do. Have you any children?”

Elwell nodded and gulped. Something in his throat appeared to trouble him.

“More than one?” inquired Coleman.

A shake of the head this time, implying an answer in the negative.

“Well,” said Peter, after a long pause, “you will have to tell me the whole story.”

And then this rising young man told his story, told it in a half-sulky, half-savage way, but told it truthfully.

“Now, what else do you want?” he demanded savagely, when he had finished.

“A check is all I shall want from you to-day,” said Coleman coolly.

“You are sure you can do it, are you?” inquired his client, after writing out a check.

Mr. Coleman was perfectly sure.

“What else will I have to do? How long will it take?” demanded Elwell.

The last question Mr. Coleman could not answer, to the first he said that there were certain papers to be made out that would require his client’s signature, and certain affidavits to which he would have to swear. These Mr. Coleman would prepare at his earliest moment, after that there was nothing for his client to do but to wait as patiently as possible.

“Will I not have to attend court to testify, or anything of that sort?”

“No, nothing of that sort,” replied Peter. “You see,” he continued in explanation, “the courts of Cook County are so crowded, and there is so much publicity connected with all divorce proceedings here, that in a case of this kind it is better to bring it before one of the interior courts, where none of the parties to the suit are known.”

“You can do that, can you?”

“Oh, yes; it is quite common.”

“And there is no doubt as to the legality?”

“There is no doubt whatever,” replied the lawyer in the same peculiar tone he had used in answering the same question before. “There is no doubt whatever,” he repeated, rubbing his hands together and smiling cunningly; “not the shadow of doubt.”

Elwell still lingered around the office, although there appeared to be no more business to transact. He seemed nervous and ill at ease, almost as if he regretted the step he had just taken, and was half inclined to withdraw. He bit and tore savagely at the cigar he was making a pretense of smoking, striding from the window to the desk, and from the desk back to the window again, like a caged animal.

Coleman watched him narrowly while making a pretense of filing his notes, but managing so as not to obtrude them on the attention of his client.

“There is one thing that you can be sure of, Elwell,” he said, at last: “she will never hear of this unless you make it known to her.”

He must have made a shrewd guess at what was passing in his friend’s mind, for Elwell stopped in his nervous stride, and for a moment his face lighted up. It lowered again almost instantly as he said, with savage emphasis:

“I want to be sure of it.”

“You can be,” responded Coleman reassuringly. “She will never know.”

Elwell stood pondering for a moment, and then, with a wave of his hand—perhaps intended as a farewell, but looking more as if he threw the whole subject away from him—he strode from the office without a word.

Peter Coleman sat at his desk, listening to the retreating footsteps. When they had passed away from his hearing, he arose and went out into the hall, to be sure that his client was gone. Returning to the office, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets, he took up the walk between the window and the desk lately vacated by his companion.

“Mighty risky business,” he muttered. “He is not the man I took him for at all. Might prove dangerous if he ever got to know, and then, Peter, my boy, you would be obliged to leave your lucrative practice and skip.” This with a rueful laugh. “That name,” he said, thoughtfully; “where have I heard that name? Not a common name, by any means; and I have seen it somewhere. What was I reading just before he came in?” and he went to the desk and tossed over the litter of papers that encumbered it, taking up one after another and glancing over it in search of the name.

At last he found it, and his face lighted at once. The paper he held in his hands was an advertising circular of the Provident Mutual Benefit Widows’ and Orphans’ Tontine Insurance Company, and it gave a list of the death losses paid by that benevolent institution.

“Aha! friend Elwell,” he said, with a series of chuckles, “you did not tell me about this. State’s prison, my boy—State’s prison. Some folks call you a rising young man, friend Elwell, and some day you may be able to give me a lift. You shall have it, my boy; you shall have it,” he went on, chuckling in great glee. “You shall have one of my patent, self-acting, adjustable divorces; and I don’t think its legality will ever be questioned by you.” And looking immensely pleased over something, Peter Coleman locked the door, and left the little office to vacancy.

CHAPTER XV.

FANNY MORAIN.

For a rising young man, Mr. James Elwell did not appear to be a very happy young man for some time after his call on his friend Peter Coleman.

Mr. Elwell was not a bad man at heart; perhaps his worst fault, after his variable temper, was his over-bearing selfishness. He had thought himself hampered by what he termed his incumbrance. But now when he was practically free from this incumbrance, he was angry with himself for what he had done.

It was not remorse; he was too selfish to feel that emotion with any poignancy. It was simply that he was throwing away what others might covet; and although he was not willing to endure the irksome restraint of possession, he was almost as unwilling that others should find enjoyment in what he considered his property.

Of course, there was some genuine sorrow mixed with this feeling—sorrow for the young wife who mourned his loss. But more for the child, from whom he felt he had cut himself off forever.

His love for his offspring was genuine and sincere, and he considered himself greatly injured that circumstances—as he termed it—should forever debar him from showing all his paternal affection.

He even made plans for the future, whereby he—unknown to his son—was to be the means of advancing that young gentleman’s prospects in life.

But these plans were all for the future, and required no exertion from him in the present, beyond the labor of building those castles in the air. Even this labor was somewhat diminished as time went on; and by the time he had received his coveted decree, which was stamped with a very large seal, and had every appearance of being genuine, his emotion had subsided into a feeling of pity for himself, and he felt himself to be quite an injured individual.

His friend Coleman had been disposed to celebrate the delivery of the divorce, and had even gone to the extent of ordering a quiet supper for two at a swell restaurant.

But as Mr. Elwell had morosely declined to celebrate, Mr. Coleman was obliged to countermand the order. But he was a good-humored fellow, Peter was; and instead of getting offended at his friend’s conduct, as some folks might have done, he simply added another hundred to his bill against his friend, and went off to celebrate the event alone.

Elwell was undoubtedly miserable, and might have been much more so, but that another god had arisen to demand his worship. This was the God of Gain; and Elwell, in his worship of this foul god, speculated and worried and labored, and consequently prospered to such an extent that he got to be a very rising young man indeed.

“Elwell,” said one of the old heads one day, “have you ever met Pat Morain?”

“No; I think not,” replied Elwell. “Who is Pat Morain?”

“He is one of the best fellows in creation, begad,” responded the old head. “Rich as mud, ignorant as a day laborer, and one of the fastest, jolliest, most liberal dogs that ever lived. He wants to take a shy at wheat, and I mentioned you as being the fellow he wanted to deal with. So you had better drop around to the office after board, and I will introduce you. And remember what I say, begad: It will pay you to stand in with old Pat.”

And with a wise shake of his head to imply that great things were to follow, the old man went on ’Change to buy a few thousand bushels of wheat—just to stir up the animals—as he expressed it.

Pat Morain proved on introduction to be all the broker had described him to be, and something more. He was a fat, jolly old fellow, whose wide mouth was constantly expanded in a grin of satisfaction.

He was satisfied with himself and everybody else, and felt as young at sixty as does many a man at twenty-five. He had been a day laborer in his time, had Pat; had started in life as a log-driver on one of the many lumbering streams up north. He almost owned that stream now, for he owned the land on either side of it for many a mile, and his rafts of logs—driven by others now—almost covered the stream from sight.

He was very rich, and enjoyed his riches as well as a man of his antecedents could be expected to enjoy wealth.

He was very proud of the fact that he, ignorant and unaided, had accumulated so much money; yet he was altogether unspoiled by his prosperity; and by his own description, which was probably right, he was just a jolly old Irishman who wanted all the fun he could get.

Just now he wanted to speculate a little in wheat, less for the probable profits of the speculation than for the excitement engendered in the operation.

Elwell was soon on very easy terms with the old gentleman; showed him around town, and altogether made himself so agreeable as to captivate the lumberman completely.

They made their shy at wheat, and luckily were on the right side of the market, so old Pat got a handsome return for his investment.

“I like you,” he said bluntly, one day, “and I want you to do me a favor.”

“What is it?” inquired Elwell.

“I want you to go home with me,” replied Morain. “You are a clever fellow, and we need clever fellows up there. You just come up with me and look things over, and if you don’t see a better chance than you have got here, why, you won’t be any the worse for the trip, anyhow.”

“But what can I do there? I wouldn’t mind changing if I could change for the better. But I don’t see what chance there is in a small place.”

“You come along,” insisted the old man. “I’ll look after the chances for you. Tell you what: You come home with me for a visit. You’ll get heaps of fun, and you needn’t stay any longer than you like. You’ll see Fanny, anyhow, and that will please her. I expect she will scold about my spree down here, so you had better come along and get your share.”

“Who is Fanny?” inquired Elwell.

“Fanny! Why, she’s my girl—the only thing the old woman left me to remember her by—not that I’ll ever forget her, though,” and the old man’s face softened. “Fanny is not much like her mother,” continued Morain, with a dissatisfied look on his face. “The old woman was just as plain and simple as I am. Worked hard while we had to work, and tried to enjoy herself afterward. But Fanny! Well, the girl went to a high-toned school, and that spoiled her. She’s been trying to be fashionable ever since.”

This was all news to Elwell, and perhaps influenced him in his decision. An only child, and that child a girl, with aspirations for a fashionable life, he thought, might be worth going to see. He made his living by speculation, and this might turn out to be a more successful speculation than any he had yet made.

Thinking thus, he decided to accept the kindly offer; but he would not cheapen himself any. So, when at last he promised to go, he did so with an air of accommodating his friend—not a pleasant way of accepting an invitation, as a rule. But as old Pat looked upon it as an accommodation, there was no harm done in this case.

CHAPTER XVI.

AUNT MARY’S ANSWER.

Another year had gone by at Bright Farm, and beyond an increase of quiet happiness there had been no change.

Little Clinton was growing into a stalwart, healthy lad, whose bright ways lighted up the little cottage like a ray of sunshine, and brought to Norine a degree of happiness she had never expected to enjoy.

It was a bright spring day, just such a day as when we first made his acquaintance, that Doctor Conway rode up to the little cottage on the little rough pony and dismounted at the gate. And although some years have passed since we found the doctor going upon his fateful errand, the errand had never yet been done. And Doctor Conway, tying his little rough pony at the gatepost, had the same resolution in his breast that he had had on that spring morning three years ago.

Norine, infolded in one of her big aprons, was busy with her household duties when the doctor entered, and little Clinton, forsaking the cat, ran to meet him as fast as his chubby little legs could carry him.

He was reasonably sure of something good with every visit, and delighted in climbing upon the doctor’s knees and exploring that gentleman’s pockets, hailing each discovery of a plaything or a bit of candy with a yell of delight.

The doctor’s pockets were unusually prolific to-day, and little Clinton retired to his corner to gloat over his riches, chuckling in triumph.

“Dear me,” protested Norine, evidently highly pleased, “you will spoil him, doctor. He is as rough as a little bear, and you should not allow him to romp over you in that fashion.”

“Spoil him; not a bit of it,” replied Conway, smiling. “Of course he’s rough, all healthy boys are; but the little rascal knows I like to romp as well as he does,” and he smiled pleasantly upon both mother and child.

“Who is ill now, doctor?” inquired Norine, as she deftly pared the edges of the pie she held in one hand. “It is not the Higgins’ this time, is it?”

“No; they are well, for a wonder. I only came to see Clinton and—you.”

“Clinton and I are duly grateful, I assure you,” smiled Norine. “This will be a red-letter day in our calendar, and you shall have an extra large piece of pie at dinner. Won’t that prove my gratitude?” she asked, smiling archly.

The doctor smiled a little in return and sighed a little too.

“When will you be done?” he asked, passing his hand over his head.

“A woman’s work is never done,” hummed Norine in reply. “Didn’t you know that? But then we can manage to find time to entertain our guests when we want to.”

“I hope you want to in this case,” said Conway, affecting a lightness he did not feel, “for I want to be entertained.”

“And you shall be,” returned Norine, “as royally entertained as our limited means will allow.” She stopped and looked at him curiously for a moment. “You are not ill?” she asked anxiously.

“I? No; why do you ask? Do I look ill?”

“Not exactly ill,” said Norine, considering. “But you look as if something unusual had happened.”

“Perhaps I expect something unusual to happen soon,” replied Conway, flushing a little.

“What is it?” inquired Norine. She had washed her hands and was standing before him trying to untie the big apron. “Dear me, what a knot,” she said, forgetting the question.

“Let me untie it,” said Conway; and Norine turned her back to him that he might reach the obdurate knot, puckering up her little mouth the while with a look of deep concern.

Now there are few things more trying to the average lover than the untying of his sweetheart’s apron strings. There is something in the close proximity necessary for the operation that is very trying to one’s nerves. And then when the knot is at last undone, and the mischievous apron slowly drawn away, there is something so tantalizing in the disappearance of the strings that it is almost impossible not to follow them with one’s arms and take forcible possession at once.

Conway must have had wonderful power over himself that he did not do this, for the big apron, when removed, disclosed a waist captivating enough in all conscience. But he did not, he only bent close—very close to her ear, and whispered:

“Norine, you know I love you.”

Norine started from him with a little cry of fright.

“Oh, no!” she cried. “Do not say it.”

“How can I help saying it,” he returned sadly. “I have loved you so long and so patiently. I have waited so long, oh, so long! Norine—Norine, you know this, you must know how I have suffered. Can not you give me a little love in return?”

Poor Norine was weeping bitterly.

“I did know it, Lester, and I have always dreaded this. Oh, Lester!” she said, giving him her hands with a gesture of perfect frankness, “I do love you, for you are a noble man—I love you as dearly as I can ever love. But, Lester, I dare not love you in that way. For little Clinton’s sake, I must never marry again. Let me love you, Lester; let us be friends, dear friends. We will forget this, and you will never mention it again.”

“Mention it again,” cried Conway passionately, “I must mention it again. I can not help it.” He drew her close to him, in spite of her feeble resistance. “You say you dare not love me, Norine, and yet you love me. What does it mean?”

“It is for Clinton’s sake,” faltered Norine.

“Can not you trust me to be a father to Clinton?” he asked reproachfully.

“Not him—for his father’s sake,” stammered Norine, drawing herself away from him. “You do not know, Lester—you can not understand; but I must never marry again.”

“Yet you love me?”

“Yes,” she moaned; “I love you. But, oh! Lester, I can never marry you—I must not.”

“You will not, you mean,” he said bitterly, as he turned away.

She put her hand quietly upon his arm.

“I am sorry, Lester,” she said, “but I could not help it, and—oh, don’t you understand?—I can not help it now! I dare not, for his sake.”

Conway’s face worked convulsively, but he made no reply. He was deathly pale, and it required no words to tell the passion that was consuming him.

“You will not leave me?” cried Norine pitifully. “I can not lose your friendship.”

“You never shall, Norine,” he said huskily—“you never shall; but is there no hope?”

Norine only shook her head sorrowfully.

Conway turned sadly away. When he got to the door he turned to look at her.

Norine ran to him, and put both arms around his neck.

“My poor, dear brother!” she cried, and kissed him.

There were pity and affection in that caress, but no hope, and Conway went out of the house a despairing man.

On the next day there were two letters in the post office for Lester Conway, and one directed to Norine Darling, in his care.

Conway opened his letters. The first was from a firm of lawyers in New York, and notified him as briefly as possible that he had been named as executor of the last will and testament of Miss Mary Darling, deceased, and that he was to file his bond and apply for letters of administration at once.

The other letter was in a cramped female hand. It was very short. It simply said:

“Doctor Conway: I think you are a good man, and I have asked you to see that my will is carried out according to my wishes. You have sufficient influence over my nephew and niece to get them to comply with my wishes. I have asked them both to resume their proper names. But I have no objection to having my niece change her name for yours.”

This letter was dated nearly a year back, and was signed “Mary Darling.”

Conway was not strong enough to go to the farm that day, but he sent Norine’s missive by a messenger, with a kindly note from himself, telling of her aunt’s visit to the farm.

“I have not seen the will yet,” he wrote, “but I congratulate you heartily on your good fortune.” And he signed it “Your brother Lester,” and he even underscored the “brother” to give it emphasis. But Lester Conway only saw in this sudden fortune for his friends another and higher wall between his love and himself.

Norine’s letter was almost as brief as his. It said:

“My Dear Norine: You wrote me a very kindly letter once, and I, in my foolish obstinacy, disregarded it. I have visited you since then, though perhaps you do not know it, and I write you now to beg your forgiveness. You will get this when I am gone, perhaps to meet my brother, and I warn you by my own sufferings not to disregard my request.

“I have laid very few restrictions on you, but those few I demand that you will sacredly comply with. This sad quarrel has lasted through two generations. Let us end it now, resume your father’s name, take my wealth, and may you be happy.

“Your aunt.

Mary Darling.”

“Jim,” said Norine, when he came in from his work, “we have got an answer from Aunt Mary at last,” and she handed him the letter.

Jim read it over several times.

“I can’t understand it,” he said. “I did not know that she had any wealth. How could she have visited us without our knowing it?”

Norine reluctantly gave him the letter from Conway.

“This will explain it,” she said.

Jim read Conway’s account of the visit. But when he spoke again his words had no reference to either the visit or their unexpected fortune.

“Your brother Lester,” he said. “What does that mean, Norry?”

Norine’s head sank lower and her face flushed, but she made no reply.

“Norry,” said Jim sadly, “has Lester asked you to marry him?”

Norine nodded without looking up.

“And you refused him?”

“Yes, Jim; I refused him.”

Jim walked the floor for a moment without speaking.

“I am very sorry,” he said at last. “I had rather know that you were Lester Conway’s wife than to be the richest man in America.”

And leaving his sister in tears, Jim marched indignantly out of the house.

CHAPTER XVII.

A VIGOROUS ASSAULT.

The home of Patrick Morain was in one of the many small lumbering towns that line the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. It was—or rather is, for it has grown very little in the meantime—a very small town, scarcely more than a village, in fact; but, with the ambitious energy characterizing the pioneer, it had already assumed the name and some of the graces of a city.

There was nothing attractive about the place. It might be described as a city of sand and sawdust, for you never succeeded in getting out of the one without finding yourself floundering through the other.

Looking toward the lake, there was nothing visible but docks and sand-breaks, the latter being immense structures of rough boards, erected at the most exposed points to prevent the fine sand of the lake shore from blowing over and covering the town from view. Back along the little river, that emptied its dark-brown waters into the lake, there were huge piles of sawed lumber, diversified here and there by equally large piles of shingles or lath. For the rest there were sawmills and sawdust, the former lining the little river aforesaid, and the latter covering everything not already covered by the drifting sand.

There was nothing beautiful about the place. But then, as old Pat wisely observed, the town was not there for beauty, but for business. And considered strictly in the light of business, the town was undoubtedly a success, it being the proud boast of its citizens that they made more lumber and drank more whisky than any town in northern Michigan.

“Business” was the watchword of everybody. And everything about the place was rushed at a headlong pace, that brought either success or failure, and brought it quick.

There were two unfailing subjects of conversation that the poor and the rich were alike interested in. In the summer they talked learnedly about the “cut” of the several mills, while during the winter the “output” of the various lumbering camps was the topic of conversation that all were expected to feel an absorbing interest in.

As for the actual home of the Morains, it was a square, comfortable-looking frame house, situated halfway between sand and sawdust; or, in other words, in about the centre of the town. And here the fair Fanny Morain spent the greater part of her time in bewailing the hard lot in life that excluded her, by her position, from society.

There were two things most earnestly craved by Miss Fanny: First, the grand tour of Europe; and second, a residence in some city where there was refined society; her idea of the latter having been obtained by the perusal of certain novels wherein the hero and all the principal characters spent their time dawdling about drawing-rooms and making feeble love to each other in a languid manner.

Miss Fanny could not truthfully be described as beautiful, or even pretty, yet she had every confidence in her own powers of captivation. She was healthy, and nature had endowed her with a fair skin and a pair of large, almost staring blue eyes. And if her hair was almost red, it was abundant. She dressed with more regard to fashion than good taste, and affected a girlishness hardly compatible with her seven-and-twenty years.

James Elwell found her very entertaining, and she was devotedly thankful for the society of this handsome, well-bred young man. They were soon on a familiar footing, and passed the time very pleasantly together, flirting in the most approved manner, riding, walking, and boating together in a way that made the time pass rapidly for both.

James Elwell, by the way, was making a more protracted stay in this city of sand and sawdust than he had anticipated. He had only expected to stay a few days, unless he ran on to a good speculation. And here it was six weeks since he arrived home with Patrick Morain, and he had no thought of leaving yet.

As for the speculation, he had apparently forgotten all about it, for he devoted himself to the fair Fanny assiduously. It is possible that he considered this charming creature in the light of a speculation, for he was evidently making a vigorous assault on her affections, and apparently with a fair prospect of success.

Old Pat was fully aware of what was transpiring at his house. I doubt that he could help being aware of it, for Elwell, with the most charming audacity, made love to his daughter under his very nose. And if Pat had any objections to this proceeding, he carefully disguised them, for he would only grin contentedly at some open demonstration of affection, and take himself off to the mills, in the meantime introducing Elwell among his friends as a young friend of his who was looking for a business opening.

By this means, Elwell soon acquired the reputation of being a wealthy speculator, who was backed by Morain, and as Morain’s backing represented something over a million dollars, there was never any doubt expressed as to the solvency of Mr. James Elwell.

“I declare, Mr. Elwell,” said Fanny one day, when he had returned from a trip to the mills of almost an hour’s duration; “you are getting almost as bad as papa,” and she pouted affectedly.

“I wish I were as good,” replied Elwell truthfully. “But how have I displeased you?”

“Oh, you have not displeased me, but if you find anything interesting about that horrid mill, I pity your taste, that’s all,” and she looked as if she thought he might find something vastly more interesting not far from herself.

“But this is a matter of business,” protested Elwell, with a tender glance.

“Oh!” cried Fanny, with a little scream of horror. “You do not mean to say that you are going into business here?”

“Why not?” inquired Elwell, to get his cue.

“I just think it a shame if papa inveigles you into that horrid business! It will just doom you to perpetual exile in this horrid place!”

“I do not find it horrid;” and he glanced at her, as if he thought any place was pleasant where she was.

Fanny blushed and simpered at his open look of affection.

“You have not answered my question, sir,” she said. “Do you intend to go into business here?”

“That depends. I am much more likely to leave here soon,” and he sighed heavily.

“But surely you would not be content to live here forever?”

“Oh, no,” he replied quickly. “I should not live here. I would make my home in Chicago or New York, and should only come here often enough to superintend the business; but I do not think I am very likely to enter into business here.”

Perhaps now that the question of his future home was settled, Fanny was less averse to his entering into the lumber business, which she knew to be very profitable. She said nothing more against it, only complimented him with a sigh on being at liberty to choose his own residence.

“You should be very happy,” she said.

“But I am not at liberty,” protested Elwell; “nor am I very happy.”

“Why not?” inquired Miss Fanny, knowing perfectly well what was to follow. “Why are you not at liberty?”

“You know why,” replied Elwell, taking possession of her willing hand, and speaking very softly. “You know it is because I love you, and because I fear that I can never win your love in return.”

Fanny blushed and simpered.

“Tell me, Fanny, dearest Fanny,” he cried passionately, “am I too presumptuous? Can I hope?”

Fanny looked at him without speaking; but it was evident that she did not consider him too presumptuous, and that he might hope.

Elwell, with one arm around her waist, and getting up a very fair amount of enthusiasm, protested his love, spoke feelingly of his lone condition, and despairingly of his prospects in life without her.

“Dear, dear Fanny,” he concluded, “I know I am not worthy of you, but I love you, and I want your love in return. You do love me a little, do you not?”

“A little perhaps,” said Fanny archly. “Is that enough?”

“Say that you will be my wife,” he replied rapturously, “and that will be enough. More than I deserve.”

Fanny murmured:

“Ask papa.”

She knew that was the proper answer, for the society heroines always used it. And then Elwell clasped her in his arms, and swore he was the happiest man on earth. And after Fanny had run, blushing and palpitating, from the room, he started for the mill, to communicate his great happiness to his expected father-in-law.

Strange that the memory of that other love-making should obtrude itself on him now. And stranger still, that, for all his protestations a moment ago, he was not happy.

Why should he think of her now? She had forgotten him long ago, no doubt; and why should the memory of her arise to trouble him now?

With this question still unsolved, he stopped at one of the numerous saloons and drank a glass of brandy. Somewhat farther on, he stopped again for the same purpose; probably it was ineffectual, for he muttered a curse on the haunting memory as he strode on to the mill.

“Mr. Morain,” he said, going into Pat’s private office, and speaking very rapidly, “I love your daughter, and I think she loves me, and I have come to ask your consent to our marriage.”

Pat looked up and grinned.

“I’m sorry for you, my boy,” he said. “I did not expect this when I brought you from Chicago.”

“Do I understand that you refuse?” inquired Elwell, drawing himself up.

“Refuse? The devil, no,” replied Pat quickly. “Take her if you want her, and good luck to you both.” And he slapped his future son-in-law heartily on the shoulder, and declared him “too good a fellow to come to so bad an end.”

And then old Pat grinned as contentedly as if he, too, had an object to be gained by this unexpected love match.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A SUCCESSFUL SPECULATION.

It was evident that neither Fanny nor her future husband believed in procrastination; for not only did they set an early day for the wedding, but began at once—at least Fanny did—preparations for the coming event on a scale that was destined to overwhelm the natives of the city of sand and sawdust by its magnificence.

