There were quaint, shadowy old rooms, full of odd nooks and corners, and heavy with antique furniture, where one could idle away a morning so pleasantly; and in the modern portion of the dwelling, a long suite of drawing-rooms, with a library beyond, which had been fitted up with every luxury that wealth and refined taste could devise.

"Be happy," Grantley Mellen whispered, when his wife tried to find words to express her delight. "Be happy—peace, rest and affection is all I ask."

He looked in her face, eager for the smiling surprise which he had expected to find there. It was sadly grave. She too had her after thought.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE BRIDE'S WELCOME HOME.

Elsie took Elizabeth up the broad flight of steps which led from the hall, and conducted her to the suite of rooms that had been prepared for her reception. "I had them arranged close to my little nest," she said, "because I knew Grantley would never be content unless I was within call. I hope you will like them, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth answered that they were beautiful, as indeed they were. But it was a grand, lonely splendor that she looked upon, which almost chilled her. The chamber was large and richly furnished. Every thing was massive and costly. The carpet soft as a flower-bed and as brilliant in tints. Wherever she turned, her eyes fell on exquisite carvings reflected by limpid mirrors; curtains of richly tinted satin shut out a perfect view of the ocean, and Elizabeth could not help remarking that the principal windows faced northward, away from the bloom and glory of the grounds. Even her dressing-room, which was in one of the octagon towers, looked out on the only barren spot in view—a storm-beaten grove of cedars that stood, ragged and bristling with dead limbs, on the beach.

Spite of herself, Elizabeth was chilled. She loved the morning sunshine like a worshiper, and felt as if all the grandeur which surrounded her was shutting it out from her own portion of this new home.

"Did Mr. Mellen arrange these rooms?" she asked in a faltering voice. "Was it his taste?"

"Dear me, not at all," answered Elsie. "He exhausted himself in fitting up my snuggery. The rest was left to me. I had carte blanche, you know, as to money; and it was splendid fun going about and ordering things. Don't you remember how much I used to be away from school?"

Elizabeth smiled, and made an effort to appear thankful and pleased.

"See what close neighbors we are," said Elsie, lifting a curtain that seemed to drape a window, but revealing a door which she pushed open.

Elizabeth stepped forward, and in contrast with the rich gloom of her own chamber, saw a suite of the brightest, sunniest rooms, that ever a capricious beauty inhabited.

The dressing-room which she entered, was hung with bright, cerulean blue, overrun with what seemed to be a delicate pattern of point-lace. The carpet was thick, soft, and almost as white as ermine, with a tangled vine of golden water-lilies and broad, green leaves running over it, as if the water they grew in had been crusted with snow, and the blossoms, soft, fresh, and bright, frozen upon the surface. The couch, easy-chair, and general furniture, were of polished satin-wood, cushioned with delicate azure silk shot and starred with silver. A luxurious number of silken cushions lay upon the couch, chairs, and even on the floor; for two or three were heaped against the pedestal, on which a basket of flowers stood, and upon them lay a guitar, with its broad, pink ribbon hanging loose. Every table was loaded with some exquisitely feminine object of use or beauty, till the very profusion was oppressive, light and graceful as every thing was.

Two of the windows were open, and their lace curtains held back, one by a marble Hebe that mingled her cold stone flowers with the lace; the other by a Bacchante, whose garland of snow-white grapes was seen dimly, through the transparent folds it gathered away from the glass.

Through these open windows came glimpses of the flower-garden, green slopes on the lawn, and farther off the wind swept up perfumes from a distant orchard, and sifted it almost imperceptibly through the delicate network of the curtains. Back of this boudoir was a bed-chamber, and beyond that a dressing-room. Elizabeth could see through the open door a bed with hangings of blue and white, with all the objects of luxury which could please the taste of a pampered and fanciful girl.

"Grantley chose these rooms for me long ago, before he went to Europe," said Elsie, looking around with quiet complacency. "He would not hear of my giving them up; besides, I knew you would like something a little darker and more stately," she said. "Are you pleased with the house, Bessie?"

"Very, very much. I did not expect any thing so magnificent," she answered. "It overpowers me."

"I had not seen it for years," said Elsie, "till I came down with Grant to decide about the new furniture. Now you must be happy here. You ought to be! Just contrast this place with that old barn of a school; it makes one shudder to think of it! You must be happy, Bessie, for I hate discontented people."

"I trust so, dear; I believe so; we shall all be happy."

"Oh, you can't help it," pursued Elsie; "Grant is always a darling! But you must love and pet me, you know, just as he does."

"You exacting little thing!" said Elizabeth, lightly.

"Yes, but you must," she urged; "you never would have had all this but for me."

"No," murmured Elizabeth; "I should never have known Grantley but for you."

"I told him that day, you know, just what I had set my heart on," pursued Elsie, shaking her curls about, and chattering in her careless, graceful way. "I said I loved you like a sister, and I should die if I was separated from you. That settled it."

Elizabeth had seated herself in a low chair, with her back towards the window; she looked up quickly as Elsie paused.

"Settled it?" she repeated.

"Yes, exactly!"

Elsie flung herself on the carpet at her sister's feet, and caught one of her hands, playing with the wedding ring so lately put on that delicate finger, in her caressing fashion.

"How do you mean?" asked Elizabeth, quietly, though there was a sudden change in her face which might have struck Elsie could she have seen it. "Settled it; how do you mean?"

"Why he never had refused me anything in all his life," said Elsie; "it was not likely he would begin so late! Nobody ever does refuse me anything; now, remember that, Bess."

"Yes, dear! So you told Grantley you were very fond of me—"

"And that I wanted him to marry you—of course I did."

It was only Elsie's childish nonsense; Elizabeth felt how foolish it was to heed it, and yet she could not repress a desire to question further.

"That was long after he came home, Elsie?"

"Yes; but I had written him all sorts of things about you; and you remember when he came to the school to visit me, how I made you go down without telling you who was there."

"Yes—I remember."

"He praised you very highly, and I told him what a dear you were; and how sad it was for you to have lost all your fortune and be obliged to teach."

The color slightly deepened on Elizabeth's cheek; was it possible that in the beginning Grantley Mellen had been interested in her from a feeling of pity and commiseration?

Her engagement had been a brief one; during it, the days had passed in a constant whirl of excitement and happiness, and she had found little time to question or reflect: up to the last hour there had been no shadow on her enjoyment—she had resolutely swept aside everything but her deep happiness.

But it was strange that in the very first flush of her married life this conversation with Elsie should come up. She knew it was only the girl's heedlessness and pretty egotism that made her talk in this really cruel fashion, she was sure of that; still her nature was too proud and self-reliant, for the idea that Mellen had been first attracted towards her from sympathy at her lonely condition, to be at all pleasant.

But Elsie was going on with her careless revelations, playing with the rings which Mellen had put one after another on those delicate fingers during their engagement, making each one precious with kisses and loving words.

"So, when I saw how sorry he was for you, I knew that I should have my own way. I longed to see this dear old house open once more; it had been given up to the servants ever since he hurried off to Europe; and I wanted you for my companion always, you darling."

"It was fortunate for your wishes that Grantley's heart inclined in the direction you had marked out," said Elizabeth.

"Oh," exclaimed Elsie with hasty recklessness, and her usual want of thought, "Grant had no heart to give anybody; all his love was centred on me; after the experience he had years ago, I don't suppose he could ever love any woman again—he is just that odd sort of character."

Elizabeth gave no sign of the blow which struck her this time cruelly on the heart; she drew her hand away from Elsie, lest its sudden coldness should rouse some suspicion of the truth in the girl's mind, and asked in a singularly quiet voice—

"What experience, Elsie?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to say that," she replied; "I am always letting things out by mistake; Grant would be really angry with me; don't ever mention it to him."

"I will not; but what experience has he had that can prevent a husband's giving his heart even to his own wife?"

"Dear me, I oughtn't to tell you; but you'd surely find it out sometime; only promise me not to open your lips."

"I promise," replied Elizabeth, a cold, gray shadow settling over her face, out of which all the bloom had faded.

"He had a friend, a cousin you know, that our rich old uncle had partly adopted, whom he was very, very fond of," pursued Elsie, "and he was engaged to be married into the bargain. This man treated him dreadfully—ran off with the girl Grant loved, and cheated him out of a great deal of money—money that he could not afford to lose, for he was not rich then. Grant was nearly mad. I was a little thing, but I remember it perfectly. When his uncle died he sent me to school, and started to Europe; he has been there all these four long years; but his cousin was punished; his uncle gave everything to Grant."

And of all this grief, this disappointment, he had never told her one word. Elsie spoke the truth—he had married her that his sister might have a companion, and his house a mistress.

A prouder woman than Elizabeth Mellen never existed; but she sat motionless and gave no sign, while her brief dream of happiness fell crushed and broken at her feet under this revelation.

"There," cried Elsie, "that's all, so don't ever think about the thing again. What a fortunate creature you are! how happy we shall be, shan't we, dear?"

She attempted to throw her arms about Elizabeth in her demonstrative way, but the woman rose quickly, and avoided the caresses which would have stifled her.

"It is time to dress," she said; "I am going to my room."

She passed into her chamber with that dreary chill at heart, which, it seemed to her, would never leave it again! How could she endure that fearful pang of humiliation and self-abasement that wrung her soul, and would grow stronger with every proof of kindness that her husband could give?

No love—no heart to give her under all his goodness and attention. She kept repeating such words to herself—they would never cease to ring in her ears—there could be no pleasure so entrancing that they would not mar it by their whispers—no grief so deep that they would not torture her with the recollection that she was powerless to comfort or aid the man who had made her his wife.

But she must bear it all in silence; hers was one of those deep, reticent natures which could resolve on a painful thing and carry out her determination to the very end. She would weary him with no sign of affection.

The playful exactions of a young wife, which are so pleasant to a loving husband, must be carefully avoided. He must be allowed to endure her without revolt—not finding her much in his way.

That was the first thought upon which she settled, even while this earliest whirl of pain and tremble made her head dizzy and her heart sick.

She heard Elsie's voice ringing out in a gay song: she went mechanically on with her dressing, listening to that merry song in the midst of her bewildering thoughts with a dreary feeling of desolation.

If she could have sat down in the midst of her new life, and died without further trouble or pain—that became her one thought! If that man who was her husband, and his sister could enter the room and find her dead, they might feel regret for a time, but very soon even her memory would pass away from that old house, and out of their hearts, where she had so shallow a resting-place, and in the grave she might find quiet.

