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Elsie's Kith and Kin

by Martha Finley · English · Gutenberg #14488 · 418,692 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Elsie's Kith and Kin

Author: Martha Finley


        
Release date: December 27, 2004 [eBook #14488]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN ***

ELSIE'S KITH AND KIN

by

MARTHA FINLEY

1886







CHAPTER I.

"O married love! each heart shall own;
  Where two congenial souls unite,
Thy golden chains inlaid with down,
  Thy lamp with heaven's own splendor bright."
LANGHORNE.


"There, there, little woman! light of my eyes, and core of my heart! if
you don't stop this pretty soon, I very much fear I shall be compelled
to join you," Edward Travilla said, between a laugh and a sigh, drawing
Zoe closer to him, laying her head against his breast, and kissing her
tenderly on lip and cheek and brow. "I shall begin to think you already
regret having staid behind with me."

"No, no, no!" she cried, dashing away her tears, then putting her arms
about his neck, and returning his caresses with ardor of affection.
"Dear Ned, you know you're more than all the rest of the world to your
silly little wife. But it seems lonely just at first, to have them all
gone at once, especially mamma; and to think we'll not see her again for
months! I do believe you'd cry yourself, if you were a girl."

"Altogether likely," he said, laughing, and giving her another hug;
"but, being a man, it wouldn't do at all to allow my feelings to
overcome me in that manner. Besides, with my darling little wife still
left me, I'd be an ungrateful wretch to repine at the absence of other
dear ones."

"What a neat little speech, Ned!" she exclaimed, lifting her head to
look up into his face, and laughing through her tears--for her eyes had
filled again. "Well, you know I can't help feeling a little lonely and
sad just at first; but, for all that, I wouldn't for the world be
anywhere else than here in your arms:" and with a sigh of content and
thankfulness, she let her pretty head drop upon his breast again.

"My darling! may it ever be to you the happiest place on earth! God
helping me, I shall always try to make it so," he said, with a sudden
change to gravity, and in low, moved tones.

"My dear, dear husband!" she murmured, clinging closer to him.

Then, wiping her eyes, "I sha'n't cry any more; for, if I'm not the
happiest woman in the world, I ought to be. And what a nice time we
shall have together, dear Ned! each wholly devoted to the other all
winter long. I have it all planned out: while you are out about the
plantation in the mornings, I'll attend to my housekeeping and my
studies; and in the afternoons and evenings,--after I've recited,--we
can write our letters, or entertain ourselves and each other with music
or books; you can read to me while I work, you know."

"Yes: a book is twice as enjoyable read in that way--sharing the
pleasure with you," he said, softly stroking her hair, and smiling down
into her eyes.

"Especially if it is a good story, or a bit of lovely poetry," she
added.

"Yes," he said: "we'll have both those in turn, and some solid reading
besides."

"I don't like solid reading," she returned, with a charming pout.

"One may cultivate a taste for it, I think," he answered pleasantly.

"But you can't cultivate what you haven't got," she objected.

"True enough," he said, laughing. "Well, then, we'll try to get a little
first, and cultivate it carefully afterward. I must go now, love," he
added, releasing her: "the men need some directions from me, in regard
to their work."

"And the women some from me," said Zoe. "Oh! you needn't laugh, Ned,"
shaking her finger at him, as he turned in the doorway to give her an
amused glance: "perhaps some of these days you'll find out that I am
really an accomplished housewife, capable of giving orders and
directions too."

"No doubt, my dear; for I am already proud of you in that capacity," he
said, throwing her a smiling kiss, then hurrying away.

Zoe summoned Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, gave her orders for the day,
and the needed supplies from pantry and storeroom, they went to the
sewing-room, to give some directions to Christine and Alma.

She lingered there for a little, trying on a morning-dress they were
making for her, then repaired to her boudoir, intent upon beginning her
studies, which had been rather neglected of late, in the excitement of
the preparations for the departure of the greater part of the family for
a winter at Viamede.

But she had scarcely taken out her books, when the sound of wheels on
the avenue attracted her attention; and glancing from the window, she
saw the Roselands carriage draw up at the front entrance, and Ella Conly
alight from it, and run up the veranda steps.

"There, I'll not do much studying to-day, I'm afraid," said Zoe, half
aloud; "for, even if it's only a call she has come for, she'll not leave
under an hour."

She hastily replaced the books in the drawer from which she had taken
them,--for she had a feeling, only half acknowledged even to herself, of
repugnance to having Ella know of her studies,--Ella, who had graduated
from boarding-school, and evidently felt herself thoroughly
educated,--and hurried down to meet and welcome her guest.

"I told Cal and Art, I thought you'd be sure to feel dreadfully lonely
to-day, after seeing everybody but Ned start off on a long journey, and
so I'd come and spend the day with you," said Ella, when the two had
exchanged kisses, and inquiries after each other's health.

"It was very kind and thoughtful in you," returned Zoe, leading the way
into the parlor usually occupied by the family, where an open wood fire
blazed cheerily on the hearth.

"Take this easy-chair, won't you?" she said, wheeling it a little
nearer the grate; "and Dinah shall carry away your wraps when it suits
you to doff them. I wish cousins Cal and Art would invite themselves to
dine with us too."

"Art's very busy just now," said Ella: "there's a good deal of sickness,
and I don't believe he's spent a whole night at home for the last week
or more."

"Dear me! I wouldn't be a doctor for any thing, nor a doctor's wife!"
exclaimed Zoe.

"Well, I don't know: there's something to be said on both sides of that
question," laughed Ella. "I can tell you, Art would make a mighty good
husband; and it's very handy, in ease of sickness, to have the doctor in
the house."

"Yes; but, according to your account, he's generally somewhere else than
in his own house," returned Zoe playfully.

Ella laughed. "Yes," she said, "doctors do have a hard life; but, if you
say so to Art, he always says he has never regretted having chosen the
medical profession, because it affords so many opportunities for doing
good. It's plain he makes that the business of his life. I'm proud of
Art. I don't believe there's a better man anywhere. I was sick last
summer, and you wouldn't believe how kindly he nursed me."

"You can't tell me any thing about him that I should think too good to
believe," said Zoe. "He's our family doctor, you remember; and, of
course, we are all attached to him on that account, as well as because
of the relationship."

"Yes, to be sure. There, Dinah, you may carry away my hat and cloak,"
Ella said, divesting herself of them as she spoke, "but leave the
satchel. I brought my fancy-work, Zoe: one has to be industrious now, as
Christmas is coming. I decided to embroider a pair of slippers for each
of my three brothers. Walter does not expect to get home; so I made his
first, as they had to travel so far. I'm nearly done with Art's, and
then I have Cal's to do."

"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed Zoe, examining the work: "and that's a new
stitch; won't you teach it to me?"

"Yes, indeed, with pleasure. And I want you to teach me how to crochet
that lace I saw you making the other day. I thought it so pretty."

The two spent a pleasant morning chatting together over their
fancy-work, saying nothing very wise, perhaps, but neither did they say
any thing harmful: an innocent jest now and again, something--usually
laudatory--about some member of the family connection, and remarks and
directions about their work, formed the staple of their talk.

"Oh! how did it come that you and Ned staid behind when all the rest
went to Viamede for the winter?" asked Ella.

"Business kept my husband, and love for him and his society kept me,"
returned Zoe, with a look and smile that altogether belied any suspicion
Ella might have had that she was fretting over the disappointment.

"Didn't you want to go?"

"Yes, indeed, if Edward could have gone with me; but any place with him
is better than any other without him."

"Well, I don't believe I should have been willing to stay behind, even
in your place. I've always had a longing to spend a winter there
visiting my sister Isa, and my cousins Elsie and Molly. Cal and Art say,
perhaps one or both of them may go on to spend two or three weeks this
winter; and in that case I shall go along."

"Perhaps we may go at the same time, and what a nice party we will
make!" said Zoe. "There," glancing from the window, "I see my husband
coming, and I want to run out and speak to him. Will you excuse me a
moment?" and scarcely waiting for a reply, she ran gayly away.

Meeting Edward on the threshold, "I have no lessons to recite this
time," she said; "but you are not to scold, because I've been prevented
from studying by company. Ella is spending the day with me."

"Ah! I hope you have had a pleasant time together--not too much troubled
by fear of a lecture from the old tyrant who bears your lessons," he
said laughingly, as he bent his head to press a kiss of ardent affection
upon the rosy lips she held up to him.

"No," she laughed in return: "I'm not a bit afraid of him."

Zoe had feared the hours when Edward was unavoidably absent from her
side would be very lonely now while the other members of the Ion family
were away; but she did not find it so; her studies, and the work of
making various pretty things for Christmas gifts, keeping her very busy.

And, when he was with her, time flew on very rapid wings. She had grown
quite industrious, and generally plied her needle in the evenings while
he read or talked to her. But occasionally he would take the embroidery,
or whatever it was, out of her hands, and toss it aside, saying she was
trying her eyes by such constant use; and, besides, he wanted her
undivided attention.

And she would resign herself to her fate, nothing loath to be drawn
close to his side, or to a seat upon his knee, to be petted and
caressed like a child, which, indeed, he persisted in calling her.

This was when they were alone: but very frequently they had company to
spend the day, afternoon, or evening; for Ion had always been noted for
its hospitality; and scarcely a week passed in which they did not pay a
visit to the Oaks, the Laurels, the Pines, or Roselands.

Also a brisk correspondence was carried on with the absent members of
the family. And Zoe's housekeeping cares and duties were just enough to
be an agreeable variety in her occupations: every day, too, when the
weather permitted, she walked or rode out with her husband.

And so the time passed quite delightfully for the first two months after
the departure of the Viamede party.

It was a disappointment that Edward found himself too busy to make the
hoped-for trip to Viamede at Christmas-time; yet Zoe did not fret over
it, and really enjoyed the holidays extremely, giving and receiving
numerous handsome presents, and, with Edward's assistance, making it a
merry and happy time for the servants and other dependants, as well as
for the relatives and friends still in the neighborhood.

The necessary shopping, with Edward to help her, and the packing
and sending off of the Christmas-boxes to Viamede, to the
college-boys,--Herbert and Harold,--and numerous other relatives and
friends far and near, Zoe thought altogether the most delightful
business she had ever taken in hand.

A very merry, happy little woman she was through all those weeks and
months, Edward as devoted as any lover, and as gay and light-hearted as
herself.

"Zoe, darling," Edward said one day at dinner, "I must drive over into
our little village of Union--by the way, do you know that we have more
than a hundred towns of that name in these United States?"

"No, I did not know, or suspect, that we had nearly so many," she
interrupted, laughing: "no wonder letters go astray when people are not
particular to give the names of both county and State. But what were you
going to say about driving over there?"

"I must see a gentleman on business, who will be there to meet the
five-o'clock train, and leave on it; and, in order to be certain of
seeing him, I must be there at least fifteen or twenty minutes before it
is due. Shall I have the pleasure of my wife's company in the carriage?
I have ordered it to be at the door by fifteen or twenty minutes past
four, which will give us plenty of time, as it is an easy matter to
drive from here to Union in ten minutes."

"Thank you," she said. "I accept the invitation with pleasure, and
promise to be ready at the minute."

"You are the best little woman about that," he returned, with an
appreciative look and smile. "I don't remember that you have ever yet
kept me waiting, when told beforehand at what time I intended to start."

"Of course not," she said, with a pleased laugh; "because I was afraid,
if I did, I shouldn't be invited so often: and I'm always so glad to go
with you."

"Not gladder than I am to have you," he said, with a very lover-like
glance and smile. "I always enjoy your society, and am always proud to
show my friends and acquaintances what a dear little wife I have. I dare
say I'm looked upon as a very fortunate fellow in that respect, and
sometimes envied on account of having drawn such a prize in the
matrimonial lottery."

They had left the table while he spoke, and with the last words he
passed his arm round her waist.

"Dear me, Ned, what a gallant speech!" she said, flushing with delight;
"you deserve a reward:" and she held up her face for a kiss.

"I am overpaid," he said, when he had bestowed it.

"In spite of the coin being such as you have a right to help yourself
to whenever you will?" she returned with a merry laugh. "O Ned, my
lover-husband!" she added, laying her head on his breast, "I am so happy
in belonging to you, and I can never love you enough for all your
goodness to me!"

"Darling, are you not equally good and loving to me?" he asked in tender
tones, and holding her close.

"But I owe every thing to you," she responded with emotion. "If you had
not come to my aid when my dear father was taken from me, what would
have become of me, a mere child, without a near relative in the world,
alone and destitute in a foreign land?"

"But I loved you, dearest. I sought my own happiness, as well as yours,
in asking you to be my wife. So you need never feel burdened by the idea
that you are under any special obligation to me, to whom you are the
very sunshine of life."

"Dear Ned, how very kind in you to say so," she responded, gazing with
ardent affection into his eyes; "but it isn't burdensome to be under
obligation to you, any more than it is a trial to be ruled by you," she
added, with playful tenderness; "and I love to think of all your
goodness to me."

It was five minutes past four by Zoe's watch, and she just about to go
to her dressing-room to put on her hat and cloak, when visitors were
announced,--some ladies who always made a lengthened call at Ion; so
she at once resigned herself to the loss of her anticipated drive with
her husband.

"O Ned!" she whispered in a hasty, vexed aside, "you'll have to go
alone."

"Yes, dear," he returned; "but I'll try to get back in time to take you
a drive in the other direction."

They stepped forward, and greeted their guests with hospitable
cordiality.

They were friends whose visits were prized and enjoyed, though their
coming just at this time was causing Zoe a real disappointment. However,
Edward's promise of a drive with him at a later hour so far made amends
for it, that she could truthfully express pleasure in seeing her guests.

Edward chatted with them for a few moments, then, excusing himself on
the plea of business that could not be deferred, left them to be
entertained by Zoe, while he entered his waiting carriage, and went on
his way to the village, where he expected to meet his business
acquaintance.




CHAPTER II.

"The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness."--SHAKSPEARE.


Edward had met and held his desired interview with his business
acquaintance, seen him aboard his train, and was standing watching it as
it steamed away and disappeared in the distance, when a feminine voice,
close at hand, suddenly accosted him.

"O Mr. Travilla! how are you? I consider myself very fortunate in
finding you here."

He turned toward the speaker, and was not too greatly pleased at sight
of her.

"Ah! good-evening, Miss Deane," he said, taking her offered hand, and
speaking with gentlemanly courtesy. "In what can I be of service to
you?"

"By inviting me to Ion to spend the night," she returned laughingly.
"I've missed my train, and was quite in despair at the thought of
staying alone over night in one of the miserable little hotels of this
miserable little village. So I was delighted to see your carriage
standing there, and you yourself beside it; for, knowing you to be one
of the most hospitable of men, I am sure you will be moved to pity, and
take me home with you."

Edward's heart sank at thought of Zoe, but, seeing no way out of the
dilemma, "Certainly," he said, and helped his self-invited guest to a
seat in his carriage, placed himself by her side, and bade the coachman
drive on to Ion.

"Now, really, this is very good in you, Mr. Travilla," remarked Miss
Deane: "there is no place I like better to visit than Ion, and I begin
to think it was rather a fortunate mishap--missing my train."

"Very unfortunate for me, I fear," sighed Edward to himself. "The loss
of her drive will be a great disappointment to Zoe, and the sight of
such a guest far from making it up to her. I am thankful the visit is to
be for only a night."

Aloud he said, "I fear you will find it less pleasant than on former
occasions,--in fact, rather lonely; as all the family are
absent--spending the winter at Viamede, my mother's Louisiana
plantation--except my wife and myself."

"Ah! but your wife is a charming little girl,--I never can think of her
as a woman, you know,--and you are a host in yourself," returned the
lady laughingly.

Zoe's callers had left; and she, having donned hat and cloak, not to
keep her husband a single moment, was at the window watching for his
coming, when the carriage came driving up the avenue, and drew up at the
door.

She hurried out, expecting to find no one there but himself, and to be
at once handed to a seat in the vehicle, and the next minute be speeding
away with him, enjoying her drive all the more for the little
disappointment that had preceded it.

What, then, was her chagrin to see a visitor handed out, and that
visitor the woman for whom she had conceived the most violent antipathy!

"Miss Deane, my dear," Edward said, with an entreating look at Zoe,
which she did not see, her eyes being at that instant fixed upon the
face of her uninvited and unwelcome guest.

"How do you do, my dear Mrs. Travilla? I hope you are glad to see me?"
laughed the intruder, holding out a delicately gloved hand, "your
husband has played the Good Samaritan to me to-night--saving me from
having to stay in one of those wretched little hotels in the village
till two o'clock to-morrow morning."

"I am in usual health, thank you. Will you walk in?" returned Zoe in a
freezing tone, and utterly ignoring the offered hand. "Will you step
into the parlor? or would you prefer being shown to your room first?"

"The latter, if you please," Miss Deane answered sweetly, apparently
quite unaware that Zoe's manner was in the least ungracious.

"Dinah," said Zoe, to a maid-in-waiting, "show Miss Deane to the room
she occupied on her last visit. Carry up her satchel, and see that she
has every thing she wants."

Having given the order, Zoe stepped out to the veranda where Edward
still was, having staid behind to give directions in regard to the
horses.

"Zoe, love, I am very sorry," he said, as the man turned his horses'
heads, and drove away toward the stables.

"O Edward! how could you?" she exclaimed reproachfully, tears of
disappointment and vexation springing to her eyes.

"Darling, I really could not help it," he replied soothingly, drawing
her to him with a caress, and went on to tell exactly what had occurred.

"She is not a real lady," said Zoe, "or she never would have done a
thing like that."

"I agree with you, love," he said; "but I was sorry your reception of
her was so extremely ungracious and cold."

"Would you have had me play the hypocrite, Ned?" she asked indignantly.

"No, Zoe, I should be very far from approving of that," he answered
gravely: "but while it was right and truthful not to express pleasure
which you did not feel, at her coming, you might, on the other hand,
have avoided absolute rudeness; you might have shaken hands with her,
and asked after her health and that of her father's family."

"I treated her as well as she deserved; and it does not make her any the
more welcome to me, that she has already been the means of drawing down
upon me a reproof from my husband's lips," Zoe said in tremulous tones,
and turning away from him with her eyes full of tears.

"My words were hardly intended as that, little wife," Edward responded
in a kindly tone, following her into the hall, catching her in his arms,
and imprinting a kiss on her ruby lips.

"And I wanted my drive with you so badly," she murmured, half hiding her
face on his breast; "but she has robbed us of that, and--O Ned! is she
to come between us again, and make us quarrel, and be so dreadfully
unhappy?" Her voice was full of tears and sobs before she had ended.

"No, no; I could not endure that any more than you," he said with
emotion, and clasping her very close: "and it is only for to-night you
will have to bear the annoyance of her presence; she is to leave in the
morning."

"Is she? that is some comfort. I hope somebody will come in for the
evening, and share with us the infliction of her society," Zoe said,
concluding with a forlorn attempt at a laugh.

"Won't you take off that very becoming hat and cloak, Mrs. Travilla, and
spend the evening?" asked Edward playfully.

"Thank you. I believe I will, if you will accompany me to the
dressing-room," she returned, with a smiling look up into his face.

"That I will with pleasure," he said, "provided you will reward me with
some assistance with my toilet."

"Such as brushing your hair, and tying your cravat? Yes, sir, I will:
it's a bargain."

And so, laughing and chatting, they went up to their own private
apartments.

Halt an hour later they came down again together, to find Miss Deane in
the parlor, seated by a window overlooking the avenue.

"There's a carriage just drawing up before your front entrance," she
remarked: "the Roselands family carriage, I think it is."

Zoe gave her husband a bright, pleased look. It seemed her wish for an
addition to their party for the evening had been granted.

The next moment the room-door was thrown, open, and Dr. Conly and Miss
Ella were announced.

They were cordially welcomed, asked to tea, and staid the evening,
greatly relieving Zoe in the matter of entertaining her unwelcome guest,
who devoted herself to the doctor, and left Edward to his wife and
cousin, a condition of things decidedly agreeable to Zoe.

A little after nine the Roselands carriage was announced; and the doctor
and Ella took their departure, Edward and Zoe accompanying them to the
outer door.

The sky was black with clouds, and the wind roaring through the trees on
the lawn.

"We are going to have a heavy storm. I think," remarked Arthur, glancing
upward: "there is not a star to be seen, and the wind blows almost a
gale. I hope no patient of mine will want the doctor very badly
to-night," he added with a slight laugh. "Step in out of the wind,
cousin Zoe, or you may be the very one to send for me."

Doing as directed, "No, indeed," she said: "I'm sure I couldn't have the
heart to call anybody up out of a warm bed to face such a cutting wind
as this."

"No, no; never hesitate when there is a real necessity," he returned,
speaking from his seat in the carriage, where he had already taken his
place beside his sister, whom Edward had handed in. "Good-night, and
hurry in, both of you, for my sake if not for your own."

But they lingered a moment till the carriage turned, and drove swiftly
down the avenue.

"I am so glad they came," remarked Zoe, as Edward shut the door and
locked it for the night.

"Yes," he said: "they added a good deal to the pleasure of the evening.
As we couldn't be alone together, three guests were more acceptable than
one."