Old Pat was inclined to object to such a hasty wedding, claiming, sensibly enough, that the young people needed time to become thoroughly acquainted with each other before they assumed the responsibilities of wedded life.

He proposed a year’s delay, and quoted “marry in haste and repent at leisure,” and various other wise old saws, to support his position; but this did not suit either of the more nearly interested parties.

Fanny had always looked upon marriage as the only possible relief from her position in life, and saw before her, in the contemplated trip to Europe, the realization of her fondest dreams, and was in a fever of expectation that was not likely to subside until she found herself en route.

As for Elwell, he probably looked upon it as a successful speculation, and certainly was not likely to advocate any delay in the consummation thereof. Acting thus in concert, though from different reasons, they were altogether too much for old Pat, and he was obliged to withdraw his opposition to their immediate marriage, and the preparations went on at a rate that resulted in Pat’s wishing himself well rid of them both, that he might have a little comfort in his own house.

It was settled that they were to make a “grand tour.” Elwell had protested feebly against this, and had called Fanny’s attention to the fact that his fortune was still to be made, and that a trip to Europe was a very expensive luxury for a comparatively poor man.

It would have been better for both, perhaps, if Fanny had met his objections in a different spirit. He was not a bad man at heart, and he had proposed to himself that, in return for her fortune, he would contribute all he could to her happiness. But Fanny would accept no promises of future tours to be made when he had accomplished his fortune.

She had her objects to be attained by this marriage no less clearly defined than his, and plainly intimated that if he was too poor to afford a trip to Europe, he was too poor to marry at all. And he had too much at stake to admit of any chance of failure by offending his capricious bride-elect.

“We will go, dear, of course, if you wish it,” he said. “You know that I only desire to please you, and make you as happy as you have made me.”

“Have I made you very happy?”

“Very happy, indeed.”

“Then,” she said gayly, “you must prepay me by being kind to me, and never refusing me anything I want.” And having thus systematically set forth her edict, she kissed him and went on with her preparations.

It was settled that the wedding was to take place during the coming month, and Elwell had made his preparations for a return to Chicago in order to wind up his affairs, with a view of permanently changing his abode.

He had managed to dodge as yet all promises as to their future residence. That was a point to be settled after their return.

He did not dare to risk a discussion of the matter until the bonds were riveted that were to give him at least nominal control of his wife and her fortune.

“How I wish you could come with me!” he said to his betrothed on the eve of his departure. “I know you would enjoy a visit there so much.”

“Yes, I know I should,” rejoined Fanny, with some meaning in her tones. “I suppose you are extensively acquainted?” she asked.

“Oh, yes; fairly so; but, as a bachelor, my acquaintances have been principally among business men.”

“And their families, I suppose?” she inquired coldly.

“Oh, yes! and their families, of course,” stammered Elwell, mentally congratulating himself on the fact that she would not be with him to find out how limited his acquaintance really was.

“I am so glad,” said Fanny. “Then you will be able to introduce me at once—that is, when we go there together,” she added.

“Oh, yes,” he replied mendaciously; “I shall be able to introduce you; and I am sure you will be immensely pleased with some of my friends.”

“I am so glad,” said Fanny, again; but there was something in her tone that created an uneasy feeling in her lover’s breast.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “it is just as well that you are not going with me until after we are married.”

The next day found Elwell in Chicago, and the first one he called on was his legal friend, Coleman.

Peter was not in his little office, and after looking in vain for him in the places usually frequented by his friend, Elwell was forced to take a carriage and drive to the house where he knew Peter had his lodgings.

He rang the bell, and was admitted by a tall, handsome girl, whose flashing black eyes and commanding figure would have attracted attention anywhere.

“Is Mr. Peter Coleman in?” inquired Elwell, in his smoothest tones.

The handsome girl would see. Would he step in?

No; he would wait.

And as the handsome girl was already attired for the street, she called to a servant for the desired information, and waited, too, partly because the strange gentleman was standing directly in her way, and partly from that curiosity inherited by all the daughters of our common mother Eve.

No, Mr. Coleman was not in. Was there any message the gentleman would like to leave?

Elwell, who had been staring at the handsome girl all this time in a manner very unbecoming to a prospective bridegroom, said, “Yes,” and explained that he was in town for a few days only, and consequently pressed for time. He would like to see Mr. Coleman as soon as possible. Would she kindly say that he was stopping at the Palmer, and ask Mr. Coleman to favor him with a call?

“Certainly,” replied the handsome girl, evidently somewhat tired of his open admiration. “What is the name, please?”

“Elwell—Mr. Elwell,” replied the owner of the name, backing down the steps.

“Mr. James Elwell?” inquired the young lady, quickly.

“Yes. You have heard the name before, I perceive?”

“Yes, I think I have heard Mr. Coleman mention it.” And then, with a cool “good morning,” she passed him on the steps, and started on her way.

“That is a handsome girl,” commented Elwell, mentally, as he watched her form recede from view. “Wonder why Coleman never mentioned her?”

And still thinking of the handsome, black-eyed girl, he got into the carriage and was driven off.

That was a busy day for Mr. James Elwell, and more than once he congratulated himself that he had not been accompanied by Fanny.

He had never thought of the matter before, being somewhat indifferent to the charms of society, as are most ambitious men; and it surprised him to find how few friends he had that could prove desirable acquaintances for his wife.

He had been greeted by a vast number of his friends that day, but they were mostly “bloods”—young men with sporting proclivities, and “fast” in every meaning of the term.

On ’Change he knew numbers of solid, respectable business men, but he did not know their families; and there seemed to be no place that he could have taken his bride had she been with him; and so he rejoiced at her absence, and resolved that it would be a long time before he would try to introduce her into society—at least in Chicago.

He had thought of all this during the day, and returned to the hotel in the evening in a very contented frame of mind.

He found Coleman waiting for him, and they shook hands heartily.

“I say, Elwell, I guess there is some one here looking for you,” said the lawyer, after their friendly greeting. “At least the clerk asked me how soon you would return, and then sent them up to the parlor.”

“Them? Who?” demanded Elwell.

“Blessed if I know,” returned Coleman. “One was a fat, jolly-looking old fellow, and the other was a well-dressed girl with red hair and a turn-up nose.”

Elwell groaned in bitterness of spirit. There could be no mistake from his friend’s candid description. It must be Fanny and her father.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Coleman. “You don’t owe them anything do you?”

“I am afraid I do,” replied Elwell ruefully; “but not in the way you think. You see, Peter,” he said, familiarly, in his trouble, “I am going to be married soon.”

Peter whistled softly and looked interested.

“Yes,” continued Elwell, “and this is my future wife and her father.”

Peter nodded.

“And—and——Well, you see she is very anxious to get acquainted with some of our society people, and I am afraid she thinks I can introduce her. In fact,” he continued, being candid from necessity, “she might have thought from what I said that I was better acquainted than I am.”

“Had to lie a little, eh?” remarked Coleman shrewdly.

Elwell flushed but returned no answer.

“What are you going to do about it?” inquired Coleman. “It is too late to go anywhere to-night; unless it is to the opera.”

Elwell gave a sigh of relief.

“That’s so,” he said, “I’m glad of that.”

“Well, then, you go and get tickets for to-night; and to-morrow, if they stay, you can fix up something.”

Elwell looked relieved.

“I’ll do that,” he said. “You might as well walk over with me. By the way, who was that handsome girl I met at your place to-day?”

“That was Lettie; she is my landlady’s niece and a friend of mine.”

“A friend, is that all?” repeated Elwell, with a sneer.

“Egad, sometimes a friend is plenty,” retorted Coleman. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he went on, “if you can’t get out of this scrape in any other way, I will get Lettie to help you. The house and furniture are all right.”

“And the girl?” inquired Elwell.

“The girl? Oh, she is able to carry anything,” replied Coleman, with confidence.

“Yes: but is she a person that one would care to have one’s wife know?”

“That,” replied Coleman, “is just as one happened to feel about it. If you can’t do better, you might try.”

And with that poor consolation, Elwell was obliged to return to the hotel.

Of course, he was greatly surprised to see Fanny and her father. He had taken good care to receive no notice of their arrival until they walked in on him in the dining room, so as to intensify the surprise as much as possible.

“I am so glad you are here,” he said, beaming on Fanny. “But why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“Oh, that was the surprise,” replied Fanny. “I wanted to see you just as you were. Have you been a good boy all day?”

“A very busy one, at any rate,” he replied. “But I am glad I am done for the day. Perhaps it will be possible to secure good seats at the opera.”

Fanny clapped her hands joyfully.

“That will be splendid!” she cried. “And then to-morrow you can introduce me to some of your friends.”

“I am afraid I shall be very busy to-morrow,” faltered Elwell.

“Oh, nonsense!” retorted his fiancée. “You can spare me some time, I hope.”

“I should hope so,” said Elwell meekly; while old Pat, who was an interested listener, grinned and advised him to give in at once.

“You are only getting a taste of it now,” said Pat, chuckling; “but you can judge what to expect after you are married.”

Perhaps Elwell had his own ideas of what to expect after marriage; but if he had, he managed to conceal them for the present. So, leaving the fair Fanny to robe herself in her finest costume, he went to buy the tickets that were already reposing in his pocket.

Fanny was delighted with everything, and therefore good-natured.

“You are a dear, good boy,” she said upon bidding him good night. “And I will not trouble you any more than I can help. But I have got an awful lot of things to buy, and I must have some lady with me. Some of your lady friends will assist me, I know.”

Poor Elwell was not at all sure of that, and he wandered down into the office in a very discontented frame of mind.

There he found Mr. Peter Coleman, who had just dropped around, he said, to see if he could be of any use.

Elwell explained matters at length.

“I think I will turn up sick to-morrow,” he said dolefully. “I don’t see any other way out of it.”

“Why not try Lettie?” inquired Coleman. “She will fix matters for you. I will have her call, if you say so, and she will keep Miss Fanny too busy with her shopping to allow her to think of anything else.”

“But suppose any one should see them, and know Miss Lettie?” inquired Elwell. “Might not that prove embarrassing?”

“Not a bit,” replied Coleman confidently. “There are not a dozen people in Chicago that know her; and none of them know anything wrong about her.”

“It is a nasty thing to do,” grumbled Elwell. “But if I can rely upon you, I suppose it is my best way out.”

“You have relied on me before,” returned Coleman meaningly.

“Yes, I know it,” admitted Elwell quickly. “And, by the way, there is no danger of that getting out, is there?”

“Not unless either you or I let it out,” replied Peter, with a grin. “And it would not pay either of us to do it.”

“You are right,” said Elwell, speaking slowly and with great meaning. “It wouldn’t pay either of us.”

Fanny was delighted to receive a call from Miss Allan the next day, and more delighted when that lady volunteered to assist her in any way possible.

The result justified the predictions of the astute Coleman, for Fanny was buried up to her eyes during the day with her shopping.

This was very pleasant for Elwell; but the evenings were far from agreeable. There was always the theatre or opera to attend, and as they were invariably accompanied by Miss Allan, it was not at all pleasant. For, although Lettie was always stylishly and modestly dressed, and her behavior the pink of good breeding, Elwell had many reasons for believing her to be a very undesirable acquaintance for his future wife.

It would soon be over, however, and he would see that the acquaintanceship should never be renewed.

The worst of it was that he was obliged to treat her with the most ceremonious respect, and never dared to hint at any dissatisfaction on his part.

Old Pat was delighted with the young lady friend of his daughter, and Fanny herself was completely infatuated.

“You are a darling,” she said to Elwell, when, after a few days of bliss to her and misery for him, they started for home. “You are a darling, and I am awfully obliged to you for finding me so good a friend.”

Elwell mumbled something about being amply repaid.

“Of course you are,” replied the fair Fanny. “And there! I will give you a kiss for being such a good boy, and another one for the good friend you got for me, and another one because she has promised to come over and see us married.”

And she went gayly off, leaving Elwell stunned by this information.

CHAPTER XIX.

A CHANGE OF BASE.

And so James and Norine Darling became wealthy beyond their utmost expectations, and James and Norine Bright passed out of existence forever. There was no chance of their becoming spoiled by their sudden and unexpected good fortune; they were both too unaffectedly good for that. And then they had the steady, clear brain and good counsel of Doctor Conway to help them; and with that and the kindly advice of the shrewd New York lawyer they passed through the ordeal in very creditable shape.

It required some discussion before Norine could be induced to discard her husband’s name.

“Why should my aunt desire me to do this?” she asked. “If Jim resumes the old name, and they know I am his sister, they will know, of course, that I am a Darling. So why should I not retain my own name and Clinton’s?”

Doctor Conway made no attempt to answer all this. He simply said:

“Your aunt wished it, and you should comply with her wishes if you accept her gift. Little Clinton can always retain his father’s name, and I see no reason why you should refuse.”

He said nothing of the permission her aunt had given that she might adopt his name if she wished to; he was too generous for that and too hopeless.

“I suppose you are right,” said Norine, with a little wistful sigh. “But it seems cruel in me to give up his name; it looks as if I were ashamed of him, when I am not, and then it is cowardly of me to do so. I think I should always keep his name for little Clinton’s sake.”

“But you need not change the child’s name,” replied Conway quietly; “and she has left you everything she had, relying on you to gratify her last wishes in this matter. She did not command it, and it can make no difference in your future. Think what she has enabled you to do for little Clinton! You can educate him in any way you choose now. It is but a small repayment that you can make for her generosity. And who knows? perhaps she will sleep the better for it.”

There was nothing more said about it at the time; but Norine wrote him a little note the next day, and signed it “Norine Darling,” and the doctor evidently thought the signature highly appropriate, for he laid the note away among his few cherished treasures.

They were still at Bright Farm, though the summer was passing away. But there was so much to be done before they could enter into their new sphere that the summer had nearly gone before they were ready to move.

Jim had been to New York several times in order to familiarize himself with his new property and duties, but Norine had remained contentedly at the little cottage, being somewhat loath, in fact, to leave it. There were so many pleasant faces about the old homestead, and her past life had been so completely wrapped up in her immediate surroundings, that it was like being born anew to leave it. So she spent the greater part of this summer in idling listlessly about the place, going many times to the little hut—now very much dismantled—where she had first met her husband, and visiting in turn every place made sacred to her by her memory of him.

But the time had come at last when they were to move. The Higginses had already taken possession of the cottage and farm as tenants and agents, and there was nothing left to do but say good-by to all things, animate and inanimate, about the place.

Norine made one last pilgrimage to the little shanty in the woods, while Jim drove into town for a last consultation with Doctor Conway.

“Well, Jim,” cried the doctor cheerily, “is everything arranged to your satisfaction?”

“Yes,” replied Jim, heaving a great sigh of relief, “everything is settled at last; that is,” he added, “everything but one.”

“What is that?”

“Why, it is your matter. I don’t see why you won’t let me help you, now I have a chance. God knows,” he added earnestly, “you have helped me often enough.”

“If I have, I have been amply repaid for it,” said Conway. “And really, Jim, if there was anything you could do for me, I would not hesitate a moment to accept your kind offer. But, you see, there is really nothing I want.”

“Oh, nonsense!” retorted Jim ungraciously. “I have heard you say a thousand times that you hoped to move into a large city some day, where you would have a chance to build yourself up.”

“That was when I was young and ambitious. I have outgrown all that now,” said Conway.

He spoke very pleasantly, for Jim was his one particular friend; but there was a tired, worn look on his face, when it was in repose, and a tinge of indifference in all he said.

“Then you do not care to improve?” inquired Jim.

“Improve? Certainly. I study every day with that end in view. The physician who does not care to improve himself and increase his knowledge can have no affinity for his chosen profession. I hope to improve greatly; but that does not necessitate a desire to change.”

“But you would have greater advantages in the city,” persisted Jim. “Your field of labor would become more extended, and your opportunities for doing good be so much greater.”

“That would all be true, if my heart was in it,” replied Conway indifferently. “But I am content to stay where I am. Perhaps, after all, my talents are best adapted to the dull routine of a country physician. Be satisfied, my dear friend, with your own prosperity, and let those who are less fortunate suffer; believe me, that is the way of the world.”

“But it is not my way,” said Jim sturdily. “Nor is it Norine’s. Of course, I am glad we have got this money. It is a great thing to know that one need never trouble one’s self with the ‘carking cares of poverty.’ But I do not believe God put this money in our hands just to gratify our selfishness. I hope to make it do some good to others than ourselves. Besides that,” he went on, speaking very earnestly, “I feel that we owe our good fortune to you; it was you who was with our aunt. If it had been any one else, how do we know what might have happened? I tell you plainly, Lester, that I shall not be able to enjoy my fortune until I have paid at least a part of the debt we owe you.”

“You owe me nothing but good wishes,” returned Conway. “Perhaps some time in the future I may want you to help me; but it is not likely. Believe me, I am content.”

“It is all Norine’s fault,” grumbled Jim in a deeply injured tone. “I don’t see why you don’t marry her, and have done with it. Just think if you went there with us, and started a practice, you might win her in a year.”

“If I thought I could in ten,” replied Conway, “I would go; but I know it is impossible. Let it rest, my friend. You will have plenty of opportunities of assisting me, for whenever my poor people get unusually poor, I will call on you.”

With this Jim was obliged to be silent, if not content. But he parted from his friend with sincere sorrow.

“You will come out and bid Norine good-by,” he said at parting. “You would not make her unhappy by refusing?”

“I will come,” said Conway; and so Jim was obliged to leave him.

The next morning they started early. Conway was there, as he had promised, and parted from them both with many cheerful wishes.

Norine was very quiet and subdued at parting from her old home.

“I am glad you came,” she said to Conway. “I should have been unhappy to have gone without a farewell from my brother.”

Conway winced a little at this; but, fortunately, they were about to start, and that spared him somewhat.

“You will see us again,” said Norine, giving him her hand; and then, as she was about to enter the carriage, she said simply: “You will kiss me good-by, won’t you?”

And he kissed her good-by and wondered dumbly that he had strength enough to relinquish her after he had once held her in his arms, and he stood there dreamily until long after the carriage was out of sight, and then awakened to find himself in the midst of the lamenting Higginses.

Norine was very quiet during the journey, and Jim thought she cried a little at times; but with the changes to be made and his little flock to care for, he had no time to devote to idle speculation.

Traveling is like everything else—it has to be learned by experience—and both Jim and Norine were too ignorant, as travelers, to enjoy the many comforts while en route.

On reaching New York, they were driven to the Waldorf, where they were to stay for a few days, while their new home was being put in order for them.

CHAPTER XX.

THE MEETING.

Mr. James Elwell was far from being pleased with the idea of Miss Lettie Allan becoming an intimate friend to his future wife. And the announcement that that attractive young lady was to be an attendant at his approaching wedding disquieted him considerably.

True, he was not particularly honorable himself, and she had served him a good turn by entertaining Fanny, and thereby preventing exposures that might have affected his speculation.

He was willing to acknowledge all this, and pay for it, if necessary; but that must be the end of it. As a temporary acquaintance, to accomplish certain purposes, Miss Allan might be very desirable, but as an inmate of his future family she was not to be thought of.

So this rising young man, after recovering from the stupor he had been thrown into by his bride’s announcement, set out to prevent, if possible, the consummation of this visit.

It was not until the day set for his departure, however, that he called on Mr. Peter Coleman at his office.

“Coleman,” he said abruptly, as he entered the office, “this thing has got to be stopped.”

“What thing?” inquired Peter.

“This proposed visit of your friend,” replied Elwell. “I can not allow it.”

Peter looked greatly disquieted.

“I don’t see what harm can come of it,” he said. “You must allow that she served you well here, and behaved herself.”

“That is all well enough,” replied Elwell haughtily. “I will admit the service, and pay for it; but that must be all. I cannot consent to any further intimacy between Miss Allan and my future wife.”

“I have no desire to see them intimate,” said Peter quietly. “But I do not see how you are going to prevent this visit. My advice would be to pay no attention to it. After you are married, you can easily explain things to your wife, and that will end it. Better let it alone until then——”

“That’s all nonsense,” interrupted Elwell angrily. “I don’t propose to wait until then. Understand me: This visit is not to take place. You can settle with her in any way you see fit; but she must not go!”

“What am I to do to prevent it?” inquired Coleman.

“Anything you see fit, so long as you prevent it. Here, pay her what she wants. That is the best way.”

And he took a roll of banknotes from his pocket and threw part of them on the desk.

There was an odd expression on the lawyer’s face as he watched the notes flutter on the desk in front of him.

“I think you are mistaken in your opinion of the young lady,” he said quietly.

“Mistaken! Bah!” sneered Elwell.

Peter made no answer.

Elwell paced angrily between the desk and the window.

“A pleasant acquaintance she is likely to be for the future Mrs. Elwell,” he said, gnawing at his mustache.

“You knew as much about her when you accepted her services as you do now,” retorted Coleman. “You have no right to complain. See, now,” he went on, turning in his revolving chair so as to face his old client. “You and I cannot afford to quarrel. At least,” he went on truthfully, “I cannot afford to quarrel with you. I will do all I can for you, and prevent this visit, if possible; but I can not promise. You see,” he went on, glancing at the money on the desk, and smiling slightly, “you do not know Lettie as I do.”

“Is she different from all other women?” inquired Elwell sneeringly.

“Yes,” replied Peter seriously; “she is. If I was to offer her those banknotes it would settle the matter for good.”

“Then you had better offer them,” exclaimed Elwell pettishly; “for I want it settled.”

“Probably not as she would settle it, though,” returned the lawyer dryly.

“Do as you please!” cried Elwell impatiently; “only see that she does not go.”

“I will do all I can, but I cannot promise,” replied the lawyer imperturbably. “I will see her at once, and try to prevent her going.”

“Tell her she had better not come,” said Elwell savagely. “I might be tempted to expose her in front of them all.”

“That might be dangerous,” replied Peter calmly. “You know absolutely nothing about her, and who can tell how much she may know about you?”

Elwell turned quickly and looked at his friend, to see if there was any concealed menace in his words; but the lawyer’s face was a perfect blank, and he returned the gaze steadily.

“You will do all you can?” he said at last.

“Everything possible,” returned Coleman in an earnest tone. “But I cannot prevent her going if she wants to, and I would advise you to treat her right if she does go.”

“I will remember,” said Elwell in acknowledgment of this advice, as he left the office. And Peter muttered when he was left alone:

“You will be pretty sure to remember if you don’t.”

Peter evidently disliked the duty before him; and, like many others, he tried to make up in spiritual for what he lacked in moral courage. In consequence, he was in a highly exhilarated condition when he reached his home.

“Ask Miss Allan if she will see me in the parlor for a moment,” he said to the servant; and in a moment more Lettie entered the room.

“See here, Lettie,” he said authoritatively, as soon as she entered, “we have been talking about this visit—Elwell and I—and we have concluded that it would be better, perhaps, if you did not go. I thought I would come up and tell you,” he went on hurriedly, “so you would not make any unnecessary preparations.”

Lettie listened quietly until he had finished.

“Have you not forgotten something?” she inquired at last.

“Forgotten something?” repeated Peter, blinking at her sleepily. “No. What have I forgotten?”

“I thought perhaps you might have forgotten to ask whether I wanted to go or not,” replied Lettie, standing quietly before him.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Coleman faintly. “So we did; but then we relied on your friendship. I dare say you would like the visit well enough; but give it up, Lettie, to please me, and I will give you a trip to New York to pay for it.”

Lettie looked down on the nearly drunken man before her with disgust.

“I am sorry to interfere with your plans,” she said at length; “but I shall start to-night.”

“But, Lettie, you do not understand,” exclaimed Peter, sobering a little. “I am playing for big stakes here, and I dare not offend Elwell—at least, until after he is married.”

“I dare,” said the girl, raising her fine figure proudly.

“Yes; but you will please me in this,” he said coaxingly. “You must not go. What can I say to Elwell?”

“You might give him this,” replied Lettie, taking from her pocket a scrap of paper and tossing it to him. She turned as she was leaving the room, and added: “If you dare.”

Peter heard her laugh as she went through the hall. He was staring at the door blankly. At last his eye fell on the bit of paper he held in his hand, and he sprang to his feet with a mighty oath. It was the circular he had picked up in his office the day Elwell had applied for his divorce. It was the list of death claims paid by the Widows’ and Orphans’ Mutual Benefit Tontine Life Insurance Company, and contained among others the name of Clinton Percival.

He was greatly disturbed.

“I wonder how much she knows,” he muttered, “and what she intends to do with her knowledge?” He was completely sobered now, and paced up and down the room in a very savage manner. “I would like to know how she got hold of that?” he muttered, staring blankly at the bit of paper. But the paper could give him no answer, and he resumed his march as savagely as before. After thinking deeply for a few moments, he rang the bell. “Ask Miss Lettie to step here for a moment,” he said shortly to the servant. She disappeared, but soon returned with the information that Miss Lettie was engaged. “Tell her I must see her for a moment!” cried Peter savagely. “Must see her! Do you understand?”

The servant disappeared again, somewhat frightened this time; but returned almost immediately to say that Miss Lettie was busy and would not come. And having delivered this message through the partly open door, she took to her heels and fled.

Coleman swore savagely and left the house, slamming the door after him with unnecessary violence.

“I had better see Elwell,” he muttered anxiously, as he hurried along. “I’ll try to smooth him over; for there is no possibility of stopping that cat now, unless I chuck her into the lake.”

