"Did I not tell you they had met before? She has been playing dutiful like a martyr. See how she breaks out now. Look! look! she is turning down a cross road; it is a mile farther round."

"We will go on direct," said Elsie. "If my brother's wife chooses to ride off alone with any man through the woods, let her. It was decided that we should take the highway, and we will."

Elsie spoke with decision, a cold light came into her blue eyes, and the expression about her lips was almost stern; for a moment the girl was transfigured before her friend.

At the cross roads there was a little debate. Miss Jemima turned her horse in the direction Elizabeth had taken. The generally obedient papa was following this lead, when Mr. Hawkins was sent forward to arrest him.

"Straight ahead, that's the programme," he called out, taking the gold head of his riding-whip from his mouth long enough to speak clearly, "Miss Elsie told me to call you back."

"And the—the other lady," stammered Rhodes, flushing red, to the intense scorn of the spinster.

"Oh, she's gone ahead."

"Then I take this way," exclaimed Jemima, with emphasis; "come, pa."

Mr. Rhodes had wheeled his horse half round, and was casting irresolute looks towards the two ladies riding slowly along the shady road.

"But, daughter, we cannot leave them to ride on alone."

"This—this—person is with them, and they seem to count him as a man," answered Jemima, with a gesture of intense scorn.

Mrs. Harrington here was seen to draw up her horse in the shade of a huge chestnut, and playfully beckon the widower with her whip.

"Jemima, I must. It would be underbred," cried the desperate man, riding away to the enemy.

Jemima sat upon her horse, petrified with amazement. Her father looked anxiously back when he reached the widow, with sad forebodings of the tempest that would follow, but there the spinster sat at the cross roads like an equestrian statue.

"Come, come," said the widow, touching him playfully with her whip. "Elsie is getting impatient. Now for a race."

Her spirited horse dashed forward at a run. The ponderous steed of the widower thundered after, making the forest reverberate with the heavy fall of his hoofs.

Mr. Hawkins fell into a dainty amble, and away the whole party swept into the green shadows of the woods.

Jemima looked right and she looked left. Should she ride on and leave her pa in the hands of that designing creature? Perish the thought, better anything than that! She touched her horse. It turned sharply, and swept down the highway like a greyhound. She struck him on the flank, then the tiny lash of her whip quivered about his ears till he dashed on, flinging back dust and stones with his hoofs.

The party was riding fast. Mr. Hawkins by Elsie, Mr. Rhodes close to the widow—so close, that somehow her right hand, whip and all, had got entangled with his. They were on a curve of the road, around which Jemima came sweeping like a torrent. With a single bound her horse rushed in between them, leaving the widow's gauntlet glove in the grasp of that frightened man, and the cornelian-headed whip deep in the mud of the highway.

Not a word was spoken. The widower sank abjectly down in his saddle, and with his apprehensive eyes turned sideways on the spinster, surreptitiously thrust the stray glove into the depths of his pocket. The widow, convulsed with mingled laughter and rage, gave no doubt of genuine color now, for her face was crimson. Thus, like two prisoners under military guard, they moved on, with Jemima riding in grim vigilance between them.

The spot chosen for the chowder-party commanded a splendid sea view and a broad landscape in the background, of which the distant mansion of Piney Cove was a principal object. It was an abrupt precipice, clothed, except in the very front, with a rich growth of trees; splendid masses of white pine and clumps of hemlock darkened with the deep green of their foliage such forest trees as cast their leaves from autumn till spring time. The broken precipice in front was tufted here and there with clumps of barberry bushes and other wild shrubs, which might have aided a daring adventurer to climb up it, had the temptation been sufficient.

Between this precipice and the shores of the ocean, stood the little tavern we have before spoken of, from which the negroes of Piney Point were now bringing up a huge iron pot wherein to cook the chowder, which would be nothing if not culminated in the open air, over a fire of sticks, and eaten beneath the hemlock trees.

A bridle path led to the top of this precipice, winding along the back slope of the hill, and by this route the highway party rode to the summit, some fifteen minutes before Elizabeth and Mr. North joined them. Whatever evil feelings had sprung up on the road, at least a majority of the company resolved to enjoy themselves now. Jemima entered heart and soul into the preparations, keeping a sharp eye on her father all the time. He, poor man, scarcely required her vigilance, for when a chowder was to be concocted, the stout man forgot all his gallant weaknesses, and gave his whole being up to the important subject.

Mrs. Harrington had no great talent for cookery, and feeling beaten and awed by Jemima's dashing generalship, hovered around the outskirts of the preparations, and flirting a little with Hawkins, from languid habit, rather than any special regard for the young gentleman.



CHAPTER XVIII.

FACE TO FACE.

During the bustle of these preparations, Elizabeth, Mr. North and Elsie had dropped out of the party and wandered off, no doubt, into the shady places of the woods; no one had observed how or where they went. Hawkins had been with Elsie at first, but she had sent him down a ravine for some tinted ash leaves, and when he came back to the stone on which she had been sitting, it was vacant. Probably she had become tired of waiting, and had gone in search of the forest leaves herself; as for Mrs. Mellen and North, of course they were all right somewhere, and would be on hand safe enough when the chowder was ready.

While Mrs. Harrington and Hawkins were talking in this idle fashion, they sat on a large ledge of rock that crowned the very brink of the precipice; and chancing to look down, saw two persons near the foot moving towards the tavern. One they recognised, even from that distance, to be Mr. North, for his tall, grand figure was not to be mistaken. The other was a lady; the dark riding-dress and floating plumes might belong to any female of the party, there was no individuality in a dress like that. The couple had evidently found some passage down the brow of the precipice, for it would have been impossible to reach the spot where they stood by any other route.

"Well," said Mrs. Harrington, "if that isn't a sly proceeding; what on earth does it mean? How Mrs. Mellen can drag her long skirts down that hill, just to look at a common tavern, which she's seen a hundred times, I cannot imagine."

"Perhaps they are going down to the beach," said Hawkins, who had no more malice in his composition than a swallow.

"No, no! they are turning toward the house," said the widow, considerably excited. "What can they want there?"

"Oh, very likely they have gone in to rest. You know North lives there when he comes on the island to fish or shoot."

"What! Mr. North, he live there and never tell me! I thought he was a perfect stranger on the island."

"As to that," answered Hawkins, a little startled by her earnestness, "he only comes down for a day now and then. It's nothing permanent, I assure you."

"There! there! they have gone in!" exclaimed the lady. "I wonder where Elsie is; I must tell Elsie."

"Why, what nonsense!" answered Hawkins, with some spirit; "can't Mrs. Mellen step into a house to rest herself a moment without troubling her friends so terribly?"

"Just be quiet, Hawkins, you don't know what you are talking about," answered the lady, keeping her gaze fastened on the tavern. "Turn an eye on the house while I look at the time. It must be five minutes since they went in. Dear, dear, what a world we live in!"

Mrs. Harrington kept the little enamelled watch, sparkling with diamonds, in her ungloved hand full ten minutes, only glancing from it to the door of the tavern in her vigilance. At the end of that time Mr. North and his companion came out of the house and disappeared in the undergrowth which lay between that and the precipice.

Mrs. Harrington watched some time for them to appear again, but her curiosity was baffled, and her attention soon directed to other objects. At last she was aroused by Elsie coming suddenly upon the ledge, flushed, panting for breath and glowing with anger. She turned upon Hawkins like a spiteful mockingbird.

"A pretty escort you are, Mr. Hawkins, to leave a lady all alone in the woods. I declare, Mrs. Harrington, he lost me in one of those dreadful ravines, and I scrambled up the wrong bank and have been wandering everywhere, climbing rocks and tiring myself to death. Only think of dragging this long skirt over my arm and tearing my way through the bushes. I heard the servants laugh and that guided me, or I might have been roaming the woods now."

"My poor dear," said the widow, full of compassion, "how heated and wearied you look! Hawkins, can't you find something to fan her with?"

Hawkins broke off a branch full of leaves and offered to fan her with it. But she snatched it out of his hand and flung it over the precipice.

"Where is Elizabeth? Go tell Elizabeth I wish to speak with her, if you want to make up with me."

"We have not seen Mrs. Mellen since you went away; nor Mr. North either. They have finished that ride by strolling off together," said Mrs. Harrington.

Elsie started, and the warm color faded from her face.

"What! Elizabeth; has she been roaming about? and—and——"

"With Mr. North, Elsie."

The tone in which this was conveyed said more than the words. At first Elsie looked bewildered; then, as if her gentle spirit had received the shock of a painful idea, she fell into troubled thought.

"And you saw her go away," she said, in a low voice. "In what direction?"

"We did not know how or when she went, but certainly did see her and Mr. North together."

"Where?"

"Down yonder, going into that low tavern."

Elsie gazed into her friend's face, startled and astonished.

"She would not go there. You must be mistaken, Mrs. Harrington. No person could be recognised from this distance—it's all nonsense."

"Ask her," said Mrs. Harrington, "for here she comes."

Elizabeth came up from a hollow in the woods and joined the party. She seemed completely worn out, and sat down on a fragment of rock, panting for breath. She was very pale, as if some great exertion had left the weariness of reaction upon her. She had evidently rested somewhere before joining them.

"Elizabeth, where have you been?" said Elsie, looking anxiously at her sister-in-law.

"Down in the woods."

Elizabeth pointed to the forest that sloped back from the precipice.

Before Elsie could resume her questions Mrs. Harrington broke in with a faint sneer on her lips.

"And where did you leave Mr. North?" she said, fixing a cunning, sidelong glance on Elizabeth.

"I have not seen Mr. North," answered Mrs. Mellen, with apparent indifference, though the hot color mounted to her face, brought there either by some inward consciousness or the perceptible sneer leveled at her in the form of a question.

"Not seen Mr. North," exclaimed the widow, "dear me what things optical delusions are!"

Elizabeth did not hear or heed this, for that instant Mr. North came up to them very quietly and sat down near the widow.

"Have you had a pleasant ramble?" he said, addressing Elsie. "I saw you and Hawkins in the woods and had half a mind to join you."