"Decidedly; and that one was delighted, I'm sure, to have an opportunity
to exercise her conversational gifts for the benefit of a single man
instead of a married one."

"Zoe, love, don't allow yourself to grow bitter and sarcastic," Edward
said, turning toward her, laying a hand lightly, affectionately, upon
her shoulder, and gazing down into her eyes with a look of grave
concern.

She colored under it, and turned away with a pout that almost spoiled
the beauty of her fair face. She was more than ever impatient to be rid
of their self-invited guest.

"She always sets Ned to scolding me," was the bitter thought in her
heart as she went slowly back to the parlor, where they had left Miss
Deane, Edward following, sighing inwardly at the change in his darling
always wrought by that unwelcome presence in the house.

"How the wind roars down the chimney!" Miss Deane remarked as her host
and hostess re-entered the room, where she was comfortably seated in an
easy-chair beside the glowing grate. "I fear to-morrow will prove a
stormy day; but in that case I shall feel all the more delighted with my
comfortable quarters here,--all the more grateful to you, Mr. Travilla,
for saving me from a long detention in one of those miserable little
country taverns, where I should have died of _ennui_."

"You seem kindly disposed, my dear madam, to make a great deal of a
small service," returned Edward gallantly.

But Zoe said not a word. She stood gazing into the fire, apparently lost
in thought; but the color deepened on her cheek, and a slight frown
contracted her brows.

Presently she turned to her guest, saying courteously, "You must be
weary with your journey, Miss Deane: would you like to retire?"

"Thank you, I should," was the reply; and thereupon the good-nights were
said, and they sought their respective rooms.

"You are not displeased with me, dear?" Zoe asked, lifting her eyes
inquiringly to her husband's face as she stood before their
dressing-room fire with his arm about her waist: "you are looking so
very grave."

"No, dearest, I am not disposed to find fault with you," he said, softly
caressing her hair and cheek with his disengaged hand; "though I should
be glad if you could be a trifle more cordial to our uninvited guest."

"It's my nature to act just as I feel; and, if there's a creature on
earth I thoroughly detest, it is she!" returned the child-wife with
almost passionate vehemence. "I know she hates me,--for all her purring
manner and sweet tones and words,--and that she likes nothing better
than to make trouble between my husband and me."

"My dear child, you really must try not to be so uncharitable and
suspicious," Edward said in a slightly reproving tone. "I do not
perceive any such designs or any hypocrisy in her conduct toward you."

"No: men are as blind as a bat in their intercourse with such women;
never can see through their designs; always take them to be as sweet and
amiable as they pretend to be. It takes a woman to understand her own
sex."

"Maybe so," he said soothingly; "but we will leave the disagreeable
subject for to-night at least, shall we not?"

"Yes; and, oh, I do hope the weather to-morrow will not be such as to
afford her an excuse for prolonging her stay!"

"I hope not, indeed, love," he responded; "but let us resolve, that, if
it does, we will try to bear the infliction patiently, and give our
self-invited guest no right to accuse us of a lack of hospitality toward
her. Let us not forget or disobey the Bible injunction, to 'use
hospitality one to another without grudging.'"

"I'll try not to. I'll be as good to her as I can, without feeling that
I am acting insincerely."

"And that is all I ask, love. Your perfect freedom from any thing
approaching to deceit is one of your greatest charms, in your husband's
eyes," he said, tenderly caressing her. "It would, I am sure, be quite
impossible for me to love a wife in whose absolute truth and sincerity I
had not entire confidence."

"And you do love me, your foolish, faulty little wife?" she said, in a
tone that was a mixture of assertion and inquiry, while her lovely eyes
gazed searchingly into his.

"Dearly, dearly, my sweet!" he said, smiling fondly down upon her. "And
now to bed, lest these bright eyes and rosy cheeks should lose something
of their brilliance and beauty."

"Suppose they should," she said, turning slightly pale, as with sudden
pain. "O Ned! if I live, I must some day grow old and gray and wrinkled,
my eyes dim and sunken: shall you love me then, darling?"

"Better than ever, love," he whispered, holding her closer to his heart;
"for how long we shall have lived and loved together! We shall have come
to be as one indeed, each with hardly a thought or feeling unshared by
the other."




CHAPTER III.

"One woman reads another's character, without the tedious trouble of
deciphering."--JONSON.


Zoe's sleep that night was profound and refreshing, and she woke in
perfect health and vigor of body and mind; but the first sound that
smote upon her ear--the dashing of sleet against the window-pane--sent
a pang of disappointment and dismay to her heart.

She sprang from her bed, and, running to the window, drew aside the
curtain, and looked out.

"O Ned!" she groaned, "the ground is covered with sleet and snow,--about
a foot deep, I should think,--and just hear how the wind shrieks and
howls round the house!"

"Well, love," he answered in a cheery tone, "we are well sheltered, and
supplied with all needful things for comfort and enjoyment."

"And one that will destroy every bit of my enjoyment in any or all the
others," she sighed; "but," eagerly and half hopefully, "do you think it
is quite certain to be too bad for her to go?"

"Quite, I am afraid. If she should offer to go," he added mischievously,
"we will not be more urgent against it than politeness demands, and, if
she persists, will not refuse the use of the close carriage as far as
the depot."

"She offer to go!" exclaimed Zoe scornfully: "you may depend, she'll
stay as long as she has the least vestige of an excuse for doing so."

"Oh, now, little woman! don't begin the day with being quite so hard and
uncharitable," Edward said, half seriously, half laughingly.

Zoe was not far wrong in her estimate of her guest. Miss Deane was both
insincere and a thoroughly selfish person, caring nothing for the
comfort or happiness of others. She had perceived Zoe's antipathy from
the first day of their acquaintance, and took a revengeful, malicious
delight in tormenting her; and she had sufficient penetration to see
that the most effectual way to accomplish her end was through Edward.
The young wife's ardent and jealous affection for her husband was very
evident; plainly, it was pain to her to see him show Miss Deane the
slightest attention, or seem interested in any thing she did or said;
therefore the intruder put forth every effort to interest him, and
monopolize his attention, and at the same time contrived to draw out
into exhibition the most unamiable traits in Zoe's character, doing it
so adroitly that Edward did not perceive her agency in the matter, and
thought Zoe alone to blame. To him Miss Deane's behavior appeared
unexceptionable, her manner most polite and courteous, Zoe's just the
reverse.

It was so through all that day and week; for the storm continued, and
the uninvited guest never so much as hinted at a wish to leave the
shelter of their hospitable roof.

Zoe began each day with heroic resolve to be patient and forbearing,
sweet-tempered and polite, toward her tormentor, and ended it with a
deep sense of humiliating failure, and of having lost something of the
high esteem and admiration in which her almost idolized husband had been
wont to hold her.

Feeling that, more or less of change in her manner toward him was
inevitable; less sure than formerly of his entire approval and ardent
affection, a certain timidity and hesitation crept into her manner of
approaching him, even when they were quite alone together; she grew sad,
silent, and reserved: and he, thinking her sullen and jealous without
reason, ceased to lavish endearments upon her, and, more than that, half
unconsciously allowed both his looks and tones to express disapprobation
and reproof.

That almost broke Zoe's heart; but she strove to hide her wounds from
him, and especially from her tormentor.

The storm kept Edward in the house: at another time that would have been
a joy to Zoe, but now it only added to her troubles, affording constant
opportunity to the wily foe to carry out her evil designs.

On the evening of the second day from the setting in of the storm, Miss
Deane challenged Edward to a game of chess. He accepted at once, and
with an air of quiet satisfaction brought out the board, and placed the
men.

He was fond of the game; but Zoe had never fancied it, and he had played
but seldom since their marriage.

Miss Deane was a more than ordinarily skilful player, and so was he;
indeed, so well matched were they, that neither found it an easy matter
to checkmate the other: and that first game proved a long one,--so long
that Zoe, who had watched its progress with some interest in the
beginning, eager to see Edward win, at length grew so weary as to find
it difficult to keep her eyes open, or refrain from yawning.

But Edward, usually so tenderly careful of her, took no notice,--indeed,
as she said bitterly to herself, seemed to have forgotten her existence.

Still, it was with a thrill of delight that she at length perceived that
he had come off victorious.

Miss Deane took her defeat with very good grace, and smilingly
challenged him to another contest.

"Rather late, isn't it?" he said with a glance at the clock, whose hands
pointed to half-past eleven. "Suppose we sign a truce until to-morrow?"

"Certainly: that will be decidedly best," she promptly replied,
following the direction of his glance. "I feel so fresh, and have
enjoyed myself so much, that I had no idea of the hour, and am quite
ashamed of having kept my youthful hostess up so late," she added,
looking sweetly at Zoe. "Very young people need a large amount of sleep,
and can't keep up health and strength without it."

"You are most kind," said Zoe, a touch of sarcasm in her tones: "it must
be a very sympathetic nature that has enabled you to remember so long
how young people feel."

A twinkle of fun shone in Edward's eyes at that.

Miss Deane colored furiously, bade a hasty good-night, and departed to
her own room.

"That was a rather hard thrust, my dear," remarked Edward, laughing, as
he led the way into their dressing-room; "not quite polite, I'm afraid."

"I don't care if it wasn't!" said Zoe. "She is always twitting me on my
extreme youth."

"Sour grapes," he said lightly: "she will never see twenty-five again,
and would give a great deal for your youth. And since you are exactly
the age to suit me, why should you care a fig for her sneers?"

"I don't, when I seem to suit you in all respects," returned Zoe with
tears in her voice.

Her back was toward him; but he caught sight of her face in a mirror,
and saw that tears were also glistening in her eyes.

Putting his arm round her waist, and drawing her to him, "I don't want a
piece of perfection for my wife," he said; "she would be decidedly too
great a contrast to her husband: and I have never yet seen the woman or
girl I should be willing to take in exchange for the one belonging to
me. And I'm very sure such a one doesn't exist."

"How good in you to say it!" she said, clinging about his neck, and
lifting to his, eyes shining with joy and love. "O Ned! we were so happy
by ourselves!"

"So we were," he assented, "and so we may hope to be again very soon."

"Not so very, I'm afraid," she answered with a rueful shake of the head;
"for just hark how it is storming still!"

"Yes; but it may be all over by morning. How weary you look, love! Get
to bed as fast as you can. You should not have waited for the conclusion
of that long game, that, I know, did not interest you."

"I was interested for your sake," she said, "and so glad to see you
win."

"Wife-like," he returned with a smile, adding, "It was a very close
game, and you needn't be surprised to see me beaten in the next battle."

"I'm afraid she will stay for that, even if the storm is over," sighed
Zoe. "Dear me! I don't see how anybody can have the face to stay where
she is self-invited, and must know she isn't a welcome guest to the lady
of the house. I'd go through any storm rather than prolong a visit under
such circumstances."

"You would never have put yourself in such a position," Edward said.
"But I wish you could manage to treat her with a little more cordiality.
I should feel more comfortable. I could not avoid bringing her here, as
you know; nor can I send her away in such inclement weather, or, indeed,
at all, till she offers to go; and your want of courtesy toward her--to
put it mildly--is a constant mortification to me."

"Why don't you say at once that you are ashamed of me?" she exclaimed,
tears starting to her eyes again, as with a determined effort she freed
herself from his grasp, and moved away to the farther side of the room.

"I am usually very proud of you," he answered in a quiet tone; "but this
woman seems to exert a strangely malign influence over you."

To that, Zoe made no response; she could not trust herself to speak; so
prepared for bed, and laid herself down there in silence, wiped away a
tear or two, and presently fell asleep.

Morning brought no abatement of the storm, and consequently no relief to
Zoe from the annoyance of Miss Deane's presence in the house.

On waking, she found that Edward had risen before her; she heard him
moving about in the dressing-room; then he came to the door, looked in,
and, seeing her eyes open, said, "Ah, so you are awake! I hope you slept
well? I'm sorry for your sake that it is still storming."

"Yes, I slept soundly, thank you; and as for the storm, I'll just have
to try to bear with it and its consequences as patiently as possible,"
she sighed.

"A wise resolve, my dear. I hope you will try to carry it out." he
returned. "Now I must run away, and leave you to make your toilet, as I
have some little matters to attend to before breakfast."

She made no reply; and he passed out of the room, and down the stairs.

"Poor little woman!" he said to himself: "she looks depressed, though
usually she is so bright and cheery. I hope, from my heart, Miss Deane
may never darken these doors again."

Zoe was feeling quite out of spirits over the prospect of another day to
be spent in society so distasteful: she lay for a moment contemplating
it ruefully.

"The worst of it is, that she manages to make me appear so unamiable and
unattractive in my husband's eyes," she sighed to herself. "But I'll
foil her efforts," she added, between her shut teeth, springing up, and
beginning her toilet as she spoke: "he likes to have me bright and
cheery, and well and becomingly dressed, and so I will be."

She made haste to arrange her hair in the style he considered most
becoming, and to don the morning-dress he most admired.

As she put the finishing touches to her attire, she thought she heard
his step on the stairs, and ran out eagerly to meet him, and claim a
morning kiss.

But the bright, joyous expression of her face suddenly changed to one of
anger and chagrin as she caught the sound of his and Miss Deane's voices
in the hall below, and, looking over the balustrade, saw them go into
the library together.

"She begins early! It's a pity if I can't have my own husband to myself
even before breakfast," Zoe muttered, stepping back into the
dressing-room.

Her first impulse was to remain where she was; the second, to go down at
once, and join them.

She hastened to do so, but, before she reached the foot of the stairway,
the breakfast-bell rang; and, instead of going into the library, she
passed on directly to the dining-room, and, as the other two entered a
moment later, gave Miss Deane a cold "Good-morning," and Edward a half
reproachful, half pleading look, which he, however, returned with one so
kind and re-assuring that she immediately recovered her spirits, and was
able to do the honors of the table with ease and grace.

Coming upon her in that room alone, an hour later, just as she had
dismissed Aunt Dicey with her orders for the day, "Little wife," he
said, bending down to give her the coveted caress, "I owe you an
explanation."

"No, Ned, dear, I don't ask it of you: I know it is all right," she
answered, flushing with happiness, and her eyes smiling up into his.

"Still, I think it best to explain," he said. "I had finished attending
to the little matters I spoke of,--writing a note, and giving some
directions to Uncle Ben,--and was on my way back to our apartments, when
Miss Deane met me on the stairway, and asked if I would go into the
library with her, and help her to look up a certain passage in one of
Shakspeare's plays, which she wished to quote in a letter she was
writing. She was anxious to have it perfectly correct, she said, and
would be extremely obliged for my assistance in finding it."

"And you could not in politeness refuse. I know that, Ned, and please
don't think me jealous."

"I know, dear, that you try not to be; and it shall be my care to avoid
giving you the least occasion. And I do again earnestly assure you, you
need have no fear that the first place in my heart will not always be
yours."

"I don't fear it," she said; "and yet,--O Ned! it is misery to me to
have to share your society with that woman, even for a day or two!"

"I don't know how I can help you out of it," he said, after a moment's
consideration, "unless by shutting myself up alone,--to attend to
correspondence or something,--and leaving you to entertain her by
yourself. Shall I do that?"

"Oh, no! unless you much prefer it. I think it would set me wild to have
her whole attention concentrated upon me," Zoe answered with an uneasy
laugh.

So they went together to the parlor, where Miss Deane sat waiting for
them, or rather for Edward.

She had the chess-board out, the men placed, and at once challenged him
to a renewal of last night's contest.

He accepted, of course; and they played without intermission till
lunch-time, Zoe sitting by, for the most part silent, and wishing Miss
Deane miles away from Ion.

This proved a worse day to her than either of the preceding ones. Miss
Deane succeeded several times in rousing her to an exhibition of temper
that very much mortified and displeased Edward; and his manner, when
they retired that night to their private apartments, was many degrees
colder than it had been in the morning. He considered himself forbearing
in refraining from remark to Zoe on her behavior; while she said to
herself, she would rather he would scold her, and have done with it,
than keep on looking like a thunder-cloud, and not speaking at all. He
was not more disgusted with her conduct than she was herself, and she
would own it in a minute if he would but say a kind word to open the
way.

But he did not; and they made their preparations for the night and
sought their pillows in uncomfortable silence, Zoe wetting hers with
tears before she slept.




CHAPTER IV.

"Forbear sharp speeches to her. She's a lady
So tender of rebukes, that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her."--SHAKSPEARE.


As we have said, the storm lasted for a week; and all that time Edward
and Zoe were slowly drifting farther and farther apart.

But at last the clouds broke and the sun shone out cheerily. It was
about the middle of the forenoon when this occurred.

"Oh," cried Miss Deane, "do see the sun! Now I shall no longer need to
encroach upon your hospitality, my kind entertainers. I can go home by
this afternoon's train, if you, Mr. Travilla, will be so very good as to
take or send me to the depot."

"The Ion carriage is quite at your service," he returned politely.

"Thanks," she said; "then I'll just run up to my room, and do my bit of
packing."

She hurried out to the hall, then the front door was heard to open; and
the next minute a piercing shriek brought master, mistress, and servants
running out to the veranda to inquire the cause.

Miss Deane lay there groaning, and crying out "that she had sprained her
ankle terribly; she had slipped on a bit of ice, and fallen; and oh!
when now would she be able to go home?"

The question found an echo in Zoe's heart, and she groaned inwardly at
the thought of having this most unwelcome guest fastened upon her for
weeks longer.

Yet she pitied her pain, and was anxious to do what she could for her
relief. She hastened to the medicine-closet in search of remedies; while
Edward and Uncle Ben gently lifted the sufferer, carried her in, and
laid her on the sofa.

Also a messenger was at once despatched for Dr. Conly. Zoe stationed
herself at a front window of the drawing-room to watch for his coming.
Presently Edward came to her side. "Zoe," he said, "can't you go to Miss
Deane?"

"What for?" she asked, without turning her head to look at him.

"To show your kind feeling."

"I'm not sure that I have any."

"Zoe! I am shocked! She is in great pain."

"She has plenty of helpers about her,--Christine, Aunt Dicey, and a
servant-maid or two,--who will do all they can to relieve her. If I
could do any thing more, I would; but I can't, and should only be in the
way. You forget what a mere child you have always considered me, and
that I have had no experience in nursing."

"It isn't nursing, I am asking you to give her, but a little kindly
sympathy."

A carriage was coming swiftly up the avenue.

"There's the doctor," said Zoe. "You'd better consult with him about his
patient; and, if he thinks my presence in her room will hasten her
recovery, she shall have all I can give her of it, that we may get her
out of the house as soon as possible."

"Zoe! I had no idea you could be so heartless," he said, with much
displeasure, as he turned and left the room.

Zoe remained where she was, shedding some tears of mingled anger and
grief, then hastily endeavoring to remove their traces; for Arthur would
be sure to step into the parlor, to see her before leaving, if it were
but for a moment.

She had barely recovered her composure when he came in, having found his
patient not in need of a lengthened visit.

His face was bright, his tone cheery and kind, as he bade her
good-morning, and asked after her health.

"I'm very well, thank you," she said, giving him her hand. "Is Miss
Deane's accident a very bad one?"

"It is a severe sprain," he said: "she will not be able to bear her
weight upon that ankle for six weeks." Then seeing Zoe's look of dismay,
shrewdly guessing at the cause, he hastened to add, "But she might be
sent home in an ambulance a few days hence, without the least injury."

Zoe looked greatly relieved, Edward scarcely less so.

"I can't understand how she came to fall," remarked Arthur reflectively.

"Nor I," said Zoe. "Wouldn't it be well for you to advise her never to
set foot on that dangerous veranda again?"

Arthur smiled. "That would be a waste of breath," he said, "while Ion is
so delightful a place to visit."

"How are they all at Viamede?" he asked, turning to Edward.

"Quite well at last accounts, thank you," Edward replied, adding, with a
slight sigh, "I wish they were here,--my mother at least, if none of the
others."

Zoe colored violently. "Cousin Arthur, do you think I am needed in your
patient's room?" she asked.

"Only to cheer and amuse her with your pleasant society," he answered.

"She would find neither pleasure nor amusement in my society," said Zoe;
"and hers is most distasteful to me."

"That's a pity," said Arthur, with a look of concern. "Suppose I lend
you Ella for a few days? She, I think, would rather enjoy taking the
entertainment of your guest off your hands."

"Oh, thank you!" said Zoe, brightening; "that would be a relief: and,
besides, I should enjoy Ella myself, between times, and after Miss Deane
goes home."

"Please tell Ella we will both be greatly obliged if she will come,"
Edward said.

"I'll do so," said Arthur, rising to go; "but I have a long drive to
take, in another direction, before returning to Roselands. And you must
remember," he added with a smile, "that I lend her for only a few days.
Cal and I wouldn't know how to do without her very long."

With that, he took his departure, leaving Edward and Zoe alone together.

"I am sorry, Zoe, that you thought it necessary to let Arthur into the
secret of the mutual dislike between Miss Deane and yourself," remarked
Edward, in a grave, reproving tone.

Zoe colored angrily. "I don't care who knows it," she retorted, with a
little toss of her head. "I did not think it _necessary_ to let Arthur
into the secret, as you call it (I don't consider it one), but neither
did I see any objection to his knowing about it."

"Then, let me request you to say no more on the subject to any one," he
said, with vexation.