He crossed hurriedly over to Madison Street, and took the first car downtown. Going directly to the Palmer House, he looked for his friend anxiously, but in vain. He was not in the office, nor in the reading room, nor in the billiard room.

“He will return soon,” thought Peter; and he took a seat where he could see all who entered, and waited patiently. A half hour passed, and then an hour, and that grew into two hours. Still he waited. At last he could stand it no longer. “I will leave a message for him,” he thought; and went to the desk and wrote a short note.

“Will you hand this to Mr. Elwell when he returns?” he said, handing the note to the clerk.

That languid functionary took the note and scanned it carelessly. At last he said languidly:

“Mr. Elwell has gone.”

“Gone?” repeated Coleman blankly.

“Gone,” reiterated the clerk. “Four-thirty boat. Bill is paid;” and having delivered himself of this, the languid clerk sank back into his chair.

Coleman cursed heartily. He could do nothing but return to the house, and endeavor to persuade Lettie to stay. But here again fate was against him, for he was met at the door with the information that Miss Allan had gone, and would not return for a week or ten days.

“Devil take ’em!” cried Peter, in his exasperation. “They have both taken the same boat. Let them fight it out between them. I have done all I can;” and washing his hands of it thus, he went to his supper with as much appetite as he could muster.

Elwell was considerably astonished to find himself accompanied by this unwelcome visitor. Perhaps, if he had known it sooner, he might have expressed his dissatisfaction forcibly; but the boat had nearly completed its voyage before he discovered her presence, and then it was too late. Perhaps the words of Peter Coleman had left an impression on him. At all events, he made no further attempt to interfere with the young lady’s visit. Even when he heard Fanny introduce her as one of his friends from Chicago, he even went so far as to admit to himself that Lettie was a very valuable addition to the little party. Her tact was perfect, and she made friends of all she met—from Fanny’s simpering schoolgirl friends to the rough old cronies of her father’s. At the wedding she was the only self-possessed person in the room. And as Elwell entered the cars with his newly wedded wife, he found himself thinking with great satisfaction, that Lettie was there to take care of old Pat, who had got hilariously intoxicated in honor of the bride and groom.

He was very considerate of his wife in that long journey to the seashore, evincing such care for her comfort as to impress Fanny in spite of her shallow nature; but he was far from happy himself. He had made a successful speculation, and was on the high road to fortune. Yet he thought more of the past than he did of the future. And every caress he received from Fanny brought to his mind some corresponding caress that he had received from that other wife.

He could not help thinking about her and his boy. He wondered what Norine would think of him if she knew. But then she would never know; and if she did? He was secure. She could not mar his fortune now.

He thought of her all through that rapid journey. So it was not to be wondered at that his mind was still full of her when he arrived at New York.

Their stateroom was already secured, and the steamer was to sail the next day. They might have gone directly on board; but Elwell thought it better to stay that last night on shore, that they might get as much rest as possible.

So they were driven to the Waldorf, where they had a very comfortable dinner served in their rooms.

They were content to rest. And it was late in the afternoon before Elwell thought of leaving their apartments.

“I will go down to the office,” he said to Fanny, “and telegraph a last word to father.”

He went out into the corridor, and then stopped, struck dumb. There, coming directly toward him, leading a sunny-haired child by the hand, was Norine!

She had not seen him yet, and he managed to stagger back into his room and close the door; but he was completely upset, and his white set face, as he fell into a chair, drew a scream of alarm from Fanny.

“What is it, James? What is the matter?” she cried.

There was wine on the table, and a tumbler of water. Throwing the water away, he filled the goblet full of wine and drank it all. Then he turned to Fanny.

“It is nothing,” he said hoarsely—“nothing that I am not used to.”

But all the time his brain was surging with the wonder of it.

How came she there? And his brain seemed to take up the refrain, and throb. How came she there? how came she there? how came she there?

Fanny moved to the bell to call for assistance. She was terribly frightened at this sudden change in her husband. But he pulled himself together in time to prevent her.

“It is nothing,” he said; “don’t be alarmed. It will pass away in a moment.”

He threw himself down on a sofa, and as the strong wine went to his brain, he became calmer, and could laugh at Fanny for her fright.

“I will sleep a little,” he said, “and then it will be all over;” and under the influence of the fatigue, the surprise, and the wine, he sank into a fitful doze.

Only once did he seem to be asleep, and then his lips moved, and his wife bent down to hear what he said. It was:

“Norine—Clinton!”

Fanny was as greatly mystified as ever, only she remembered the names, and determined that some day she would find out who this Norine was that her husband talked about in his sleep. She would not tell him of it. That was not her way; but she would wait and some day she would know all.

Elwell left the room no more that night, and early the next morning they went on board of the steamship, that was to carry them across the ocean. But it was not until after they had passed Sandy Hook that his fright left him, and not for many, many days after did he cease to wonder: How came she there?

CHAPTER XXI.

CONTENTMENT.

The departure of his friends from Bright Farm created a great void in the life of Doctor Lester Conway, and he felt it sorely.

They were his only friends, if we except good Mrs. Allan, and his naturally lonesome life was made trebly so by their departure.

That he was sincerely and unselfishly glad of their great good fortune there could be no doubt; and that he was content with his own lot in life. Well, he had insisted to Jim that he was content, and he had even repeated it to himself a great many times after Jim had left, rather as if it required a good many assurances to convince even himself. But he was content; he said so a great many times, so he must be content.

But however content he might be, Lester Conway certainly was not happy.

Some one of those old philosophers, who fondly imagined that they knew the world long before the world began to really know itself, said:

“Contentment is the basis of all true happiness.”

Now, here was a direct refutation of this theory; for Lester Conway, with plenty of contentment, was miserably, piteously unhappy. Piteously, I say; for I know of no misery so well deserving of pity as the mental sufferings of a strong, patient, and self-reliant man, one who fights pluckily against the burdens that fate has laid upon him, and who strives, in the midst of his sufferings, to convince himself that he is strong enough to bear his load without complaining, and that, therefore, he must not complain, even to himself.

So it was with Conway, and he plunged into his work with an effort to forget his mental misery by making himself as miserable bodily as possible.

There was a great deal of sickness in that mountainous neighborhood that winter, and he had plenty to do, and was very thankful for it.

He was always ready and willing to go, no matter where or from whom the call came; and he was just as tender, and his smile was just as kindly as ever. But his eyes were something too bright, and gray hairs began to be visible in his tawny mustache; and I am afraid that he could not forget.

Jim proved himself an excellent correspondent, and kept his friend fully informed of all that occurred in their new home.

There was hardly a week passed that did not bring to Lester Conway some kindly token of Jim’s friendship. Conway was at first inclined to be angry at this, for he did not like to be patronized; but he soon came to look at it in a different light, and thanked his friends heartily for their kindness.

Jim had developed a passion for books—at least he said so—was buying them by the square foot, he humorously wrote Conway, and must unload all pertaining to medicine on his friend; and as the process of unloading was unremitting, Conway soon had a library such as he had dreamed of, but never before possessed.

They were very happy in their new home, Jim wrote, and were making so many new friends that their lonesomeness had nearly worn away.

As for himself, his letters said he was very busy with nothing at all to do. There was so much to see in that great city that he was forever exploring it, and continually finding something new and astonishing.

“All the sights are not pleasant ones,” he wrote sadly. “There are lights and shades, and I think the shades largely predominate. I am very thankful that I have the means to do some good, when so much is needed. I find myself swindled once in a while; but I don’t mind it much, for I find experience necessary even in trying to do good.”

Conway could easily see that his friend had not yet become spoiled by his good fortune, and often pictured to himself the good-hearted, kindly fellow, whose money would only make him a mark for the unscrupulous, and whose good heart was only too likely to make him a ready prey.

So his letters were mostly filled with sage advice and cynical sayings destined to save his friend from the many pitfalls of the metropolis.

So the fall and winter passed away, and he waited with all the patience he could muster for the advent of summer.

He knew they would return to the little farm—at least during the heated term—and he longed passionately for the time when he might at least see Norine again, even though they part again as hopelessly as ever.

He went very often to the little cottage, and planned with Mrs. Higgins for making it a very bower by the time its mistress returned.

There was some relief for him in this—some surcease of pain in touching the household treasures that he knew she valued, and in going over places dear to him by their associations with her. For the rest, he spent the day in labor and his nights in study, and waited for her coming.

He was something of a trial to good Mrs. Allan in these days, for she was very fond of him, and it disturbed her to have him so restless and miserable.

“I wish that Norine would go off and get married again, and be done with it,” the good lady thought fretfully. “Land knows I don’t see what he can find in her to make himself so miserable about. She is not nearly as handsome as my Lettie,” and Mrs. Allan would sigh grievously as she thought of the child of her heart, whom she might never see again.

True, she heard frequently from her niece—heard that she was contented and happy, and almost every letter contained a promise that some day they would be together again; but she had been gone nearly four years now, and the longed-for meeting was apparently as far off as ever.

“Doctor,” she said one day as he entered the house for his supper, “I have got a letter from Lettie.”

“Ah! is she well?” inquired Conway kindly.

“Yes, she says she is,” replied Mrs. Allan; “but she has asked me such strange questions.”

“About what?”

“You would never guess. She wants the name of Norine Bright’s husband, and wants me to tell her all I can about him. What ever she can mean I don’t know.”

“No harm, at any rate,” replied Conway, smiling slightly. “You know that all you women are more or less curious. I would write and tell her whatever she wants to know.”

“But I don’t know half myself,” said Mrs. Allan, hunting in her capacious pocket for the letter. “I do wish, doctor, I could get you to answer it for me; but, land knows, I hate to trouble you.”

“It is no trouble at all,” replied Conway pleasantly. “I should rather like to correspond with Miss Lettie after all this time.”

Perhaps Conway thought it better that he should tell this inquisitive girl what he thought best that she should know. So he took the letter from Mrs. Allan and went into his office to answer it. And so it came about that Lester Conway commenced a correspondence with Miss Lettie Allan that was destined to greatly affect the lives of both.

CHAPTER XXII.

AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.

It was not until spring that James Elwell and his bride returned to her father’s home. They had spent the fall and winter in Europe, part of the time rambling through Italy and southern Spain, and, of course, going up the valley of the Rhine, and skimming over the other places made famous by history or art. But it was society Fanny wanted. She was not greatly interested in the picturesque; so they spent the greater part of the time in the French capital, where they had entered into the American colony, and also into all the dissipations of that city.

Elwell had not intended to make such a long stay; but Morain had written him that he could not be of much service in the business during the winter, and that he had better have as long a play spell as possible, so that he would be able to work the harder for it when he returned. And inasmuch as Pat took it for granted that his son-in-law was to enter the firm on his return, and as he seemed perfectly willing to pay all the bills they incurred, heavy though they were, Elwell had been satisfied to enjoy himself after the French fashion, being wise enough to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted.

It had been a very pleasant winter for them both, and Fanny had been immensely pleased with the society of Paris. She imagined she had seen all there was to see; and as she numbered several titled reprobates among her acquaintances, she was convinced that she had been in very grand society indeed.

Very clever fellows those society adventurers are in all countries, and especially so in France. It was not at all hard for them to find out what this wealthy, frivolous American woman expected to find, and very little harder to furnish it for her; so Fanny gloried in the list of titled visitors at her weekly receptions, without the least idea that they were merely the scum of the elegant Parisian society that she fondly imagined herself a member of.

Of course, Elwell had a separate existence, after the French model, and knew as little about his wife’s pleasures as she did about his, and both were content.

It was a rainy, disagreeable day in March when they arrived at the city of sand and sawdust, and received the hearty greetings of old Pat Morain. Perhaps it was merely the effect of the disagreeable weather that caused Fanny to evince so much disgust at the appearance of everything. Certainly she was in a very discontented humor, and submitted to her father’s hearty caress with rather less than a daughter’s affection.

“There, father,” she cried pettishly, “don’t spoil my hat, for goodness’ sake!” And Pat retreated after one frosty kiss in rather a crestfallen manner.

“Ye’ve not changed much anyway,” he muttered to himself, looking at his daughter reproachfully; but he recovered his usual good nature directly, and shook hands with his son-in-law with hearty kindness.

“We have had a splendid time, father,” said Elwell gracefully, “and we thank you for it. You must not mind Fanny now. She is a little tired and out of spirits.”

“Mind it, me boy? Not a bit!” exclaimed Pat heartily. “You’re as welcome as a freshet on the river, and I’m mighty glad to think that you’ve enjoyed yourselves.”

“La, James!” cried Fanny shrilly—perhaps for the benefit of the bystanders—“who would have thought the old place could look so intensely disagreeable? Goodness knows, I’m glad I shall not be here long!”

Perhaps her husband had his own ideas as to the probable length of her stay; but he remained discreetly silent, and they got into the carriage that was waiting to take them home.

It took Fanny some days to recover her temper, if she could be said to have recovered it at all. But by the time her trunks arrived, she had recovered so far as to unpack and gloat over the numerous expensive dresses and other articles of feminine wear that she had brought from beloved Paris. But even in this her pleasure was marred by the thought that there was no one to exhibit them to, and absolutely no place in the neighborhood of this city of sand and sawdust that she could appropriately wear any of her exquisite toilets; so, perforce, she hung them away to wait as patiently as possible her hoped-for removal to a more enlightened place.

In the meantime, Elwell was very busy. He had been admitted to an equal partnership with his father-in-law, and was striving to master the many details of the business. Morain, like many other self-made men, had a peculiar method of keeping his accounts.

He understood them perfectly himself, but I doubt if any one else could. So Elwell, as a first move, was obliged to inventory the vast business that his partner had built up from nothing, and then proceed, with the aid of an experienced accountant, to systemize it.

Pat, instead of objecting to all this, allowed the younger man full swing, and even encouraged him in his innovations.

“Go it, young ’un,” he would say, grinning complacently. “Get a fair start, and then we will make ’em all stand from under.”

And really, Elwell proved himself a valuable acquisition to the firm; and his energy and tact, aided by Morain’s native shrewdness and knowledge of the business, soon began to make itself felt. Then, too, he was very popular with his fellow townsmen, and rapidly increasing in popularity. He was certainly a rising young man. His very audacity compelled success.

He had been a member of the firm of Morain & Elwell two or three months before there came a ripple over the placid stream of his contentment. This was caused by a letter from Mr. Peter Coleman, notifying him that he—Coleman—expected to reach the town of sand and sawdust shortly, with a view, possibly, of entering into the practice of his profession at that point, and he desired his friend and former client to give him as clear an idea as possible of the chances he might have for accumulating a remunerative practice.

This did not suit Elwell at all. It was well enough that he should make use of Mr. Peter Coleman, but he had no idea in the world of allowing Mr. Peter Coleman to use him.

“Of course he wants my help,” Elwell thought. “And if I give way to him, I shall be to a certain extent in his power.”

So he wrote a very short, terse letter, saying that there was not the slightest chance for a lawyer of Mr. Coleman’s abilities—he understood that word—in their little town, and strongly advised him not to come, intimating very plainly that if Mr. Coleman did come, he could expect neither advice nor assistance from him.

He felt a little uneasy for some time after this, for he dreaded an open rupture with Peter; but, as the time went on, and he heard no more about it, he concluded that Mr. Coleman had taken the advice given him without complaint, and he began to feel easier.

Coleman was the one link between him and his past life—the one being who had knowledge of things that he wanted buried out of sight forever; and I think that, if he did not actually wish any harm to befall his quondam friend, he would have received the news of his death with patient resignation.

Therefore, when he found that gentleman’s card on his desk one morning after he had concluded that he had heard the last of it all, he was not exactly pleased; and his greeting, when Mr. Coleman entered, was far from being as cordial as could be expected between such old friends.

But Peter did not appear to notice it, and only stayed a few moments.

“I’ll just go up and look over your town,” he said, “and this evening, if you are at liberty, we will talk things over.”

And from something in his tone and expression, Mr. Elwell concluded that he had better be at liberty.

CHAPTER XXIII.

PETER SHOWS HIS HAND.

We must now return for a space to Miss Allan, whom, I am afraid, we have greatly neglected. Lettie had returned to her aunt’s immediately after Fanny’s marriage. But there was a change in the girl that Coleman, with all his penetration, could not understand. He was perplexed and somewhat frightened at her demeanor. She did not try to avoid him. On the contrary, she managed to meet him very often. But there was no resumption of their old intimacy, and Peter could not understand it.

“She has certainly got some scheme in view, and I’d give my head to know what it is,” he thought.

But the more he puzzled over it, the more complex it became, and he would gladly have washed his hands of it all, if it had not been for the fear that the girl knew too much, and his anxiety to find out in whose behalf she was likely to use her power.

“If I only knew on which side she is retained,” he thought, “or what possible interest she can have in the business? Is it friendship for Fanny or Elwell?”

He doubted it. She was outspoken in her dislike for Elwell, and fully understood that the aversion was mutual. He had asked her once if she expected to visit them on their return, and she had coldly inquired in turn, if he thought it possible that she would receive an invitation?

At last Peter, in his desperation, decided to throw himself on the girl’s mercy, and find out at any rate if she was likely to be against him. But first, he thought, he would try a little ruse. So he procured a copy of the circular of death losses of that insurance company, and managed to leave it where he knew Lettie would see it. Then he waited. When he looked for it again the paper was gone. This decided him. He felt sure Lettie must know more than he cared to have her know. He left the room, and in a few moments returned quietly. Lettie was standing by the window, but the paper had not been returned.

“Lettie,” he said, “I left a paper here a few moments ago. What did you do with it?”

“Why should I touch any of your papers?” she demanded coldly.

“The Lord knows why you do,” replied Peter piously, “and I wish I did. This was the same paper you gave me to hand to Elwell—if I dared.”

He waited. The girl stood motionless by the window.

“Well, did you dare?” she asked indifferently.

“That does not matter. I left it here a few moments ago, and now it is gone.”

Lettie turned and faced him now.

“I have no use for the paper,” she said. “Where did you leave it?”

“There on the table.”

She slowly crossed the room to the table. There was nothing there.

“You must be mistaken,” she said, “unless this is it;” and she stooped and apparently picked up the little piece of greenish paper from the floor.

Coleman took the paper, greatly perplexed.

“Devil take her!” he said, under his breath; “she is more than a match for me.” Then he said aloud: “How did you know Mr. Elwell was interested in anything in this circular?”

“I did not know,” she replied coolly, “until you told me.”

“I told you?” ejaculated Peter in his astonishment.

“Yes, you,” replied Lettie. “I knew nothing about the paper more than that you had dropped it, and I simply took that way of returning it to you. Then, when you stormed around so, I knew I had hit some weak spot; but it was entirely by accident.”

Peter, who prided himself on his astuteness, and considered himself a match for most men in cleverness, had been overreached by a girl. It was bitter. And now, no doubt, she had a copy of that circular, or the means of obtaining one. And his clever ruse had only served to arm her against himself.

“Lettie,” he said desperately, “let us come to an understanding. You have always been open and square with me. Now, see. I had a big stake to play for, and it made me nervous. I see now that I have made a mistake, and I would like to know how the game stands. Now, are you a friend of Elwell’s?”

“I? Not at all,” replied Lettie quickly.

“Are you a friend of his wife’s, then?”

There was a slight pause, and then she replied, calmly:

“No; nor of his wife’s—in the way you mean.” Then she added: “Don’t be afraid of me. I will not prevent your getting money from him—if you can.”

“But you have some interest,” persisted Coleman. “Now, what is it?”

Lettie considered for a moment.

“No,” she said at last; “I do not think I have any interest in the matter; or, if I have, it can not concern you any. I will not interfere between you. But I should not like to have you hurt her father; and some day I would like to go there again for a day or so.”

She left the room without saying anything more, and apparently without noticing him. But Peter was satisfied. He knew that she was truthful, and knew, too, that if she was against him, she would not hesitate to tell him so. Whatever her interest in the matter was, it was not against him. And in his satisfaction he decided that she should have a chance to visit Fanny again, if he could bring it about.

With his feelings a great deal easier, he went to his office and wrote to Mr. James Elwell, and as soon as he could close up his affairs, followed the letter in person.

As Mr. Coleman expected, Elwell found that he was at liberty that evening; but it was without any appearance of cordiality or friendship that he went to the hotel after supper to meet the lawyer.

Elwell was determined that he would not give in an inch to his whilom friend, and he was equally determined that Coleman should not locate in town if he could prevent it.

“It is a blackmailing scheme,” he thought bitterly; “and if I don’t choke him off now, he will follow me all my life. Better fight it out now, and be done with it. At the worst, he can only say that I am a divorced man, and that cannot injure me now.”

On entering the hotel, he found Coleman in the bar and billiard room, watching with great interest a game that was being played.

“We cannot talk here,” Elwell said gruffly, disregarding his friend’s outstretched hand. “Come to the office with me.”

Peter glanced at him quickly.

“No,” he said; “we will go to my room. It is nearer—and safer,” he added, under his breath.

Elwell made no answer, but followed him upstairs to his room.

“Now, what is it?” he demanded, throwing himself into a chair.

Coleman seated himself, with the table between them.

“You do not seem very glad to see me,” he said lightly. “But that is probably because you do not understand the case. I have looked over the town, and talked with some of your best citizens, and I find that, with your assistance, I can get a brilliant opening here, and I have concluded to stay. Shall I ring for something?” he said, rising and moving over to the bell.

“No,” replied Elwell shortly. “I am not going to stay a moment.”

“I think you will stay long enough for that,” said Peter quietly.

And he rang for some whisky and cigars.

Elwell sat silent until they had been placed on the table; then he said, declining the proffered glass with a motion of his hand:

“So you have decided to stay?”

Coleman nodded, and drank his liquor with evident relish.

“With or without my assistance, I suppose?” Elwell inquired.

“Oh, no;” replied Peter smiling. “With your assistance, of course.

“You cannot have it!”

Peter looked at him, but made no reply.

“You cannot have it,” repeated Elwell sternly. “On the contrary, I will use my influence openly against you.”

Peter smiled, and said softly:

“See, now, how foolish some men are! Now, I have been around here to-day, and I find that you are very popular. You only need some clever fellow like me to pull the wires for you, and you can have anything you want. And all I ask in return is the business that you have to give to some one, and your assistance in procuring me the business of others. That can cost you nothing, and in return I can help you a great deal.”

“I do not want your help,” replied Elwell. “And I will just help you to the extent of paying your fare out of town—provided you go at once.”

And he arose from his chair, as if to leave the room.

“Sit still,” said Coleman quietly. “I do not think you understand. Now, it is better that we should be friends. Not so much on my account as on yours. You can help me—true; but you can not hurt me. And if I choose I can say——”

“You can say that I am a divorced man,” broke in Elwell scornfully. “And in return I can—and will—have you arrested for attempting blackmail.”

“You are altogether wrong,” replied Peter coolly. “When you interrupted me I was about to tell you that I could say that you were not divorced.”

Elwell stared at him incredulously.

Coleman continued calmly:

“You can take time and investigate this, and you will see that I am right. The party whom I trusted to procure your divorce sent me a forged document. I did not find it out until after you were married,” he continued mendaciously. “So I could not tell you before. But you have never been divorced from your first wife.”

Elwell poured himself out a glass of whisky, and drank it. His hand trembled as he raised the glass, and his lips were bloodless.

“How do I know that you are not lying now?” he demanded huskily.

“You will have a chance to investigate the matter when you wish,” replied Coleman quietly.

Elwell helped himself to another glass of liquor.

“You are trying to frighten me,” he cried; “but you cannot do it. Even if what you say is true, I have done no wrong, for you yourself assured me that I was legally divorced.”

“I have nothing more to say about it,” answered Coleman in the same even tones. “But there is another matter I wanted to speak to you about, and then I am done.” And he took from his pocketbook the circular of the Widows’ and Orphans’ Mutual Benefit Tontine Life Insurance Company, and laid it on the table. “You were insured in this company,” he said, speaking slowly and almost maliciously, “and you allowed them to pay the amount of your insurance to your supposed widow. And by doing so you became a party to a conspiracy to defraud, and laid yourself open to serve a term in State’s prison if it is ever found out;” and he laid great stress on the last few words.

“Curse you!” cried Elwell bitterly. “I should have known better than to put myself in your power!”

Coleman pretended to be busy lighting a cigar, and made no answer.

“Well, what do you want?” demanded Elwell savagely.

“Nothing—nothing at all,” replied Peter, smoking placidly.

Elwell stared at him.

“I have changed my mind in the last few moments,” said the lawyer in answer to his friend’s stare. “And I have concluded not to locate here after all. You have rejected the offer I made you, and I think I will locate elsewhere. That is all it is necessary for me to say, so I need not detain you longer.”

And he arose from his chair as if the interview was at an end.

“What do you intend to do?” demanded Elwell, with a savage light in his eyes.

“Nothing at present,” replied the lawyer. “I have no intention of saying anything to hurt you. I will simply drop you, as you intended to drop me. Some day you will need me, and then you will regret that you did not make a friend of me when you could.”

Elwell buried his face in his hands and tried to think.

“I must have time,” he cried; “I cannot think now.”

“You can have all the time you want,” replied the lawyer coolly. “But don’t you think you had better go home to your wife?” with a slight emphasis on the last word.

Elwell looked up. His face was haggard and his eyes bloodshot.

“Come,” he said hoarsely; “tell me what you want.”

“Nothing,” repeated the lawyer steadily. “I would not go into practice here now, unless it was at your earnest solicitation.”