Elsie came dancing in, and exclaimed—

"Oh, you are dressed! I hear Grant on the stairs. May I open the door?"

Elizabeth was seemingly quiet, but the change in her manner would have been apparent to any one less self-engrossed than Elsie.

"Open it," she answered; "I am ready."

Grantley Mellen entered the room, and led them both away down stairs; but he felt the sudden tremor in his young wife's hand, the sort of shrinking from his side, and his suspicious mind caught fire instantly. He noted every change in her face, every sad inflexion in her voice, and at once there came back to him the conversation he had held with Mrs. Harrington.

Could Elizabeth have known this man? Was there a secret in her past of which he was ignorant? The bare idea made his head reel; though he might banish it from his mind for a season, the slightest recurrence would bring it back to torture him with inexplicable fear and dread.

So their new life began with this shadow upon it—a shadow imperceptible to all lookers on, but lying cold and dim on their hearts nevertheless, slowly to gather substance day by day till it should become a chill, heavy mist, through which their two souls could not distinguish each other.



CHAPTER IX.

COUSIN TOM VISITS PINEY COVE.

Grantley Mellen was still a young man, only thirty-three, though the natural gravity of his character, increased by certain events in his life, made him appear somewhat older.

His father had died many years before, and as Elsie had told his bride, an uncle had left him in the possession of a fine property, which had increased in value, till he was now a very wealthy man.

His mother died when Elsie was a girl of about fourteen, and on her death-bed Grantley Mellen had promised to act the part of parent as well as brother to the young girl. He had never once wavered in his trust, and the love and tenderness he felt for her were beautiful and touching to witness.

He was never suspicious, never severe with her, though these were the worst failings of his character. Elsie was to be treated as a child; be petted, and indulged, and allowed to live in the sunshine, whatever else might befall himself or others.

Although her health was good, she had always been rather delicate in appearance, and that made him more careful of her. He was haunted with the fear that she was to fade under their family scourge, consumption, though in reality she was one of those frail looking creatures who are all nerves—nerves, too, elastic as tempered steel; and who always outlive the people who have watched them so carefully.

It was true Grantley Mellen had met with a humiliating disappointment in his early youth, which had embittered all his after years, and increased the natural jealousy of a reticent disposition almost to a monomania. These were the facts of his history:

He had a college friend of his own age, a cousin twice removed, whom from boyhood he had loved with all the strength and passion which made the undercurrent of his grave, reserved character. He had helped this young man in every way—befriended him in college, been to him what few brothers ever are.

The time came when Mellen found the realization of those dreams which fill every youthful soul: he loved, with all the fire and intensity of a first passion. His cousin was made the confidant of this love; he shared Mellen's every thought, and seemed heartily to sympathize with his feelings.

It is an old story, so I need not dwell upon it. Both friend and betrothed wife proved false. There came a day when Grantley Mellen found himself alone with a terrible misery, with no faith left, no trust in humanity to give a ray of light in the darkness of his betrayal.

The friend whom he had trusted eloped with his affianced bride, and cheated him out of a large sum of money. With that sudden treachery and bitter grief, Mellen's youth ended.

He left Elsie at school and went away to Europe, wandering about for years, and growing more saddened and misanthropic all the while.

He returned at last. Elsie was eighteen then. She had a school-friend, to whom she had been greatly attached; a girl older than herself, and so different in every respect, that it was a wonder Elsie's volatile character had been attracted to her, or that her liking had been reciprocated.

This was the state of events when Mellen returned from Europe. Elsie's account of her friend interested him in the unfortunate girl. When he made her acquaintance that sympathy deepened into a feeling which he had never thought to have for any woman again,—he loved her, and she was now his wife.

It was a restless, craving affection, which threatened great trouble both to himself and its object. He had no cause for jealousy, but his suspicious mind was always on the alert—he was jealous even of her friends, her favorite studies—he wanted every look and thought his own, yet he was too proud to betray these feelings.

Elizabeth's character was not one easy to understand, nor shall I enter into its details here. The progress of my story must show her as she really was, and leave you to judge for yourself concerning it, and the effect it had upon her life.

She was singularly reticent and reserved, but impetuous and warm-hearted beyond any thing that the man who loved her dreamed of. He saw her gay, brilliant, fond of society, yet apparently content with the quiet life he was determined to lead. Still there was something wanting. He felt in the depths of his heart that he was not master of her whole being. That sometimes his very kisses seemed frozen on her lips, and she turned from his protestations of love with sad smiles, that seemed mocking him. And she, alas, the woman who believes herself unloved by her husband, is always in danger—always unhappy.

The first weeks of this strange honeymoon had passed, and Tom Fuller was able to gratify the chief desire of his honest soul, and rush down to the island to bewilder himself more hopelessly in the spell of Elsie's fascinations, like a great foolish moth whirling about a dazzling light.

She had never scrupled to laugh at him and his devotion, even to Elizabeth herself; but just now she was not sorry to see him. The stillness of the house and the seclusion of those slow love weeks, was not at all in unison with her taste, and she was already regretting that Mellen had not allowed her to accept Mrs. Harrington's invitation to remain with her during the first period of that dreary honeymoon.

Mellen and Elsie were standing on the porch when Fuller drove up to the house, and dashed in upon them with such an outpouring of confusion and delight that it might have softened the most obdurate heart.

"I couldn't stop away another day," he cried, wringing Mellen's hand till it ached for half an hour after.

"We are very glad to see you," replied Mellen; "very glad."

"I am much obliged, I'm sure," exclaimed Tom, "and you're just a trump, that's the truth."

"I suppose that's the reason you keep him so carefully in your hand," interposed Elsie, laughing.

Tom was instantly covered with confusion, and let Mellen's hand drop. He knew there was a joke somewhere, but for the life of him he could not see where it come in.

"You are beginning to laugh at me before you have even said 'How do you do?'" cried he, ruefully.

"And am I not to laugh at you, if I please?" exclaimed Elsie. "Shake hands, you cross-grained old thing, and don't begin to quarrel the moment we meet."

Tom blushed like a girl while he bent over the little hand she laid in his, holding it carefully, and looking down on it with a sort of delighted wonder, as if it had been some rare rose-tinted shell that his fingers might break at the slightest touch.

But Mellen was not looking at them; he stood there wondering if this man could have been of any consequence in Elizabeth's past. Could she have loved him, and been prevented from marrying him in some way? No, it was impossible; he felt, he knew that it was so; but the idea would come into his mind nevertheless.

"When you have done examining my hand, Mr. Tom Fuller, please give it back," said Elsie. "It don't amount to much, but, as the Scotchwoman observed of her clergyman's head, 'it's some good to the owner.'"

Tom dropped the little hand as if the pink fingers had burned his palm.

"I'm always the awkwardest fellow alive!" cried he, dismally. "And how is Bessie, dear girl?"

Mellen roused himself.

"I will call her," he said; "she is quite well, and will be delighted to see you."

He went into the house in search of his wife, and Elsie began to tease her unfortunate victim, a pastime of which she never wearied. It seemed to her the funniest thing in the world to make that great creature blush and stammer, to lead him on to the perpetration of absurd things, to laugh at him, to bewilder his honest head; for any pain he might suffer, she considered it no more than she did the sorrows of a Fejee Islander, or the chirp of her canary.

"Have you come down here prepared to be agreeable?" she asked. "Remember, I expect you to devote yourself completely to my service—to wait on me like the most devoted of knights."

"I'd stand on my head if you asked it," answered Tom, impetuously.

"How deliciously odd you would look!" cried Elsie; "you shall try it some day; I only hope it won't leave you with a brain fever, but then it couldn't, Tom,—where is the capital for such a disease to come from?"

"You may tease me as much as you like," said Tom, "if you'll only say you are glad to see me."

"Oh, you will be invaluable," replied Elsie; "I was getting bored with watching other people's love-making. Can you row a boat and teach me to play billiards, and be generally nice and useful?"

"Just try me, that's all!" said Tom.

"Don't be afraid. I shall put you to every possible use; you may be quite certain that your position will not be a sinecure."

"Then you'll make me the happiest fellow alive!"

"You don't know what you are saying; you don't know what your words mean," cried Elsie, with one of her bewildering glances.

"Indeed I do! Oh, Miss Elsie, if you only could—"

Elsie interrupted him, as her sister came out on the portico, followed by Mellen. "There is Bessie!"

Elizabeth was rejoiced to see honest Tom; he was the only relative she possessed, and she loved him like a sister. She was thoroughly acquainted with his character, and honored him for the sterling goodness concealed by eccentricities of manner which made him so open to laughter and misconception.

"I'm so glad to see you!" cried Tom, shaking hands all round again, and growing redder and redder, to Elsie's intense delight. "I've been like a fish out of water since you all came away; I just begin to feel like myself again. Bessie, old girl, are you glad to see me?"

"We shall always be glad to see you, Tom," Elizabeth said, glancing at her husband.

"Indeed we shall," he said; "you will always find a room at your service, and a sincere welcome."

No, Elizabeth never could have cared for him—the idea was simply absurd—he would never think of it again, never!

"I can't tell you how much obliged I am," said Tom, twisting about as if his joints were out of order, and he was trying to set them straight.

"Your chamber is ready," said Elizabeth; "we expected you to-day."

"He doesn't need to go up now," interposed Elsie; "that checked coat is bewitching, and he is going to take me out to row. Come along, Don Quixote—come this instant!"

Elsie ran off, and he followed, obedient as a great Newfoundland dog.

Elizabeth looked after them a little sadly, and smothered a sigh of anxiety. She saw what Elsie was so heedlessly doing, and knew Tom well enough to understand how acute his sufferings would be once roused from his entrancing dream.

So things went on during the whole time of his stay, and there was no help for it. Elsie made him a perfect slave, and Tom no more thought of disputing her wildest caprice, than if he had been some untutored fawn, made captive to the spells of a Dryad.

Elsie saw plainly enough that he loved her, but she regarded that part of the affair very lightly. She was accustomed to being loved and petted—it was her right. The idea that it could be cruel or unprincipled to encourage this young fellow as she did, never entered her mind. Indeed, if the misery she was bringing upon him had been pointed out to her, she would only have laughed at it as a capital jest, a source of infinite amusement.

When Tom Fuller went back to town, Elsie was taken with a strong desire to visit dear Mrs. Harrington. Tom was a sort of cousin, now, and would make a capital escort. Besides, she was sure Grantley and Elizabeth would be much happier alone. Perhaps Mellen thought so too. At any rate, he made no objections, and Elsie went.