"I sha'n't promise," she muttered, half under her breath. But he heard
it.

"Very well, then, I forbid it; and you have promised to obey me."

"And you promised that it should always be love and coaxing," she said,
in tones trembling with pain and passion. "I'll have to tell Ella
something about it."

"Then, say only what is quite necessary," he returned, his tones
softening.

Then, after a moment's silence, in which Zoe's face was turned from him
so that he could not see its expression, "Won't you go now, and ask if
Miss Deane is any easier? Surely, as her hostess, you should do so
much."

"No, I won't! I'll do all I can to make her comfortable; I'll provide
her with society more agreeable to her than mine; I'll see that she has
interesting reading-matter, if she wants it; I'll do any thing and every
thing I can, except that; but you needn't ask that of me."

"O Zoe! I had thought you would do a harder thing than that at my
request," he said reproachfully.

Ignoring his remark, she went on, "I just believe she fell and hurt
herself purposely, that she might have an excuse for prolonging her
visit, and continuing to torment me."

"Zoe, Zoe, how shockingly uncharitable you are!" he exclaimed. "I could
never have believed it of you! We are told, 'Charity thinketh no evil.'
Do try not to judge so harshly."

He left the room; and Zoe indulged in a hearty cry, but hastily dried
her eyes, and turned her back toward the door, as she heard his step
approaching again.

He just looked in, saying, "Zoe, I am going to drive over to Roselands
for Ella: will you go along?"

"No. I've been lectured enough for one day," was her ungracious
rejoinder; and he closed the door, and went away.

He was dumb with astonishment and pain. "What has come over her?" he
asked himself. "She has always before been so delighted to go any and
every where with me. Have I been too ready to reprove her of late? I
have thought myself rather forbearing, considering how much ill-temper
she has shown. She has had provocation, to be sure; but it is high time
she learned to exercise some self-control. Yet perhaps I should have
been more sympathizing, more forbearing and affectionate."

He had stepped into his carriage, and was driving down the avenue. He
passed through the great gates, and turned into the road, still thinking
of Zoe, and mentally reviewing their behavior toward each other since
the unfortunate day in which Miss Deane had crossed their threshold.

The conclusion he presently arrived at was, that he had not been
altogether blameless; that, if his reproofs had been given in more
loving fashion, they would have been received in a better spirit; that
he had not been faithful to his promise always to try "love and coaxing"
with the impulsive, sensitive child-wife, who, he doubted not, loved him
with her whole heart; and, once convinced of that, he determined to say
so on his return, and make it up with her.

True, it seemed to him that she ought to make the first advances toward
an adjustment of their slight differences (quarrels they could scarcely
be called; a slight coldness, a cessation of accustomed manifestations
of conjugal affection, a few sharp or impatient words on each side), but
he would be too generous to wait for that; he loved her dearly enough to
sacrifice his pride to some extent; he could better afford that than the
sight of her unhappiness.

In the mean time Zoe was bitterly repenting of the rebuff she had given
him. He had hardly closed the door when she started up, and ran to it to
call him back, apologize for her curt refusal to go with him, and ask if
she might still accept his invitation. But it was too late: he was
already beyond hearing.

She could not refrain from another cry, and was very angry with herself
for her petulance. She regretted the loss of the drive, too, which would
have been a real treat after the week of confinement to the house.

She had refused to comply with her husband's request that she would go
to Miss Deane and ask how she was: now she repented, and went as soon as
she had removed the traces of her tears.

"Ah! you have come at last!" was the salutation she received on entering
the room where Miss Deane lay on a sofa, with the injured limb propped
upon pillows. "I began to fear," sweetly, "that your delicate nerves had
given way under the sight of my sufferings."

"My nerves are not delicate," returned Zoe coldly; "in fact, I never
discovered that I had any; so please do not trouble yourself with
anxiety on that account. I trust the applications have relieved you
somewhat."

"Very little, thank you. I suppose it was hardly to be expected that
they would take effect so soon. Ah, me!" she added with a profound sigh,
"I fear I am tied to this couch for weeks."

"No; do not disturb yourself with that idea," said Zoe. "The doctor told
me you could easily be taken home in a few days in an ambulance."

"I shall certainly avail myself of the first opportunity to do so," said
Miss Deane, her eyes flashing with anger, "for I plainly perceive that I
have worn out my welcome."

"No, not at all," said Zoe; "at least, not so far as I am concerned."
Miss Deane looked her incredulity and surprise, and Zoe explained,--"I
think I may as well be perfectly frank with you," she said. "You have
not worn out your welcome with me, because I had none for you when you
came. How could I, knowing that you invariably make trouble between my
husband and myself?"

"Truly, a polite speech to make to a guest!" sniffled Miss Deane. "I
hope you pride yourself on your very polished manners."

"I prefer truth and sincerity." said Zoe, "I shall do all I can to make
you comfortable while you are here; and, if you choose to avoid the line
of conduct I have objected to, we may learn to like each other. I very
well know that you do not love me now."

"Since frankness is in fashion at this moment," was the contemptuous
retort, "I will own that there is no love lost between us. Stay," as Zoe
was about to leave the room, "let me give you a piece of disinterested
advice. Learn to control your quick temper, and show yourself more
amiable, or you may find one of these days, when it is too late, that
you have lost your husband's heart."

At that, Zoe turned away, and went swiftly from the room. She was beyond
speaking, her whole frame quivering from head to foot with the agitation
of her feelings.

Lose the love of her idolized husband? That would be worse than death.
But it should never be: he loved her dearly now (it could not be
possible that these last few wretched days had robbed her quite of the
devoted affection she had known beyond a doubt to be hers before); and
she would tell him, as soon as he came in, how sorry she was for the
conduct that had vexed him, and never, no, never again, would she do or
say any thing to displease him, or lower herself in his estimation.

As she thought thus, hurrying down the hall, she caught the sound of
wheels on the drive, and ran out, expecting to see him, as it was about
time for his return from Roselands.

It was the Ion carriage she had heard, but only Ella Conly alighted from
it.

They exchanged greetings, then Zoe asked half breathlessly, "Where's
Edward?"

"Gone," Ella responded, moving on into the hall. "Come, let's go into
the parlor, and sit down, and I'll tell you all I know about it. Why,
Zoe," as she turned and caught sight of her companion's face, "you are
as pale as death, and look ready to faint! There's nothing to be scared
about, and you mustn't mind my nonsense."

"Oh, tell me! tell me quickly!" gasped Zoe, sinking into a chair, her
hands clasped beseechingly, her eyes wild with terror: "what, what has
happened?"

"Nothing, child, nothing, except that we met cousin Horace on our way
here, and he carried Ned off to Union. They had to hurry to catch a
train, in order to be in time for some business matter in the city, I
didn't understand what: so Ned couldn't wait to write the least bit of a
note to tell you about it; and he told me to explain every thing to you,
and say you were not to fret or worry, not even if he shouldn't get home
to-night; for he might not be able to finish up the business in time for
even the last train that would bring him."

The color had come back to Zoe's cheek, but her countenance was still
distressed; and as Ella concluded, two scalding tears rolled quickly
down her face, and plashed upon the small white hands lying clasped in
her lap.

"Dear me!" said Ella, "how fond you are of him!"

"Yes," said Zoe, with a not very successful effort to smile through her
tears: "who wouldn't be, in my place? I owe every thing to Ned, and he
pets and indulges me to the greatest extent. Besides, he is so good,
noble, and true, that any woman might be proud to be his wife."

"Yes: I admit every word of it; but all that doesn't explain your
tears," returned Ella, half sympathizingly, half teasingly. "Now, I
should have supposed that anybody who could boast of such a piece of
perfection for a husband would be very happy."

"But I--we've hardly ever been separated over night," stammered Zoe,
blushing rosy red; "and--and--O Ella! I hadn't a chance to say good-by
to him, and--and you know accidents so often happen"--

She broke down with a burst of tears and sobs that quite dismayed her
cousin.

"Why, Zoe, I'm afraid you cannot be well," she said. "Come, cheer up,
and don't borrow trouble."

"I'm afraid I'm very silly, and have been making you very
uncomfortable," said Zoe, hastily wiping away her tears, "and it's a
great shame; particularly, considering that you have kindly come on
purpose to help me through with a disagreeable task.

"I'll show you to your room now, if you like," she added, rising, "and
try to behave myself better during the rest of your visit."

"Apologies are quite uncalled for," returned Ella lightly, as they went
up-stairs together. "I have always had a good time at Ion, and don't
believe this is going to be an exception to the general rule. But do you
know," lowering her voice a little, "I don't propose to spend nearly all
my time with that hateful Miss Deane. I never could bear her."

"Then, how good it was in you to come!" exclaimed Zoe gratefully. "But I
should never have asked it of you, if I had thought you disliked her as
well as I."

They were now in the room Ella was to occupy, and she was taking off her
hat and cloak. "Oh, never mind! I was delighted to come anyhow," she
answered gayly, as she threw aside the latter garment, and took
possession of an easy-chair beside the open fire. "To tell you a
secret," she went on laughingly, "I like my cousins Ned and Zoe Travilla
immensely, and am always glad of an excuse to pay them a visit. But that
Miss Deane,--oh! she's just _too sweet_ for _any thing!_" making a
grimace expressive of disgust and aversion, "and a consummate,
incorrigible flirt: any one of the male sex can be made to serve her
turn, from a boy of sixteen to a man of seventy-five."

"I think you are correct about that," said Zoe. "And, do you know, she
is forever making covert sneers at my youth; and it's perfectly
exasperating to me."

"Sour grapes," laughed Ella. "I wouldn't let it vex me in the least:
it's all to hide her envy of you, because you are really young, and
married too. I know very well she's dreadfully afraid of being called an
old maid."

"I suspected as much," Zoe remarked. "But don't you think gentlemen are
more apt to be pleased with her than ladies?"

"Yes: they don't see through her as her own sex do. And she is handsome,
and certainly a brilliant talker. I'd give a good deal for
conversational powers equal to hers."

"So would I," Zoe said, with an involuntary sigh.

Ella gave her a keen, inquiring look; and Zoe flushed hotly under it.

"Shall we go down now?" she asked. "It is nearly dinner-time; and we
shall have to dine alone unless some one drops in unexpectedly," she
added, as they left the room together, and passed down the stairs, arm
in arm.

"If Arthur should, wouldn't it be a trial to Miss Deane to have to dine
in her own room?" exclaimed Ella, with a gleeful laugh.

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Zoe, opening her eyes wide with surprise.

"That she would not have the slightest objection to becoming Mrs. Dr.
Conly."

"But you don't think there's any danger?" queried Zoe, by no means
pleased with the idea of having the lady in question made a member of
the family connection.

"No, and I certainly hope not. It wouldn't be I that would want to call
her sister," returned Ella emphatically.

"I should think Art had sufficient penetration to see through her," said
Zoe. "But no; on second thoughts, I'm not so sure; for Ned will have it
that it's more than half my imagination when I say she sneers at me."

"That's too bad," said Ella. "But Art is older than Ned by some years,
and has probably had more opportunity to study character."

"Yes," replied Zoe, speaking with some hesitation, not liking to admit
that any one was wiser than her husband, little as she was inclined to
own herself in the wrong when he differed from her.




CHAPTER V.

"Is there no constancy in earthly things?
No happiness in us, but what must alter?"


Zoe drove over to the village in good season to meet the last train for
that day, coming from the direction in which Edward had gone, ardently
hoping he might be on board.

The carriage was brought to a stand-still near the depot; and she
eagerly watched the arrival of the train, and scanned the little crowd
of passengers who alighted from it.

But Edward was not among them, and now it was quite certain that she
could not see him before another day.

Just as she reached that conclusion, a telegram was handed her:--

"Can't be home before to-morrow or next day. Will return as soon as
possible. E. TRAVILLA."

To the girl-wife the message seemed but cold and formal. "So different
from the way he talks to me when he is not vexed or displeased, as he
hardly ever is," she whispered to herself with starting tears during the
solitary drive back to Ion. "I know it's silly--telegrams can't be
loving and kind: it wouldn't do, of course--but I can't help feeling as
if he is angry with me, because there's not a bit of love in what he
says. And, oh, dear! to think he may be away two nights, and I'm longing
so to tell him how sorry I am for being so cross this morning, and
before that, too, and to have him take me in his arms and kiss me, and
say all is right between us, that I don't know how to wait a single
minute!"

She reached home in a sad and tearful mood. Ella, however, proved so
entertaining and mirth-provoking a companion, that the evening passed
quickly, and by no means unpleasantly.

But when the two had retired to their respective apartments, Zoe felt
very lonely, and said to herself that she would rather have Edward
there, even silent and displeased, as he had been for several days past,
than be without him.

Her last thought before falling asleep, and her first on awaking next
morning, were of him.

"Oh, dear!" she sighed half aloud, as she opened her eyes, and glanced
round the room, "what shall I do if he doesn't come to-day? I'll have to
stand it, of course; but what does a woman do who has no husband?" And
for the first time she began to feel some sympathy for Miss Deane, as a
lonely maiden lady.

She thought a good deal about her unwelcome guest while attending to the
duties of the toilet, and determined to treat her with all possible
kindness during the remainder of her enforced stay at Ion. So, meeting,
on her way to the breakfast-room, the old negress who had been given
charge of Miss Deane through the night, she stopped her, and asked how
her patient was.

"Jes' pow'ful cross dis hyar mawnin', Miss Zoe," was the reply, in a
tone of disgust. "Dar isn't one ob de fambly dat would be makin' half
de fuss ef dey'd sprained bofe dey's ankles. Doan ye go nigh her,
honey, fear she bite yo' head off."

"Indeed I sha'n't, Aunt Phillis, if there's any danger of that," laughed
Zoe. "But as she can't jump up and run after me, I think I shall be
quite safe if I don't go within arm's-length of her sofa."

"She's pow'ful cross," repeated Aunt Phillis: "she done gone call dis
chile up time an' again fru de night; an' when I ax her, 'Whar yo'
misery at?' she say, 'In my ankle, ob c'ose, yo' ole fool you! Cayn't
yo' hab nuff sense to change de dressin'?'"

"Who is that has been so polite and complimentary to you, Aunt Phillis?"
cried a merry voice in their rear.

Ella was descending the stairway at whose foot they stood, as they
perceived, on turning at the sound of her voice.

"Good-morning, cousin: how bright and well you are looking!" said Zoe.

"Just as I feel. And how are you, Mrs. Travilla? I trust you did not
spend the night in crying over Ned's absence?" was the gay rejoinder.

"No, not nearly all of it," returned Zoe, catching her spirit of fun.

"Mawnin', Miss Ella," said the old nurse, dropping a courtesy. "'Twas
de lady what sprain her foot yisteday I was talkin' bout to Miss Zoe."

"Ah! how is she?"

"I doan' t'ink she gwine die dis day, Miss Ella," laughed the nurse,
"she so pow'ful cross; and dey do say folks is dat way when dey's
gittin' bettah."

"Yes, I have always heard it was a hopeful sign, if not an agreeable
one," Ella remarked, "Was that the breakfast-bell I heard just now?"

"Yes," said Zoe. "I hope you feel ready to do justice to your meal?"

As they seated themselves at the table, Zoe, glancing toward Edward's
vacant chair, remarked, with a sigh, that it seemed very lonely to sit
down without him.

"Well, now," said Ella, "I think it's quite nice to take a meal
occasionally without the presence of anybody of the masculine gender."

"Perhaps that is because you have never been married," said Zoe.

"Perhaps so," returned her cousin, laughing; "yet I don't think that can
be all that ails me, for I have heard married women express the same
opinion quite frequently. What shall we do with ourselves to-day, Zoe?
I've no notion of devoting myself exclusively to Miss Deane's
entertainment, especially if she is really as cross as reported."

"No, indeed! I couldn't bear to let you, even if you were willing,"
replied Zoe with decision. "I consented to your taking my place in
that, only because I supposed you found her agreeable; while to me she
is any thing else."

"Suppose we call on her together, after a little, and let the length of
our stay depend upon the enjoyment our presence seems to afford her,"
suggested Ella.

"Agreed," said Zoe. "Then I will supply her with plenty of
reading-matter, which, as she professes to be so very intellectual,
ought to entertain her far better than we can. Shall we ride after
that?"

"Yes, and take a promenade on the verandas. We'll have to take our
exercise in those ways, as the roads are not yet fit for walking."

"Yes," said Zoe; "but I hope that by afternoon they will be good enough
for driving; as I mean to drive over to the depot to meet the late
train, hoping to find Ned on it."

"Don't expect him till to-morrow," said Ella.

"Why not?" queried Zoe, looking as if she could hardly endure the
thought.

"Because, in that case, your disappointment, if you have one, will be
agreeable."

"Yes; but, on the other hand, I should lose all the enjoyment of looking
forward through the whole day, to seeing him this evening. Following
your plan, I shouldn't have half so happy a day as if I keep to my own."


"Ah! that's an entirely new view of the case," Ella said in her merry,
laughing tones.

Miss Deane did not seem to enjoy their society, and they soon withdrew
from her room; Zoe having done all in her power to provide her with
every comfort and amusement available in her case.

"I'm glad that's over," sighed Zoe, when they were alone again. "And now
for our ride, if you are ready, Ella. I ordered my pony for myself, and
mamma's for you; and I see they are at the door."

"Then let us don our riding-habits, and be off at once," said Ella.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as they cantered down the avenue.

"To the village, if you like. I want to call at the post-office."

"In hopes of finding a note from Ned, I suppose. I don't believe there
can be one there that would bring you later news than yesterday's
telegram. But I have no objection to making sure, and would as soon ride
in that direction as any other."

Nothing from Edward was found at the office; and the young wife seemed
much disappointed, till Ella suggested that that looked as if he
expected to be at home before night.

It was a cheering idea to Zoe: she brightened up at once, and in the
afternoon drove over the same road, feeling almost certain Edward would
be on the incoming train, due about the time she would reach the
village, or rather at the time she had planned to be there. Ella, who
had asked to accompany her, was slow with her dressing, taxing Zoe's
patience pretty severely by thus causing ten minutes' detention.

"Come, now, don't be worried: it won't kill Ned to have to wait ten or
fifteen minutes," she said laughingly, as she stepped into the carriage,
and seated herself by Zoe's side.

"No, I dare say not," returned the latter, trying to speak with perfect
pleasantness of tone and manner; "and he isn't one of the impatient
ones, who can never bear to be kept waiting a minute, like myself," she
added with a smile. "Now, Uncle Ben, drive pretty fast, so that we won't
be so very far behind time."

"Fas' as I kin widout damagin' de hosses, Miss Zoe," answered the old
coachman. "Marso Ed'ard allus tole me be keerful ob dem, and de roads am
putty bad sence de big storm."

Zoe glanced at her watch as they entered the village. "Drive directly to
the depot, Uncle Ben," she said. "It's fully fifteen minutes past the
time for the train to be in."

"I ain't heard de whistle, Miss Zoe," he remarked, as he turned his
horses' heads in the desired direction.

"No, nor have I," said Ella; "and we ought to have heard it fully five
minutes before it got in. There may have been a detention. That is
nothing very unusual," she hastened to add, as she saw that Zoe had
suddenly grown very pale.

The carriage drew up before the door of the depot; and the girls leaned
from its windows, sending eager, searching glances from side to side,
and up and down the track.

No train was in sight, and the depot seemed strangely silent and
deserted.

"Oh!" cried Zoe, "what can be the matter?"

"I suppose the train must have got in some time ago,--perhaps before we
left Ion," replied Ella, in a re-assuring tone; "and all the passengers
have dispersed to their homes, or wherever they were going."

"No, there could not have been time for all that," Zoe responded, in
accents full of anxiety and alarm.

"Our watches may be much too slow," suggested Ella, trying to re-assure
both herself and her cousin, yet trembling with apprehension as she
spoke.

"No, it isn't possible that they and all the timepieces in the house
could be so far from correct," said Zoe despairingly.

"Dar doan' 'pear to be nobody 'bout dis hyar depot," remarked Uncle Ben
reflectively; "but I reckon dar's somebody comin' to 'splain de mattah.
Wha's de 'casion ob dis mos' onusual state ob t'ings?" he added, as a
woman, who been watching the carriage and its occupants, the open door
of a neighboring house, came miming in their direction.

"What de mattah, Aunt Rhoda?" he queried, as she reached the side of the
vehicle, almost breathless with excitement and exertion.

"Why, Uncle Ben, dar--dar's been a accident to de kyars, dey say, an'
dey's all broke up, and de folks roun' here is all"--

"Where? where?" exclaimed Ella, while Zoe sank back against the
cushions, quite unable to speak for the moment.

"Dunno, Miss," was the reply; "but," pointing up the road, "it's out dat
way, 'bout a mile, I reckon. Yo see, de kyars was a comin' fas' dis way,
and 'nudder ole injine whiskin' 'long dat way, and dey bofe comes
togedder wid a big crash, breakin' de kyars, and de injines bofe of em,
till dey's good for nuffin' but kin'lin' wood; and de folks what's
ridin' in de kyars is all broke up too, dey says; and de doctahs and
body"--

"Edward!" gasped Zoe. "Drive us there, Uncle Ben, drive with all your
might! O Edward, my husband, my husband!" and she burst into hysterical
weeping.

Ella threw her arms about her. "Don't, dear Zoe, oh, don't cry so! He
may not be hurt. He may not have been on that train at all."

Ben had already turned and whipped up his horses, and now they dashed
along the road at a furious rate.

Zoe dropped her head on Ella's shoulder, answering only with tears and
sobs and moans, till the carriage came to a sudden stand-still.

"We's got dar, Miss Zoe," said Uncle Ben, in a subdued tone full of
grief and sympathy.

She lifted her head; and her eye instantly fell upon a little group,
scarcely a yard distant, consisting of several men, among whom she
recognized Dr. Conly, gathered about an apparently insensible form lying
on the ground.

Ella and Ben saw it too. She suddenly caught the reins from his hands:
he sprang from the carriage, and, lifting Zoe in his strong arms as if
she had been but a child, set her on her feet, and supported her to the
side of the prostrate man; the little crowd respectfully making way for
her, at the words spoken by Ben in a voice half choked with emotion,
"Hit's Marse Ed'ard's wife, gen'lemen."

It was Edward lying there motionless, and with a face like that of a
corpse.

With an agonized cry, Zoe dropped on her knees at his side, and pressed
her lips passionately to his.

There was no response, no movement, not the quiver of an eyelid; and
she lifted her grief-stricken face to that of the doctor, with a look of
anguished inquiry in the beautiful eyes fit to move a heart of stone.

"I do not despair of him yet, dear cousin Zoe," Arthur said in a low,
moved tone. "I lave found no external injury, and it may be that he is
only stunned."

The words had scarcely left his lips when Edward drew a sighing breath,
and opened his eyes, glancing up into Zoe's face bending over Mm in
deepest, tenderest solicitude.

"Ah, love! is it you?" he murmured faintly, and with a smile. "Where am
I? What has happened?"

"O Ned! dear, _dear_ Ned! I thought you were killed!" she sobbed,
covering his face with kisses and tears.

"There has been an accident, and you got a blow that stunned you,"
answered the doctor; "but I think you are all right now, or will be
soon."

"An accident!" Edward repeated, with a bewildered look, and putting his
hand to his head. "What was it?"

"A collision on the railroad," Arthur said. "There is an ambulance here:
I think I will put you in it, and have you taken home at once. 'Tis only
a few miles, and not a rough road."

"Yes, yes: home is much the best place," he sighed, again putting his
hand to his head.

"Are you in pain?" asked Arthur.

"Not much, but I feel strangely confused. I should like to be taken home
as soon as possible. But not to the neglect of any one who may have been
more seriously hurt than I," he added, feebly raising his head to look
about him.

"There are none such," Arthur answered. "You perhaps remember that the
cars were nearly empty of passengers: no lives were lost and no one, I
think, worse hurt than yourself."

"And I?" returned Edward, in a tone of inquiry.

"Have escaped without any broken bones, and I trust will be all right in
a few days."

"O Ned! how glad I am it is no worse!" sobbed Zoe, clinging to his hand,
while the tears rolled fast down her cheeks.

"Yes, little wife," he said, gazing lovingly into her eyes.

"There, I positively forbid any more talking," said Arthur, with a
mixture of authority and playfulness. "Here is the ambulance. Help me to
lift him in, men," to the by-standers. "And you, cousin Zoe, get into
your carriage, and drive on behind it, or ahead if you choose."

"Can't I ride in the ambulance beside him?" she asked, almost
imploringly.

"No, no: you will both be more comfortable In doing as I have directed."

"Then, please go with him yourself," she entreated.

"I shall do so, certainly," he answered, motioning her away, then
stooping to assist the others in lifting the injured man.

Zoe would not stir till she had seen Edward put into the ambulance, and
made as comfortable for his ride home as circumstances would permit.
Then, as the vehicle moved slowly off, she hurried to her carriage.

Ben helped her in, sprang into his own seat, and, as he took the reins
from Ella, Zoe gave the order, "Home now, Uncle Ben, keeping as close
behind the ambulance as you can."

"Oh, don't, Zoe! you oughtn't to!" expostulated Ella, perceiving that
her cousin was crying violently behind her veil. "I don't think Ned is
very badly hurt. Didn't you hear Arthur say so?"

"He only expressed such a hope: he didn't say certainly," sobbed Zoe.
"And when people are in danger, doctors always try to hide it from their
friends."

"Arthur is perfectly truthful," asserted Ella, with some warmth. "He may
keep his opinions to himself at times, but he never builds people up
with false hopes. So cheer up, coz," she added, squeezing Zoe's hand
affectionately.

"I know that what you say of cousin Arthur is all true," sobbed Zoe;
"but I could see he had fears as well as hopes: and--and--Ned doesn't
seem a bit like himself; he has such a dazed look, as if not quite in
his right mind."

"But he knew you and Art; and it is to be expected that a man would feel
dazed after such a shock as he must have had."

"Yes, of course. Oh, I'm afraid he's dreadfully, dreadfully hurt, and
will never get over it!"

"Still," returned Ella, "try to hope for the best. Don't you think that
is the wiser plan always?"

"I suppose so," said Zoe, laughing and crying hysterically; "but I can't
be wise to-night; indeed, I never can."




CHAPTER VI.

"And, if division come, it soon is past,
Too sharp, too strange an agony to last."
MRS. NORTON.


Christine and Aunt Phillis, who had been left in charge of Miss Deane,
had had a sore trial of patience in waiting upon her, humoring her
whims, listening to her fretting and complaints, and trying to soothe
and entertain her. She was extremely irritable, and seemed determined
not to be pleased with any thing they could do for her.

"Where is your mistress?" she asked at length. "Pretty manners she has,
to leave a suffering guest to the sole care of servants."

"Yes, Miss, Ise alluz t'ought Miss Zoe hab pretty manners and a pretty
face," replied Aunt Phillis; "but dere is ladies what habn't none, an'
doan' git pleased wid nuffin' nor nobody, an eayn't stan' no misery
nowhars 'bout deirselves, but jes' keep frettin' and concessantly
displainin' 'bout dis t'ing and dat, like dey hasn't got nuffin' to be
thankful for."

"Impudence!" muttered Miss Deane, her eyes flashing angrily. Then
bidding her attendants be quiet, she settled herself for a nap.

She was waked by a slight bustle in the house, accompanied by sounds as
if a number of men were carrying a heavy burden through the
entrance-hall, and up the wide stairway leading to the second story.

"What's the matter? What's going on? Has any thing happened?" she asked,
starting up to a sitting posture.

Christine had risen to her feet, pale and trembling, and stood listening
intently.

"I must go and see," she said, and hurried from the room, Aunt Phillis
shambling after her in haste and trepidation.

"Stay!" cried Miss Deane: "don't leave me alone. What are you thinking
of?"

But they were already out of hearing. "I was never so shamefully treated
anywhere as I am here," muttered the angry lady, sinking back upon her
pillows. "I'll leave this house to-morrow, if it is a possible thing,
and never darken its doors again."

Listening again, she thought she heard sounds of grief, sobbing and
wailing, groans and sighs.

She was by no means deficient in curiosity, and it was exceedingly
trying to be compelled to lie there in doubt and suspense.

The time seemed very much longer than it really was before Aunt Phillis
came back, sobbing, and wiping her eyes on her apron.

"What is the matter?" asked Miss Deane impatiently.

"Dere's--dere's been a awful commission on de railroad," sobbed Aunt
Phillis; "and Marse Ed'ard's 'most killed."

"Oh, dreadful!" cried Miss Deane. "Have they sent for his mother?"

Aunt Phillis only shook her head doubtfully, and burst into fresh and
louder sobs.

"Most killed! Dear me!" sighed the lady. "And he was so young and
handsome! It will quite break his mother's heart, I suppose. But she'll
get over it. It takes a vast deal of grief to kill."

"P'raps Marse Ed'ard ain't gwine ter die," said the old nurse, checking
her sobs. "Dey does say Doctah Arthur kin 'most raise de dead."

"Well, I'm sure I hope Mr. Travilla won't die," responded Miss Deane,
"or prove to be permanently injured in any way.--Ah, Christine!" as the
latter re-entered the room: "what is all this story about a railroad
accident? Is Mr. Travilla killed?"

"No, no, he not killed," replied Christine, in her broken English. "How
bad hurt, I not know to say; but not killed."

Meantime Edward had been taken to his room, and put comfortably to bed;
while Zoe, seated in her boudoir, waited anxiously for the doctor's
report of his condition.

Ella was with her, and now and then tried to speak a comforting word,
which Zoe scarcely seemed to hear. She sat with her hands clasped in her
lap, listening intently to catch every sound from the room where her
injured husband lay. She looked pale and anxious, and occasionally a
tear would roll quickly down her cheek.

At last the door opened, and Arthur stepped softly across the room to
her side.

"Cheer up, little cousin," he said kindly. "Edward seems to be doing
very well; and if you will be a good, quiet little woman, you may go and
sit by his side."

"Oh, thank you! I'll try," she said, starting up at once. "But mayn't I
talk to him at all?"

"Not much to-night," was the reply; "not more than seems absolutely
necessary; and you must be particularly careful not to say any thing
that would have the least tendency to excite him."

"Oh, then he must be very, very ill,--terribly injured!" she cried, with
a burst of tears and sobs.

"That does not necessarily follow," Arthur said, taking her hand, and
holding it in a kindly pressure. "But you must be more composed, or,"
playfully, "I shall be compelled to exert my authority so far as to
forbid you to go to him."

"Oh, no, no! don't do that!" she cried pleadingly. "I'll be calm and
quiet; indeed, indeed I will."

"That's right," he said. "I think I may venture to try you."

"But won't you please tell me just how much you think he is hurt?" she
pleaded, clinging to his hand, and looking up beseechingly into his
face.

"My dear little cousin," he said in a tenderly sympathizing tone, "I
wish to do all in my power to relieve your anxiety, but am as yet in
some doubt myself as to the extent of his injuries. He is a good deal
shaken and bruised; but, as I have said before, there are no broken
bones; and, unless there should be some internal injury which I have not
yet discovered, he is likely to recover entirely in a few days or
weeks."

"But you are not sure? Oh! how could I ever bear it if he should"--she
broke off with a burst of violent weeping.

He led her to a seat, for she seemed hardly able to stand: her whole
frame was shaking with emotion.

"Try not to meet trouble half way, little cousin," he said gently.
"'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' and 'As thy days, so
shall thy strength be.' It is God's promise to all who put their trust
in him, and cannot fail; all his promises are yea and amen in Christ
Jesus."

"Yes, I know," she said, making a strong effort to control herself. "And
you do hope Ned will soon be well?"

"I certainly do," he responded in cheerful accents. "And now, if you
will wipe away your tears, and promise to be very good and quiet, I
will take you to him. He was asking for you when I left the room."

She gave the desired promise, and he led her to the bedside.

"I have brought you your wife, Ned," he said in a quiet tone, "and mean
to leave her with you for a while; but you are to be a good boy, and not
indulge in much chatter with her."

"We'll be good: I'll answer for her, and myself too," Edward returned,
with a tenderly affectionate smile up into Zoe's face, as she bent over
him, and touched her lips to his forehead.

She dared not trust herself to speak, but silently put her hand in his,
dropped on her knees by the bedside, and laid her pretty head on the
pillow on which his rested.

"My own darling!" he murmured, softly pressing the hand he held: "my own
precious little wife!"

Once more Arthur enjoined quiet, then went out, and left them alone
together.

He paid a professional visit to Miss Deane, satisfied her curiosity in
regard to Edward's injuries, and learned with pleasure that she was
quite resolved to go home the next morning.

"Of course Mrs. Travilla should give all her attention to her husband
now," she remarked; "and I shall be only in the way. One disabled person
is quite enough to have in a house at one time. So if you, doctor, will
be so kind as to have the ambulance sent out for me directly after
breakfast, I'll be much obliged."

"I will do so," he said. "The journey will do you no harm, and you will
probably be better cared for and happier in your own home than here,
under the circumstances."

Zoe's poor heart was longing to pour itself out into her husband's ear
in words of contrition, penitence, and love; and only the fear of
injuring him enabled her to restrain her feelings, and remain calm and
quiet, kneeling there close by his side, with her hand in his. She
couldn't rest till she told him how very, very sorry she was for the
petulance of the past few days, and especially for the cold rejection of
his invitation to accompany him on his drive to Roselands, how firmly
resolved never again to give him like cause to be displeased with her,
and how dearly she loved him.

But she must refrain, from fear of exciting him: she must wait till all
danger from that was past.

It was hard; yet there was strong consolation in the certainty that his
dear love was still hers. She read it in his eyes, as they gazed fondly
into hers; felt it in the tender pressure of his hand; heard it in the
tones of his voice, as he called her his "darling, his own precious
little wife."

Yet she was tormented with the fear that his accident had affected his
mind and memory for the time, so that he had forgotten the unkindness of
the morning; and that, when returning health and vigor should recall
the facts to his remembrance, he would again treat her with the coldness
and displeasure merited by her behavior.

"But," she comforted herself, "if he does, it will not last long: he is
sure to forgive and love me as soon as I tell him how sorry I am."

She did not want to leave him to take either food or rest; but Arthur
insisted that she should go down to tea, and later to bed, leaving
Edward in his care; and she finally yielded to his persuasions, and
exertion of medical authority.

She objected that it was quite useless to go to bed; she was positively
sure she could not sleep a wink: but her head had scarcely touched the
pillow before she fell into a profound slumber, for she was quite worn
out with anxiety and grief.

It was broad daylight when she woke. The events of yesterday flashed
instantly upon her mind; and she sprang from her bed and began dressing
in haste.

She must learn as speedily as possible how Edward was; not worse,
surely, for Arthur had promised faithfully to call her at once if there
should be any unfavorable change during the night. Still, a light tap at
the door made her start, and turn pale; and she opened it with a
trembling hand.

Ella stood there with a bright, smiling countenance. "Good-morning,
coz," she said gayly. "I bring you good news,--two pieces of it. Ned is
almost himself again; Arthur is entirely satisfied that there is no
serious injury,--internal or otherwise; and Miss Deane has already set
out for her home, leaving me to give you her adieus. Now are you not
happy?"

"Indeed, indeed I am!" cried Zoe, dancing about the room in ecstasy, her
eyes shining, and her cheeks flushing with joy.

"May I go to him at once?" she asked, stopping short, with an eager,
questioning look.

"Yes. Art says you may, and Ned is asking for you. How fond he is of
you, Zoe! though, I think, no fonder than you are of him."

"I don't deserve it," responded Zoe, with unwonted humility, answering
the first part of the remark.

"I don't see but you do," said Ella. "Can I help you with your dressing?
I know you are in a hurry to get to him."

"Thank you. I don't think you can, but I'll be done in five minutes."

Edward lay watching for her coming, listening for the sound of her light
footsteps, and, as she opened the door, looked up, and greeted her with
a tenderly affectionate smile.

"O Ned! dear, dear Ned!" she cried, hastening to the bedside; "how like
yourself you look again!"

"And feel, too, love," he said, drawing her down till their lips met in
a long kiss.

Arthur had stepped out on her entrance, and they were quite alone
together.

"God has been very good to us, darling, in sparing us to each other,"
Edward said, in low, moved tones.

"Oh, yes, yes!" she sobbed. "And I didn't deserve it; for I was so cross
to you day before yesterday, when you asked me to go with you: and I'd
been cross for days before that. Can you, will you, forgive me, dear
Ned?"

"I have not been blameless, and we will exchange forgiveness," he said,
drawing her closer, till her head rested against his breast.

"It is so good in you to say that," she sobbed. "Oh, if you had been
killed, as I thought for one minute you were, I could never have had an
hour of peace or comfort in this world! Those unkind words would have
been the last I ever spoke to you; and I should never have been able to
forget them, or the sad look that your face must have worn as you turned
away. I didn't see it, for I had rudely turned my back to you; but I
could imagine it: for I knew you must have been hurt, and grieved too."

"So I was, little wife," he said tenderly, and passing his hand
caressingly over her hair and cheek: "but a few moments' honest
retrospect showed me that I was not blameless, had not been as
forbearing and affectionate in my treatment of my darling little wife,
for the past few days, as I ought to have been; and I resolved to tell
her so, on the first opportunity."

"O Ned! I don't deserve such a kind, loving husband!" she sighed; "and
you ought to have a great deal better wife."

"I am entirely satisfied with the one I have," lifting her hand to his
lips. "There isn't a woman in the world I would exchange her for."

"But I often do and say things you don't approve," she murmured, with a
regretful sigh.

"Yes; but have I not told you more than once, that I do not want a piece
of perfection for my wife, lest there should be far too strong a
contrast between her and myself?"

"But there wouldn't be," she asserted. "I don't believe there's another
man in all the world quite so dear and good as my husband."

"Sweet flattery from your lips," he returned laughingly. "Now, dearest,
go and eat your breakfast. I have had mine."

"Ned, do you know our tormentor is gone?" she asked, lifting her head,
and looking into his eyes, with a glad light in her own.

"Yes, and am much relieved to know it," he replied. "And, dearest, she
shall never come again, if I can prevent it."




CHAPTER VII.

"Tell me the old, old story."


"My dear Zoe! what a happy face!" was Ella's pleased exclamation, as the
two met in the breakfast-room.

"Very bright, indeed!" said Arthur, who had come in with Zoe, smiling
kindly upon her as he spoke.

"Because it reflects the light and joy in my heart," she returned.
"Wouldn't it be strange if I were not happy in knowing that my husband
is not seriously hurt? Oh, we have been so happy together, that I have
often feared it could not last!"

"There seems every reasonable prospect that it will," Arthur said, as
they seated themselves at the table. "You are both young and healthy,
your tastes are congenial, and you have enough of this world's goods to
enable you to live free from carking cares and exhausting labors."

Zoe was in so great haste to return to Edward, that she could scarce
refrain from eating her breakfast more rapidly than was consistent with
either politeness toward her guests or a due regard for her own health:
but she tried to restrain her impatience; and Arthur, who perceived and
sympathized with it, exerted himself for her entertainment, telling
amusing anecdotes, and making mirth-provoking remarks.

Ella, perceiving his designs, joined in, in the same strain. Zoe
presently entered into their mood, and they seemed, as in fact they
were, a light-hearted and happy little breakfast party; both Arthur and
Ella feeling greatly relieved by the favorable change in their cousin,
not for Zoe's sake alone, but also because of their own affection for
him.

Edward no longer needed Arthur as nurse: indeed, Zoe claimed the right
to a monopoly of the, to her, sweet task of waiting upon him, and
attending to all his wants. So Arthur resigned in that capacity, but was
to continue his visits as physician.

He and Ella returned to Roselands shortly after leaving the
breakfast-table; and Zoe, in joyous, tender mood, took her place by her
husband's bedside.

He welcomed her with a loving smile, taking her hand in his, and
carrying it to his lips.

"Arthur has condemned me to lie here for a full week," he said. "It
would seem a weary while in the prospect, but for the thought of having,
through it all, the sweet companionship of my darling little wife."

"Dear Ned, how good in you to say so!" she murmured, kneeling beside the
bed, and laying her cheek to his. "I don't believe there's another
creature in the world that thinks my society of much account."

"If you are right in that, which I very much doubt," he said with a
smile of incredulity, "it only shows their want of taste, and makes no
difference to us, does it, love, since we are all the world to each
other?"

"I am sure it makes no difference to me," she responded: "if you love,
and are pleased with, me, it's very little I care what anybody else may
think or say about me. But, oh! isn't it nice to be alone together
again?"

"Very nice."

"And remember, you are to make all possible use of me,--as nurse,
reader,--when you feel that you would like to listen to book or
news-paper,--as amanuensis, every thing."

"Yes, dearest, I expect to employ you in all those capacities by and by;
but at present, I want nothing but to have you sit by my side, and talk
to me, while I hold your hand, and feast my eyes on the face that is to
me the dearest in all the world."

At that, the pretty face was suffused with blushes and smiles. "I'm so
happy! so very happy!" she murmured, stealing an arm round his neck. "It
is such a change from yesterday, when for a little while, I--I thought
you--were gone, and--and without my having had a chance to ask your
forgiveness."

The sobs came thick and fast as she went on. "O Ned! dear, dear Ned!
I--I don't mean ever to be cross to you again, especially when we are
going to part even for an hour."

"No," he said, with emotion, and drawing her closer to him; "we should
not have parted so; we had promised each other we would not; and I
should have gone to you and made it up with you before leaving the
house."

"It was all my fault," she sobbed; "and if--if you had been taken from
me, I could never have had another happy moment."

"Thank God that we are spared to each other!" he said with fervent
gratitude. "And now, dear wife, let us try to forget that there has been
ever any coldness or clashing between us. Let us enjoy the present, and
be as happy in each other as if no cloud, even the slightest, had ever
come over our intercourse as husband and wife."

"Yes," she said. Then, lifting her face, and gazing earnestly into his,
"How pale and exhausted you look!" she cried in alarm. "I have talked,
and let you talk, too much and too excitingly. I'm afraid cousin Arthur
will say I am but a poor sort of nurse. Now," withdrawing herself from
his embrace, and gently re-arranging his pillows, and smoothing the
bed-clothes, "shut your eyes, and try to sleep. I'll stay close beside
you, and be as quiet as a mouse."

With a faint smile, he did as he was bidden; and she fulfilled her
promise to the letter, watching beside him with love and solicitude for
two hours, till his eyes again unclosed, and met hers, gazing so
tenderly upon him, with an answering look of ardent affection.

"You have had a good nap, and look quite refreshed, dear," she said,
bending over him, and softly stroking his hair with her little white
hand.

"Yes; I feel much better," he said. "And you, love,--have you been
sitting there all this time?"

"Of course I have," she answered gayly: "did you think I would break my
word, or feel any desire to go away and leave you?"

"I know you to be the most devoted of nurses, when it is I who require
your services," he returned, with a tenderly appreciative smile. "You
are the best of little wives. But you must be very weary, and I want you
now to go and take some exercise in the open air."

"Is that an order?" she asked playfully.

"Not yet," he returned, in the same tone; "but, if not obeyed as a
request, it may become--something stronger."

"Well," she said laughing, "it won't hurt me if it does: you can't hurt
me in that way any more; for do you know, Ned," and she bent lovingly
over him, pressing a kiss upon his forehead, "I have become such a silly
thing, that I actually enjoy obeying you,--when you don't order me as if
you thought I wouldn't do as you wish, and you meant to force me to it."

"Forgive me, love, that I have ever done it in that spirit," he said
remorsefully, and coloring deeply.

"Ned, I haven't any thing to forgive," she said, with sudden energy and
warmth of affection.

"Then you will obey about the air and exercise?" he asked, returning to
his playful tone.

"Presently, sir, when I have seen you eat something. It's time for that
now, according to the doctor's directions."

She rang for refreshment, saw him take it, then left him for a short
time in the care of old Aunt Phillis, while she donned riding hat and
habit, mounted her pony, and flew over several miles of road and back
again.

She seemed to bring a breath of fresh air with her when she returned to
his side.

"My darling," he said, smiling up at her, "how the roses glow on your
cheeks, and how bright your eyes are! Give me a kiss, and then sit down
close by my side."

"I obey both orders most willingly," she said merrily, as she bent down
and kissed him on lips and forehead and cheek, then took possession of
the chair she had vacated on leaving the room.

"Now, sir, what next?"

"Move your chair round a trifle, so that I can have a better view of
your face."

She smilingly obeyed. "There! does that satisfy your lordship?"

"Quite. Now talk to me."

"About what?"

"Any thing you please: the principal thing is to hear the music of your
voice."

"Suppose I sing, then."

"Yes, yes!" eagerly; "that's just what I should enjoy. Let it be, 'I
love to tell the story.'"

Zoe had a beautiful voice. Soft and sweet and clear it rose,--

"'I love to tell the story
  Of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and his glory,
  Of Jesus and his love.
I love to tell the story,
  Because I know it's true:
It satisfies my longings
  As nothing else can do.

"I love to tell the story:
  'Twill be my theme in glory,
To tell the old, old story,
  Of Jesus and his love.

"I love to tell the story:
  More wonderful it seems,
Than all the golden fancies
  Of all our golden dreams.
I love to tell the story,
  It did so much for me;
And that is just the reason
  I tell it now to thee.

"I love to tell the story;
  'Tis pleasant to repeat
What seems, each time I tell it,
  More wonderfully sweet.
I love to tell the story,
  For some have never heard
The message of salvation
  From God's own Holy Word.

"I love to tell the story;
  For those who know it best,
Seem hungering and thirsting
  To hear it like the rest.
And when in scenes of glory,
  I sing the new, new song,
'Twill be the old, old story,
  That I have loved so long.'"

The last note died away, and for a moment there was silence in the room.
Edward lay gazing into his wife's eyes with a look of sad, yearning
tenderness.

"O Ned! why, why do you look so at me?" she asked, with a sudden burst
of tears, and dropping her face on the pillow beside his. He had been
holding her hand while she sang; he kept it still, and, laying his other
one gently on her head, "Zoe, my darling," he said, in tones tremulous
with emotion, "it is the one longing desire of my heart that you may
learn the full sweetness of that old, old story. O love! sometimes the
thought, 'What if my precious wife should miss heaven, and our union be
only for time, and not for eternity,' sends so keen a pang to my heart,
that I know not how to endure it."

"O Ned! surely I shall not miss it," she said, with a sob: "my father
and mother were such good Christians; and you, my own husband, are so
good too."

"Ah, my darling!" he sighed, "that hope is but as a spider's web. Do you
not remember that passage in Ezekiel, 'Though these three men, Noah,
Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by
their righteousness, saith the Lord God'? And it is repeated again and
again, 'Though Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, as I live, saith the
Lord God, they shall deliver neither son nor daughter; they shall but
deliver their own souls by their righteousness.' Zoe, dear, no
righteousness but the imputed righteousness of Christ can save the soul
from death. He offers it to you, love; and will you continue to reject
it?"

"Ned," she sobbed, "I wish I had it: I often think I would be a
Christian if I only knew how, but I don't."

"Do you not?" he asked, in some surprise. "I will try to make it plain.
Jesus offers you a full and free salvation, purchased by what he has
done and suffered in your stead, that 'God might be just, and yet the
justifier of him who believeth in Jesus.'

"'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.'

"He bids you come to him, and says, 'Him that cometh to me, I will in
no wise cast out.'"

"But how shall I come?" she asked. "Tell me just how."

"How do you come to me, love, when you feel that you have displeased me,
and want to be reconciled?"

"Oh! you know I just come and acknowledge that I've been hateful and
cross, and say how sorry I am, and that I don't mean to behave so any
more, and ask you to forgive and love me; and, dear Ned, you are always
so willing and ready to do that, you hardly wait till I've said my say,
before you put your arms round me, and hug and kiss me, and it's all
right between us."

"Yes, dearest; and God, our heavenly Father, is far more ready to
receive and forgive us when we turn to him with sorrow for our sins,
confessing them and pleading for pardon in the name, and for the sake,
of his dear Son, our Saviour," "I'm afraid I don't feel half so sorry as
I ought."

"Who of us does? but we are not to wait for that. We must come to him,
to be shown the evil of our natures, the sinfulness of our lives.

"'Him hath God exalted with his right hand to be a Prince and a Saviour,
for to give repentance to Israel, and forgiveness of sins.'"

"But how am I to make myself believe?" she asked.

"'By grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves; it is
the gift of God.' So you see, we have to go to Jesus for it all,--for
repentance, for faith, for salvation from the guilt and love of sin, and
from eternal death.

"The plan of salvation is very simple,--its very simplicity seems to
stumble many; they don't know how to believe that it is offered them as
a free gift; they think they must do something to merit it; but it
cannot be bought, it is 'without money and without price.' 'Whosoever
will, let him take the water of life freely,' Come to Jesus, dear one;
come now, for only the present moment is yours; delay is most dangerous,
for the invitation may be withdrawn at any time."

"If I could only see him! If I could hear his voice!" she sighed.

"That you cannot; yet you know I am not nearer to you, or more willing
to hear a petition from you, than he is."

At that moment a well-known step was heard in the hall without; and as
Zoe rose hastily, wiping her eyes, Arthur tapped at the door.




CHAPTER VIII.

"I bless thee for kind looks and words
 Showered on my path like dew,
 For all the love in those deep eyes,
 A gladness ever new."
--MRS. HEMANS.


A week had passed since Edward's accident; and he now exchanged his
bed, during the day, for an easy-chair.

He and Zoe had just finished taking their breakfast together in her
boudoir when a servant came in with the mail.

There were letters from Viamede,--one for Edward from his mother, one
for Zoe from Betty Johnson.

Both brought the unwelcome tidings that little Grace Raymond and
Violet's babe were very ill with scarlet-fever.

Edward read aloud his mother's announcement of the fact. "Yes," said
Zoe. "Betty tells me the same thing. O Ned! how sorry I am for poor Vi!
It would be hard enough for her if she had the captain with her, to help
bear the burden and responsibility, and to share in her grief if they
should die."

"Yes, it is hard for her; and I am glad she has mamma and grandpa and
grandma with her. Mamma says Dick Percival is attending the children,
and there is talk of telegraphing for Arthur.

"Ah," glancing from the window, "here he comes! He will perhaps bring us
later news."

Arthur did so: the children were worse than at the date of the letters.
He had just received his summons, and would obey it immediately, taking
the next train; had called to tell them, and see how Edward was.

"Almost entirely recovered, tell my mother," Edward said, in reply to
the query; "and you needn't go feeling any anxiety in regard to this one
of your patients," he added playfully.

"I leave him in your care, Zoe," said Arthur; "and, if he does not do
well, I shall hold you responsible."

"Then you must lay your commands upon him to obey my orders," she said,
with a merry glance from one to the other.

"Would that be any thing new in his experience?" asked the doctor with
mock gravity.

"It won't do to question us too closely," returned Zoe, coloring and
laughing.

"She is a very good little wife, and tolerably obedient," laughed
Edward. "Really, would you believe it? she told me once she actually
enjoyed obeying--under certain circumstances; and so, I suppose, should
I. Zoe, you mustn't be too hard on me."

"Oh! I intend to be very strict in seeing the doctor's orders carried
out," she said; "and I expect to enjoy my brief authority immensely."

Dr. Conly took leave almost immediately, for he had no time to spare;
and the reading of the letters was resumed.

Betty's was a long one, giving a full account, from her point of view,
of the contest between Mr. Dinsmore and Lulu Raymond in regard to her
refusal to take music-lessons of Signor Foresti after he had struck her.
None of the family had mentioned the affair in their letters, even Rosie
feeling that she had no warrant to do so; and the story was both new and
interesting to Zoe.

Lulu had not yet submitted when Betty wrote, so the story as told in her
letter left the little girl still in banishment at Oakdale Academy.

Zoe read the letter aloud to Edward.

"Lulu is certainly the most ungovernable child I have ever seen or heard
of," he remarked, at its conclusion. "I often wonder at the patience and
forbearance grandpa and mamma have shown toward her. In their place, I
should have had her banished to a boarding-school long ago, one at a
distance, too, so that she could not trouble me, even during holidays."

"So should I," said Zoe: "she hasn't the least shadow of a claim upon
them."

"No: the captain feels that, and is duly grateful. It is evident, too,
that Lulu's lack of gratitude, and her bad behavior, are extremely
mortifying to him."

"But don't you think, Ned, it was rather hard to insist on her going
back to that ill-tempered, abusive old music-teacher?"

"Yes," he acknowledged with some hesitation. "I rather wonder at
grandpa."

"I wonder how it is going to end," said Zoe: "they are both so very
determined, I should not like to stand in Lulu's shoes, nor yet in his."

A second letter from Betty, received a fort-night later, told how it had
ended: though Betty, not being in Lulu's confidence as Evelyn was, knew
nothing of Capt. Raymond's letter to his daughter, or of Lulu's
confession in reply to it; so her story ended with the statement that
Lulu had at last submitted, been restored to favor, and was at Magnolia
Hall with Evelyn as a companion, all the children who were in health
having been banished from Viamede to save them from the danger of
catching the dreaded fever.

But to go back to the morning when the first instalment of her story was
received.

"It must be a very anxious time for them,--the family at Viamede, I
mean," remarked Edward musingly. "And poor, dear Vi is so young to have
such burdens to bear. What a blessing that she has mamma with her!"

"Yes," said Zoe. "And, oh! I hope the children will get well, they are
such darlings, both Gracie and the baby. I feel very sorry they are so
ill, and yet I can't help rejoicing that my dear husband is able to sit
up again.

"Is that quite heartless in me?" she asked, laying her hand on one of
his, which rested on the arm of his easy-chair; for she was seated in a
low rocker, close at his side.

"I think not," he answered, smiling down into her eyes. "It will do them
no good for us to make ourselves unhappy. We will sympathize with, and
pray for, them, but at the same time be thankful and joyful because of
all God's goodness to us and them. 'Rejoice in the Lord always: and
again I say, Rejoice.' 'Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation.'"

"You have certainly obeyed that last injunction," remarked Zoe, looking
at him with affectionate admiration; "so patient and cheerful as you
have been ever since your injury! Many a man would have grumbled and
growled from morning to night; while you have been so pleasant, it was a
privilege to wait on you."

"Thank you," he said, laughing: "it is uncommonly good in you to say
that, but I'm afraid you are rather uncharitable in your judgment of
'many men.'

"Mamma has not yet heard of my accident," he remarked presently, "and
wonders over my long silence. I'll write to her now, if you will be so
kind as to bring me my writing-desk."

"I'm doubtful about allowing such exertion," she said: "you are left
under my orders, you remember, and I'm to be held responsible for your
continued improvement."

"Nonsense! that wouldn't hurt me," he returned, with an amused smile;
"and if you won't get the desk, I'll go after it myself."

"No, you mustn't: I sha'n't allow it," she said, knitting her brows,
and trying to look stern.

"Then get it for me."

"Well," she said reflectively, "I suppose there'll have to be a
compromise. I'll get the desk, if you'll let me act as your amanuensis."

"We'll consider that arrangement after you have brought it."

"No: you must agree to my proposition first."

"Why, what a little tyrant you are!" he laughed. "Well, I consent. Now
will you please to bring the desk?"

"Yes," she said, jumping up, and crossing the room to where it stood;
"and if you are very good, you may write a postscript with your own
hand."

"I'll do it all with my own hand," he said as she returned to his side.

"Why, Ned!" she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you were a man of your
word!"

"And so I am, I trust," he said, smiling at her astonished look, then
catching her right hand in his. "Is not this mine?" he asked: "did you
not give it to me?--Let me see--nearly two years ago?"

"Yes, I did," she answered, laughing and blushing with pleasure and
happiness: "you are right; it is yours. So you have every right to use
it, and must do so."

"Ah!" he said, "'a wilful woman will have her way,' I see: there never
was a truer saying. No, that won't do," as she seated herself with the
desk on her lap: "put it on the table. I can't have you bending over to
write on your lap, and so growing round-shouldered, especially in my
service."

"Any thing to please you," she returned gayly, doing as he directed. "I
suppose my right hand is not all of me that you lay claim to?"

"No, indeed! I claim you altogether, as my better and dearer half," he
said, his tone changing from jest to earnest, and the light of love
shining in his eyes.

She ran to him at that, put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek
to his. "No, Ned, I can't have you say that," she murmured, "you who are
so good and wise, while I am such a silly and faulty thing, not at all
worthy to be your wife. Whatever made you marry me?"

"Love," he answered, drawing her closer, and fondly caressing her hair
and cheek,--"love that grows stronger and deeper with every day we live
together, dearest."

"Dear Ned, my own dear husband!" she said, hugging him tighter. "Words
could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for
me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could
live without you."

"Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said
reverently. "There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I
can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so
entirely."

"You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her
head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and
your words make me very, very happy. Now," releasing herself from his
embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it? I am ready to write
if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took
up her pen.

It was not a lengthened epistle. He began with an acknowledgment of the
receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and
suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent
illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of
wives and nurses.

When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended
over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a
remonstrance.

"Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my
handwriting."

"Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours."

"Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like
to do it."

"Then let me," he said. "If you will hold the desk on the arm of my
chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing
easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self."

She did as directed. "There, now lie back in your chair, and rest," she
said, when he had finished his note, and signed his name. "You do look a
little tired," she added, with an anxious glance at him as she returned
the desk to the table.

"Nonsense! tired with that slight exertion!" he responded gayly. "You
may read that over, and see if it wants any correction."

She did so, then, turning toward him with an arch smile, asked, "May I
criticise?"

"I should be happy to have the benefit of your criticism," he said,
laughing; "but don't make it too severe, please."

"Oh, no! I was only thinking that mamma, judging of her by myself, would
not be half satisfied with such a bare statement of facts, and that I
had better write a supplement, giving her more of the particulars."

"I highly approve the suggestion," he answered, "only stipulating that
you shall not spend too much time over it, and shall read it to me when
finished."

"I'm afraid it won't be worth your hearing."

"Let me judge of that. If not worth my hearing, can it be worth mamma's
reading?"

"Perhaps so," she said with a blush; "because what I tell will be news
to her, but not to you."

"Ah! I hadn't thought of that. But I shall want to hear it all the same,
and take my turn at criticism."

"If you are not more severe than I was, I can stand it," she said. "And
now please keep quiet till I am done."

He complied, lying back at his ease, and amusing himself with watching
her, admiring the graceful pose of her figure, the pretty face bending
over the paper, and the small, white, shapely hand that was gliding
swiftly back and forth.

"Come," he said at last, "you are making quite too long a story of it."

"Mamma won't think so," she retorted, without looking up; "and you know
you are not obliged to hear it."

"Ah! but that is not the objection; I want to hear every word of it: but
I can't spare my companion and nurse so long."

She turned to him with a bright smile. "What can I do for you, dear?
Just tell me. The letter can be finished afterward, you know."

"I want nothing but you," was the smiling rejoinder. "Finish your
letter, and then come and sit close by my side.

"But no; you must take your accustomed exercise in the open air."

Considering a moment, "I think," he said, "I'll have you order the
carriage for about the time you are likely to be done there, and we'll
have a drive together."

She shook her head gravely. "You are not fit for any such exertion."

"Uncle Ben and Solon shall help me down the stairs and into the
carriage, so there need be no exertion about it."

"I won't consent," she said. "The doctor left you in my charge; and his
orders were, that you should keep quiet for the next few days."

"You prefer to go alone, do you?"

"Yes, rather than have you injured by going with me."

"Come here," he said; and, laying down her pen, she obeyed.

He took both her hands in his, and, gazing with mock gravity up into her
face as she stood over him, "What a little tyrant you are developing
into!" he remarked, knitting his brows. "Will you order the carriage,
and take a drive in my company?"

"No."

"Then what will you do?"

"Go by myself, or stay at home with you, just as you bid me."

"What a remarkable mixture of tyranny and submission," he exclaimed,
laughing, as he pulled her down to put his arm round her, and kiss her
first on one cheek, then on the other. "I'll tell you what we'll do: you
finish that letter, read it to me, and take the benefit of my able
criticisms; then I'll try to get a nap while you take your drive or
walk, whichever you prefer."

"That will do nicely," she said, returning his caresses; "if you will be
pleased to let me go, I'll order the carriage, finish the letter in five
minutes, hear the able criticisms, put my patient to bed, and be off for
my drive."

"Do so," he said, releasing her.

From this time forward, till the children were considered out of danger,
and Edward was able to go about and attend to his affairs as usual,
there were daily letters and telegrams passing between Viamede and Ion.
Then Dr. Conly came home, and almost immediately on his arrival drove
over to Ion to see for himself if his patient there had entirely
recovered, and to carry some messages and tokens of affection from the
absent members of the family.

It was late in the afternoon that he reached Ion, and he found Edward
and Zoe sitting together in the parlor; she with a bit of embroidery in
her hands, he reading aloud to her.

Arthur was very warmly welcomed by both.

"Cousin Arthur, I'm delighted to see you!" cried Zoe, giving him her
hand.

"And I no less so," added Edward, offering his. "How did you leave them
all at Viamede?"

"All in health, except, of course, the two little ones who have been so
ill," he said, taking the chair Edward drew forward for him; "and them
we consider out of danger, with the careful attention they are sure to
have."

"How have mamma and Vi stood the anxiety and nursing?" asked Edward.

"Quite as well as could have been expected. They have lost a little in
flesh and color, but will, I think, soon regain both, now that their
anxiety is relieved.

"And you, Ned, are quite yourself again, I should say, from
appearances?"

"Yes; and I desire to give all credit to the nurse in whose charge you
left me," returned Edward, with a smiling glance at Zoe.

"As is but fair," said Arthur. "I discovered her capabilities before I
left."

"She made the most of her delegated authority," remarked Edward gravely.
"I was allowed no will of my own, till I had so entirely recovered from
my injuries that she had no longer the shadow of an excuse for depriving
me of my liberty."

"I thought it was a good lesson for him," retorted Zoe. "I've read
somewhere that nobody is fit to rule who hasn't first learned to obey."

"Ah! but that I learned before I was a year old," said Edward, laughing.


"Nobody would have thought it, seeing the trouble I had to make you
obey," said Zoe.

"Now, cousin Arthur, tell us all about Viamede, and what you did and saw
there."

"It is a lovely place," he said. "I expected to be disappointed after
the glowing accounts I had heard, but I feel like saying, 'The half has
not been told me;'" and he plunged into an enthusiastic description of
the mansion, its grounds, and the surrounding country.

"I was loath to leave it," he said in conclusion.

"And you make me more desirous to see it than ever," said Zoe.

"Oh, do tell us! had Capt. Raymond been heard from before you left? We
have seen by the papers that the report of the loss of his vessel was
untrue, and, of course, we were greatly relieved."

"Yes: letters came from him the day before I started for home.
Fortunately, they had been able to keep the report from Vi and little
Gracie; but May and Lulu had heard it, and were terribly distressed, I
was told."

"They are very fond of their father," remarked Zoe.

"Yes, as they have good reason to be," said Arthur: "he is a noble
fellow, and one of the best of husbands and fathers."

"Did you hear any thing in particular about Lulu?" Zoe asked.

"No, I think not," he said reflectively; "nothing but that she, May, and
Evelyn Leland were staying, by invitation, at Magnolia Hall.

"Ah, yes! I remember now that Betty told me there had been some trouble
between uncle Horace and Lulu in regard to her taking lessons of a
music-teacher whom she greatly disliked; that, because of her obstinate
refusal, he had banished her from Viamede, entering her as a boarder at
the academy the children were all attending; but that her distress of
mind over the illness of her little sisters, and the sad report about
her father, had led her to submit."

"Much to Vi's relief, no doubt," remarked Edward. "Poor Vi! She is
devotedly attached to her husband, but Lulu is a sore thorn in her
side."

"I don't believe she has ever acknowledged as much, or could be induced
to," said Zoe.

"No," assented Edward; "but it is evident to those who know her well,
nevertheless. She tries hard to conceal the fact, and has wonderful
patience with the wilful passionate child, really loving her for her
father's sake."

"And for her own, too, if I mistake not," Arthur said. "There is
something quite lovable about Lulu, in spite of her very serious
faults."

"There is," said Edward. "I have felt it strongly myself at times. She
is warm-hearted, energetic, very generous, and remarkably
straight-forward, truthful, and honest."

Dr. Conly had risen, as if to take leave.

"Now, cousin Arthur," said Zoe, "please sit down again; for we cannot
let you leave us till after tea."

Edward seconded the invitation.

"Thank you both," Arthur said, "but"--

"But--no buts," interrupted Zoe gayly. "I know you were about to plead
haste; but there is the tea-bell now, so you will not be delayed; for
you have to take time for your meals."

"Then I accept," he said, "rejoicing in the opportunity to spend a
little longer time in your very pleasant society."




CHAPTER IX.

"Here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper."


Edward and Zoe now began to look forward to the return of the family as
a desirable event not very far in the future. They had been extremely
happy in each other during almost the whole time of separation from the
rest; but now they were hungering for a sight of "mamma's sweet face,"
and would by no means object to a glimpse of those of grandparents,
sisters, and children.

At length a letter was received, fixing the date of the intended
departure from Viamede, and stating by what train the party would
probably reach the neighboring village of Union, where carriages must be
in readiness to receive and convey them to Ion.

And now Edward and Zoe began counting the days: the little matron put on
more housewifely airs than was her wont, and was in great glee over her
preparations for a grand reception and welcoming feast to the loved
travellers.

She insisted on much cleaning and renovating, and on the day of the
arrival robbed the green-houses and conservatories for the adornment of
the house, the table, and her own person.

Edward laughingly asserted that he was almost, if not quite, as much
under her orders at that time as when left in her charge by the doctor,
and could have no peace but in showing himself entirely submissive, and
ready to carry out all her schemes and wishes.

Fairview also was getting ready to receive its master and mistress; but
the indoor preparations there were overseen by Mrs. Lacey of the
Laurels,--Edward's aunt Rose.

It was the last of April: lovely spring weather had come, and the head
gardeners and their subordinates of both places found much to do in
making all trim and neat against the expected arrival of the respective
owners; and of these matters Edward took a general oversight.

He and Zoe were up earlier than their wont on the morning of the
long-looked-for day, wandering about the gardens before breakfast.

"How lovely every thing looks!" exclaimed Zoe, in delight. "I am sure
mamma will be greatly pleased, and praise you to your heart's content,
Cuff," she added, turning to the gardener at work near by.

"Ya'as, Miss Zoe," he answered, with a broad grin of satisfaction;
"dat's what I'se been a workin' for, an' spects to hab sho', kase Miss
Elsie, she doan' nebber grudge nuffin' in de way ob praise nor ob wages,
when yo's done yo' bes', ob co'se; an' dis chile done do dat, sho's yo'
bawn."

"Yes, I'm sure you have, Cuff," said Edward kindly: "the flowers look
very flourishing; there's not a dead leaf or a weed to be seen anywhere;
the walks are clean and smooth as a floor; nothing amiss anywhere, so
far as I can perceive."

They moved on, walking slowly, and inspecting carefully as they went,
yet finding nothing to mar their satisfaction.

They had reached the front of the house, and were about to go in, when a
boy on horseback came cantering up the avenue, and handed a telegram to
Edward.

Tearing it hastily open, "From grandpa," he said. "Ah! they will be here
by the next train!"

"Half a day sooner than they or we expected," cried Zoe, half joyfully,
half in dismay, struck with a momentary fear that her preparations could
not be quite complete in season.

Edward hastened to re-assure her. "Altogether, good news, isn't it?" he
said. "We can be quite ready, I am sure, and will escape some hours of
waiting; while they will gain time for rest and refreshment before the
arrival of the family party who are to gather here from the Oaks,
Roselands, the Laurels, and the Pines."

"Oh, yes, yes! it is ever so nice! and I'm as glad as I can be," she
cried rapturously. "Now let us make haste to get our breakfast, and then
attend to the finishing touches needed by the house and our own
persons."

"Stay," said Edward, detaining her as she was starting up the steps into
the veranda. "We should send word to Fairview, but it will be time
enough after breakfast. Suppose we ride over there immediately upon
leaving the table, and carry the news ourselves? The air and exercise
will do you good."

"It would be very nice," she returned meditatively; "but I'm afraid I
shall hardly have time."

"Yes, you will," he said. "You can give your orders, and let Christine
and Aunt Dicey see them carried out."

"But I want my taste consulted in the arrangement of the flowers," she
objected.

"Plenty of time for that after we get back," he said. "And I want your
help in deciding whether every thing is exactly as it should be in the
grounds at Fairview. Shall I order the horses?"

"Yes. I'll go, of course, if you wish it, and enjoy it greatly, I know."

They were very gay over their breakfast and during their ride; for they
were young, healthy, happy in each other; the morning air was delicious,
and not a cloud was to be perceived in either the natural sky above
their heads, or in that of their future; all was bright and joyous, and
they seemed to have naught to do with sorrow or care, or any of the
evils that oppressed the hearts and darkened the lives of many of their
fellow-creatures.

Their tidings were received with joy by the retainers at Fairview,
nearly every thing being in readiness for the reception of its master
and mistress.

Edward and Zoe had agreed that it was not at all necessary to inform the
expected guests of the evening of the change in the hour for the arrival
of the home-coming party they intended to welcome.

"The meeting will be quite as early as anticipated," remarked Edward;
"and it will do no harm for mamma and the others to have a chance to
rest a little before seeing so many."

"They will enjoy themselves all the better, I'm sure," said Zoe.

They were cantering homeward as they talked. Arrived there, Zoe set to
work at the pleasant task of adorning the house--"mamma's" boudoir in
particular--with beautiful and sweet-scented flowers, and contrived to
be delightfully busy in their arrangement till some little time after
Edward had gone with the carriages to meet and bring home the
travellers.

All came directly to Ion, except the Fairview family, who sought their
own home first, but promised to be present at the evening festivities.

The journey had been taken leisurely; and no one seemed fatigued but the
little convalescents, who were glad to be put immediately to bed.

"Mamma, dear, dearest mamma!" cried Zoe, as the two clasped each other
in a close embrace. "I am so, so glad to see you!"

"Tired of housekeeping, little woman?" Elsie asked, with an arch look
and smile.

"No, mamma, not that, though willing enough to resign my position to
you," was the gay rejoinder. "But my delight is altogether because you
are so dear and sweet, that everybody must be the happier for your
presence."

"Dear child, I prize and fully return your affection," Elsie said in
reply.

For each one, Zoe had a joyous and affectionate greeting, till it came
to Lulu's turn.

At her she glanced doubtfully for an instant, then gave her a hearty
kiss, saying to herself, "Though she did behave so badly, I'm sure she
had a good deal of provocation."

Lulu had noted the momentary hesitation, and flushed hotly under it; but
the kiss set all right, and she returned it as warmly as it was given.

"It seems nice to see you and uncle Edward again, aunt Zoe!" she said,
"and nice to get back to Ion, though Viamede is so lovely."

"Yes," chimed in Rosie. "Viamede is almost an earthly paradise, but Ion
is the homiest home of the two."

Lulu had been on her very best behavior ever since the termination of
the controversy between Mr. Dinsmore and herself in regard to her
tuition by Signor Foresti; and she had returned to Ion full of good
resolutions, promising herself, that, if permitted to continue to live
at Ion, she would henceforward be submissive, obedient, and very
determined in her efforts to control her unruly temper.

But was she to be allowed to stay there? No objection had been raised by
any of the family; but remembering her father's repeated warning, that,
if she proved troublesome to these kind friends, he would feel compelled
to take her away from Ion, and send her to a boarding-school, she
awaited his decision with much secret apprehension.

It was quite too soon to look for a response to her confession, written
from Magnolia Hall, or a letter from him to her mamma, grandma Elsie, or
grandpa Dinsmore, giving his verdict in regard to her; and, at times,
she found the suspense very hard to bear.

Thus far, Evelyn Leland had been the sole confidant of her doubts,
fears, and anxieties on the subject; not even Max having been made
acquainted with the contents of either her father's letter to her, or
her reply to it.

She had managed to conceal her uneasiness from him, and also from
grandma Elsie and Violet; the time and attention of both ladies being
much occupied with the care of the little invalids.

But, on the evening of this day, Grace and baby Elsie were fast asleep,
the one in bed, the other in her dainty crib, at an early hour; and
Violet bethought her of Lulu in connection with the expected assembling
of a large family party.

"I must see that the child is suitably attired," she said to herself,
and, deferring her own toilet, went at once to the little girl's room.

She found her already dressed,--suitably and tastefully too,--and
sitting by a window in an attitude of dejection, her elbow on the sill,
her head on her hand; but she was not looking out; her eyes were
downcast, and her countenance was sad.

"What is the matter, Lulu, dear?" Violet asked in gentle tones, as she
drew near, and laid her soft white hand caressingly on the bowed head:
"are you sorry to be at home again?"

"Ok, no, no, mamma Vi! it's not that. I should be very glad to get back,
if I were only sure of being allowed to stay," Lulu answered, lifting
her head, and hastily wiping a tear out of the corner of her eye. "But
I--I'm dreadfully afraid papa will say I can't; that I must be sent away
somewhere, because of having been so disobedient and obstinate."

"I hope not, dear," Violet said: "you have been so good ever since you
gave up, and consented to do as grandpa wished."

"Thank you for saying that, mamma Vi. I have been trying with all my
might,--asking God to help me too," she added low and reverentially;
"but papa doesn't know that, and he has been very near banishing me two
or three times before. Oh, I don't know how to wait to hear from him! I
wish a letter would come!"

"It is almost too soon to hope for it yet, dear child; but I trust we
may hear before very long," said Violet.

At that moment there came a little tap at the door; and the sweetest of
voices asked, "Shall I come in?"

"Oh, yes, mamma!"

"Yes, grandma Elsie!" answered the two addressed.

"I thought our little girl might like some help with her toilet for the
evening," Elsie said, advancing into the room. "But--is any thing wrong?
I think you are looking troubled and unhappy, Lulu."

Violet explained the cause; and Elsie said, very kindly, "I don't want
you sent away, Lulu, dear. No one could desire a better behaved child
than you have been of late; and I have written to your father to tell
him so, and ask that you may stay with us still. So cheer up, and hope
for the best, little girl," she added, with a smile and an affectionate
kiss.

Lulu had risen, and was standing by Elsie's side. As the latter bent
down to bestow the caress, her arms were thrown impulsively about her
neck with a glad, grateful exclamation, "O grandma Elsie! how good you
are to me! I don't know how you could want to keep me here, when I've
been so bad and troublesome so many times."

"I trust you have been so for the very last time, dear child," Elsie
responded. "Think how it will rejoice your father's heart if he learns
that you have at length conquered in the fight with your naturally
quick, wilful temper, which has been the cause of so much distress to
both him and yourself."

"I do think of it very often, grandma Elsie," Lulu returned, with a sigh
that seemed to come from the depths of her heart. "And I do want to
please papa, and make him happy: but,--oh, dear! when something happens
to make me angry, I forget all about it and my good resolutions till
it's too late; the first thing I know, I've been acting like a fury, and
disgracing myself and him."

"Yet don't be discouraged, or ever give up the fight," Elsie said.
"Persevere, using all your own strength, and asking help from on high,
and you will come off conqueror at last."

About the same time that this little scene was enacting at Ion, Elsie
Leland, passing the door of Evelyn's room, thought she heard a low sob
coming from within.

She paused and listened. The sound was repeated, and she tapped lightly
on the door. There was no answer; and opening it, she stole softly in.

Evelyn sat in an easy-chair at the farther side of the room, her face
hidden in her hands, an open letter lying in her lap.

"My poor child! Is it bad news?" Elsie asked, going up to the little
girl, and touching her hair caressingly.

"It is heart-breaking to me, aunt Elsie; but read and judge for
yourself," Evelyn replied, in a voice choking with sobs; and taking up
the letter, she put it into her aunt's hand.

Elsie gave it a hasty perusal, then, tossing it indignantly aside, took
the young weeper in her arms, bestowing upon her tender caresses and
soothing words.

"It is hard, very hard for you, dear, I know; it would be for me in your
place; but we must just try to make the best of it."

"Yes," sobbed Evelyn; "but I could hardly feel more fully orphaned if my
mother were dead. And papa has not been gone a year. Oh, how could she!
how could she! You see, aunt Elsie, she talks of my joining her as soon
as I am my own mistress; but how can I ever think of it now?"

"We--your uncle and I--would be very loath to give you up, darling; and,
if you can only be content, I think you may always have a happy home
here, with us," Elsie said, with another tender caress.

"Dear auntie, you and uncle have made it a very happy home to me,"
returned Evelyn gratefully, wiping away her tears as she spoke, and
forcing a rather sad sort of smile. "I should be as sorry to leave it
as you could possibly be to have me do so."

Evelyn was of a very quiet temperament, rarely indulging in bursts of
emotion of any kind; and Elsie soon succeeded in restoring her to
calmness, though her eyes still showed traces of tears; and her
expressive features again wore the look of gentle sadness that was their
wont in the first weeks of her sojourn at Fairview, but which had
gradually changed to one of cheerfulness and content.

"Now, Eva, dear, it is time we were getting ready for our drive to Ion,"
Elsie said. "Shall I help you change your dress?"

"I--I think, if you will excuse me, auntie," Evelyn returned, with
hesitation, "I should prefer to stay at home. I'm scarcely in the mood
for merry-making."

"Of course, you shall do just as you like, dear child," was the kindly
response; "but it is only to be a family party, and you need not be
mixed up with any fun or frolic,--I don't suppose there will be any
thing of the kind going on,--and you will probably enjoy a private chat
with your bosom-friend, Lulu. You know, there are plenty of corners
where you can get together by yourselves. I think you would find it
lonely staying here, and Lulu would not half enjoy her evening without
you."

"You are right, auntie: I will go," Evelyn answered, more cheerfully
than she had spoken since reading her letter. "I will dress at once,
but shall not need any help except advice about what I shall wear."

Elsie gave it, and, saying the carriage would be at the door in half an
hour, went back to her own apartments, to attend to the proper adornment
of her own pretty person.

Soon after her little talk with grandma Elsie and mamma Vi, Lulu, still
unable to banish the anxiety which made her restless and uneasy,
wandered out into the shrubbery, where she presently met Max.

"I've been all round the place," he said; "and I tell you, Lu, it's in
prime order: every thing's as neat as a pin. Don't the grounds look
lovely, even after Viamede?"

"Yes," she sighed, glancing round from side to side with a melancholy
expression of countenance quite unusual with her.

"What's the matter, sis?" he asked with some surprise: "I hope you're
not sick?"

"No, I'm perfectly well," she answered; "but, the prettier the place
looks, the sorrier I feel to think I may have to go away and leave it."

"Who says you are to go away?" he demanded,--"not grandma Elsie, or
mamma Vi either, I am sure, for they're both too kind; and, in fact, I
don't believe anybody here wants to send you off."

"Maybe not," she said, "but I'll have to go if papa says so; and, O Max!
I'm so afraid he will, because of--all that--all the trouble between
grandpa Dinsmore and me about the music-lessons."

"I didn't suppose papa had been told about it?" he remarked, half
inquiringly.

"Yes," she said: "I confessed every bit of it to him in that letter I
wrote at Magnolia Hall."

"Bully for you!" cried Max heartily. "I knew you'd own up at last, like
a brick, as you are."

"O Max! you forget that mamma Vi does not approve of slang," she said.
"But I don't deserve a bit of praise for confessing, because I had to.
Papa wrote to me that he was sure I'd been misbehaving,--though nobody
had told him a single word about it,--and that I must write at once, and
tell him every thing."

"Well, I'm glad you did; and I hope he won't be hard on you, Lu. Still,
I wouldn't like to be in your place, for papa can be quite severe when
he thinks it necessary. I wouldn't fret, though," he added in a
consolatory tone, "because there's no use trying to cross the bridge
before you come to it, 'specially when you mayn't come at all."

"That's quite true, but it's a great deal easier to preach than to
practise," she said. "Maxie, would you be sorry to have me sent away?"
she asked, her voice taking on a beseeching tone.

"Why, of course I should," he said. "We've gone through a good deal
together, and you know we've always been rather fond of each other,
considering that we're brother and sister," he added laughingly. "Ah,
here comes Eva!" and he lifted his hat with a profound bow as a turn in
the walk brought them face to face with her.

"O Eva! I'm so glad you've come early!" exclaimed Lulu.

"I too," said Max; "but, if you have any secrets for each other's
private ear, I'll be off."

"Your company is always agreeable, Max," Evelyn said with a faint smile,
"and I should be sorry to drive you away."

"Thanks," he said; "but I'll have to go, for I hear grandpa Dinsmore
calling me."

He hastened to obey the call; and the two girls, each putting an arm
about the other's waist, paced to and fro along the gravel-walk.

"How is Fairview looking?" asked Lulu.

"Lovely: it couldn't be in better order, and there are a great many
flowers in bloom. One might say just the same of Ion."

"Yes: it is even prettier than Fairview, I have always thought. But
that's a sweet place too and aunt Elsie and uncle Lester are delightful
to live with. I only wish I was as sure as you are of such a sweet
home."

"Don't worry, Lu. I hope your father will let you stay on here," Evelyn
said in an affectionate tone; "but, indeed, I don't think you have any
reason to envy me."

She ended with so profound a sigh, that Lulu turned a surprised,
inquiring look upon her, asking, "Have you had any bad news, Eva? I know
you have been looking anxiously for a letter from your mother."

"Yes, it has come: I found it waiting for me at Fairview, and"--She
paused for a moment, her heart too full for speech.

"And it was bad news? Oh, I am so sorry!" said Lulu. "I hope it wasn't
that she wants you to go away from here--unless I have to go too, and we
can be together somewhere."

"No, it was not that--not now. Mamma knows that, because of the way papa
made his will, I must stay with uncle Lester till I come of age. She
talks of my going to her then; but I cannot,--oh, I never can!
for,--Lulu, she's married again, to an Italian count; and it is not a
year since my dear, dear father was taken from us."

Evelyn's voice was tremulous with pain, and she ended with a burst of
bitter weeping.

"Oh, how could she!" exclaimed Lulu. "I don't wonder you feel so about
it, Eva. A horrid Italian too!" she added, thinking of Signor Foresti.
"I'd never call him father!"

"Indeed, I've no idea of doing that," Eva said indignantly. "I only
hope he may never cross my path; and so I--feel as if my mother is lost
to me. You are far better off than I, Lulu: you have your own dear
father still living, and aunt Vi is so lovely and sweet."

"Yes, I am better off than you," Lulu acknowledged emphatically; "and if
I hadn't such a bad temper, always getting me into trouble, I'd be a
girl to be envied."




CHAPTER X.

LULU'S SENTENCE.


Pending Capt. Raymond's verdict in regard to Lulu, life at Ion fell into
the old grooves, for her as well as the other members of the family.

Studies were taken up again by all the children, including Evelyn
Leland, where they had been dropped; Mr. Dinsmore and his daughter
giving instruction, and hearing recitations, as formerly.

This interval of waiting lasted for over two months, a longer period of
silence on the part of the husband and father than usual; but, as they
learned afterward, letters had been delayed in both going and coming.

Capt. Raymond, in his good ship, far out on the ocean, was wearying for
news from home, when his pressing want was most opportunely supplied by
a passing vessel.

She had a heavy mail for the man-of-war, and a generous share of it fell
to her commander.

He was soon seated in the privacy of his own cabin, with Violet's letter
open in his hand. It was sure to receive his attention before that of
any other correspondent.

With a swelling heart he read of the sore trial she had been passing
through, in the severe illness of Gracie and the babe. Deeply he
regretted not having been there to lighten her burdens with his sympathy
and help in the nursing; and though, at the time of writing, she was
able to report that the little sufferers were considered out of danger,
he could not repress a fear, amid his thankfulness, that there might be
a relapse, or the dread disease might leave behind it, as it so often
does, some lasting ill effect.

He lingered over the letter, re-reading passages here and there, but at
length laid it aside, and gave his attention to others bearing the same
post-mark.

There was a short one from Max, which stirred his heart with fatherly
love and pride in his boy; that came next after Violet's: then he opened
Lulu's bulky packet.

He sighed deeply as he laid it down after a careful perusal, during
which his face had grown stern and troubled, and, rising, paced the
cabin to and fro, his hands in his pockets, his head bowed on his
breast, which again and again heaved with a deep-drawn sigh.

"What I am to do with that child, I do not know," he groaned within
himself. "If I could make a home for her, and have her constantly with
me, I might perhaps be able to train her up aright, and help her to
learn the hard lesson how to rule her own spirit.

"I could not do that, however, without resigning from the service; and
that would be giving up my only means of earning a livelihood for her as
well as the others and myself. That is not to be thought of: nor could I
forsake the service without heartfelt regret, were I a millionnaire."

The captain was a man of prayer. Some moments were spent on his knees,
asking guidance and help for himself, and a change of heart for his
wayward little daughter; then, again seating himself at his
writing-table, he opened yet another letter, one whose superscription he
recognized as that of a business agent in one of our far Western States.

His face lighted up as he read, and a text flashed across his mind: "And
it shall come to pass, that before they call, I will answer; and while
they are yet speaking, I will hear."

That sheet of paper was the bearer of most strange, unlooked-for
tidings: a tract of wild land, bought by him for a trifle years before,
and long considered of little or no value, had suddenly become--by the
discovery that it contained rich mineral deposits, and the consequent
opening of mines, and laying out of a town upon it--worth many
thousands, perhaps millions of money.

And he--Capt. Raymond--was the undisputed owner of it all,--of wealth
beyond his wildest dreams. He could scarce believe it: it seemed
impossible. Yet it was undoubtedly true; and a bright vision of a lovely
home, with wife and children about him, rose up before his mind's eye,
and filled him with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good.

He would send in his resignation, and realize the vision at the earliest
possible moment.

But stay! could he now, in the prime of life, forsake the service for
which he had been educated, and to which he had already given many of
his best years? Could he be content to bid a final farewell to the
glorious old ocean so long his home, so beautiful and lovable in its
varied moods, and settle down upon the unchanging land, quite reconciled
to its sameness? Would he not find in himself an insatiable longing to
be again upon the ever restless sea, treading once more the deck of his
gallant ship, monarch of her little world, director of all her
movements?

It was not a question to be decided in a moment; it required time for
thought; a careful consideration of seemingly conflicting duties; a
careful balancing of inclinations and interests, and for seeking counsel
of his best, his almighty and all-wise, Friend.

At Ion, as the summer heats approached, the question was mooted, "Where
shall we spend the next two or three months?" After some discussion, it
was decided that all should go North to Cape May for a time: afterward
they would break up into smaller parties, and scatter to different
points of interest, as they might fancy.

Lester and Elsie Leland would spend a portion of the season at Cliff
Cottage,--Evelyn's old home,--taking her and Lulu with them.

Edward and Zoe, too, and probably some of the others, would visit there.


All necessary arrangements had been made, and they were to start the
next day, when at last letters were received from Capt. Raymond.

Lulu's heart beat very fast at sight of them. She had been full of
delight at the prospect of her Northern trip, especially the visit to be
paid with Evelyn to her former home; the latter having in their private
talks dwelt much upon its many attractions, and the life she had led
there in the sweet companionship of her beloved father.

"Would there be any thing in papa's letter to prevent the carrying out
of the cherished plans?" Lulu asked herself as, in fear and trembling,
she watched Violet opening with eager fingers the packet handed her at
the breakfast-table.

Max and Gracie, too, looked on with interest quite equal to Lulu's; but
in their case there was only joyous expectancy unmingled with dread.

"There is something for each of us, as usual," Violet said presently,
with a smiling glance from one to another,--"Max, Lulu, Gracie, and
myself."

Lulu received hers,--only a folded slip of paper,--and, asking to be
excused, stole away to the privacy of her own room to read it.

"MY DEAR LITTLE DAUGHTER [it ran],--The story of your misconduct
has given a very sad heart to the father who loves you so dearly. I
forgive you, my child, but can no longer let you remain at Ion to
be a trouble and torment to our kind friends there. I shall remove
you elsewhere as soon as I can settle upon a suitable place. In the
mean time, if you are truly sorry for the past, you will, I am
sure, earnestly strive to be patient, submissive and obedient to
those who have you in charge.

"Your loving father,

"L. RAYMOND."

The paper fell from Lulu's hand, and fluttered to the floor, as she
folded her arms upon the sill of the window beside which she had seated
herself, and rested her head upon them.

"And that's all; just that I am to go away, nobody knows where; to be
separated from Max and Gracie and every one else that I care for: and
when papa comes home, maybe he won't visit me at all; or, if he does, it
will be for only a little bit, because, of course, he will want to spend
most of his leave where the others are. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I wish I'd
been good! I wish I'd been born sweet-tempered and patient, like Gracie.
I wonder if papa will ever, _ever_ let me come back!

"But perhaps grandpa Dinsmore and grandma Elsie will never invite me
again. I wouldn't in their place, I'm sure."

The captain's letter to his wife made the same announcement of his
intentions in regard to Lulu; adding, that, for the present he would
have her disposed of as should seem best to them--Mr. Dinsmore, his
daughter, and Violet herself--upon consultation together; he had entire
confidence, he said, in their wisdom and their kind feeling toward his
wayward, troublesome, yet still beloved child; so that he could trust
her to their tender mercies without hesitation.

He went on to say (and, ah, with what a smile of exultation and delight
those words were penned!), that "there was a possibility that he might
be with them again in the fall, long enough to find a suitable home for
Lulu; and, in the mean time, would they kindly seize any opportunity
that presented itself, to make inquiries in regard to such a place?"

Violet read that portion of his letter aloud to her mother and
grandfather, then asked if they saw in it any thing necessitating a
change in their plans for the summer.

They did not, and were glad for Lulu's sake that it was so.

Lulu, in the solitude of her room, was anxiously considering the same
question, and presently went with it to her mamma, taking her father's
note in her hand.

Finding Violet alone in her dressing-room, giving the captain's missive
another perusal, "Mamma Vi," she said, "what--what does papa tell you
about me?" She spoke hesitatingly, her head drooping, her cheeks hot
with blushes. "I mean, what does he say is to be done with me?"

Violet pitied the child from the bottom of her heart. "I wish, dear,"
she said, "that I could tell you he consented to mamma's request to let
us try you here a little longer; but--doesn't he say something about it
in his note to you?"

"Yes, mamma Vi," Lulu answered chokingly: "he says he can't let me stay
here any longer, to be such a trouble and torment to you all, and will
put me somewhere else as soon as he can find a suitable place; but he
doesn't say what is to be done with me just now."

"No, dear: he leaves that to us,--grandpa, mamma, and me,--and we have
decided that no change in the arrangements for the summer need be made."

"O mamma Vi! how good and kind you all are!" cried Lulu, in a burst of
irrestrainable gratitude; and her tears began to fall.

Violet was quite moved by the child's emotion. "You have been a dear
good girl of late, and we feel glad to take you with us," she said,
drawing her to her side, and giving her an affectionate kiss. "Your
father says there is a possibility that he may be at home with us again
for a while, in the fall; he expects to settle you somewhere then: but
if you continue to be so good, perhaps he may relent, and allow you
still to have a home with us. I am quite sure that such a child as you
have been for the last two or three months, would be heartily welcome to
us all."

"It's ever so good in you to say that, mamma Vi," returned the little
girl, furtively wiping her eyes; "and I'm determined to try with all my
might. I'd want to do it to please papa, even if I knew there wasn't one
bit of hope of his letting me stay. I don't think there is much,
because, if he decides a thing positively, he's very apt to stick to
it."

"Yes, I know; but he will doubtless take into account that circumstances
alter cases," Violet answered lightly, and with a pleasant smile. "And
at all events, you may be quite sure that whatever small influence I may
possess will be exerted in your behalf."

"I am sure you have a great deal, mamma Vi; and I thank you very much
for that promise," Lulu said, turning to go.

But at that instant a quick, boyish step sounded in the hall without;
and Max's voice at the door asked, "Mamma Vi, may I come in?"

"Yes," she said; and in he rushed, with a face full of excitement. "Lu,
I've been looking everywhere for you!" he cried. "What do you think?
just see that!" and he held up a bit of paper, waving it triumphantly in
the air, while he capered round the room in an ecstasy of delight.

"What is it?" asked Lulu. "Nothing but a strip of paper, as far as I can
see."

"That's because you haven't had a chance to examine it," he said,
laughing with pleasure. "It's a check with papa's name to it, and it's
good for fifty dollars. Now, do you wonder I'm delighted?"

"No, not if it's yours. Did he give it to you?"

"Half of it; the other half's to be divided between you and Gracie; and
it's just for pocket-money for this summer."

"Oh, that is nice!" exclaimed Violet. "I am very glad for you all."

Lulu looked astounded for an instant; then the tears welled up into her
eyes as she said falteringly, "I--don't deserve it; and--I thought papa
was so vexed with me, I should never have expected he'd give me a single
cent."

"He's just a splendid father, that's what he is!" cried Max, with
another bound of exultant delight. "He says that if we go to the
mountains, and grandpa thinks I can be trusted with a gun, I'm to have
one of the best that can be bought; and, if I'm a splendid boy all the
time, when he comes home I shall have a fine pony of my own."

Then sobering down, "I'm afraid, though, that he can't afford all that;
and I shall tell him so, and that I don't want him to spend too much of
his hard-earned pay on his only son."

"Good boy!" Violet said with an approving smile; "but I know it gives
your father far more pleasure to lay out money for his children than to
spend it on himself."

Still, she wondered within herself, for a moment, if her husband had in
some way become a little richer than he was when last he described his
circumstances to her. Had he had a legacy from some lately deceased
relative or friend? (surely no one could be more deserving of such
remembrance) or an increase of pay? But no, he would surely have told
her if either of those things had happened; and with that thought, the
subject was dismissed from her mind.

He had not told her of his good fortune--the sudden, unexpected change
in his circumstances: he wanted to keep it secret till he could see the
shining of her eyes, the lighting up of her face, as she learned that
their long separations were a thing of the past; that in future they
would have a home of their own, and be as constantly together as Lester
and Elsie, Edward and Zoe.

But his mind was full of plans for making her and his children happy by
means of his newly acquired wealth, and he had not been able to refrain
from some attempt to do so at once.

"I don't want papa to waste his money on me, either," Lulu said. "I'd
rather never have any pocket-money than have him do without a single
thing to give it to me."

"Dear child, I know you would," Violet said. "But take what he has
sent, and be happy with it; that is what he desires you to do; and I
think you need have no fear that he will want for any thing because of
having sent it to you."

"Let me see that, won't you, Maxie?" Lulu asked, following her brother
from the room.

He handed her the check, and she examined it curiously.

"It has your name on it," she remarked.

"Yes: it is drawn payable to me," returned Max, assuming an air of
importance.

"But," said Lulu, still examining it critically, "how can you turn it
into money?"

"Oh! I know all about that," laughed Max. "Papa explained it to me the
last time he was at home: I just write my name on the back of that, and
take it to a bank, and they'll give me the fifty dollars."

"And then you'll keep half, and divide the other half between Gracie and
me. That will be twelve dollars and fifty cents for each of us, won't
it?"

"No, it isn't to be divided equally: papa says you are to have fifteen
dollars, and Gracie ten,--because you are older than she is, you know."

"But she's better, and deserves more than I," said Lulu. "Anyway, she
shall have half, if she wants it."

"No, she doesn't," said Max. "I told her about it; and she thinks ten
dollars, to do just what she pleases with, is a great fortune."

"When will you get it, Max?"

"What,--the money? Not till after we go North. Grandpa Dinsmore says it
will be best to wait till then, as we won't care to spend any of it
here. O Lu!--you are going along, I suppose?--what does papa say
about--about what you told him in your last letter?"

"You may read for yourself, Max," replied Lulu, putting the note into
his hand.

She watched his face while he read, and knew by its expression that he
was sorry for her, even before he said so, as he handed it back.

"But perhaps papa may change his mind, if you keep on being as good as
you have been ever since you left that school," he added. "But you
haven't told me yet whether you are still to go North with us, or not."

"Yes: mamma Vi says I am. She says papa says in his letter to her, that
they may do what they think best with me for the present: and they will
take me along. It's good in them, isn't it?"

To that Max gave a hearty assent. "They are the kindest people in the
world," he said.




CHAPTER XI.

"How terrible is passion!"


The summer passed quickly and pleasantly to our friends of Ion and
Fairview. The plans they had made for themselves before leaving home
were carried out, with, perhaps, some slight variations.

Lulu had her greatly desired visit to Cliff Cottage, and enjoyed it
nearly as much as she had hoped to; a good deal less than she would if
she could have quite forgotten her past misconduct, and its impending
consequences.

As matters stood, she could seldom entirely banish the thought that the
time was daily drawing nearer when her father's sentence would be
carried out, to her sad exclusion from the pleasant family circle of
which she had now been so long a member.

She experienced the truth of the saying, that blessings brighten as they
take their flight, and would have given much to undo the past, so that
she might prove herself worthy of a continuance of those she had rated
so far below their real value, that, in spite of her father's repeated
warnings, she had wantonly thrown them away.

She kept her promise to Violet, and strove earnestly to deserve a repeal
of her sentence, though her hope of gaining it was very faint. All
summer long she had exercised sufficient control over her temper to
avoid any outbursts of passion, and generally had behaved quite amiably.

By the 1st of October the two families were again at home at Ion and
Fairview, pursuing the even tenor of their way, Lulu with them, as of
old, no new home having yet been found for her. No one had cared to make
much effort in that direction. It was just as well, Mr. Dinsmore, Elsie
his daughter, and Violet thought, simply to let things take their course
till her father should return, and take matters into his own hands.

There was no certainty when that would be: his letters still alluded to
his coming that fall as merely a possibility.

But Lulu had been so amiable and docile for months past, that no one was
in haste to be rid of her presence. Even Rosie was quite friendly with
her, had ceased to tease and vex her; and mutual forbearance had given
each a better opinion of the other than she had formerly entertained.

But Lulu grew self-confident, and began to relax her vigilance: it was
so long since her temper had got decidedly the better of her, that she
thought it conquered, or so nearly so that she need not be continually
on the watch against it.

Rosie had brought home with her a new pet,--a beautiful puppy as
mischievous as he was handsome.

Unfortunately it happened again and again that something belonging to
Lulu attracted his attention, and was seriously damaged or totally
destroyed by his teeth and claws. He chewed up a pair of kid gloves
belonging to her; and it did not mend matters that Rosie laughed as
though it were a good joke, and then told her it was her own fault for
not putting them in their proper place when she took them off: he tore
her garden-hat into shreds; he upset her inkstand; tumbled over her
work-basket, tangling the spools of sewing-silk and cotton; jumped upon
her with muddy paws, soiling a new dress and handsome sash; and at last
capped the climax by defacing a book of engravings, belonging to Mr.
Dinsmore, which she had carelessly left in his way.

Then her anger burst forth, and she kicked the dog till his howls
brought Rosie running to the rescue.

"How dare you, Lulu Raymond!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes, as she
gathered Trip in her arms, and soothed him with caresses. "I'll not
allow my pet to be so ill used in my own mother's house!"

"He deserves a great deal more than I gave him," retorted Lulu,
quivering with passion; "and if you don't want him hurt, you'll have to
keep him out of mischief. Just look what he has done to this book!"

"One of grandpa's handsome volumes of engravings!" cried Rosie, aghast.
"But who left it lying there?"

"I did."

"Then you are the one to blame, and not my poor little Trip, who, of
course, knew no better. How is he to tell that books are not meant for
gnawing quite as much as bones?"

"What is the matter, children?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, stepping out upon
the veranda where the little scene was enacting. "It surprises me to
hear such loud and angry tones."

For a moment each girlish head drooped in silence, hot blushes dyeing
their cheeks; then Lulu, lifting hers, said, "I'm very sorry, grandpa
Dinsmore. I oughtn't to have brought this book out here; but it wouldn't
have come to any harm if it hadn't been for that troublesome dog, that's
as full of mischief as he can be. I don't believe it was more than five
minutes that I left the book lying there on the settee; and when I ran
back to get it, and put it away in its place, he had torn out a leaf,
and nibbled and soiled the cover, as you see.

"But if you'll please not be angry, I'll save up all my pocket-money
till I can buy you another copy."

"That would take a good while, child," Mr. Dinsmore answered. "It is a
great pity you were so careless. But I'll not scold you, since you are
so penitent, and so ready to make all the amends in your power. Rosie,
you really must try to restrain the mischievous propensities of your
pet."

"I do, grandpa," she said, flashing an angry glance at Lulu; "but I
can't keep him in sight every minute; and, if people will leave things
in his way, I think they are more to blame than he is if he spoils
them."

"Tut, tut! don't speak to me in that manner," said her grandfather. "If
your dog continues to damage valuable property, he shall be sent away."

Rosie made no reply, but colored deeply as she turned and walked away
with her pet in her arms.

"Now, Lulu," said Mr. Dinsmore, not unkindly, "remember that in future
you are not to bring a valuable book such as this, out here. If you want
to look at them, do so in the library."

"Yes, sir, I will. I'm very sorry about that; but if you'll tell me,
please, how much it would cost to buy another just like it, I'll write
to papa, and I know he will pay for it."

"I thought you proposed to pay for it yourself," remarked Mr. Dinsmore
grimly.

"Yes, sir; but I don't wish to keep you waiting; papa wouldn't wish it.
He sends his children pocket-money every once in a while, and I'd ask
him to keep back what he considered my share till it would count up to
as much as the price of the book."

"Well, child, that is honorable and right," Mr. Dinsmore said in a
pleasanter tone; "but I think we will let the matter rest now till your
father comes, which I trust will be before a very great while."

Rosie, knowing that her grandfather was quite capable of carrying out
his threat, lacking neither the ability nor the will to do so, curtailed
the liberty of her pet, and exerted herself to keep him out of mischief.

Still, he occasionally came in Lulu's way, and when he did was very apt
to receive a blow or kick.

He had a fashion of catching at her skirts with his teeth, and giving
them a jerk, which was very exasperating to her--all the more so, that
Rosie evidently enjoyed seeing him do it.

A stop would have been put to the "fun" if the older people of the
family had happened to be aware of what was going on; but the dog always
seemed to seize the opportunity when none of them were by, and Lulu
scorned to tell tales.

One morning, about a week after the accident to the book, Lulu, coming
down a little before the ringing of the breakfast-bell, found Max on the
veranda.

"Don't you want to take a ride with me after breakfast, Lu?" he asked.
"Mamma Vi says I can have her pony; and, as Rosie doesn't care to go, of
course you can ride hers."

"How do you know Rosie doesn't want to ride?" asked Lulu.

"Because I heard her tell her mother she didn't; that she meant to
drive over to Roselands with grandpa Dinsmore instead; that he had told
her he expected to go there to see Cal about some business matter, and
would take her with him. So you see, her pony won't be wanted; and
grandma Elsie has often said we could have it whenever it wasn't in use
or tired, and of course it must be quite fresh this morning."

"Then I'll go," said Lulu with satisfaction; for she was extremely fond
of riding, especially when her steed was Rosie's pretty, easy-going
pony, Gyp.

So Max ordered the two ponies to be in readiness; and, as soon as
breakfast was over, Lulu hastened to her room to prepare for her ride.

But in the mean time Mr. Dinsmore had told Rosie he had, for some
reason, changed his plans, and should wait till afternoon to make his
call at Roselands.

Then Rosie, glancing from the window, and seeing her pony at the door,
ready saddled and bridled, suddenly decided to take a ride, ran to her
room, donned riding hat and habit, and was down again a little in
advance of Lulu.

Max, who was on the veranda, waiting for his sister, felt rather
dismayed at sight of Rosie, as she came tripping out in riding-attire.

"O Rosie! excuse me," he said. "I heard you say you were going to drive
to Roselands with your grandpa, and so, as I was sure you wouldn't be
wanting your pony, I ordered him saddled for Lu."

"That happened very well, because he is here now all ready for me,"
returned Rosie, laughing, as she vaulted into the saddle, hardly giving
Max a chance to help her. "Lu can have him another time. Come, will you
go with me?"

For an instant Max hesitated. He did not like to refuse Rosie's request,
as she was not allowed to go alone outside the grounds, yet was equally
averse to seem to desert Lu.

"But," he thought, "she's sure to be in a passion when she finds this
out, and I can't bear to see it."

So he sprang upon his waiting steed; and as Lulu, ready dressed for her
ride, and eager to take it, stepped out upon the veranda, she just
caught a glimpse of the two horses and their riders disappearing down
the avenue.

She turned white with anger at the sight, and stamped her foot in fury,
exclaiming between her clinched teeth, "It's the meanest trick I ever
saw!"

There were several servants standing near, one of them little Elsie's
nurse, an old negress, Aunt Dinah, who, having lived in the family for
more than twenty years, felt herself privileged to speak her mind upon
occasion, particularly to its younger members.

"Now, Miss Lu," she said, "dat's not de propah way fo' you to talk
'bout dis t'ing; kase dat pony b'longs to Miss Rosie, an' co'se she hab
de right to ride him befo' anybody else."

"You've no call to put in your word, and I'm not going to be lectured
and reproved by a servant!" retorted Lulu passionately; and turning
quickly away, she strode to the head of the short flight of steps
leading down into the avenue, and stood there leaning against a pillar,
with her back toward the other occupants of the veranda. Her left arm
was round the pillar, and in her right hand she held her little
riding-whip.

She was angry at Dinah, furiously angry at Rosie; and when the next
minute something--Rosie's dog, she supposed--tugged at her skirts, she
gave a vicious backward kick without turning her head.

Instantly a sound of something falling, accompanied by a faint,
frightened little cry, and chorus of shrieks of dismay from older voices
flashed upon her the terrible knowledge that she had sent her baby
sister rolling down the steps to the hard gravel-walk below.

She clutched at her pillar, almost losing consciousness for one brief
moment, in her dreadful fright.

Violet's agonized cry, as she came rushing from the open doorway, "My
baby! oh, my baby! she's killed!" roused her: and she saw Dinah pick up
the little creature from the ground, and place it in its mother's arms,
where it lay limp and white, like a dead thing, without sense or motion;
the whole household, young and old, black and white, gathering round in
wild excitement and grief.

No one so much as glanced at her, or seemed to think of her at all:
their attention was wholly occupied with the injured little one.

She shuddered as she caught a glimpse of its deathlike face, then put
her hand over her eyes to shut out the fearful sight. She felt as if she
were turning to stone with a sense of the awful thing she had done in
her mad passion; then suddenly seized with an overwhelming desire to
hide herself from all these eyes, that would presently be gazing
accusingly and threateningly at her, she hurried away to her own room,
and shut and locked herself in.

Her riding-whip was still in her hand. She tossed it on to the
window-sill, tore off her gloves, hat, and habit, and threw them aside,
then, dropping on her knees beside the bed, buried her face in the
clothes, sobbing wildly, "Oh, I've killed my little sister! my own dear
little baby sister! What shall I do? what shall I do?"

Moments passed that seemed like hours: faint sounds came up from below.
She heard steps and voices, and, "Was that mamma Vi crying,--crying as
if her heart would break? saying over and over again, 'My baby's dead!
my baby's dead! killed by her sister, her cruel, passionate sister!'
Would they come and take her (Lulu) to jail? Would they try her for
murder, and hang her? Oh! then papa's heart would break, losing two of
his children in such dreadful ways.

"Oh! wouldn't it break anyhow when he heard what she had done,--when he
knew the baby was dead, and that she had killed it, even if she should
not be sent to prison, and tried for murder?"

At length some one tried the door; and a little, sobbing voice said,
"Lulu, please let me in."

She rose, staggered to the door, and unlocked it. "Is it only you,
Gracie?" she asked in a terrified whisper, opening it just far enough to
admit the little slender figure.

"Yes: there's nobody else here," said the child. "I came to tell you the
baby isn't dead; but the doctor has come, and, I believe, he doesn't
feel sure she won't die. O Lu! how could you?" she asked with a burst of
sobs.

"O Gracie! I didn't do it on purpose! how could you think so? I mean, I
didn't know it was the baby: I thought it was that hateful dog."

"Oh, I'm glad! I couldn't b'lieve it, though some of them do!" exclaimed
Gracie in a tone of relief.

Then, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs, "But she's dreadfully hurt,
the dear little thing! I heard the doctor tell grandpa Dinsmore he was
afraid she'd never get over it; but he mustn't let mamma know yet,
'cause maybe she might."

Lulu paced the room, wringing her hands and sobbing like one distracted.

"O Gracie!" she cried, "I'd like to beat myself black and blue! I just
hope papa will come home and do it, because I ought to be made to suffer
ever so much for hurting the baby so."

"O Lu, no!" cried Gracie, aghast at the very idea. "It wouldn't do the
baby any good. Oh, I hope papa won't whip you!"

"But he will! I know he will; and he ought to," returned Lulu
vehemently. "Oh, hark!"

She stood still, listening intently, Grace doing the same. They had
seemed to hear a familiar step that they had not heard for many a long
month; yes, there it was again: and with a low cry of joy, Grace bounded
to the door, threw it open, but closed it quickly behind her, and sprang
into her father's arms.

"My darling, my precious little daughter!" he said, clasping her close,
and showering kisses on her face. "Where is every one? you are the first
I have seen, and--why, how you have been crying! What is wrong?"

"O papa! the baby--the baby's most killed," she sobbed. "Come, I'll take
you to her and mamma!"

Fairly stunned by the sudden dreadful announcement, he silently
submitted himself to her guidance, and suffered her to lead him into the
nursery, where Violet sat in a low chair with the apparently dying babe
on her lap, her mother, grandfather and his wife, and the doctor,
grouped about her.

No one noticed his entrance, so intent were they all upon the little
sufferer; but just as he gained her side, Violet looked up, and
recognized him with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.

"O Levis, my husband! Thank God that you have come in time--to see her
alive."

He bent down and kissed the sweet, tremulous lips, his features working
with emotion, "My wife, my dear love, what--what is this? what ails our
little one?" he asked in anguished accents, turning his eyes upon the
waxen baby face; and, bending still lower, he softly touched his lips to
its forehead.

No one replied to his question; and gazing with close scrutiny at the
child, "She has been hurt?" he said, half in assertion, half
inquiringly.

"Yes, captain," said Dr. Conly: "she has had a fall,--a very severe one
for so young and tender a creature."

"How did it happen?" he asked, in tones of mingled grief and sternness.

No one answered; and after waiting a moment, he repeated the question,
addressing it directly to his wife.

"Oh, do not ask me, love!" she said entreatingly, and he reluctantly
yielded to her request; but light began to dawn upon him, sending an
added pang to his heart; suddenly he remembered Lulu's former jealousy
of the baby, her displeasure at its birth; and with a thrill of horror,
he asked himself if this could be her work.

He glanced about the room in search of her and Max.

Neither was there.

He passed noiselessly into the next room, then into the one beyond,--his
wife's boudoir,--and there found his son.

Max sat gazing abstractedly from a window, his eyes showing traces of
tears.

Turning his head as the captain entered, he started up with a joyful but
subdued cry, "Papa!" then threw himself with bitter sobbing into the
arms outstretched to receive him.

"My boy, my dear boy!" the captain said, in moved tones. "What is this
dreadful thing that has happened? Can you tell me how your baby sister
came to get so sad a fall?"

"I didn't see it, papa: I was out riding at the time."

"But you have heard about it from those who did see it?"

"Yes, sir," the lad answered reluctantly; "but--please, papa, don't ask
me what they said."

"Was Lulu at home at the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would she be able to tell me all about it, do you think?"

"I haven't seen her, papa, since I came in," Max answered evasively.

The captain sighed. His suspicions had deepened to almost certainty.

"Where is she?" he asked, releasing Max from his embrace, and turning to
leave the room.

"I do not know, papa," answered Max.

"Where was the baby when she fell? can you tell me that?" asked his
father.

"On the veranda, sir: so the servants told me."

"Which of them saw it?"

"Aunt Dinah, Agnes, Aunt Dicey,--nearly all the women, I believe, sir."

The captain mused a moment.

"Was Lulu there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; and papa,--if you _must_ know just how it happened,--I think
she could tell you all about it as well as anybody else, or maybe
better. And you know she always speaks the truth."

"Yes," the captain said, as if considering the suggestion: "however, I
prefer to hear the story first from some one else."

He passed on through the upper hall and down the stairs, then on out to
the veranda, where he found a group of servants--of whom Aunt Dicey was
one--excitedly discussing the very occurrence he wished to inquire
about.

They did not share the reluctance of Violet and Max, but answered his
questions promptly, with a very full and detailed account of the affair.

They gave a graphic description of the rage Lulu was thrown into at the
sight of Rosie galloping away on the pony she had expected to ride,
repeated her angry retort in reply to Aunt Dinah's reproof, and told,
without any extenuation of the hard facts, how the baby girl, escaping
from her nurse's watchful care for a moment, had toddled along to her
sister, caught at her skirts for support, and received a savage kick,
that sent her down the steps to the gravel-walk below.

The captain heard the story with ever increasing, burning indignation.
Lulu's act seemed the very wantonness of cruelty,--a most cowardly
attack of a big, strong girl upon a tiny, helpless creature, who had an
indisputable claim upon her tenderest protecting care.

By the time the story had come to an end, he was exceedingly angry with
Lulu; he felt that in this instance it would be no painful task to him
to chastise her with extreme severity; in fact, he dared not go to her
at once, lest he should do her some injury; he had never yet punished a
child in anger; he had often resolved that he never would, but would
always wait till the feeling of love for the delinquent was uppermost in
his heart, so that he could be entirely sure his motive was a desire for
the reformation of the offender, and not the gratification of his own
passion.

Feeling that he had a battle to fight with himself ere he dared venture
to discipline his child, and that he must have solitude for it, he
strode away down the avenue, turned into a part of the grounds but
little frequented, and there paced back and forth, his arms folded on
his breast, his head bent, his heart going up in silent prayer for
strength to rule his own spirit, for patience and wisdom according to
his need.

Then he strove to recall all that was lovable about his wayward little
daughter, and to think of every possible excuse for the dreadful deed
she had done, yet without being able to find any that deserved the name.

At length, feeling that the victory was at least partially won, and
filled with anxiety about the baby, he began to retrace his steps toward
the house.

In the avenue, he met Edward and Zoe, who greeted him with joyful
surprise, not having before known of his arrival.

The expression of his countenance told them that he was already informed
of the sad occurrence of the morning; and Edward said with heartfelt
sympathy, "It is but a sad home-coming for you, captain, but let us try
to hope for the best: it is possible the little darling has not received
any lasting injury."

A silent pressure of the hand was the captain's only reply for the
moment. He seemed too much overcome for speech.

"Such a darling as she is!" said Zoe; "the pet of the whole house, and
just the loveliest little creature I ever saw."

"Did you--either of you--see her fall?" asked the captain huskily.

"Yes," said Zoe, "I did. Violet and I happened to be at the window of
the little reception-room overlooking the veranda, and were watching the
little creature as she toddled along, and"--But Zoe paused, suddenly
remembering that her listener was the father of Lulu as well as of her
poor little victim.

"Please go on," he said with emotion. "What was it that sent her down
the steps?"

"Lulu was standing there," Zoe went on, hesitating, and coloring with
embarrassment, "and I saw the baby-hands clutch at her skirts"--

Again she paused.

"And Lulu, giving the tender, toddling thing a savage kick, caused the
dreadful catastrophe?" he groaned, turning away his face. "You need not
have feared to tell me. I had already heard it from the servants who
were eye-witnesses, and I only wanted further and undoubtedly reliable
testimony."

"I think," said Edward, "that Lulu really had no idea what it was she
was kicking at. I happened to be out in the grounds, and coming round
the corner of the house just in time to catch her look of horror and
despair as she half turned her head and saw the baby fall."

"Thank you," the captain said feelingly. "It is some relief to her
unhappy father to learn of the least extenuating circumstance."




CHAPTER XII.

"Anger resteth in the bosom of fools."--ECCLES. vii. 9.

"Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of correction
shall drive it far from him."--PROV. xxii. 15.


"He seems to feel terribly about it, poor man!" remarked Zoe with a
backward glance at the retreating form of Capt. Raymond, as he left
them and pursued his way to the house.

"Yes, and no wonder," said Edward. "Not for worlds would I be the father
of such a child as Lulu!"

"Nor I her mother," said Zoe. "So I'm glad it was you I got for a
husband instead of Capt. Raymond."

"Only for that reason?" he queried, facing round upon her in mock
astonishment and wrath.

"Oh, of course!" she returned, laughing, then sobering down with a
sudden recollection of the sorrow in the house. "But, O Ned! how
heartless we are to be joking and laughing when poor Vi and the captain
are in such distress!"

"I'm afraid you are right," he assented with a sigh. "Yet I am quite
sure we both feel deeply for them, and are personally grieved for the
injury to our darling little niece."

"Yes, indeed! the pretty pet that she is!" returned Zoe, wiping her
eyes.

Gracie was on the veranda looking for her father, and, catching sight of
him in the avenue, ran to meet him.

"How is baby now? Can you tell me?" he asked, taking her hand, and
stooping to give her a kiss.

"Just the same, I suppose, papa," she said. "Oh, it's very hard to see
it suffer so! isn't it, papa?"

He nodded a silent assent.

"Papa," she asked, lifting her tearful eyes to his face with a pleading
look, "have you seen Lulu yet?"

"No."

"O papa! do go now! It must be so hard for her to wait so long to see
you, when you've just come home."

"I doubt if she wants to see me," he said, with some sternness of look
and tone.

"O dear papa! don't punish her very hard. She didn't hurt the baby on
purpose."

"I shall try to do what is best for her, my little girl, though I very
much doubt if that is exemption from punishment," he said with an
involuntary sigh. "But if she is in haste to see me," he added, "there
is nothing, so far as I am aware, to prevent her from coming to me."

"But she's afraid, papa, because she has been so very, very naughty."

"In that case, is it not kinder for me to keep away from her?"

"O papa! you know she always wants things--bad things--over."

"The bad thing she has brought upon the poor baby will not be over very
soon," he said sternly. "I must go now to it and your mamma."

He did so; and sharing Violet's deep grief and anxiety, and perceiving
that his very presence was a comfort and support to her, he remained at
her side for hours.

Hours, that to Lulu seemed like weeks or months. Alone in her room, in
an agony of remorse and fear, she waited and watched and listened for
her father's coming, longing for, and yet dreading it, more than words
could express.

"What would his anger be like?" she asked herself. "What terrible
punishment would he inflict? Would he ever love her again, especially if
the baby should die?

"Perhaps he would send her away to some very far-off place, and never,
never come near her any more."

Naturally of a very impatient temperament, suspense and passive waiting
were well-nigh intolerable to her. By turns she walked the floor, fell
on her knees by the bedside, and buried her face in a pillow, or threw
herself into a chair by table or window, and hid it on her folded arms.

"Oh! would this long day, this dreadful, _dreadful_ waiting for--_what_?
ever come to an end?" she asked herself over and over again.

Yet, when at last the expected step drew near, she shuddered, trembled,
and turned pale with affright, and, starting to her feet, looked this
way and that with a wild impulse to flee: then, as the door opened, she
dropped into her chair again, and covered her face with her shaking
hands.

She heard the door close: the step drew nearer, nearer, and stopped
close at her side. She dared not look up, but felt her father's eyes
gazing sternly upon her.

"Miserable child!" he said at length, "do you know what your terrible
temper has wrought?--that in your mad passion you have nearly or quite
killed your little sister? that, even should she live, she may be a
life-long sufferer, in consequence of your fiendish act?"

"O papa, don't!" she pleaded in broken accents, cowering and shrinking
as if he had struck her a deadly blow.

"You deserve it," he said: "indeed, I could not possibly inflict a worse
punishment than your conduct merits. But what is the use of punishing
you? nothing reforms you! I am in despair of you! You seem determined to
make yourself a curse to me instead of the blessing I once esteemed you.
What am I to do with you? Will you compel me to cage or chain you up
like a wild beast, lest you do some one a fatal injury?"

A cry of pain was her only answer, and he turned and left the room.

"Oh!" she moaned, "it's worse than if he had beaten me half to death! he
thinks I'm too bad, even to be punished; because nothing will make me
good: he says I'm a curse to him, so he must hate me; though he used to
love me dearly, and I loved him so too! I suppose everybody hates me
now, and always will. I wish I was dead and out of their way. But, oh!
no, I don't; for I'm not fit to die. Oh! what shall I do? I wish it was
I that was hurt instead of the baby. I'd like to go away and hide from
everybody that knows me; then I shouldn't be a curse and trouble to papa
or any of them."

She lifted her head, and looked about her. It was growing dusk. Quick as
a flash came the thought that now was her time; now, while almost
everybody was so taken up with the critical condition of the injured
little one; now, before the servants had lighted the lamps in rooms and
halls.

She would slip down a back stairway, out into the grounds, and away, she
cared not whither.

Always impulsive, and now full of mental distress, she did not pause a
moment to consider, but, snatching up a hat and coat lying conveniently
at hand, stole noiselessly from the room, putting them on as she went.

She gained a side-door without meeting any one; and the grounds seemed
deserted as she passed round the house and entered the avenue, down
which she ran with swift footsteps, after one hasty glance around to
make sure that she was not seen.

She reached the great gates, pushed them open, stepped out, letting
them swing to after her, and started on a run down the road.

But the next instant some one had caught her: a hand was on her
shoulder, and a stern, astonished voice cried, "Lulu! is it possible
this can be you? What are you doing out here in the public road alone,
and in the darkness of evening? Where were you going?"

"I--I--don't want--to tell you, papa," she faltered.

"_Where_ were you going?" he repeated, in a tone that said an answer he
would have, and that at once.

"Nowhere--anywhere to get away from this place, where everybody hates
me!" she replied sullenly, trying to wrench herself free. "Please let me
go, and I'll never come back to trouble you any more."

He made no reply to that, but simply took her band in a firm grasp, and
led her back to the house, back to her own room, where he shut himself
in with her, locking the door on the inside.

Then he dropped her hand, and began pacing the floor to and fro,
seemingly in deep and troubled thought, his arms folded, his head bowed
upon his breast.

A servant had brought in a light during Lulu's absence; and now, looking
timidly up at her father, she saw his face for the first time since
they had bidden each other farewell a year before. It struck her as not
only very pale, stern, and grief-stricken, but very much older and more
deeply lined than she remembered it: she did not know that the change
had been wrought almost entirely in the last few hours, yet recognized
it with a pang nevertheless.

"Papa is growing old," she thought: "are there gray hairs in his head, I
wonder?" Then there came dimly to her recollection some Bible words
about bringing a father's gray hairs down with sorrow to the grave. "Was
her misconduct killing her father?" She burst into an agony of sobs and
tears at the thought.

He lifted his head, and looked at her gravely, and with mingled
sternness and compassion.

"Take off that hat and coat, get your night-dress, and make yourself
ready for bed," he commanded, then, stepping to the table, sat down,
drew the lamp nearer, opened her Bible, lying there, and slowly turned
over the leaves as if in search of some particular passage, while she
moved slowly about the room, tremblingly and tearfully obeying his
order.

"Shall I get into bed, papa?" she asked tremulously, when she had
finished.

"No, not yet. Come here."

She went and stood at his side, with drooping head and fast-beating
heart, her eyes on the carpet, for she dared not look in his face.

He seemed to have found the passage he sought; and, keeping the book
open with his left hand, he turned to her as she stood at his right.

"Lucilla," he said, and his accents were not stern, though very grave
and sad, "you cannot have forgotten that I have repeatedly and
positively forbidden you to go wandering alone about unfrequented
streets and roads, even in broad daylight; yet you attempted to do that
very thing to-night in the darkness, which, of course, makes it much
worse."

"Yes, papa; but I--I didn't mean ever to come back."

"You were running away?"

"Yes, sir: I--I thought you would be glad to get rid of me," she sobbed.

He did not speak again for a moment; and when he did, it was in moved
tones.

"Supposing I did desire to be rid of you,--which is very far from being
the case,--I should have no right to let you go; for you are my own
child, whom God has given to me to take care of, provide for, and train
up for his service. You and I belong to each other as parent and child:
you have no right to run away from my care and authority, and I have
none to let you do so. In fact, I feel compelled to punish the attempt
quite severely, lest there should be a repetition of it."

"Oh, don't, papa!" she sobbed. "I'll never do it again."

"It was an act of daring, wilful disobedience," he said, "and I must
punish you for it. Also, for the fury of passion indulged in this
morning. Read this, and this, aloud," he added, pointing to the open
page; and she obeyed, reading faltering, sobbingly,--

"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child; but the rod of
correction shall drive it far from him.' ... 'Withhold not correction
from the child: for if thou beatest him with the rod, he shall not die.
Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from
hell.'"

"You see, my child, that my orders are too plain to be misunderstood,"
he said, when she had finished; "and they must be obeyed, however
unwelcome to me or to you."

"Yes, papa; and--and I--I--'most want you to whip me for hurting the
baby so. I suppose nobody believes I'm sorry, but I am. I could beat
myself for it, though I didn't know it was the baby pulling at my skirt.
I thought it was Rosie's dog."

"It is not exactly for hurting the baby," he said; "if you had done that
by accident, I should never think of punishing you for it: but for the
fury of passion that betrayed you into doing it, I must punish you very
severely.

"I shudder to think what you may come to, if I let you go on indulging
your fiery, ungovernable temper: yes, and to think what it has already
brought you to," he added, with a heavy sigh.

"You can never enter heaven unless you gain the victory over that, as
well as every other sin: and, my daughter, there are but two places to
choose from as our eternal home,--heaven and hell; and I must use every
effort to deliver your soul from going to that last--dreadful place!"

He rose, stepped to the window where her little riding-whip still lay,
came back to her; and for the next few minutes she forgot mental
distress in sharp, physical pain, as the stinging, though not heavy,
blows fell thick and fast on her thinly covered back and shoulders.

She writhed and sobbed under them, but neither screamed, nor pleaded for
mercy.

When he had finished, he sat down again, and drew the weeping, writhing
child in between his knees, put his arm about her in tender, fatherly
fashion, and made her lay her head on his shoulder; but he said not a
word. Perhaps his heart was too full for speech.

Presently Lulu's arm crept round his neck. "Papa," she sobbed, "I--I do
love you, and I--I'm glad you wouldn't let me run away,--and that you
try to save m

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