“Very well; I wish it,” said the other briefly.

“And if I did, I should expect all the business of your firm, and your assistance to obtain business from others.”

“You shall have it,” said Elwell as briefly as before.

“Well, that is all,” continued Peter, “unless it is a little money, say five hundred or a thousand, just to carry me over for a while.”

The other nodded.

“And what do I get in return for all this?” he demanded.

“You get my friendship,” replied Peter gayly, “and my assistance. Why, man,” he cried, slapping his companion jovially on the shoulder, “with my help we will have you in Congress in less than two years, and then you can help me to something fat;” and he laughed pleasantly.

Elwell made no answer, but started to leave the room.

“It is all settled now, is it?” he asked, as he opened the door.

“All settled? Of course it is,” cried Peter pleasantly. “Come and drink success to my future practice.”

Elwell looked at him for a moment, and then took the glass he held out to him, and drained it. Then without a word he left the room.

“Faith, you’re an ugly customer,” said Peter, with a grimace, when he was alone. “It was an even thing whether I got my throat cut or won the game. But I won it,” he went on, with a sigh of relief. “And now, Peter, my boy, we’ll make a night of it.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE SUMMER TIME.

The first return of warm weather found James and Norine Darling at the little farm, and also found Lester Conway there to welcome them.

He had expected to find some change in Norine, but was not prepared for the great change that one year’s prosperity, with the advantages of city life, had wrought in her.

That was because he had not taken “dress” into account. He had expected to find her improved mentally and physically, but he had never contemplated any change in her appearance.

He had eliminated, in his masculine way, the subject of dress altogether, and in consequence he was dazzled by the magnificence of the apparition that descended from the carriage.

Norine had found her power in dress, as most handsome women do, I fancy, at one time or another.

She had departed arrayed in the greatest effort of the village dressmaker; she returned, and lo! she had been clothed by an artist.

I would not have you think that Norine had become vain or frivolous. It was not that, for she was very simply and modestly attired. But there is a magnificence in simplicity, no less striking than is the other extreme. And when poor Conway went to assist this evolution of “dress” from the carriage, his heart leaped for a moment with pride and rapture, and the next instant sank to the lowest depths of despair.

The simple grub of the mountains had evolved into the glittering butterfly of the metropolis.

“Why, Lester, you have not welcomed me at all!” cried Norine, as she stood with her eyes and cheeks flaming with joy at being back. “I thought,” she said, pouting a little, “that you would be glad to see me!”

“Glad?” cried Conway, but his eyes told the rest, and when he imprinted a brotherly kiss of welcome on her rounded cheek, there was a shyness in Norine’s receipt of the caress not altogether compatible with sisterly affection.

“I am so glad to be back!” she said, beaming on the good Mrs. Higgins. “No matter where I live, this will always be my home. Oh, how lovely everything looks!” and she gave a little sigh of rapture.

“Yes,” said Jim, who had come up with little Clinton in his arms, “there is no place like home. Now, I intend to have a pretty cottage put up this summer, and then we will have things something like——”

“Why, Jim Bright!” exclaimed Norine, forgetting the new name in her indignation, “you shall do nothing of the kind. The old place shall not be changed at all. It would be desecration to touch it.”

“Oh, all right,” replied Jim placidly. “If you are going to run the place, that settles it;” and he marched into the house with a great appearance of injury.

Norine and Conway came slowly up the little path together. She slipped her hand shyly under his arm.

“I do not think you are looking very well, Lester,” she said. “What is it?”

“Oh, there is nothing the matter with me,” replied Conway, passing his hand over his hair with that old gesture of his. “There is nothing at all the matter—now. I have been working pretty hard, and I have been a little lonesome at times, nothing more.”

“I am afraid you will not be very glad to have me back to trouble you,” murmured Norine. “For I do trouble you dreadfully, I know.”

“I am more than glad to have you back,” said Conway, pressing the hand that rested so lightly on his arm. “And you must not trouble me. You must remember, and”—with a little break in his voice—“be merciful.”

Norine made no answer to this, but she glanced softly at him as she entered the house, and her gayety seemed somewhat diminished.

Yet they were all very happy together that day; it was such a joyful home-coming. Jim went over the farm with his agent and general factotum, Higgins, and found many things to commend, while Norine was equally pleased with the care that Mrs. Higgins had taken with the house.

And Conway took Master Clinton to the big red barn and introduced him to all the animals and fowls of the farm, bringing him back presently in a perfect fever of delight over a certain speckled calf that Conway had gravely assured him had been sent expressly for him.

And then Norine had donned one of the big aprons, and had insisted on helping Mrs. Higgins to prepare dinner, whereupon Conway had valiantly seized the bread knife and expressed his determination to help them both.

They got rid of him, however, after some parley, and the two women were left alone.

“How nice everything is looking, Mrs. Higgins,” said Norine. “I had no idea that you could make the place look so pretty. And where did you get all those pretty vines? Why, the house will be covered with flowers by July.”

“Oh, them?” replied Mrs. Higgins, with her usual snort. “I didn’t get ’em; ther doc brot ’em over an’ stuck ’em in ther groun’ hisself. Ther doc’s gettin’ kinder cranky over flowers, I guess. He made the old man spade up that place over there, and planted it hisself. I told him I wanted thet place for the kitchen ’arbs; but lawk, he didn’t pay no ’tention ter me, but jes went on a-stickin’ in his seeds, like I hadn’t sed nothin’ ’tall.”

“Why, where are they?” cried Norine anxiously. “I can see no flowers?”

“Ther hain’t no flowers ter see, yit, an’ I don’t believe there’ll be none,” replied Mrs. Higgins, whisking away at some eggs that she was beating. “There’s some green stuff er comin’ up, but ’tain’t like no flowers I ever seen;” and she ended with a palpable sniff of disapproval.

Norine hurried out to the little plot that had cost Conway so much care. There was a border of dark leaves around the outside, and some tender shoots springing up at irregular intervals. But through the centre of the plot there was springing up some tender green shoots different from the rest, and Norine dropped on her knees with a little scream of delight, for there, just discernible above the dark ground, in the tenderest of tender green leaves, was her own name—Norine.

Her eyes became suspiciously moist at the sight of this, and her breast heaved a little.

“He is so good and thoughtful,” she murmured; and then she gave a little fluttering sigh and returned quietly to the house.

“Did you see hit?” inquired Mrs. Higgins, as she entered.

Norine nodded.

“I’ll hev ther old man spade it all up for yer if yer like,” resumed Mrs. Higgins pacifically. “I don’t take no stock in hit myself.”

“Spade it up?” cried Norine, flushing indignantly. “You must not touch it at all. I will care for it myself.”

Whereupon Mrs. Higgins snorted, but said no more, only there was a sly, almost pleased expression on her grim face, very much as if she had drawn Norine on as far as she wanted to.

The woods were still damp from the spring rains, so Norine was obliged to confine herself to the house and grounds for the day.

Conway had left immediately after dinner to look after some of his patients; but he had promised to come out again in the evening.

So Norine busied herself in unpacking her trunks and putting things in order for her summer stay.

Then there were the little presents for the Higginses to be presented and commented upon, and altogether Norine found the day slip past and evening come long before she had finished.

“Never mind,” she said to Mrs. Higgins. “The rest can wait.”

And she went out to the gate, and was there when Conway arrived.

“I am afraid that you should have something around you,” he said at once. “The evenings are chilly yet.”

“There,” cried Norine; “you commence at me already, and I came out on purpose to meet you, too.”

“I could better appreciate your kindness if it were not at the expense of your health,” replied Conway coolly. “You had better go in and get a shawl, and come to meet me again. I will wait here for you.”

Norine laughed, but went for the shawl, nevertheless, leaving Conway leaning over the gate and pulling his mustache thoughtfully, as he watched her run lightly up the path.

“Oh, Lester,” said Norine as she returned, panting a little, from her run. “I want to thank you for your kindness, and I don’t know how to do it. That flower-bed is just lovely.”

She had joined him now, and they were walking slowly up the road.

“I am amply repaid if it pleases you,” Conway replied, laughing a little. “I was very uneasy about that bed, for it was my first attempt at gardening, and I was in doubt as to the result. Now, since it pleases you, I am rather proud of my work.”

“No wonder; it is pretty enough to make any one proud. I am half inclined to try it myself.”

“Do so,” advised Conway. “I will give you some of the seed, and I think you will do better than I did; for I am afraid I pushed the season along a little in my experiment. But there, I wanted you to see it when you returned. And now,” he broke off abruptly, “tell me about New York. Have you plenty of company?”

“Oh, plenty!” answered Norine, raising her eyebrows expressively; “and very entertaining company, too. We have a very pleasant house there,” she went on, “and some very pleasant friends.”

“And lovers, I suppose?” inquired Conway gloomily.

“Oh, lovers, of course,” replied Norine mischieviously. “But then,” she added, “old friends are dearest.”

“I am glad you did not forget us all,” said Conway. “But tell me how you have enjoyed yourself?”

And then Norine, pouting a little at his abtuseness, entered into a minute account of their city life; and they were in the midst of it when they returned to the house.

Conway was almost a daily visitor at the cottage after this.

“His people were shamefully healthy that summer,” he said, “and he was not half busy enough.” But I fancy that he had all the practice he wanted, for all that, and perhaps neglected a little of what he had.

But if he did neglect his practice, there was no complaint made, and so he could idle through the greater part of the summer with Norine.

“It is shameful the way we go on,” said Norine, one day. “I declare, we do nothing but wander through the woods together, when we should be doing something useful. Just think; you, a physician, with the lives of so many in your hands, and I almost an old woman.”

“I don’t see that you are getting very old,” replied Conway, looking at her critically. “Look at me now. I am getting gray.”

And he passed his hand thoughtfully over his head.

“But I am nearly as old as you are,” retorted Norine. “And see what a great boy Clinton is getting to be! We both ought to be doing something useful.”

“We are,” replied Conway lazily; “at least I am. I am storing my mind with your wise sayings. I shall pass them all off as original after you go.”

“Nonsense!” laughed Norine, blushing a little. “Don’t be a goose, Lester. Really, I am ashamed of myself.”

“It is very pleasant,” commented Conway.

He was lying flat on his back in the shade, with his hands clasped under his head.

“Yes, it is very pleasant,” assented Norine; “and I shall dread leaving the little place.”

Conway let his head fall, and gazed blankly at the blue sky overhead.

“She was right,” he thought. “It was all very foolish—the bliss of her presence was supreme now, but there was the parting to come.”

He had not allowed himself to feed on false hopes; he had no expectation of winning her love. He had simply been content to enjoy the bliss of her presence without speculating on the future. But she was right—there was the parting to come; and he shrank coward-like from its bitterness.

As he lay there supinely at her feet, he wondered if it were not better to end it all, and speculated over the old problem: Was his life worth the living, after all?

This summer had been full of pleasure for him. Many a man would be content to die for so much, rather than stand the bitterness that was to follow.

Then his strong common sense asserted itself, and he shook himself together and glanced at Norine. She was sitting with her hands folded together in her lap, and gazing into vacancy. He looked at her sadly for a moment, and then turned his eyes away.

“She is thinking of him,” he thought bitterly, and he sighed unconsciously.

Norine woke from her reverie.

“My! what a sigh that was!” she said, laughing. “Tell me what you were thinking about to cause so doleful a sigh.”

Conway did not smile in return. He turned his head so as to see her face.

“I was thinking of the future,” he said quietly.

Norine’s face wore a troubled look for a moment.

“Don’t think ill of the future,” she said. “Who can tell what it may have in store for you?”

“You will return to Bright Farm next summer, I suppose?” hazarded Conway abruptly.

“Next summer is a long way off yet,” replied Norine. “I hope to come, of course; but you are not to expect me to spend all my summers in idleness. I will have work to do.”

“What great work are you contemplating?” inquired Conway.

“Well, there is Clinton’s education, for one thing, and that necessitates an improvement in my own. I will study—I would not care to have my boy think me ignorant when he grows up.”

Conway entered heartily into this.

“I think you are right,” he said. “Not that you are ignorant, for you are not, but because good reading is of great benefit to all, and it is well for a woman in your position to broaden your ideas as much as possible, that you may be better able to do what good you can understandingly.”

“I was not thinking of myself,” protested Norine, “but of Clinton.”

“Oh, you will trouble yourself too much about him, of course,” replied the doctor, gazing fondly at her. “That is to be expected from a woman. Do not commence with him too soon; it is better that his mind should remain fallow for a time; then put him into some good public school, and he will take care of himself. If he has to rough it a little, it will be all the better for him. I am only saying this professionally,” continued Conway. “I have no idea of being able to convince you. You will coddle the lad as most mothers do, and probably spoil him before he is ten years old.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” returned Norine indignantly. “It is all well enough for you to talk, but you coddle him, as you call it, a great deal more than I do, and so does Jim;” and she marched into the house with her head erect and cheeks burning.

And so the summer passed, and the chilly evenings began to herald the coming of fall, and the little family at the cottage were getting ready for their return to the city.

Norine had been through the woods with a little basket of things for the Higgins children, and returned, as was usual with her, by way of the little hut in the woods.

It was a very dilapidated little hut now, and would have fallen long ago but that Conway, knowing how often she went there, took a little care of it for her.

She had been singing merrily as she came through the woods, but the song stopped when she came in sight of the shanty; and as she stopped at the door and looked around the place, her face became thoughtful.

“I wonder if he knows?” she said softly. “I wonder if it grieves him in the other world to know that I care for some one else? Not that you are forgotten, dearest,” she said, as if she were holding a conversation with some imaginary person. “I do not love you any the less, but I can’t help loving him too;” and she looked down as if she had made a shameful confession. “Oh, I don’t know what to do!” she cried piteously. “If I only knew—if I only knew!” and she turned sadly from the door.

Conway did not come that day. Truth to tell, the doctor found this parting harder to bear than even he had anticipated, and he hardly dared to trust himself with Norine. But on the next day he came. There was only one more day now before their departure.

“Come,” he said; “shall we go through the woods once more?” And she got her hat, with her heart fluttering ominously, and joined him.

They were both silent and preoccupied as they went over the well-known places together, and they were nearing home again before they either of them awoke from their trance.

“And this is the last time,” said Conway at last; “and after to-morrow we part?”

Norine tried to make some trifling reply, but could not accomplish it.

“Perhaps next summer——” she began weakly.

“We can neither of us tell where we will be next summer,” replied Conway gloomily, and then lapsed into silence.

They were nearly home, when she laid her hand timidly on his arm.

“I want to tell you something,” she said, “if you will not blame me.”

He stopped and looked at her, but made no reply. What was there that he could blame her for?

“You are such an old friend,” she said, standing before him with downcast eyes and fluttering hands. “You are such an old friend, you will understand me and not think any wrong of me. But, oh, Lester! you have been so good, and—and I like you so much, that I wanted to tell you, before I go, that if you want me to, very bad, I will be your wife.”

And then before he could recover from his stupor; before he could even take her in his arms, she was flying homeward as if possessed of wings, leaving him faint with his sudden happiness.

She was home before he got there, and had locked herself in her room. But she would see him to-morrow, she said, and he went home reeling with the happiness that as yet he could scarcely understand.

How he passed the night he never knew. He lived in another world. That this happiness he had waited so long for should come to him so unexpectedly was almost incomprehensible, and a dozen times that night he woke to wonder if it were not all a dream.

Good, motherly Mrs. Allan was somewhat startled at the sudden change in his appearance. But when he called her Norine and abstractedly stirred his coffee with his fork, she understood it all; and there came a gentle glow in her motherly heart as she thought that now, perhaps, she and her darling Lettie might be reunited.

Of course, he was at the little cottage early in the morning, unnecessarily early, perhaps; but he could wait no longer. He found Jim in the garden.

“Congratulate me!” he cried joyously. “She is mine at last!”

“Thank the Lord!” replied Jim piously. “I do congratulate you heartily; but I knew she wanted to marry you all the time.”

Conway did not stop to hear him. Going into the kitchen, he found Norine—alone. She met him gladly. And as they stood there, heart to heart, her soft arms around him, her tender lips pressed close to his, the joy of possession filled his heart, and he was at peace.

Of course, there must be some alloy to all this happiness. He must wait yet another year, Jim protested; but Conway could not; he was too happy. She wished it, though, and he would wait.

When the carriage came at last, and the brother and sister had left the little farm, Conway contrasted this with their last parting.

The little cottage was desolate again. The chill winds of autumn blew through the leafless branches of the trees. The Higginses were as disconsolate as before. But to Lester Conway the world was altogether different.

CHAPTER XXV.

ELWELL’S POPULARITY.

Elwell manfully maintained his word, given to Peter Coleman, and the results were at once apparent. Perhaps, when he came to fully understand his dangerous position, he was not sorry to keep so clever an adviser as Peter near him all the time.

He fully understood the danger of his situation now, and could find no possible means of relief. He must trust altogether to chance, and chance might wreck him at any moment.

Luckily he had never had any confidants. Peter was the only one beside himself who really knew anything; and really when he came to consider it, there was very little chance for any one else to find out.

He had never been able to explain that meeting with Norine in the hotel corridor, and at this distance of time it seemed impossible. How could this simple country girl, who had never left that little farm, but to accompany him on that short bridal tour, be alone in a fashionable and expensive New York hotel?

It was impossible. In all probability it had been the result of his feverish imagination, or he had been misled in that dark corridor by some chance resemblance. At all events, it was beyond all the probability of chance that she should ever find her way to this little Michigan town. And even if she did, there was no one but himself and Peter that knew his divorce to be fraudulent.

It would be plenty good enough to impose on those simple-minded country people. And so he went on and hedged himself around with his fancied chances for security.

There was only one chance against him, that he could see, and that was the possibility of Peter proving treacherous. Well, he would try what friendship and patronage would do first; but if Peter turned restive, there were other means that could be employed in an emergency, and as he thought of them, there came a steely glitter in his eye that boded ill for Coleman should he prove himself a traitor.

There was no reason as yet, however, to fear Coleman. He was rapidly building up a business that would be profitable enough to render him independent of any future assistance from Elwell. He was attending strictly to it, and making a record as a successful lawyer.

Peter was not likely to kill the goose that laid his golden eggs, by any means—he was too shrewd for that, and Elwell had not been called on for money but once when Peter first came.

In fact, Elwell soon began to find in his friend a very valuable ally. He was popular himself and very ambitious. He had tact, and could meet and make friends of men who were socially his equals, but he was deficient in that unscrupulous audacity necessary for a successful local politician.

This, Coleman supplied for him, and with his help the coveted nomination did not seem so impossible to obtain.

So, all things considered, Elwell had no reason to regret his intimacy with Coleman, for all that intimacy had been forced upon him.

The summer had passed away, leaving Elwell more engrossed in business than ever, and becoming daily more confident of his safety.

Fanny worried him for a time over his promised change of residence.

“Why will you persist in living here?” she cried fretfully. “You only do it to annoy me. You know how I detest the place, and besides that,” she continued in a deeply injured tone, “you know you promised before we were married.”

“But, dear,” protested Elwell, “it is impossible at present. I could not leave here now without serious injury to the business. Be patient for a little longer and we will move.”

But Fanny was hard to appease.

“You promised,” she repeated pettishly, “and you should keep your word.” And she repeated this so often that his life became a burden.

“Only wait,” he said one day, “and if things go right, you may have a chance to show your dresses to good advantage.”

“What things?” inquired his wife, incredulously. “Is it always to depend on chance?”

“Not altogether on chance this time. It is not yet settled; but I think I will get the nomination for Congress.”

Fanny gasped. This was beyond her wildest dreams.

“Oh, James,” she cried, “is it possible?”

“Yes; I think it more than possible. It is altogether probable. But you must remember that it is not yet settled; so you must beware of disappointment. You had better not count on it until you are sure.”

But Fanny was already sure. It was enough for her that her husband considered it probable. She accepted it as a certainty. And from that time forward she devoted a greater part of her time to the contemplation of herself as the wife of a member of Congress, and, of course, a leader of society in Washington.

That same afternoon Coleman dropped into the little office at the mill.

“I did not come to see you,” he said, on finding Elwell in the office. “But since you are here, you can tell me what our chances are for receiving some help from Mrs. Elwell.”

“How can she help us?” inquired her husband.

“Oh, she can help, if she will. Let her go out among the women, especially among the wives of the mill hands, and if she plays her cards right, she can help us a great deal.”

“I only mentioned the matter to her to-day,” Elwell said. “I did not expect that she would be called upon for assistance.”

“Oh, that is nothing,” protested Peter, misunderstanding him. “All the women do that; all she needs is a little tact.”

“That is just it,” replied his friend. “I rather doubt the expediency of calling upon her for help.”

Coleman thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and walked over to the window, whistling softly.

“If she can’t do it right, that settles it,” he said presently. “But we need some help.” He came back from the window and seated himself on the desk, swinging one of his short fat legs in the air. “I tell you what,” he said at last, “you get your wife to send for Lettie Allan. Oh, you need not look so indignant,” he went on. “If you can get her over here she will be worth a dozen men.”

“I am not likely to advocate any such thing,” replied Elwell coldly. “You must find some other way out.”

“There is no one else I know of that would do so well,” persisted Coleman. “It requires a peculiar tact. Mill women are hard to handle. It requires some one that will impress them by her appearance, and yet keep them friendly. Better take my advice.”

“Probably for your benefit,” sneered Elwell.

“No; you are altogether wrong there,” the other protested warmly. “I know more about that girl than you do. Why, we are not even friends—I wish we were,” he said slowly; “for I would marry her to-morrow if she would have me.”

Elwell stared incredulously.

“It is so,” continued Peter. “I made one of the greatest mistakes of my life there, and I wish I hadn’t. But you need not fear me; only take my advice and get her over here as soon as possible. See, now,” he went on, seeing some signs of wavering in his friend’s face. “I have always given you good advice. Take this now, and you will find it to your interest.”

“I hardly agree with you,” retorted Elwell. “But if you are determined to marry the girl, I suppose I must help you; but I must consult my wife about it first.”

“All right,” replied Peter briskly; “that settles it; and now I must see Morain. I want to have him elected to the convention, and, like you, I must consult with him first.”

“Not much danger there. I fancy he’ll go quick enough.”

“If he does, he will carry a heap of strength with him. Where is he?”

“Out in the yard, I guess, or down at the drive. Shall I send for him?”

“No,” laughed the other as he went out; “I want to find him good-natured. If he is only up to his waist in water now, he will be just right.” And he went away confident that he had accomplished his purpose and that Lettie would soon be with them.

Elwell went home that night in doubt as to the best course to pursue. There was very little to be expected of Fanny in the way of help; that he knew, and he was sharp enough to see the value of a woman’s assistance.

He did not doubt his wife’s willingness; but she was incapable. He found Fanny flushed with excitement over her probable elevation, socially. She noticed at once that he looked troubled.

“What is the matter?” she cried. “There is nothing wrong?”

Her husband seated himself in his easy-chair.

“There is nothing the matter,” he said. “I have only been thinking about you. You ought to have some one here with you for a while—some good, clever woman that could help you in case we have to entertain. Besides that, you need some company yourself.”

“I am sure I think so,” she replied, in her usual tone of deep injury. “I am just as lonesome as I can be.”

“Why not invite some one, then?”

“You have never mentioned it before,” she said; “and I really don’t know whom to invite.”

“You had better think of some one,” he returned carelessly. And having left it thus to chance, he said no more about it.

Peter called at the house that evening, expecting to find Elwell; and being disappointed in this, stopped for a moment to chat with Fanny.

“By the way,” he said, “have you heard from Miss Allan lately?”

This was the very inspiration Fanny needed.

“I have not heard from her in an age,” she cried, shrilly. “Where is she—at home?”

Coleman presumed so.

“And do you think I could get her to come over and visit me for a while? You have no idea how lonesome I am.”

He had no doubt but Miss Allan would be glad to come.

“Oh, I am so glad!” cried Fanny. “I have been dying to see the darling girl for ever so long. I will write at once and ask her.”

And Coleman went away smiling slyly, perfectly sure of the result. And he was right this time, for in less than a week Miss Allan was installed in the Morain household as a visitor for an indefinite period.

Peter managed to tell her what was expected of her without any unnecessary delay.

“You said you would be glad to come,” he said; “and now I want you to help us out, and I will see that Elwell makes it worth your while. And by the way,” he went on, hesitating a little, “you had better not mention what is past.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Lettie, turning on him haughtily.

“Why, I mean about that paper, you know, and all that.”

Lettie nodded quietly.

Coleman walked the floor for a moment, in an uneasy frame of mind. He was yet in doubt how far he should trust her. At last he said:

“You came near making trouble once, without knowing it; and I had better tell you that Elwell has a divorced wife living, and he does not care to have it known; so you will have to be a little careful.”

Lettie nodded again. It was a matter of indifference to her, and she was not likely to concern herself about it. She did all that was required of her, and did it well, proving herself an invaluable ally. Yet she had no interest in it at all. It was simply the excitement that she craved.

She could never become close friends with Fanny. She could find nothing congenial in that shallow nature. As for Elwell, they avoided each other tacitly, and the only one she cared for at all was Mr. Morain. They became close friends, and old Pat would have sworn by her.

She had many chances for doing good. There was no limit placed on the amount of money she spent, and she loved charity for its own sake. So she stayed through the short but exciting campaign, quiet and helpful, often shielding Fanny from the effects of her many blunders, and making friends of all she met.

She was there and received the telegram that notified the waiting family that the first step had been accomplished, and James Elwell had been nominated to represent that district in the National Congress, and the excitement engendered in the little town by the news was almost bewildering.

It was the first time in the history of the place that one of its citizens had been honored by a nomination to any Federal office, and the town went almost crazy over it.

Banners with mottoes more or less appropriate were stretched across the one business street, from almost every building, and flags, also covered with mottoes, were raised wherever a pole could be found able to bear one. The mottoes were almost as varied in wording as were the banners in shape and size, but “Elwell and Reform” predominated over all the others.

No one had any idea of the particular “reform” that he was expected to bring about; but he had been nominated as a “reform” candidate by a “reform” convention, and therefore the mottoes must be appropriate.

There was no doubt of his election; even the adherents of the rival candidate, who was also for “reform,” were disposed to hedge on the congressional ticket, in order, probably, to be on the winning side.

There was no doubt about his election, for he was not only a “reform” candidate, but he was also the “workingman’s” candidate. And so all the wealthy salt and lumber men of the district got together and contributed a large fund to cover the expenses of the campaign, and possibly to convince the workingmen that this was their candidate; and as there happened to be no wealthy salt and lumber men to contribute to the campaign expenses of the rival candidate, his defeat was conceded by all, no one appearing to think there was any “reform” necessary in this particular.

When Morain and Coleman returned from the nominating convention they received a tremendous ovation.

Old Pat had made a telling speech in favor of his candidate, and had paid the expenses of all the delegates who had favored him; and it was conceded by all that Peter had spent the money judiciously. And the entire town turned out in honor of these two “reformers;” they had some speech-making in public, and some other brands of enthusiasm in private, and the bar and billiard room of the hotel did not open until a late hour next morning, in consequence of some of these “reformers” becoming so overcome by enthusiasm that they could not be removed until they recovered.

And twice a week thereafter there were afternoon and evening meetings on the public square, in behalf of one of these “reform” candidates—with this difference: when a meeting was held for “Elwell and Reform,” the mills and salt blocks shut down, so that the hands could go, and to howl their approbation.

Of course, when the meeting was held for the other fellow and reform, the mills and salt blocks went on as usual. He was not a workingman’s candidate.

In the immediate family of the popular candidate the excitement was at fever heat.

Elwell had given Lettie a diamond ring, as a slight recompense, he said, for her valuable assistance, and old Pat had inclosed a check for a large amount in an envelope, and sent it to her as delicately as possible.

She was to stay with them until the election was over—that was settled—and, as Pat said, they expected with her help to have every woman in town with them. They all acknowledged the value of her quiet assistance, and were all—even Fanny—very gracious to her.

Even if he were elected, he would not be called to Washington for something over a year; but Fanny at once began her preparations. She began by counting up the numerous articles of wear that she must positively have; and that gave an excuse for her and Lettie making a visit to Grand Rapids to see if her few little necessaries could be prepared there.

But as this kept her out of mischief that might have been more expensive, they were all quite satisfied.

As Elwell was now away the greater part of the time, making speeches and otherwise convincing the voters that he, and not the other fellow, was the “reform” candidate, the two women were left alone to find such solace as they might in each other’s company.

Fanny was perfectly satisfied with this, for she could talk dress and society to Lettie very much better than to a man. But as her conversation was mainly confined to these topics, I am afraid that Lettie found it a trifle wearisome.

There was only one other topic that Fanny could talk about, and that was her husband. She had never been an affectionate wife, probably because she had never been called upon to show her affection. But as the months went past and the certainty of his election became more apparent, she would talk of his many good qualities for hours at a time, and Lettie would listen with wearied indifference.

There was no relief. Coleman was busy writing leaders for the untrammeled press—that is, such of the untrammeled press as were in favor of their “reform” candidate; and Mr. Morain was busy at the mill.

Lettie would go down there occasionally and talk with old Pat, while she watched the busy saw slice the massive logs of odorous pine into lumber as easily and smoothly as one could cut cheese. Or standing with him on the banks of the rapid saffron-hued river, watch the red-shirted raftsmen, while they sprang from log to log, running as lightly and surely on the rapidly moving logs as an ordinary person could over a kitchen floor.

This she could do occasionally; but the greater part of the time she was obliged to sit and listen to Fanny’s insane drivel. She would have fled from it, only that she dreaded to return to Chicago. And often during this time she would long for the quiet home and affectionate greetings that were waiting for her in that little Pennsylvania village.

She fully intended to return there some day, but she did not feel strong enough yet. She must wait until she became stronger and purer. She had been thinking of all this one day—thinking of her aunt and the pleasant village home, and of Lester Conway, until her heart ached with longing.

“If he were only away,” she murmured passionately, “I could go back there. Dear old auntie would forgive me, even if she knew; but I cannot face him yet.”

And so she thought and thought, until, fearing to be alone longer with her thoughts, she went wearily down to the sitting room to join Fanny.

“My goodness, Lettie, your eyes look perfectly shocking!” cried that amiable lady, as she entered the room. “Have you been crying?”

“No; I never cry,” returned Lettie coldly. “I have a headache, that is all.”

“Bathe it in cologne,” suggested Fanny. “That always cures my headache.”

“I am afraid it would not cure mine,” said Lettie. “I will lie down for a while, and perhaps it will get better.”

She lay down on a sofa near the window, and dreamily watched the clouds sail past. She could see the lake from where she was, and could see the waves roll in and break themselves upon the sandy shore.

“Like our hearts,” she thought; “they break over things that they should be able to cast aside;” and then her thoughts returned to her Pennsylvania home and to Lester Conway. “If it were not for her,” she thought bitterly, “he might have cared for me.”

She was thinking this with her heart full of bitterness, when Fanny spoke softly.

“Lettie,” she said, “did you ever know a woman named Norine?”

Lettie sprang from the sofa in her astonishment; for a moment her mask of cold indifference was lifted.

“Whom did you say?” she cried breathlessly.

“Dear me, how excited you get,” said Fanny peevishly. “I only asked you if you had heard the name before.”

The mask dropped again over Lettie’s face.

“You startled me a little,” she said coldly. “What was the name?”

“Norine.”

Lettie passed her hand over her heart. She was greatly excited, without exactly knowing why; but she would not let Fanny see her excitement.

“I have heard it somewhere,” she said quietly. “An Irish name, isn’t it?”

“Gracious! I don’t know,” replied Fanny. “I have heard it but once in my life.”

“When was that?” inquired Lettie indifferently.

She had returned to the window now, and was standing with her back to Fanny.

“It was the strangest thing that ever happened to me,” Fanny replied; “and I have never mentioned it to a living soul. It was when we were in New York, on our way to Europe, and James went out of the room for a moment, and returned as white as a sheet, looking for all the world as if he had seen a ghost. My, how frightened I was!”

Lettie was plainly interested now. She took a chair in front of Fanny, and stared at her intently. Fanny was greatly flattered by her attention.

“I declare,” she went on, “I was frightened almost to death.”

Lettie nodded attentively.

“Well, he burst into the room, as I have told you,” Fanny continued sensationally, “and dropped into a chair. I was going to call for assistance, but he would not let me. And just think! He staggered over to the table and drank a whole tumbler of wine at once! Just think of it!”

“And then what?” inquired Lettie.

“Well, then he got somewhat better—said it was a fit, and that he was subject to them; but he has never had one since.”

She said this as if it had just occurred to her as a very singular thing indeed.

Lettie got up and resumed her place by the window.

“But the strangest thing of all is, that when he fell asleep—from the effect of the wine, I suppose—he muttered names in his sleep——”

“What names?” inquired Lettie, turning again.

“He said ‘Norine’ and ‘Clinton,’” replied Fanny; “and I have never been able to find out what they meant.” And her voice fell to its usual tone of deep injury.

Lettie knew; she knew it all now. And this man was Norine Bright’s husband—her husband, and alive. Lester could not marry her after all.

She must get away from this little fool, and think it out. She made an indifferent reply.

“Some memory of his childhood, perhaps, or some one that he knew long ago.” And with that she retreated to her own room.

Yes, she understood it all now. From her constant correspondence with Conway she was conversant with all that had transpired at home, and she understood that this husband who had died so mysteriously was not dead at all.

Her first thought was one of exultation. “He cannot marry her now,” she thought.

But then her heart fell. What more hope was there for her? She was not fit to become Lester Conway’s wife.

He would spurn her from him, if he knew all of her past life; and she would not have deceived him, even to become his wife.

How should she use this information became her calmer thought. There was only one way that she could see. She thought of Conway, loving even as she loved, and thought, if this blow should strike him after they were married! No; it was better for him, better for all, that he should know it as soon as possible.

Her aunt had only written that they were to be married. Lettie did not know how soon. They might be married even now.

There was no time to be lost. She must notify him at once. But then again, how? She could not do it from his house. She must return to Chicago; and she got on her things to go out.

At the foot of the stairs she met Fanny.

“Why, where are you going?” she asked. “Are you better?”

“No, not much,” the girl replied feverishly. “I will walk down to the mill. Perhaps the air will do me good.”

Hurrying past her, she went out and took her way at a rapid pace to the mill.

“I must get away,” she thought; “I must get away at once. Perhaps even now I am too late.”

She found old Pat, and informed him briefly that she must go home for a time.

“Go home before the election!” cried Pat, in amazement. “Not a bit of it, my girl; we can’t spare you. What is the matter? Have you and Fanny had a falling out?”

Oh, no; it was nothing like that. She and Fanny were good friends; only she must go, and at once.

Morain noticed her partly repressed agitation.

“Well, my girl,” he said kindly, “if you must go, you must, and I will not prevent you. I am almighty sorry you are going; but then perhaps you can get back in time for the jollification;” and he patted her hand kindly.

“Yes, I will come if you ask me,” said Lettie, only anxious to get away; and she hurried back to the house to pack her things ready for the morning boat.

They were all greatly surprised at her sudden departure; but then, as Peter said, she always was a strange girl, and so they thought nothing about it. And the few remaining days went past until that chill November day came that told all the world that “Elwell and Reform” had triumphed, and that James Elwell was the duly elected member of Congress.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A BOMB.

That winter was altogether different from the preceding one. Time seemed to fly, and Conway gloried that each night brought him one day nearer to Norine.

He had plenty to do; time could not hang very heavy on his hands. In fact, he could hardly get time enough to himself wherein to dream of Norine and his future happiness.

True, his heart fell a little at times over the delay she had imposed upon him; but he was a true knight, and too loyal to make complaint. The time would soon pass, and then she would be his forever. And, thinking of this, his step became as light and his presence as cheery as of yore.

“Bless the man,” Mrs. Allan would exclaim, as he came bounding up the stairs, whistling cheerfully—“bless the man; how young he is getting, to be sure! And just because she has promised to marry him at last. Land knows, she made the poor fellow wait long enough.”

And then the good lady would sigh a little as she thought of Lettie, and how different she would have had things in this world if she only had the power to arrange them.

Conway had managed to get away from his patients for the Christmas week, and had spent that time with Norine in New York, resuming his old acquaintance with city life.

It was a week of mingled bliss and excitement, and almost unfitted him for a return to his simple country life.

“I think I will take your advice and locate here after we are married,” he said to Jim. “Norine should not return to that dull place after living here, and, of course, she cannot expect to move around much after she becomes the wife of a poor physician.”

“Perhaps that poor physician won’t be so poor after he is married,” replied his friend. “Of course, you are coming here to live, whether you go into practice or not. But you need not think I am helping you capture my sister without expecting some recompense.”

“Indeed? I had no idea of that. How am I to recompense you?”

“Oh, that is all settled,” replied Jim seriously. “We are going to have a run through Europe. No, not a run,” he said, correcting himself, “but a saunter. Idle around there for a year or two perhaps,” with a careless wave of his hand. “And after that you and I are going into partnership.”

“Into partnership? Are you going to study medicine while we are sauntering through Europe?”

Jim laughed.

“No; I don’t mean that exactly,” he said. “You will have the pill-giving in your own hands. Only I am paying out so much money now for medical attendance among my poor people, that I thought I could save money by going into partnership with my physician.”

Conway was greatly amused.

“I have no doubt you could,” he said, laughing heartily, “if you could only find one able to share the gains of your profitable business—and the losses.”

“Well, that is why I am getting a physician for a brother-in-law,” retorted Jim coolly.

Conway returned to his village home, but not until he had an understanding with Norine.

“I do not wish to cut short your liberty,” he said fondly. “I will wait if it pleases you; but you must tell me how long I am to live without you. Remember, I have waited for many years now, and you must have pity on me.”

Norine looked up at him proudly.

“I do wish to have pity on you,” she said softly, “and on myself. I wish we were married now.”

“Then why should we wait?” demanded Conway eagerly.

“I do not know, Lester,” she said soberly. “I cannot tell even myself; for I love you, and I will be proud and happy to be your wife. But just think, Lester, it seems so cruel to poor Clinton.”

“Cruel that you should be so happy?”

“Yes,” said Norine. “When I think of his miserable death, and of all that occurred at that time, it seems cruel in me that I can be so happy. I often wonder,” she went on dreamily, “if he knows of it, and what he can think.”

This was not very pleasant for poor Conway, and would have been unendurable if he had not known it was only the voice of his love’s superstition. He knew that she loved him, and hoped that this morbid feeling would wear away after they were once married.

“You must not think of that,” he said, kissing her fondly. “If Clinton still loves you, he will be glad to know that you are happy. Do not wait, my love; come to me at once.”

“No; I will not wait long,” she answered softly; “and we will be very happy together. Let us say a year from now,” she said, looking at him demurely. “That is not long.”

Conway was of the opinion that it was altogether too long.

“I do not think I can wait a year,” he said. “Think how long I have waited.”

But it was no use. She was not willful. She surrendered to him all the wealth of her affection, but on this point she was immovable.

“Do as I wish in this,” she said, “and I will be obedient to you forever after. It is not long to wait, and we will be together all next summer; so you will not miss me badly. You will wait for me, I know;” and she put her soft white arms around his neck and pressed her ripe red lips to his.

And with this understanding, he returned to his practice, and the days slipped rapidly by, and with the coming of spring came also his love.

Conway had an assistant now—a young physician whom Jim had found striving for an existence in New York, and had induced to move to this little town that he might eventually succeed to Conway’s practice. So Lester had plenty of time at his disposal, and they resumed their wanderings through the woods, and their readings in the shade of the wide-spreading trees, and were—as Jim expressed it—“as idiotically happy as possible.”

Jim was perfectly content. It had been the dream of his life that Conway should marry Norine, and he was happy in the proposed consummation of his wishes.

Conway was a poor man, and some brothers, under the same circumstances, would have looked higher for their sister’s husband; but Jim was satisfied.

“What has money to do with it?” he thought indignantly. “We have more than we can ever hope to spend; and when one has money to back him, it is always easy to make more.”

And, in fact, Jim—aided perhaps by the caution and frugality taught him by his past life—was making instead of spending money. He was buying a great deal of land, and his investments were turning out well.

There was no danger of the fortune, hoarded so carefully by their aunt, growing any smaller in his hands; so he was content, though he would make a great show of growling, because he and little Clinton were left so much alone. But he would smoke his pipe in high good humor with the world for all that.

There was the most perfect confidence existing between this brother and sister, as there was indeed between all three. Jim had entire control of the large estate, and the greater part of it stood in his name. Yet he intended it all for Norine and little Clinton. Norine never interfered with him in the management of the property; and he in turn took care that there should always be a balance at Norine’s bankers sufficiently large to render her independent in her expenditure.

He had offered once to make an accounting of his trust to his sister and Conway, but they would not listen to him; so he had gone on with his buying and selling, using the large estate as if it had been all his own.

There was only one thing that Jim could see that could ever change this—that was the possibility of his marriage. Then, of course, a division of the estate would be necessary. But he had no present intention of getting married, and “sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.”

I think they all enjoyed this last summer at the little farm. It was a time of intense enjoyment to both Conway and Norine. But if the time passed pleasantly for them all, it also passed rapidly; and the time for parting came before any of them realized it.

They were to depart early this summer, for there were preparations to be made—not only for the wedding—but also for a long absence from home. So when the cool air of September began to tint the leaves of the scrub oaks, and the big red barn was filled to overflowing with the bountiful crops, Norine and her brother returned to New York.

“The parting will not be for long,” said Conway, as he held his love in his arms for the last time. “You will soon be with me for all time. Ah, Norine, you do not know the value of this love that you have given me!”

“Why is my love of more value than yours?” she said simply. “I love you, and I value your love above everything else.”

“And you will be glad to be my wife?”

And then Norine looked at him with her grand brown eyes overflowing with love and confidence.

“I shall be very glad,” she answered softly; and Conway knew it was so.

After they had really gone, Doctor Conway plunged into his work. He had his preparations to make as well as they, and he had idled through the summer until the time was getting short.

First there was his assistant, and soon to be successor, to be taken care of. He was a clever, ambitious young fellow, who tried in every way possible to express his gratitude for their kindness to him.

He was energetic and willing, but he lacked Conway’s kindly smile and friendly interest in all his patients. He could not understand them as Lester Conway did; and while the people of the neighborhood accepted his services, they plainly intimated that they only did so as a temporary accommodation to their beloved friend. So Conway had a great deal of riding around and explaining to do.

“You will like him after a while,” he said to one of the dissatisfied ones. “You must give him time to get acquainted with you, that is all.”

“But I don’t want him ter git erquainted with me, doc,” replied the injured one pathetically. “He’s er mighty good man, I dessay; but you’re plenty good enough fer us poor folks.” And he delivered his doubtful compliment with an air of perfect conviction.

It did not matter to this man that he had not paid Conway a cent of money for years, and was not likely to for years to come, if he ever did. Doctor Conway was his family physician, and having elevated him to that pedestal in their esteem, they accepted the attendance and medicine necessary for their well-being as their right, and were generally ready to criticise him on every available occasion. Perhaps they considered this payment enough for the midnight study and patient care that Doctor Conway had so cheerfully given them.

He went on explaining and smoothing over, however, with patient good nature, and shortly got them to understand that, as they could not get him any longer, they had better be content with the substitute provided for them.

The time of his departure was drawing near now. The first of November had come, and that was to be his last month with them. He had packed up his most cherished possessions, ready for shipment. His young assistant had come in for many of the books needed to complete his little library, and many other of Conway’s friends had received from him tokens of his good will; and the doctor, having done everything necessary, was seriously debating the idea of departing at once for New York, where he could be near Norine.

He was sitting in his easy-chair one evening, puffing great volumes of smoke from his pipe, when his assistant handed him a letter he had brought from the office.

Conway took it carelessly and went on with his dreams. Of course he was thinking of Norine and their future—it seemed as if he had ever been thinking of her—and so he sat lazily back and watched the smoke as it floated in the air, thinking placidly of his great happiness, and what a fortunate fellow he was altogether. He still held the letter carelessly in his hand, but did not look at it until his pipe and the fire were both out. Then he rose with a shiver and glanced at it.

“Why, it is from Lettie!” he cried; and he tore open the envelope and threw his eyes hurriedly over its contents.

It was very short—only a few words, in fact—but it was long enough to take all the happiness out of his heart, all the light out of his life, and to send him reeling back into his chair, as if he had received a mighty blow. It said:

“Norine Bright’s husband is alive, and married again. Come here at once, if you would prevent a great wrong.”

It was signed “Lettie Allan,” and at the bottom of the page was a line giving the street and number of her residence.

He was dazed by the suddenness of the blow, and for a time was incapable of thought. He pulled himself together as speedily as possible.

“This cannot be true!” he cried passionately. “I will not believe it.”

But his heart was against him, and he felt that it was true.

What proof had they ever had of that man’s death? The body had never been recovered, and there had been no real proof of anything beyond the fact that he had disappeared.

Yes, it was true; he felt it to be so; and he laid his head on the desk in front of him and moaned in his anguish. It was true, and he had lost her again.

“My God!” he cried bitterly, “is all my joy to turn to bitterness, all my happiness to ashes, thus?”

All that night he sat with his head bent down, bemoaning his hard fate; but with the first streak of day he was up and resolved.

“I will go,” he said, “and see for myself. And Jim must go, too. We will protect Norine, or avenge her. Oh, if I only had him here!” he cried—“only had him here, we two alone!”

He caught the first train for New York, and was there as soon as steam could carry him. Taking a carriage at the depot, he was driven at once to the house of his friends. But here he met disappointment, bitter disappointment, to one in his frame of mind. Jim and Norine had left town that day, to be gone a week or ten days, the servant told him. “Did she know where?” No; but she had understood that it was at some distance.

He scribbled a line to Jim on one of his cards, asking him to join him in Chicago at once, unless he received further word. Then he returned to the carriage that was waiting.

He caught the express, and was soon whirling on his way. He had almost convinced himself by this time that there was a chance that Lettie might be mistaken; but it was hard work.

At last the smoking engine drew up in the Chicago depot, panting after its rapid journey.

Lester drove to a hotel that he might have a bath and something to eat; and, as soon after as possible, ordered a carriage to drive him to the address given in his letter from Lettie.

CHAPTER XXVII.

“OUR CONGRESSMAN-ELECT.”

On their return to New York, Jim plunged into business. It was settled that they were to start on their tour immediately after the wedding, going first to the Bermudas, and from there to wherever their fancy dictated. And as the duration of their stay was as uncertain as was the direction in which they were to travel, Jim was anxious to place his business in such shape as to require as little attention from him in the near future as possible.

This required considerable labor, for he had a great many different matters to arrange.

First, he wanted a good, reliable agent, and for all the city seemed flooded with men out of employment, Jim found the proper man very difficult to find, for he not only required an honest, capable business man, whom he could trust to collect his rents, and have general supervision over his estate during his absence, but it was also necessary that the agent should be a kindly, sympathetic man, who would judiciously care for some two score of poor people in whom Jim was interested.

First he tried advertising. He drew up a short advertisement, stating in plain terms just what he wanted, and for the next few days he was besieged at the house by innumerable applicants. There were applicants of all ages and styles; applicants who were highly educated, and applicants who could neither read nor write; applicants who were timid and humbly besought a trial; and applicants who were “cheeky,” and demanded the position as their right, and who generally abused Jim when they did not get it. There was the chronic applicant who was always applying for a position and never obtaining one, and the young applicant making his first attempt at self-support.

It was strange that out of all these applicants Jim could not find one to suit him. But his ideas were well set, and he had made up his mind as to just what he wanted. So he sat patiently under this infliction that he had brought upon himself as long as he could stand it. Then he fled, and the servant was instructed to inform all other applicants that the position was filled, Jim considering that this small lie was justifiable under the circumstances.

But instead of being discouraged, Jim was only the more determined to obtain his man. He thought he would try the intelligence offices. So he started early in the morning, in order to visit as many of them as possible unless he found his man. Very little of this, however, convinced him that the class of help he wanted did not patronize these institutions. So he very soon gave them up.

“I guess I must be mighty hard to suit,” thought Jim, as, hungry but undaunted, he started home for dinner. “But I am going to get him somehow, if he is in New York.”

As he turned into his street, he noticed in front of him the figure of a tall, elderly man, dressed in cleanly brushed but threadbare black clothes, who was walking rapidly on ahead of him. He was evidently looking for some place, for he would sometimes stop to scan the number of the house he was passing, and then would hurry feverishly along.

Jim, whose strong, rapid stride kept him near this stranger, once or twice caught sight of his face. It was rather a pleasing face, with long, gray whiskers; a kindly-looking face, Jim thought, although it was a very anxious-looking face just now.

He had walked on for a block or two, watching the old man curiously, before it struck Jim that this might be another applicant. And it was. For, as soon as the stranger arrived at Jim’s number, he mounted the steps and rang the bell.

Jim could see by the restless motion of his hands that the old man was very nervous, although he was evidently trying hard to conceal it.

The door opened just as Jim reached the house. There were a few words passed between the man and the servant, and then the door was closed, and the man turned wearily to go down the steps.

Jim was absolutely frightened at the change in the man’s face as he stepped aside to let him pass. It was overspread with that grayish pallor that only comes over the face of the aged, and his steps, which a moment before were hurried and elastic, now were feeble and slow. He seemed to creep rather than walk.

“Poor fellow!” thought Jim, “he has been buoyed up by hopes. I have half a mind to go after him.”

Even as he thought thus, the man turned, and, seeing Jim on the steps, looking at him, stopped as if to return. Seeing this, Jim motioned to him.

“I saw you coming from my door,” he said kindly, “and I thought perhaps you wished to see me.”

“I did,” the old man replied hopelessly. “That is, I wished to apply for a position; but your servant tells me it is filled.”

“I told her to say so,” said Jim candidly. “I have been troubled by the wrong class of applicants, and they became a nuisance; but I have not filled the place yet. You see, I am rather hard to please.”

The old man’s face lighted up again.

“I hope I can please you, sir,” he said. “I would be pleased to answer any questions.”

“Come in with me,” replied Jim, “and I will see you about it.”

They entered the house together, and went at once to the library.

“There,” said Jim, opening his desk, and giving the man pen and paper, “be pleased to write your name.”

He turned away as he spoke, and crossed the room. He had hardly done so, when he was startled by a gasping cry from the old man. He turned to him at once.

“Are you ill?” he asked. “Is there anything the matter?”