The husband and wife were alone. The days were so pleasant—those long, golden, June days!—they might have been so happy in the solitude of that beautiful spot, but for the chasm which lay between the souls of these married people, scarcely perceptible as yet, but widening every hour!

Elizabeth watched her husband incessantly. She tortured every evidence of affection into a forced kindness, an attempt to hide his want of love; he was trying to make all the atonement in his power, to give her everything that could make life pleasant, except the place in his heart which was her right. How her soul revolted against the thought!

She was mortally hurt and grieved that he could have deceived her. If he had only spoken the truth, only left her to decide whether she could be content to accept an outer place in his regard, to make his home happy, to guard and cherish his sister—if he had only left this decision in her hands, the matter would have worn a different aspect.

But that he should have been silent—that even now he should guard his secret, practising this daily deception, and meaning to let it lie between them all through life—was a never-ceasing thorn in her heart.

Mellen, in turn, was watching her; watching her with that morbid suspicion which made the groundwork of his character. Observant of the change in her manner, and trying always to account for it, but only making himself restless and anxious to no purpose.

He had loved her, he did love her, and the only reason she was, as he supposed, ignorant of the humiliating story of his past, was because he had put it resolutely out of his mind; and it hurt his pride too much to go over the detail of the deceit and treachery from which he had suffered, even in his own thoughts.

Elsie's absence was prolonged to a fortnight, and when she returned, Mrs. Harrington and Tom Fuller came back with her.

The girl was in more joyous spirits than ever; more bewitching and beautiful, if possible; and Elizabeth could see plainly that Mellen's love for her fell little short of absolute idolatry.

She was not jealous. If Elsie had been her own sister, she could not have become more attached to her than she had grown during their year of companionship. But it was very hard to see of what love her husband was capable, and to remember that no part of it could be won for her; that between her soul and his, rose the image of that false woman, whose treachery had steeled his heart against such love as she thirsted for.

Tom Fuller was a more hopeless lunatic than ever; but Elsie had begun to grow impatient of his devotion. She often treated him cruelly now. The poor fellow bore it all with patience, and still clung to his beautiful dream, unable to realize that it was a baseless delusion, which must pass away with the summer that had warmed it to its prime.

The weeks passed on with all-seeming pleasantness, and in many respects they were pleasant to both husband and wife, though the secret thoughts in the minds of both, kept them aloof from the perfect rest and happiness to which they had looked forward during that brief courtship.

But a sudden change and a great break were nearing their lives, and unexpectedly enough they came.

Mellen owned a large mining property in California, an immense fortune in itself, and ever since his return from Europe, he had been much occupied with a lawsuit that had sprung up concerning the title. He had sent out his man of business, but the case did not go on satisfactorily, and letters came which made his presence there appear absolutely imperative.

He could not take his wife and sister; the discomforts to which they would be exposed, the dreadful fears where Elsie was concerned, from her apparent delicacy, entirely prevented that idea.

He informed them that he might be obliged to go; he had written other letters by the steamer; the answer he might receive would decide.

Elizabeth pleaded to go with him, but Elsie frankly owned that she could not even think of a sea voyage without deathly horror. Mellen pointed out to his wife the necessity there was that she should remain with Elsie, and she submitted in silence.

"He married me to take care of her," she thought; "I will do my duty—I will stay. Perhaps this absence will change him: but no, I am mad to hope it. Elsie says he never changes. That woman's memory must always lie between his heart and mine." So she turned to her dull weary path of duty, and gave no sign.



CHAPTER X.

SHADOWS OF A SEPARATION.

October comes, and scarcely four months after his marriage, Mellen was compelled to leave his wife and home, it might be for a year. Elizabeth grew white and cold when this certainty was forced upon her, yet she made no protestation, and uttered nothing like regret or complaint. Grantley was chilled through and through the heart by this. He had been so lonely, had longed for the warmth and happiness of love with such intense yearnings, that her calm stillness wounded him terribly. Was she of marble? Would nothing kindle affection in that proud heart? Had he married a beautiful statue?

No wonder Elizabeth was proudly cold. She did not believe in the necessity of this journey. His indifference had grown into dislike, she thought, and, yielding to inevitable repulsion, he was going away to avoid her.

But Elsie was loud in her expressions of grief. She had floods of tears to give—protestations and caresses without end. Her sweet voice was constantly reproaching Elizabeth for want of feeling. She was forever hovering about her brother in atonement, as she said, for his wife's coldness. But the roses on her cheek were always fresh, and her blue eyes never lost a gleam of their brightness, while Elizabeth grew thin and white beneath the withering ache of a famished heart.

"Oh, the desert of these months! Oh, my God, my God, I shall perish without him! Alone here—all alone with this child—what will become of me! How shall I endure, how resist this wild clamor of the heart?"

Elizabeth had flung herself upon the couch in her own room, her face was buried in the purple cushion, and she strove to smother the words, which sprang out of a terrible pain which had no business in that young heart. As she lay, convulsed and sobbing, on the couch, the door opened, and her husband came into the room. The thick carpet smothered his footsteps, and he stood by the couch before she knew it—stood there a moment, then fell upon his knees, and softly wound his arm around her.

"Elizabeth, my wife."

She started up with a cry; her face was wet with tears; her large grey eyes wild with sorrow. He lifted her to his bosom, put back the thick waves of hair that had fallen over her face, and kissed her forehead and her lips with gentle violence.

The pride went out from her heart as she felt these passionate kisses rained on her face. She clung to him, trembling from the new joy that possessed her.

"Is it for me that you are weeping, sweet wife? are you sorry to part with me?"

"Oh, yes, yes! you are my life, my salvation."

"Ah, how hard you make it for me to go!"

"And you must? you must?"

"It is inevitable; my duty to others demands it; but it shall not be for long."

The door of Elsie's boudoir was opened, the curtains held back, and the smiling young creature looked in. Elizabeth saw her, struggled out of her husband's arms, and sat with the wet eyelashes sweeping her cheek, which was hot with blushes.

"Oh, ho! one too many, am I?" she cried, entering without ceremony. "Why, sister Bessie, I haven't seen you blush so since that day when Mrs. Harrington would insist on it that you recognised a certain person."

Elizabeth was so confused by the sudden rush of joy sweeping through her whole being, that she did not remark this speech; but her husband did, and withdrew his arm gently from her support. She looked up, and saw that he was changed within the minute.

"I'm glad to find you looking so amiable," said Elsie, going up to the glass, and threading her curls out into fluffy and beautiful confusion; "for I've thought of something that would make this place delightful, just as you are going away, Grant. Besides," she added, looking down and coloring a little, "people will get such ideas into their heads, and say such things. It is quite necessary to let them see how very happy you and Bessie are together, or they never will believe that you are not running away from her."

"What!" demanded Mellen almost sternly,—"What are you saying, Elsie?"

"Oh, it's dreadful; I've been crying about it half the night; but a splendid ball, or something of that sort, will put everything on velvet. Nothing like champagne and the et ceteras to stop people's mouths."

"A ball! Why, Elsie, what is your mind running on?"

"The idea is dreadful, I know; and just as you are leaving us, when every moment is precious as a grain of gold. But it's really necessary. If you go off without seeing people, Grant, they will be sure to say that you and Bessie have quarreled, and all sorts of horrid things about her being melancholy, and you—well it's no use repeating these speeches, but the ball we must have. Bessie shall entertain them like a princess; as for poor little me, I'm good for nothing but dancing."

She gave a waltzing step or two, and whirled herself before the mirror again.

"Well, who shall we invite?" she said, gazing at the pretty image that smiled back her admiration. "I made out a list this morning in my room; shall I bring it?"

She ran into her room and came out again with a handful of engraved cards, some of them already filled in.

"I knew, of course, that the ball was to be, so had the cards struck off. Tom Fuller brought them down. Just add what names you please, Bessie, and we will leave the rest to Mrs. Harrington."

"Why, Elsie!" began Mrs. Mellen.

"Well, what is it?"

"How can you think of—"

"Oh, it's settled, so don't discuss it. What! looking cross? Why, Grant dear, I—I—did not think you would be offended."

"But I am, Elsie."

She dropped into a chair, pressed both hands to her side, and shrunk away into a grieved, feeble little thing, that had been crushed by a single blow.

"Why, Elsie!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered them with both hands.

"I am not angry, child, only surprised."

"But you will be—you will be very angry when I tell you that some of the invitations are sent out. Oh, I wish I were dead!"

Her lips quivered like those of a grieved and half-frightened child. Her cheeks were wet, and their color had left them.

"Oh, Grantley, Grantley, don't—don't look at me in that way. Dear Bessie, tell him how sorry I am."

Mellen was walking the floor in considerable agitation. He had hoped for a little peace in his own home—a few days of tranquil confidence with his wife. Now everything was broken in upon. There would be nothing but confusion up to the very hour of his starting.

Elsie watched him furtively, and with sidelong glances. She knew how terrible his anger was when once aroused.

"Oh, if my poor mother had lived."

"Peace, Elsie! I will not have that sacred name dragged into an affair like this. Have your way, but remember it is the last time that you must venture on the prerogatives of my wife."

Elsie left the room really frightened, and sobbing piteously, but the moment she found herself in her boudoir a smile broke through her tears, and she laughed out.

"Well, I don't care, we shall have the ball. I wonder if Bessie put him up to that. Hateful thing, he never scolded me so before. Her prerogatives, indeed."

As for Grantley Mellen, this untoward intrusion had broken up the happy moment which might have given him an insight into all that his wife felt and suffered. The interview which had promised such gentle confidence only ended in mutual irritation.



CHAPTER XI.

THE BALL.

The evening of the ball arrived; the house was crowded, and for the scores it was impossible to accommodate, Mellen had made arrangements in his usual lavish way, for a conveyance back and forth in a steamer chartered for the occasion.

The old house was a beautiful sight that evening. The long suite of drawing-rooms were flung open, and in the far distance a noble conservatory, half greenness, half crystal, terminated the view like some South Sea island flooded with moonlight.

It was not alone that these noble rooms were shaded with richly-tinted draperies, and filled with costly furniture; any wealthy man's house may offer those things; but Mellen had thrown his fine individual taste into the adornments of his home. Antique and modern statues gleamed out of the general luxuriousness. Pictures that made your breath come unsteadily broke up the walls, and groups of bronze gave you surprises at every turn. The works of art, sometimes arrayed in one long dreary gallery, were here scattered in nooks and corners, completing each room with their beauty.

And all this was kindled up into one brilliant whole. There was no crowding in those rooms. Each rare object had its peculiar light and appropriate space. A master mind had arranged every thing.

In these almost palatial saloons Elizabeth stood by her husband, receiving their guests as they came in.

Elsie was in brilliant spirits that night, and her buoyant gayety formed a singular contrast with the quiet repose of Elizabeth.

Tom Fuller followed the pretty elf about everywhere in spite of her cruel rebuffs, for he was sadly in her way that night; and when she refused to dance with him, peremptorily ordering him away to entertain dowagers, or perform any similar heavy work, he would take the post she assigned him, and watch her with fascinated eyes as she floated down the dance or practised her wiles on every man who approached, just as she had once thought it worth while to entrance him.

On that evening Tom Fuller woke to a consciousness of the truth; he understood the confusion and bewilderment which had been in his mind for weeks past; he loved this bright young creature with the whole force of his rugged nature, and began dimly to comprehend that she cared no more for him or his sufferings than if his heart had been a football or shuttlecock.

He captured Elizabeth, and there, in the midst of the lights and gayety, told her of his wrongs, with such energy that it required her constant effort to prevent him from attracting general attention.

"I love her," he burst out, "I do love her! She might run my heart through with a rusty bayonet, if she would only care for me."

The beginning was not at all coherent, but Elizabeth perfectly understood what he meant. Several times during the past weeks she had attempted to open his eyes to the truth; but he would neither see nor hear, and had insisted upon rushing on to his fate like a great blundering bluebottle into a spider's web.

"Do you think there's any hope, Bessie, do you? I ain't handsome, and I ain't disgustingly rich; but I'll give her all my heart! I'll work for her, die for her; I'd lay my own soul down for her to walk over, only to keep her little feet dry, upon my honor I would."

Elizabeth drew him into a window recess, and tried to soothe his agitation.

"Poor old Tom!" she whispered; "poor dear old Tom!"

"I know what that means," he said, choking desperately; "you don't think there is any hope. You know there is not!"

"I have tried to talk to you, Tom, but you wouldn't listen—"

"Yes, I know, I know! It's my own fault—I'll—I'll turn up jolly in a little while—it's only the f-first that's hard!"

And Tom blew and whistled in his efforts to keep his composure, in a way that was irresistibly ludicrous. In the midst of his distress the poor fellow could not help being comical. Even in the suffering which was so terribly real to him he made Elizabeth smile.

"I'm a great fool!" he exclaimed. "Just pitch in and abuse me like smoke, Bessie, I think it would do me good."

"Only wait till to-morrow," she said, "I will talk with you then—we shall be overheard now."

"Oh, I can't help it if the whole world hears," he groaned; "I can't wait! The way she's going on with those dashing young fellows drives me mad! Why couldn't I have been a dashing fellow too, instead of such a great live-oak hulk! I can't stir without stumbling over somebody, and as for saying those dainty things that they are pouring into her ears, and be hanged to 'em—I can't do it. No wonder she scorns me!"

Tom dealt his unfortunate forehead a blow that made it scarlet for several moments, and quieted him down somewhat.

"What would you advise me to do, Bessie?" he asked. "You're so sensible and so good—just give a fellow a hint."

"Dear Tom, there is nothing for it but to wait—"

"That's pretty advice!" he burst in. "You might as well tell a person in a blaze of fire to wait! No, I shan't wait—I shan't, I say!"

Tom ran his hands through his hair till it stood up, quivering as if he had received an electric shock.

"Oh, you needn't look so black at me, Bessie; I know just what a humbug I am as well as you."

"I wasn't looking black at you; I am very, very sorry, Tom."

"Don't pity me; I shall break right down if you do."

"I must go back, Tom," she said; "I can't stay here any longer."

"I know it; of course you can't. I'll just wait a minute and then——there, go! What a nuisance I am!"

Elizabeth went back into the ball-room, where she saw Elsie whirling through a waltz, looking as happy and unconscious as if she had not just crushed a warm, loving human heart under her pretty foot.

Mrs. Mellen stood a moment arrested; no one seemed to heed her.

She saw Mrs. Harrington forcing Mellen to walk through a quadrille, and felt certain that he was as restless as herself.

"But it is for Elsie," she thought; "he will not mind so long as it is for her. None of them will miss me."

Tom Fuller stood in the bay window for some time trying to collect his scattered faculties. Any thing like rational thought was quite out of the question with him; he felt as if a great humming-top were spinning about in his ears, and his heart was in a state of palpitation that utterly defies description.

Finally he passed through the drawing-rooms where people were busy over their cards or their small-talk, and entered the ball-room from which he had rushed in such frenzy.

There was a pause in the music, and Elsie was standing surrounded by a group of gentlemen, not even seeing Tom as he approached. He managed to edge himself into the circle at last, and stood watching Elsie very much like a sheep-dog that wanted dreadfully to worry something, but knew that he would get himself into difficulty if he even ventured on a bark.

But speak with her, he would; Tom had reached that point where his feelings must find vent or explode, and scatter mischief all around.

Finally a brilliant idea struck him, and he got near enough to whisper—

"Bessie wants to see you a moment."

Elsie turned away impatiently.

"Now, this moment," added Tom, growing very red at his own fib, but following it up courageously.

He knew very well that the dandies were quizzing him; he saw that Elsie was provoked; but though he trembled in every joint, and his face had heat enough in it to have kept a poor family comfortably warm from the reflection, he resolutely held out his arm, and the young lady took it, pouting and flinging back smiles to her forsaken admirers.

"My sister wants me," she said, in explanation to her friends. "Tiresome, isn't it? for there is no guessing when she will let me come back."

Tom led his captive away, but he was dreadfully frightened at the success of his own manoeuvre.

"Where is Bessie?" asked Elsie, impatiently, as they walked down the ball-room.

"This way," faltered Tom; "we shall find her in a moment."

Elsie never deigned him another word; she was very angry, as she could be with any thing or anybody that marred her selfish enjoyment, and Tom walked on towards one of the parlors which he knew was empty, feeling like a man about to charge a battery single handed, but determined to persevere nevertheless.



CHAPTER XII.

TOM MAKES A DECLARATION.

Tom led his captive into the parlor. Elsie looked about in surprise—there was not a soul visible.

"Are you crazy, Tom Fuller?" cried she; "Bessie is not here."

"She shall be here in a minute," stammered Tom; "just wait, please."

"Indeed I will do no such thing," returned Elsie, sharply, snatching her hand from his arm. "Did she send you for me, Tom Fuller?"

"No," cried Tom, with sudden energy, "I told a lie! I couldn't stand it any longer; I must speak with you; waiting was impossible!"

Elsie turned on him like a little kingbird darting on a hawk.

"What do you mean by this unwarrantable liberty!" she exclaimed. "Have you no idea of the common usages of society? Don't come near me again to-night; don't speak to me."

She was darting away, but Tom caught her hand.

"Oh, wait, Elsie, wait!"

"You ridiculous creature!" said Elsie, beginning to laugh in spite of her vexation. "What on earth do you want?"

"Laugh at me!" groaned Tom; "I deserve it—I expect it—but I can't live this way any longer! You are driving me crazy. I love you, Elsie! Only speak one kind word—just say you don't hate me."

He was holding out his two hands, looking so exceedingly energetic in his wretchedness, that Elsie burst into perfect shrieks of laughter.

"You silly old goose!" she said; "don't you know you mustn't talk in that way to me! You have no right, and it is very impertinent! There, go along—I forgive you."

Tom stared at her with his astonished eyes wide open.

"You can laugh at me!" he exclaimed. "Why, all these weeks you have let me go on loving you, and never hinted that it was so very disagreeable."

"Now, Tom, don't be tiresome!"

Tom groaned aloud.

"Why I never saw such conduct!" cried Elsie, impatiently. "It's too bad of you to behave so—you are spoiling my whole evening! You are just as disagreeable as you can be. Oh, I hate you!"

"Elsie! Elsie!"

"Let go my hand; suppose anybody should come in! Oh, you old goose of a Tom—let me go, I say."

"Just one minute, Elsie—"

"To-morrow—any time! Don't you know civilized beings never behave in this way at a ball."

"I don't know—I can't think! I only feel I love you, Elsie, and must speak out. I will speak out."

A few weeks earlier Elsie would only have been amused at all this from general lack of amusement, but now it vexed and irritated her. Girl-like she had not the slightest pity on his pain. He was keeping her sorely against her wishes.

"I am served right for treating you as a friend," she said; "I looked upon you as a relation, and thought you understood it; now you are trying to make me unhappy. Bessie will be angry, and tell Grant. Oh, you ought to be ashamed."

"I won't make you any trouble," shivered Tom; "I won't distress you! There—I beg your pardon, Elsie, I am sorry! And you don't—you never can, Elsie, Elsie—"

"No, no, you silly old fellow, of course not! Now be good, and I'll forget all about this folly. Let me go, Tom, I can't stay here any longer—let me go."

Tom still held her hand.

"This is earnest!" he said.

"Yes, yes! Tom, if you don't let me go I'll scream! You are absurd—why, you ought to be put in a straight jacket."

Tom dropped her hand, and stood like a man overpowered by some sudden blow.

Elsie saw only the comical side of the matter, and began to laugh again.

"Don't laugh," he said, passionately; "for mercy's sake don't laugh!"

There was a depth of suffering in his tone which forced itself to be realized even by that selfish creature; but it only made her begin to consider herself exceedingly ill-used, and to blame Tom for spoiling her pleasure.

"Now you want to blame me," she said, angrily, "and I haven't done a thing to encourage you."

"No, no; I don't blame you, Elsie," he said; "it's all my own fault—all mine."

"Yes, to be sure," cried Elsie. "Who could think you would be so foolish. There, shake hands, Tom, for I'm in a hurry. You are not angry?"

"Angry—no," said Tom, drearily.

"That's right! Good-by—you'll be wiser to-morrow."

Elsie glided away, and Tom watched her go out of the room, and realized that she was floating out of his life forever, that the dream of the past was at an end, and he was left alone in the darkness.

Poor old Tom! It was very hard, but no one could have resisted a smile at his appearance! When Elsie left him, he dashed out of the room, and hid himself in the most out of the way corner he could find.

As he crossed the hall, he heard Elizabeth call—

"Tom, Tom!"

He stopped, and she came towards him. One look at his face revealed the whole truth. She did not speak, but took his hand in hers, with a mute expression of sympathy which overpowered him.

"Don't! don't!" he said. "Let me go, Bessie! I'm a fool—it's all over now! There, don't mind me—I'll be better soon! I've got a chance to go to Europe for awhile, in fact it's to Calcutta. I shall be all right when I come back."

"Oh, my poor old Tom! Elsie is a wicked girl to have trifled with you so."

"She didn't!" he exclaimed, indignantly. "Don't blame her. I won't have it. There's nobody in fault but me. I deserve it all! I'm a blundering, wrong-headed donkey, and she's lovely as—as—"

Here Tom broke down, and going to a window looked resolutely out.

"But you won't go away, Tom?" said Elizabeth following him.

"Yes, I will. I shan't be gone but a few months. Don't try to keep me. I'll be all right when we meet again."

"Oh, Tom, Tom!" said Elizabeth.

"Now, be still; that's a good girl; I don't want to be pitied. It's of no consequence, not the slightest."

He broke abruptly away, and disappeared, leaving Elizabeth full of sympathy for his distress, and regret at the idea of losing her old playmate—she had depended on him so much during her husband's absence.

There had been a lull in the music, but it struck up again now, and the saloons reverberated with a stirring waltz. Elizabeth stood a moment listening to the crash of sound and the tread of light feet, but her heart was full and her brow anxious. She went to the window and looked out. It was a lovely night, but the eternal roll and sweep of the ocean seemed to depress her with some terrible dread. In all that splendid tumult she was alone. As she stood by the window her husband came down the hall smiling upon the lady who hung upon his arm. He had not missed her, would not miss her. There was no fear of that. She glided away with this dreary thought in her mind. Mellen almost touched her as she turned into a little room opening upon the conservatory, but she went on unnoticed.

Tom Fuller had retreated into the conservatory, and was sitting disconsolately in an iron garden chair, sheltered by a small tree, drooping with yellow fringe-like blossoms, when a lady entered from one of the side doors, and passed out towards the gardens.

Tom started up, and called out, "Bessie! Why, Bessie, is that you? What on earth—"

The lady made no response, but looked over her shoulder, and sprang forward like a deer, causing a tumult among the plants as she rushed through them.

Tom stood motionless, lost in amazement; for over a ball dress which seemed white—he could discover nothing more,—the lady was shrouded head and person, in a blanket shawl, which he knew to be Elizabeth's, from the broad crimson stripes that ran across it.

After his first amazement Tom sat down again, heaving a deep sigh, and retreated further behind the flowering branches, that no one might look upon his unmanly sorrow.

"Poor Bessie, poor thing," he muttered, "I suppose she feels just as I do, like a fish out of water, in all these fine doings. I'd follow her, and we'd take a melancholy walk together in the moonlight, if it was not that Elsie might happen to get tired of dancing with those fellows, and come in here to rest a minute, when I could hide away and look at her through the plants."

Tom had in reality startled the lady shrouded in that great travelling shawl, for once out of doors she stood full half a minute listening with bated breath, and one foot advanced, ready to spring away if any sound reached her. Then she walked on with less desperate haste, bending her course through the shrubberies towards a grove of trees that lay between the open grounds and the shore.

It was a balmy October evening, moonlight, but shadowed by hosts of white scudding clouds. The wind blew up freshly from the water, scattered storms of gorgeous leaves around her as she approached the grove which was still heavy with foliage, perfectly splendid in the sunlight, but now all shadows and blackness. On the edge of the grove, just under a vast old oak, whose great limbs scarcely swayed in the wind, the lady paused and uttered some name in a low, cautious voice.

A spark of fire flashed down to the earth, as if some one had flung away his cigar in haste, and instantly footsteps rustled in the dead leaves. The branches of the oak bent low, and behind it was a thicket of young trees. The lady did not feel safe, even in the darkness, but moved on to meet the person who advanced in the deeper shadows, where even the edges of her white dress, which fell below the shawl, were lost to the eye.

As she stood panting in the shelter, a man's voice addressed her, and his hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"How you tremble!"

The voice sounded, in that balmy October night, sweet and mellow as the dropping of its over-ripe leaves. The female did indeed tremble violently.

"Look, look! I am followed," she whispered.

The man stepped a pace forward, peered through the oak branches, and stole cautiously to her side again.

"It is Mellen!"

She darted away, dragging her shawl from the grasp that man had fastened upon it,—away under the old oak, and along the outskirts of the grove. She paused a moment in breathless terror at the narrowest point of the lawn, then darted across it, huddling the skirt of her ball dress up with one hand, and sweeping the dead leaves in winrows after her with the fringes of her shawl. She avoided the conservatory, for Tom was still visible through its rolling waves of glass—and, turning to the servants' entrance, ran up a flight of dark stairs into the shaded lights of a chamber. She flung the heavy shawl breathlessly on a couch, shook the snowy masses of her dress into decorous folds, and stole to the window on tip-toe, where she stood, white and panting for breath, watching the lawn and grove, with wild, eager eyes, as if she feared her footsteps in the leaves might have been detected even in the darkness.



CHAPTER XIII.

WHO COULD IT HAVE BEEN?

The evening passed drearily enough to Grantley Mellen. He was in no spirits for society and the gay bustle; the lights, the music, the constraint he was forced to put upon himself, and the cheerfulness he was obliged to assume, only wearied him.

A strange and unaccountable dread of his approaching journey possessed him. It had grown stronger as the days passed on, and that night was more powerful than ever.

Sometimes he was almost ready to think it a presentiment; perhaps he was never to return from that voyage; some unseen danger awaited him in that distant land, and he should die there, far from the sound of every voice, the touch of every hand that was dear to him.

He was vexed with himself for indulging in this superstitious weakness; but, in spite of all his efforts, the thought would recur again and again, oppressing him with a dreary sense of desolation that made the brilliant scene around absolutely repulsive.

He left the lighted rooms at last, and passed through the hall on to the piazza which overlooked the sea.

It was a beautiful evening; the moonlight, escaping from under a bank of clouds, lay silvery and broad upon the lawn, and broke a path of diamonds across the rippling waters, lighting them up to wonderful splendor. The air was balmy and soft as spring, the wind rippled pleasantly among the trees, but there was no melody in its tones to his ear; it seemed only a repetition of the mournful warning which had haunted his thoughts.

He walked on across the lawn, anxious to get beyond the sound of the music and gayety which followed him from the house, for it jarred upon his ears with deafening discordance.

He entered a little thicket of bushes and young trees, in the midst of which rose up a dark, funereal-looking cypress, that always waved its branches tremulously, however still the air might be, and seemed to be oppressed with a trouble which it could only utter in faint moaning whispers.

As he stood there, looking into the gloom, with a sense of relief at finding some object more in unison with his dark thoughts, he saw a figure glide away from the foot of the cypress, and disappear in the shrubbery beyond.

It was a woman wrapped in some dark garment—in movement and form like his wife—could it be his wife wandering about the grounds at that hour?

"Elizabeth!" he called; but there was no answer.

He hurried forward among the trees, but there was no object visible, no response to the summons he repeated several times.

It might be some guest who had stolen out there for a few minutes' quiet; yet that was not probable. Besides, the movements of the slender form appeared familiar to him. In height and shape Elsie and Elizabeth resembled each other; it was possibly one of them, but which?

Elsie it could not be, she had a nervous dread of darkness and could not be persuaded to stir off the piazza after nightfall. It must have been Elizabeth, then; but what was she doing there!

He started towards the house with some vague thought in his mind, to which he could have given no expression.

His wife was not in any of the rooms through which he passed, and he hurried into the ball-room. The music had just struck up anew; he saw Elsie whirling through a waltz; but Elizabeth was nowhere visible.

He drew near enough to Elsie to whisper—

"Where is Bessie?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I have been dancing all the while, and have not seen her for some time."

He turned away; but, just then, Mrs. Harrington captured him, and it was several moments before he could escape from her tiresome loquacity.

The moment he was at liberty Mellen hurried through the parlors and up the stairs, opened the door of Elizabeth's dressing-room, and entered. There she was, standing at the window, looking out. She turned quickly, and in some confusion at his sudden entrance.

"Is it you?" she asked.

"Yes; I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"I came up here for a moment's quiet," she answered. "I am very, very tired; I wish it was all over, Grantley."

"Have you been out?" he asked.

It seemed to him that she hesitated a little, as she answered—

"Out? No; where—what do you mean?"

"I thought I saw you in the grounds a little while ago."

"I should not be likely to go out in this dress," she replied, glancing down at the point lace flounces that floated over the snowy satin of her train. "Come, we must go down stairs; our guests will think us careless hosts."

Mellen felt and looked dissatisfied, but could not well press the matter farther.

"Are you coming down?" she asked.

"Yes; of course," he replied, coldly. "Don't wait for me."

She walked away without another word.

"She avoids me," he thought. "I see it more and more."

The ball was over at last. Even Elsie was completely tired out, and glad to nestle away under the azure curtains of her bed when the guests had departed.

With the next morning began preparations for Mellen's departure; and during the bustle of the following week, no one found much time for thought or reflection.

Tom Fuller came down suddenly, and opened his heart to Elizabeth. He was going to Europe; he did not ask to see Elsie; lacking the courage to meet her again for the present—once more, perhaps, before he went away; but not yet.

Elizabeth did not reproach the girl for her share in the honest fellow's unhappiness. She merely said—

"Tom is going to Europe on business; he sails next week."

"Oh, the foolish old fellow," replied Elsie; "and he never could learn to speak a French word correctly—what fun it would be to be with him in France."

"You will miss him," Mellen said, quietly.

"Oh," replied his wife, with a forced smile, "I must make up my mind to be lonely. I shall live through the coming dreary months as I best can."

"It's horrid of you to go, Grant!" cried Elsie.

"I know it, dear; but there is no use in fighting the unavoidable."

"Mind you write to me as often as you do to Bessie," she said. "If she gets one letter the most, I never will forgive either of you."

As she said this, the girl ran up to her brother, and stood leaning against his shoulder, with a playful caress, while he looked down at her with such entire love and trust in his face, that Elizabeth crept quietly away, and left them together.

The few days left to Mellen passed in a tumult of preparation. Sad doubts were at his heart, vague and so formless that he could not have expressed them in words, but painful as proven realities.

Elizabeth was greatly disturbed also; her fine color had almost entirely disappeared. She trembled at the slightest shock, and her very lips would turn white when she spoke of her husband's departure. She seemed stricken with a mortal terror of his going, yet made no effort to detain him. She, too, had presentiments of evil that shocked her whole system, and made her brightest smile something mournful to look upon.

But the husband and wife had little opportunity to observe or understand the feelings that tortured them both. Elsie's cries, and tears, and hysterical spasms, kept the whole household in commotion. She should never see her brother again—never, never. Elizabeth might not be good to her. Sisters-in-law and school-friends were different creatures; she had found that out already. If she could only have died with her mother!

These cries broke out vehemently on the night before Mellen's departure. The spoiled child would not allow her brother to spend one moment from her side. So all that night Elizabeth, pale, still, and bowed down by a terrible heart-ache, watched with her husband by the azure couch which Elsie preferred to her bed. It was a sad, mournful night to them both.

At daylight, Elsie's egotism was exhausted, and she fell asleep. The first sunshine came stealing up from its silvery play on the water, and shimmering through the lace curtains, fell on the young girl as she slept. There was trouble on that sweet face—genuine trouble; for Elsie loved her brother dearly, and his departure agitated her more deeply than he had ever known her moved before.

How lovely she looked with the drops trembling on those long, golden lashes, and staining the warm flush of her cheeks! One arm, from which the muslin sleeve had fallen back, lay under her head, half-buried in a tangle of curls; sobs broke at intervals through her parted lips, ending in long, troubled sighs.

Mellen was deeply touched. Elizabeth bent her head against the end of the couch, and wept unheeded drops of anguish. The heart ached in her bosom.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE HUSBAND'S LAST CHARGE.

Elizabeth Mellen shuddered visibly when the first sunbeam fell through the curtains. Only a few moments were left to them. Sick and faint, she lifted her head and turned her imploring eyes on her husband's face—eyes so full of yearning agony, that his heart must have leaped through all its doubts to meet hers, had not his glance been fixed upon Elsie. The long, black lashes drooped over those gray eyes when she found their appeal disregarded, and the young wife shrunk within herself, shuddering at her own loneliness.

A servant came to the room, and by a sign announced breakfast. It was the last meal they might ever take together. This thought struck them both, and brought their hands in contact with a thrilling clasp. He drew her arm through his, and led her down stairs. She felt his heart beating against her arm, looked up, and saw that he was regarding her with glances of searching tenderness. Her eyes filled; her bosom heaved; and, but for a wild struggle, she would have burst into a passion of tears before the servant, who held the door open for them to pass into the breakfast-room.

How bright and cheerful it all looked—the crusted snow of the linen; the delicately chased silver, and more delicate china; and this was their last meal. She sat down and poured out his coffee. Her hand trembled, but she tried to smile when he took the cup and praised its aroma. She drank some herself, for the chill at her heart was spreading to her face and hands.

Little was said during the meal, and less was eaten. Elizabeth looked at the clock as a convict gazes on the axe that is to slay him. She counted the moments as they crept away, devouring the brief time yet given to them, while he glanced at his watch, nervously every few minutes.

Then the husband and wife went up stairs again. Elizabeth turned from Elsie's door and went into her own dressing-room. With all her magnanimity she could not give her husband up to his sister during the last moments of his stay. He followed her into the room, but directly lifted the curtain and went into Elsie's boudoir, where the young girl lay profoundly sleeping. Elizabeth would not follow. Her heart was swelling too painfully. She sat down, clasped both hands in her lap, and waited like a statue.

He had only crossed the boudoir, bent over Elsie, and pressed a cautious but most loving kiss on her forehead. She did not move, but smiled softly in her sleep, and he stole away, blessing her.

Elizabeth's heart gave a sudden leap when he came into her room again and sat down by her side. He felt how cold her hand was, and kissed it.

"Elizabeth!"

She turned, frightened by the tone of his voice. It was hoarse with emotion.

"Elizabeth, I have one charge to give before we part."

She bent her head in sorrowful submission.

"Elsie, my sister!"

He did not notice the red flame that shot up to her cheek, or the shrinking of her whole frame, but went on.

"The child is so precious to me. The dearest human being I have on earth—" He hesitated a moment, and added, "Except—except you, my wife."

She was grateful even for this. Was it that she was conscious of deserving nothing more, or did the hungry yearning of her heart seize on this sweet aliment with thankfulness after the famine of her recent life?

He saw the tears spring into her eyes, and drew her closer to his side.

"Be careful of her for my sake, Elizabeth. She was given me in solemn charge at my mother's death-bed. She has been the sweetest solace of my barren life. Let no harm come near her—no evil thing taint the mind which I leave in your hands pure as snow. Guard her, love her, and give her back to me, gentle, guileless, and good, as she lies now, in the sweetest and most innocent sleep I ever witnessed."

"I will! I will!" answered Elizabeth, conquering a sharp spasm of pain with the spirit of a martyr. "If human care, or human sacrifice can insure her welfare, I will not be found wanting."

Grantley bent down and kissed his wife gratefully.

"Remember, Elizabeth, my happiness and honor are left in your keeping."

Did he mean that honor and happiness both were bound up in Elsie, or had he really thought of her rightful share in his life?

This question flashed through the young wife's mind, but she would not accept it in a bitter sense then. The parting hour was close at hand. She trembled as each moment left them.

"I will be kind to Elsie as you can desire; indeed I will," she said. "You can trust me."

"If I doubted that, harassing as the voyage is, I would take her with me."

"Oh, if you only could take us both! It terrifies me to be left alone, surrounded with—"

"That is out of the question now. But when I come back, we will try and make this life of ours happier than it has been."

She looked at him—her great, mournful eyes widening with pain.

"Have you been very unhappy, then, Grantley," she faltered.

"Unhappy! I did not say that; but hereafter our bliss must be more perfect. We shall understand each other better."

"Shall we—shall we ever? Oh, Grantley, without love what perfect understanding can exist?"

Her fine eyes were flooded with tears; every feature in her face quivered with emotion.

A clock on the mantel-piece chimed out the hour of his departure. On the instant Dolf knocked at the door.

Elizabeth started up, trembling like a wounded bird that struggles away from a second shot.

"So soon! so soon!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I had so much to ask; everything to say, and now there is no time."

Grantley took her in his arms, and kissed her very hurriedly, for the servant was standing in sight.

"God bless you, Elizabeth, I must go!"

She flung her arms wildly around him. Her pale face was lifted to his in mute appeal. Was it for pardon of some unknown offence, or the deep craving of a true heart for love?

Grantley put her away, and went hurriedly into Elsie's room. He came out pale and troubled. Elizabeth stood by the door gasping her breath; he wrung the hand she held forth to stop him, and was gone. She heard his steps as they went down the walnut-staircase, and they fell upon her like distinct blows. The great hall-door closed with a sharp noise that made her start, and with a burst of bitter, bitter anguish, cry out. Then came the sound of carriage-wheels grinding through gravel, and the beat of hoofs that seemed trampling down the heart in her bosom. As these sounds died off, she attempted to reach the window and look out, but only fell upon the couch which stood near it, and fainted without a moan.



CHAPTER XV.

MRS. HARRINGTON'S FRIENDS.

A day or two after Mellen's departure, Elizabeth, who was taking her solitary promenade on the veranda, was surprised by a visit from Mrs. Harrington, who came fluttering across the lawn between two gentlemen, with whom she seemed carrying on a right and left flirtation. She came up the steps with her flounces all in commotion, her face wreathed with insipid smiles, and her hair done up in a marvellous combination of puffs, curls and braids under a tiny bonnet, that hovered over them like a butterfly just ready to take wing.

"I knew that you would be moping yourself to death," she cried, floating down upon Elizabeth with both hands extended; "so I gave up everything and came in the first train. Now do acknowledge that I am the kindest friend in the world."

Elizabeth received her cordially, and with a great effort shook off the gloomy thoughts that had oppressed her all the morning. Mrs. Harrington did not heed this, she was always ready to welcome herself, and in haste to secure her full share of the conversation, and before Elizabeth could finish her rather halting attempts at a compliment she presented her companions.

Elizabeth had hardly glanced at the gentlemen till then, but now she recognized the elder and more stately of the two as the person who had probably saved her life on the Bloomingdale road.

"I need not ask a welcome for this gentleman, I am sure," said Mrs. Harrington, clasping both hands over Mr. North's arm, and leaning coquettishly upon him. "He is our preserver, Mrs. Mellen,—our hero."

North smiled, but rejected these compliments with an impatient lift of the head.

"Pray allow Mrs. Mellen to forget that this is not our first meeting," he said; "so small a service is not worth mentioning."

He looked steadily at Elizabeth as he spoke. She seemed to shrink from his glance, but answered,

"No, no; it was a service I can never forget—never hope to repay."

"Now let me beg a welcome for my other friend," interposed Mrs. Harrington. "Mr. Hawkins. I told him it was quite a charity to come with me and rouse you up a little, besides, he is dying to see your lovely sister-in-law."

Mr. Hawkins, a very young Englishman, was leaning against a pillar of the veranda in an attitude which displayed his very stylish dress to the best possible advantage. He appeared mildly conscious that he had performed a solemn duty in making a perambulating tailor's block of himself, and ready to receive any amount of feminine admiration without resistance. He came forward half a step and fell back again.

"Such a charming place you have here—quite a paradise," he drawled, caressing the head of his cane, which was constantly between his lips. "I trust—aw—the other angel of this retreat is visible?"

Elizabeth replied with a faint smile. She had borne a good many similar afflictions from Mrs. Harrington's friends, but it was too much that they should be forced upon her just then.

"Where is Elsie?" cried the widow, with vivacious affection, shaking her gay plumage like a canary bird in the sun.

"In her own room," replied Elizabeth. "Pray walk in, and I will call her."

"Oh, never mind, I'll go!" said Mrs. Harrington. "Gentlemen, I leave you with Mrs. Mellen; but no flirtation, remember that!"

She fluttered, laughed a little, and shook her finger at the very young man, who said "Aw!" while North seemed absorbed in the scenery. Then away she flew, kissing her hand to them, and leaving Elizabeth to gather up her weary thoughts and make an effort at entertaining these unwelcome guests.

Mrs. Harrington found Elsie yawning over a new novel, and quite prepared to be enlivened by the prospect of company.

"But I can't go down such a figure," she said; "just wait a minute. One gets so careless in a house without gentlemen."

"Poor dear! I am sure you are moped."

"Oh, to death. It's dreadful!" sighed Elsie. "I feel things so acutely. If I only had a little of Bessie's stoicism!"

"Yes, it's all very well; but you are made up of feeling," said the widow. "Change your dress, dear. Oh, you've made a conquest of a certain gentleman."

"What, that Hawkins! He's a fearful idiot!" cried Elsie. "But he'll do, for want of a better."

The sensitive young creature had quite forgotten her low spirits, but dressed herself in the most becoming morning attire possible, and floated down to greet the guests and quite bewilder them with her loveliness.

Hawkins had been mortally afraid of Mrs. Mellen, but with Elsie he could talk, and Elizabeth sat quite stunned by the flood of frivolous nonsense and the peals of senseless laughter which went on about her. As for Mr. North, Elsie scarcely gave him a word after the first general salutation.

After awhile Elizabeth managed to escape, on the plea that household duties required her presence, and stole up to her room for a little quiet. All at once she heard Tom Fuller's voice in the hall; opened her dressing-room door, and there he stood in his usual disordered state.

"I've come to say good-bye," were his first words.

"Then you are really going, Tom?" she said, sorrowfully, taking his hand and leading him into the chamber. "Oh, how sorry I am."

"Yes, I'm off to-morrow," he said, resolutely, running both hands through his hair, and trying to keep his courage up. "A trip to Europe is a splendid thing, Bess—I'm a lucky fellow to get it."

"I shall be all alone," she said, mournfully; "and I had depended on you so much."

"Oh," cried Tom, "It's good of you to miss me—nobody else will! But there, Bessie, don't you set me off! I wanted to bid you good-bye—I—I—well, I'm a confounded fool, but I thought I'd like to see her just once more."

"And those tiresome people are here," said Elizabeth.

"Who do you mean?"

"Oh, Mrs. Harrington and two men she has brought to spend the day—one of them is the person who checked our horses that day."

"I thought I heard the widow's voice as I came through the hall," said Tom. "Well, well, it's better so! You see I don't want to make a donkey of myself."

"Tom, you are the best creature in the world," cried Elizabeth.

"Oh, Lord bless you, no," said Tom, rubbing his forehead in a disconsolate way; "I ain't good; there's nothing like that about me. 'Pon my word, I'm quite shocked lately to see what an envious, bad-hearted old wretch I'm getting to be."

"We won't go downstairs yet," said Elizabeth; "sit down here and let's have a comfortable talk, like old times, Tom."

"Well, no, I guess not, thank you—it's very kind of you," returned he, getting very red. "You see I can't stay but an hour—I must take the next train, for I've lots of things to do."

"Oh, I thought you would spend the night."

"Now, don't ask me—I can't—it wouldn't be wise if I could," cried Tom, giving his hair an unmerciful combing with his fingers.

"No," she replied, regarding him with womanly pity; "perhaps not. And you would like to go down stairs?"

"I'm a fool to wish it," he answered; "those fine people will only laugh at me, and I know when I see that magnifico and his popinjay friend about Elsie I shall want to wring their conceited necks. But I'll go—oh, it's no use telling lies! You understand just what a fool I am—I came because I feel as if I must see her once more!"

Tom was twisting his hat in both hands, his features worked in the attempt he made to control his agitation; but Elizabeth loved him too well for any notice of his odd manner—she was entirely absorbed in sympathy for his trouble.

"Oh, Tom, Tom!" she said, "I do hope absence—the change—will do you good."

"Yes," he broke in, with a strangled whistle that began as a groan; "yes, of course, thank you—oh, no doubt! You see, there's no knowing what good may come. But Lord bless you, Bess, if the old ship would only sink and land me safe as many fathoms under salt water as was convenient, it would be about the best thing that could happen to me."

"Don't talk so, Tom; you can't think how it pains me."

"Well, I won't—there, I'm all right now! Ti-rol-de-rol!" and Tom actually tried to sing. "I say, Bessie, she never—she don't seem, you know—?"

"What, Tom?"

"To be sorry I was going, you know?"

"Elsie? She has been so engrossed with her brother's journey——"

"Yes, of course," Tom broke in; "oh, it's not to be expected—nobody that wasn't a flounder ever would have asked! Ri-tol-de-rol! I'm a little hoarse this morning, but it's no matter—I only want to show I'm not put about, you know—that is, not much."

He moved uneasily about the chamber, upset light chairs and committed disasters generally; but all the while looked resolute as possible, and kept up his attempt at a song in a mournful quaver.

"Well, I can't stay," he said; "I mustn't lose the train! Now, don't feel uncomfortable, Bessie; Lord bless you, I shall soon be all right—sea-sickness is good for my disease, you know," and Tom tried to laugh, but it was a dismal failure compared with his former light-heartedness.

Elizabeth saw that he was restless to get once more into Elsie's presence, painful as the interview must be to him, so she smoothed his hair, straightened his necktie and accompanied him downstairs.

"Oh, you dear, delightful Tom Fuller!" cried Mrs. Harrington, pleased to see any man arrive, for Elsie had carried off both her victims into the window-seat, and was making them dizzy with her smiles and brilliant nonsense.

"I—I'm delighted to see you," cried Tom, frantically, thrusting his hat in her face, in a wild delusion that he was offering his hand, for he was so upset by the sight of Elsie that he felt as if rapidly going up in an unmanageable balloon.

"I'll just say good-bye at the same time," pursued Tom; "for I'm rather in a hurry, thank you."

"Why, you're not going away directly!" cried the widow. "Oh, you must stay and entertain me. Elsie has left me quite desolate."

"Thank you; it's of no importance; I'm not quite on my sea legs yet," gasped Tom, growing so dizzy that he was possessed of a mad idea he was already on shipboard.

"Why, you look quite white and ill," said the widow.

"Yes; oh, not any, thank you," cried Tom, stepping on the widow's dress, dancing off it and dealing Elizabeth a blow with his hat.

Mrs. Mellen felt herself grow sick at heart; she glanced at Elsie; the girl was laughing gaily, and chatting away with young Hawkins, regardless of Tom's presence. North stood by, looking at her with his deep, earnest eyes, as if searching her character in all its shallow depths. Elizabeth felt bitterly indignant, and exclaimed—

"Elsie, my cousin has come to wish us good-bye, if you can spare him a moment."

"So you are really going?" called Elsie. "You oughtn't to run away so. It's so unkind of you."

Tom lifted his eyes mournfully to her face.

"My lap is so full of flowers," cried Elsie, glancing down at a mass of roses that glowed in the folds of her morning dress, "I can't possibly get up; come and shake hands with me."

It was well for Tom that Mrs. Harrington seized his arm, and afforded him a few instants to regain his composure, while she asked all sorts of questions about his journey and its object.

"Mary Harrington," said Elsie. "Just let Mr. Fuller come here; you mustn't assault peaceable men in that way."

"La, dear, what odd things you do say! I was just talking with Mr. Fuller about his journey."

Elsie glanced at North and whispered to his companion, who laughed in a very polite way. Tom knew it was at him, and grew more red and awkward. Elizabeth recognised the silly insult, and darted a look of such indignation towards the offender that the youth was quite subdued, although it had no effect whatever on Elsie.

She rose, dropping her flowers over the carpet, put her hand in Mr. North's arm, left Hawkins to follow, and caress his cane in peace, and moved towards the group.

"Good-bye, Mr. Fuller," said she, touching his shoulder with the tips of her fingers. "If you bring me a beautiful lava bracelet perhaps I'll forgive you for going away,—and some pink coral,—don't forget."

Tom was a sight to behold between confusion, distress, and his superhuman efforts to be calm.

"I'll bring you twenty," said he, recklessly.

"Oh, that would be overpowering," laughed Elsie. "Good-bye. I'm sure you'll look touching when you are seasick."

"He! he!" giggled Hawkins, as well as he could for the cane.

Tom turned on him like a tiger.

"You'll ruin your digestion if you laugh so much over that tough meal," said he, and for once Tom had the laugh on his side.

"Good-bye, Miss Elsie," he continued, determined to get away while he could still preserve a decent show of composure; "good-bye."

"Good-bye, Tom Fuller, good-bye!"

She flung some of the flowers she was holding, at him. Tom caught them and hurried out of the room, pressing the fragrant blossoms against his waistcoat, and smothering a mortal pang.

Elizabeth followed him into the hall, but their parting was a brief one, spoken amid bursts of laughter from within, and in a broken voice by the warm hearted young fellow.

"Good-bye, Bessie—God bless you."

"You'll write to me, Tom? I shall miss you so."

"Oh, don't; it ain't worth while! I'll write of course; good-bye."

Tom dashed down the steps and fled along the avenue in mad haste, and Elizabeth returned to her guests.

It seemed to her that the day would never come to an end. Mrs. Harrington and Elsie scarcely heeded her, but fluttered from room to room with the two guests, doing the honors with great spirit, and urging them to extend their visit some days. Elizabeth was offended at the reckless offer of hospitality.

Elsie saw this and whispered, "It wasn't my fault; don't blame me, dear! Grant is gone, and he told you not to be cross with me."

So Elizabeth controlled herself; perhaps the girl had done all this harm unconsciously. She would believe so, at least; no cloud must come between them. These almost strange men were invited, and must remain if they so decided.

As if she had not enough to bear already, Elizabeth's inflictions were increased towards the dinner hour by the arrival of a Mr. Rhodes and his daughter, who lived at an easy distance, and thought it a neighborly and kind thing for them to drop in to dinner with Mrs. Mellen, and console her in her loneliness.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE WIDOW'S FLIRTATION.

Mrs. Harrington plunged into her natural element at once; Mr. Rhodes was a rich widower, vulgar and pompous as could well be imagined; but that made no difference, the lady spread her flimsy net in that direction and put on all her fascinations at once, leaving the younger men to their fate. This was splendid sport to Elsie, for Miss Jemima, the daughter, a gaunt, peaked-nosed female, had been Miss Jemima a good many more years than she found agreeable, and when any woman ventured even to look at her stout parent, she was up in arms at once and ready to do battle against the threatened danger, resolved that one man at least should own her undivided dominion, even if that man was her pompous old father. Mr. Rhodes was at once captivated by the widow's flattery, and Elsie mischievously increased Jemima's growing irritation by whispers full of honied malice, that almost drove that single lady distracted.

"Quite a flirtation, I declare," said she; "really, Miss Jemima, widows are very dangerous, and she is so fascinating."

"It's ridiculous for a woman to go on so," returned the spinster, shaking her head in vehement agitation; "you may just tell her it's no use, my pa isn't likely to be caught with chaff like that."

"Oh, but Mrs. Harrington is considered irresistible."

"Well, I can't see it for my part," retorted Jemima; "She's a tolerable specimen of antique painting; but my pa isn't given to the fine arts."

"Oh! Mrs. Harrington," called Elsie, "I wish you could induce Mr. Rhodes to give us a picnic in his woods before the weather gets too cold—they are delightful. I daren't ask him, but you might venture, I'm sure."

Miss Jemima looked as if she had three minds to strangle the pretty torment on the spot.

"Excuse me, dear," said Mrs. Harrington, "I am sure I could have no influence."

"Oh, you painted humbug!" muttered Jemima.

"I should be delighted—charmed!" exclaimed Mr. Rhodes. "Madam, it would be a day never to be forgotten that honored my poor house with your presence," he broke off, puffing till the brass buttons on his coat shook like hailstones.

"Oh, you are a dreadful flatterer, I see!" answered the widow, quite aware of Jemima's rage, and delighted to increase it.

"Madam," said the stout man, "on the honor of a gentleman, I never flatter. Miss Elsie, defend me."

"Not unless you promise to get up the picnic," said the little witch. "Miss Jemima is anxious to have it——"

"Me," broke in the acid damsel, unable to endure anything more, "I am sure I never thought of such a thing, don't speak for me, if you please."

"But you will be delighted, you know you will."

"Pa's got to go to Philadelphia," said Jemima, sharply.

"But I could defer the trip, Mimy," said her parent, appealingly.

"Business is business, you always say," retorted the damsel.

Elsie gave a little scream.

"Why, how odd," said she. "Mrs. Harrington goes to Philadelphia next week you can escort her, Mr. Rhodes, she is a sad coward about travelling alone."

"I shall be delighted," said the widower, "delighted."

Jemima fairly groaned; she made a strangling effort to turn her agony into a cough, but it began as a groan; both Elsie and Mrs. Harrington were convinced of that, and it delighted them beyond measure.

"It would be very, very kind of Mr. Rhodes," said the widow, "but Elsie, you are inconsiderate, to think of him taking so much trouble only for us, and I a stranger."

"It would be an honor and delight to me," insisted Rhodes.

Jemima resolutely arose from her chair, and planted herself in a seat directly in front of her parent—he could not avoid her eye then—the wrath burning there made him hesitate and stammer.

"Miss Jemima," said Elsie, "come and look at my geraniums; I think they are finer even than yours."

But nothing short of a torpedo exploding under her chair would have made the heroic damsel quit her post, not for one instant would she leave her parent exposed to the wiles of that abominable widow.

"My dear, I am so tired," said she, "you must excuse me."

"Perhaps you'd like to go and lie down," persisted Elsie.

"You look fatigued," said Mrs. Harrington.

"Do I, ma'am; you're kind, I'm sure," snapped the spinster, trying to smile. "I never lie down in the daytime; I'm very comfortable where I am, thank you."

She might be very perfectly at ease herself, but she made her father very uncomfortable, while Elsie and the widow never gave over teasing for a single instant, till Elizabeth returned to the room.

Luckily dinner was announced, and the asperity of Miss Jemima's feelings softened a little by that, especially as she reflected that her father would be obliged to lead Mrs. Mellen into the dining-room. But that dreadful Elsie destroyed even that forlorn hope.

"Bessie," said she, "we must ask Mr. Rhodes to play host and sit at the foot of the table, so he shall lead Mrs. Harrington in."

Even Elizabeth could not repress a smile at the little elf's malicious craft, and there was nothing to be said. The wretched Jemima grew fairly white with rage, but she was obliged to control herself, and the dinner passed off in the most social, neighborly fashion.

At a very early hour Miss Jemima insisted upon returning home, but Elsie had a parting shaft ready for her.

"I have persuaded Mrs. Harrington and these gentlemen to stay over to-morrow," said she. "May I promise them that we'll all drive to your house and take luncheon, Miss Jemima, by way of returning your visit."

The spinster was compelled to express her gratification. She could do no less, after having invited herself and her father to dinner at Piney Cove, but her face was a perfect study while the pleasant words fell from her compressed lips, like bullets from a mould.

"We shall be in ecstasy," said Mr. Rhodes.

"You will be in New York," retorted Jemima; "you have to go early in the morning."

"My dear, the day after will do as well."

"Now, pa, you know you said——"

"Oh, Miss Jemima," broke in Elsie, "I shall think you don't want us to come!"

"And I," said the widow, "shall be mortally offended if Mr. Rhodes runs away the very first time I have the pleasure of visiting his house."

"Of course, of course!" said the stout man. "My daughter, Mimy, is a great business woman—girl, I mean—but on an occasion like this even business must wait. Ladies, I go home to dream of the honor to-morrow will bring."

"Well, pa, if we're going at all, I think we'd better start," cried the spinster; "we are keeping the horses in the cold."

She made her farewells very brief and carried off her parent in triumph, darting a last defiant look at the widow as she passed.

The moment they were gone Elsie went into convulsions of laughter, and clapping her pretty white hands like a child, cried out:

"She'll poison you, Mary Harrington, I know she will."

"My dear, I'll eat luncheon before I go."

Even Elizabeth was forced to laugh at the absurd scene. Elsie mimicked the spinster, and turned the affair in so many ridiculous ways that it afforded general amusement for the rest of the evening.

The whole party did drive over to Mr. Rhodes's house the next day, and Miss Jemima was tormented out of her very senses; while Mr. Rhodes was made to appear ridiculous as only a pompous old widower, with a keen appetite for flattery, can be made look.

The question of the picnic came up again, but Elizabeth settled that matter by refusing to have any share in it. She was in no spirits for such amusement, and had decided to refuse all invitations during Mr. Mellen's absence.

From that day Miss Jemima always felt a liking for Mrs. Mellen, who had so quietly come to her rescue, and she was the only one of the party to whom the claret would not have proved a fatal dose if the spinster's sharp glances or secret wishes could have had their due effect.

From some caprice Mrs. Harrington prolonged her stay at Piney Cove for an entire week, and all this time she protested against either of the gentlemen who had accompanied her there returning without her. Elsie, in her careless, childish way, seconded the widow, so these two men dropped into such easy relations with the family that it seemed difficult to assign any period to their visit. Nothing could be quieter than Mr. North's mode of life during his sojourn at the house. If he joined in the light conversation so prevalent at all times, it was with a quiet grace that modified it without offering rebuke. He seemed to give no preference to the society of any one of the three ladies, but most frequently attended Mrs. Harrington in her walks and rides. To Elsie he was reserved, almost paternal, and in his society the young girl would become grave, sometimes thoughtful, as if his presence depressed her childish flow of spirits.

If North ever had more than ordinary intercourse with his hostess no one witnessed it, yet a close observer might have seen that he watched her with a quiet vigilance that bespoke some deep interest in her movements. Those who have seen this very man creep into the mansion house at night and wander cautiously from room to room, as if to fix a plan of the dwelling in his mind, will understand that his visit, which seemed so purely accidental, had its object; but no one could have discovered, by look or movement, what that object was.

At last the party broke up and returned to the city. Elsie went with them. At first Mrs. Mellen opposed her going, but the pretty creature was resolute enough when her own wishes were concerned, and would listen to no opposition.

"I am not going to live in this stupid place, like a nun in a convent, just because my brother desires to amuse himself in California," she said, when Elizabeth would have dissuaded her from leaving home. "I tell you, Grant would not wish it. I am not married and obliged to shut myself up and play proper like you. It's downright cruel of you wanting me to stay here. I'm half dead with grieving already. The house isn't like home without Grant. At any rate, I'm going; you are not my mother!"

She carried her point; Elizabeth had no absolute authority which could enforce obedience on a creature at once so stubborn and so volatile. So she made no further opposition, fearing that anything like violent measures might prove distasteful to her husband.



CHAPTER XVII.

STARTING FOR THE PIC-NIC.

But one day now remained of Mrs. Harrington's unwelcome visit. The whole party, except Elizabeth, were to start for New York in the morning, where Mrs. Harrington had resolved to open a splendid succession of receptions and parties in Elsie's behalf.

This last day Elsie declared should be the crowning pleasure of Mrs. Harrington's visit. They would ride down to the sea-side tavern on horseback, have a chowder party on the precipice behind it, looking out upon the ocean, and return home at dusk or by moonlight, as caprice might determine. Mr. Rhodes and Miss Jemima were to be included, and some of the colored servants were forwarded early in the morning to superintend the arrangements.

The dew was hanging thick and bright on the lawn when Mr. Rhodes and his daughter rode up to the Piney Cove mansion. A group of horses were gathered in front of the veranda, and a little crowd of ladies, in long sweeping dresses, gauntlet gloves and pretty hats, stood chatting around the door.

Mr. Rhodes preferred to sit on his handsome bay horse, and wait for the party to arrange itself, for it was rather inconvenient for him to mount and dismount the high-stepping beast oftener than was absolutely necessary. As for Jemima, she rode a long-limbed, slender-bodied horse, and sat him in grim dignity, as the dames of old occupied their high-backed chairs. Her beaver hat towered high, and the stiff tuft of feathers that rose from it in front gave a dash of the military to her usually defiant aspect, grimly imposing.

She drew her horse up to the front steps, and sat viciously regarding the city widow, as that lady shook out the folds of her riding-skirt, pulled the gauntlets to a tighter fit on her shapely hands, and kept her cornelian-headed riding-whip in a constant state of vibration, for the benefit of that evidently too admiring widower on the great bay horse.

The party mounted at last, and cantered in a gay cavalcade across the lawn, leaving the mansion behind them almost in solitude. It was a lovely day, bright with sunshine, and freshened by a cool breeze from the ocean. Mrs. Mellen that day seemed among the most joyous of the party. Whatever care had hitherto possessed her she evidently threw off; her sweet voice rang out pleasantly, and her face grow beautiful in the animation of the moment.

For a while the party moved on at random; but when the road branched off into a long tract of the woodland the equestrians naturally broke up into pairs, and, either by chance or design, Mr. North joined Elizabeth, who was riding a little in advance. It was almost the first time that he had seemed to prefer her society during his whole visit, and this movement naturally created a little observation. Elsie looked after the splendid pair as they rode under the overhanging trees, with an expression of subdued wonder in her blue eyes, which amounted almost to dismay. Mrs. Harrington laughed with as much meaning as her small share of intellect could concentrate on one idea, and said in a low voice to Elsie: