Mr. and Miss Martell had been delayed in leaving a friend's house on the opposite side of the river until it was too late to reach the boat on which it was their intention to cross. They had been prevailed upon by their hospitable host to send their sleigh up to a later boat, while they remained for an early supper, and then should cross in a boat rowed by an experienced oarsman, who was a tenant on the gentleman's place.

"It was quite a bit after dark when I got back, but Mr. Martell and the young lady hadn't come over yet. I first thought they was goin' to stay all night, and that I should go arter them in the mornin'; but the woman as sews says how she was sittin' at one of the upper winders, and how she sees, just afore night, a light push out from t'other side and come straight across for a long while, and then turn and go down stream. I'm afeard they've caught in the ice."

"But what became of the light?" asked Harcourt, half desperate with fear and anxiety.

"Well, the woman as sews says it went down and down as long as she could see."

A faint scream from the house now arrested their attention, and hastening up the bank they heard the servants crying from the upper windows of the mansion, "There it comes! there it comes again!"

Harcourt rushed to the second story of the house. A door leading into an apartment facing the river was open, and without a thought he entered and threw open the blinds. Away to the south, where the river enters the Highlands, he saw a faint light, evidently that of the lantern carried in the boat. Familiar with the river, the whole state of things flashed upon him. In the last of the ebb tide their boat had become entangled in the ice, but had been carried down no very great distance. Now that the tide had turned, it was coming back, with the mass of ice in which it had become wedged.

And could that faint glimmer indicate the presence of the one who never before had been so dear? Could Miss Martell, the child of luxury, so beautiful and yet so frail and delicate, be out in the darkness and cold of this winter night, perishing perhaps, with the lights of this her elegant home full in view?

Then, for the first time, he recognized that the room he was in must be Miss Martell's sleeping apartment. Though the light was low and soft, it revealed an exquisite casket, in keeping with the jewel it had once held, but might no more enshrine. On every side were the evidences of a refined but Christian taste, and also a certain dainty beauty that seemed a part of the maiden herself, she having given to the room something of her own individuality.

It would be hard to describe Harcourt's sensation as a hasty glance revealed the character of the place. He felt somewhat as a devout Greek might, had he stumbled into the sacred grotto of his most revered goddess.

But this thought was uppermost in his mind,—"Here is where she should be; yonder—terrible thought—is where she is. What can I do?"

Again he dashed back to the shore, calling the coachman to follow him. When the man reached the water's edge, he found that Harcourt had broken open the boat-house, and was endeavoring to get out the boat.

"Ye'll gain nothing there, wid that big boat," said the coachman. "The master has been away so long that it's all out o' order. The water can get in it as soon as yerself. The young lady's little scollop—the one as is called Naughty Tillus—is sent away for the winter."

"Stop your cursed croaking," cried Harcourt, excitedly, "and help me out with this boat. If I can't save her, I can at least drown with her."

"Divil a lift will I give ye. It will do the master and young lady no good, and I'll not have your drownding on my conscience."

Harcourt soon found that he could not manage the large boat alone, and the matches he struck to guide him revealed that the man had spoken truly, and that the craft was in no condition for the service he proposed.

"Great God!" he cried, "is there no way to save her?"

He sprang upon the boat-house, and there, away to the south, was the dim light coming steadily up the stream. The moon had not yet risen; the sky was overcast with wildly flying clouds; the wind was rising, and would drive and grind the ice more fiercely. It was just the night for a tragedy, and he felt that if he saw that light disappear, as a sign that the boat had been crushed and its occupants swallowed up by the wintry tide, the saddest tragedy of the world would have taken place.

He groaned and clenched his hands in his impotent anguish.

"O God!" he cried, "what can I do to save her."

He clasped his throbbing temples, and tried to think. It soon occurred to him that Mrs. Marchmont's boat might be in better condition. Hemstead was strong and brave, and would assuredly join him in the effort to rescue them. Without a word he rushed up the bank, sprang into his cutter, gave his spirited horse a cut from the whip, which caused him at once to spring into a mad gallop, and so vanished from the eyes of the bewilderd and terrified servants, who were left alone to their increasing fears.

"Save her,—save her," muttered the coachman, as, stiff and numb with cold, he followed Harcourt more slowly to the house. "It's kind o' queer how he forgits about the old man."



CHAPTER XXV.

A TRUE KNIGHT.



As the dusk deepened into night upon this memorable evening, Hemstead stood at the parlor window, and looked out so long and intently that Lottie joined him at last, and asked, "What can you see without, and in the darkness, so much more attractive than anything within?"

"Do you see that faint light out there upon the river?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've been watching it for some time, and it troubles me. I noticed this afternoon that there was ice coming down with the tide. Is it possible that some one, in crossing with a small boat, has been caught in the ice and carried downward?"

"Why should you think that? Nothing is more common than lights upon the river at night."

"Yes, but not of late. Since the last severe cold I have noticed that the river was almost deserted, and the papers state that it is freezing north of us. But it is the peculiarity in the movement of the light that perplexes me. When I saw it first, it appeared as if coming across the river. Suddenly, when quite over toward this side, it seemed to stop a moment, then turn directly down the stream."

"Uncle," cried Lottie, "you know all about the river. How do you account for what Mr. Hemstead has seen?" and she explained.

"Lights are very deceptive at night, especially upon the water," said Mr. Dimmerly, sententiously. "It's probably a hardy water-rat of a boatman dropping down with the tide to a point opposite to where he wishes to land."

"Yes, that is it, Mr. Hemstead, so dismiss your fears. Your brow is as clouded as that murky sky there."

"That comparison is quite oriental in its extravagance," he said, his anxious face relaxing into a sudden smile. "But then you are a bit tropical yourself."

"Well, you can't complain if I remind you of the tropics this dreary winter night; so I'll bear out your fanciful conceit. Your face, a moment since, was like a burst of sunshine."

"Your figure now is incorrect as well as extravagant; for, whatever light my face has, it is but the reflection of your kindness."

"I hope you do not mean to suggest that you have any tendency towards 'mooning'?"

"'Mooning' is the indulgence of sickly sentiment, is it not,—a diluted moonlight kind of feeling?"

"Very well defined. Does experience give you such accuracy?" said Lottie, laughingly.

"I can honestly say no; and most surely not in your case."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Lottie. "I should be sorry to think that cold, diluted moonlight was the type of any of my friends' regard."

"You may rest assured," he replied impulsively, "there is nothing 'cold or diluted' in my regard for you—"

"There is the supper-bell," interrupted Lottie, hastily.

"What are you looking at?" asked De Forrest, uneasily noting the fact of their standing together within the shadowy curtains. He had just descended from the toilet which, with him, was a necessity before each meal.

"Mr. Hemstead has seen a light upon the river, and bodes from it some vague danger to some vague, indefinite people. Come, Mr. Hemstead, come away, or before we know it you will be off on the quixotic attempt to rescue what uncle calls a 'hardy water-rat,' that all the water of the river could not drown."

"O, I see," sneered De Forrest; "Mr. Hemstead wishes to get cheaply, standing here within and in good company, the credit of being willing to attempt a perilous rescue."

"You are jumping at conclusions very rapidly, Julian, and not very charitable ones either," said Lottie, reproachfully.

"Come, Mr. De Forrest," said Hemstead, quietly, "we will test this question of cheapness. I will go with you to investigate that light."

"Nonsense!" replied the exquisite. "As Miss Marsden suggested, Don Quixote may be your model knight, but he is not mine."

"Now I didn't suggest any such thing," said Lottie, decidedly vexed.

"Come, young people, tea is waiting," called Mrs. Marchmont.

"Well, I did," said De Forrest to Lottie, aside; "and what's more, I believe it's true," and he placed her reluctant hand upon his arm, and drew her to the supper-room.

But Hemstead lingered a moment, to watch the light, with increasing uneasiness. In his silent abstraction at the table it was evident to Lottie that his mind was dwelling upon the problem of the mysterious glimmer far out upon the river. Before the meal was over, he abruptly excused himself, but soon returned as if relieved, and said, "It is no more to be seen."

"I told you how it was," said Mr. Dimmerly. "The man floated down as far as he wished, and now has pulled ashore."

The explanation fully satisfied the rest, and sounded plausible to Hemstead; and the evening promised to pass quietly and uneventfully away. Mrs. Marchmont's parlor was a picture of cosey elegance. Bel, and Addie with her mother and uncle, made a game of whist at one table; while Hemstead in subdued tones read the latest magazine at another. De Forrest was half-dozing in his chair, for the article was rather beyond him; and while Lottie's fair face was very thoughtful, it might be questioned whether the thought was suggested by the reader or by what he read. But the article was finished, and for the relief of change Hemstead paced the room a few moments, and then half-aimlessly went to the window and looked out toward the river. His abrupt exclamation startled them all.

"There is the light again!"

A moment later he stood, bare-headed, upon the piazza, straining his eyes out into the darkness.

"I feel impressed that there is something wrong,—that some one is in danger," he said to Lottie, who had followed him.

"You will take cold standing here without your hat," she said.

"So will you. Where is your hat, that you should talk prudence to me?"

But the others were more thoughtful of themselves, and were well protected as they now also came out upon the piazza.

"Well, it is a little queer," said Mr. Dimmerly.

"I suppose one ought to go and see what it means," said Bel, hesitatingly. "But then there are those better able to go than any one from here."

"Hush!" said Hemstead.

Far and faint there seemed to come a cry for help across the darkness.

"That is enough," he cried; "some one is in distress and danger. Come, Mr. De Forrest. The case has lost all its quixotic elements, and you may now emulate the Chevalier Bayard himself."

"O, please don't go, gentlemen!" cried Lottie. "See, the night is very dark; the wind is rising; the water must be very rough. You may just throw away your own lives in the vain attempt to save utter strangers."

"Miss Marsden is right," said De Forrest, as if greatly relieved. "The attempt is perfectly foolhardy, and I am not a fool. If some one is in a boat that is fast in the ice, he has only a few more miles to drift before coming opposite a large town, where there are many better able to help than we are."

"Hush!" cried Hemstead; "do you hear that?"

Faint and far away, as a response to De Forrest's words, came again more clearly the cry for help.

"That is enough," again said Hemstead, excitedly; and he started for his hat.

Lottie laid her hand upon his arm, and said with seeming earnestness, "Surely, Mr. Hemstead, you will not be guilty of the folly of going alone upon such a desperate attempt as this?"

"I surely will; and you surprise me greatly that you seek to detain me," he said, almost sternly.

"But you alone can do nothing."

"As I am a man I will try. Where can I get the key of the boat-house?"

"If the young gentleman will go, I will go with him," said a voice from the darkness beyond the piazza, which they recognized as that of Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. "I've been to sea in my day, and am not afraid of a little water, salt or fresh."

"Good for you, my fine fellow. I'll be with you at once," cried Hemstead.

"I've got the key of the boat-house, a lantern, and an axe to cut the ice, so you have only to put on your coat and hat."

"There," said Hemstead to Lottie; "a way is provided already. How could you wish to keep me back?" and without waiting for an answer he hastily seized his hat and coat from the hall rack.

But before he could spring down the piazza, steps she again stopped him a moment, as she said, in a low, husky tone: "I did not wish to detain, but to test you. I wish you to go. I am proud of you, though my heart trembles at your peril. But you shall not go till you are protected and equipped. See, your hands are bare; they will become numb, and so useless. Where are your gloves? The wind will carry your hat away. Here, you shall be my knight upon this occasion, and, if you will, may wear my colors;" and she snatched the ribbon from her hair, and tied his hat firmly down.

In a low, thrilling tone, meant only for her, he said: "Now you are the Lottie of my ideal; now you are yourself again, and your words have given me tenfold my former courage and strength. Good-by;" and ere she was aware, he had seized her hand and pressed a kiss upon it, in true old knightly style.

"God bring you back safely," she said, with a quick sob.

Heaven heard the prayer. He did not, for he was off with a bound; and the darkness swallowed him up as he followed the stout-hearted ex-sailor.

Lottie stood where he left her, unconscious that the wintry wind was blowing her unconfined hair wildly about.

"Miss Lottie," said De Forrest, approaching her humbly.

She raised her hand deprecatingly.

"Really, Miss Lottie," he persisted, "I would have gone if you had wished me to."

"Hark!" she said, in a low tone. "Can you heal them?"

Lynx-eyed Bel, standing unnoticed in the shadow, had witnessed and comprehended the scene more fully than the Others, and speedily brought Lottie to her senses by whispering in her ear: "Come, don't make a goose of yourself. If Mr. Hemstead is your 'knight,' he has not gone to fight a dragon, but to row a boat, and rescue a fisherman in all probability. Your hair is down and blowing about your eyes, and you look like a guy generally."

Even Lottie, in her highly-wrought state, was not proof against such bald prose as this; and she turned and hastened to her room.

Bel followed, proposing now, at last, to open Lottie's eyes to her folly. Her first words of wisdom were, as Lottie, with wet eyes, stood binding up her hair, "What a fool you are beginning to make of yourself over this Western student!"

"Hush!" said Lottie, imperiously.

"There it is again. You haven't been yourself since he came. If your mother knew what was going on—"

"Bel," said Lottie, in a tone that quite startled that nervous young lady, "do you value my friendship at all?"

"Certainly; and that is why I wish to prevent you from drifting into trouble: and it's not right for you to get him into—"

Lottie's warning gesture was so emphatic that Bel paused.

"Has it ever occurred to you," Lottie continued, in a tone that Bel had never heard her use before, "that I am not a child, and that you are not my natural guardian? Not another word, please, about Mr. Hemstead, or we are strangers;" and she quietly finished her toilet and left the room.

She had hardly reached the lower hall before there was a furious ring at the door. Before it could be Opened Mr. Harcourt burst in, and called, "Where is Mr. Hemstead?"

At the first sound of his voice Addie rushed out and clung to his arm, crying hysterically, "What is the matter?"

He drew back, with an impatience akin to disgust, and repeated his question: "Where is Mr. Hemstead? Why don't some one speak?"

"Mr. Harcourt," said Mrs. Marchmont, in offended dignity, "I think you might, at least, have answered Addie's question and told us what the trouble is."

"Trouble enough, God knows. Mr. and Miss Martell have been caught in the ice, out in an open boat, for hours. Do you see that light there? Good heavens! there is another light shooting out toward it—"

"Yes," cried Lottie, in a sudden ecstasy of delight; "there goes my brave, true knight to the rescue, and he will save them, too; see how he gains upon them. That is Mr. Hemstead's voice. I know it well. He is shouting encouragement to them. Hear the feeble answering cry."

"That's a woman's voice," Harcourt cried, after listening a moment as if his life depended on what he heard. "Thank God, she has not perished with cold"; and he dashed away toward the river bank.

Addie and her mother looked at each other. They too, like the coachman, had been struck with Mr. Harcourt's choice of pronouns.

But the prudent lady did not forget herself or her duty a moment. She made them all come in from the bleak piazza, and had the light turned down in the parlor, so that they could see through the window just as well,—a more comfortable point of observation.

But De Forrest quite ostentatiously muffled himself up to his eyes, that he might go down and "help."

Approaching timidly, he said to Lottie as she stood at the window, "Can you not take another knight into your service this evening?"

"O, yes, Julian," she replied good-naturedly; "a regiment in so good a cause as this. Hasten to the shore. You may be of some possible help;" and, with a gesture of dismission, she turned again to her watch.

De Forrest slowly departed, feeling that this was a very different farewell from that bestowed on Hemstead, of which he had caught an aggravating glimpse.

While the others were eagerly talking and surmising, and the servants bustling about, preparing for those who would soon be brought in, chilled and wet with spray, Lottie stood at her post motionless, oblivious of all around, and as intent upon Hemstead's light as if she were to be rescued instead of Miss Martell.



CHAPTER XXVI.

ON A CRUMBLING ICE-FLOE.



The plan suggested by their host, of sending their sleigh home by the ferry, while they crossed in a boat, just suited Miss Martell, and she proposed having a good vigorous pull at the oars herself. She had always been fond of out-of-door sports, a taste which her father had judiciously encouraged; and thus had saved her, no doubt, from the life of an invalid, for she had inherited the delicacy of a feeble mother, who years before, in spite of all that wealth could do to prevent it, had passed away.

Just at this time Miss Martell was waging that pathetic war with her own heart which so many women must fight out in silence; and she welcomed eagerly any distraction of thought,—anything that would so weary the body that the mind could rest. She dreaded the long, monotonous ride home, and so warmly seconded the new plan that her father yielded, though somewhat against his judgment.

Through the little delays of a hospitality more cordial than kind, they were kept until the early December twilight was deepening into dusk. But the oarsman lighted his lantern, and was confident that he could put them across most speedily. The boat was stanch and well built, and they started with scarcely a misgiving, Miss Martell taking an oar with much zest. Their friends waved them off with numberless good wishes, and then from their windows watched till the boat seemed quite across, before drawing the curtains and concluding that all was well.

At first they did not meet much ice, and everything promised a safe and speedy passage; but, when they were well past the middle of the river, two dark masses were seen just before them. There appeared to be a wide opening between them, through which they could see the water ripple.

"I think we can shoot through," said the oarsman, standing up a moment; "perhaps it will be the safest course, for we don't know what's above."

"Very well," said Mr. Martell, "I will steer you as well as I can. Pull strongly till we are again in clear water."

Miss Martell bent her supple form to the oar, and her strokes counted as well as those of the strong, practised man; and the boat sped, all too quickly, into what afterwards seemed the very jaws of destruction.

The opening narrowed instead of widening. The ice above, for some reason, appeared to gain on that below.

In growing alarm, Mr. Martell saw that they were becoming shut in, and pointed out the fact to the oarsman.

"Shall we turn around?" he asked, excitedly.

The man stood up again, and instantly decided.

"No, we have not time; the tide is running very swiftly. The ice would close on us before we could get around. Our best chance is to push through. I can see water beyond." They bent to their oars again with the energy which danger inspires.

But there was not time. The opening closed too rapidly. Suddenly the bow struck the upper cake, and, being well out of the water, ran up on the ice, causing the boat to take in water at the stern. For a second it seemed that they would be overturned and drowned at once.

But just at this moment the upper cake struck the lower ice, and the boat, being well up on the first cake, was not crushed between the two masses, as would have been the case had the ice closed against its sides while they were deep in the water. For a moment they were saved, while the upper and lower floes crunched and ground together under the keel, lifting the light craft still further above the tide and throwing it over on one side. Without a second's pause, the now consolidated field of ice swept downward, carrying with it the wedged and stranded skiff.

The lantern gleamed on the pale faces of those who realized that they had just passed through a moment of supreme peril, and perhaps had before them as great if not equally imminent dangers.

The oarsman hastily examined the boat, and found that it had been injured, though to what extent he could not tell. Water was oozing in slowly from some point near the keel, but they were too high out of the water to know whether more dangerous leaks had been made. They tried to break their way out, but found that the two cakes had become so joined together as to form a solid mass, upon which they could make no impression.

They called aloud for help, and Miss Martell's plaintive cry was blended again and again with the hoarse, strong shoutings of the men. But the river was wide; the tide swept them out toward its centre, and then nearer the less peopled eastern shore. The evening was cold and bleak; few were out, and these so intent upon reaching warm firesides that they never thought of scanning the dark waste of the river; and so, to all the cries for aid there was no response, save the gurgling water, that sounded so cold as to chill their hearts, and the crunching of the ice as the rushing tide carried them downward, and away from the gleaming lights of their own loved home,—downward and past the lights from Mrs. Marchmont's mansion, where, even in her peril, poor Alice Martell could picture Harcourt at Addie's side, and she forgotten. As the imagined scene rose vividly before her, the wild thought passed through her mind: "Since it must be so, perhaps I can find more rest beneath these waters than in my home yonder. It may be for the best, after all, and God designs mercy in what at first seemed so terrible."

As people saw Miss Marten's quiet and rather distant bearing in society, as many admired her chiselled and faultlessly refined features, they little imagined that, as within snowy mountains are volcanic fires, so within her breast was kindling as passionate a love as ever illumined a woman's life with happiness, or consumed it with a smouldering flame.

But death is stern and uncompromising, and snatches away all disguises,—even those which hide us from ourselves. In bitterness of heart the poor girl learned, while darker than the night the shadow of death hovered over her, how intense was her love for one who she believed loved another. If but a hand's breadth away, beneath the rushing tide, there was a remedy for the pain at her heart, why need she fear?

"My child," said a tremulous voice.

Then, with a natural and remorseful rush of love for one who had been as tender towards her as a mother since that mother commended her to his care, she put her arms around him and whispered, "I am not afraid, father. Mother and heaven may be nearer than we think."

"Thank God, my child,—thank God you are not afraid. I was trembling for you,—not myself. You are young, and I trusted that there was a happy life before you. But the home where mother is promises me far more than the one yonder, whose lights are growing so faint."

"I am not afraid, dear father. I am content, if it's God's will, to go to that better home and be with you and mother."

"God bless you, my child; and blessed be the God of mercy who has given you so true a faith. It would be terrible to me beyond words if now you were full of hopeless dread."

But the poor oarsman had no such faith,—only the memory of his dependent wife and children, and his material life, which never before had seemed so sweet and precious. He kept shouting for aid until exhausted, and then despairingly sat down to await the result.

Mr. Martell, in the true Christian spirit, sought to impart to his humble companion in peril some of his own confidence in God's mercy and goodness; but in vain. An intelligent, sustaining faith cannot be snatched like a life-preserver in the moment of danger; and the man appeared scarcely to heed what was said.

Downward and past the twinkling lights of many comfortable homes the remorseless tide still swept them, until the huge outlines of the two mountains at the portal of the Highlands loomed out of the darkness.

"If we get down among the mountains, we might as well give up," said the oarsman, sullenly. "We might as well be cast away at sea as down in that wild gorge; though for that matter it seems, to-night, as if one's neighbors wouldn't step out of doors to keep a body from drowning. Why no one has heard us is more than I can understand, unless it is accordin' to the old sayin', 'None's so deaf as them as won't hear.'"

But there was nothing strange in the fact that they had been unnoted. The north wind blew their voices down the river. There was a noisy surf upon the shore, and those who chanced to see the light supposed it to come from some craft hastening to its winter quarters near the city. So fate seemed against them, and they drifted down and down until the black shadow of "Storm King" swallowed them up.

But now they became conscious that their motion was growing less steady and rapid. A little later, and the floe apparently paused in its downward progress, and there was only some slight movement caused by the increasing gale.

Then came what seemed interminable hours of weary waiting under the sombre shadow of "Cro' Nest" mountain. The strange and almost irresistible drowsiness that severe cold induces began to creep over Miss Martell, but her father pleaded with her to fight against it; and, more for his sake than her own, she tried. They took turns in endeavoring to break the ice around them with the boat-hook. The exercise kept their blood in circulation, but was of little avail in other respects. The ice was too heavy and solid for their feeble strokes.

At last the tide turned, and the dreary, monotonous waiting in their hopeless position was exchanged for an upward movement that would soon bring them above the mountains again, where, from the thickly peopled shores, there would be a better chance of being seen and rescued.

There was no certainty that they would be missed, and therefore sought for, as the coachman, not finding them on his return, might conclude that they had been prevailed upon to remain all night with the friend they were visiting.

But any exchange from the black, rayless shadows that surrounded them would be a relief; and it was with a faint feeling of hopefulness—that they recognized their movement northward, which slowly increased in speed as the tide gained mastery of the slight natural current of the river.

The strengthening northern gale had thrown up quite a "sea," and the experienced oarsman soon saw that the ice-field by which they were surrounded was breaking up under the influence of the waves. This might at last bring relief, or increase their danger. If the ice should all break up around them and leave their boat tight and sound, they could tow ashore. If the boat had been or should become so injured as to leak badly, it might fill with water before they could reach land. Thus, in any case, the trying nature of their peculiar position was aggravated by a terrible uncertainty and suspense.

As they emerged from the Highlands into the broad waters of Newburgh Bay, their worst fears seemed about to be realized. Here, for many miles, the north wind had an unrestrained sweep, and the waves grew larger and more violent. Under their increasing force the ice-floe crumbled around them rapidly, until at last little was left save the mass of double thickness caused by the union of the two large cakes between which the boat had been caught. This, at last, began to give under the weight of the boat, and let it more deeply into the water. Then, to their dismay, they saw that the seams of the boat had been so wrenched apart that the water came in rapidly.

They tried to keep it down by baling. The frosty gale tossed Mr. Martell's white hair, while with his hat he worked, in pathetic earnestness, for the sake of his daughter; but in spite of all that he and the oarsman could do, the water gained on them, wetting their feet and creeping up their legs with the icy chili of death.

Every moment or two the man would pause in his work and send forth a cry of such terrible power and earnestness that it would seem some one must hear.

Again Alice Martell saw the distant lights of her own home, but she turned from them to those that gleamed from the nearer residence of Mrs. Marchmont. Was he there, safe and happy, looking love into the eyes of Addie Marchmont, while every moment she sank lower into the cold river? The thought sent a deeper chill to her heart than the icy tide from which she could no longer keep her feet.

"God and man is agin us," said the oarsman, savagely. "What is the use of trying any longer! The sooner it's over the better"; and he was about to give up in despair. Alice, with equal hopelessness of any earthly aid, was about to turn her eyes from the faint rays which, barbed with the thoughts suggested above, pierced her heart like arrows, when the throwing open of the hall-door by Hemstead let out such a broad streaming radiance as attracted her notice. By calling the attention of the others to it, she inspired in them a faint hope.

But when, soon after, the door was closed, and the lights had their usual appearance, the flicker of hope sank down into a deeper darkness.

Alice turned to her father, and in close embrace and with a oneness of spirit and hope that needed not outward expression, they silently lifted their thoughts from the dark earth to the bright heaven whose portals they soon expected to enter.

Just then a voice from earth recalled them to earthly hope and the prospect of human help. It was Hemstead's shout of encouragement from the shore. Then they saw the glimmer of a lantern moving hither and thither; a moment later it became stationary, then shot out towards them.

With cries of joy they recognized that they had been seen, and that an attempt to rescue them was being made.

In the apathy of their despair the water had gained dangerously; but with the energy of hope, that is ever greater than that of fear or despair, they set to work anew. Again the wintry winds tossed Mr. Martell's white hair, as for want of something better he baled with his hat, and Alice's little numb hands were lifted every moment as if in pathetic appeal, as she dipped them in the ice-cold water at her feet, and threw out a tiny cupful, which the gale carried away in spray.

"Come quick. We can't keep afloat much longer," cried the oarsman.

"Ay, ay," shouted the ex-sailor in a voice as hoarse as the winds in the cordage of his old ship.

"Courage!" cried Hemstead; and his tones, in contrast, rang out like a bugle, inspiring hope in the chilled hearts of those who, a little before, had despaired, and also sending an almost equal thrill of delight to the heart of Lottie Marsden, as, with the half-frenzied Harcourt, she stood in Mrs. Marchmont's open door.

The sailor-coachman was a good oarsman, and Hemstead pulled fairly. Both were very strong, and they drove the boat through the short, chopping waves, rather than over them, caring not how much water was shipped.

A little later came the shout, "Quick, quick! The ice is giving under us, and the boat sinking."

"Oh! come!—save my father!" cried Alice Martell, in a tone that might have moved the very ice around her to pity.

"My child, my child!" came the agonized voice of the father. "Never think of me, if you can save her."

Hemstead's nature was anthracite, and now glowed at white heat in his grand excitement. He was no longer a man, but a giant, and would have ruined everything, snapped his oars, dragged the oar-pins from their sockets, thus rendering his massive strength utterly useless, had not the cool, wary ex-sailor taken command of the little craft, and insisted on seamanship. Under his skilful direction the student was like a powerful engine, with a steady, measured stroke, and the boat fairly flew, until their oars struck floating ice, and then they had to slacken up, for to strike a mass of ice at their speed would be to sink at once.

"Steady now," cried the ex-sailor. "You pull; I will stand and steer."

Their boat was roughly grazed several times, but glided through without serious injury.

"Now or never!" cried the oarsman; "we're sinking."

Alice hid her face on her father's breast. Life had grown strangely sweet during the brief time since, at Hemstead's voice, hope had revived; and it seemed a bitter thing to perish almost within the grasp of rescuing hands.

"Oh! come!" groaned the father. "Great God! this is hard."

With a despairing cry she heard the water rush and gurgle around her, and closed her eyes, not expecting to open them again in this world. But strong hands grasped and lifted her drenched, helpless form tenderly into the boat.

With mingled hope and fear she looked up, and by the lantern's light recognized Frank Hemstead.

"My father," she gasped.

"Safe, my darling, thank God," said Mr. Martell, taking her into his arms; "and they have pulled our stout oarsman in, too. So we are all safe."

"Well, I hope so," said the ex-sailor, with a little depressive dubiousness. "We shipped a sight o' water comin' out. There's a deal of ice runnin', and so chopped up one can skerce see it. I must be skipper and all, mind, if we are to come safe out. Here, Mr. Hemstead, you bale; and you, too, messmate, if yer hain't shipped too much water yerself. I'll sit well up towards the bow, where I can see and pull around the ice. Besides, with this cargo, we've got to cross the waves kind o' easy and keerful, or they'll swamp us."

Thus in this instance the ex-sailor appeared a special providence, and gradually took them out of the ice-strewn tide in the centre of the river to smoother, clearer water nearer the shore. Soon after, drenched and half-frozen, they reached Mrs. Marchmont's boat-house.

Miss Martell's powers of endurance were nearly exhausted; and when the lantern, held aloft, revealed Harcourt's pale face,—when she knew that it was his arms that received her in her helplessness, and she heard him murmur, "I now believe there's a merciful God, and thank Him,"—in the strong reaction of feeling she became unconscious.



CHAPTER XXVII.

THE MEETING AND GREETING.



Mr. Martell's garments were frozen upon him, and he was so stiff and numb with cold that with difficulty he made his way up the bank with the support of De Forrest and the gallant coachman, who had suddenly blossomed out into a hero. Harcourt and Hemstead formed with their hands what is termed a "chair," and bore the apparently lifeless form of Miss Martell swiftly towards Mrs. Marchmont's residence. The poor oarsman was so glad to be on solid ground once more that he was able to hobble along at a good pace by himself.

The wind again played mad pranks with Lottie's hair as she at last stood impatiently on the piazza, and then dashed off through the snow to meet them.

"O, thank God, you are safely back. But Miss Martell—she is not—she is not—"

"Don't suggest such a thing," groaned Harcourt. "Of course she has only fainted."

Hemstead could not speak, even to Lottie. With white face and set teeth he sought to keep up to the end. The effort he was now putting forth was less that of muscle than sheer force of will. As with Miss Martell, he, too, was reacting from the tremendous strain that the last hour had brought. He trembled with almost mortal weakness as he slowly mounted the piazza steps. He staggered under his share of their burden as he crossed the hall. Lottie, puzzled by his silence, now saw his deathly pallor with alarm, and instinctively stood at his side.

"You had better take Miss Martell directly to her room," said Mrs. Marchmont.

"In here, quick," gasped Hemstead. He tottered to the nearest sofa, and, a second later, lay unconscious at Miss Martell's feet.

At this moment Alice again became conscious. Hemstead's condition did more to revive her than all restoratives; for, woman-like, she thought of him more than herself. She sat up and exclaimed faintly: "O, can't something be done for him? Quick. It looks as if he had given his life for us"; and she looked around, not far enough to see the expression of Harcourt's face as he welcomed her back to consciousness, but only to see Addie clinging to his arm, repeatedly asking to be assured that he was not hurt.

"Thank heaven you are safe," he bent down and whispered.

"Don't think of me. Look at Mr. Hemstead."

Again he misunderstood her, and with bitterness thought, "After all my anguish on her account, she gives me not even a thought, and her first words are, 'Don't think of me';" and he felt that fate had been very cruel in sending Hemstead to her rescue instead of himself.

Mrs. Marchmont now appeared upon the confused scene, and proved that she was equal to the occasion. It was a sad pity that she had not imparted to her daughter a little of her own capability. She bade De Forrest, and the still stout and hearty ex-sailor, carry Hemstead at once to his room, while she and one of the maids assisted Miss Martell to hers. No opportunity whatever was given for any romantic and affecting scenes.

Lottie had stood for a second in dismay, after seeing her "true knight" sink on the floor, and then, like a sensible girl, instead of going off into hysterics, went like a flash to her aunt's wine-closet for brandy. But before she could find it Mrs. Marchmont had caused both the rescued and the rescuer to be conveyed to the privacy of their own rooms, where they could at once receive the prosaic treatment that their condition required.

The room which a moment before had presented a scene which she would never forget was empty, Harcourt having gone for a physician.

She met Mr. Dimmerly on the stairs, who took the brandy from her, saying: "That's sensible. We'll rub him down with it, inside and out, and he'll be all right in the morning. Now you see how blood tells. Making a parson of him can't change the fact of his coming from an old family. He has been as brave to-night as the Dimmerlys were a thousand years ago."

But Lottie was not a bit interested in the millennial Dimmerlys, and, putting her arms around her uncle's neck in a way that surprised that ancient fossil, she coaxed:

"Won't you promise me, uncle, that as soon as he is safe you will come out and let me know?"

"Safe! He's safe now. Who ever heard of even a half-blooded Dimmerly dying from a mere faint? Old age is the only disease that runs in our family, my dear. But I will let you know as soon as he is comfortably asleep. I am going to make my proper parson nephew almost drunk, for once in his life; and you needn't expect to see him much before ten o'clock to-morrow."

Lottie, finding her services were not needed in Miss Martell's room, went down to the kitchen, where she found the half-frozen oarsman-now rigged out in the dress-coat and white vest of the colored waiter—and the brave coachman who had put his old sea-craft to such good use. They were being royally cared for by the cook and laundress. The poor fellow who out in the boat had thought that the hearts of even his neighbors were as cold and hard as the ice that was destroying them had now forgotten his misanthropy, and was making a supper that, considering the hour, would threaten to an ordinary mortal more peril than that from which he had escaped. She drew from him—and especially from the coachman—the narrative of their thrilling experience, and every moment Hemstead grew more heroic in her eyes.

"Bless you, miss," said the bluff ex-sailor, his tongue a little loosened by the whiskey he had taken as an antidote for the cold and wet, "there's stuff enough in him to make a hundred such as t'other young gentleman as wouldn't go. Sudden spells, like that he had t'other night, is all he'll ever be'stinguished for, I'm a-thinking. But I ax your pardon, miss."

"I can forgive you anything to-night, my brave fellow," said Lottie, blushing. "Though you have given Mr. Hemstead so much credit, he will give you more to-morrow. Take this and get something to remember this evening by"; and she slipped a twenty-dollar bank-note into his hand.

"Now bless your sweet eyes!" exclaimed the man, ducking and bobbing with bewildering rapidity; "it's your kindness that'll make me remember the evening to my dying day."

"How could you speak so of Mr. De Forrest, when the young leddy is engaged to him?" said the cook, reproachfully, after Lottie had gone.

"No matter," said the ex-sailor, stoutly. "I've had it on my conscience to give her a warnin'. I hadn't the heart to see such a trim little craft run into shallow water, and hoist no signal. If she was my darter, she'd have to mitten that lubber if he was wuth a million."

As Lottie passed through the hall with silent tread, she saw that De Forrest was in the parlor, and to escape him continued on up to her room, musing as she went: "What a strange blending of weakness and strength Mr. Hemstead is! Well, I should like that. I should like a man to be as strong as Samson generally, but often so weak that he would have to lean on me."

Whom did Lottie mean by that indefinite word "man"? It did not occur to her that there was a very definite image in her mind of one who was pale and exhausted, and whom it would now be a dear privilege to nurse back into strength and vigor.

She met her uncle and the physician in the upper hall, and the latter said: "Mr. and Miss Martell are doing as well as could be expected, when we consider the fearful ordeal they have passed through. As far as I can foresee, a few days' rest and quiet will quite restore them."

"And Mr.—Mr. Hemstead?" faltered Lottie, the color mounting into her face, that anxiety had made unwontedly pale.

"The brave fellow who rescued them? Now he is the right kind of a dominie,—not all white choker and starch. No fear about him, Miss Marsden. He's made of good stuff, well put together. A night's rest and a warm breakfast, and he will be himself again"; and the old doctor bustled away.

"What delightful prose!" thought Lottie, and she tripped lightly to her room and kissed the sullen and offended Bel good night; and, very grateful and at peace with all the world, soon fell asleep.

But she had a disagreeable dream. Again she saw Hemstead at Miss Martell's feet; but now, instead of being pale and unconscious, his face was flushed and eager, and he was pleading for that which the king cannot buy. She awoke sobbing, called herself a "little fool," and went to sleep again.

But in the morning the dream lingered in her mind in a vague, uncomfortable way.

She was early down to breakfast, for she was eager to speak to Hemstead, and tell him how she appreciated his heroism. But either his exhaustion was greater than the physician had believed, or his uncle's sedatives were very powerful, for he did not appear.

There was nothing better for her than to endure De Forrest's explanations why he had not gone, and his assurances that if he had "only known, etc."; to which she gave an impatient hearing, quite unlike her gentleness of the two preceding days. There were little things in her manner Which indicated a falling barometer, and suggested that the day might not pass serenely.

She learned from her aunt and uncle that Mr. and Miss Martell were feeling better than might have been expected, and that Hemstead was still sleeping.

"Sleep was all he wanted," said Mr. Dimmerly; "and I made it my business he should get it."

Quite early in the forenoon, Mr. Martell and his daughter felt equal to coming down to the parlor, and after dinner it was their intention to return home. A luxurious lounge was wheeled near the blazing wood fire, and on this Miss Mar-tell was tenderly placed by her father, who, in joyful gratitude, could scarcely take his eyes from her pale face. Beyond the natural languor which would follow so terrible a strain, she seemed quite well.

Both father and daughter appreciated Mrs. Marchmont's courtesy greatly; and Miss Martell's effort to be cordial, even to Addie, was quite pathetic, when it is remembered that she felt that her supposed rival would harm her more than could the cold river.

Lottie made frequent errands to her room, and lingered in the hall as much as she could without attracting notice, in the hope of seeing Hemstead a moment alone. The impulsive girl's warm heart was so full of admiration for what he had done that she longed to show him her appreciation without the chilling restraint of observant eyes and critical ears. But he was so blind to his interests as to blunder into the parlor when she was there and every one else also.

Though it cost her great effort, Alice Martell rose instantly, and greeted him so cordially as to bring the deepest crimson into his pale face. Mr. Martell also pressed to his side, speaking words which only a grateful father could utter.

When, for any cause, Hemstead was the object of general attention, the occasion became the very hour and opportunity for his awkward diffidence to assert itself, and now he stood in the centre of the floor, the most angular and helpless of mortals.

De Forrest looked at him with disdain, and thought, "I would like to show him how a gentleman ought to act under the circumstances."

De Forrest would have been equal to receiving all the praise, and as it was, in view of his readiness to have saved Miss Martell if he "had only known," could have accepted, with graceful complacency, a gratitude that quite overwhelmed the man of deeds.

Hemstead's confusion was so great as even to embarrass Miss Martell for a moment, and her face, from reminding one of a lily, suddenly suggested an exquisite pink rose. But before he was aware she had ensconced him in an easy chair at her side, and with a tact peculiarly her own had rallied his panic-stricken faculties into such order that he could again take command of them.

But as Lottie saw them grasping each other's hands and blushing, her dream recurred to her with the force of an ominous prophecy. Hemstead, in his severe attack of diffidence, had not greeted any. one on his entrance, but had fallen helplessly into Miss Kartell's hands, and had been led to his chair like a lamb to the slaughter. But Lottie took it as much to heart as if he had purposely neglected to speak to her. And when, a little later, Mr. Dimmerly commenced a formal eulogy, Hemstead with an expression of intense annoyance raised his hand deprecatingly, and pleaded that no one would speak again of what he had done, she feared that all the glowing words she meant to say would be unwelcome after all.

Everything had turned out so differently from what she had anticipated that she was disappointed above measure, and before he could collect his scattered wits she left the room.

"And so it all ends," she thought bitterly, as she chafed up and down the hall. "I sent him out last night as my own 'true knight,' wearing my colors, and he rescues another woman. When I see him again he brushes past me to speak to the one who, owing him so much, of course will be grateful. With eyes for her alone he wears my colors in his face, and she raises the same blood-red signal. I was looking forward to the pleasure of giving him a welcome that he might value on his return, and he has not even spoken to me. After our parting last night could anything have turned out more flat and prosaic?"

Just at this moment Harcourt, who was another victim of circumstances, entered, and Lottie, too annoyed to meet any one, fled to her own room.

He had already called early in the morning, to inquire aftei the invalids; but Miss Martell did not know this, and his coming now seemed a little dilatory, considering all they had passed through. Deep in her heart there was disappointment that he had not come to her rescue instead of Hemstead. Was he one to stand safely on the shore while others took risks from which true manhood would not have shrunk? Could he have dreamt that she was in peril, and still have let Hemstead go without him to her aid? These were thoughts that had distressed her during part of a sleepless night and all the morning.

Moreover, when he entered, Addie had pounced upon him in her usual style, as if she had in him certain rights of possession.

Addie's manner, together with her own thoughts, gave an involuntary tinge of coldness to Miss Martell's greeting, which he was quick to recognize, while her cordiality to Hemstead suggested to him, as to Lottie, that she might be very grateful.

Mr. Martell was more than slightly distant: he was stiff and formal. As circumstances then appeared to him, he thought that Harcourt had acted a very unworthy part. Mr. Martell naturally supposed that both Harcourt and De Forrest were at Mrs. Marchmont's, but that only Hemstead had been willing to venture to their assistance. To De Forrest he gave scarcely a thought, having accurately estimated that superficial youth's light weight. But that Harcourt, the son of his old and dear friend, should have so failed in manly duty, was a bitter trial. As he saw him and Addie together, he thought contemptuously, "They are well mated, after all. How strange that my peerless daughter can have such a regard for him!"

He had become aware of his daughter's preference, though, out of delicate regard for her feelings, he had feigned blindness.

Even had Harcourt known how greatly they misjudged him, in his sensitive pride he would have made no explanations; and he was the last one in the world to tell them, as would De Forrest, how he meant to go to their aid, etc.

His manner puzzled Alice. She could not help noting with a secret satisfaction that, while polite, he was annoyed at Addie's demonstrativeness; and at times she thought his eyes sought her face almost as if in appeal. But her own and her father's manner had evidently chilled him, and he soon took his leave. His face, in which pride and dejection contended for mastery, haunted her like a reproach.

"If Mr. Harcourt had only arrived a little earlier last evening, Miss Martell," said De Forrest, complacently, "you would have had three to thank instead of one. I'm sure if I had known that you and your father—"

"How is that?" asked Mr. Martell, quickly. "Was not Mr. Harcourt spending the evening here?"

"O, no. It was from him we first learned of your peril. He came tearing over like mad, a few moments after the coachman and Mr. Hemstead had gone; then he dashed off to the shore, where I soon joined him. I thought at one time," continued De Forrest, glad to say anything that would dim the glory of Hemstead's achievements, "that he would start out into the river with no better support than a plank, so eager was he to go to your aid. If we could only have found another boat we would have both gone. As it was, it was well I was there to restrain him, for he seemed beside himself."

The rich color mounted to Miss Martell's face as she gave her father a swift glance of glad intelligence, and he drew a long breath of relief, as if some heavy burden had been lifted.

"Yes," said Mrs. Marchmont, quietly, but at the same time fixing an observant eye on the young lady; "I never gaw Mr. Harcourt so moved before."

Conscious of Mrs. Marchmont's object, Alice mastered herself at once, and with equal quietness answered: "It would be strange if it were otherwise. We have been acquainted from childhood."

Nevertheless, the experienced matron surmised danger to the match which she would gladly bring about between her daughter and Harcourt; and instead of fearing, as was the case with the latter and Lottie, she hoped that Miss Martell would be very grateful to Hemstead.

And so she appeared to be, for she talked to him so enchantingly, and for a time absorbed him so completely, that Lottie entered unobserved, and remained so a few moments. Then his eyes, that from the moment he gained composure had seemed in quest of something, lighted on her as she sat a little back of him, apparently absorbed in her fancy-work. He wanted to speak to her, and yet what could he say before them all?

The telltale color was again in his face, and his wretched diffidence returned. Neither courtesy nor his heart would permit him to ignore her and continue his conversation with Miss Martell. And yet it had seemed easier to go in a boat out among the ice than to think of any proper way to recognize the presence of one in whose eyes he had a morbid anxiety to appear well.

Lottie saw his dilemma, and, while she too began to blush absurdly, would not help him, and her head bent lower than ever over her work.

"Serves him right," she thought. "If he had only met me in the hall, I might—well, I wouldn't have been an icicle."

At last Hemstead concluded that he could safely say "good morning"; and he did so in a very awkward manner over his shoulder.

"Did you speak to me?" asked Lottie, as if suddenly aroused.

"Yes," he replied, under the painful necessity of repeating something that had sounded very flat in the first place, "I said good morning."

"O, excuse me. As it is so late I bid you good afternoon."

Her manner as well as her words so quenched poor Hemstead that he did not venture another syllable; and thus Lottie and her "true knight" had the meeting to which, in remembrance of their parting, both had looked forward with strange thrills of expectation.

But in the light of their flaming cheeks Miss Martell caught a glimpse of their hearts; and Mrs. Marchmont was again led to fear that more was going on than should be permitted by so good a manager as herself.

The dinner-bell soon brought welcome relief to all, breaking the spell of awkward constraint.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE TRAIL OF LOVE.



Miss Martell improved visibly, for a most depressing fear had been removed. Though Harcourt might not return her love, he had not proved himself unworthy of it, by actual cowardice, or even by unmanly regard for personal ease. It also appeared that more than general philanthropy must have spurred him on, or he could not have acted as if "beside himself."

The hungry heart will take even the crumbs of regard that fall from the hand which alone can satisfy. The thought that her old friend and playmate had been far from indifferent to her fate was like a subtile, exhilarating wine to Miss Martell.

Her rising spirits, and her wish to show appreciation of Mrs. Marchmont's courtesy, made her as brilliant as beautiful at the dinner-table, while Lottie, in contrast, was silent and depressed. The new-fledged little saint soon became conscious that for some reason she was very jealous and very envious,—emotions which she seldom had even imaginary cause to cherish towards any of her sex.

Nor were Mrs. Marchmont and her daughter disposed to be very friendly and responsive to Miss Martell's genial mood; but the young lady was possessed of that strength of mind and high-bred courtesy which enabled her to ignore the weaknesses and infelicities of those around her, and to shine with her own pure light on all objects alike.

Hemstead again was charmed with her,—a fact that his frankness made plainly evident. Her bright thoughts elicited corresponding ones from him, and Lottie was reluctantly compelled to admit to herself that she had never before known Mrs. Marchmont's viands to be seasoned with Attic salt of such high flavor. For the first time the proud and flattered belle felt, in the presence of another woman, a humiliating sense of her own inferiority. She clearly recognized that Miss Martell was far in advance of her. How could the student fail to be fascinated? Her mind was the equal of his in force, and as highly cultivated. They were congenial in their views and feelings, and of course she would be very grateful.

Lottie's manner had puzzled Hemstead greatly. He was even more disappointed than she had been over their prosaic meeting. In his honest modesty, broad eulogy from the others was exceedingly distasteful; and yet one of his chief incentives the evening before had been the hope of a welcome back from Lottie, in which her eyes, if not her tongue, would suggest the reward his heart craved. But he had said "good morning," and she a little coldly had responded "good afternoon." Moreover, she was strangely silent and depressed. What could it mean? and what the cause? That it was himself never entered his mind.

Her bearing towards De Forrest, which was anything but genial, finally led him to believe that she was again deeply mortified by her lover's lack of manhood, and that she was depressed because of her relation to one who had failed so signally, the evening before, in those qualities that women most admire.

While lingering over the dessert, Mr. Martell's sleigh was announced.

"It as my purpose to send you home," exclaimed Mrs. Marchmont. "Indeed, I had ordered my horses to be at the door within half an hour."

"I appreciate your kindness," said Mr. Martell, "but after the heroic efforts of your amphibious coachman last night, I should feel guilty if we broke in upon his rest to-day."

"I'm glad you recognize his merit," said Hemstead, quickly. "You owe far more to him than to me"; and he launched out into the most hearty eulogy of the ex-sailor.

Then, for the first time, Lottie's old, mirthful laugh was heard, as she said: "Well, in one respect, Mr. Hemstead, you and the coachman are birds of a feather, and rare birds at that. He gives you all the credit of the rescue, and you insist that you had nothing to do with it, but only went along for company, as it were. But I think we all surmised the truth, when you fainted from exhaustion at Miss Martell's feet. That was a very happy chance, and so it all turned out as well as any knight of old could have desired."

This sudden speech from Lottie bewildered Hemstead more than ever. What could she mean? But Miss Martell understood her better, and gave a keen thrust in return as she smilingly answered, "With the only exception that Mr. Hemstead fainted at the feet of the wrong lady."

This unexpected retort threw both Hemstead and Lottie into disastrous confusion, which Mrs, Marchmont was not slow to observe, and which was not allayed by Mr. Dimmerly's cackling laugh, as he chuckled, "A well-flown arrow."

"Well," said Hemstead, trying to laugh it off, "all I can say in self-defence is, that in either case my faint could not be spelled with an e. It was the first, and I hope it will be the last time I ever do anything so melodramatic."

"Mr. Hemstead must be an ideal knight, as we learn from his phrase 'in either case,'" said Lottie. "He would have us believe that he is entirely impartial in his homage to our sex. And, now I think of it, he was more polite to old Auntie Lammer than ever he has been to me."

"Now, Miss Marsden," said Hemstead, reproachfully, "you are again indulging in orientalism."

"Certainly," chimed in De Forrest; "that sylph so filled his eye that she became his ideal, as you told us, Miss Lottie."

"I told you?" she answered in sudden annoyance; "your memory is better than mine."

Soon after, Mr. Martell and his daughter took their departure, with many sincere and graceful acknowledgments of the kindness they had received.

Many were the words of force and wisdom that Miss Martell had read and heard, but never had any made so profound an impression upon her as the vain vaporings of De Forrest, as he insisted on claiming all the credit he could for his action the evening before.

"Did he exaggerate," she asked herself a hundred times, "when he said, 'It was well I was there; for Mr. Harcourt was beside himself, and was ready to venture out upon a plank to your aid'? I fear he did."

Her father surmised something of her thoughts and said gently, "I fear we have done Mr. Harcourt injustice."

"Yes, father," she answered, "I think we have."

"Well," he said, after a moment, "I never had a pleasanter duty than the amends I purpose making. It cut me to the heart to think the son of my old friend had permitted a stranger to come to our rescue."

"I feel sure that Mr. Harcourt would have come also, had it been in his power," she said, with quiet emphasis.

"You always stood up for Tom," said her father, gently.

But she made no answer.

Mr. Martell then questioned his coachman somewhat.

"Indade, sir, we was all putty nigh crazy when Mr. Harcourt druv in late last night and said you were safe. He told me to come-over this morning and get your orders, and to have the house ready for yez."

"Now that was considerate. I feel, my daughter, that we owe Mr. Harcourt an apology. Do you feel equal to entertaining him at supper?"

"I will try, father."

"Drive right on up to town," said Mr. Martell, a little later, from the steps of his piazza, "and present my compliments to Mr. Harcourt, and ask him if he will favor us with his company at supper."

Alice gave him a shy, grateful glance, and then sought her room.

As she was unwrapping herself before her mirror, she noted that a pane of glass in the window near was badly cracked, and that the lace curtain above was torn partially from its fastening.

As her maid entered she asked how it happened.

The woman in evident confusion answered: "Indeed, miss, I meant to mend the curtain this morning, but I've not had me head straight since last evening."

"But how did it happen?" persisted Alice. "Who could have been so rough and careless?"

"Well," said the maid, hesitatingly, "it must have been Mr. Harcourt."

"Mr. Harcourt!"

"Well, you see, miss, he came last night to see you, for one of the girls said he asked for you, and when he found you was out on the river he just seemed beside himself. We was a-lookin' out upstairs, and we first saw the light a-coming up after the tide turned, and we screamed to him and the coachman, and Mr. Harcourt he came upstairs like a gust o' wind. Your door stood open, and in he rushed in a way that I thought he'd break everything."

"There, that will do. I understand. You need not mend the curtain. You must be tired after all your fright, and can rest awhile this afternoon, as I shall."

A beautiful color dawned in Alice's face. She was recovering from her languor and weakness with marvellous rapidity. It was not strange, for no elixir was ever distilled so potent as that which now infused its subtile spirit into heart and brain.

But a few hours before, the wayward but good-hearted companion of her childhood, the manly friend of the present and future,—she would permit herself to think of him in no other light,—had seemed lost to her forever; to have had in fact no real existence; for if Harcourt had been content to act De Forrest's part the evening before, Alice Martell would have soon shaken off even his acquaintance. But De Forrest's words had suggested that the Harcourt of her dreams still existed. She had seen another trace of manly, considerate feeling in his thoughtfulness of the servants' fears, and of their comfort. And now the torn curtain and broken glass suggested the impetuous action of one who thought of her peril rather than of the trifles around him.

Twice now she had been told that Harcourt was "beside himself," and yet never had madness seemed so rational; and her eyes dwelt on the marks of his frenzy before her with unmixed satisfaction. If he had been cool then, her heart now would be cold.

She could not rest, and at last thought that the frosty air would cool the fever in her cheeks, and so wrapped herself for a walk upon the broad piazza. Moreover, she felt, as Lottie had, that she would be glad to have no eyes, not even her father's, witness their meeting. She felt that she could act more naturally and composedly if alone with him, and at the same time show the almost sisterly regard through which she hoped to win him to his better self.

As she paced up and down the piazza, in the early twilight, her attention was attracted to a spot where some one, instead of going deliberately down the steps, had plunged off into the piled-up snow, and then just opposite and beyond the broad path were tracks wide apart, as if some one had bounded rather than run towards the river.

She ceased her walk, and stood as one who had discovered a treasure. Did these footprints and the torn curtain belong together? She felt that it could not be otherwise. There was, then, no cold-blooded, cowardly Harcourt, and traces of the real man grew clearer.

"But how could he reach the river in that direction without risking his neck?" and she indulged hi quite a panic as she remembered the intervening steeps. She longed yet dreaded to see him, that she might ask an explanation of the traces she had found; for, having done him injustice, she generously meant to make him full amends.

But to her great disapointment the sleigh now returned without him.

"I left the message, miss," said the coachman, "but they told me that Mr. Harcourt had a sudden business call to New York."

Alice sought to draw the man out a little, and it was also her habit to speak kindly to those in her employ; so she said: "I fear, Burtis, you will be a little jealous of Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. If it had not been for him we could not have escaped, I think."

"Well, thank God, I'm not much behind him. If he stopped two funerals, I stopped one."

"Why, how is that, Burtis?"

"Faix, miss, an' do ye see thim tracks there? They go straight to the river, and it was Misther Harcourt as made them. He was jist one second on the way after he saw the light, and by rinnin' an' rollin' an' tumblin' he was at the boat-house in a wink. When I gets there, a-puffin' an' a-blowin', he's unlocked the door by taeakin' it in, and is a-haulin' at the ould boat; and because I wouldn't lend a band in gettin' out the crazy ould craft that wouldn't float a hundred foot, he swears at me in the most onchristian manner, and tries to get it out alone. But ye know, miss, how he couldn't do that, and soon he gives it up and falls to gnawin' his nails like one beside himself, an' a-mutterin' how he must either'save her or drown with her.' Then he dashed up the bank ag'in, and he and his black hoss was off like a whirlwind. If the Naughty Tillus, or any other thing as would float was here, ye'd had no need of Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. But I thought he'd off wid me head because I wouldn't help out wid the ould boat."

Not a word or sign did Alice place in the way of the man's garrulity, but rather manifested breathless interest, as with parted lips she bent forward, encouraging him to go on.

Was he not reciting an epic poem of which she was the heroine and Harcourt the hero? The true epics of the world are generally told in the baldest prose.

"There was one thing I didn't like," continued the man, gathering up his reins, "and I've thought I ought to speak of it to ye or ye's father. All his talk was about savin' yerself, and not a whisper of the ould gentleman, who has been so kind to him all his life. It sounded kinder onnatteral like."

"Very well, Burtis; you have done your duty in speaking to me, and so need not say anything to Mr. Martell about it. I rather think you have prevented a funeral, and perhaps I owe you as many thanks as Mrs. Marchmont's coachman. At any rate you will find on Christmas that you have not been forgotten."

So the man drove to the stable with the complacent consciousness of having done his duty and warned his mistress against a "very onnatteral feelin'" in the young man.

The moment he disappeared around the corner, Alice stood undecided a moment, like a startled deer, and then sped down the path to the boat-house. The snow was tramped somewhat by the big lumbering feet of the coach-man, but had it not been, Alice now had wings. The twilight was deepening, and she could not wait till the morrow before following up this trail that led to the idol of her heart.

She paused in the winding path when half-way down the bank, that she might gloat over the mad plunges by which Harcourt had crossed it, straight to the river. She followed his steps to the brink of a precipice, and saw with a thrill of mingled fear and delight where he had slid and fallen twenty feet or more.

"How cruelly I have misjudged him!" she thought. "When he was here eager to risk his life for me, my false fancy pictured him at Addie Marchmont's side. And yet it was well I did not know the truth, for it would have been so much harder to look death in the face so long, with this knowledge of his friendship. How strangely he and Addie act when together! But come, that is no affair of mine. Let me be thankful that I have not lost the friend of my childhood."

A little later she stood at the boat-house. The door hung by one hinge only, and the large stone lay near with which he had crashed it in. She entered the dusky place as if it had been a temple. Had it not been consecrated by a service of love,—by the costliest offering that can be made,—life? Here he had said he would save her or perish with her; here he had sought to make good his words.

She picked up one of the matches he had dropped, and struck it, that she might look into the neglected boat. Never was the utter unseaworthiness of a craft noted with such satisfaction before.

"While I vilely thought he would not venture to our aid at all, he strained every nerve to launch this old shell. Thanks to obstinate Burtis, who would not help him."

She struck another match, that she might look more closely; then uttered a pitiful cry.

"Merciful heaven! is this blood on this rope? It surely is. Now I think of it, he kept his right hand gloved this morning, and offered his left to Mr. Hemstead in salutation. Father and I, in our cruel wrong, did not offer to take his hand. And yet it would seem that he tugged with bleeding hands at these ropes, that he might almost the same as throw away his life for us.

"I can scarcely understand it. No brother could do more. He was braver than Mr. Hemstead, for he had a stanch boat, and experienced help, while my old playmate was eager to go alone in this wretched thing that would only have floated him out to deep water where he would drown.

"Ah, well, let the future be what it may, one cannot be utterly unhappy who has loved such a man. If he is willing to give his life up for me, I surely can get him to give up his evil, wayward tendencies, and then I must be content."

She now began to experience reaction from her strong excitement, and wearily made her way back to the house.

Her father met her at the door, and exclaimed, "Why, Alice, where have you been? You look ready to sink!"

"I have been to the boat-house, father," she replied, in a low, quick tone; "and I wish you would go there to-morrow, for you will there learn how cruelly we have misjudged Mr. Harcourt."

"But, my child, I am troubled about you. You need quiet and rest after all you have passed through"; and he hastily brought her a glass of wine.

"I needed more the assurance that my old friend and playmate was not what we thought this morning," she said, with drooping eyes.

"Well, my darling, we will make amends right royally. He will be here to-morrow evening, and you shall have no occasion to find fault with me. But please take care of yourself. You do not realize what you have passed through, and I fear you are yet to suffer the consequences."

But more exhilarating than the wine which her father placed to her lips was the nfemory of what she had seen. Hers was one of those spiritual natures that suffer more through the mind than through the body. She encountered her greatest peril in the fear of Harcourt's unworthiness.

Letters in the evening mail summoned her father to the city on the morrow, and he left her with many injunctions to be very quiet. It was evident that his heart and life were bound up in her.

But as the day grew bright and mild she again found her way to the boat-house. With greater accuracy she marked his every hasty step from the house to the shore. Harcourt little thought in his wild alarm that he was leaving such mute but eloquent advocates.

Poor fellow! he was groaning over their harsh judgment, but vowing in his pride that he would never undeceive them. He did not remember that he had left a trail clear to dullest eyes, and conclusive as a demonstration to the unerring instinct of a loving heart.

He had gone to the city and accomplished his business in a mechanical way. He returned with the first train, though why he scarcely knew. He felt no inclination to visit at Mrs. Marchmont's any more, for since he had come more fully under Miss Martell's influence Addie had lost her slight hold upon him, and now her manner was growing unendurable. He also felt that after Mr. Martell's coldness he could not visit there again, and he doggedly purposed to give his whole time to his business till events righted him, if they ever did.

But his stoical philosophy was put to immediate rout by Mr. Martell's message, which he received on his return. Five minutes later he was urging his black horse towards the familiar place at a pace but a little more decorous than when seeking Hemstead's assistance on the memorable even ing of the accident.

"Miss Martell is out," stolidly said the woman who answered his summons.

As he was turning away in deep disappointment, Burtis appeared on the scene, and with a complacent grin, remarked, "She's only down by the boat-house, a-seein' howl saved ye from drownding."

Harcourt slipped a bank-note into his hand, and said, "There's for your good services now if not then," and was off for the water's edge with as much speed as he dared use before observant eyes.

"They must have found out from the old coachman that I was not the coward they deemed me," he thought. "If so, I'll see he has a merry Christmas."

He saw Alice standing with her back towards him, looking out upon the river, that now rippled and sparkled in the sunlight as if a dark, stormy night had never brooded over an icy, pitiless tide.

The soft snow muffled his steps, until at last he said, hesitatingly, "Miss Martell."

She started violently, and trembled as if shaken by the wind.

"Pardon me," he said hastily. "It was very stupid in me to thus startle you, but you seemed so intent on something upon the river that I thought you would never see me."

"I—I was not expecting you," she faltered.

"Then I have done wrong—have been mistaken in coming."

"O, no; I did not mean that. I thought you were in New York. We expected you this evening."

"Shall I go away then, and come back this evening?"

"Yes; come back this evening, but do not go now,—that is, just yet. I have something to say to you. Please forgive my confusion. I fear my nerves have been shaken by what I have passed through."

And yet such "confusion" in one usually so composed did puzzle him, but he said hastily, feeling that it would be better to break the ice at once, "I came here not to 'forgive,' but to seek your forgiveness."

"You seeking my forgiveness!" she said in unfeigned surprise.

"Yes," he replied, humbly bowing his head. "Heaven knows that I am weak and faulty enough, but when I have wronged any one, I am willing to make acknowledgment and reparation. I cannot tell you how eager I have been to make such acknowledgment to you, whom I revere as my good angel. I acted like a fool in the chapel last Monday afternoon, and did you great injustice. You have never shone on me 'coldly and distantly like a star,' but again and again have stooped from the height of your heavenly character that you might lift me out of the mire. It's a mystery to me how you can do it. But believe me, when I am myself, I am grateful; and," he continued slowly, his square jaw growing firm and rigid, and a sombre, resolute light coming into his large dark eyes, "if you will have patience with me, I will yet do credit to the good advice, written in a school-girl's hand, which I keep treasured in my room. Weak and foolish as I have been, I should have been far worse were it not for those letters, and—and your kindness since. But I am offending you," he said sadly, as Alice averted her face. "However the future may separate us, I wanted you to know that I gratefully appreciate all the kindness of the past. I sincerely crave your forgiveness for my folly last Monday. For some reason I was not myself. I was blinded with—I said what I knew to be untrue. Though you might with justice have shone on me as 'coldly and distantly as a star,' you have treated me almost as a sister might. Please say that I am forgiven, and I will go at once."

Imagine his surprise when, as her only response, she said abruptly, "Mr. Harcourt, come with me."

His wonder increased as he saw that her eyes were moist with tears.

She took him to the bluff, behind the boat-house, where in the snow were the traces of one who had slid and fallen from a perilous height.

"What do these marks mean?" she asked,

"It didn't hurt me any," he replied with rising color.

"Did you stop to think at the time whether it would or not? Have you thought what a chain of circumstantial evidence you left against you on that dreadful night? Now come with me into the boat-house, and let me tell you in the mean time that a lace curtain in my room is sadly torn, and one of my window-panes broken."

While he yet scarcely understood her, every fibre of his being was beginning to thrill with hope and gladness; but he said deprecatingly: "Please forgive my intrusion. In my haste that night I blundered into a place where I had no right to be. No doubt I was very rough and careless, but I was thinking of the pain of cold and fear which you were suffering. I would gladly have broken that to fragments."

"O, I am not complaining. The abundant proof that you were not deliberate delights me. But come into the boat-house, and I will convict both you and myself, and then we shall see who is the proper one to ask forgiveness. What is this upon these ropes, Mr. Harcourt? and how did it come here?"

"O, that is nothing; I only bruised my hand a little breaking in the door."

"Is it nothing that you tugged with bleeding hands at these ropes, that you might go alone in this wretched shell of a boat to our aid? Why, Mr. Harcourt, it would not have floated you a hundred yards, and Burtis told you so. Was it mere vaporing when you said, 'If I cannot save them, I can at least drown with them'?"

"No," he said impetuously, the blood growing dark in his face; "it was not vaporing. Can you believe me capable of hollow acting on the eve, as I feared, of the most awful tragedy that ever threatened?"

"O, not the 'most awful'!"

"The most awful to me."

"No, I cannot. As I said before, I have too much circumstantial evidence against you. Mr. Harcourt, true justice looks at the intent of the heart. You unconsciously left abundant proof here of what you intended, and I feel that I owe my life to you as truly as to Mr. Hemstead. And yet I was so cruelly unjust yesterday morning as to treat you coldly, because I thought my old friend and playfellow had let strangers go to our help. With far better reason I wish to ask your forgive—"

"No, no," said Harcourt, eagerly; "circumstances appeared against me that evening, and you only judged naturally. You have no forgiveness to ask, for you have made amends a thousand-fold in this your generous acknowledgment. And yet, Miss Martell, you will never know how hard it was that I could not go to your rescue that night. I never came so near cursing my destiny before."

"I cannot understand it," said Alice, turning away her face.

"It's all painfully plain to me," he said with a spice of bitterness. "Miss Martell, I am as grateful to Hemstead as you are, for when he saved you he also saved me. If you had perished, I feel that I should have taken the counsel of an ancient fool, who said, 'Curse God and die.'"

She gave him a quick look of surprise, but said only, "That would be folly indeed."

He took her hand, and earnestly, indeed almost passionately continued: "Miss Alice, I pray you teach me how to be a true man. Have patience with me, and I will try to be worthy of your esteem. You have made me loathe my old, vile self. You have made true manhood seem so noble and attractive that I am willing to make every effort, and suffer any pain,—even that of seeing you shine upon me in the unapproachable distance of a star. Make me feel that you do care what I become. Speak to me sometimes as you did the other evening among the flowers. Give me the same advice that I find in the old yellow letters which have been my Bible, and, believe me, you will not regret it."

Alice's hand trembled like a frightened bird as he held it in both of his, and she faltered, "I never had a brother, but I scarcely think I could feel towards one differently—" and then the truthful girl stopped in painful confusion. Her love for Harcourt was not sisterly at all, and how could she say that it was?

But he, only too grateful, filled out the sentence for her, and in a deep, thrilling tone answered, "And if my love for you is warmer than a brother's,—more full of the deep, absorbing passion that comes to us but once,—I will try to school it into patience, and live worthily of my love for her who inspired it."

Again she gave him a quick look of startled surprise, and said hastily, "You forget yourself, sir. Such language belongs to another."

"To another?"

"Yes; to Miss Marchmont."

"Miss Marchmont can claim nothing from me, save a slight cousinly regard."

"It is reported that you are engaged."

"It's false," he said passionately. "It is true, that before you returned, and while I was reckless because I believed you despised me, I trifled away more time there than I should. But Miss Marchmont, in reality, is as indifferent towards me as I towards her. I am not bound to her by even a gossamer thread."

Alice turned away her face, and was speechless.

"And did you think," he asked reproachfully, "that I could love her after knowing you?"

"Love is blind," she faltered after a moment, "and is often guilty of strange freaks. It does not weigh and estimate."

"But my love for you is all that there is good in me. My love is the most rational thing of my life."

She withdrew her hand from his, and, snatching the rope that was stained with his blood, she kissed it and said, "So is mine."

"O Alice! what do you mean?" and he trembled as violently as she had done when he startled her on the beach.