The old man made no reply. On the desk stood a picture of little Clinton—one that Jim had had framed and kept constantly before him. This the old man had seized in both hands, and he lay back in his chair, staring at it blankly. His face was deathly pale, while his eyes blazed fiercely.

“Where did you get it?” he gasped. “How came this here?”

This was certainly strange conduct, and Jim was not altogether pleased.

“That is our little boy,” he said shortly. “Does it remind you of some one you know?”

The old man stared at him.

“Your little boy?” he gasped. “I thought it was—that is——” He stopped to recover himself. “I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. “But it recalled another face. I am sorry if I have annoyed you.” And he turned to the desk and wrote his name, “Arthur Harland,” in a bold, plain hand. “I beg your pardon,” he said again in that same humble tone.

Jim was rather pleased with him, in spite of his strange conduct. He asked him several questions, and received satisfactory replies.

He had been out of a position for some months, the old man said; and Jim could see how poverty had gripped him during that time.

He gave a very good list of references, giving, among others, the name of Jim’s lawyer. He would leave the question of compensation with Mr. Darling.

Jim thought he had his man at last.

“I know some of these names,” he said, “and will make inquiries. If I find you worthy of confidence, I will give you the position. If you will call to-morrow at this time I will let you know. In the meantime, you can do a small favor for me.” And Jim inclosed ten dollars in an envelope, and wrote a line stating, that this was an advance on the first month’s salary, if he was employed. “There,” he said, putting it in the man’s hand; “now call to-morrow.”

Harland, supposing the envelope to be directed, placed it in an inside pocket, and, after another lingering glance at the picture on the desk, bowed himself out.

Jim made the necessary inquiries that afternoon, and as everything was satisfactory, Mr. Harland was duly installed as his manager, secretary, and general factotum; and, having at last got this burden off his mind, Jim proceeded with his more important business.

It was necessary that there should be considerable ready money to cover the expenses of the proposed tour, and Jim looked about him to see which of their several properties could be sold to the best advantage.

Their aunt had left them, with the rest of the estate, a plot of some hundred acres of wild land situated somewhere in northern Michigan. This was supposed to be of little value, but he decided to sell it for whatever it would bring.

Having once seen the value of advertising, Jim tried it again, and caused to be published in several Michigan papers a description of the land, with a notice that it was for sale.

“I must be lucky in my advertising,” he said to Norine one morning at breakfast. “You remember my advertising for help?”

Norine laughed.

“Yes, I remember it. I was kept in the house for two days by it,” she said. “Do you consider that lucky?”

“Why, yes,” replied Jim coolly. “It was something to keep you from gadding around so much; and then it certainly attracted attention enough. That is what advertising is for. But I wanted to speak of something else.”

“Well, you can, dear,” said Norine sweetly. “I won’t prevent you.” And then she added indignantly: “My gadding around! The idea!”

Jim laughed.

“The shoe must have pinched a little,” he said slyly.

“I thought you were going to speak about something else, sir?”

“Well, I am, if you give me a chance. I was about to say that I had received another proof of my marvelous luck in advertising. Perhaps you are not aware that we are the joint owners of nearly a thousand acres of land somewhere up in Michigan?”

“No, I was not aware of it.”

“Well, it is so,” continued Jim; “and as I thought best to sell the land, if I could find any one weak enough to buy it, I had it advertised in the Michigan papers; and mark the result! It is only a week or so ago that I wrote the advertisement, and I have an answer already.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Norine, in mock astonishment. “What a clever fellow you are! But why do you wish to sell it?”

“Because,” replied he, “a certain sister of mine is going to be married, and then proposes to drag me over the greater part of the world with her, and that costs money.”

“I drag you?” cried Norine. “Just as if you hadn’t proposed it yourself!”

“Did I?” he inquired innocently. “Well, perhaps I did. But, Norry, there is one thing about this that strikes me as being odd.”

“What is it, dear?”

“Why, we had supposed the land to be nearly valueless, and here is a man—and a lawyer”—Jim laid convincing stress on that word—“who lives right there, and should know something about it, makes an offer for it as soon as it is placed in the market. That land may be more valuable than we supposed,” he concluded thoughtfully.

“What are you going to do about it, dear?” inquired Norine.

“I don’t know,” said Jim slowly. “That is, I do know,” he added determinedly. “By George! I will run up there and see it for myself.”

Norine clapped her hands joyfully.

“How nice!” she said. “When do we start?”

“Well,” replied her brother coolly, “I had no idea we were going to start. I thought a girl who expected to be married within a month or so would have enough to do at home.”

“Now don’t be mean, Jim,” cried Norine. “You know I am all done. Of course you will take me, Jim?” she coaxed. “There is plenty of time.”

“I don’t know,” said he. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“I can be ready in half an hour,” she replied promptly.

“Well, that settles it. Of course you can’t get ready in half an hour. But if you can get ready in two or three hours, you can go.”

And he went out to telegraph the lawyer that he was coming.

Norine made her preparations, and found time enough to write to Conway, telling him that they were going away to be gone a week or ten days. And shortly afterward the brother and sister set out on their unexpected journey.

They were in a hurry, but not enough so as to make the journey fatiguing. So it was the evening of the third day thereafter when they arrived at the city of sand and sawdust, and were driven to the hotel.

Immediately after they arrived, Jim hunted up Mr. Coleman, and introduced himself.

“I am glad to see you,” said Peter heartily. He knew this young man was rich, and his business might be worth getting. “You are just in time,” he went on, shaking Jim’s hand with vigor. “We are going to give a little reception to-night to our congressman-elect. I will be glad to introduce you.”

“I am very sorry,” replied Jim politely; “but my sister is with me, and I should not care to leave her alone.”

“Not necessary,” said Peter. “Elwell—that’s our congressman’s name—is going to speak from the hotel veranda, so you need not leave the house. I will secure a good place for your sister.”

And Peter bustled off to do as he said, while Jim returned to their rooms.

He was not greatly interested in this congressman-elect; at least, not until after supper. So they had that meal sent to their rooms to avoid the crowd, and dawdled so long over it that the speaker had commenced his oration before they had finished.

A boy came to the door.

“If you please,” he said, “Mr. Coleman sent me to say that a chair was reserved for Miss Darling.”

So Jim took her into a big room at the front of the house, where a number of ladies were sitting, and after introducing her to Mr. Coleman, left her in his charge and went downstairs for a smoke.

The room was a large one, having three windows, all open, for the veranda from which the orator spoke was directly in front of these windows, and the ladies were expected to see and hear all they could through them.

They could hear well enough; but as the windows were very low, their seeing was confined to the orator’s trousers, with an occasional glimpse of his shoes.

After being seated, Norine looked calmly around her. Directly in front of her were seated a pale, overdressed woman, and a fat jolly-looking old man.

Some one said that this was the congressman’s wife and her father.

Norine made mental comment, woman-like, on her taste in the matter of dress, and then sat back in her chair and listened.

What was there in that man’s voice that made it sound so strangely familiar? Surely she had never met him. The sound was changed somewhat by his being out of doors, and speaking with his back to the window; but there was something in the cadence that haunted her. She tired of wondering about it after a while, and thought she would return to her room; but on looking around, she discovered that she was completely hemmed in, so she stayed perforce.

She had lost the drift of the speech altogether, and was thinking dreamily of her approaching wedding, when a sudden silence, followed by a roar of applause, showed that the speech was at end; and a moment later the congressman-elect entered the room through one of the open windows.

Norine glanced at him curiously, and then started upright, with her hands pressed over her heart. My God! Who could this be? Could the dead return to life? Her sudden movement attracted attention, and drew Elwell’s eyes to hers, and he staggered back against the wall, pale with fright, and gasped:

“Norine!”

That was enough. It was he, and alive. She stretched out her arms to him, and cried:

“Clinton! Oh, my God, Clinton!” and sank down upon the floor insensible.

“Who was she? What did it all mean?” the crowd cried, and were all excitement.

Peter was the only cool one in the room. He pushed his way over to Elwell, and seized him by the arm.

“Get out of here!” he said fiercely. “Get out of here at once! Her brother is downstairs! Go out the back way and go to your office. Stay there until I see you!”

Whispering thus, he forced the dazed man from the room; and then, by telling them that he had gone home, got rid of Fanny and her father.

Norine was at once removed to her own room, and her brother sent for; and by degrees the rest were sent away, talking of this strange girl and the sensation she had created.

Peter waited until Jim came out of his sister’s room.

“What does this mean?” he said. “I thought your name was Darling?”

“It is Darling,” replied Jim. “My true name is Darling, but we were brought up under the name of Bright. Now, tell me, where I can find that scoundrel?” he cried, white with passion. “He tried to take my life once, and by the living God, I will give him another chance!”

“Wait until morning,” said Peter smoothly. “Wait until morning; and if he has wronged you, we will have satisfaction;” and Peter hurried off to join Elwell, not quite decided on which side to act.

The ship was sinking, and to try and defend it against poor Norine Bright was one thing; but to try to hold out against Norine Darling and her money, let alone her brother, that was an entirely different matter.

So, after promising to meet Mr. Darling the first thing in the morning, Peter hurried off to see Elwell, as yet undecided on which side to cast his lot.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

OLD FRIENDS.

The carriage stopped in front of a large, gaudy-looking house, and Doctor Conway ran up the steps and rang the bell. The door was opened by a pert-looking servant. Conway inquired if Miss Allan lived there.

“Yes,” the servant said shortly, “she did.”

“Was she in?” inquired Conway next.

To which the servant answered as shortly as before:

“Yes. What name?”

And, being informed that it was Conway, she disappeared, leaving that gentleman in the hall. She soon returned, however, and, ushering him into the parlor, she requested him to take a seat, and disappeared for good.

Conway had not long to wait before the door opened and Lettie stood before him.

She had evidently taken considerable pains to enhance her personal appearance. She was dressed with great taste and care, though with great simplicity; but her close-fitting black silk dress showed her grand figure to its best advantage. She had soft white lace around her neck, and in her magnificent black hair there nestled a scarlet flower.

Perhaps it was the excitement of this meeting that lent an additional color to her cheeks and unusual brightness to her eyes. She had never looked better, and she knew it. Perhaps she had intended to create a comparison between herself and the woman he loved.

“Lettie? Is this Lettie?” cried Conway, in amazement. “Why, how you have changed!”

There is a love for the beautiful implanted in our breasts, and there was nothing disloyal to his love in Conway’s admiration of this girl’s beauty.

He would have felt as great admiration for a glorious statue. But Lettie did not think of this; she forgot to judge his love by her own, and his evident pleasure at the sight of her caused her heart to beat tremulously with hope.

She gave him both hands.

“Yes,” she said, “this is Lettie; have you forgotten her already?”

“No; I had not forgotten you,” replied Conway, as he placed a chair for her. “But I did not expect to find you so changed. You are very beautiful.”

Lettie flushed and palpitated with pleasure.

“I am glad you find me so,” she said softly.

“Your beauty surprised me for a moment,” said Conway, with gentle gravity. “Your aunt will be glad to know that you are looking so well. And now,” he said abruptly, almost sternly, “tell me about this man.”

Lettie bit her lips, and her face paled a little.

“Yes,” she said sadly. “I forgot you came for that.”

Conway walked once across the room with his hands clasped behind him.

“I suppose you will think me very ungrateful, Lettie,” he said, as he stopped in front of her, “but I have suffered intensely. You know how long I have loved Norine, and how patient I have been. Well,” he said, with something of a gasp in his voice, “we were to be married Christmas, and this came so suddenly.” He stopped and walked across the room again, evidently struggling to master himself. “You may love some day, Lettie,” he broke off abruptly, “and then you will understand my misery.”

“I will love some day,” thought the girl bitterly. “Have I not loved and suffered long enough?” But her heart was touched by his anguish, and she put out her hand to him in pure womanly sympathy. “I do understand,” she said softly, “and I pity you so much.”

Conway grasped her hand, and then let it fall. This sympathy was harder to bear, after all his misery, than a blow would have been.

“Tell me,” he said huskily, “tell me all you know about this.”

And then Lettie told him all she knew, commencing with what she had gathered from Coleman about Elwell’s first coming to Chicago, and then went on and told him plainly and simply the whole story up to the time she had left Elwell’s house—told it with her heart sinking.

“Surely he will understand,” she thought, as she told him of her interview with Peter. “Surely he will understand and hate me.” But he did not; he only listened intently, and put the points together as she laid them before him.

“You say he is divorced?” he said, when she had done.

“Yes,” replied Lettie. “He has a divorce, but I think it is fraudulent. I think that is the power Coleman holds over him.” She bowed her head for a moment, and then lifted her eyes. “They were kind to me in their way,” she said, “and it seems terrible that I should bring this trouble upon them. I want you to promise me that you will spare Mr. Morain all you can.”

Conway promised earnestly.

“They are not to blame,” he said, “and they will thank you for what you have done. You are really protecting them; but if you wish, I need not mention your name at all.”

“I wish you would not to them,” replied Lettie sadly. “But you will have to to Coleman. Now listen,” she said earnestly; “I know this man, and I know how little he cares for anybody but himself. You go directly to him and tell him that I have told you everything. He has always thought I knew more than I did. Tell him you know how that divorce was obtained, and threaten him unless he helps you. He is a coward,” she added scornfully, “and you can frighten him if you try.”

Conway nodded.

“I think I understand it all,” he said sternly, “and I will know how to deal with him.”

“They have plenty of money,” cautioned Lettie, “and they may fight.”

“Money will do them no good,” replied Conway grimly. “They have not wealth enough to protect him.”

He arose, and buttoned his coat, as if to leave.

“You have plenty of time,” protested Lettie wistfully. “You cannot start until half after four. Won’t you stay and tell me about auntie and the old home?”

Conway resumed his seat at once.

“I will be glad to tell you all I can,” he said kindly; “but I am afraid my news will be old to you. I am sorry I did not see your aunt before I left. I might have brought you a message from her.”

“Is she well?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Conway, “she is well—but I am afraid not very happy. She longs for you, Lettie, and expects you to return. Will you? Can you?”

“Yes, I hope so,” replied the girl meaningly. “I long to go back to her; but I cannot yet. You do not understand; but I cannot go back—yet.”

She led him to talk about himself; she was hungry for the sound of his voice. And yet she sat in front of him, calm and self-possessed, seemingly interested in all he said; but nothing more.

They sat thus for some time, and Conway told her about the old home, and about all of her old friends. At last he arose to go.

“You have greatly befriended me in this, Lettie,” he said at parting, “and I would like to be able to do something for you in return. Is there anything I can do to express my gratitude?”

“No,” she said quietly, “there is nothing you can do. I would like to have you write to me and tell me about it. That is all.”

She put out her hand, and he took it; and in his gratitude for her services, put it to his lips.

“I hope you will always be happy,” he said; “and I am sure you will, for you deserve it.”

She looked at her hand after he had gone, as if it were something strange, and then she kissed it passionately. And going to the table, she laid her face down where his hand had rested, and wept long but softly; and she was purified by her tears. She caressed her hand again and again, and even kissed the poor, insensible table because he had touched it. For such is the love of womenkind—when they love.

After leaving Lettie, Conway hurried to the office of a prominent lawyer, whose name he had obtained at the hotel, and asked his advice. The lawyer listened patiently.

“You can do nothing without your friend’s authority,” he said at last. “You had better telegraph for him at once. There is no doubt but the divorce is fraudulent; but there is no proof that this Coleman procured it fraudulently. That is, that he was a party to the fraud. Yet I think the young lady is right, and would counsel you to follow her advice. You can do no harm by it, and will at least find out how matters stand.”

Leaving him, Conway hurried to telegraph Jim, and then went on board the boat that was to bear him across the great lake. He had neither eaten nor slept, and the strain was beginning to tell upon him.

“This will not do,” he thought, as he felt himself beginning to get weak. “I must take care of myself;” and he forced himself to eat a hearty supper, and then retired to his stateroom, where he was soon in that deep, dreamless sleep that only comes from mental and physical exhaustion.

The day was just beginning to dawn when he left the boat at the city of sand and sawdust. There was a porter there from the hotel, and to him Conway resigned his satchel, and followed him to the hotel.

It was too early to do anything yet, even to breakfast.

“I must at least wait until they get up,” thought Conway; so, after registering before a very sleepy-looking clerk, he started out to see as much of the place as the dim morning light would let him.

He was standing in front of the door, not yet decided which way to go, when he was run into with the force of a battering-ram.

“Why don’t you look where you are going?” he cried angrily, as he regained his balance.

The stranger, who had started off after mumbling a word of apology, came quickly back.

“Conway, is that you?” he cried.

“Yes, it’s Conway; but who are you?” replied the doctor, not having recovered his temper.

“Conway, thank God!” said Jim; for it was he. “But how did you know that we were here?”

Conway was speechless. He grasped his friend by the shoulder and turned him around, and then gripping him by the arm, marched him into the lighted hotel.

“How did you know we were here?” again cried Jim, in joyful astonishment. “This is a godsend, Lester!”

“I did not know you were here,” returned Conway. “I had no idea of it. Is Norine with you?”

“Yes,” said the other gloomily, “she is upstairs.”

“Then she knows?”

“Yes; curse him!” replied Jim bitterly. “She knows.”

“Tell me about it,” said Conway, regaining in a measure his calmness. “How did you hear of it?”

“We did not hear of it,” returned Jim. “It was an accident all through;” and sitting down by his friend’s side, Jim told him of all the circumstances that had led to this strange meeting. “He was gone before I got there or knew anything about it,” said Jim meekly, as if he were to blame. “But I will find him to-day;” and the young man got up and paced excitedly up and down the office.

Conway was in deep thought.

“This Coleman is the one we must see first,” he said. “I think I can fix matters with him.”

“A lawyer?” spluttered Jim, in great disgust. “What do we want of a lawyer now?”

And then Conway in turn told his story, and they understood how it was that they had missed each other.

“You see,” he added in conclusion, “it is better to understand the matter thoroughly before we act, and this lawyer may prove more useful than we think. Don’t be afraid,” he said, noting his friend’s impatience, “he will not get away from us this time.”

As soon as possible, Norine was notified of her lover’s arrival, and desired to see him at once.

Together they went sadly to her room, expecting to find her prostrate; but in this they were mistaken. Norine was very pale, but calm and self-possessed.

“I am sorry for you, dear,” she said to her lover, when he entered. “I wish I might have spared you this.”

Conway, for a moment, was speechless. He gathered Norine in his arms with a passion that was not to be repressed.

“You forget,” she said, gently extricating herself from his passionate embrace; “you forget”—with a little quaver in her voice—“I am not what I thought.”

“You are just what I have always thought,” replied Conway consolingly. “You are an angel.”

“Oh, how can I tell?” cried Norine brokenly. “My God! If she is his wife, what am I?”

“She is not his wife,” said her lover. “She is nothing to him in the eyes of the law.”

“Oh, how can you tell?” she cried in anguish. “What do you really know?”

Conway hastened to reassure her.

“I know it all,” he said; and then he explained to her his trip to Chicago, and his interview with Lettie. “We will see this lawyer at once,” he said, “and then we will see Clinton.”

“You will do him no harm?” pleaded Norine, laying her hand upon his arm as they were going out. “You will remember that he is my husband?”

Conway winced.

“I shall not kill him,” he said roughly.

As soon as they left the room, Norine began to prepare herself hastily for going out. Her breakfast was sent up to her room; but she only swallowed a cup of coffee, and then leaving word for her brother that he was to await her return, she glided softly through the hall, and left the house by the ladies’ entrance.

“I shall find him,” she thought. “I will find him myself, and then I shall know.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

CLOSING IN.

Frightened, dismayed, utterly broken down, Elwell fled from the hotel by the back way, and skulked like a hunted beast to his office.

With the collar of his coat pulled up as far as it would go, and his hat pulled closely down to cover his pale, frightened face, he sneaked along in the shadows of the buildings until he reached the little office of the mill.

It was closing in on him, and he knew it; knew, and fully understood, the hopelessness of his situation, although as yet he was incapable of consecutive thought.

He had just reached the moment of his greatest triumph, and now—was it possible that he could be undone so quickly? He could dimly remember, as if it had been ages ago, instead of but a few moments, his pride and exultation in his position, as that roar of applause had been lifted up from the sea of upturned faces before him.

How his heart had swelled with the rapture of gratified ambition!

He had been successful in everything; so successful that he had but to lend his name to an enterprise, and it guaranteed success. And now? He had been overthrown by the white face of a woman. Yesterday, nay, that very day, he had been alluded to as the most successful man in the community. And now, what was he?

He reached the little office, and stumbled in, leaving the door wide open.

Sinking into his chair, he hid his face in his hands. He did not think. He was still too numb from that crushing blow for that; but he sat motionless in his chair, staring intently before him at the black darkness that filled all space.

Presently the watchman employed to care for the premises came along, and finding the door of the office open, entered it, flashing the light of his dark lantern cautiously ahead of him.

“Beg pardon,” he said respectfully. “But you left the door open, and I did not know who might be here.”

His master turned wearily in his chair, and stared at him.

The man was quiet and respectful. He had not heard yet, thought the other; and he wondered dimly if the man’s manner would change any if he knew.

There was nothing in his master’s appearance, as seen by the fitful rays of the lantern, to excite any wonder in the watchman’s mind.

He looked tired, that was all; and it was not at all unusual for him to come down to the office nights. Elwell had frequently done so.

“I will light the lamp if you wish it, sir,” he said; and when Elwell nodded to him, he took down and lighted a large office lamp, that threw a soft light over the apartment.

Still his master had not moved.

“Is there anything else, sir?” the man inquired.

Elwell roused himself.

“Yes,” he said. “You might start a fire for me; I am cold;” and a shiver running through his frame attested the truth of his words.

The man touched a match to the kindling that was already laid in the stove, and, going out, returned with his arms full of slab ends. These he threw into the box by the stove, and then, glancing again at the fire to see that it was burning good, he started to go.

“Wait,” said his master harshly; “I want you to do something for me.”

The man returned and stood by the desk, while Elwell fumbled through his pockets in an aimless way.

Finding some money at last, he threw it down upon the desk.

“Whisky,” he said harshly. “Go and get me some whisky; and, mind you, don’t let any one in the yard to-night—no one! Do you understand? That is, no one but Mr. Coleman; he will be here presently.”

The man went away, evidently astonished at the millowner’s words and manner.

Whisky was the one thing, outside of salt and lumber, that formed the staple of the city of sand and sawdust, so the man had not far to go, and soon returned with an unopened bottle.

While he was gone, Elwell had sat immovable, and now, when he returned, his master only nodded and motioned him to go.

Seizing the bottle, Elwell managed to extract the cork, and took a hearty swallow. Things were better with him already. He could think, now that it was light and warm, and he had partly recovered from the shock.

“Coleman will soon be here,” he thought, more hopefully, “and we will think of some way out of this.” And he took another swallow of the strong liquor, and paced impatiently up and down the little office, waiting for his friend and confidant.

How had she ever found her way to this little out-of-the-way place? He had always been a fatalist. This was fate. What but fate could send that ignorant country girl into the wilds of northern Michigan just in time to confound him? But after all, what of it? Fate had struck at him before this, and he had conquered.

He was a coward, he thought, with great self-contempt, to get frightened so easily. He had his divorce. How were they to know that it was not legal? And what could those poor country folks do against the power of his money? And he drank more whisky and grew reckless.

“This will be easily settled,” he thought confidently, “and it is better to have done with it. It has been hanging over me like the sword of Damocles long enough.” He would settle it now, and he became more impatient as the moments passed. Why did not Coleman come?

Presently he heard him coming, and opened the office door that he might see his way better. If he had recovered from his fright, Peter had not, for he looked pale and disturbed.

“What kept you so long?” inquired Elwell, as he entered.

“Long?” repeated Coleman, out of temper. “What the devil did you expect; that I was to take care of all those people and get here as soon as you did?”

“Tell me about it,” said Elwell, paying no attention to his anger. “What are we to do?”

“I’m blessed if I know,” replied Peter ruefully. “It looks mighty bad;” and then with a return of his passion, he demanded angrily: “Why in the devil’s name didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“I have told you the truth,” retorted the other. “Did you suppose I knew of their coming?”

“No, but I did,” replied Peter, with a groan. “I sent for ’em.”

“You sent for them?”

“Yes; I sent for them; but how was I to know?” Seeing the bottle on the desk, Peter paid no attention to the other’s look of anger and astonishment until after he had taken a hearty drink. “I’m mighty glad you got that, anyway,” he said coolly, as he wiped his mouth. Then he looked at his client calmly, still holding the bottle in his hand affectionately. “Maybe you don’t know who they are,” he said.

“Know who they are,” stammered the other, his face paling a little, “why, it is Norine—the Brights.”

“Not a bit of it,” retorted Peter, sitting on the desk and swinging one leg in the air. “They are the Darlings.”

“The Darlings!” cried the other. “It is not possible.”

“Oh, but it is, though,” returned Peter. “They are the Darlings fast enough. They came up here to sell us that thousand-acre tract, and as you have already cut the timber on the greater part of it—well, you see,” he concluded, still swinging his leg easily, “it rather complicates matter.”

Elwell could only stare at him blankly, and repeat:

“It is impossible!”

“God knows I wish it was,” said Peter piously, “but I know better. And just to think,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, “I brought them here, and even got her that place in the room.”

Elwell, or Percival, as you choose to call him, paced back and forth across the office. This news had somewhat shaken his confidence.