"But changed your mind, and went—may I ask where?" said Elsie, with a shade of pallor on her face; for it seemed as if the man had surprised her with bitter thoughts of his deception in her mind, and she could not refrain from revealing something of distrust.

"Oh, I took a ramble around the brow of the precipice," he answered, carelessly, "and went into the tavern for a glass of water."

"And the lady," said Elsie, looking steadily in his face. "What lady was it in a riding-dress who bore you company? Mrs. Harrington saw one from her perch here on the ledge."

North cast a quick glance on Elizabeth, who did not speak, but sat looking from him to her sister-in-law, as if stricken by some sudden terror.

"It was a mistake. No lady shared my rambles," said North.

"But there was a lady," cried Mrs. Harrington, a good deal excited. "I saw her with my own eyes. Mr. Hawkins remarked her too."

North smiled and shook his head.

"She had on a riding-habit and an upright plume like——"

"Well, well," said North, gently, "it is useless going on with the subject. I assure you that I went down the precipice alone and came up alone."

Mrs. Harrington looked at Elsie and smiled.

"Of course he is in honor bound to say that," she whispered.

Elsie seemed disturbed and answered quickly, "I, for one, believe that he speaks the truth. It is folly to say that you saw any one in that dress; besides, it was just as likely to be me as Elizabeth—our habits are alike."

"Poor generous dove!" whispered the widow, "you know better; but if you are satisfied it's no business of mine, only if Mellen asks me about it I must tell the truth."

"Mary Harrington, you must have better proof than this before you dare to make mischief between my brother and his wife," said Elsie, with a force of expression that made the widow open her eyes wide. "Don't be slanderous and wicked, for I won't bear that, especially against Elizabeth."

"Dear me, what a storm I have raised. Well, well, I did not see a lady, that's enough. And there comes that wonderful colored person of yours, to say that the feast is spread and the chowder perfect. Come, come, one and all."

The whole party had assembled on the ledge by this time. At Mrs. Harrington's invitation, it moved off, and went laughing and chatting towards a large flat rock, that gleamed out from among the surrounding grass and mosses, like a crusted snow bank, so white and crisp was the linen spread over it. Here a dainty repast presented itself, for the smoking dish of chowder that stood in the centre gave its name to what was, in fact, a sumptuous feast. Directly the noise of flying corks and the gurgle of amber-hued wines, with bursts of laughter and flashes of wit, frightened the birds from their haunt in the great maple-tree overhead, and made its rich yellow leaves tremble again in the sunshine that came quivering over the forest, and rippled up the broad ocean with silvery outbursts.

Whatever had gone before, all was hilarity and cordial good-humor now. North, for one, came out resplendently; such graceful compliments, such bright flashes of wit no one had ever heard from his lips till then. It aroused the best talent of every one present. When the party broke up and its members went to the covert where their horses had been fed, it was joyously, like birds flying home to their nests.

A ride through the golden coolness of a lovely sunset brought the party back to Piney Cove, and all that had gone wrong during the day seemed forgotten.

The visitors were to start for New York early in the morning, and, as all were somewhat fatigued, the house was closed somewhat earlier than usual.

Elsie had retired earlier than the rest, having some preparations to make for her little journey. She busied herself awhile about her boudoir and bed-room, selecting a few articles of jewelry and so on to be packed, then sat down and read awhile; tired of that, she turned down the lights in the alabaster lily cups, which one of the statues held, sat down in the faint moonshine, with which she had thus flooded the room, and fell into a train of restless thought; a pale gleam darted up now and then from the lilies, and trembled through the floss-like curls under which she had thrust her hand, revealing a face more earnest and thoughtful than was usual to the gay young creature. Whether it was that she had become anxious from the dart of suspicion that had been that day cast at her brother's wife, or was disturbed by some other cause I cannot say, but her eyes shone bright and clear in the pale radiance that surrounded her; now and then she would start up and listen at Elizabeth's door, as if about to enter and question her of the things that evidently troubled her mind. At last she fell into quiet, and lying on the couch, scarcely seemed to breathe. It was almost midnight then. The house was still, and she could hear the distant waves beating against the shore. She closed her eyes and listened dreamily, reluctant to seek any other place of rest, yet changing the azure cushions of her couch impatiently from time to time.

At last, as she half rose for this purpose, a noise from the outer room, which was a square passage or hall, in which were placed some bronze statues and antique shields, arrested her attention. Resting on her elbow, she held her breath and listened.

The noise came again more distinctly. It seemed as if a door had been opened with caution. Elsie arose, stole softly across the carpet, turned the lock of her dressing-room door and entered the passage, carrying a little night-lamp in her hand, which she had kindled among the alabaster lilies. She had half crossed the hall, casting frightened looks around, when a cry of dismay broke from her lips, for close by the door which led to her sister-in-law's apartments she saw Elizabeth standing, pale as death, but with her eyes burning like fire, turned upon a man who stood leaning against one of the statues. It was Mr. North.

The two women stood face to face, regarding each other in dead silence, while North smiled upon them both. The lamp trembled in Elsie's hand, her face became white as snow. Without uttering a word she turned, entered her room and locked the door.

The next day she left Piney Point with Mrs. Harrington. Mr. North left also, but he went alone.



CHAPTER XIX.

LETTERS.

Months had passed since Grantley Mellen's departure for California; the winter had gone, the summer faded, and though his absence had been prolonged almost two years, there was little hope of his speedy return.

The business upon which he had gone out was not yet settled, and however great his anxiety to meet his family, he would not endanger his worldly interests so vitally as he would have done by any neglect or reckless inattention in that affair.

Since the night of that unpleasant scene in the hall at Piney Cove, Elsie Mellen had been at home so irregularly that all intimate relations had died out between her and her sister-in-law. Some dark thought seemed to possess the young girl, since the night of that strange adventure; and, though the subject was never mentioned between her and Elizabeth, Elsie's demeanor towards her brother's wife was one of cold, almost hateful distrust, while Elizabeth grew more pensively sad each day, and seemed to shrink from any explanation with painful sensitiveness.

At last Elsie almost entirely absented herself from the house. The very premises seemed to have become hateful to her. Without deigning to consult Elizabeth, she had been visiting about among her former schoolmates, making Mrs. Harrington's house her headquarters. This was all the announcement of her movements that she chose to make to the woman who had been left her guardian.

How this fair, thoughtless girl lost all respect for her brother's wife so completely that she refused to remain accountable to her for anything, no one could tell, for she never mentioned the affair of that night to her nearest friend. It evidently worked in her heart, but never found utterance.

So the winter wore away drearily enough at Piney Cove; for with all her waywardness, Elsie had been like a sunbeam in the house; and Elizabeth pined in her absence till the dark circles widened under her eyes, and her voice always had a sound of pain in it. But with the most sorrowful, time moves on, and even grief cannot retain one phase of mournfulness for ever.

The second spring began to scatter a little brightness about the old house, and in this fresh outbloom of nature Elizabeth found some sources of enjoyment. Since her virtual separation from Elsie she had received no company, but lived in utter seclusion. Letters from her husband came regularly, but her replies were studied, and written with restraint. She never folded one of these missives without tears in her eyes, and when his letters spoke of coming home, she would ponder over the writing with a look of strange dread in her face.

One lovely spring morning Elizabeth Mellen was alone in that quiet old mansion. Elsie had not been home for months, and only brief notes announcing some change of place, or anticipated movements, had warned Elizabeth of her mode of existence. These notes were cold as ice, and the young wife always shivered with dread when she opened them.

It might have been a package of these letters that she had been reviewing. She was alone in the library; quite alone, of course, but the repose and silence about her brought no rest to her soul. Her whole appearance was in strange contrast to the quiet of the scene; her face so changed by the thoughts which kept her company, and forced themselves upon her solitude, that it hardly seemed the same.

She walked up and down the room in nervous haste, her head bent, her eyes looking straight before her, full of wild bewilderment which follows an effort at reflection when the mind is in a fever of unrest. Sometimes she stopped before the table, on which lay a package of open letters; she would glance at them with a shudder of horror, wringing her hands passionately together at the time, and uttering low moans which sounded scarcely human in their smothered intensity.

Then she would glance towards the mantel, upon which lay a letter with the seal still unbroken, though it had reached her early that morning. It was from her husband, and she had not yet dared to read its contents!

She had been thus for hours, walking to and fro, sometimes sweeping the package on the table away, as if unable longer to endure it before her eyes, only an instant after to recover it as if there were danger in allowing it out of her sight. Then she would take up her husband's letter and attempt to open it, but each time her courage failed, and she would lay it down, while that sickening trouble at her heart sent a new pallor across her face, and left her trembling and weak, like a person just risen from a sick bed.

It was growing late in the afternoon; the sunlight played in at the windows, and cast a pleasant glow through the room; but the glad beams only made her shiver, as if they had been human witnesses that might betray her fear and misery.

At last she took up the package, resolved to put it resolutely away where she could no longer look at it; as she raised it a miniature fell from among the papers, and struck the floor with a ringing sound. She snatched it up quickly, crushed the whole into a drawer, locked it and put the key in her bosom.

Then, with a sudden struggle she started forward to the mantel, caught up her husband's letter, and began to read. A sharp cry broke from her lips; she dropped slowly to her knees, and went on reading in that attitude, as if it were the only one in which she could venture to glance at those kindly words:

"Not coming quite yet," she gasped at length; "thank God, not yet—not yet."

She allowed the letter to drop from her hand, and for a few moments gave herself completely up to the horrible agitation which consumed her.

It would have been a piteous sight to the coldest or most injured heart to have seen that beautiful woman crouched on the floor, in the extremity of her anguish, writhing to and fro, and moaning in mortal agony, which could find no relief in tears.

She remained thus for a long time; at last some sudden thought appeared to strike her, which brought with it an absolute necessity for self-control and immediate action.

She rose to her feet, muttering:

"He will be here again soon; he must not find me like this!"

She walked to the mirror, arranged her disordered dress and hair, and stood gazing at her own features in a sort of wondering pity; they were so death-like and contracted, with suffering that she felt almost as if looking into the face of a stranger.

At length she caught up a cloak which lay on the sofa, wrapped herself in it and went out of the house.

She took her way through the woods, walking rapidly, quite regardless that the moisture from the damp earth was penetrating her thin shoes, not feeling the keenness of the wind, which was growing chill with the approach of evening.

The expression of her face changed; she was deadly pale still, but a look of resolution had settled over her features, and a naturally strong will had begun to assert itself.

Beyond the shrubbery that thick grove of evergreens extended to the very shore, and into their shadow Elizabeth walked with a determined step.

Evidently waiting for some one she paced up and down among the trees, the dry leaves rustling under her tread and making her start, as if she feared being surprised in that solitary spot by some curious wanderer.

It was growing almost twilight, but still she kept up that dreary promenade, struggling bravely with herself, and trying to restrain the agonizing thoughts which threatened to overwhelm her forced composure.

"He will not come," she muttered; "I must wait—wait—he will not come to-day."

She shuddered at the very sound of her own voice, but it seemed to have disturbed some one else; for a step sounded on the grass, and a man came out from the deeper recesses of the grove, and paused for a moment, glancing on either side as if uncertain which path to pursue.

It was Mr. North.



CHAPTER XX.

AN INTERVIEW IN THE WOODS.

Elizabeth saw the man and yet neither moved or spoke, but remained standing there in dumb silence, gazing at him with an expression in which so many diverse emotions struggled, that it would have been difficult to decide which feeling was paramount.

The flutter of her cloak caught his attention, and he came hurriedly forward with a smile on his lips, holding out his hand in an easy, reckless fashion.

"Ten thousand pardons," he exclaimed, "I fear that I have kept you waiting—I shall never forgive myself."

She put up her hand as if to check him, feeling, perhaps, some mockery in these words which was not apparent in his voice.

"We need not make excuses to each other," she said, in a cold, hard tone, "neither you nor I came here for that."

"Scarcely, I believe," and he laughed in a reckless way, which appeared natural to him.

Elizabeth Mellen shuddered in every limb at that repulsive sound; an absolute spasm of pain contracted her features, she gave no other sign of emotion, but clenched her hands hard together, forcing herself to be calm.

"I only received your letter this morning," he continued, watching her every movement carefully, while standing there with his back against a tree with apparent unconcern; "I should have been earlier, had it been possible."

She made an impatient gesture.

"No more of that," she exclaimed, "enough!"

He looked at her with the same careless smile that lighted up his somewhat worn face into an expression of absolute youthfulness. He was still a splendidly handsome man; a type of rare beauty which could not have failed to attract general observation wherever he appeared.

He was tall; the shoulders and limbs might have served as a model for a sculptor; the neck was white almost as a woman's; the magnificent head set with perfect grace upon it, and was carried with a haughty air that was absolutely noble. He might have been thirty-eight, perhaps even older than that, but he was one of those men concerning whose age even a physiognomist would be puzzled to decide.

The face was almost faultless in its contour; the mouth, shaded by a long silken moustache, which relieved his paleness admirably, and lent new splendor to his eyes, which possessed a strange magnetic power that had worked ill in more than one unfortunate destiny.

It was a face trained to concealment, and yet so carefully tutored that at the first glance one only thought what an open, pleasant expression it had. Even after long intercourse and a thorough knowledge of the man's character, that face would have puzzled the most skillful observer.

Elizabeth Mellen was looking at him in a strange silence; whatever might have been in the past there was no spell now in those glorious eyes which could dazzle her soul into forgetfulness; shade after shade of repressed emotion passed over her features as she gazed, leaving them at last white and fixed as marble.

"You are pale," he said, "so changed."

She started as if he had struck her.

"I did not come here to talk of my appearance," she said.

"True," he replied, "very true; but I cannot help wondering. I think of that day when I saved your life——"

"If you had only let me die then!" she broke in passionately. "If God had only mercifully deprived you of all strength!"

"You were blooming and gay," he went on as if he had not heard her words. "Yes, you are changed since then."

"I will not hear these things," she cried; "I will not be made to look back upon what we all were then."

She closed her eyes in blind anguish; his words brought back with such terrible force the time of that meeting—the day but one before her marriage, when he had started up so fatally in her path, and never left it till this terrible moment.

"Then to change the subject," he said. "In our brief conversation the other day we arrived at no conclusion whatever, nor was your letter any more satisfactory; will you tell me exactly what you have decided upon?"

A sudden flash of anger leaped into her eyes above all the suffering that dilated them.

"Now you are talking naturally," she said, "now you are your real self!"

He bowed in graceful, almost insulting mockery.

"It is your turn to pay compliments," he answered; "but I shall not receive them so ungraciously as you did mine."

She passed her hand across her throat as if something were choking her, then she said in a hard, measured tone:

"Have you considered the proposition I made you—will you go away from this country, and remain away for ever?"

He stood playing with his watchchain in an easy, careless way, as he replied:

"It is cruel to banish me—very cruel!"

"Listen!" she exclaimed passionately; "I know more than you think—your residence here is not safe!"

He only bowed again.

"It may be so, but I leave few traces in my path. If you do indeed know anything which could affect me, I am very certain that in you I have a friend who will be silent."

He opened his vest slightly and drew forth from an inner pocket a small paper, at the sight of which Elizabeth grew whiter than before. She made a gesture as if she would have snatched it from him, but he thrust it back in its hiding-place with a sarcastic smile.

"Secret for secret," said he; "but never mind that. After all, you treat me very badly. I wonder I am in the least inclined to be friends with you."

"Don't mock me!" she exclaimed. "Friends! There is no creature living that I loathe as I do you! No matter what the danger may be, I will speak the truth; tell you how utterly abhorrent you are to me, and brave the result."

"Yet once——"

She interrupted him with an insane gesture; perhaps he knew her too well for any attempt at trifling further with her just then, for his manner changed, and he said:

"You will take cold here; it is growing dark and the wind is very chill."

"It doesn't matter," she replied, recklessly. "Let us finish what there is to say, then I will go."

The wretched woman could stand upon her feet no longer, she was shaking so with agitation and exhaustion that she was forced to sit down on a fallen log. He seated himself by her side, regardless of her recoiling gesture, and began to talk earnestly.

For a full hour that strange interview went on, their voices rising at times in sudden passion, then sinking to a low tone, as if the speakers remembered that they spoke words which must not be overheard.

At last Elizabeth arose from her seat, folded her cloak about her, and said, quickly:

"Be here to-morrow at the same hour."

Without giving him time to answer, or making the least sign of farewell, she darted rapidly through the darkening woods and disappeared in the direction of the house.

North rose, began whistling a careless air, and walked slowly back along the path by which he had entered the grove.

When Elizabeth came in sight of the house she saw a light in the library window.

"Elsie is back at last. God help us all!" she muttered.

She moved near the low casement, looked in and saw the girl standing on the hearth, and hurried towards the entrance.

Elsie had returned home a full hour before, and had searched for Elizabeth vainly about the house. She entered the library, and was walking restlessly about the spacious room, slowly and sadly, as if oppressed by this cold welcome home.

Suddenly her eye caught sight of a paper lying under the table; it was one of the letters which had fallen unnoticed by Elizabeth when she put away the package.

Elsie caught it up, glanced her eyes over it, uttered a faint cry, then read it in a sort of horrified stupor.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" broke from her lips.

The discovery which she had made froze the very blood in her veins, and left her incapable of thought or action. She sat shivering, as if struck with a mortal chill, and at last crept close to the fire, clutching the letter in her hands, but holding them out for warmth. Sometimes her sister's name broke from her lips in a horrified whisper, and low words died in her throat, the very sound of which made her shudder.

At length the darkness and the solitude seemed to become insupportable to her; she started forward and opened the door, with the intention of fleeing from the room. It had suddenly become odious to her. She took one step into the hall and met Elizabeth face to face. The woman saw the letter which Elsie held in her hand, caught the recoiling gesture which she instinctively made, then for an instant they both stood still, staring at each other.

Suddenly Elizabeth caught Elsie's hand, drew her back into the library, and, once there, closed and locked the door.

For more than an hour the pair were alone in that darkened apartment. When at last they emerged from it they were both deadly white, and exhausted as if by passionate weeping. Not a word was spoken between them, but they turned away from each other like ghosts that had no resting-place on earth.



CHAPTER XXI.

FIRE AND WATER.

When North left Mrs. Mellen in the woods he took a moment for consideration, and then walked quickly towards the shore tavern. As he turned a point which led from Piney Point to the bluff which overhung it, his servant, the young mulatto, who had spent most of the season at this retreat, came to meet him with a letter in his hand.

"It had a foreign postmark," said the man; "so I started to meet you the moment it came in, according to orders."

"Right, boy, you are very right," cried North, tearing at the envelope as a hawk rends its prey; "never let a scrap of writing from abroad rest a moment out of my hands."

The man read the letter—only a few lines—and his hands shook till the paper rattled again.

"Boy—boy, what day of the month is this?" he questioned, trying to fold the letter, which he crushed instead.

"The tenth, sir."

North went into a mental calculation, then the cloud on his face broke away and he almost shouted:

"It is in time—it is in time! Any other letters?"

"One for the Cove. Shall I slip it into the old man's parcel or would you rather——"

"Give it to me," said North, cutting the servant short, and snatching at the letter, which was in Mr. Mellen's handwriting and bore the California postmark.

He was too eager for caution, and broke the seal recklessly.

"He, too—he coming, too! By Jove, this is glorious sport! Made his will before sailing, ha!—provident man!—one half to his dear wife, the other to his darling sister, Elsie Mellen. A safe precaution, for ships will get lost at sea."

North crushed the two letters into his pocket, and walked with rapid steps towards the tavern. But he only remained long enough to get a telescope, with which he reappeared, and turned into a path leading to the bluff. Once upon the ledge, high above the house, he levelled his glass and took a hasty sweep of the ocean with it. Nothing was in sight that seemed to interest him, so he turned the glass a little landward and levelled it on the Piney Cove mansion, which made an imposing feature in the landscape. From the eminence on which the mansion stood the grounds sloped down to the water's edge in a closely-shaven lawn, pleasantly broken up by flower-beds, and knots of old trees that looked aged and mysterious enough to have watched that distant sweep of sea for whole centuries.

North seemed to be counting every clump of trees, and calculating the value of each broad field that stretched back from the crescent-like Cove.

"It is a glorious old place, and we might live there like monarchs. If I could only command the winds and waves for one week, now, we might defy the rest. Half his property! Why, it is splendid; and the will safe."

With these words he turned his glass again. On a clear morning there was a glorious view from the bluff, showing the full extent of the curving bay, with its long line of steep woodlands stretching along the coast and the bright rush of waters beyond, till the eye was lost in the white line of the distant ocean.

Other mansions peeped out from among the trees, or stood boldly down on the shore, and on the right hand a small village nestled in at the furthermost extremity of the bay, forming a pleasant life picture. The man cared nothing for these things, but turned his glass directly oceanward, and searched the horizon with keen interest.

A ship hove in sight, like a great white bird, beating up from its nest in mid-ocean. The heart in that bad man's bosom made a great bound, and the blasphemy of a thanksgiving sprang to his lips; but the joy was only for a moment. Dropping his glass, he muttered:

"Madman! to suppose, of all the ships on the ocean, it must be this one. But if it should—if it should!"

He sat down on a fragment of rock, rested his glass on the drooping branch of a tree, and watched the ship as it swept through a bank of luminous fog and took a more definite form. Hitherto it had seemed floating between a curve of the sky and the blue line of water, but now it came out clearly, and as North looked he saw a dark pile of storm-clouds muster up behind it with slow, threatening danger.

Hour after hour the man sat and watched that one object. The glass was a powerful one, and seconded his keen vigilance. At length he was rewarded, a burst of sunshine fell upon the vessel, the last that illuminated the horizon that day, and he saw her name on the stern. The telescope dropped from his hand, his face turned pale; the cry that leaped to his lips perished there. The man was frightened by the completion of his own wishes. Had some evil spirit performed a miracle for him?

All the time this man had been watching, a tempest blackly followed the homeward-bound ship. The ocean began to dash and torment itself into a fury of wrath. A high wind came roaring up from the bosom of the waters, and over all gathered a world of lurid gloom, kindled fiercely red by the sun when it went down, and slowly engulfed the ship, which was last seen struggling fearfully in the wild upheaving of the elements.

North seemed possessed of a demon that night. He left his telescope on the earth, and went desperately to work, gathering up dry wood and brush, which he stacked on the overhanging ledge, never pausing till a great mound was created sufficiently large to keep a fire blazing all night. By the time this was done the darkness became profound. Now arid then he could see drifts of foam tossed upwards, like the fluttering garments of a ghost fleeing from the storm. The little tavern at the foot of the rock was lost in the overwhelming darkness. The lights from the village seemed put out, and there was no vestige of Piney Cove visible. No rain, as yet had fallen; and at this North rejoiced, for his stock of wood was like tinder in its dryness, and the wind came fiercely from the ocean, so fiercely that it threatened the death of any vessel approaching the shore.

With all these elements of terror surrounding him, North worked till the perspiration dropped from his forehead like rain. That cliff had been blackened before with wreckers' fires, but never had a man heaped wood upon wood with so vivid a conviction of the crime he meditated, with such earnest desire for death to follow his toil.

When the evening had reached its darkest gloom, this man struck a match, which he took from his pocket in a little case of enamelled gold—for even in his crimes he was dainty—and thrust it among the yellow pine splinters with which he had laid the foundation of his deathfire. The blue light of the match flashed close to his face, revealing it white as death, but smiling.

Directly a column of flame shot upward, first in fine quivering flashes, then in long, curling wreaths of fire, that the wind seized upon and tore into hot, red tatters, laughing and wrangling among them with fearful grotesqueness.

North retreated from the blaze, and ran back into the woods, hiding himself, for he feared to be seen from the tavern below. Now and then he would start forth, toss a handful of fuel on the flames, and plunge back into the darkness, where he listened greedily for some token to come out of the storm and prove that his evil work was well done.

It came at last—a gun boomed out from the tempest. The man started and began to tremble. Still he listened. Another gun, with loud cries cutting sharply through the storm, then dead silence, followed by a tumult upon the shore, as if men were gathering in haste.

North was not surprised at this. When a vessel struck in these days on the Long Island shore, wreckers appeared in dozens, not eager for death, for they would rather have avoided that, but keen for plunder. Now the cries of these men made the storm terrible. Blue lights from the stricken ship revealed her struggling fiercely among the breakers, which were rending her like wild beasts.

Then North trampled out his death fire and went down to the beach among the crowd of wreckers that stood waiting, with horrid patience, for the ship to go to pieces and give its treasures into their greedy keeping.

"No boat could live among the breakers three minutes, I tell you," said old Benson with gruff decision, when North, horrified by the terrible shrieks that rang up from the sinking ship, was seized with an awful fit of remorse, and cried out fiercely for help which no man could give. He would have undone his work then had it been possible, for the last faint light that went up from the wreck revealed a woman, with outstretched arms and hair streaming back on the storm, pleading so wildly for help that a fiend would have pitied her. It was this woman's life he had sought, but with the sight of her his heart failed utterly.

But an evil deed once written in the eternal book of God cannot be recalled. While this man stood in dumb helplessness on the beach, the ship sunk. Out of the whirlpool which it made, the wretched woman was tossed back among the breakers, that seized upon her, fiercely hurled her to and fro against the rocks, then gave her over to a great inheaving wave, which left her shrouded in a drift of seaweed almost at her murderer's feet.

Daylight had broken on the wreck before it went down. Leaden and cold it fell over the corpse of that poor woman as it was borne up to the tavern, with the seaweed trailing from it and the wet garments clinging to the limbs like cerements. Two rude seamen carried her away, for North fled from the first sight of his work and plunged madly into the water, where many a poor wretch was buffeting with the waves. He called on the wreckers to help him, and dragged two or three exhausted creatures to the beach, for he was ready to brave death in any shape rather than look upon that cold form again.

They carried the lifeless woman up to the tavern, and, careless of ceremony, laid her on the bed in North's room. Here they left her, with the salt sea-water dripping in a heavy rain from her garments, soaking the bed and forming dreary rivulets along the uncarpeted floor.

Deep in the morning North came up from the beach pale and staggering from exhaustion. He went into his chamber and was about to cast himself on the bed, when, lo! that face on the pillow met his gaze, ghastly and cold. The heavy dropping of the water struck upon his ear like the fall of leaden bullets. He stood paralyzed yet fascinated. A shudder colder than spray from his garments shook his form from head to foot; and, turning, he fled down the stairs again out upon the beach, and helped the wreckers to haul in their plunder, till he fell utterly exhausted on the sands.



CHAPTER XXII.

AMONG THE BREAKERS.

The storm had abated, but still the sea rose tempestuously, and broken clouds filled the sky as with great whirlpools and drifts of smoke. A good deal of rain had fallen, and this calmed the waters somewhat; but the disturbed elements of the tempest made the most experienced seaman look anxious when his face was turned oceanwards. An assistant pilot, whose duty lay in that range of the shore, had been injured in helping to save the crew of that ill-fated vessel. His comrades had carried him up to the tavern, and laid him on a settee in the bar-room, where he grew worse and worse, till it became dangerous to remove him to more comfortable quarters.

In this state North found the man on the second day after the wreck, when he came up from the village, where he had sought accommodations till the coroner's inquest should be over, and his room cleared of its mournful incumbrance.

Independent of his personal hurt, the boatman was suffering from intense anxiety regarding the duties of his occupation. It had been his employer's pride to be always first in the incoming course of the California steamers, and now his little craft lay with its sails furled in a cove below the house, waiting for a signal to put to sea. The man had been very anxious to intercept the steamers of that month, because it was thought that Mr. Mellen might possibly be on board, and he was sure of a good round sum, in that case, for bringing this gentleman on shore, while his superior, the pilot, took the steamer into port.

North heard all these muttered regrets as he sat gloomily in the bar-room, and they seemed to affect him more than so unimportant a subject should have done. It was now drawing towards night, and the man became terribly restless, for the pilot was expected every moment, and from vague conjecture the poor fellow worked his mind up into a certainty that Mellen would come, and the reward for bringing him on shore be lost.

"If there was only a man about that could take care of the craft," he said, "I'd divide with him a fair half to take my place, but there isn't, and ten chances to one the boss loses his chance with the steamer, all because of this confounded foot of mine. I wish we'd let the passengers drown; well, not quite so bad as that, but it's plaguey hard on a fellow to give up his luck in this way."

The bar-room happened to be empty just then, with the exception of North and the injured man. North aroused himself and looked around. Seeing no listeners near, he went up to the grumbler, and began to condole with him.

"Is there no one who can take your place?" he questioned.

"Not a man. These fellows do well enough in fishing boats that can hug the shore, but sometimes the boss runs his craft clear out to sea. Besides, this weather is enough to frighten a fresh hand," was the impatient answer.

"What if I should make an offer to go."

"You!"

The man laughed in spite of his pain and annoyance.

"You. I like that."

"But I can handle a boat in pretty rough waters, let me tell you, my man."

"But you look too much of a gentleman. The boss would never trust you."

"Oh, a suit of your clothes, which I see they have had sense enough to dry, and a few things I have on hand will make that all right."

"But, how much? how much?" inquired the man, anxiously.

"Why, nothing; I shall go for the fun of it, or not at all."

"That's the idea," answered the seaman, rubbing his hands—which still trembled with weakness—in sudden delight, "a real gentleman and no mistake, but bear a hand at once. It won't do for the commodore to find you in this rig."

"Aye, aye," answered North, sailor fashion, and in a voice that seemed hoarse from years of sea service.

The man started up on the settee, aroused to dangerous enthusiasm by astonishment.

"That's the time o' day," he cried in high glee.

North snatched up the seaman's clothes, and retired with them into a little room back of the bar. He had got over the first shock of nervousness regarding the dead body lying upstairs, but still shrunk from looking on it again with shuddering terror. The remembrance of his crime did not prevent the contemplation of another equally atrocious, but he did not care to look on that sight again. After a little he came out from the room, so completely changed that the sick man stared wildly at him, and called out,

"Where away, messmate; are you one of the fellows we saved from the wreck?"

North laughed, settled himself in his loose clothes sailor fashion, and walked with wide steps across the floor, as if it had been a quarter-deck. A dawning conviction of the truth seized upon the man. He fell back upon the settee, uttering broken ejaculations of delight intermingled with groans.

"That'll do. It's all right. He'll take you for one of the chaps we saved from the wreck, and ask no questions," he panted out.

"It's going to be a roughish night," said North. "I hope your Mr. Mellen can swim, if we happen to get into any trouble."

"No, no, don't depend on that, but he knows the coast, and is as brave as a lion; still I shouldn't like him to be brought into danger, remember that."

"It's not at all likely that he'll be on board," answered North, carelessly.

"Hush up," cried the seaman, "don't you hear the commodore coming? They've just told him about this confounded foot. Hear him swear."

The pilot came in while his assistant was speaking.

"What the thunder is all this about? just when I wanted you most, too, and a rough night. They'll get ahead of us, and all through this confounded wrecking business. Couldn't you keep out of it for once, you rascal?"

"Keep a stiff upper lip, commodore. It's all right," cried the man, pointing to North; "here's a chap I have done a service to, who is willing to take my night's work on himself, just out of gratitude. He's a safe hand."

"Let him bear away, then," cried the pilot, casting a glance at North, which seemed to prove satisfactory; "come on, my man, we have no time to lose."

North followed the pilot in silence, only stopping by the sick man long enough to whisper, "Don't mention this to a living soul!"

The man promised, and kept his word.

The pilot boat was soon unmoored and flying out to sea like a stormy petrel. North performed his duty well, and received a word or two of commendation from the superior, which proved the efficacy of his disguise, for he had seen this person more than once at the shore tavern.

At last they came in sight of a large steamer laboring heavily with a roughish sea and uncertain wind. She hailed them, and the little boat bore down upon her. The steamer lay to, and the pilot mounted her side, after giving some directions to his man. A crowd of persons met him as he leaped over the bulwarks, and among them North searched with burning eagerness for that one face. It appeared at last, looking down upon the boat from over the bulwarks. The bad man's heart rose to his mouth; he watched every movement on deck with keen interest.

The pilot came to Mellen's side, and made a signal for the boat to wait. Then some luggage was lowered and Grantley Mellen came down the side of the steamer, and took his seat in the little craft, which flew away with him towards the clouded shore. The wind increased as they sped along, and though not so terrible as it had been when that other vessel was wrecked, it gradually rose to a degree of violence that threatened the little pilot boat with destruction. But the gale blew shoreward, and urged the boat on till it fairly leaped over the hissing waves.

A dismal twilight came on, and the storm was rapidly increasing to its full power as they drew near the shore. The wind roared among the hills, and lashed the waters into foam, the rain beat heavily and chill as sleet, but Mr. Mellen sat cold and firm on his luggage, neither heeding the disguised boatman's ejaculations or offering to aid him in his difficult task.

It was a position to test the courage of the strongest man, and many a time it seemed that the wind and waves must conquer and swamp the light craft completely; but no matter how rude or sudden the shock, Mr. Mellen neither betrayed any anxiety, nor gave any more sympathy to the toiling boatman, than if he had been a wooden machine.

The disguised seaman now and then cast a furtive look at his passenger, who seemed almost unconscious of the increasing gale. A heavy gust sometimes seized his cloak and sent it sweeping out like the wings of a great bird, but he only pulled it impatiently about him and sat quiet again, looking out through the stern night.

This perilous voyage was a long one, and its difficulties grew fearfully as they neared the end. The wind seemed to come from every point at once, and tossed the boat about till it fairly leaped in the water, as if trying to escape from its combined enemies.

Suddenly the rain almost ceased, the clouds parted, and the moon cast a frightened glare over the scene. In the distance Mr. Mellen could see his own dwelling, with the broad sweep of woods and waters in front; then a sharp exclamation from his companion aroused him to the new dangers that threatened him.

The boat had been swept in near the shore, where a ring of sunken rocks girdled the beach, breaking the waves into whirlpools, and sending the white foam out into the storm. In this spot that good ship had gone down, yet the boatman made no effort to veer his little craft from the awful danger, but with a furious light in his eyes and a horrid smile on his lips, bore down upon the breakers. True, it required almost superhuman strength to turn the course of that light craft, for the blast was dashing it forward like a battalion of fiends.

They were close upon the breakers, when Mellen sprang up, pushed the boatman back with a violence that sent him headlong into the bottom of the boat, and seized the helm himself. Mr. Mellen struggled with all the power desperation gives a man, but his efforts were futile as those of a child. The boat spun round and round till they were fairly dizzy; another fierce blast and they were blown directly into the breakers.

Mellen's agonized cry was answered by a hoarse murmur from his companion, which sounded like a malediction. Before either could think or act, a more violent blast raging up from the sea, struck the skiff and whirled it in among the rocks.

Now Mellen's eyes kindled, and all the reserved force of his character came out. He knew every inch of the coast for miles each way. Through these boiling white breakers was a channel wide enough to carry them over, and towards that he forced the little craft, which seemed absolutely to leap through the breakers into the leaden current, where she rested one moment, trembling from stem to stern like a great crippled bird hunted to death by the elements.

North saw that they were in possible safety. He had not anticipated a storm so terrible as that, but had intended to swamp his boat in the breakers and swim ashore, leaving Mellen, who could not swim, as he supposed, to his fate. But now everything else was forgotten in a cowardly thirst for life. No man could exist for a moment in that awful riot of waters. He watched Mellen as he kept the boat steadily in the current, with the keen anxiety of a man to whom death is the terror of terrors.

The little craft swept on, reeling and recoiling along the narrow path into comparatively smooth waters. Mellen, still with one hand bearing down the helm, seized the cable and flung it towards the disguised boatman, who lifted his wild face for the orders he had not the power to ask.

"Be ready," cried Mellen, with the quick resolution which marked his character, "jump out as she nears that rock—we are safe then."

They both stood upright in the boat, swaying to and fro, but managing to retain a firm position.

Again the hope of safety seemed a delusive one; the skiff swooped away from the rock, spun more giddily about, and threw both men upon their knees. Another instant that seemed endless,—an instant which decided the fate of both, as far as this world was concerned,—these men trembled on the brink of eternity. If the skiff obeyed the counter blast that was upon them and swept towards the breakers, they were lost; still there was a hope, if it veered upon the rock which loomed out from the shore.

The moon gave light enough to enable them to watch the scene and see their danger. Again the conflicting blasts struck them; the boat reeled, righted itself and was dashing by the rock, upon which the two men sprang by a simultaneous movement. A few more vigorous leaps and they reached the shore, standing there for a moment in breathless awe. Then they commenced hauling in the crippled boat, which the blast had seized upon and was tearing out to sea.

"Safe!" cried Mellen, in a tone of hearty thanksgiving. "I did think that the brave little craft would go down, but thank God, we are on dry land."

"Safe and defeated!" muttered North, turning his face from the wind. "The storm that helped me two days ago proves treacherous now."

"Come!" shouted Mellen, lashing the cable to a stunted pine that grew in a cleft of the rock, "come up to the house, we shall find a fire there and a glass of brandy. The old man will send some of his people for the luggage."

North made no answer, but moved off towards the house, which he passed, walking moodily towards the village. Mellen went up to the tavern.



CHAPTER XXIII.

DEAD AND GONE.

Lights shone cheerfully through the uncurtained windows of the Sailor's Safe Anchor, and the stranger could see the inmates of the dwelling gathered about the tea-table, looking comfortable enough to make a strong contrast to the chill and darkness without.

"There is not the least change," he muttered, drawing his cloak more closely about him; "I could almost think I had been gone only since morning, instead of two years."

He hurried on to the house, and hardly waiting for his imperative knock to be answered, pushed open the door and entered the kitchen. The old fisherman looked tranquilly up at the intruder, keeping his knife poised in one hand, not easily ruffled in his serenity, while the younger members of the family stared with all their might at the tall man, whose garments were dripping wet, driven by the storm into their dwelling.

"Good evenin', sir," said the old man; "it's a dark, wet night—wont you sit down?"

"I want a horse and a man," said Mellen, betraying by the haste in which he spoke, and his impatient movements, that he was too hurried for much attention to the old man's attempt at civility. "I want to go to the other end of the bay—can you let me have a horse and some one to look after my luggage?"

"What, to-night?" demanded the old man. "Why you can't want to go round the bay to-night."

"I should not have come for a horse if I had not wished to get home," said Mellen, impatiently. "Get one out at once, Benson; I am in great haste."

"'Taint a decent night to put a dog out o' doors," returned the fisherman; "it's a good deal mor'n likely you'd get swamped in the marsh, if I let the hoss go."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mellen. "I know this part of the country too well for that. There is no more risk than in this room."

The old man's obstinacy was roused, and he had a full share of that unpleasant quality when he chose to call it into action.

"Mebby you know more about it than I do," he grumbled; "but I've lived here a goin' on thirty years, and ort to be acquainted with this coast, and I say I ain't a going to risk my critters sich a night. If there ain't no danger 'taint fit to send any horse out in a storm like this anyhow."

"I can't stand arguing here," Mellen began, but the old man unceremoniously interrupted him.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Over to Piney Cove."

"Mr. Mellen's place! Why it's good three miles, and he ain't to hum, nor hasn't been, nigh on to two years."

"Don't you know me, old friend?" exclaimed Mellen throwing back his cloak.

The old fisherman rose in astonishment, while his married daughter, who kept his house and owned the flock of children, called out:

"Why, pa, if it ain't Mr. Mellen!"

"I thought I knowed your voice, but couldn't make out who it belonged to; but Californy ain't so nigh as some other places," said the fisherman. "So you've got back! Wal, wal! You've been gone a good while."

"So you can't wonder at my impatience when I find myself so near home," said Mellen.

"In course, in course," replied the old man. "But, dear me, you'll have to wait till Jake comes in, and I expect he'll grumble awful at having to start out agin."

"I will pay him his own price——"

"Oh, you allays was freehanded enough, I'll say that, Mr. Mellen. But sit down by the stove; Jake'll come in a few minutes. Mebby you'd try a cup of tea?"

But Mr. Mellen refused the proffered hospitality, and though he walked up to the fire, neither sat down or paid much attention to the questions the old man hazarded.

As Mellen stood there, though his restless movements betrayed great impatience, there was little trace of it visible in his face, whose cold pride seldom revealed the emotions which might be stirring at his heart. He was dressed in his sea clothes, which hung about him in wet masses. His face was bronzed by the exposure of a long sea voyage, but he was still a man of imposing presence, and retained his old, proud manner so thoroughly, that even the old man in his fever of curiosity, felt the same hesitation at questioning him too far which had always awed the villagers when Mr. Mellen formerly dwelt among them.

"I s'pose you've seen a sight sence you went away," said the old man, as he pushed his chair towards the fire. "All them gold mines; though I don't s'pose you went to work at them. People will talk you know, and they wondered at your going off in such a hurry——"

"Do you think that man will be here soon?" interrupted Mr. Mellen.

The fisherman felt ruffled and injured at having his gossiping propensities cut short in that manner, but that instant a step sounded on the stone porch without, and he said, grumblingly:

"There he is. I 'spect there'll be a touse about getting him to go."

But Mr. Mellon took the matter in his own hands when the man entered, and the liberal offer he made speedily put Jake in excellent spirits for the expedition.

"My baggage must be disposed of first," said Mr. Mellen. "Some one must get it from the pilot-boat."

"Jake and I'll fetch it in here," returned the old man.

"I will send for it in the morning," observed Mr. Mellen.

While they went down to the shore and were bringing in the trunks Mr. Mellen stood by the fire, quite regardless of the curiosity with which the children regarded him, and unconscious of several modest attempts at conversation made by the old man's daughter:

"Your clothes are wringing wet; hadn't you better get some things of father's and start dry?"

"No," answered Mellen, glancing at the water-proof carpet-bag which he had seized on leaving the boat, remembering that it contained important papers. "I have some things in here, and they will find my macintosh in the boat."

He left the room while speaking, and, knowing the house well, went upstairs, in order to change his wet garments. The young woman uttered a little cry of dismay and ran a step or two after him, but turned back, seized with terror of the dead body, about which she would gladly have given warning.

Mellen had taken a candle from the table when he left the kitchen, and entered the little room upstairs with it flaring in his hand. It did not illuminate the whole chamber, but a cold feeling of awe crept over the man as he stepped over the threshold, and a shudder, which sprang from neither cold nor wet, passed to his heart.

With a trembling hand he set the light on a little pine table and looked around. A bed stood in the further corner of the room, a great and coldly white bed, on which a human form was lying in such awful stillness as death alone knows.

Breathless and obeying a terrible fascination, he went up to the bed and drew down the coarse linen sheet. A beautiful face, chiselled from the marble of death, lay before him, with a cold smile on the lips, and the blue of the eyes, that had been like violets, tinging the white lids that covered them. Masses of rich chestnut hair were gathered back from the face; and over the bosom, struck cold in the bloom of life, two white hands were folded in an attitude of solemn prayerfulness.

As Mellen gazed on this cold vision his lips grew white with terrible emotions, for he knew that face, notwithstanding all the changes that years and an awful death had left upon it. Moment after moment crept by and he did not move. At last, reaching forth his hand, he touched the woman's hair, then a convulsion of grief swept over him, his eyes filled, his lips quivered and he fell upon his knees crying out:

"Oh, woman, woman, has he driven you to this?"

The stillness, which was his only answer, crept to his heart. He arose, covered the face of his false love, and quitted the room, leaving the candle behind. He could not bear to think of her lying alone in that grim darkness.

"Oh, sir, I am so sorry. It was dreadful to let you go upstairs to dress and find that," cried the woman, in a tumult of self-reproach.

"When did it happen?" he questioned, in a hoarse voice. "When and how?"

"Day before yesterday. It was washed ashore from the wreck."

Mellen turned away and asked no more questions. Enough for him that the woman he had once loved to idolatry, had passed out of his life forever and ever.



CHAPTER XXIV.

HOME IN A STORM.

The storm was still raging upon the ocean and sweeping its cold way across the island; but Mellen was not a man to rest within sight of his own dwelling, after a long absence, without an effort to reach it in defiance of wind or weather. So, heedless of all protestations, he mounted his horse and rode forward, with the wind howling around him and the rain beating in his face. His temporary attendant grumbled a little at the violence of the storm, while the darkness was so intense that both the horses went stumbling on their way like blind creatures on an unknown path. But Mellen scarcely heeded the danger or discomfort. His eyes were fixed on the lights of his own home, which twinkled now and then through the fog and rain, like stars striving to break through a cloud.

Their road ran along the coast, and they had the rushing winds and roar of the ocean all the way. Before they reached the Piney Cove grounds the blackness of the tempest began to break away overhead; the wind had lulled a little, but the rain still beat, and at intervals the moon would burst through the clouds and add to the ghostly effect of boiling foam in the distance.

They passed through the strip of woodland which extended down to the water's edge, and at last reached the grounds connected with the dwelling upon that side, and came out upon the broad lawn.

"Home at last!" cried Mellen, as a warm glow of lights shone out from his dwelling. "Ride on, my man; you shall sleep here to-night, and return in the morning."

In his exultation Mellen dashed forward, urging his horse across the open space till he was considerably in advance of his attendant. The moon shivered out again for an instant, and Mr. Mellen saw a woman shrouded in a long cloak rushing towards the house. Some instinct, rather than any real recognition of her person, made him cry out, as he leaped from the horse and left him free:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The figure paused. There was a faint cry; at the same instant Mellen heard a violent rustle in the shrubbery, with a sudden downpour of raindrops, scarcely noticed, as he hurried towards the lady, but well remembered afterwards. She was standing upright and still, as if that unexpected voice had changed her to stone; her hair had broken loose and was streaming wildly over her shoulders; one hand was lifted above her eyes, as she strained her sight through the gloom.

"Elizabeth!" he called again.

"Who is it?" she cried, in a suppressed voice, that had all the sharpness of an agonised shriek. "Who calls to me?"

He reached her side as she spoke.

"Don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "My wife! my wife! I have come back at last!"

There was one wild look—one heavy breath—he heard a low exclamation:

"My God! oh, my God!"

Before he could discover whether this was a cry of thanksgiving or not, she fell forward and lay motionless at his feet.

After that first second of stupefaction, Mr. Mellen checked the wonderment of the man—who by this time had come up—and between them they carried the senseless woman to the house.

The servant who met them in the hall gave a cry of dismay at the sight of her master thus suddenly entering the house with his wife lying like a dead woman in his arms, and was ready to believe that the whole sight was a ghostly illusion.

"Bring some wine," called Mellen; "is there a fire? Are you deaf and blind, girl?"

"It is the masther!" exclaimed the frightened creature. "It's the masther come back—oh, I thought I'd seed ghosts at last!"

Her cries brought the whole household up from the basement; but regardless of their wonder and alarm, Grantley Mellen carried his wife away towards the library, and laid her upon a couch.

It was some moments before Elizabeth Mellen opened her eyes, then she glanced about with a vacant, startled look, as if unable to comprehend what had happened.

Her husband was standing in the shadow, gazing down at her with the strange, moody look so unlike the active alarm which would have filled the mind of most men, and she did not at first perceive his presence.

"I thought I saw Grantley," she murmured. "I—I have gone mad at last."

"Elizabeth!"

She struggled up on the couch, and looked towards him with a wild expression of the eyes, forced out by recent terror or sudden joy at finding that she had not been deceived by some mental illusion.

"Is it you, Grantley?" she exclaimed. "Is it really you?"

"It is I," he said; "but it is a strange welcome home to a man when he finds his wife wandering about in the storm, and sees her faint at the sound of his voice."

Elizabeth Mellen forced her physical strength back by a sheer exercise of will. She sat upright—a singular expression passed over her face—an inward struggle to appear like herself and act as was natural under the circumstances.

"I was so frightened," she gasped; "I did not expect you for a fortnight—perhaps a month. When I heard your voice I can't tell what I thought—a dread—a terror of something terrible—something supernatural, I mean, came over me."

"But what could have taken you out of doors on a night like this?" he persisted.

She did not hesitate; she hurried to answer, but it was like a person repeating words studied for the occasion, and all the while her two hands clutched hard at the arm of the sofa.

"I don't know what drove me out, the storm made me wild. I thought of the sea—you on it, perhaps—I don't know why I went."

"You are wet," he said—"thoroughly drenched. You must change your dress."

She seemed to grasp at the opportunity to go away, and started up with such eagerness that his suspicious eyes noticed it.

"This is a singular meeting," he said, bitterly; "two years apart, and not a word of welcome."

She turned impulsively towards him, and threw her arms about his neck, with a burst of passionate tears.

"I do love you, Grantley," she cried; "I do love you! I am so glad to see you; but this fright—it was so sudden—so——"

Her voice died away in a sob, and she clung more closely to him, while he kept his arm about her waist, pressed his lips on her forehead and gave himself respite from the whirl of dark thoughts which had been in his jealous mind. The joy of reunion and the pleasure of finding himself at home after that long absence, broke through it all.

He felt her shiver all over, and remembered the danger they both ran standing there in their wet clothing.

"You are cold—shivering—and I am keeping you in these wet things!" cried Grantley, gathering her in his arms and mounting the stairs. "You are drenched, my sweet child. It was wrong to go out in a storm like this. Indeed, indeed it was, dear one."

She made no answer, but was seized with a cold shivering fit in his arms. He carried her into the little sitting-room, and, seating her in an easy chair, took off her hood and cloak, speaking soft, tender words as he removed the garments, and smoothed her hair with a caressing movement of the hand.

"You must change your dress, Elizabeth," he said. "Do it at once. I have some dry clothes in my room, I suppose, which I shall put on."

"Yes," she returned, hurriedly; "go—go at once. You are glad to get home, are you not—glad to see me, Grantley?"

There was a tone of almost piteous entreaty in her voice; she was so disturbed by the shock of his sudden presence that her nerves could not recover their firmness at once.

Grantley Mellen held his wife to his heart and whispered fond and loving words, such as he had breathed during their brief courtship before a shadow clouded over the beauty of their lives.

"There shall be no more clouds," he whispered, "no more trouble. Look up, Elizabeth! Say that you love me—that you are glad as I am."

"I do love you, my husband—with all my heart and soul I love you! I am glad—very, very glad."

"And I love you, Bessie. I did not know how well until I went away. But we shall never part any more—never more."

Elizabeth was weeping drops as cold as the rain on her face. It was unusual for her to allow any feeling of joy or pain to overcome her so completely.

"You are weak and nervous to-night, Bessie," he said, tenderly. "I was wrong to come upon you so suddenly."

"No, no!" she cried, vehemently. But even in her denial she shuddered, remembering whom she had just left and how she had met her husband.

Then she arose to go, but staggered in her walk and held herself up with difficulty. He looked at her with such tender love in his eyes that she held out her arms to him. He drew her close to his bosom:

"Elizabeth, we will be happy now."

"Yes, yes," she said, in the same hurried manner, "we will be happy now—quite happy."

She went out of the room as she said these words and entered her chamber, locking the door carefully behind her, as if she feared that he might intrude upon her.

Half an hour after the newly-united husband and wife met at the supper-table, and Grantley Mellen saw that Elizabeth had quite recovered from the sudden shock of his arrival in that unexpected way.

"I cannot realize it yet," she said, coming into the room and walking up to the hearth where he stood; "I cannot believe you are actually here."

She stole close to his side and folded his hand in hers. For an instant there was a slight hesitation amounting almost to timidity, as if she were doing something or assuming a place to which she had no right, but it passed quickly. She was looking up into his face with a pleasant smile, a little pale yet from her recent emotion, or else those two years which had elapsed since their parting had robbed her of a portion of her girlish bloom,—but self-possessed and full of happiness.

Grantley Mellen looked at her more closely as she stood there in the cheerful light. Two years had changed her, but that was natural; he was altered too.

"Do I look very different, Elizabeth?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You are browned, you look a little older, perhaps; but you are not really changed—you are Grantley still."

"I cannot tell if you are altered," he said; "I must wait till I have seen you a day or two. You seem paler—thinner."

She shivered a little, but quickly regained her self-control and cheerfulness.

"You cannot judge how I look to-night," she said. "I am sorry Elsie is gone."

"When did she go away, Elizabeth?"

"Only yesterday; she seemed to be getting low spirited, so I advised her to visit Mrs. Harrington for a while."

"I suppose she has not left you often—you two kept together?" he asked, the old jealousy creeping through his voice.

"Of course; she has visited a little," replied his wife, quietly, but she turned away to the table as she spoke.

A servant brought in the supper, and they sat down opposite to each other at the board; but even during those first hours of reunion the strange greeting which his return had met would linger in Grantley Mellen's suspicious mind, and, in spite of Elizabeth's cheerful manner, her color would come and go with tremulous fitfulness. Sometimes there was a restless expression in her eyes, and she seemed with difficulty to repress a nervous start at any sudden sound—she had not recovered wholly, it appeared, from her surprise.

"You will send for Elsie in the morning," he said.

"Oh, yes. One of the men will go to town early."

"Don't tell her I have come."

Elizabeth hesitated.

"She would be so startled if I did not," she said. "I really think her happiness will be greater if she expects to meet you."

"As you please," he returned, a little coldly. "I believe you are right. Surprises generally are failures."

"Where is Dolf?" Elizabeth asked.

"I sent him on with the steamer to deliver some letters I had brought for various people; he will be up in the morning. He is just the same remarkable darkey as ever. His language is even grander, I think."

When they were sitting over the fire again, Mr. Mellen said:

"Now, tell me everything that has happened; your letters were all so vague."

"I had nothing of importance to write, you know," she answered; "we were very quiet here."

"Has Elsie changed much?" he asked.

"Not at all; gay and thoughtless as ever."

There seemed a suppressed bitterness in her voice. Perhaps that gayety and frivolity had sometimes jarred upon the deeper chords in her own nature.

"Little darling!" he said, fondly, "I feel more attached to her than ever since I went away—she seems more like my daughter than my sister."

"And she loves you very dearly, you may be sure of that."

"Oh, yes; nothing could ever come between Elsie and me! I have thought of the promise I made our dying mother; I have kept it, Elizabeth—wherever else I have erred, I have kept that vow."

"Yes," she said; "yes."

But the tone grew a little absent, her eyes wandered about the room as if she were perplexed anew by some thought far away from the subject of their conversation.

"You have been happy and content here, Elizabeth?"

"Not happy," she answered, "I forced myself to be patient; but the time seemed very long."

"Then you do love me?" he cried, suddenly.

She looked at him reproachfully, with some pain stirring under that reproach.

"Can you ask me such questions now?"

"No, no; you do love me. I believe it. But you know what a morbid, suspicious character mine is."

"I had hoped—"

She did not finish her sentence, but sat twisting the links of her chatelaine about her fingers, and looking almost timidly away from his face.

"Go on," he said, "what did you hope?"

"That this long absence might have—that—I hardly know how to say it without offending you."

"You hoped I had learned to accept life more like a reasonable being, isn't that it? I think I have, Bessie; we will be happy now, very happy; you and Elsie and I."

He took her hand and held it in his own; was it true that it trembled, or only his fancy that made him think so?

"We shall be happy, Elizabeth?" he repeated, this time making the words an inquiry.

"I hope so—oh, I do hope so!" she exclaimed with sudden passion; "I want to be happy, oh, my husband! I want to be happy."

She threw her arms about his neck, and her head dropped on his shoulder; but the face which he could not see wore a strained, frightened look, as if she saw some dark shadow rise between her and its fulfilment.

Mellen strained her to his heart, and showered kisses down upon her cold face,—kisses, so warm from the heart, that her cheeks kindled into scarlet under them, and she began to weep those gentle tears that drop from a loving heart like dew from a flower.

"Our lives shall go on quietly and pleasantly now," he continued, giving himself to the full happiness of this reunion; "we will have one long summer, Bessie, and warm our hearts in it."

"I have been in the cold so long," she murmured.

"But that is over—over for ever! We will be trustful Bessie: we will be patient and loving always; can't we promise each other this, my wife?" he said, drawing her closer to his bosom.

"I can, Grantley; I do!"

"And I promise, Elizabeth, I will never be suspicious or harsh again. You and I could be so happy now."

"You will love me and trust me!" she cried, almost hysterically.

"Always, Bessie, always!"

Again he clasped her in his arms, pressing kisses upon her forehead, and murmuring words which, from a husband's lips are sweeter and holier than the romance of courtship could ever be, even in the first glow of its loveliest mystery.

Elizabeth nestled closer to his heart, and a feeling of rest and serenity stole over her so inexpressibly soothing and sweet, that she almost longed to float away for ever from the care and dimness of this world upon the sacred hush of that hour.

There was a sound without which startled them both, making Mellen turn hastily, and sending the sickly pallor anew across Elizabeth's face.

"Only the wind," he said, "blowing one of the shutters to with a crash."

"That is all, it——"

She did not finish; her eyes were fixed upon the window; she made one movement; tried to control herself; looked in the other direction before her husband could observe the eagerness with which her eyes had been strained out into the night; but all her attempts at self-control were in vain; she gave one heavy sigh, and sank lower and perfectly helpless in his arms.

For the second time that evening Elizabeth Mellen had swooned completely away.



CHAPTER XXV.

THE SUNSHINE OF THE HOUSE.

The day was so bright and beautiful that the preceding storm seemed only to have added freshness to both the earth and sky.

The hills rose up majestic in their richest verdure, the lovely bay was at rest in the sunshine, and the long white line of distant water shone out tranquilly, as if no treacherous wind would ever again lash it into fury.

Grantley Mellen stood with his wife on the broad stone portico, looking towards the ocean. They had been wandering over the house and grounds that the master might see what changes had taken place in his absence, talking pleasantly and gaily, though even in the midst of his happiness the old restless suspicion would intrude. Grantley Mellen could not understand the strange agitation of his wife at his return. It troubled him even in his newborn joy. She was quite herself this morning; so lovely in her delicate mauve morning dress, with the soft lace relieving her neck and wrists. Her dark hair was banded smoothly back from the grave, earnest face, and fell behind in heavy braids, rich and glossy as the plumage of a raven. Her mouth was tremulous with gladness and her whole face kindled into smiles and blushes under her husband's gaze. She was so calm that it seemed folly to vex his heart with vague fancies, instead of yielding to the full, rich joy of the occasion.

But she was changed: his jealous eyes took note of that. She was paler, thinner; there was a single line between the dark brows that had gathered there during his absence; an added gravity about the mouth, a slight compression of the lips, as if they had grown accustomed to keeping secrets back.

Then with one of those quick transitions of feeling peculiar to a mind like his, he reproached himself for that change. Why search for other reasons when he remembered many things which had preceded their parting; the last restless year of their married life, disturbed by jealousy and suspicion; the long months of loneliness which she had spent during his absence. There was answer enough for all the questions with which he had vexed himself all the morning.

"Of course Elsie will come home in the afternoon boat," he said.

"Oh, yes; I don't think it is in yet—I have not heard the whistle," replied Elizabeth. "Our people will send her across the bay in a sail-boat, no doubt. It is shameful of them to leave the shore road in the state it is; we must either go to the village by water, or take that long out-of-the-way back road."

"There is a sail-boat now," exclaimed Mellen, pointing across the bay.

Elizabeth looked and saw the tiny streamers shining like silver traceries in the sun.

"It must be Elsie," she said, bringing a glass from the hall, which Mr. Mellen took eagerly from her hand.

"Yes," he said. "I can see a woman in the boat—it is Elsie."

His face was all aglow with brotherly love; a sweet expectation kept him restless. He walked up and down the porch talking of his sister, asking a thousand trivial questions, and complaining of the slowness of the little boat.

Elizabeth stood leaning against one of the pillars, her eyes shaded with her hand, looking over the bright waters. The tranquillity and bloom faded out of her countenance, while her husband talked so eagerly of his desire to see the child—as he called her. Sometimes her face grew almost hard and stern, as if she could not endure that even this beloved sister should come between her heart and his in the first hours of their reunion.

The little sail-boat flew swiftly on before the wind—drawing nearer and nearer each instant—they could distinctly see the young girl half lying back in the stern, allowing her hand to fall in the water with an indolent enjoyment of the scene.

She saw them at last, fluttered her handkerchief in the air by way of a signal, and after that they could see how full of eager impatience she was. Every instant her handkerchief fluttered out, and when the wind took that, she unwound an azure scarf from her neck and flung it on the breeze.

When the boat neared the landing, Mr. Mellen ran across the lawn and received his sister in his arms as she sprang on shore.

Standing on the portico where he had left her, Elizabeth regarded the pair; she heard Elsie's eager exclamation of joy—her husband's deep voice—then the two blended in confused and eager conversation. An absolute spasm of pain contracted the wife's features; her eyes dilated, and a moan broke from her lips.

"He loves her so! he loves her so! He will believe anything she says," muttered Elizabeth in a tone which trembled with passionate emotions.

The sound of her own voice seemed to recall her recollection and the necessity of concealing these turbulent feelings. With that power of self-control which she was striving so hard to strengthen, in order to bear her life with calmness, she forced her features into repose, and stood quietly waiting for them to come up. There was nothing in her appearance now to betray agitation; her pallor seemed only the reflection of her mauve draperies, and her lips forced themselves into a smile.

"There is Bessie," cried Elsie, coming up the lawn, clinging to her brother's arm with both hands, and shaking her long curls in the sunshine, till the sight of her loveliness and grace might have softened for the time even that heart filled with fear of her sisterly influence, and jealous of the love which she received with such caressing warmth.

"Oh, Bessie!" she cried, as they reached the steps, "I am so happy! When I got the news this morning I felt as if I must fly here directly. Oh, you darling brother, to come back at all; but you deserve to be punished for staying away so long!"

She raised herself on tip-toe to kiss him anew, allowed her bonnet to fall off, and her curls to trail in bright confusion over her shoulders; then she flew towards Elizabeth and showered a greeting of warm kisses on her face.

"Never mind that dark subject," she whispered; "we'll be happy now in spite of everything."

Again that singular look passed over Elizabeth Mellen's face; she listened and endured rather than returned the young girl's caress, but Mr. Mellen was watching his sister and did not observe it.

"And isn't he brown?" cried Elsie, rushing over to her brother again; "he looks like an Indian, don't he, Bess? Oh, you bad, bad boy, to stay so long."

Thus Elsie laughed and talked incessantly, begun a dozen sentences without finishing one of them, and was so demonstrative in her expressions of affection to both, so lovely in her youth and brilliant happiness, that it was no wonder her brother regarded her with that proud look; it seemed almost impossible that Elizabeth herself could help being won into happiness by her caressing ways.

"You'll never go away again—shall he, Bess? But isn't it luncheon-time? I could eat no breakfast for joy, but I do think I am hungry now."

Mr. Mellen laughed, and Elsie went on again.

"Oh, Grantley, I saw Dolf on the steamboat; he is coming over with your luggage. The ridiculous creature has more airs than ever. I wish you had forced him to come ashore in the pilot-boat, it would have been such fun, when he got among the breakers; but, oh dear! how frightened I was, hearing how near you were to getting in. It makes, me feel pale now!"

Here Elsie gathered up her bonnet and shawl, tossed her curls back, kissed her brother again, and ran, off, saying:

"I must go upstairs and brush my hair. Do come, Bessie; I never can do it myself."

"I must go and see what the servants are doing," Elizabeth said.

"Nonsense! Come with me."

Elsie caught her sister-in-law about the waist, waltzed away towards the stairs and forced her to ascend, while Mr. Mellen stood looking after them with a pleasant smile on his lips.



CHAPTER XXVI.

SUNSHINE AND STORMS.

When they reached Elsie's room the girl drew Elizabeth in and closed the door. Mrs. Mellen sank wearily into a seat, as if glad to escape from the restraint she had been putting upon herself all that day.

"Your note frightened me so!" cried Elsie. "It was wicked of you to write like that."

"He came upon me so suddenly," gasped Elizabeth. "I was out in the grounds in the rain—I had gone to—"

"And Grantley came upon you there?" interrupted Elsie. "What did you do? what did you do?"

"I fainted in the end."

"Good heavens!"

"Oh, you would have been worse in my place," returned Elizabeth. "It was so sudden; how could I tell what he had seen?"

"But you are yourself now. You will not give way again?"

"I must not," said Elizabeth drearily. "I must bear up now."

"Don't talk in that dreadful voice," shivered Elsie; "it sounds as if you were dying. I thought you had more courage. Don't be afraid of me; if he held a bowl of poison to my lips I wouldn't tell."

"Oh, Elsie, what would death be compared to the agony of discovery?"

"Do stop!" pleaded Elsie, pressing both rosy little palms to her ears, with a piteous, shrinking movement. "We mustn't talk. I won't talk, I tell you! I can put everything out of my head if you will only let me; but if you look and talk like that I shall give way. Why can't you try and forget it? I will. Be sure of that!"

Elizabeth rose from her seat; a wan, hopeless look came over her face.

"You are right; let us be silent. But, oh, if I only could forget—but I can't, Elsie—I can't! The thought is with me day and night. The dread—the fear!"

"Be still!" shrieked Elsie, breaking into a passion of which no one would have believed her capable, and stamping her foot upon the carpet. "You'll drive me mad. I shall go into spasms, and then who knows what may happen! I won't promise not to speak if you drive me crazy."

All the youthful brilliancy was frightened out of her face, her lips turned blue, her whole frame shook so violently that Elizabeth saw absolute danger unless the girl were soothed back to calmness.

"I won't torment you any more, Elsie," she said. "I'll bear it alone—I'll bear it alone."

"One can always forget if one is determined," said Elsie; "but you won't—you will brood over things——"

"I shall be more myself, now," interrupted Elizabeth. "It was from seeing Grantley so unexpectedly, just when I was waiting for——"

"Be still!" interrupted Elsie, sharply. "I won't hear that—I won't hear anything; you shall not force unpleasant things upon me."

The sister and the sister-in-law stood opposite each other, oppressed by the same secret, but bearing it so differently. Elsie's share seemed to be only a burdensome knowledge of some mystery; no evil seemed to threaten her in its discovery, but deep sympathy appeared to have broken through her careless nature, moulding it into something grand. She was the first to recover from the cold, shivering distress which had come over both; the volatile, impressible creature could not dwell long enough upon one subject, however painful it might be, to produce the effect which even slight trouble had upon a character like Elizabeth's.

"You look like a ghost," she cried, in sudden irritation. "It is cruel, Bessie, to frighten me in this way. You know what a weak, nervous little thing I am. It is wicked of you!"

Elizabeth turned slowly towards the door.

"Be at peace, if you can," she said; "I will trouble you no more."

"Now you are angry!" cried Elsie.

"No, dear, not angry."

"Kiss me, then, and make up," said Elsie, with a return of childish playfulness. "I'll help you all I can, but you mustn't put too much on me; you know I'm not strong, like you."

Elizabeth trembled under the touch of those fresh young lips, but she answered, patiently:

"I will bear up alone; don't think about it."

"Oh, I shouldn't," cried Elsie, frankly, "only you make me."

Elizabeth looked at her in astonishment.

"You needn't stare so," said Elsie, in an injured tone; "I know I am not a deep, strong character, like you. But let me rest—let me enjoy my little mite of sunshine!"

"I will not overshadow it," Elizabeth answered, "be certain of that. But, oh, Elsie, it's so dreadful to bear this constant fear! If Grantley should find out anything—he is so suspicious——"

"There you go again!" broke in Elsie. "I vow I wont live in the house with you if you act in this way! Just as one is getting a little comfortable you begin all this again. I can't stand it; and I won't."

Elizabeth did not reply. She looked at Elsie again with a mingled expression of astonishment and fear; but a strange sort of pity softened the glance.

"There shall be no more of it, Elsie," she said, after a long silence, during which Elsie had shivered herself quiet once more. "I ought to have borne this trouble alone from the first."

"That's a nice darling!" cried Elsie. "Nothing will happen, I am sure of it. Just hope for the best; look at everything as settled and over with. Things don't keep coming up to one as they do in a novel."

Elizabeth said no more, she stood leaning against the window frame and watched Elsie as she arranged her ringlets before the glass, and called back the brilliant smiles which softened her face into something so youthful and pretty. Then they heard a voice from below, which made them both start.

"It's Grantley," said Elsie. "It sounds so odd to hear his voice! Open the door, Bessie; I am ready."

She ran to the head of the stairs, while Elizabeth followed slowly.

"Are you calling, Grant?" demanded Elsie, looking down at him as he stood at the foot of the stairs.

"Calling! I should think so! Are you both going to stay up there for ever? Dinner is ready."

"And so are we," cried Elsie, "and coming, Mr. Impatience."

Downstairs she tripped, humming a tune and making a little spring into her brother's arms when she reached the lower step.

She was such a dainty little thing, so light and graceful in all her movements, with such childish ways, such power of persuasion and coquetry, so light-hearted and frivolous, that it was quite impossible not to love her and treat her as if she were some blithe fairy, that would be frightened out of sight by a harsh word or look.

She was just one of those creatures whom everybody fondles and pets, who have sacrifices made for them which they are never capable of appreciating. The loves and fears and hates of these flimsy creatures are shallow and transient, though capable of leading them to great lengths during their first fever; creatures whom we miss as we do sunshine and flowers, or any other pretty thing; for they seem born to feed upon the froth and honey-dew of life, and from that very fact take with them, even towards middle age, a fund of light-heartedness and joyous spirits, which is, in some sort, a return for the demands they make upon others.