Thus at her ease on this point, she grew more talkative, half wishing that her dress was not a shilling calico, or her hair combed back quite so straight, giving her that severe look which Morris had said was unbecoming. It was very smooth and glossy, and even Sybil Grandon would have given her best diamond to have had in her own natural right the long heavy coil of hair bound so many times around the back of Helen's head, ornamented with neither ribbon, comb, nor bow—only a single geranium leaf, with a white and scarlet blossom, was fastened just below the ear, and on the side where Mark could see it best, admiring its effect and forgetting the arrangement of the hair in his admiration of the well-shaped head, bending so industriously over the work which Helen had resumed—not crocheting, nor yet embroidery, but the very homely work of darning Uncle Ephraim's socks, a task which Helen always did, and on that particular night. Helen knew it was not delicate employment and there was a moment's hesitancy as she wondered what Mark would think—then with a grim delight in letting him see that she did not care, she resumed her darning needle, and as a kind of penance of the flash of pride in which she had indulged, selected from the basket the very coarsest, ugliest sock she could find, stretching out the huge fracture at the heel to its utmost extent, and attacking it with a right good will, while Mark, with a comical look on his face, sat watching her. She knew he was looking at her, and her cheeks were growing very red, while her hatred of him was increasing, when he said, abruptly: "You follow my mother's custom, I see. She used to mend my socks on Tuesday nights."

"Your mother mend socks!" and Helen started so suddenly as to run the point of her darning needle a long way into her thumb, the wound bringing a stream of blood which she tried to wipe away with her handkerchief.

"Bind it tightly around. Let me show you, please," Mark said, and ere she was aware of what she was doing Helen was quietly permitting the young man to wind her handkerchief around her thumb which he held in his hand, pressing it until the blood ceased flowing, and the sharp pain had abated.

Perhaps Mark Ray liked holding that small, warm hand, even though it were not as white and soft as Juno's; at all events he did hold it until Helen drew it from him with a quick, sudden motion, telling him it would now do very well, and she would not trouble him. Mark did not look as if he had been troubled, but went back to his seat and took up the conversation just where the needle had stopped it.

"My mother did not always mend herself, but she caused it to be done, and sometimes helped. I remember she used to say a woman should know how to do everything pertaining to a household, and she carried out her theory in the education of my sister."

"Have you a sister?" Helen asked, now really interested, and listening intently while Mark told her of his only sister, Julia, now Mrs. Ernst, whose home was in New Orleans, though she at present was in Paris, and his mother was there with her. "After Julia's marriage, nine years ago, mother went to live with her," he said, "but latterly, as the little Ernsts increase so fast, she wishes for a more quiet home, and this winter she is coming to New York to keep house for me."

Helen thought she might like Mark's mother, who, he told her, had been twice married, and was now Mrs. Banker, and a widow. She must be different from Mrs. Cameron; and Helen let herself down to another degree of toleration for the man whose mother taught her daughter to mend the family socks. Still there was about her a chilling reserve, which Mark wondered at, for it was not thus that ladies were accustomed to receive his advances. He did not guess that Wilford Cameron stood between him and Helen's good opinion; but when, after the family came in, the conversation turned upon Katy and her life in New York, the secret came out in the sharp, caustic mariner with which she spoke of New York and its people.

"It's Will and the Camerons," Mark thought, blaming Helen less than he would have done, if he, too, had not known something of the Cameron pride.

It was a novel position in which Mark found himself that night; an inmate of a humble farmhouse, where he could almost touch the ceiling with his hand, and where his surroundings were so different from what he had been accustomed to; but, unlike Wilford Cameron, he did not wish himself away, nor feel indignant at Aunt Betsy's odd, old-fashioned ways, or Uncle Ephraim's grammar. He noticed Aunt Betsy's oddities, it is true, and noticed Uncle Ephraim's grammar, too; but the sight of Helen sitting there, with so much dignity and self-respect, made him look beyond all else, straight into her open face and clear brown eyes, where there was nothing obnoxious or distasteful. Her grammar was correct, her manner, saving a little stiffness, ladylike and refined; and Mark rather enjoyed his situation as self-invited guest, making himself so agreeable that Uncle Ephraim forgot his hour of retiring, nor discovered his mistake until, with a loud yawn, Aunt Betsy told him that it was half-past nine, and she was "desput sleepy."

Owing to Helen's influence there had been a change of the olden customs, and instead of the long chapter, through which Uncle Ephraim used to plod so wearily, there was now read the Evening Psalms, Aunt Betsy herself joining in the reading, which she mentally classed with the "quirks," but confessed to herself that it "was most as good as the Bible."

As there were only Prayer Books enough for the family, Helen, in distributing them, purposely passed Mark by, thinking he might not care to join them. But he did, and when the verse came around to Helen he quickly drew his chair near to hers, and taking one side of her book, performed his part, while Helen's face grew red as the blossoms in her hair, and her hand so near to Mark's trembled visibly.

"A right nice chap, and not an atom stuck up," was Aunt Betsy's mental comment, and then, as he often will do, Satan followed the saintly woman even to her knees, making her wonder if "Mr. Ray hadn't some notion after Helen." She hoped not, for she meant that Morris should have Helen, "though if 'twas to be it was, and she should not go agin' it;" and while Aunt Betsy thus settled the case, Uncle Ephraim's prayer ended, and the conscience-smitten woman arose from her knees with the conviction that "the evil one had got the better of her once," mentally asking pardon for her wandering thoughts, and promising to do better.

Mark was in no haste to retire, and when Uncle Ephraim offered to conduct him to his room, he frankly answered that he was not sleepy, adding, as he turned to Helen: "Please let me stay until Miss Lennox finishes her socks. There are several pairs yet undarned. I will not detain you, though," he continued, bowing to Uncle Ephraim, who, a little uncertain what to do, finally departed, as did Aunt Hannah and his sister, leaving Helen and her mother to entertain Mark Ray. It had been Mrs. Lennox's first intention to retire also, but a look from Helen detained her, and she sat down by that basket of socks, while Mark wished her away. Still it was proper for her to remain, he knew, and he respected Helen for keeping her, as he knew she did. A while they talked of Katy and New York, Mark laboring to convince Helen that its people were not all heartless and fickle, and at last citing his mother as an instance.

"You would like mother, Miss Lennox. I hope you will know her some time," he said, and then they talked of books, Helen forgetting that Mark was city bred in the interest with which she listened to him, while Mark forgot that the girl who appreciated and understood his views almost before they were expressed was country born, and sitting there before him clad in homely garb, with no ornaments save those of her fine mind and the sparkling face turned so fully toward him.

"Mark Ray is not like Wilford Cameron," Helen said to herself, when as the clock was striking eleven she bade him good-night and went up to her room. "But of course in his heart he feels above us all," and opening her window she leaned her hot cheek against the wet casement, and looked out upon the night, now so beautiful and clear, for the rain was over, and up in the heavens the bright stars were shining, each one bearing some resemblance to Mark's eyes as they kindled and grew bright with his excitement, resting always kindly on her—on Helen, who, leaning thus from the window, felt stealing over her that feeling which, once born, can never be quite forgotten.

Helen did not recognize the feeling, for it was a strange one to her. She was only conscious of a sensation half pleasurable, half sad, of which Mark Ray had been the cause, and which she tried in vain to put aside, wondering what he thought of them all, and if he did not secretly despise them even while making himself so familiar. And then there swept over her a feeling of desolation such as she had never experienced before, a shrinking from living all her life in Silverton, as she fully expected to do, and laying her head upon the little stand, she cried passionately.

"This is weak, this is folly," she suddenly exclaimed, as she became conscious of acting as Helen Lennox was not wont to act, and with a strong effort of the will she dried her tears and crept quietly to bed just as Mark was falling into his first sleep, and dreaming of smothering.

Helen would not have acknowledged it, and yet it was a truth not to be denied, that she stayed next morning a much longer time than usual before her glass, arranging her hair, which was worn more becomingly than on the previous night, softening the somewhat too intellectual expression of her face, and making her seem more womanly and modest. Once she thought to wear the light buff gown in which she looked so well, but the thought was repudiated as soon as formed, and donning the same dark calico she would have worn if Mark had not been there, she finished her simple toilet and went downstairs, just as Mark came in at the side door, his hands full of water lilies and his boots bearing marks of what he had been through to get them.

"Early country air is healthful," he said, "and as I do not often have a chance to try it I thought I would improve the present opportunity! So I have been down by the pond, and spying these lilies I persevered until I reached them, in spite of mud and mire. There is no blossom I like so well. Were I a young girl I would always wear one in my hair, just as your sister did one night at Newport, and I never saw her look better. Just let me try the effect on you;" and selecting a half-opened bud, Mark placed it among Helen's braids as if hairdressing were one of his accomplishments. "The effect is good," he continued, turning her blushing face to the glass and asking if it were not.

"Yes," Helen stammered, seeing more the saucy eyes looking over her head than the lily in her hair. "Yes, good enough, but hardly in keeping with this old dress," and vanity whispered the wish that the buff had really been worn.

"Your dress is suitable for morning, I am sure," Mark replied, turning a little more to the right the lily and noticing as he did so how very white and pretty was the neck and throat seen above the collar.

Mark liked a pretty neck, and he was glad to know that Helen had one, though why he should care was a puzzle. He could hardly have analyzed his feelings then, or told what he did think of Helen. He only knew that by her efforts to repel him she attracted him the more, she was so different from any young ladies he had known; so different from Juno, into whose hair he had never twined a water lily. It would not become her as it did Helen, he thought, as he sat opposite her at the table, admiring his handiwork, which even Aunt Betsy observed, remarking that "Helen was mightily spruced up for morning," a compliment which Helen acknowledged with a painful blush, while Mark began a disquisition upon the nature of lilies generally, which lasted until breakfast was ended.

It was arranged that Mark should ride to the cars with Uncle Ephraim when he went for Katy, and as this gave him a good two hours of leisure, he spoke of Dr. Grant, asking Helen if she did not suppose he would call around. Helen thought it possible, and then remembering how many things were to be done that morning, she excused herself from the parlor, and repairing to the platform out by the back door, where it was shady and cool, she tied on a broad check apron, and rolling her sleeves above her elbows, was just bringing the churn-dasher to bear vigorously upon the thick cream she was turning into butter, when, having finished his cigar, Mark went out into the yard, and following the winding path came suddenly upon her. Helen's first impulse was to stop, but with a strong nerving of herself she kept on while Mark, coming as near as he dared, said to her: "Why do you do that? Is there no one else?"

"No," Helen answered; "that is, we keep no servant, and my young arms are stronger than the others."

"And mine are stronger still," Mark laughingly rejoined, as he put Helen aside and plied the dasher himself, in spite of her protestations that he would certainly ruin his clothes.

"Tie that apron around me, then," he said, with the utmost nonchalance, and Helen obeyed, tying her check apron around the young man's neck, who felt her hands as they touched his hair and knew that they were brushing queer fancies into his brain, fancies which made him wonder what his mother would think of Helen, or what she would say if she knew just how he was occupied that morning, absolutely churning cream until it turned to butter, for Mark persisted until the task was done, standing by while Helen gathered up the golden lumps, and admiring her plump, round arms quite as much as he had done her neck.

She would be a belle like her sister, though of a different stamp, he thought, as he again bent down his head while she removed the apron and disclosed more than one big spot upon his broadcloth. Mark assured her that it did not matter; his coat was nearly worn out; and anyway he never should regret that he had churned once in his life, or forget it either; and then he asked if Helen would be in New York the coming winter, talking of the pleasure it would be to meet her there until Helen herself began to feel what she never before had felt, a desire to visit Katy in her own home.

"Remember if you come that I am your debtor for numerous hospitalities," he said, when he at last bade her good-by, and sprang into the covered buggy, which Uncle Ephraim had brought out in honor of Katy's arrival.

* * * * *

Old Whitey was hitched at a safe distance from all possible harm. Uncle Ephraim had returned from the store nearby, laden with the six pounds of crush sugar and the two pounds of real old Java, he had been commissioned to purchase with a view to Katy's taste, and now upon the platform at West Silverton, he stood with Mark Ray, waiting for the arrival of the train just appearing in view across the level plain.

"It's fifteen months since she went away," he said, and Mark saw that the old man's form trembled with the excitement of meeting her again, while his eyes scanned eagerly every window and door of the cars now slowly stopping before him. "There, there," and he laid his hand nervously on Mark's shoulder as a white, jaunty feather appeared in view; but no, that was not Katy, and the dim eyes ran again along the whole line of the cars, from which so many were alighting, for that was an eating house.

But Katy did not come, and with a long breath of wonder and disappointment the deacon said: "Can it be she is asleep. Young man, you are spryer than I. Go through the cars and find her."

Mark knew there was plenty of time, and so he made the tour of the cars, but found, alas! no Katy.

"She's not there," was the report carried to the poor old man, who tremblingly repeated his words: "Not there, not come," while over his aged face there broke a look of touching sadness, which Mark never forgot, remembering it always just as he remembered the big tear drops which from his seat by the window he saw the old man wipe away with his coat sleeve, whispering softly to Whitey of his disappointment as he unhitched the horse and drove away alone.

"Maybe she's writ. I'll go and see," he said, and driving to their regular office he found a letter directed by Wilford Cameron, but written by Katy.

This last he knew, for he tore the envelope open; but he could not read it then, and thrusting it into his pocket he went slowly back to the home where the tempting dinner was prepared, and the family waiting so eagerly for him. Even before he reached there they knew of the disappointment, for from the garret window Helen had watched the road by which he would come, and when the buggy appeared in sight she saw he was alone.

There was a mistake; Katy had missed the train, she said to her mother and aunts, who hoped she might be right. But Katy had not missed the train, as was indicated by the letter which Uncle Ephraim without a word put into Helen's hand, leaning on old Whitey's neck while she read aloud the attempt at an explanation which Katy had hurried written, a stain on the paper where a tear had fallen attesting her distress at the bitter disappointment.

"Wilford did not know of the other letter," she said, "and had made arrangements for her to go back with him to New York, inasmuch as the house was already opened, and the servants there wanting ahead; besides that, Wilford had been absent so long that he could not possibly stop at Silverton himself, and as he would not think of living without her, even for a few days, there was no alternative but for her to go with him on the boat directly to New York. I am sorry, oh, so sorry, but indeed I am not to blame," she added, in conclusion, and this was the nearest approach there was to an admission that anybody was to blame for this disappointment which cut so cruelly, making even Uncle Ephraim cry as out in the barn he hung away the mended harness and covered the new buggy, which had been bought for naught.

"I might have had the overcoat, for Katy will never come home again, never. God grant that it's the Cameron pride, not hers, that kept her from us," the old man said, as on the hay he knelt down and prayed that Katy had not learned to despise the home where she was so beloved.

"Katy will never come to us again," seemed the prevailing opinion at Silverton, where more than Uncle Ephraim felt a chilling doubt at times as to whether she really wished to come or not. If she did, it seemed easy of accomplishment to those who knew not how perfect and complete were the fetters thrown around her, and how unbending the will which governed hers. Could they have seen the look in Katy's face when she first understood that she was not going to Silverton, their hearts would have bled for the thwarted creature who fled up the stairs to her own room, where Esther found her twenty minutes later, cold and fainting upon the bed, her face as white as ashes, and her hands clinched so tightly that the nails left marks upon the palms.

"It was not strange that the poor child should faint—indeed, it was only natural that nature should give way after so many weeks of gayety, and she very far from being strong," Mrs. Cameron said to Wilford, who was beginning to repent of his decision, and who but for that remark perhaps might have revoked it.

Indeed, he made an attempt to do so when, as consciousness came back, Katy lay so pale and still before him; but Katy did not understand him or guess that he wished her to meet him more than half the way, and so the verdict was unchanged, and in a kind of bewilderment, Katy wrote the hurried letter, feeling less actual pain than did its readers, for the disappointment had stunned her for a time, and all she could remember of the passage home on that same night when Mark Ray sat with Helen in the sitting-room at Silverton, was that there was a fearful storm of rain mingled with lightning flashes and thunder peals, which terrified the other ladies, but brought to her no other sensation save that it would not be so very hard to perish in the dark waters dashing so madly about the vessel's side.



CHAPTER XXI.

A NEW LIFE.

"NEW YORK, December 16th. "To Miss HELEN LENNOX, Silverton, Mass.:

"Your sister is very ill. Come as soon as possible.

"W. CAMERON."

This was the purport of a telegram received at the farmhouse toward the close of a chill December day, and Helen's heart almost stopped its beating as she read it aloud, and then looked in the white, scared faces of those around her. Katy was very ill—dying, perhaps—or Wilford had never telegraphed. What could it be? What was the matter? Had it been somewhat later, they would have known; but now all was conjecture worse than useless, and in a half-distracted state Helen made her hasty preparations for the journey on the morrow, and then sent for Morris, hoping he might offer some advice or suggestion for her to carry to that sickroom in New York.

"Perhaps you will go with me," Helen said. "You know Katy's constitution. You might save her life."

But Morris shook his head. If he was needed they might send and he would come, but not without; and so next day he carried Helen to the cars, saying to her, as they were waiting for the train: "I hope for the best, but it may be Katy will die. If you think so, tell her. Oh, tell her! of the better world, and ask if she is prepared. I cannot lose her in heaven."

And this was all the message Morris sent, though his heart and prayers went after the rapid train which bore Helen safely onward, until Hartford was reached, where there was a long detention, so that the dark wintry night had closed over the city ere Helen had reached it, timid, anxious, and wondering what she should do if Wilford was not there to meet her. "He will be, of course," she kept repeating to herself, looking around in dismay, as passenger after passenger left, seeking in stages and street cars a swifter passage to their homes.

"I shall soon be all alone," she said, feeling some relief as the car in which she was seated began at last to move, and she knew she was being taken whither the others had gone, wherever that might be.

"Is Miss Helen Lennox here?" sounded cheerily in her ears as she stopped before the depot, and Helen uttered a cry of joy, for she recognized the voice of Mark Ray, who was soon grasping her hand, and trying to reassure her, as he saw how she shrank from the noise and clamor of New York, heard now for the first time. "Our carriage is here," he said, and in a moment she found herself in a close-covered vehicle, with Mark sitting opposite, tucking the warm blanket around her, asking if she were cold, and paying those numberless little attentions so gratifying to one always accustomed to act and think for herself.

Helen could not see Mark's face distinctly; but full of fear for Katy, she fancied there was a sad tone in his voice, as if he were keeping something back, something he dreaded to tell her; and then, as it suddenly occurred to her that Wilford should have met her, not Mark, her great fear found utterance in words, and leaning forward so that her face almost touched Mark's, she said: "Tell me, Mr. Ray, is Katy dead?"

"Not dead, oh, no, nor yet very dangerous, my mother hopes; but she kept asking for you, and so my—that is, Mr. Cameron, sent the telegram."

There was an ejaculatory prayer of thankfulness, and then Helen continued: "Is it long since she was taken sick?"

"Her little daughter will be a week old to-morrow," Mark replied; while Helen, with an exclamation of surprise she could not repress, sank back into the corner, faint and giddy with the excitement of this fact, which invested little Katy with a new dignity, but drew her, oh, so much nearer to the sister who could scarcely wait for the carriage to stop, so anxious was she to be where Katy was, to kiss her dear face once more, and whisper the words of love she knew she must have longed to hear.

Awe-struck, bewildered and half terrified, Helen looked up at the huge brown structure, which Mark designated as "the place." It was so lofty, so high, so like the Camerons, and so unlike the farmhouse far away, that Helen trembled as she followed Mark into the rooms flooded with light, and seeming to her like fairyland. They were so different from anything she had imagined, so much handsomer than even Katy's vivid descriptions had implied, that for the moment the sight took her breath away, and she sank passively into the chair Mark brought for her, himself taking her muff and tippet, and noting, as he did so, that they were not mink, nor yet Russian sable, but well-worn, well-kept fitch, such as Juno would laugh at and criticise. But Helen's dress was a matter of small moment to Mark, as he thought more of the look in her dark eyes as she said to him: "You are very kind, Mr. Ray. I cannot thank you enough," than of all the furs in Broadway. This remark had been wrung from Helen by the feeling of homesickness and desolation which swept over her, as she thought how really alone she should be there, in her sister's house, on this first night of her arrival, if it were not for Mark, thus virtually taking the place of the brother-in-law, who should have been there to greet her.

"He was with Mrs. Cameron," the servant said, and taking out a card Mark wrote down a few words, and handing it to the servant who had been looking curiously at Helen, he continued standing until a step was heard on the stairs and Wilford came quietly in.

It was not a very loving meeting, but Helen was civil and Wilford was polite, offering her his hand and asking some questions about her journey.

"I was intending to meet you myself," he said, "but Mrs. Cameron does not like me to leave her, and Mark kindly offered to take the trouble off my hands."

This was the most gracious thing he had said; this the nearest approach to friendliness, and Helen felt herself hating him less than she had supposed she should. He was looking very pale and anxious, while there was on his face the light of a new joy, as if the little life begun so short a time ago had brought an added good to him, softening his haughty manner and making him even endurable to the prejudiced sister watching him so closely!

"Does Phillips know you are here?" he asked, answering his own query by ringing the bell and bidding Esther, who appeared, tell Phillips that Miss Lennox had arrived and wished for supper, explaining to Helen that since Katy's illness they had dined at three, as that accommodated them the best.

This done and Helen's baggage ordered to her room, he seemed to think he had discharged his duty as host, and as Mark had left he began to grow fidgety, for a tete-a-tete with Helen was not what he desired. He had said to her all he could think to say, for it never once occurred to him to inquire after the deacon's family. He had asked for Dr. Grant, but his solicitude went no further, and the inmates of the farmhouse might have been dead and buried for aught he knew to the contrary. The omission was not made purposely, but because he really did not feel enough of interest in people so widely different from himself even to ask for them, much less to suspect how Helen's blood boiled as she detected the omission and imputed it to intended slight, feeling so glad when he at last excused himself, saying he must go back to Katy, but would send his mother down to see her. His mother. Then she was there, the one whom Helen dreaded most of all, whom she had invested with every possible terror, hoping now that she would not be in haste to come down. She might have spared herself anxiety on this point, as the lady in question was not anxious to meet a person who, could she have had her way, would not have been there at all.

From the first moment of consciousness after the long hours of suffering, Katy had asked for Helen, rather than her mother, feeling that the former would be more welcome, and could more easily conform to their customs.

"Send for Helen; I am so tired, and she could always rest me," was her reply, when asked by Wilford what he could do for her. "Send for Helen; I want her so much," she had said to Mrs. Cameron, when she came, repeating the wish until a consultation was held between the mother and son, touching the propriety of sending for Helen. "She would be of no use whatever, and might excite our Katy. Quiet is highly important just now," Mrs. Cameron had said, thus veiling under pretended concern for Katy her aversion to the girl whose independence in declining her dressmaker had never been forgiven, and whom she had set down in her mind as rude and ignorant.

She was well suited with Katy now, petting and caressing and talking constantly of her; but it did not follow that she must like the sister, too, and so she checked the impulse which would have prompted Wilford to send for her as Katy so much desired.

"If her coming would do Katy harm she ought not to come," and so Wilford's conscience was partially quieted, white Katy in her darkened room moaned on.

"Send for Sister Helen, please send for Sister Helen."

At last on the fourth day came Mrs. Banker, Mark Ray's mother, to the house, and in consideration of the strong liking she had evinced for Katy ever since her arrival in New York, and the great respect felt for her by Mrs. Cameron, she was admitted to the chamber and heard the plaintive pleadings: "Send for Sister Helen," until her motherly heart was touched, and as she sat with her son at dinner she spoke of the young girl-mother moaning so for Helen.

Whether it was Mark's great pity for Katy, or whether he was prompted by some more selfish motive, we do not profess to say, but that he was greatly excited was very evident from his manner, as he exclaimed:

"Why not send for Helen, then? She is a splendid girl, and they idolize each other. Talk of her injuring Katy, that's all a humbug. She is just fitted for a nurse. Almost the sight of her would cure one of nervousness, she is so calm and quiet."

This was what Mark said, and again the next morning Mrs. Banker's carriage stood at the door of No. —— Madison Square, while Mrs. Banker herself was talking to Wilford in the library, and urging that Helen be sent for at once.

"It may save her life. She is more feverish to-day than yesterday, and this constant asking for her sister will wear her out so fast," she added, and that last argument prevailed.

Helen was sent for and now sat waiting in the parlor for the coming of Mrs. Cameron. Wilford did not mean Katy to hear him as he whispered to his mother that Helen was below; but she did, and her blue eyes flashed brightly as she started from her pillow, exclaiming:

"I am so glad, so glad. Kiss me, Wilford, because I am so glad. Does she know? Have you told her? Wasn't she surprised, and will she come up quick?"

They could not quiet her at once, and only the assurance that unless she were more composed Helen should not see her that night had any effect upon her; but when they told her that, she lay back upon her pillow submissively, and Wilford saw the great tears dropping from her hot cheeks, while the pallid lips kept softly whispering "Helen." Then the sister love took another channel, and she said:

"She has not been to supper, and Phillips is always cross at extras. Will somebody see to it? Send Esther to me, please. Esther knows and is good-natured."

"Mother will do all that is necessary. She is going down," Wilford said; but Katy had quite as much fear of leaving Helen to "mother" as to Phillips, and insisted upon Esther until the latter came, receiving numerous injunctions as to the jam, the sweetmeats, the peaches and the cold ham Helen must have, each one being remembered as her favorite.

Wholly unselfish, Katy thought nothing of herself or the effort it cost her thus to care for Helen, but when it was over and Esther had gone, she seemed so utterly exhausted that Mrs. Cameron did not leave her, but stayed at her bedside, ministering to her until the extreme paleness was gone, and her eyes were more natural. Meanwhile the supper, which as Katy feared had made Phillips cross, had been arranged by Esther, who conducted Helen to the dining-room, herself standing by and waiting upon her because the one whose duty it was had gone out for the evening, and Phillips had declined the "honor," as she styled it.

There was a homesick feeling tugging at Helen's heart, while she tried to eat, and only the certainty that Katy was not far away kept her tears back. To her the very grandeur of the house made it desolate, and she was so glad it was Katy who lived there and not herself as she went up the soft carpeted stairway, which gave back no sound, and through the marble hall to the parlor, where by the table on which her cloak and furs were still lying, a lady stood, as dignified and unconscious as if she had not been inspecting the self-same fur which Mark Ray had observed, but not like him thinking it did not matter, for it did matter very materially with her, and a smile of contempt had curled her lip as she turned over the tippet which even Phillips would not have worn.

"I wonder how long she means to stay, and if Wilford will have to take her out," she was thinking, just as Helen appeared in the door and advanced into the room.

By herself, it was easy to slight Helen Lennox, but in her presence Mrs. Cameron found it very hard to appear as cold and distant as she had meant to do, for there was something about Helen which commanded her respect, and she went forward to meet her, offering her hand, and saying, cordially:

"Miss Lennox, I presume—my daughter Katy's sister?"

Helen had not expected this, and the warm flush which came to her cheeks made her very handsome, as she returned Mrs. Cameron's greeting, and then asked more particularly for Katy than she had yet done. For a while they talked together, Mrs. Cameron noting carefully every item of Helen's attire, as well as the purity of her language and her perfect repose of manner after the first stiffness had passed away.

"Naturally a lady as well as Katy; there must be good blood somewhere, probably on the Lennox side," was Mrs. Cameron's private opinion, while Helen, after a few moments, began to feel far more at ease with Mrs. Cameron than she had done in the dining-room with Esther, waiting on her, and the cross Phillips stalking once through the room for no ostensible purpose except to get a sight of her.

Helen wondered at herself as much as Mrs. Cameron wondered at her, trying to decide whether it were ignorance, conceit, obtuseness, or what, which made her so self-possessed when she was expected to appear so different.

"Strong-minded," was her final decision, as she said at last: "We promised Katy she should see you to-night. Will you go now?"

Then the color left Helen's face and lips, and her limbs shook perceptibly, for the knowing she was soon to meet her sister unnerved her; but by the time the door of Katy's room was reached she was herself again, and there was no need for Mrs. Cameron to whisper: "Pray do not excite her."

Katy heard her coming, and it required all Wilford's and the nurse's efforts to keep her quiet, so great was her joy.

"Helen, Helen, darling, darling sister," she cried, as she wound her arms around Helen's neck, and laid her golden head on Helen's bosom, sobbing in a low, mournful way which told Helen more how much she was beloved and had been longed for than did the weak, childish voice which whispered: "I've wanted you so much, oh, Helen; you don't know how much I've missed you all the years I've been away. You will not leave me now," and Katy clung closer to the dear sister who gently unclasped the clinging arms and put back upon the pillow the quivering face, which she kissed so tenderly, whispering in her own old half-soothing, half-commanding way: "Be quiet now, Katy. It's best that you should. No, I will not leave you."

Next to Dr. Grant, Helen had more influence over Katy than any living being, and it was very apparent now, for as if her presence had a power to soothe, Katy grew very quiet, and utterly wearied out, slept for a few moments with Helen's hand fast locked in hers. When she awoke the tired look was gone, and turning to her sister, she said: "Have you seen my baby?" while the young mother love which broke so beautifully over her pale face, made it the face of an angel.

"It seems so funny that it is Katy's baby," Helen said, taking the puny little thing, which with its wrinkled face and red, clinched fists was not very attractive to her, save as she looked at it with Katy's eyes.

She did not even kiss it, but her tears dropped upon its head as she thought how short the time since up in the old garret at home she had dressed rag dolls for the Katy who was now a mother. And still in a measure she was the same, hugging Helen fondly when she said good-night, and welcoming her so joyfully in the morning when she came again, telling her how just the sight of her sitting there by baby's crib did her so much good.

"I shall get well so fast," she said; and she was right, for Helen was worth far more to her than all the physician's powders, and Wilford, when he saw how she improved, was glad that Helen came, even if she did sometimes shock him with her independent ways, upsetting all his plans and theories with regard to Katy, and meeting him on other grounds with an opposition as puzzling as it was new to him.

To Mrs. Cameron, Helen was also a study, she seemed to care so little for what others might think of her, evincing no hesitation, no timidity, when told one day, the second day after her arrival, that Mrs. Banker was in the parlor and had asked to see Miss Lennox. Mrs. Cameron did not suspect how under that calm, unmoved exterior, Helen was hiding a heart which beat most painfully as she went down to meet the mother of Mark Ray, going first to her own room to make some little change in her toilet, and wishing that her dress was more like the dress of those around her—like Mrs. Cameron's, or even Esther's and the fashionable nurse's. One glance she gave to the brown silk, Wilford's gift, but her good sense told her that the plain merino she wore was far more suitable to the sickroom, where she spent her time, and so with a fresh collar and cuffs, and another brush of her rich hair, she went to Mrs. Banker, forgetting herself in her pleasure at finding in the stranger a lady so wholly congenial and familiar, whose mild, dark eyes, so like Mark Ray's, rested so kindly on her, and whose pleasant voice had something motherly in its tone, putting her wholly at her ease, and making her appear at her very best.

Mrs. Banker was pleased with Helen, while she felt a kind of pity for the young girl thrown so suddenly among strangers, without even her sister to aid and assist her.

"Have you been out at all?" she asked, and upon Helen's replying that she had not, she answered: "That is not right. Accustomed to the fresh country air, you will suffer from too close confinement. Suppose you ride with me. My carriage is at the door, and I have a few hours' leisure. Tell your sister I insist," she continued, as Helen hesitated between inclination and what she fancied was her duty.

To see New York with Mrs. Banker was a treat indeed, and Helen's heart bounded high as she ran up to Katy's room with the request.

"Yes, by all means," Katy said. "It is so kind in Mrs. Banker, and so like her, too. I meant that Wilford should have driven with you to-day, and spoke to him about it, but Mrs. Banker will do better. Tell her I thank her so much for her thoughtfulness," and with a kiss Katy sent Helen away, while Mrs. Cameron, after twisting her rings nervously for a moment, said to Katy:

"Perhaps your sister would do well to wear your furs. Hers are small and common fitch."

"Yes, certainly. Take them to her," Katy answered, knowing intuitively the feeling which had prompted this suggestion from her mother-in-law, who hastened to Helen's room with the rich sable she was to wear in place of the old fitch.

Helen appreciated the difference at once between her furs and Katy's, and felt a pang of mortification as she saw how old and poor and dowdy hers were beside the others. But they were her own; the best she could afford. She would not begin by borrowing, and so she declined the offer, and greatly to Mrs. Cameron's horror went down to Mrs. Banker clad in the despised furs, which Mrs. Cameron would on no account have had beside her on Broadway in an open carriage. Mrs. Banker noticed them, too, but the eager, happy face, which grew each moment brighter as they drove down the street, more than made amends; and in watching that and pointing out the places which they passed, Mrs. Banker forgot the furs and the coarse straw hat whose strings of black had undeniably been dyed. Never in her life had Helen enjoyed a ride as she did that pleasant winter day, when her kind friend took her wherever she wished to go, showing her Broadway in its glory from Union Square to Wall Street, where they encountered Mark in a bustling crowd. He saw them, too, and beckoned to them, while Helen's face grew red as, lifting his hat to her, he came up to the carriage, and at his mother's suggestion took a seat just opposite, asking where they had been and jocosely laughing at his mother's taste in selecting such localities as the Bowery, the Tombs and Barnum's Museum, when there were so many finer places to be seen.

Helen felt the hot blood pricking the roots of her hair, for the Bowery, the Tombs and Barnum's Museum had been her choice as the points of which she had heard the most. So when Mark continued:

"You shall ride with me, Miss Lennox, and I will show you something worth your seeing," she frankly answered:

"Your mother is not in fault, Mr. Ray. She asked me where I wished to go, and I mentioned these places; so please attribute it wholly to my country breeding, and not to your mother's lack of taste."

There was something in the frank speech which won Mrs. Banker's heart, while she felt an increased respect for the young girl, who, she saw, was keenly sensitive, even with all her strength of character.

"You were quite right to commence as you have," she said, "for now you have a still greater treat in store, and Mark shall drive you to the park some day. I know you will like that."

Helen felt that she should like anything with that friendly voice to reassure her, and leaning back she was thinking how pleasant it was to be in New York, how different from what she had expected, when a bow from Mark made her look up in time to see that they were meeting a carriage, in which sat Wilford, and with two gayly-dressed ladies, both of whom gave her a supercilious stare as they passed by, while the younger of the two half turned her head, as if for a more prolonged gaze.

"Mrs. Grandon and Juno Cameron," Mrs. Banker said, making some further remark to her son; while Helen felt that the brightness of the day changed, for she could not be unconscious of the look with which she had been regarded by these two fashionable ladies, and again her furs came up before her, bringing a feeling of which she was ashamed, especially as she had fancied herself above all weakness of the kind.

But Helen was a woman, with a woman's nature, and so that ride was not without its annoyance, though her face was very bright as she bade Mrs. Banker and Mark good-by, and then ran up the steps to Katy's home. That night at the dinner, from which Mrs. Cameron was absent, Wilford was unusually gracious, asking "had she enjoyed her ride, and if she did not find Mrs. Banker a very pleasant acquaintance."

The fact was, Wilford felt a little uncomfortable himself for having suffered a stranger to do for Katy's sister what devolved upon himself. Katy had asked him to drive with Helen; but he had found it very convenient to forget it, and take a seat instead with Juno and Mrs. Grandon, the latter of whom complimented "Miss Lennox's fine intellectual face," after they had passed, and complimented it the more as she saw how it vexed Juno, who could see nothing "in those bold eyes and that masculine forehead," just because their vis-a-vis chanced to be Mark Ray's. Juno was not pleased with Helen's first appearance in the street, but nevertheless she called upon her next day, with Sybil Grandon and her sister, Bell. To this she was urged by Sybil, who, having a somewhat larger experience of human nature, foresaw that Helen would be popular just because Mrs. Banker had thus early taken her up, and who, besides, had conceived a capricious fancy to patronize Miss Lennox. But in this she was foiled, for Helen was not to be patronized, and she received her visitors with that calm, assured manner so much a part of herself.

"Diamond cut diamond," Bell thought, as she saw how frigidly polite both Juno and Helen were, each recognizing in the other something antagonistic, which could never harmonize.

Had Juno never cared for Dr. Grant, or suspected Helen of standing between herself and him, and had Mark Ray never stopped at Silverton, or been seen on Broadway with her, she might have judged her differently, for there was something attractive in Helen's face and appearance as she sat talking to her guests, not awkwardly nor timidly, but with as much quiet dignity as if she had never mended Uncle Ephraim's socks, or made a pound of butter among the huckleberry hills. Bell was delighted, detecting at once traces of the rare mind which Helen Lennox possessed, and wondering to find it so.

"I hope we shall see each other often," she said, at parting. "I do not go out a great deal myself—that is, not as much as Juno—but I shall be always glad to welcome you to my den. You may find something there to interest you."

This was Bell's leave-taking, while Sybil's was, if possible, even more friendly, for aside from really fancying Helen, she took a perverse kind of pleasure in annoying Juno, who wondered "what she or Bell could see to like in that awkward country girl, whom she knew had on one of Katy's cast-off collars, and her wardrobe was the most ordinary she ever saw; fitch furs, think of that!" and Juno gave a little pull at the fastenings of her rich ermine collar, showing so well over her velvet basquine.

"Fitch furs or not, they rode with Mark Ray on Broadway," Bell retorted, with a wicked look in her eyes, which aroused Juno to a still higher pitch of anger, so that by the time the carriage stopped at No. ——, the young lady was in a most unamiable frame of mind as regarded both Helen Lennox and the offending Mark.

That evening there was at Mrs. Reynolds' a little company of thirty or more, and as Mark was present, Juno seized the opportunity for ascertaining, if possible, his real opinion of Helen Lennox, joking him first about his having taken her to ride so soon, and insinuating that he must have a penchant for every new and pretty face.

"Then you think her pretty? You have called on her?" Mark replied, his manner evincing so much pleasure that Juno bit her lip to keep down her wrath, and flashing upon him her scornful eyes, replied: "Yes, Sybil and Bell insisted that I should. Of myself I would never have done it, for I have now more acquaintances than I can attend to, and do not care to increase the list. Besides that, I do not imagine that Miss Lennox can in any way add to my happiness, brought up as she has been among the woods and hills, you know."

"Yes, I have been there—to her home, I mean," Mark rejoined, and Juno continued:

"Only for a moment, though. You should have stayed, like Will, to appreciate it fully. I wish you could hear him describe the feather beds in which he slept—that is, describe them before he decided to take Katy; for after that he was chary of his remarks, and the feathers by some marvelous process were changed into hair, for what he knew or cared."

Mark hesitated a moment, and then said, quietly:

"I have stayed there all night, and have tested that feather bed, but found nothing disparaging to Helen, who was as much a lady in the farmhouse as here in the city."

There was a look of withering scorn on Juno's face as she replied:

"As much a lady as here! That may very well be; but, pray, how long since you took to visiting Silverton so frequently—becoming so familiar as to spend the night?"

There was no mistaking the jealousy which betrayed itself into every tone of Juno's voice as she stood before Mark a fit picture of the enraged goddess whose name she bore. Soon recollecting herself, however, she changed her mode of attack, and said, laughingly:

"Seriously, though, this Miss Lennox seems a very nice girl, and is admirably fitted, I think, for the position she is to fill—that of a country physician's wife," and in the black eyes there was a wicked sparkle as Juno saw that her meaning was readily understood, Mark looking quickly at her and asking if she referred to Dr. Grant.

"Certainly; I imagine that was settled as long ago as we met him in Paris. Once I thought it might have been our Katy, but was mistaken. I think the doctor and Miss Lennox well adapted to each other—it is an excellent match."

There was for a moment a dull, heavy pain at Mark's heart, caused by that little item of information which made him so uncomfortable. On the whole he did not doubt it, for everything he could recall of Morris had a tendency to strengthen the belief. Nothing could he more probable, thrown together as they had been, without other congenial society, and nothing could be more suitable.

"They are well matched," Mark thought, as he walked listlessly through Mrs. Reynolds' parlors, seeing only one face, and that the face of Helen Lennox, with the lily in her hair, just as it looked when she had tied the apron about his neck and laughed at his appearance.

Helen was not the ideal which in his boyhood Mark had cherished of the one who was to be his wife, for that was of a more brilliant, beautiful woman, a woman more like Juno, with whom he had always been on the best of terms, giving her some reason, it is true, for believing herself the favored one; but ideals change as years go on, and Helen Lennox had more attractions for him now than the most dashing belle of his acquaintance.

"I do not believe I am in love with her," he said to himself that night, when, after his return from Mrs. Reynolds' he sat for a long time before the fire in his dressing-room, cogitating upon what he had heard, and wondering why it should affect him so much. "Of course I am not," he continued, feeling the necessity of reiterating the assertion by way of making himself believe it. "She is not at all what I used to imagine the future Mrs. Mark Ray to be. Half my friends would say she had no style, no beauty, and perhaps she has not. Certainly she does not look just like the ladies at Mrs. Reynolds' to-night, but give her the same advantages and she would surpass them all."

And then Mark Ray went off into a reverie, in which he saw Helen Lennox his wife, and with the aids by which he would surround her rapidly developing into as splendid a woman as little Katy Cameron, who did not need to be developed, but took all hearts at once by that natural, witching grace so much a part of herself. It was a very pleasant picture which Mark painted upon the mental canvas; but there came a great blur blotting out its brightness as he remembered Dr. Grant, and felt that Linwood was one day to be Helen's home.

"But it shall not interfere with my being just as kind to her as before. She will need some attendant here, and Wilford, I know, will be glad to shove her off his hands. He is so infernal proud," Mark said, and taking a fresh cigar he finished his reverie with the magnanimous resolve that were Helen a hundred times engaged she should be his especial care during her sojourn in New York.



CHAPTER XXII.

HELEN IN SOCIETY.

It was three days before Christmas, and Katy was talking confidentially to Mrs. Banker, whom she had asked to see the next time she should call.

"I want so much to surprise her," she said, speaking in a whisper, "and you have been so kind to us both that I thought it might not trouble you very much if I asked you to make the selection for me, and see to the engraving. Wilford gave me fifty dollars, all I needed, as I had fifty more of my own, and now that I have a baby, I am sure I shall never again care to go out. My darling baby, how small the whole world seems to me now when compared with her," and the little mother glanced lovingly at the crib where slept the baby, worth more than all the world.

"Yes," Mrs. Banker said, thoughtfully, as she rolled up the bills, "you wish me to get as heavy bracelets as I can find—for the hundred dollars."

"Yes," Katy replied, "I think that will please her, don't you?"

Mrs. Banker knew Katy's fondness for jewelry, and knowing, too, that her girlhood was spent in comparative poverty, she could readily understand how she would gratify her taste when circumstances were favorable; but Helen was different, and she felt certain that the hundred dollars could be spent to better advantage and in a manner more satisfactory to her. Still she hardly liked to interfere until Katy, observing her hesitancy, asked again if she did not think Helen would be pleased.

"Yes, pleased with anything you choose to give her, but—excuse me, dear Mrs. Cameron, if I speak as openly as if I were the mother of you both. Bracelets are suitable for you who can have everything else, but is there not something your sister needs more, something which will do more good? Now, allowing me to suggest, I should say, buy her some furs, and let the bracelets go. In Silverton her furs were well enough, but here, as the sister of Mrs. Wilford Cameron, she is deserving of better."

It was the first time that Katy had thought that in New York her sister might need more than at home. Seeing her only in the dim sickroom, the contrast between Helen and her and her husband's sisters had not struck her, or if it had, she gave the preference to Helen in her dark merino and linen collar, rather than to Juno in her silks and velvet; but she understood Mrs. Banker at once, her cheeks reddening as there flashed upon her the reason why Wilford had never yet been in the street with Helen, notwithstanding that she had more than once requested it.

"You are right," she said. "It was thoughtless in me not to think of this myself. Helen shall have the furs, and whatever else is necessary. I am so glad you reminded me of it. You are kind as my own mother," and Katy kissed her friend fondly as she bade her good-by, charging her a dozen times not to let Helen know the surprise in store for her.

There was little need of this caution, for Mrs. Banker understood human nature too well to divulge a matter which might wound one as sensitive as Helen. Between the latter and herself there was a strong bond of friendship, and to the kind patronage of this lady Helen owed most of the attentions she had as yet received from her sister's friends; while Mark Ray did much toward lifting her to the place she held in spite of the common country dress, which Juno unsparingly criticised, and which, in fact, kept Wilford from taking her out, as his wife so often asked him to do. And Helen, too, keenly felt the difference between herself and those with whom she came in contact, crying over it more than once, but never dreaming of the surprise in store for her, when on Christmas morning she went as usual to Katy's room, finding her alone, her face all aglow with excitement, and her bed a perfect showcase of dry goods, which she bade Helen examine and say how she liked them.

Wilford was no niggard with his money, and when Katy had asked for more, it had been given unsparingly, even though he knew the purpose to which it was to be applied.

"Oh, Katy, Katy, why did you do it?" Helen cried, her tears falling like rain through the fingers she clasped over her eyes.

"You are not angry?" Katy said, in some dismay, as Helen continued to sob without looking at the handsome furs, the stylish hat, the pretty cloak, and rich patterns of blue and black silk, which Mrs. Banker had selected.

"No, oh, no!" Helen replied. "I know it was all meant well; but there is something in me which rebels against taking this from Wilford. He had better have sent to Silverton for that trunk. Its contents have never been disturbed, and surely there might be something found good enough for me."

It was the first time Helen had alluded to that trunk; but Katy did not think that anything ill-natured was meant by the remark. She only felt that Helen shrank from receiving so much from Wilford, as it was natural she should, and she hastened to reassure her, using all her powers to comfort her until she at last grew calm enough to examine and admire the Christmas gifts upon which no expense had been spared. Much as we may ignore dress, and sinful as is an inordinate love for it, there is yet about it an influence for good, when the heart of the wearer is right, holding it subservient to all higher, holier affections. At least Helen Lennox found it so, when, clad in her new garments, which added so much to her good looks, she drove with Mrs. Banker, or returned Sybil Grandon's call, feeling that there was about her nothing for which Katy need to blush, or even Wilford, who blandly invited her one pleasant day to drive with him to the Park, seeming so disappointed when told that he had been forestalled by Mr. Ray, whose fine turnout attracted less attention that afternoon than did the handsome lady at his side, Helen Lennox, who bade fair to rival even her Sister Katy tarrying at home, and listening with delight to the flattering things which Wilford reported as having been said of Helen by those for whose opinion he cared the most. He was not afraid to be seen with her now, and Helen, while knowing the reason of the change, did not feel like quarreling with him for it, but accepted with a good-natured grace of what made her life in New York very happy. With Bell Cameron she was on the best of terms; while Sybil Grandon, always going with the tide, professed for her an admiration, which, whether fancied or real, did much toward making her popular; and when, as the mistress of her brother's house, she issued cards of invitation for a large party, she took especial pains to insist upon Helen's attending, even if Katy were not able. But from this Helen shrank. She could not meet so many strangers alone, she said, and so the matter was dropped, until Mrs. Banker offered to chaperone her, when Helen began to waver, changing her mind at last and promising to go.

Never since the days of her first party had Katy been so wild with excitement as she was in deciding upon Helen's dress, which well became the wearer, who scarcely knew herself when, before the mirror, with the blaze of the chandelier falling upon her, she saw the picture of a young girl arrayed in rich pink silk, with an overskirt of lace, and the light pretty cloak, just thrown upon her uncovered neck, where Katy's pearls were shining. Even Wilford was pleased, and stood by admiring her almost as much as Katy.

"What would they say at home if they could only see you?" Katy exclaimed, throwing back the handsome cloak so as to show more of the well-shaped neck, gleaming so white beneath it.

"Aunt Betsy would say I had forgotten half my dress," Helen replied, blushing as she glanced at the uncovered arms, which never since her childhood had been thus exposed to view, except at such times as her household duties had required it.

Even this exception would not apply to the low neck, at which Helen long demurred, yielding finally to Katy's entreaties, but often wondering what Mark Ray would think, and if he would not be shocked. Mark Ray had been strangely blended with all Helen's thoughts as she submitted herself to Esther's practiced hands, and when the hairdresser, summoned to her aid, asked what flowers she would wear, it was a thought of him which led her to select a single water lily, which looked as natural as if its bed had really been the bosom of Fairy Pond.

"Nothing else? Surely mademoiselle will have these few green leaves?" Celine had said, but Helen would have nothing save the lily, which was twined tastefully amid the heavy braids of the brown hair, whose length and luxuriance had thrown the hairdresser into ecstasies of delight, and made Esther lament that in these days of false tresses no one would give Miss Lennox credit for what was wholly her own.

"You will be the belle of the evening," Katy said, as she kissed her sister good-night and then ran back to her baby, while Wilford, yielding to her importunities that he should not remain with her, followed Mrs. Banker's carriage in his own private conveyance, and was soon set down at Sybil Grandon's door.

Meanwhile, at the elder Cameron's there had been a discussion touching the propriety of their taking Helen under their protection, instead of leaving her to Mrs. Banker to chaperone, Bell insisting that it ought to be done, while the father swore roundly at the imperious Juno, who would not "be bothered with that country girl."

"You would rather leave her wholly to Mark Ray and his mother, I suppose," Bell said, adding, as she saw the flush on Juno's face. "You know you are dying of jealousy, and nothing annoys you so much as to hear people talk of Mark's attentions to Miss Lennox."

"Do they talk?" Mrs. Cameron asked quickly, while in her gray eyes there gleamed a light far more dangerous and threatening to Helen than Juno's open scorn.

Mrs. Cameron had long intended Mark Ray for her daughter, and accustomed to see everything bend to her wishes, she had come to consider the matter as almost certain, even though he had never proposed in words. He had done everything else, she thought, attending Juno constantly and frequenting their house so much that it was a standing joke for his friends to seek him there when he was not at home or at his office. Latterly, however, there had been a change, and the ambitious mother could not deny that since Helen's arrival in New York Mark had visited them less frequently and stayed a shorter time, while she had more than once heard of him at her son's in company with Helen. Very rapidly a train of thought passed through her mind; but it did not manifest itself upon her face, which was composed and quiet as she decided with Juno that Helen should not trouble them. With the utmost care Juno arrayed herself for the party, thinking with a great deal of complacency how impossible it was for Helen Lennox to compete with her in point of dress.

"She is such a prude, I daresay she will go in that blue silk with the long sleeves and high neck, looking like a Dutch doll," she said to Bell, as she shook back the folds of her rich crimson, and turned her head to see the effect of her wide braids of hair.

"I am not certain that a high dress is worse than bones," Bell retorted, playfully touching Juno's neck, which, though white and gracefully formed, was shockingly guiltless of flesh.

There was an angry reply, and then wrapping her cloak about her Juno followed to their carriage, and was ere long one of the gay crowd thronging Sybil Grandon's parlors. Helen had not yet arrived, and Juno was hoping she would not come, when there was a stir at the door and Mrs. Banker, in her velvet and diamonds, appeared, and with her Helen Lennox, but so transformed that Juno hardly knew her, looking twice ere she was sure that the beautiful young lady, so wholly self-possessed, was indeed the country girl she affected to despise.

"Who is she?" was asked by many, who at once acknowledged her claims to their attention, and as soon as practicable sought her acquaintance, so that Helen suddenly found herself the center of a little court of which she was the queen and Mark her sworn knight.

Presuming upon his mother's chaperonage, he claimed the right of attending her, and Juno's glory waned quite as effectually as it had done when Katy was the leading star to which New York paid homage.

Juno had been annoyed then, but now fierce jealousy took possession of her heart as she watched the girl whom all seemed to admire, even Wilford feeling a thrill of pride that the possession of so attractive a sister-in-law reflected credit upon himself.

He was not ashamed of her now, nor did he retain a single thought of the farmhouse or Uncle Ephraim as he made his way to her side, standing protectingly at her left, just as Mark was standing at her right, and at last asking her to dance.

With a heightened color Helen declined, saying frankly:

"I have never learned."

"You miss a great deal," Wilford rejoined, appealing to Mark for a confirmation of his words.

But Mark did not heartily respond. He, too, had solicited Helen as a partner when the dancing first commenced, and her quiet refusal had disappointed him a little, for Mark was fond of dancing, and though as a general thing he disapproved of waltzes and polkas when he was the looker-on, he felt that there would be something vastly agreeable and exhilarating in clasping Helen in his arm and whirling her about the room just as Juno was being whirled by a young cadet, a friend of Lieutenant Bob's. But when he reflected that not his arm alone would encircle her waist, or his breath touch her snowy neck, he was glad she did not dance, and professing a weariness he did not feel, he declined to join the dancers on the floor, but kept with Helen, enjoying what she enjoyed, and putting her so perfectly at her ease that no one would ever have dreamed of the curdy cheeses she had made, or the pounds of butter she had churned. But Mark thought of it as he secretly admired the neck and arms seen once before on that memorable day when he assisted Helen in the labors of the dairy. If nothing else had done so, the lily in her hair would have brought that morning to his mind, and once as they walked up and down the hall he spoke of the ornament she had chosen, and how well it became her.

"Pond lilies are my pets," she said, "and I have kept one of those I gathered last fall when at Silverton. Do you remember them?" and his eyes rested upon Helen with a look that made her blush as she faintly answered "yes"; but she did not tell him of a little box at home, a box made of cones and acorns, and where was hidden a withered water lily, which she could not throw away, even after its beauty and fragrance had departed.

Had she told him this it might have put to flight the doubts troubling Mark so much, and making him wonder if Dr. Grant had really a claim upon the girl stealing his heart so fast.

"I mean to sound her," he thought, and as just then Lieutenant Bob passed by, making some jocose remark about his offending all the fair ones by the course he was taking, Mark said to Helen, who suggested returning to the parlor:

"As you like, though it cannot matter; a person known to be engaged is above Bob Reynolds' jokes."

Quick as thought the hot blood stained Helen's face and neck, for Mark had made a most egregious blunder, giving her only the impression that he was the engaged one referred to, not herself, and for a moment she forgot the gay scene around her in the sharpness of the pang with which she recognized all that Mark Ray was to her.

"It was kind in him to warn me. I wish it had been sooner," she thought, and then with a bitter feeling of shame she wondered how much he had guessed of her real feelings, and who the betrothed one was. "Not Juno Cameron," she hoped, as after a few moments Mrs. Cameron came up, and adroitly detaching Mark from her side, took his place while he sauntered to a group of ladies and was ere long dancing merrily with Juno, whose crimson robe once brushed against Helen's pink, and whose black eyes looked exultingly into Helen's face.

"They are a well-matched pair," Mrs. Cameron said, assuming a very confidential manner toward Helen, who assented to the remark, while the lady continued: "There is but one thing wrong about Mark Ray. He is a most unscrupulous flirt, pleased with every new face, and this of course annoys Juno."

"Are they engaged?" came faintly and involuntarily from Helen's lips, while Mrs. Cameron's foot beat the carpet with a very becoming hesitancy, as she replied: "Oh, that was settled in our family a long time ago. Wilford and Mark have always been like brothers."

If Helen had been on the watch for equivocations she would not have placed as much stress as she did on Mrs. Cameron's words, for that lady did not say positively "They are engaged." She could not quite bring herself to a deliberate falsehood, which, if detected, would reflect upon her character as a lady, but she could mislead Helen, and she did so effectually, as was evinced by the red spot which burned on her cheeks, and by her uncertain way of replying to a gentleman who stood by her for a moment, addressing to her some casual remark and departing with the impression that Miss Lennox was very timid and shy. After he was gone, Mrs. Cameron continued, "It is not like us to bruit our affairs abroad, and were my daughter ten times engaged, the world would be none the wiser. I doubt if even Katy suspects what I have admitted; but knowing how fascinating Mark can be, and that just at present he seems to be pleased with you, I have acted as I should wish a friend to act toward my own child. Were it not that you are one of our family, I might not have interfered, and I trust you not to repeat even to Katy what I have said."

Helen nodded assent, while in her heart was a wild tumult of feelings—flattered pride, disappointment, indignation and mortification all struggling for the mastery—-mortification to feel that she who had quietly ignored such a passion as love when connected with herself, had, nevertheless, been pleased with the attentions of one who was only amusing himself with her, as a child amuses itself with some new toy soon to be thrown aside—indignation at him for vexing Juno at her expense—disappointment that he should care for such as Juno, and flattered pride that Mrs. Cameron should include her in "our family." Helen had as few weak points as most young ladies, but she was not free from them all, and the fact that Mrs. Cameron had taken her into a confidence which even Katy did not share, was soothing to her ruffled spirits, particularly as after that confidence Mrs. Cameron was excessively gracious to her, introducing her to many whom she did not know before, and paying her numberless little attentions, which made Juno stare, while the clearer-seeing Bell arched her eyebrows, and wondered for what Helen was to be made a catspaw by her clever mother. Whatever it was, it did not appear, save as it showed itself in Helen's slightly changed demeanor when Mark again sought her society, and tried to bring back to her face the look he had left there. But something evidently had come between them, and the young man racked his brain to find the cause of this sudden indifference in one who had been pleased with him only a short half hour before.

"It's that confounded waltzing which disgusted her," he said, "and no wonder, for if ever a man looks like an idiot, it is when he is kicking up his heels to the sound of a viol, and wheeling around some woman whose skirts sweep everything within the circle of a rod, and whose face wears that die-away expression I have so often noticed. I've half a mind to swear I'll never dance again."

But Mark was too fond of dancing to quit it at once, and finding Helen still indifferent, he yielded to circumstances, and the last she saw of him, as at a comparatively early hour she left the gay scene, he was dancing again with Juno, whose face beamed with a triumphant look, as if she in some way guessed the aching heart her rival carried home. It was a heavy blow to Helen, for she had become greatly interested in Mark Ray, whose attentions had made her stay in New York so pleasant. But these were over now—at least the excitement they brought was over, and Helen, as she sat in her dressing-room at home, and thought of the future as well as the past, felt stealing over her a sense of desolation and loneliness such as she had experienced but once before, and that on the night when leaning from her window at the farmhouse where Mark Ray was stopping she had shuddered and shrank from living all her days among the rugged hills of Silverton. New York had opened an entirely new world to her, showing her much that was vain and frivolous, with much too, that was desirable and good; and if there had crept into her heart the vague thought that a life with such people as Mrs. Banker and those who frequented her house would be preferable to a life in Silverton, where only Morris understood her, it was but the natural result of daily intercourse with one who had studied to please and interest as Mark Ray had done. But Helen had too much good sense and strength of will long to indulge in what she would have called "love-sick regrets" in others, and she began to devise the best course for her to adopt hereafter, concluding finally to treat him much as she had done, lest he should suspect how deeply she had been wounded. Now that she knew of his engagement, it would be an easy matter, she thought, so to demean herself as neither to annoy Juno nor really to vex him. Thoroughly now she understood why Juno Cameron had seemed to dislike her so much.

"It is natural," she said, "and yet I honestly believe I like her better for knowing what I do. There must be some good beneath that proud exterior, or Mark would never seek her."

Still, look at it from any point she chose, it seemed a strange, unsuitable match, and Helen's heart ached sadly as she finally retired to rest, thinking what might have been had Juno Cameron found some other lover more like her than Mark could ever be.



CHAPTER XXIII.

GENEVRA.

Far more elated with her sister's success than Helen herself, Katy could talk of little else next morning, telling Helen how many complimentary things Wilford had said of her, and how much he had heard others say, while Mark Ray had seemed perfectly fascinated.

"I never thought till last night how nice it would be for you to marry Mark and settle in New York," Katy said, never dreaming how she was wounding Helen, who, but for Mrs. Cameron's charge, would have proclaimed Mark's engagement with Juno.

As it was, she felt the words struggling against her lips; but she forced them back, and tried to laugh at Katy's castles in the air, as she called them.

"You looked beautiful, Wilford said," Katy continued, "and I am so glad, only," and Katy's voice fell, while her eyes rested upon the crib where the baby was sleeping, "only I think Wilford is more anxious than ever for me to go again into society. He will not hear of my staying home for the entire season, as I wish to do, for baby is better to me than all the parties in the world. I am so tired of it all, and have been ever since I was at Newport. I was so vain and silly there, and I have been so sorry since. But that summer cured me entirely, and you don't know how I loathe the very thought of entering society again. For your sake I should be willing to go sometimes, if there were no one else. But Mrs. Banker has kindly offered to take you under her charge, and so there is no necessity for me to matronize you."

Helen laughed merrily at the idea of being matronized by the little girlish creature not yet twenty years of age, kissing fondly the white, thin cheek so much whiter and thinner than it used to be.

"You are confining yourself too much," she said. "You are losing all your color. Fresh air will do you good, even if parties will not. Suppose we drive this afternoon to Marian Hazelton's and show her the baby."

Nothing could please Katy better. Several times since baby's birth she sent a message to Fourth Street, begging of Marian to come and see her treasure, and once, urged by her entreaties, Wilford himself had written a brief note asking that Miss Hazleton would call if perfectly convenient. But there had always been some excuse, some plea of work, some putting off the coming, until Katy feared that something might he wrong, and entered heartily into Helen's propositions. It was a pleasant winter's day, and toward the middle of the afternoon the Cameron carriage stopped before the humble dwelling where Marian Hazleton was living.

"You needn't go up," Katy said to the nurse, feeling that she would rather meet Marian without the presence of a stranger. "Miss Lennox will carry baby and you can wait here. It is not cold," she added, as the nurse showed signs of remonstrance, "and if it is, John can drive you around a square or two."

After this there was no further demur, and Katy soon stood with Helen at the door of Marian's room. She was at home, uttering an exclamation of astonishment when she saw who her visitors were, and turning white as ashes, when Katy, taking her baby from Helen's arms, placed it in her lap, saying,

"You would not come to see it and so I brought it to you. Isn't she a beauty?"

There was a blur before Marian's eyes, a pressure about her heart which seemed congealing into stone, but she tried to stammer out something, bending over the tiny thing. Wilford Cameron's child, which she could not see for the thick blackness around her. Tears and bitter pangs of grief had the news of that child's birth wrung from Marian, bringing back all the dreadful past, and making her hear again as if it were but yesterday, the cold, decisive words:

"If there were a child it would of course be different."

There was a child now, and it lay in Marian's lap, clad in the garments she had made, the cambric and the lace, the flannel and the merino, which nevertheless could not take from it that look of sickly infancy, or make it beautiful to others beside the mother. But it was Wilford's child, and so when for a moment both Helen and Katy turned to examine a rosebush just in bloom, Marian Hazleton hugged the little creature to her bosom, whispering over it a blessing which, coming from one so wronged, was doubly valuable. There was a tear, one of Marian's, on its face, when Katy came back to it, and there were more in Marian's eyes, falling like rain, as Katy asked, "What makes you cry?"

"I was thinking of what might have been," came struggling from Marian's pale lips, and Helen felt a throb of pain as she remembered Dr. Grant, and then thought of herself in connection with this sad "Might have been."

Marian, too, knew the full meaning of those words, as was attested by the gush of tears which dropped so fast on baby's face that Katy, alarmed for the safety of the crimson cloak wrapped around it for effect, took the child in her own arms, commencing that cooing conversation which shows how much young mothers love their first born. Marian's tears ceased at last, and after questioning Helen of Silverton and its people, she turned abruptly to Katy, still rocking and talking to her child, and asked:

"What do you intend to call her?"

"Genevra," Katy said, and simultaneously with that word Marian Hazleton dropped without sound or motion to the floor.

Had Helen and Katy been put upon their oath, both would have testified that even before the answer came, Marian had fainted, just as she did when Helen first went to secure her services for Katy's bridal wardrobe. This time, however, there was no Dr. Grant at hand, and so the frightened ladies did what they could, bathing her face and chafing her cold hands until the life came slowly back, and with a frightened expression Marian looked around her, asking what had happened?

"Yes, I know now," she said, as baby's cry fell on her ear, but restoring her wholly to herself. "Fainting is one of my weaknesses," she continued, turning to Helen. "You have seen me so before. It is my heart," and with this explanation she satisfied her visitors, though Katy expressed much solicitude and proposed to send her medical aid.

But Marian declined, and when it was time for Katy to go, she took the child in her own arms again, and as if there was now a new link which bound her to it, she kissed it many times, while in the eyes fastened so lovingly, so wistfully upon its face, there was a strange, yearning look which neither Helen nor Katy could fathom. Certain it is they had no suspicion of the truth, and on their way home they spoke with much concern of these fainting attacks, wondering if nothing could be done to ward them off.



CHAPTER XXIV.

THE NAME.

Wilford had wished for a son, and in the first moment of disappointment he had almost been conscious of a half-resentful feeling toward Katy, who had given him only a daughter. A boy, a Cameron heir, was something of which to be proud, especially as Jamie would always remain a helpless cripple; but a little girl, scarcely larger than the last doll with which Katy had played, was a different thing, and it required all Wilford's philosophy and common sense to keep him from showing his chagrin to the girlish creature, whose love had fastened with an idolatrous grasp upon her child, clinging to it with a devotion which made Helen tremble as she thought what if God should take it from her.

"He won't, oh, He won't," Katy had said, when once she suggested the possibility, and in the eyes usually so soft and gentle there was a fierce gleam, as Katy hugged her baby closer to her, and said:

"God does not willfully torment us. He will not take my baby, when my whole life would die with it. I had almost forgotten to pray, there was so much else to do, till baby came, but now I never go to sleep at night or waken in the morning, that there does not come a prayer of thanks for baby given to me. I could hardly love God if He took her away."

There was a chill feeling at Helen's heart as she listened to her sister and then glanced at the baby so passionately loved. In time it would be pretty, for it had Katy's perfect features, and the hair just beginning to grow was a soft, golden brown; but it was too small now, too puny to be handsome, while in its eyes there was a scared, hunted kind of look, which chafed Wilford more than aught else could have done, for that was the look which had crept into Katy's eyes at Newport when she found she was not going home. Still it was a Cameron, of royal lineage, loved at least by four, its mother, its grandfather, Helen and Jamie, while the others looked forward to a time when they should be proud of it, even if they were not so now.

Many discussions had been held at the elder Cameron's concerning its name, Mrs. Cameron deciding finally that it should bear her own, Margaret Augusta, while Juno advocated that of Rose Marie, inasmuch as their new clergyman would Frenchify the pronunciation so perfectly, rolling the "r," and placing so much accent on the last syllable. At this the Father Cameron swore as cussed nonsense—"better call it Jemima, a grand sight, than saddle it with such a silly name as Rose Mah-ree, with a roll to the 'r,'" and with another oath the disgusted old man departed, while Bell suggested that Katy might wish to have a voice in naming her own child.

This was a possibility that had formed no part of Mrs. Cameron's thoughts, or Juno's. Of course Katy would acquiesce in whatever Wilford said was best, and he always thought as they did. Consequently there would be no trouble whatever. It was time the child had a name—time it wore the elegant christening robe, Mrs. Cameron's gift, which cost more money than would have fed a hungry family for weeks. The matter must be decided, and so with a view of deciding it a family dinner party was held at No. —— Fifth Avenue, the day succeeding the call on Marian Hazleton.

Very pure and beautiful Katy looked as she once more took her old place in the chair they called hers at Father Cameron's, because it was the one she had always preferred to any other—a large, motherly easy-chair, which took in nearly the whole of her petite figure, and against whose soft cushioned back she leaned her curly head with a pretty air of importance, as after dinner was over, she came back to the parlor with the other ladies, waiting for the gentlemen to join them, when they were to talk up baby's name.

Katy knew exactly what it would be called, but as Wilford had never asked her, she was keeping it a secret, not doubting that the others would be quite as much delighted as herself with the novel name, "Genevra." Not long before her illness she had read an English story, which had in it a Genevra, and she had at once seized upon it as the most delightful cognomen a person could well possess. "Genevra Cameron!" She had repeated it to herself many a time as she sat with her baby on her lap. She had written it on sundry slips of paper, which had afterward found their way into the grate; and once she had scratched with her diamond ring upon the window pane in her dressing-room, where it now stood in legible characters, "Genevra Cameron!" There should be no middle name to take from the sweetness of the first—only Genevra—that was sufficient; and the little lady tapped her foot impatiently upon the carpet, wishing Wilford and father would hurry and come in.

Never for an instant had it entered her mind that she, as the mother, would not be permitted to call her baby what she chose; so when she heard Mrs. Cameron speaking to Helen of Margaret Augusta, she smiled complacently, tossing her curls of golden brown, and thinking to herself, "Maggie Cameron—pretty enough, but not like Genevra. Indeed I shall not have any Margarets now; next time perhaps I may."

Since the party at Mrs. Grandon's, Mrs. Cameron had been very kind and gracious to Helen, while Juno, who understood that Helen believed her engaged to Mark, treated her with far more attention than before, and now both kept near to her, chatting familiarly, Mrs. Cameron about the opera, and Juno the matinee, to which they were to take her, without waiting for Katy. Helen's success at the party, together with Mrs. Banker's and Sybil's evident determination to bring her forward, had taught them that she could not well be longer ignored, and as Juno did not greatly dread her as a rival now, she could afford to be gracious; and she was, making herself so agreeable that Helen observed the change, imputing it to the fact that Mark had probably returned to his allegiance, and blaming herself for having unwittingly wounded Juno by receiving his attentions. The belief that she was adding to another's happiness made it easier to bear the pang, which would make itself felt whenever she recalled the kindly manner, the handsome face, and more than all the expressive eyes, which had looked whole volumes into hers; and Helen quite enjoyed her first dinner party at the Camerons, though she began to wish, with Katy, that the gentlemen would join them.

They came at last, and Father Cameron drew his chair close to Katy's side, laying his hand on her little soft, warm one, giving it a squeeze as the bright face glanced lovingly into his. Father Cameron was a milder, gentler man than he was before Katy came, going much oftener into society, and not so frequently shocking his wife with expressions and opinions which she held as heterodox. Katy had a softening influence over him, and he loved her as well perhaps as he had ever loved his own children.

"Better," Juno said, and now she touched Bell's arm, to have her see "how father was petting Katy."

But Bell did not care, while Wilford was pleased, and drew himself nearer the chair, standing just behind it, so that Katy could not see him as he smoothed her curly head, and said, half indifferently, "Now for the all-important name. What shall we call our daughter?"

"Let your mother speak first," Katy said, and thus appealed to Mrs. Cameron came up to Wilford and expressed her preference for Margaret, as being a good name—an aristocratic name, and her own.

"Yes, but not half so pretty and striking as Rose Marie," Juno chimed in.

"Rose Mary! Thunder!" Father Cameron exclaimed. "Call her a marygold, or a sunflower, just as much. Don't go to being fools by giving a child a heathenish name. Give us your opinion, Katy."

"I have known from the first," Katy replied, "and I am sure you will agree with me. Tis such a beautiful name of a sweet young girl, and there was a great secret about her, too—Genevra, baby will be called," and Katy looked straight into the fire, wholly unconscious of the effect that name had produced upon two of her auditors, Wilford and his mother.

They did not faint, like Marian, but Wilford's face was white as marble, and his eyes turned quickly to his mother, who, in her first shock, started so violently as to throw down from the stand a costly vase, which was broken in many pieces. This occasioned a little diversion, and by the time the flowers and fragments were gathered up, Wilford's lips were not quite as livid, but he dared not trust his voice yet, and listened while his sisters gave their opinion of the name. Bell deciding for it at once, and Juno hesitating until she had heard from a higher power than Katy. One there was in that family council who seized upon it eagerly. Jamie had been brought into the parlor in his wheel-chair, and sat leaning his cheek upon his hand when the name was spoken. Then, with a sudden lighting up of his face, he exclaimed, "Genevra! I've heard it before. Where was it, grandma? Didn't you talk of it once with—"

"Hush-h, Jamie. Don't interrupt us now," Wilford said, in a voice so much sterner than he was wont to use when addressing the little boy, that Jamie shrank back abashed and frightened; while Mrs. Cameron, still with her back to Katy, asked, what had put that fanciful name into her mind? Where had she heard it?

Katy explained, and, with the removal of the fear which for a few moments had chilled his blood, Wilford grew calm again; while into his heart there crept the thought that by giving that name to his child some slight atonement might be made to the occupant of that grave in St. Mary's churchyard—to her above whose head the English daisies had blossomed and faded many a year. But not so with his mother—the child should not be called Genevra if she could prevent it; and she opposed it with all her powers, offering at last, as a great concession on her part, to let it bear the name of any of Katy's family—Hannah and Betsy mentally excepted, of course—Lucy Lennox, Helen Lennox, Katy Lennox, anything but Genevra. As usual, Wilford when he had learned her mind, joined with her, notwithstanding the secret preference, and the discussion became quite warm, especially as Katy evinced a willfulness for which Helen had never given her credit. Hitherto she had been as yielding as wax, but on this point she was firm, gathering strength from the fact that Wilford did not oppose her as he usually did. She could not, perhaps, have resisted him, but his manner was not very decided, and so she quietly persisted. "Genevra, or nothing," until the others gave up the contest, hoping she would feel differently after a few days' reflection. But Katy knew she shouldn't; and Helen could not overcome the exultation with which she saw her little sister put the Camerons to rout and remain master of the field.

"After all it does not matter," Mrs. Cameron said to her daughters, when, after Mrs. Wilford had gone, she sat talking of Katy's queer fancy and her obstinacy in adhering to it. "It does not matter; and on the whole I had as soon the christening would be postponed until the child is more presentable than now. It will be prettier by and by, and the dress will become it better. We can afford to wait."

This heartless view of the case was readily adopted by Juno, while Bell professed to be terribly shocked at hearing them talk thus of a baptism, as if it were a mere show and nothing more, wondering if the Savior thought either of dress or personal appearance when the Hebrew mothers brought their children to Him. But little did Mrs. Cameron or Juno care for the baptism except as a display, and as both would be much prouder of a fine looking child, they were well content to wait until such time as Katy should incline more favorably to their Margaret or Rose Marie. To Helen it seemed highly probable that after a private interview with Wilford Katy would change her mind, and she felt a wickedly agreeable degree of disappointment when, on the day following the dinner party, she found her sister even more resolved than ever upon having her own way. Like the Camerons, she did not feel the necessity of haste—time enough by and by, when she would not have so much opposition to encounter, she said; and as Wilford did not care, it was finally arranged that they would wait a while, ere they gave a cognomen to the little nameless child, only known as Baby Cameron.



CHAPTER XXV.

TROUBLE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.

As soon as it was understood that Mrs. Wilford Cameron was able to go out, there were scores of pressing invitations from the gay world which had missed her so much, but Katy declined them all on the plea that baby needed her care. She was happier at home, and as a mother it was her place to stay there. At first Wilford listened quietly, but when he found it was her fixed determination to abjure society entirely, he interfered in his cool, decisive way, which always carried its point.

"It was foolish to take that stand," he said. "Other mothers went and why should not she? She had already stayed in too much. She was injuring herself, and"—what was infinitely worse to Wilford—"she was losing her good looks."

As proof of this he led her to the glass, showing her the pale, thin face and unnaturally large eyes, so distasteful to him. Wilford Cameron was very proud of his handsome house, proud to know that everything there was in keeping with his position and wealth, but when Katy was immured in the nursery, the bright picture was obscured, for it needed her presence to make it perfect, and he began to grow dissatisfied with his surroundings, while abroad he missed her quite as much, finding the opera, the party or the reception insipid where she was not, and feeling fully conscious that Wilford Cameron, without a wife, and that wife Katy, was not a man of half the consequence he had thought himself to be. Even Sybil Grandon did not think it worth her while to court his attention, especially if Katy were not present, for unless some one saw and felt her triumph it ceased directly to be one. On the whole Wilford was not well pleased with society, as he found it this winter, and knowing where the trouble lay he resolved that Katy should no longer remain at home, growing pale and faded and losing her good looks. Wilford would not have confessed it, and perhaps was not himself aware of the fact, that Katy's beauty was quite as dear to him as Katy herself. If she lost it her value was decreased accordingly, and so as a prudent husband it behooved him to see that what was so very precious was not unnecessarily thrown away. It did not take long for Katy to understand that her days of quiet were at an end, that neither crib nor cradle could avail her longer. Mrs. Kirby, selected from a host of applicants, was wholly competent for Baby Cameron, and Katy must throw aside the mother which sat so prettily upon her and become again the belle. It was a sad trial, but Katy knew that submission was the only alternative, and so when Mrs. Banker's invitation came, she accepted it at once, but there was a sad look upon her face as she kissed her baby for the twentieth time ere going to her dressing-maid.

Never until this night had Helen realized how beautiful Katy was when in full evening dress, and her exclamations of delight brought a soft flush to Katy's cheek, while she felt a thrill of the olden vanity as she saw herself once more arrayed in all her costly apparel. Helen did not wonder now at Wilford's desire to have Katy with him, and very proudly she watched her young sister as Esther twined the flowers in her hair and then brought out the ermine cloak she was to wear as a protection against the cold.

"If they could only see you at home," she said, while instantly there arose a thought of Dr. Grant, and Helen felt a throb of keen regret as she contrasted the gay, airy figure with the grave, quiet Morris, who found his chief delights in works of charity, and whose feet lingered amid the haunts of poverty and suffering, rather than such scenes as that to which she was going.

But Katy's path lay far from Dr. Grant's, and only Wilford Cameron had A right to say whither she should go or when return. He was standing by her now, making a few suggestions and expressing his approbation in a way which reminded Helen of that night before the marriage, when Katy's dress had been condemned, and of that sadder, bitterer time when she had poured her tears like rain into that trunk returned. All she had thought of Wilford then was now more than confirmed, but he was kind to her and very proud of Katy, so she forced back her feelings of disquiet, which, however, were roused again when she saw the dark look on his face, as Katy, at the very last, ran to the nursery to kiss baby again, succeeding this time in waking it, as was proven by the cry that made Wilford scowl angrily and brought to his lips a word of rebuke for Katy's childishness.