“If they are the Darlings,” he said, at last, “they must be wealthy.”

“Rich as mud,” replied Peter consolingly.

The other pulled his mustache and bit his lips in his perplexity.

“What are we to do?” he demanded, at last.

Coleman thought long and intently.

“There is nothing we can do yet,” he said at last, “but to take care that neither Fanny nor the old man interferes. They were as greatly surprised as you were. I know they supposed you to be dead. If you can manage to see her alone—alone, you might be able to work the divorce on her, make her think it genuine, you know. She has been disappointed in you,” continued Peter gravely, “and perhaps if she could be brought to believe in the divorce, she might be glad to be rid of you.”

Elwell winced. He wanted to get rid of her. But to have her glad to get rid of him—that was different.

“I am something of a judge of faces,” Coleman went on modestly, “and unless I am greatly mistaken, she will never forgive your desertion. So you had better not try to excuse it. Be gentle with her, or she might fight. Perhaps,” he continued more hopefully, “if you are clever in handling her, and I make a square settlement with him for the land, we may get rid of them all right.”

“How much will it take to pay for the land?” inquired Elwell, who had been following the lawyer’s words closely.

“Honestly?” inquired the other.

“Honestly, of course.”

“Then it will take all you have got, and perhaps a little of the old man’s money besides.”

There was silence now for some moments. Elwell paced up and down the room in deep thought. Suddenly he stopped and faced the other suspiciously.

“And,” he demanded roughly, “if I make a fight, will you help me?”

Peter colored a little at this—perhaps he had been thinking of this himself—but he answered boldly:

“I will help you as long as there is a fighting chance.”

Elwell seemed satisfied, and continued his restless pacing up and down the room.

“There is no other way,” he said at last, with the courage of despair. “You had better go to the house and fix things there. But what can you tell them?”

“Weren’t you and Fanny going to Grand Rapids to-morrow?” inquired Peter cunningly.

“Yes; but he was not going.”

“Never mind. You sit down and write Mrs. Elwell a nice little note. Say you were obliged to go to-night, and have her bring the old man with her. They’ll go, of course. You write the note, and I’ll attend to the rest.”

Elwell pondered for a few moments, and then did as the other requested.

“When shall I see you again?” he asked as Coleman buttoned up his coat to leave.

“As soon as possible,” Coleman replied. “But I am to see Darling the first thing in the morning, so when I come again I shall know something of their intentions. And mind now,” he said earnestly, as he opened the door, “don’t you see any one, unless it is her, until after you see me. You had better keep pretty close, I think.”

Elwell nodded to this advice, and Peter left him. After he had gone, Elwell replenished the fire, and brought his chair close to the stove; then he took out a cigar and put it between his lips. But the match he lighted burned itself out and the cigar remained without fire, and for the first time that night Norine’s face came up before him. What had he gained, after all? If what Coleman said was true, she was rich—far richer than he was, even if this stolen timber had not to be paid for. So he had gained nothing, after all. Gained? Why, he had lost—lost more than he could ever hope to regain.

It was not in worldly wealth alone. He compared the loving, trustful Norine as he had known her in her innocent girlhood with the querulous, selfish, and suspicious Fanny. What had he lost, after all? And but a few short hours before he had been priding himself upon his success—dolt, fool, that he was!

He thought of his child, his little Clinton, and wondered how large he was, and if he was strong and shapely. He had not felt the need of affection or kindness during his success. Bah! how he hated that word! But now he thought that he would almost give his miserable life for the touch of his child’s arms around his neck and the prattle of an innocent voice in his ear.

“She will teach him to hate me now,” he thought, forgetting what little cause the child could have for loving him. And with that thought came a return of Peter’s words:

“She might be glad to be rid of you.”

Strange that the thought should give him pain. His only chance for safety lay in the hope that he could impose on this innocent girl, and that she should hate him. But he dreaded the ordeal.

He had never professed to love Fanny. Their marriage had been purely one of convenience on both sides. But he had loved Norine as well as one of his selfish nature could love, and now, with the memory of her innocent love and her pride in him, there came a great longing for a return of her affection.

It was impossible. He knew that his very safety demanded that it should be so. And yet his old love for her, or what he termed his love, returned to him with its old force; and if he could have had his choice, he would gladly have given up his success, gladly have given his fortune and everything, for a return to the little cottage among the Pennsylvania mountains and to Norine.

Now that it could not gladden any one’s heart, now when it could bring no joy to him or any one else, he really loved, and, for a wonder, loved unselfishly.

That was a long, weary night to the silent man, sitting crouched before the stove from which the fire had long since departed. But it came to an end at last. And, as the first cold rays of the November day came struggling through the windows, he roused himself and prepared for the battle to come.

“Win or lose,” he said recklessly, “this day will tell the story, and I might as well prepare myself for either contingency.”

He opened the safe and counted the money it contained.

There was a large sum there, but not enough, and he made out a check for a larger amount, that he might have it cashed as soon as possible. Then he took from a drawer in his desk a little glittering revolver.

It looked such a toy as he held it in his hand, shining as it was with pearl and silver; but it was a deadly toy, and contained the lives of half a dozen men in the hand of an expert.

Some thought of this passed through his mind, for he smiled grimly as he returned it to its usual resting place.

After he had walked back and forth across the office for a few moments, he returned to the safe, and taking therefrom all the valuable papers, he placed them in neat piles on his desk, and then proceeded methodically and coolly to look them over. Some of them he returned to the safe and a few of them he destroyed. Others he made up into a neat package and placed them in the drawer of his desk, evidently with the intention of taking them with him in case he had to go.

It was broad daylight now, and the workmen were busy around the mill.

Calling one of them to him, Elwell left him in charge of the office, while he went over to the boarding house for a cup of coffee.

He returned greatly refreshed and encouraged, and resumed his work in the office as coolly as possible.

He expected some word from Coleman, and grew a little anxious as the time passed without bringing it.

“But it is early yet,” he thought; “there is plenty of time.”

He was just thinking thus, when there came a sound of light footsteps outside, and in a moment more Norine stood before him.

He had armed himself to meet anything, but he had not expected this, and he could only stand speechless and stare at her.

“They told me I could find you here,” she said simply; “and I wanted to see you.” Advancing a step into the office, with her hands in front of her, and her great brown eyes searching his very soul, she cried: “Tell me what this means, Clinton! How do you come alive after all these years?”

She was so beautiful as she stood there that he was like one in a dream, only that he was thinking again of what he had lost.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” cried Norine. “Is it I who am your wife, or that other woman?”

“You—you!” he cried hoarsely. “That is,” he said, catching himself suddenly, “you were my wife.”

“If I ever was your wife, why am I not now?” demanded Norine, with all the fire of her womanly indignation flaming on her face.

“You were until I obtained a divorce,” he said sullenly.

“A divorce? Are we divorced?”

And in spite of herself the joy of it flashed over her face.

“You are not sorry, I see,” he said with a sneer.

The momentary look of joy on her face cut him like a knife.

“Sorry?” cried Norine scornfully; and then she continued quietly: “Why should I be sorry? I have refused the love of an honest, noble man because I would not slight your memory, and I thought it wrong in me that I could not help loving him in return. And now,” she went on simply, “I come here and find you—what you are. Why should I be sorry?”

“You are right enough, I suppose,” he answered sullenly. “But if you are not sorry, I am.”

“You sorry!” was all she said; but, oh, the look of scornful unbelief that accompanied the words!

He could not answer that look; he could only wince under it.

“Do you wish to see the divorce?” he asked in that same sullen tone; and he threw it on the desk in front of her.

Norine hesitated a moment, and looked wistfully at the paper.

“I do not understand it,” she said at last. “Why should you get a divorce from me? What have I done?”

“You have done nothing; you are accused of nothing,” he said hastily. “I was dead to you; I hoped never to see you again; and—and so I got the divorce on the plea of desertion. Such things are done daily,” he went on, feebly trying to excuse himself. “It is only a question of money.”

“No, it is not a question of money!” cried Norine, and she drew herself up proudly before him. “It is a question of honor and right.”

“I have not injured you by it,” he sneered.

“I should not care if you had,” she replied quickly. “I should still be innocent. But you have injured yourself, and you have injured all mankind by it. And your child?” she went on, her voice softening. “Do you never think of your son, that innocent child who, ever since he could lisp, has prayed for his father’s soul?”

“Yes, I think of him—and of you. Tell me about him.”

“There is nothing to tell,” replied Norine brokenly. “I can never tell my boy the truth about his father.”

“No; that is best,” he said sadly. “Do not tell him. It is not necessary.”

She looked at him sadly.

“I thought I would have so much to say to you,” she said; “but I have not. I think I understand you now—for the first time. I wish you were not so bad. I wish I could tell little Clinton the truth.”

“You had better not,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Bad as I am, I do not care to have my child know it.”

“I will not tell him,” she said, as she moved to the door. “And I hope you will think of him often; he is so pure and innocent; perhaps it will make you better.”

“Wait!” he said hastily; and he rapidly detached his massive gold watch from its chain. “You will not refuse me the right to make my son a present? You need not tell him; only when he gets old enough to wear it, give it to him, and say that it was his father’s.”

Norine hesitated.

“I have no right to refuse you,” she said at last. And then, without a word of farewell, without his even having touched her hand, she was gone.

At the gate she met Conway, who was just coming in.

“Norine! you here?” he cried in astonishment.

“Yes; I have seen him, Lester,” she said, hurriedly. “Come back with me to the hotel, and then you can return.” And, taking his arm, she walked by his side, and told him everything that had passed between them.

Conway said very little, but his lips were set in tight, rigid lines, and his hands were clinched.

This would make it harder for her, he thought; for who could tell her how utterly false that paper was?

And, leaving her at the hotel, Conway paced moodily back to the mill.

CHAPTER XXX.

HOW ELWELL ESCAPED.

Conway and his friend had made a pretense of eating breakfast after parting with Norine. It was only a pretense, for neither of them could eat. But it was still too early to hope to find the lawyer; and as the time had to be passed, they could get over some of it, while loitering over the breakfast table, to a better advantage than by wandering around, and, as Jim expressed it, “talking each other to death.”

Still, they were both glad when it was over and they could go to Coleman’s office with the hope of finding him there.

“You will introduce me as your friend,” Conway said, while on their way. “Let me hear the fellow talk for a while, and I will know better how to handle him.”

It was still early, but they found Coleman waiting for them. He looked a little doubtful when Conway was introduced, and scanned his visitor closely.

“Your friend is acquainted with the details of this affair, I presume?” he said, with a note of inquiry in his voice.

Jim assured him that he was.

“I did not know my friend was here until this morning,” he said, “and I thought he had better come with me.”

“Oh, yes; quite right—quite right,” replied Peter, evidently thinking it quite wrong. “And how is your sister this morning, my dear sir?”

“She is ill,” returned Jim coldly. “She has received a shock she will not recover from very soon. But enough of that,” he continued impatiently. “It is time we did something to avenge her wrongs. Let us get down to business;” and he drew a chair up to the lawyer’s desk, where Conway was already seated.

Peter shook his head sorrowfully and heaved a deep sigh, but made no attempt to get down to business. In fact, he was in great doubt as to how the business was to be proceeded with.

“Let us now understand each other,” said Jim, following the instructions he had received from Conway. “Are you open for a retainer from us in this case?”

“Why, my dear sir,” replied the lawyer suavely, “I hardly know. You see, I am already empowered by Morain and Elwell to purchase your land for them, at your own price;” and he laid significant stress on the last few words, and even repeated them. “At your own price; so you see I am, in a measure, in the employ of the other side.”

“Did they want to buy the land?” inquired Jim.

“Yes; I was acting for them when I wrote to you. You have only to name your price,” he added, smiling smoothly, “and we can soon settle that.”

“I can settle it without naming my price,” said Jim bluntly. “They can’t have it at any price.”

Coleman looked very uneasy. It would not pay them to have the land matter investigated.

“I do not see why you need mix this with the other matter at all,” he said. “This is merely a matter of business.”

“I have said they cannot have it,” replied Jim, as bluntly as possible, “and I mean what I say. Now, as that is settled, you can answer my question. Can you act for us in bringing this villain to justice?”

Poor Peter was in great perplexity. He thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and trotted up and down the room in an agony of doubt.

“These fellows are determined,” he thought, “and it’s all up with Elwell.”

He was no worse than his fellows. If he could have seen any chance for Elwell’s winning in the end, he would have preferred fighting on his side. But with this determined man to deal with, there did not seem to be any chance for the other side. It was mighty hard, he thought, to have to throw over a good connection—and a prospective good business—only to go down in the general wreck that was sure to follow.

But how could he help it?

Elwell would tell the whole story if he was pushed. And Peter knew how much his reputation would suffer in the recital. So he could see no way out of it. He was in the same boat with Elwell, and there was no way of escape left open. It was a bad job all around, and his repeated furtive glances at Conway did not lessen his vexation.

There was something in that clean-cut, determined-looking face that made Peter very uneasy.

“Devil take him!” he thought irritably. “I wish I knew who he is, and what he is going to do.”

Conway had noted the lawyer’s distrust of him, and it amused him in spite of his wretchedness. He sat silent and impassive, while Jim drummed impatiently on the desk with his fingers.

At last Coleman stopped in front of them.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, somewhat ruefully; “I am sorry I can not represent you. But we lawyers have to be very careful. And I am bound to say that, while I have as yet received no instructions from the other side, I expect they will rely on my services.”

“I think you are mistaken,” said Conway quietly. “If you will read this note, I think you will see that your interests lie altogether with us;” and he handed him the note from Lettie that had called him to Chicago.

Peter took it, and as he glanced over it his face fell.

“Curse the girl!” he muttered heartily. Then turning to Conway, he asked: “What do you know?”

“A great deal,” replied that gentleman, smiling quietly. “Among other things, I know how that divorce was procured.”

“I thought you meant danger,” was the lawyer’s mental comment, as he took another restless turn across the room.

He had to surrender, so he did it as gracefully as possible.

“I see there is no use of fighting,” he said quietly, as he resumed his seat. “So, gentlemen, I am with you from necessity. Just tell me what I am to do.”

“We do not want your help,” replied Conway sternly. “We simply want to know that you will not help him. Where can this Morain be found?”

“He and his daughter left for Grand Rapids early this morning. They know nothing about this.”

“Can you reach them by telegraph?”

The lawyer bowed.

“Very well. Telegraph them to return at once. But first write me a note to this rascal, and make it strong. Tell him that you will act in our interest from this out.”

Coleman drew some paper from his desk, and wrote as follows:

“Elwell: It is all up. Mr. Conway, who will hand you this, knows everything. You cannot fight, and I am forced to act for them.

Coleman.”

“Will that do?” he inquired, handing the note to Conway.

“Yes, that will do,” replied the doctor, after reading the note and putting it in his pocket. “Now, when can Mr. Morain and his daughter return?”

“This afternoon.”

“Very well. Have them here as soon as possible.” Then, turning to Jim, he said: “I think you had better go with Coleman, and get out the necessary warrants at once. I will call upon this man myself.”

“Wait a minute,” said Coleman as they were leaving the room. “You had better understand about this land before you go.”

He had made up his mind that his only hope for safety lay in gaining the good will of these people, and since he must help them, it would be better for him to help them all he could. So when they had returned to the desk, he went into a detailed account of the lumber steal.

It appeared, from his story, that the land Jim had supposed to be worthless was really pine land, covered with a heavy growth of that valuable timber, and adjoining a plot owned by Morain. Elwell, seeing the value of the timber on it, had endeavored to purchase it, but had been unable to find the owner. So, with his usual audacity, he had gone on cutting timber from the land, expecting, as soon as the campaign closed, to send some one to New York to see and deal with the owner, taking it for granted that this old woman was not likely to know the increase in value of the property. Then came Jim’s advertisement to sell this same land, and Peter had been instructed to answer it and get the land at any price.

Conway and his friend listened intently, but with different emotions. Jim was frantic with anger.

“The scoundrels!” he cried, “I wouldn’t sell them the land now at any price!” and he clinched his hands and walked the floor, red with indignation.

Conway said nothing; but his lips slightly parted in a grim smile.

“Lord help him now!” thought the astute lawyer as he watched Conway’s face. “There’s mighty little chance for him against this man.”

After leaving some further instructions as to the warrants, Conway left to deliver the note to Norine’s husband.

“It will serve as a letter of introduction,” he thought grimly.

He had just reached the mill gate when he met Norine, and her story of the divorce, and evident belief in it, did not lessen his stern determination to punish this man.

After leaving her at the hotel, he returned to the mill and entered the office.

Clinton was there, with his head bowed down on the desk, and his hands covering his face. He did not at first recognize his visitor, and demanded roughly:

“What do you want?”

“Justice!” replied Conway sternly.

The other sprang to his feet.

“What have I done to you?” he demanded savagely. Then his tone changed, and a sneering smile came over his pale face. “I forgot that you were her lover,” he sneered. “But here is her liberty,” tossing the divorce at Conway’s feet. “Take it, in God’s name, and hers.”

Lester Conway paid no attention to the paper lying at his feet. He was very quiet, only that grim smile had returned to his lips.

“I forgot,” he said, “to give you my letter of introduction;” and he threw Peter’s note on the desk. “Perhaps when you read it you will understand.”

Elwell took the note, and as he glanced at it he staggered back, with a bitter curse; then he resumed his place at the desk, and buried his face in his hands.

Conway waited a moment for him to speak, but he maintained a sullen silence.

“Miss Morain and her father have been sent for; they will be here this afternoon,” he said sternly, at last: “and you will meet your dupes at Coleman’s office. The warrant is already out for your arrest, but we will leave you at liberty until they come.”

Still there was no answer, only the head seemed to writhe a little as it lay on the desk.

“Do not attempt to escape,” resumed Conway; “for it is impossible.” And again he waited for some sign of reply; but none came.

Conway looked at him, and for a moment that hard, stern look left his face.

“I am sorry for you,” he said; “sorry for any man in your position. You have lost everything that makes life dear. You will not have a kind word or a kind thought from any living being.”

The other lifted his white, haggard face at this.

“Curse you!” he cried bitterly. “Why should you taunt me? Don’t crow too soon. You have not won yet.”

“I have lost,” replied Conway; “lost her twice, through you.”

The other laughed mockingly.

“Yes, you have lost,” he said tauntingly. “I had forgotten that divorce was invalid.”

Conway made no answer to this, but that stern, set look came over his face again.

“You understand your position,” he said sternly. “Whether that paper were valid or not does not matter. You have lost her as well as I.”

“She is still my wife,” sneered his rival, snapping his fingers in Conway’s face; “and she will be my wife as long as I live.” And then he returned to his old position, and covered his face with his shaking hands.

Conway looked at him almost pityingly.

“Do what you will,” he said; “but remember, we wish to spare your dupes as much as possible; and remember, too, that you cannot escape us this time.”

And after he had gone, the words rang in the ears of the other, as he sat crouching over the desk: “You have lost all that makes life dear to any one; and escape is impossible.”

After leaving the mill, Conway found Jim, and together they returned to the hotel. It was noon now, and they must not leave Norine too long alone. So they returned to her, and told her as much as they thought best of what had passed.

“I cannot understand,” she cried. “Why should you send for his poor wife? If we are divorced, is not that enough?” And she looked sadly but affectionately at her lover. “It shall not prevent our being happy,” she said softly.

They could not undeceive her then. She had borne the blow and the consequent excitement bravely, but she had weakened under it; so it was understood between these two that they would spare her as much as possible until she was away from the place; and Jim was resolved to get her away as soon as possible.

They went through the pretense of eating again, with the same result as at breakfast.

“I will never be able to eat a meal in this cursed place,” said Jim impatiently, as they left the table; and then he went without his after-dinner cigar, that he might go up and encourage Norine to eat as much as possible.

Conway wandered around aimlessly. He could not join Norine. He knew the value of that bit of paper that had imposed on her, and her innocent expressions of affection were very bitter to him.

They were parted now—parted more certainly than this man’s death could have parted them, and all the bitterness of this separation was upon him.

He had loved this girl so ardently, and he had seen her carried away from him by a less timid wooer; then, when it seemed as if death had removed his rival, he still waited, being considerate of her widowhood. And at last, after all his pain and patient waiting, he had gained her love; after he had felt her soft arms around him, and knew that at last he had won his wife, then, that this man should again come between them and rob him of his treasure! Ah, it was bitter!

He knew Norine, and felt the sting of that villain’s words.

“She would be his wife as long as he lived.” Not that she loved him, or would give him aught but contempt—it was not that; but he knew her hatred for the publicity of a court of law, and her scornful contempt for those who rush into the divorce court to air their family troubles in the sight of all.

“Once a wife, always a wife,” she thought; “and if they made a mistake, let them abide by it and suffer silently.”

Her opinions were not “progressive”—God save the mark!—but they were noble and right, and Conway, in spite of his bitter pain, felt them to be so.

He was at the depot when the train came thundering in, and easily identified Fanny and her father from Lettie’s description. They looked worried, and Fanny was decidedly out of temper. She was overdressed and ill-mannered and superficial. But Conway pitied her sincerely; and his heart went out to her kindly, good-natured father in earnest sympathy.

“He looks good,” commented Conway mentally. “And she—well, God pity her, poor thing!—she is worse off even than Norine, for she is neither maid nor wife.”

And thinking moodily over the wrongs this villain had done, he strode gravely off on his way to Coleman’s office.

Jim was waiting for him, full of impatience.

“Where have you been, Lester?” he asked. “I have looked all over town for you.”

Conway explained that he had been to the depot, and reported the arrival of Morain and Fanny. Hardly had he done so, when a carriage stopped at the door, and father and daughter entered the office.

“What does this mean, Mr. Coleman?” cried Fanny shrilly, as they entered the room. “Where is my husband? Why is he not here to meet me?”

“If you will take a chair,” said Conway kindly, “I think he will be here soon, and Mr. Coleman will explain matters to you.”

“Who are you?” demanded Fanny, turning on him; “and where is that bold, bad woman? And what does it all mean?”

She sank into a chair, quivering with anger and excitement.

“It is not necessary to mention that young lady in those terms,” said Conway sternly. Then turning to honest Pat, who stood open-mouthed with amazement, he said quietly: “I am afraid we are bringing a great deal of trouble on you, sir. But there has been a great wrong done, and the innocent must suffer with the guilty. Your friend here will explain it to you.”

“Well, I think an explanation would be a mighty good thing,” replied Morain bluntly. “I’ve had the life bothered out of me the last two days. I can’t understand it at all.”

“Mr. Coleman will explain it all,” repeated Conway. And he and Jim moved over to the window to leave the rest alone together.

“I don’t think, Mr. Conway, that I can do it,” stammered the lawyer, frightened at the task. “Don’t you think, now, that Mr. Darling could do it better?”

And he looked beseechingly at Jim.

“In God’s name, man, spit it out!” roared Pat. “What’s the matter? Where’s Elwell?”

Peter backed into a corner in front of the irate lumberman; but before he could commence his explanation, the door was burst open by a white-faced man, who hurriedly whispered to Coleman and immediately left the room, as if afraid to meet the eyes of the others.

“What is it?” demanded Conway sternly. “He has not escaped?”

“Yes,” said Peter; “he has escaped.”

And he sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

It was true—Elwell had escaped! There was one route that Conway had not been able to close, and the guilty man had taken it.

The glittering little revolver held one life less in its chambers now!

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE TWO WIDOWS.

The excitement in the little city, caused by the sudden death of James Elwell, was unprecedented, even by the excitement created by that gentleman’s nomination for Congress.

Elwell had been popular in this little town at all times. He had always been free-handed and liberal with his money, and generally good-natured. He had been “approachable,” as the saying is, and not even his success had made him exclusive.

With his death the little town lost not only a successful business man—in itself a great loss for that undeveloped place—but they had also lost the one man who had done the most to bring this thriving town to the notice of the outside world. He had been their accepted standard-bearer. With him they not only lost the man, but infinitely worse, they had lost their member of Congress. And in spite of the shadow of scandal hanging over it all, their grief was loud and sincere.

Fanny had been taken to her home by her father, and the terrible story of her husband’s infamy broken to her as gently as possible. Whether from some latent affection for her husband, or from some more selfish reason, she would not credit it.

“It is false!” she cried. “I know it is false!”

“God pardon me!” said her father, with sincere sorrow. “It is all my fault. I should not have brought an entire stranger into my house that way. But I fear it is true, Fanny,” and he added heartily, “God forgive me for my mistake.”

Fanny mourned, and would not be comforted.

“Think of the scandal!” she moaned. “They might let him rest now that he is dead.”

“They will, I think,” replied the old man, understanding her. “They are not bad people, my child, and they could gain nothing by disturbing us now.”

But Morain was disturbed, for all the comfort he tried to give his daughter. “What did these people intend to do?” he wondered; and in a very sorrowful mood he left the house to go to the office.

He had gone but a short distance, when he met Conway and his lawyer coming in quest of him.

“I thought you would like to have him moved to your house,” said Conway kindly, when they met, “and I have given orders to have it done.”

“That was very kind of you,” said Pat gratefully. “I knew your friends had the first right to him, and I was just going to see you about it. It would do no good to make trouble now,” he said deprecatingly.

Conway hastened to reassure him.

“My friends wish to spare you and your daughter all they can. He has been dead to them for a long time, and they have no wish to humiliate you for his wrongdoing. Let him rest now in peace. We will do nothing to affect his memory.”

Morain was affected by this consideration, and he returned to the house greatly relieved, to comfort his daughter with the assurance that there would be no scandal.

“I think you had better see this lady,” he said in conclusion. “She has been very kind to you.”

Fanny hesitated. She could not recognize the kindness that prompted Norine’s sacrifice; could not understand that this woman had given up her right in her dead husband to save the feelings and reputation of an entire stranger. She could not understand this, and far from feeling grateful to Norine, she only felt spiteful and vindictive.

“She has ruined my happiness,” cried Fanny, bitterly. “Why should I see her?”

“She has not!” retorted her father sternly. “She is as innocent as you are.”

“Why did she come here then?” cried Fanny, with unreasoning petulance.

To this her father made no answer.

“I would be glad to have you see her,” he said, as he left the room. “It is your place to, after all she has done for you.”

Fanny was struggling between her spite and curiosity, and eventually her curiosity triumphed.

“I will go and see her, if you wish it,” she said at last; and Morain left the room, thinking that his daughter’s heart was not so bad after all.

As for Norine, she had been greatly shocked when Jim told her of Clinton’s death, and had wept bitter tears of sorrow; but she did not mourn for him as she had mourned before. He had been dead to her all these years, and she knew now how little reason she had to mourn his death. There was no grief in her tears now, only sorrow—sorrow for her innocent child, and sorrow for the great wrong his father had done.

“I pity that poor woman!” she sobbed. “She has been wronged so bitterly. Take me to her, Jim, and let me comfort her a little.”

But this Jim would not do.

“You have not wronged her,” he said, “and we will see that there shall be no scandal to increase her sorrow. But I would prefer that you did not see her.”

Jim did not tell her of Fanny’s spiteful words. They were excusable, perhaps, under the circumstances; but he had not been favorably impressed by this superficial, overdressed woman, and he did not want to subject his sister to possible insults.

The fact was he had wanted to get away at once, being afraid that Norine would break down under these repeated shocks; but this his sister would not listen to.

“He has done wrong,” she said simply—“great wrong; but he was little Clinton’s father, and I must stay until it is all over.”

She never alluded to the dead man as her husband, only as Clinton’s father.

“He preferred another to me,” she thought proudly, “and I will not dispute her claim;” and she kept close in her room, waiting for the time when she was to see the father of her child laid under the ground.

She was sitting alone in her room, thinking sadly of the past, and of all that “might have been,” when there came a gentle tap at the door.

“Come in,” called Norine, rising in expectation; and the next moment Fanny entered the room.

She was dressed in deepest mourning, and her heavy black veil and ample mourning robes contrasted sadly with Norine’s simple black dress. Her eyes were red and heavy-looking, and her appearance subdued.

Norine had risen as she entered, and came forward to meet her.

“You are Fanny, I know,” she said, kissing her, and leading her to a chair. “You are very kind to think of me at such a time.”

Fanny looked at her curiously.

“I did not think you would care to see me,” she said wearily.

“I am glad!” cried Norine, with her arms around Fanny’s neck. “We should be sisters, dear, for we have both been widowed.”

Fanny sobbed; but she did not offer to return Norine’s caresses. She had come simply that she might see this woman; and now she regretted that she had come. She felt it almost as a personal affront that Norine should be dignified and beautiful when she was neither. So she sat and sobbed, perhaps as much from vexation as from grief.

Norine brought a bottle of cologne, and gently bathed Fanny’s face and eyes with it, speaking to her softly and sympathetically.

“I do not wonder you are overcome,” she said. “It is so sad.”

Fanny ceased her sobbing, and put Norine’s hands away from her.

“I did not intend to cry,” she said, struggling to be calm. “I wanted to thank you for your consideration. They tell me that you had the best right to him. Is that so?”

“He was my husband,” replied Norine quietly.

Fanny rose from her chair.

“If your story is true, you have been very kind not to take him from me after he is dead.”

“I should not have tried to take him from you if he had lived,” said Norine, drawing herself up a little.

“Why, did you not love him?”

“Yes, I did love him once; but that was before I knew. I have thought myself a widow all these years.”

“Then, for goodness’ sake, why did you come here to make all this trouble?” cried Fanny spitefully.

Norine drew back a little.

“I did not come to make trouble,” she said coldly. “I did not know that he was alive until I saw him come into the room.”

“Oh, I know—I know!” replied Fanny impatiently. “But you might have acted differently. Why did you not speak to him then?”

“How could I?” asked Norine, amazed; and then she added quietly: “There, dear; we had better not talk about it now.”

Perhaps Fanny was of her opinion, for after thanking her again in a deeply injured tone of voice, and querulously bemoaning her own hard lot in life, she departed, leaving Norine prostrated after the interview.

Jim had been haunted by a familiar presence, one which seemed continually near him, and yet eluded his attention. He was conscious of this feeling as he walked to the door of the hotel, after leaving his sister.

A little way down the street appeared the figure of a tall man dressed in sober black. There was something in the walk and figure so familiar that Jim, out of idle curiosity, followed it. The nearer he got, the more familiar it became, until, with a smothered exclamation of astonishment, he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Harland!” he cried. “Can this be you? How came you here?”

His secretary—for he it was—turned to him meekly. He took off his hat and stood with his head bowed, and his thin gray hair blowing about his face.

“It is I, sir,” he said humbly. “I am sorry to have left New York without your knowledge; but, sir, I had to come.”

“Had to!” repeated Jim, in angry amazement. “Why did you have to come?”

The old man’s figure seemed to shrink together, and his head fell on his breast.

“I would have told you all, sir, in time,” he said, earnestly. “I thought it better, for your sister’s sake, to wait. But, sir, he was my son.”

They had been walking slowly along together; but now Jim stopped and faced the old man, in astonishment.

“Your son!” he gasped. “Whom do you mean? Not Clinton Percival?”

“Yes,” said the old man sadly. “He whom you knew as Clinton Percival was my misguided boy. Ah, sir, I am old now, and very, very weary, and for nearly ten years I have searched for my boy. He left me then,” he added, with sad simplicity; “but I have always loved him.”

“But how did you know—how did you find him?”

The old man folded his hands meekly in front of him.

“I recognized the picture on your desk,” he said. “First I thought it was a picture of my boy; then I knew so strong a resemblance could not be accidental, and I made inquiries; and when your dispatch came I knew you had found him, and I came, too; but not in time,” he added sadly—“not in time!”

“Have you told them? Do they know?”

“Sir, I have told Mr. Morain. He alone knows aught of this. I wanted to see my boy for the last time. Now I shall go back.”

“You shall not go back!” cried Jim in great excitement. “This is the strangest thing I ever heard of. You shall stay now until all is over. I shall say nothing of this until we return to New York, and you can go back when we do.”

“But, sir,” said the old man anxiously, “are you not displeased with me?”

Jim reassured him.

“You did right to come, of course,” he said; “only you should have trusted me. And remember, if you have lost a son, you have found a grandson, and I hope you will care for him as you did for your son.”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears.

“You are kind, sir,” he said. “I have no tie on earth now but your little boy. You are kind to let me stay where I can see him. I thank you and bless you for it.” And he held his trembling hands over Jim’s head as he gave his benediction, and then turned meekly away; while Jim, in deep thought, returned to the hotel.

The next was the day set for the funeral, and it surpassed anything of the kind ever seen in that place. All the mills were shut down, and most of the business places closed. The fronts of the buildings on the route of the funeral cortège were all draped in black, and, in fact, the whole town wore the appearance of deepest woe.

There was some surprise expressed at the close carriage that followed the one containing the mourners, and some speculation as to the identity of that strange old man; but this was drowned in expectation; for a bishop had come to pronounce the eulogy, and all were anxious to hear his eloquent discourse. And it was eloquent; for the reverend gentleman spoke so feelingly of the departed, so lauded his good qualities, and set him forth as an example that all good men might follow, and then spoke of the bereaved widow with such tender sympathy, that nearly all were moved to tears.

Directly after the funeral, Jim and Norine left for New York. Conway was to stay long enough to settle the business that originally brought the brother and sister there.

This did not detain him long, however; for Morain was anxious to do all in his power to make amends for the trouble Elwell had caused.

“You just go to some of the other mill men,” he said to Conway. “Find out what that land is really worth, and I will give you a check for the amount; and as for his interest in the business, we will settle that the same way.”

But Conway would not listen to this.

“My friends do not want his money,” he replied. “Do with that as you see fit.”

“Well, mebbe they’re right,” said Morain, sighing heavily; “but I’ll close out the business, anyway, as soon as possible. You see, I’m getting to be an old man now, though I never felt my age until this trouble struck me, and I think I’ll give up the business altogether. So, since you don’t want it, we’ll just give the money to some charity.”

Conway coöperated heartily in this, and before he departed from the city he had the gratification of seeing Morain send checks to various charitable institutions—the full amount of the dead man’s interest in the business.

Morain followed out his intentions, and disposed of his large business as rapidly as possible, and within a few months he and his daughter had departed from the little town for the last time, leaving Peter Coleman to inherit the mantle of his dead friend’s ambition; which by the way he is still wearing to great advantage to himself.

CHAPTER XXXII.

NORINE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.

It was late at night when Conway reached New York—too late to go to Jim’s, he thought; so he was driven through the raging storm to a hotel.

He was tired and worn out after his long ride, but he could not sleep; so, after registering and leaving some directions with the clerk regarding his room, he buttoned his overcoat closely around him, and strode forth into the storm. He was worn and anxious from the repeated shocks his nerves had withstood, and he felt gloomy over his future prospects with Norine. The last obstacle had been removed, and he felt sure of winning her—in time.

But this additional delay, after all his patient waiting, oppressed him with gloomy forebodings. She would want to wait a year, at least, he thought; for although she had been a widow all these years, her husband was just dead, and he did not doubt that Norine would insist on waiting the full year.

He was tired and sick of all this waiting and longing for the unobtainable. He would have to go back to his old life, he thought, wearily, and perhaps it would be better if they were never to meet again. But even as he thought this he was walking mechanically in the direction of Norine’s house.

It was long after midnight now, and he certainly could not expect to see any one at that hour. Yet he walked back and forth in front of the house, and watched the windows with the eagerness of a young lover.

“She is well,” he murmured at last, with a sigh of relief, “or there would be lights shining;” and he passed the house for the last time, and returned to the hotel. “How silly it all is!” he thought, with some vexation, as he brushed the wet snow from his clothes. “I go wandering around her house like a lovesick boy, instead of going to bed like a sensible man. I have waited all these years; surely I can wait until morning.”

He could not see that he was any nearer to her than he had been a year ago. But he could see her in the morning; there was some consolation in that, and still more consolation in the thought that he had her love. It was selfish in him, no doubt. But it consoled him somewhat to think that she would be waiting now as well as he. As if the pains of separation could be lessened any by the knowledge that she was suffering as well as he.

He had intended to be with them early in the morning; but sleep had chained him down as if in revenge for his nonsensical exertion on the previous night. And it was well along toward noon when he arrived at their door.

“I am so glad you are come,” cried Norine, as she met him with outstretched hands. “We did not know when to expect you, and you did not write,” pouting a little.

He gathered the two small hands closely in his. He was satisfied. At least she was glad to see him.

“I did not think to write,” he said, looking at her fondly. “And I did not know that I could get away until just before I started.”

“You are so good,” said Norine, “to take all that trouble off Jim’s hands; but you see he had me to take care of, so he could not stay.”

Conway laughed lightly.

“It was no great matter. But now I think of it, Jim might have given me the easier job.”

“What was that?” inquired Norine, raising her brows.

“What was it? Why, taking care of you, of course.”

They were standing together by the window; but at his words, and the fond smile that accompanied them, she moved a little away from him. In her joy at seeing her lover she had forgotten for a moment.

Conway noticed the movement and sighed bitterly.

“No doubt you were better pleased as it was,” he said gloomily; and he turned and made a pretense of looking over some books on the table, that she might not see his face.

Norine followed him: she laid her hand softly upon his arm and looked up into his averted face.

“You do not think that, Lester,” she said, her lips trembling a little. “And you must not be cruel. It is not my fault, dear.”

He turned impulsively and caught her to his heart.

“I was a brute,” he said passionately; “but I could not help it, dear. I will not hurt you again.”

Norine disengaged herself, palpitating a little from the ardor of his embrace.

“You are not quite a brute,” she smiled, panting a little. “But you are dreadfully strong, and you must not do that again either—yet;” and she ran laughing out of the room just as Jim came in.

“Hello, old man!” cried that worthy gayly; “so you got back safe, eh? Well, I’m mighty glad to see you;” and he shook Conway’s hand heartily.

“I am safe enough,” returned Conway lightly. “But I have got a large sum of money here belonging to you, and I am glad you have come to relieve me.”

“Well, I’ll lock up the money,” said Jim prudently, “and we will talk matters over after dinner.”

Jim appeared to be in no hurry to listen to Conway’s accounting, for he excused himself immediately after dinner on a plea of business, and left Conway and his sister alone.

“I am glad he has gone, the dear fellow,” Norine said, after he had left the room, “for I want you to help me.”

“In what way?” inquired Conway.

“In my shopping, sir,” replied Norine gravely. “Did you ever go shopping with a woman?”

“No; I have never had that pleasure.”

Norine laughed.

“Wait till we return before you call it a pleasure,” she cried gayly. “But then, seriously, I must buy some presents for Jim and Clinton, and the people at home.” Norine always referred to the farm as home. “And you must help me, for I can not imagine what to get.”

“I will do all I can,” replied Conway; “but I doubt the value of my assistance.”

“Oh, you can help me, I know,” smiled Norine; and then added demurely: “And I will promise you a Christmas present to pay you for your trouble—something that I think you will value;” and with that she slipped away to get ready.

“We will not take the carriage,” she said, when she returned. “It will only delay us; and besides, I want to see the windows.”

And they started out together to walk the streets pretty much as they had gone on their long walks through the woods at home. They went to several establishments, where the windows were dressed for holiday display, and returned home at dark, tired but satisfied.

“We shall go again to-morrow!” cried Norine, delighted. “We have spent so much time looking in the windows that I have not bought one half of all I wanted.”

After supper, the two men retired to the cozy little room that Jim had fitted up for his office and smoking room. Other folks would probably have dignified the apartment by calling it a study; but with them it was simply Jim’s room, and the lack of tone in the appellation detracted nothing from its all-pervading air of cozy comfort.

After they got their pipes filled and properly lighted, they entered into the discussion of business; and Conway explained the terms he had made in the sale of the land, and also the disposition they had made of Clinton’s interest in the Morain business.

Jim was highly pleased with it all.

“The confounded business is settled now,” he said, “and I am mighty glad to be rid of it. It is astonishing how things do happen,” he continued thoughtfully. “If any one here had offered me one half that amount for the land, I would have taken it quick. It was more accident than anything else that caused me to take that trip; but it was a mighty lucky accident for all of us.”

“Lucky!” ejaculated Conway, astonished.

Surely, he thought, Jim is not becoming so sordid as to care nothing for his sister’s feelings.

“Why, yes, lucky,” continued Jim, smoking complacently. “I don’t mean as regards money alone; although that, of course, is worth considering. But just think of Norine and yourself.”

“Mighty lucky for us, I fancy,” said Conway moodily.

“Of course it was,” assented Jim. “You see, we know he is dead now; he can not trouble us again.”

“He is certainly dead this time,” said Conway, getting up and pacing the floor. “I hope the boy won’t turn out like his father. Not that I think there is any danger of it; but such traits are sometimes inherited.”

“I doubt that,” argued Jim. “Man is essentially a creature of circumstances. No man is a villain from choice. Suppose now that Norine had had her money when they were married, do you suppose he would ever have left her?”

“Not as long as the money lasted, at any rate.”

“There you do him an injustice. He would not have spent her money. He would have added to it. He was ambitious,” continued Jim, forgetting to smoke in the heat of his argument. “He was ambitious, and the money would have given him a chance to gratify his ambition; that is all. Probably if things had been different, I should have been proud of my brother-in-law. It was all a matter of chance.”

“Is it a matter of chance that you and I are honest men?” asked Conway, greatly amused.

“Yes; I think it is,” retorted Jim coolly. “You are not ambitious enough to be dishonest; and I have everything I need, so there is no temptation.”

“Were you not honest before you became rich?”

“Yes—from choice; no one ever gave me a chance to be dishonest then.”

Conway laughed.

“Don’t trust too much to chance,” he said. “You have heard the old saying, ‘Fools trust to chances; wise men make them.’”

“That only shows that a fool’s wisdom is sometimes best,” retorted Jim.

Conway did not continue the discussion.

“Norine may not be pleased at my giving away so much money belonging to her son,” he said, to change the subject.

“She would not have touched it,” replied Jim. “You did quite right, and she will thank you for it when she knows.”

As he spoke he drew a mass of papers from the desk in front of him, and set busily to work arranging them in neat piles.

Conway lay back in his easy-chair, and watched him lazily through the smoke.

“You seem to be busy,” he said at last.

“Yes,” replied Jim, continuing his work, “Time is almost up now, and I want to leave things in good order when I go. I don’t want to take the chances of being called back to attend to something just as my trip begins to get interesting.”

Conway made no reply. There was something in Jim’s words that grated on him.

This was the first time the contemplated voyage had been spoken of since their late trouble. And while he had hardly dared hope that it might be postponed, he certainly had not expected to hear it spoken of in this cool manner.

It hurt him to think that they could go on with their pleasant preparations, and show no consideration for his pain.

“But, after all, it is only the way of the world,” he thought sadly. “I have no right to expect them to be sorrowful because I must. I had better get away from here as soon as possible. I can only mar their enjoyment by staying.”

And he went to bed that night fully determined that the next day should be his last with them.

But it was not. He spoke at the breakfast table of his proposed departure; but neither the brother nor sister would listen to it.

“You will not go until after Christmas,” pleaded Norine. “That is only a few days now, and you will stay with us until then.”

“Of course he will,” interrupted Jim grandly. “We could not get along without him.”

Conway protested weakly; but it was of no use.

“The idea,” pouted Norine, when Jim had taken his letters and left them alone. “You are very anxious to leave me, and you used to pretend that you liked me, too.”

“Was it all pretense?” inquired Conway.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” replied Norine, arching her brows. “You are very anxious to leave me.”

“Well, I will stay; and you will remember it as one thing I did to please you;” and he bit his lips with vexation as soon as he said it.

Norine looked at him for a moment in a puzzled way.

“Of course if it does not please you,” she began coldly; and then seeing his mortification, she laughed heartily. “You are a goose,” she said; “but you will stay to please me.”

“I did not mean that quite,” stammered Conway, flushing with mortification. “I will be glad to stay, since you wish it.”

“That is a good boy.” And she came around the table, and rested her hands upon his shoulders. “And remember, I am going to give you a Christmas present. Will you value it?”

And she looked down at him wistfully.

Conway reached over and seized her hands and looked up into her face.

“I will value it,” he said.

“All your life?”

“All my life. Am I to help you choose it?”

Norine laughed a little, satisfied, happy laugh.

“No, you can not choose it,” she said; but with that same wistful look on her face. “You can reject it if you don’t like it.”

Conway laughed. He was not likely to reject anything she gave him.

And shortly after they went on their shopping expedition; and the shopping expeditions were carried on to such an extent that they spent the greater part of each of the few remaining days before Christmas in wandering around the streets together and looking into the shop windows.

But the remaining days were very few and very short, Conway thought; and before they had fairly done their shopping, the time had slipped around, and Christmas had come.

Conway had bought a present each for Jim and Norine, and little Clinton was happy in the abundance he had received.

There had been a general interchange of gifts over the breakfast table, but Conway had not received his promised present from Norine. He had forgotten it, apparently, for she looked at him wistfully several times without discovering any traces of disappointment in his face; and after the happy morning meal was over, and they were alone, she said softly:

“You have not got my present yet, Lester.”

“There! I knew there was something lacking. Did you forget me?”

“No,” she answered, coming closer to him and speaking softly and timidly; “I did not forget you. But, oh, Lester! are you sure that you will always value my gift?”

And she looked at him with her eyes swimming in tears.

“Value it?” cried Conway, puzzled at her earnestness. “I will value it dearly.”

“All your life?” coming closer.

“All my life.”

“There it is, then,” she said, blushing and trembling.

And she put her little closed fist into his hand.

Conway turned the little soft hand over, and stupidly opened the little pink fingers. It was empty.

He was very pale now, and trembled from eagerness.

“Oh, Norine!” he cried huskily, “what am I to understand: that you will come to me now—that I need not wait?”

She nodded shyly.

“If you want me,” she whispered; and then she disappeared, completely swallowed up in her lover’s embrace.

“Hello!” exclaimed Jim, when he burst into the room some time after, and caught them in the same position. “I say,” he went on, gazing coolly at them, “any time you get through with my sister, I would like to have a look at her myself.”

“But I am not going to get through with her,” replied Conway. “We are going to be married at once. We need not wait.”

“Pooh! I knew that,” answered Jim loftily. “I am glad, though, that you have got sense enough to be happy at last.”

“You will not think it wrong that I did not wait—after what has happened?” asked Norine timidly, appearing for a moment after Jim had left.

Conway made no answer in words, but he held her close, very close to him, and looked down into her blushing face; and I don’t suppose, really, that any words were necessary.

Nestling at the foot of a cloud-capped mountain, in one of the most romantic spots in Germany, there is a little rustic village. It is a very little village—and being somewhat out of the beaten track of continental tourists—a very quiet one. It is not a “show town,” and I doubt if it can be found in the guide books. But it is a very pleasant little place for all that.

Just the place one would choose if tired of scrambling over mountains and wandering through “show” places, one simply desired to rest. Everything about the little village is slumbrous and restful. Even the ruddy-cheeked children move slowly around, and the very animals seem to spend their life in a perpetual doze.

There was a party of travelers in the little village now, and the landlord of the one little inn was at his wits’ end to provide for them, for these were Americans, and wealthy. Oh, very wealthy, and altogether it was a piece of good fortune that seldom came to the sleepy-looking landlord.

You could see one of these great people now seated in front of the little red-tiled inn, and really, as he sat there with a big pipe in his mouth and a cold-looking mug of beer on the little table beside him, he did not look to be such a very great personage after all.

It is only one year since we saw him last, and beyond a deeper tinge of bronze on his face, and a look of supreme contentment all over him, he has changed very little. There is the same kindly smile on his face, and altogether, Herr Doctor, as he is called in the little village, looks as if he were at peace with the world.

He turns lazily in his chair as a ponderous traveling carriage dashes up to the little inn, and springs to his feet with an exclamation of surprise. He has seen a face at the carriage window, and he evidently recognizes it; for he drops his pipe as he springs to his feet, and hurries out into the little court where the carriage stands.

It is Lettie’s face he sees, and Lettie, colder, prouder, and more beautiful than of yore, drops her mask of cold indifference as she welcomes him.

Yes, it is Lettie, and beside her, looking many years younger than when we met him last, is her husband, and he grins contentedly as his eyes rest on his beautiful young wife; for, like Herr Doctor, old Pat is at peace with the world.

There is very little time for conversation, for they do not leave the carriage at all; but there is time enough for old Pat to tell of Fanny’s elegant establishment in Chicago, where, as the rich “Mrs. Elwell,” she has got into “society” at last.

There is also time enough for Conway to tell about that little son of his, whose coming into the world has caused them to stop at this restful little place. He tells of it proudly, and speaks lovingly of the little mother who is not yet able to get downstairs. Whereat Lettie’s face becomes a trifle paler, and a look of great yearning comes into her eyes, and the ponderous carriage drives on with a cracking of the whip and a merry jingling of bells, and the doctor hurries upstairs to tell the little mother his wonderful news.

Back in one of the coolest rooms of the little inn, also with a pipe in his mouth, is another of these great people; and as he lies back in an easy-chair and blows clouds of smoke from his lips, we will look over his shoulder and note what he sees in the rolling clouds of smoke.

There is no wife in the smoke of Jim’s future, and no little children of his own. Instead, he sees a pleasant, cheery room, with rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed children clustering around the fire—bright, happy children, who above all things else prize the one dusky hour in the evening when “Uncle Jim” is with them.

He sees the child of his heart—his sister’s firstborn—steadily mounting to fame in the profession that he has chosen for him. He sees the grandfather sink into his grave, blessing him with his last breath for the years of peaceful happiness that he has given him. And there arises before him like incense the prayers of gratitude from numberless hearts that he has relieved of their burdens. And he blows the smoke away to find his sister and her husband—who is still her lover—standing before him, and he hears her murmur, as she kisses him fondly:

“Dear old Jim, how much we all love you!”

THE END.

No. 1125 of The New Eagle Series, entitled “Loyal Unto Death,” by Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller, is a romance in which a loyal heart, after passing through tragedy and sorrow, is rewarded with love and happiness.

Transcriber’s notes:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by the transcriber.

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Table of Contents

- The BREATH of SLANDER

- CONTENTS

- New Eagle Series

- The Breath of Slander;

- THE BREATH OF SLANDER.

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- CHAPTER XXII.

- CHAPTER XXIII.

- CHAPTER XXIV.

- CHAPTER XXV.

- CHAPTER XXVI.

- CHAPTER XXVII.

- CHAPTER XXVIII.

- CHAPTER XXIX.

- CHAPTER XXX.

- CHAPTER XXXI.

- CHAPTER XXXII.

- Transcriber’s notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE