Newspaper Page Text
II , ih* r*
Will* Soft “Take
. ir e Carnes
: nrh tln m—oee!
i fragrant pyres;
tin air;
", ;;r!h i- SO fair.
...... in-got heaven
. ■ tarkling hy,
, I l.rook
Vu-J I,”
.... i: Wliy* Why v
, i Katharine tirten.
iOL'ci DEFEAT:
• ROM t .M'F.
~1 T T liALKSTIE K,
Philter,” “A Fair ue-
Morning \e,c*.
\ \ I.
a :• considered a kind of'
■ Quinnimout, and the
. • .1 for Gerrit the next
Msr.-nV invitation was in the
Mr. and Mrs. Echols, who
. - . i .instance, Jaeinth,
f" .' i' \ . were mount, and, aDd the
’ a t: r ..mi the shaded carriage
. „ tr-*t. Tne air had a fresh,
■ •ling and glowed and glist
-ii:. The dew shone
among the stubble of
. they gallojied hy. and
the hollows of the
its mother-form
in a lows stretched fair in ;
. every side of them,
M i.-k dots which were heaps
, nhen one came to look.
>as ru bbiog its eyes and
- the morning warmed itself;
lerberriee were shed*
■ .i! s from their wine-hued
a M a morning in which to
i, with • lithe, eager
, He re was no reason why
- i:;id hi- * milition at least
• imitation of content.
i • -instance tor a gallop,
r horses rein, they left the
th - wild flights which,
-nI. are dear to men lor
. surrender to the latent
- hecks were carnation and
I- nlng its they turned and let
• -d them hack at a walk to
tuy. l.tneoln and Jacinth
• in, and Constauce watched
" , as it she were thinking of
Then she' turned to Mat ch
ii thinking of what you said
1 talking to aunt of it. She
. voellentidea. She is anxious
-very kind,” said March. “1
have expected such sympa
I think everyone who tinder*
•' or aim must wi-h to help you. It
it- to them. Hut what 1 wanted
- 1 don't know that 1 can say
. 1 will. It’s that it 1 do
i.-r. H 1 want to feel that I
it and a rea* >n -a good.
" March began.
understand. Vou would
ri:y .1 mg what i can for
- who chanced to In* less
■ cd than I—was ro.is.iu
.nit it ought to be, and, ot
- w hat draws me to it. But
• it on upon me to prove my
: you understand.” She
sitatiiigty. “I have a
relate myself to the stif
■fi.it one sees everywhere
a perpetual reproach,
. m always to be asking
.my ne dare build a wall
iiv - only for the inter*
ir. •} . interesting! Oh,
v mat is tnetrouble. They
. r 1 fancy 1 have come
> wall and gone down
. tin ir wants. And so 1
- e my interest in this
! lie. >ir. March, 1 think
- . tne far enough to com
•- :r it isn’t perfectly intel
w -n't make fun of me, and
a- ■ kbulder?”
... ,*b. but he said with a
. which was as grateful
- - : r the moment.
'V ay. it isn’t a stock com*
Mi-* Van < leef.”
s imchow you can let me
> -i uioiier share in it. I
i ill. it would be a curb
u*i >n* -like Bi>me one
. • time and smiling pity -
... feat is what 1 need
r, in’.ilc me. It is like—
mvs if ekar. It must
ary. if you will let nte say
i. . "tou reason it out
> ■ . certainly don’t spare
I' .V Van * leef, Gerrit is
•v. -i 'i* nt. If wa had opened
stiiek were for sale 1
i to rt'k anything upon
it will succeed, don’t
- . '.. quickly.
- It-: - I should dislike to fed
hanging anything on that
M-.-s VanCleef; wait until we
uviJcnds and then we
- at some of the stock,
i ur Lady Bountiful.”
. ii-b-rstind". 1 have some
i- —u’t belong to me.”
■ • - ason ”
.s to no one else. 1 bold it
' 1 --re arc st-me unpaid be
t i' i -r <m which the interest
• an.listing."
I had sn impression Mr.
1 that all vour father’s estate,
ytion ot some small legacies
>’• - it to you."
1 1 it there arc things that I
i like to have done. I have
~ M r. Keator to build him a
' Judea. and—you reinem
' m- k f the jioor people la the
tve decided to auka a
"i'-d fr the support of a Mo
"vc t.iry ’here.”
’ ci- a capital tiling. I
• glad I am.” After a
; you have taken
• plicitly. There may be —
m ;st be places where the
gii ;t we do w hat seetus a
■ u " i- are not bound to hunt
party, and, turning, they
from time to time as he
• ■ Han -o March g lanced cu
' h-: She seemed tiaely in ac
r>g with the world to
'aid she longed to relate
J p <rid to have her fingers
'cl h-r breath came and
1 <■> all the life aisiut them.
* *■• i .a ••u-ry direction as she rode
•r '-‘qut-nce, her eyes
r! i uon ot the perfect
course opened
i! r bead moved about
'liveliness of a bird,while
■* ' i!i'tid -mile. Somc
: •••! forward a little, and
: fondly her even, graceful
'/ tii. saddle with her body,
‘ as if fearful that
sing might escape her.
i .. i pa tsed upon a hill to
- ue which their rapid riding
The eminence rose out
‘alley -the valley in which
l'/ 1 ;' Hi. .Vlong its slopes the
1 -w. expectantly turning Its
' !! o 1a a field near, where the
' . ~ ' ‘ t- • plow had been lev
'of sowing went on.
; b*ms the ccrn waved and
. , tr ’of green and yellow. The
rich w ith the sere evi
and from among the
oi.tings of a farmstead on
• - .‘"“'icaaie the sound of the
■ tapi ingof flail-. In the
si i Me lingered itn
. the weeds and clo
■! ik;ag haste to preen over the |
v and an oily ether, such as
• • “_S danced and palpitated
■ f r ,’ * a e birds twittered from the
'i.-. ' ,r,ri - and shrieked as they
“ the sun-lit air as if they i
•- -- ' '’ r Wolcott Uokvticr. All i
would burst their tfetoats for joy. The
grasshoppers went with their nimble,
ceaseless leaps amoa the clover, sound
ins'their little narpstrings as they hopped
from covert to covert.
“•It is the autumn! It is *he autumn
they seemed to say. ‘“This is our last
nance. They will turn the lights out
presently.”
And the bastard daisies, the pink yar
raw, the golden rod, the yellow snap
dragon, the occasional tar lv clover heads
and belated dandelions that fringed the
roadside seemed full of the thought and
drank eagerly all the sunshine they could
find; while the maples and sumacs, the
Virginia creeper and the blackberry
vines running along the stone walls were
pranking themselves in gay reds, deter
mined that the season should go out in a
blaze of glory even though their ball
dresses cost them their existence.
Gerrit lay in the next valley, beyond the
mountain which faced tjmnnimout. and
when the chaise came up they pressed on
to the clambering road which made a
way to their destination through the hills.
It attacked the mountain by a brave
steep at first, then wound artfully about
it, snatching an advantage when it could
and lilting itself gradually to 'he summit.
They roue along the levels, when they
had climbed the long hill, at a swinging
trot, and when they came to the frequent
inclines dropped the rein upon their
horses* necks and let them take what gait
they would.
As they came from time to time upon a
clearing they caught dissolving views of
the fertile valley below, at which Con
stance refused to look, keeping the sensa
tion untasted until it could be known in
its entirety. The fresh light of the sun,
not yet five hours old, fell soltly on the
tree tops, and the lower branches made
wide nets to take it on their various
greens. It was prettier where the sap
lings and succulent young growths grew so
thickly that the brightness with difficulty
silted through the green, and the maple's
and chestnuts only knew by what indirec
tions. The woodpeckers were beating
their reveille, and this, with the merry
hum of the bees, the chattering of the
gay-hued orioles and the steady hoof-falls
were often the only sounds that broke the
stillness as they stooped under a wild
grape vine, or contented their eyes with
the graces which the sunshine wrought in
the woods.
March told Constance as thov rode of
the constitution of Gerrit and his hopes
for its success. He said that it was not a
commune except in the hast sense, that is,
that every man had a common interest
although property was separate.
“Ouraim is modest enough. Wcdono:
hope to revolutionize the world; we do
uot think this the ouly way. but only one
convenient way, or an experiment toward
it, and so we don’t compassionate the re
mainder o! in till.inti, nor attempt to pros
elyte them. There are a thousand needs,
ami 1 am groping toward an answer 10
only one of them. 1 shouldn’t even like to
claim that our association is founded upon
an idea. Ttus-* men who have been
brought over bore are not Fourierites.
They have purely a natural wish to jive
as comfortably as they can, and to get as
much as possible out ol’ 2i;c. If that is
an idea it is 'i >t a perilous one nor likely
to breed quarrels. The trouble in coni
mune has al wa\s been to find out w hat
the idea was. There were difl’-Tcnees of
opinion, as in the world, and their mem
bers have broken up aud gone their own
ways finally to do what they might gen
erally have done m the beginning; that is,
to follow their inclination. It was the
misfortune of the poorer class at Gerrit
that they couldn’t follow their Inclina
tion, nor was there anything in the sys
tem under which they lived to teach them
that if was lawful to have such a thing,or
; to US' - if to any profitable end, if by chance ;
theydiu. Bringing them aeross the water i
and placing them here is merely cutting ,
a path for them. They are together be- j
1 cause it was thought that this end was j
more easily attained by that method than :
by scattering them. They are being given
a little guiding hand in entering the path,
but further than tnat nothing will he done
to assist them. It is simply offering them
an opportunity. A plot or ground is as
signed to teem; they build their houses
them>“h < s out of logs, and tliev pay for
their land bv yearly installments out of
the profits of their crops. The associa
tion will buy it back if they should ever
wish to leave; or, if they remain, they
can buy out the entire settlement if they
can find tuo money.”
“Someone tells me that the people in
tjti in turnout have all kinds of fancies
about your object. None of them are like
that.”
“No; they imagine that we mean to do
away with money and bring hack barter,
and to force ali farmers to live in com
munities by bringing down the prices ot
things through co-operation.”
The view from the summit included both
valleys. That from which they had come
was the more cultivated, hut the vale be
low, in which March pointed out the raw,
half-built houses ot Gerrit, seemed quite
as fertile. Constance glanced over the
prospect which was free to the horizon on
alt sides. The mountains made a perfect
circle, aud looked down from every quar
ter upon the smiling plains which the
gnomes that dwell iu volcanoes had for
borne to upheave when the geology of this
region was enacting and the bills were
lifted to the society of the clouds.
Constance imagined the farm-dotted
landsca|>e a chess-board. The square
plowed tield9 were the black spots and
tbe green meadows did for the others. She
made the stone hiuses castles, and the
ordiuary bouses went for pawns, the oaks
and other portly trees for bishops. Where
she saw a horse she klighted it. Tne
rare orchards planted in regular rows,
she liked to fancy acrostics, and to read
lh> in up and down and across.
There were seyeral new houses com
pleted at Gerrit besides the tine old man
sion of the Revolutionary period which
bad been the residence of former owners.
The sound of hammering tilled the air,
and a host of men were hurrying about
in their short sleeves. Some ot the wo
men were washing before their embryonic
homes, and the cheerful odors of many
preparing dinners made their way to the
nostrils through the a por tares which were
one day to lie covered with roofs, as well
ns through the natural orifices.
While he was yet in his saddle March
was surrounded by a numerous group of
the colorosts. One of them announced
that certain of the cows had broken pas
ture; another said that the corn which
they toad bought upon their arrival ready
planted upon one of their fields had been
touched by frost. A third wanted in
structions about shingles, and another
offered the information that Jem Carver
had not been seen since the night before.
“Itruuk, I suppose,” said March.
“Yes. sir, l uoubt he is.”
“>end him to nie when he comes back.”
With the ether embarrassments he
dealt promptly, giving rapid orders as he
alighted and helped his guests to do the
same.
Constance usked that she might !>e al
lowed to make acquaintance with the
women for herself.
• I don’t waut them to feel that l am a
vUitor," she said.
March asseuted with a smile ot intelli
gence, and she gathered up her riding
skirt anti walked swiftly over to the first
woman she saw. She was washing and
took one of her hands out of the tub to
smooth an obstinate strand of hair while
she curtsied with respectful wonder.
Constance had taken off her glove and
bravely shook her hand, rffie had gained
experience in this kind of thing during
the last half year. She had, by one of the
womanly intuitions, found the common
ground upon which alone the ignorant
and distressed are successfully met. She
neither condescended to them cor pitied
them. So far as she sympathized with
them she made it seem the natural sym
pathy of one woman for another, and she
surrounded it all with a dignity which
asked no more than it gave, and which
commonly won their instant and faithful
respect. Her charity, however mistaken
or ineffective it may have been, at least
did not wear its embroidered purse at its
waist, nor carry its ointment as a badge
and its lint as a flag. It was perfectly un
obtrusive, and its methods were certainly
efhinently vindicated in the case of this
woman, from whom she had jn ten min
utes the story of all her troubles and
wants. The party went about the in
choate settlement under the guidance of
March, and Mr. Echols kept his glasses to
his eyes and made his observations.
• I suppose l ought to keep up my char
acter as a Southerner. Mr. March, by tell
ing you that shingles are a great errot.
1 would if 1 could with any sort of con
science. it’s the lingering Connecticut
in me. Thatch, you know-thatch is the
proper thing. Durable? No. it isn’t, and
you would have to wait until next sum
mer to cut your straw, but then—open
roofs are inconvenient. Certainly. But
custom—custom, you see. has nothing to
do with cold weather.”
March said that he intended to clear the
forest from the mountain slopes and cul
tivate them. Mr. Echols asked if ha hail
determined what he would plant upon
them, and he owned tnat he had not.
“You haven’t thought of crapes—
grapes and peaches? Go to Southern
France—France and Italy. You know
where they plant tneir vineyards?
THE SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS: SUNDAY, MARCH 1, 1885.
Southern exposure, good slope, plenty of
sun, that sort of thing. When 1 tell our
people that about here they hint that I’m
not a farmer. In other words, 1 don’t
know beans. But grapes—l tancy I know
grapes, and I’m glad to find an unpreju
diced subject. Try the experiment, Mr.
March.”
Ue said many more things in his
shrewd, smiling way as they walked
about.
Mrs. Echols joined Constance when
they encountered her, and went about
with her for a time, but presently re
turned to the party which March’ was
leading back to his own residence.
This ancient dwelling was decorated
with a piazza like enough Mr. Echols’ to
have been tne pioduci of the same mould,
and when be had seen his visitors seated
upon it, March left them in the compe
tent cate of Lincoln and went to find Con
stance. Ue met her coming out of one of
the cottages.
“1 bope you have been making excuses
for us,” he said.
“There is not so much need as I fan
cied.” returned she. “but there are ever
so many things to*be done. You can’t
think.”
“I’ve heard.” he said, smiling.
Thvy walked slowly towaru the house.
"N >t the unabridged version,” she au
swered,confidently. “They wouldn’t tell
it all to a man, even if they could remem
ber it. I can’t recall everything myself
even now. There is so much—no man
could have an idea. I think I shall have
to come again and muke a list of the
things they have. That would lie quite
simple.”
“Come again, anyway,” he said.
• Never lear! 1 shall come often enough.
1 am greatly interested.”
“You cannot couie too often,” said
March, earnestly.
“If 1 can do any good. No.”
“I hope you will come for something be
sides the good you may do.”
“For my own enjoyment? 1 am afraid
I shall. 1 really think I shall find pleas
ure iu the work.”
“1 had looked forward to your coining
tor another purpose besides—a less selfish
one.”
“Oh, that is what 1 told you. It seems
as if I could never do anything altogther
generous. I need some good solid, selfish
foundation. I feel at home when 1 can
have that.”
••Mv dear Miss Van Cleef, we are all
so. But tnat is not what I meant.”
“Whatdid you mean?”
Now that he was brought to the neces
sity of saying it outright ne was seized
w ith a curious hesitancy. Their talk had
always been singularly free from the per
sonal’ cast. At least, until the night in
the cemetery, it had only remotely
brushed it. It was true that taev had
often talked of themselves, but it had
lcea from a secure distance; they had
looked down impartially from a pinnacle
and r corded their impressions. What he
m.ant to say would not, he felt, have
seemed important at this beginning of
their acquaintance. But their habit had
been established, nnd now it was rich in
implication. And at length he found that
he could not say all that te intended, and
title<l the gap with:
••1 had hoped you would come a little
for the pleasure of the Lord Proprietor.”
11 spoke in a low voice which, do what
he would, was full of moaning. A fleet
ing expression halted abruptly on her
tiice, and she glancetl quickly toward him.
Then:
“I suppose you know, Mr. March, that
those poor women have no washboards?”
XVII.
March stood upon the portico and
thoughtfully watched them ride away.
Then he came to where Lincoln was sit
ting and flung himself into a chair beside
him. Ue began to beat the sides of it ner
vously with his March was ordi
narily so culm that his restlessness attract
ed Lincoln’s eye.
••Wnatisit, 3iareli?”
“It’s a long story.”
••That is what you said yesterday wnen
1 asked about Miss Van Cleef’s trans
gression. You were speaking of some
thing ot the sort.”
••Well, they are the same thiug.”
Lincoln smoothed his lips musingly and
looked at his companion.
"You give mo credit for a great deal oi
penetration,” he said.
“How’s tnat?”
“I suppose you think l understand. I
don’t.-’
.March smiled.
“I had no idea you understood. 1 don’t
myself.”
••Well, then, i don’t eveu understand
what vou are trying to understand.”
“You know that you will. You believe
that I ean have no’reason for refusing to
tell you anything worth while?”
His face was full ot the friendship to
which they did not give clearer expres
sion.
“My dear fellow!” exclaimed Lincoln,
impulsively, as he grasped his hand.
“You see,” said 3lareb. as he finished
his story, -what a cheap position it leaves
upon my hands.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“No; but 1 needn’t have been an ass.”
“I don’t see how that is.”
••It was supererogation to toll her that
l didn’t care for her.”
“Well, you didn’t. You wouldn’t have
had yourself kneeling and calling the
gods to witness, would you?”
“I might have said less. I need not
have insistent on my indifference.”
“31 v dear fellow, you are trying to con
vince me that you made it seem like con
ferring a favor. You must remember, I
didn’t meet you yesterday.”
••Don’t, don’t, Lincoln! Your friendly
imagination makes it worse. That is
just, what 1 did.”
“Oh, come now!’’
“And as if that wasn’t bad enough.
I’ve no doubt 1 showed her that 1 felt it
was the gentlemanly thing.”
“Well.it was, and that is where you
have got to take your stand.”
“it was unnecessary to let her see
what prompted me, however you dress up
the motive itself. I suppose you admit
that.”
“See here, 3iareb, I don’t admit any
thing. I wasn’t there, and L don’t know
wbat you said, but I am as clear as though
1 had taken it down in shorthand that you
said nothing uugentlemanly, or that you
ought to be repenting of.”
“.Said! It was my manner! She must,
have thought me a brute.”
“I’ve no doubt she did,” returned Lin
coln. with unction, “and that is the rea
son she has treated you with such un
common consideration ever since. Nile
likes the race.”
“I>j you think so, Lincoln? Tell me;
has it seemed so to you?”
••How do I know? 1 don’t think she
dislikes you.”
March rose and walked up and down
the portico with nervous strides. He
paused suddenly before Lincoln.
“it’s a coxcomb’s fancy, but 1 really
believe 1 am not indifferent to her. She
lets me do things; sae seems willing I
should be with her.”
“Well, what more do you want? You
don’t expect a girl like that to wear her
heart on her sleeve?”
“No, no, that’s true. 1 should never
know any more than negatively from her
maunerif 1 went on until doom’s day.
She isn’t a girl who keeps her doors open.
That is what 1 admired in her from the
first.”
“Yes,” said Lincoln, kindly.
He had always felt that it was one of
the offices of friendship to listen patient
ly to the lover’s rhapsodies of one’s
friends.
“And if. as you seem to think, she has
forgiven that cruel affront to all her
maiden pride It is only the meroifulness
that I have always felt in her.”
“I didn’t say she forgave it. That isn’t
the word. She didn’t believe you.”
“Lincoln!”
“Yes. 1 mean it. A girl with her intui
tions, with her imagination, could not
have avoided seeing what you were able to
bliod yourself to. It’s an extremely dull
woman who doesn’t know when a man is
in love with her, and I hope you don’t
think her one ot the exceptions.”
“Lincoln, 1 must tell you that you eo a
great ways. I didn’t say—”
••I know you didn't, but you won’t tell
me that it wasn’t so.”
••O, I don’t know! I was always in love
with her. 1 Wits never in love with her.
How can a man tell when such a feeling
rises in him ?”
“He cant; but, as I say, u woman can.”
••You don’t know her. Such uncon
sciousness. such modesty—”
“Oh, dear, don’t fancy I don't know all
that. Of course, 1 only became acquaint
ed with her infinite delicacy yesterday,
while you have had the advantage of a
life’s intimacy, but I thought 1 had an idea
or two about her.”
-I’ve no doubt you have, but you use
vour imagination.”
' “Mv dear March, where is yours? 1
didn’t say that she announced it to her
self- she didn’t put it on her bulletin
board. But you are ready to believe that 1
she might display as much ingenuity as j
vou in cheating herself, and your fancy is
probably not so dull that you are unable |
to think of her as using her sense of your
love as an armor to her pride quite un- ,
consciously.” . i
“And you suppose her not to have been I
aware oi her knowledge? Doesn’t that
strike you as a little bit too metaphysi
cal ?” •
“On the contrary, it is one of the sim
pliest thing3 in life. and. when you ask
her. I think she will tell you so.”*
“When 1 ask her? What do you
mean?”
“What do you mean? I suppose you
are going to offer yourself.”
March took another turn upon the porti
co. He came back with his hands thrust
gloomily in his pockets.
“You must knew that I can’t.”
“Oh, see here!” cried Lincoln, rising.
-You don’t svant it explained to you, I
trust?”
“Pshaw! March, you can’t mean—! Ob.
look here!” deprecated the young man.
“You haven’t been thinking that I
would?”
Lincoln stared at him. He put his band
on his shoulder.
“Yes, i did. It never occurred to me. 1
thought, of course—”
His protest died upon his lips; he could
not find the abundant arguments which a
moment before seemed to crowd about
him.
“You 6ee, Lincoln, even you can’t find
a decent defense for it.”
“I should like to know who is doing the
metaphysical now,” he said, sitting do wn,
doggedly.
He put one of his well-dressed legs
upon the other and regarded it with fixed
disapproval.
-Look at it fairly, Lincoln. How can
1 tell her that I was mistaken, that once
he seemed scarcely worthy to occupy
tae exalted position of Owen March’s
wife, but that I have thought better of it.
and now see in her some virtues, former
ly overlooked, which entirely quality her?
How can I tell her that? But I needn’t
urge It.”
“No, you needn’t,” admitted Lincoln,
“though’you overstate it. I’m not blind,
and 1 understand how you feel. Your sen
timents are perfectly proper: you could
not feel less. But this is one of the cases
—they’re very rare—in which you ought
to sacrifice your proper sentiments. There
is something higher concerned. You’ve
no right to trifle with it, it seems to me.”
“Don’t put temptation in my way, Lin
coln. My inclination is strong enough.’’
“Of course it is. and you may as well
yield to it. You don’t seem to think of
her.”
“Excuse me. 1 had supposed myself to
be thinking only of her.”
••Do you want me to be frank ?”
“Surely.”
“Then i should say that vour personal
pride was at least as much involved as
your consideration for her feeling.”
“You may be right, Lincoln, ’’ owned
March, gloomily. “There doesn’t seem
much chance of my coming out of the
thing as a gentleman, in any event.”
“Oh, dear me, yes, there is. But there
are certainly several opportunities tor
mistakes. I’think you will make one if
you don’t take the measure of her feeling
on both sides.”
“Leave me a shred or two of self-re
spect. Don’t ask me to presume that she
is in love with me.”
“You might try for her obscure sense of
it,” smiled Lincoln, who was always as
ready to laugh at himself as at others.
Then after a pause: "The fact is it is
awkward. Nothing is to be gained by blink
ing that. But you ha\e still the right to
hear her d.-cisloa from her own lips. That
is every man’s due, and you certainly
haven’t forfeited it. You would bo no
worse otf if she refused you than you are
now.”
"It would confirm the awkwardness in
curably. You seem to forget that. To
offer myself in the circumstances is bad
enough, but to offer and be refused would
be killing.”
“Use your fancy optimistically. Sup
pose she* accepts?”
“I can’t suppose it.”
“Your modesty is absurd.”
“Oh, don’t adorn me with spurious vir
tues.’ ’
"1 don’t, hut I can’t understand your
distrust.”
March smiled sadly.
“You can understand there being an
other man.”
“No, uot in that village,” said Lincoln;
but he leaned forward a little, interested
ly, as 31nrch sat down beside him. “Don’t
cheapen her. bhe would concern herself
about anything less thau the best.”
“Ho is the best. That is my trouble.
He nas all the virtues.”
“But does she love them?”
31 arch studied the back of his band.
“1 don’t know. I can only say that for
three vear3 they were constantly present
ed to her. 1 don’t see how she could re
sist them, backed by his evident passion.
They are charming virtues and he is an
excellent man. In the circumstances, if
she doesn’t love them aud him. she ought
to.”
“Ah, then, you needn’t distress your
self. Bhe doesn't—being a woman. I’ve
no doubt she has done the unexpected
thing and fallen in love with your vices.”
“Verv well, then: 1 hopj 1 shall be
strong enough not to give her the oppor
tunity of telling me so.”
“1 don’t,” murmured Lincoln, fervent
ly.
On the seeond day iollowing Constance
drove her aunt over in the pony carriage.
When they had alighted in the single,
noisv street ot the settlement she lifted
tbe cushion from the seat and loaded the
man who came for the horse with bundles
drawn from a mysterious receptacle be
neath. Mareh hearing the brisk rumble
of her wheels came out. He brought up
some of the young gentlemen of the settle
ment and introduced them to her. She re
membered afterward that she had met a
tall 31 r. Eiden, a particularly ruddy 3fr.
Borough, a Mr. Marvin with an illuminat
ing smile, and a very young Mr. Feather
stonagh who asked her how Quinnimout
society ranked. Among these oolite fel
lows there were two sons of Earls and
and the sixth son of a Duke, who had ac
companied the colonists in search rather
of adventure than of gold.
Several who had been made knownsto
her on her previous visit came up ami
spoke to her smilingly. But the larger
part of these voting men hail been en
gaged in hunting two days before, and she
saw them now for the first time. 31r. 3lar
vin wished to know if she was fond of
hunting, and was decorously appalled
when she said she knew nothing about it.
lie assured her that it was “jolly,” and
that she ought hy all means to learn.
They did a great deal ol it at Gerrit. The
Duke's son walked with her auut as they
went among tbe cottages. Mrs. Echols
asked March if he had seen the plan for
the tenement cottages in the last issue of
the Architect’B Journal.
“Mr. Echols takes it,” she explained.
“He fancies himself interested in archi
tecture, you know.”
March said he had observed it nnd found
it suggestive. The paper was taken for
their reading-room, he added.
“Have you a reading-room?’’asked Con
stance. “We didn’t see it.”
“We have several things that you have
yet to see. There are redeeming features
about the place, though we are short ot
washboards,” exclaimed March.
This was said from >lrs. Echols’ side.
3faroh had obviously not sought Con
stance’s company, and indeed seemed
willing to defend iiim-01l from being lelt
to talk with her alone.
The reader is alreidy in possession of
his feeling, and it need not he insisted
on; ho had been grappling with it since
his talk with Lincoln, but it did not ap
pear to go down readily before his as
sault. He constantly said to bimselt that
it was incomparably unpleasant either
way. This distressing balance of disa
greeable events has not been commonly
found a simplification of difficulties, an!
it merely resulted with Mareh in giving
him a great deal to think of. The ladies
did not remain long after they had dis
tributed the comforting articles which
they had brought with them, but Con
stance carried away a faint sense oj his
avoidance of her. This was confirmed
upon her next eleemosynary visit to Ger
rit, and as March did not call a vague
wonder began to stir in her. March was
cruelly tortured, and he got no consola
tion from Lincoln. It was perfectly plain
that he must abandon the colony if he did
not wish to see her. She came with as
siduous regularity and frequence, and he
could only fancy the pleasure he might
find in these visits it he could feel at lib
erty to meet her as an other man might.
In this light it was unfortunate that he
should have invited her charitable efforts
for Gerrit, but upon this head he did not
accuse himself. Nothing at the time, he
told himself, was farther from his thoughts
than his now obvious passion. 11a could
not upbraid himself, as he often did, that
he should have hidden this important fact
from himself, but it was true that he had
not known of his love until the moment
when he had imparted the intelligence to
Lincoln. These things were strange. He
had been singularly Iree from the trivial
affairs of boyhood, and his overwhelming
passion eame upon him with mastering
force. It swept everything before it. If
certain of tbe beaoons which had guided
hi 9 life without challenge hitherto still
burned it was not because they were not
assailed. Sometimes they flickered, but it
was at these moments that he least felt it
would be tolerable to see them extin
guished |
Lincoln's friendship was offered with a
discrimination which he could only leel.
It was a rich opportunity for the friendly
offices, hut it mighteasily have been made
, too much of; Lincoln went just far
j enough, aud his unfaltering adherence to
his original view of the situation wa9 a
grateful tower of strength in the midst cf
March’s uncertainty.
j Constance drove home one day with her
! aunt especially disturbed by bis manner.
I sne had fancied at first that she deceived
i herself, and the impalpability of the
change certainly lent it a dubious air.
One aware of her imagination would pre
i fer to bring her first charges against it in
such a matter, but it was a case in which
; for once she could acquit her imagina
tion. She had just become satisfied of
! that, aud it was tbe necessity of resolv
i ing the question which this decision left
| upon her hands that at the moment con
cerned her. She asked herself what his
I changed air seemed to say, and found hr:r
-! seif unable to trains a guess. It con
tained no reproach for her. Of that much
she was certain. On the contrary, It was
: full of an almost exaggerated, if distant
respect. Its constant presumption upon
her undersianding, its manly, restrained
i pleading for a suspension of judgment,
appealed with a kind of subtle flattery to
all her womanly senses, and perhaps tnis
I was the reason that she could find no re
i sentment for it in her heart. The sens!-
| live chords of pride which she lelt ought
to be stirred seemed to have forgotten
their office, and she tried to believe that
they had been disused so long by her
systematic humbling of herself tnat a
minor temptation could not set them vi
brating. But she could not cajole herself
so tar. She knew that slighter matters
had roused the ancient sentiment, despite
the best that her newly-won strength
could do, and the certainty that if it were
some other than March she should find
the appropriate feeling awake without
her summons, broke down this pleasing
fancy. •
Rather from her appreciation of the
humor implied in an inability to vex one’s
self to order, than from a desire for sym
pathy, she said to Mr. Echols:
“Aunt, do you ever feel that you ought
to feel rebellious without being able to
feel like a rebel?”
Her aunt met her glance with a pleas
ant smile.
“What a question! But if 1 understand
—No, I’m afraid not. You mean, find
yourself unable to resent properly? No,
dear, the inclination of us all is tbe other
way. lam ottener right sorry for letting
my emotions run away with my forbear
ance, but 1 don’t remember the opposite
case occurring. If it has happened to
you pray don’t mourn! It is a thing to
be glad of.”
“It’s my unregenerate pride, 1 suppose
—but I’m not glad ot it. Aunt, haven't
you noticed a change in Mr. March’s man
ner recently ?”
Mrs. Echols was silent lor a moment,
apparently piecing her recollections to
gether.
“1 don’t know,” she answered, slowly,
at length. -Have you?”
“I can’t tell. 1 ask you.”
“ A hv, 1 remember—’’
“Yes'?”
“1 remember very little, dear, but 1
seem to feel something now that you speak
of it.”
Constance touched her whip thought
fully to the pony’s flank.
“Yes, that is what makes it hard. One
can’i, say what it is, or even certainly that
it is at all, but it’s impossible uot to leel
it.”
Mrs. Echols looked musingly at the po
ny’s even, nervous iittle motions.
“And is that what you would like to
disturb yourself about’?” she asked, kind
ly.
Constance smiled.
“Don’t you think I ought?”
“That depends—” Mrs. Echols hesi
tated an instant.
Constance looked at her questioningly.
“! T pon whether 1 like Mr. March,
were you going to say? Certainly 1 an—
and He nas been very kind, lie
was fond of father, 1 think, and when he
went”—she turned away an instant to
hide the brief emotion which she had not
yet learned to master—“when he went he
did everything—more than everything.
He rode to Philadelphia—did I tell you?—
through a terrible storm for Dr. Fleet,
and then afterward made all the dreadful
arrangements and went away without a
word. Yes. 1 have every reason to like
Mr. March.”
It was a cold, dreary day with the pro
phetie tang of winter in the air. The
leaves took the wind shiveringly upon
their coloring hacks, and the stacks of
corn cut and standing in soldierly ranks
seemed glad to hug their comrades close
for warmth.
Constance caught her pelisse about her
as a colder breeze sprung upon them from
the depth of the wood, and pulled the robe
over her aunt as that lady said:
“I understand, and it was very good of
him. But I was not going to ask yon of
your feeling toward him. I wanted you
to ask yours ilf whether you had given him
cause tor offense.”
“Offense! Oh, my dear aunt, there is
none!”
Constance reflected a moment ; then she
gave utterance to a thought which was
that moment born in her, though she
spokeasit it were immemorially familiar.
“Don’t you see that he is withholding
himself from some generous idea that It
is the part of delicacy not to approach
me?”
Mrs. Echols looked at her rather blank
ly and tucked the robe about her matron
ly foim before she said:
“I’m bound to say that I don’t, but I’m
willing to believe that you see, my dear
girl, and are right—only it would be right
interesting from your point of view to a
little more clearly understand. Go over
the history of your acquaintance. What
is there that "could have brought this
about? Perhaps you will think, if you
run through it carefully. Tell it to me,
dear, if it will help you.”
Constance listeued to this kindly logic
in silence.
“Get up, Lady!” she admonished her
pony, and gave her an urgent little tap.
■Tt would take a long time,” she said, at
length. “Somehow a great many events
are associated with 3lr. 31 arch. It would
be hard to give you a fair idea of some ot
them, and one—-oh! it’s too awful]”
•• Don’t, my darling, don’t! Forgive me!
I didn’t know I was laying old sores
bare. 1 couldn’t let you tell me now.”
Constance kept her’eyes resolutely fixed
ou the road in advance.
“But if you thought It might help tne?"
she said, through her compressed lips.
Mrs. Echols leaned, over and kissed
her for answer, and Constance did not
need more insistent invitation to pour out
her story.
“And then what do you suppose he
did?” exclaimed she, when she had told
of 3lr. Keator’s warning, of her obstina
cy which she did not attempt to palliate
in any way, and of the never-to-be-for
gotten scene ia the church.
“I don’t know, l’in sure,” was 31rs.
Echols' expectant answer.
••You would scarcely imagine. It was
uot liko what every other man would do.
and yet as he did it you could not conceive
that any gentleman would do anything
lc-ss. Fancy, dear aunt, he proposed to
me? After being scorned and upbraided
in that public way, after fallen to what
seemed to me the lowest depths, he lilts
me up and ask 9 tne to marry him! 1 nev
er imagined anything so noble.”
“What did you say r ?”
“What could 1 say? I couldn't accept
very well, could I?”
“That depends upon how you felt to
ward him.”
“It seemed to me that it rather dejiend
ed upon the ieeling which prompted him.
At all events, I had no feeling toward
him to inquire into. You can fancy a
man’s being a great deal to one and noth
ing toone, can’t you, aunt? I’m sure you
can. That is the leeling, or lack oi feel
ing, I had for 3lr. March. He was an ex
tremely agreeable friend, and now he
was an extremely kind one. I had never
thought of him if. that way.”
“So you refused him?”
"Certainly; and my belief was justi
fied. He urged his suit as eagerly as ir
he had really desired his success—for the
moment perhaps he did wish it. It was
very generous. But he accepted the an
swer quietly. lie had simply felt that it
wus the gentlemanly thing to do—that
was it. He had said that he could not
pretend a passion.”
"Did he say that?”
“Not those words. He said that he was
not in love. -Why? Ab. aunt, vou didn’t
fancy that he was?”
“I don’t know. But—whv. don’t vou
see. mv child?”
"No.” returned Constance, slowly fix
ing her wondering eyes on Mrs. Echols’
face.
“But I won’t say it—or rather 1 will,
but another time. I shall have to think.
You will be patient with me for a little,
dear?”
“Patient!” cried Constanee. impulsive
ly. "Lock your fancy In a l>ox and throw
it into the Potomac, aunt! 1 shall never
ask yon.”
She put her free arm about her.
Jacinth was absorbedly poking the fire,
and a servant, apparently by her direc
tion, was fetching a monstrous log as they
came in.
“I thought I would have it warm for
you,” she said, as she turned to nod to
them with the tongs in her hand, "isn’t
it very cold out?”
Helen, the elder of the two younger
girls, came up to Constance before she
could draw otf her pelisse.
“Oh, please open this!” she begged,
holding out a long, worn official paper
covered with erasures and directions and
bearing a number of English stamps.
“It came this morning just after you
went, and it has taken heaps of patience
not to open it. Ethel says it looks as if
there were a whole romance sealed up in
it. Do you 6ee where thev have crossed
your father’s name out and written yours
and then it has gone to tjuinnimout, Ver
mont, instead of Maryland? The‘MU.’
isn’t very plain,” she went on, putting
her tiuger on it as Constance took the
packet; .“but their eyesight ufust have
been mighty poor to have sant it away up
to Vermont. It’s the title deeds to some
great estate in England, cousin Con
stance; that’s what it is. I wonder 1
hadn’t thought of that. And you have
been kept out of it by some wicked man
who has repented on his deathbed and lelt
you even more than your share. That is the
way it goes in the story books.”
She talked very rapidly, the words
jostling and leaping over one another like
stones tumbling down hill. Her vivacious
manner was not altogether Southern, but
she had her mother’s rich tone and pro
nunciation aud a large store of the hearty
So’ithern idioms.
“Perhaps—but please open it, cousin
Constance. It’s mighty interesting.”
Constance threw her peli6se and hat
upon the chair and sat down before the
lire. Her cheeks were glowing from the,
drive, aud In her eyes the mild excite
ment of curiosity shone as she broke the
seal in her leisurely manner with her pen
knife.
She gave a low exclamation.
“What is it, dear?” asked 31rs. Echols,
gently; but she read on.
She folded up the papers at length. Her
hands fell into her lar. and li>r a moment
she sat musing.
Finally she looked up and as if in an
swer to her aunt:
“You know father amused bimselt by
writing letters to a London newspaper?”
“No, dear—”
“Y r es, after we went to Judea ho needed
some distracting occupation. He was
glad to get back, but he missed the city,
too, and he enjoyed writing. I used to be
so glad of it, and this letter is to say that
he was replaced before his death. His
political ideas were the ideas of his gen
eration. He often said that, and he
would add In his generous way that per
haps it was time he gave place to new
blood. But to think it had happened and
he never knew it 1”
“Why, how was that, cousin Con
stance?'’ asked Ethel.
The young girl had drawn a cricket to
her side, and resting her elbows upon
Constance’s lap was looking eagerly into
her face.
‘•That is the strangest part of it. You
see, aunt,” she said, bending forward to
show her the paper, while Ethel sat up
right upon her cricket, “this would net
have reached father before—” She brushed
her eyes quickly. “It was mailed too late
even if it had come directly. It was not
the compassion of chance. It seems to
have been only the most perfect human
forbearance. It’s not very clear to me
yet. 1 ought to understand. After a
while, 1 suppose, I shall. But—ah, that
must have been Mr. March’s real errand!”
she exclaimed to herself, “anti we did not
know.”
She sat intensely meditative for a mo
ment, and they all waited with a kind of re
spect for her thought.
“What da you mean, darling?” asked
Mrs. Eahois, after what seemed a long
time.
“Mr. March has done us all an even
greater kindness than 1 knew.”
“Do you mean—?”
“ Yes, aunt,” returned she, with deci
sion. “These papers make that clear.”
She ran her eyes hastily over one of them
again. “I can’t doubt it. The dates show
it. When Mr. March came to us iu April
he carried with him a commission for the
place which father held. We can only
imagine bow be avoided assuming it, but
at least he made no motion toward it, and
except for this we should not nave
known.”
“He must have resigned,” suggested
Helen, whose ears had not been closed.
“Wasn’t lo Bpioniiid of him!’’
“And he never said a nvolaimcd
Ethel, ardently.
These young ladies were at the interest
ing period iu which a hero is a necessity.
March seemed for the moment to serve
their purpose excellently.
Constance was silent. She was think
ing grateiutly of his infinite generosity.
“1 soou Id like greatly to thank him,” she
murmured, after a time.
This duty she had an opportunity to
perform on the morrow. March and Lin
coln had promised Mrs. Echols to assist
in the preparations for the fair which the
Quinnimout Benevolent Society wat
about to hold: and he and Lincoln came
in early next morning with several of the
laboring eolonists.
The ball to be used was the theatre of
the town, so far as it had one. The long
benches which ordinarily covered the
floor had been-removed, and. only the per
manent raised seats running about three
sides of the room, next the wall, re
mained. The curtain, which was said to
represent Carthage in a qertaiii state ot
dilapidation, was half raised, beheading
the young water portress with which such
performances are usually decorated and
leaving visible only an irrelevant face,
surmounted by a water jar which a
spectral hand clasped. Some busy ladies
occupied the stage, and the main floor
of the hall was strewn with flowers and
bunting, out of which rose certain tables
with picnic suggestions. Some negroes
were laughingly engaged in the erection
of a large booth. March and Lincoln re
ported for duty to Mrs. Echols, whom they
discovered upon the stage. She quickly
found places for the men accompanying
them, and asked 31 arch if he would su
perintend the building of a Rebecca’s
well upon the stage. Lincoln she sent to
assist in the decoration of one of the ta
bles on the floor. As this was, also, the
duty of a half dozen of the charming
young ladies of Quinnimout Lincoln went
with much willingness, and presently
might have been seen balancing on a high
step-ladder and chatting merrily with j
the group of feminine admirers below.
They handed him tacks and hammer and !
flower? aud paper a? be needed them, and
seemed to find him a delightful assistant.
Jacinth sat a little apart sewing quiet
ly upon the long breadths of a cambric
curtain to be used elsewhere in the room,
and when Lincoln had accomplished his
work upon the step-ladder he
cauie down and sat beside
her, talking while she worked.
From time to time he was summoned by j
the nervous little band oi workers at the j
table whose chiei difficulty seemed to be :
the irremediable vagrancy of a pair of j
highly-nteessary scissors; but he always ’
returned to Jacinth when he had supplied
their demands.
Constance, who was in a way at the j
head of the festival, since it was given in
aid ot her special charity, was full of 1
cares and harassed by innumerable mat- j
tors requiring her personal supervision.
She ran hither and thither directing, ad
vising and assisting. She had not had op
portunity to think of the pleasant task of
thanking March which she had set her- ,
self, nnd she did not know that he was in
the room.
Mrs. Bartlett, who had been appointed
to bring the epergne which was to adorn
ConstancPs own table as a centre piece,
had put her splendid structure for safe
keeping until needed in the fly-gallery
above the stage. Constance went for it
herself, as Mrs. Bartlett could not leave
her work. She climbed the steep stairs
leading up among the flies, and then re
membered that Mrs. Bartlett had uot said
on which side ot the stage she had lelt
the epergne. It occurred to her that the
hiding-place had been selected a little too
ingeniously. Wherever 3lrs. Bartlett had
disposed it, apparently it was not where
she was, and she walked upon the bridge
that spanned the stage. It looked fairly
secure while the gallery floor was un
der her, but when she found herself out
upon the slender way with nothing be
neath but the dusty, painted borders with
the lines of candles before them she felt
frightened at her daring. Bhe looked
across to the opposite gallery for which
she had set out. It seemed an awful dis
tance. She glanced down at the stage and
drew her head back swiitly with a little
shiver. It was twenty feet beneath her.
Sne tried to rebuke her fears, to reason
with herself. The void below might as
well have been fathomless. She tried to
return and retrace her steps. She felt a
wild lear taking possession of her, and
sho knew that if sne could uot instantly
deliver herself it would so occupv her
that she could move neither wav." She
was ordinarily very far from timid, but
as she tried to turn on the narrow space
with only the single rail for support she
could not a void looking below and an un
willing cry escaiKKl her. Sue remember
ed afterwards how clearly she had seen
everything—the men hammering on the
stage, her aunt filling a vase with golden
rod, 31 rs. Bartlett regarding her eom-
pleted table with her arms akimbo, Helen
and Ethel arranging a quilt—yellow and
gray and blue—on their tancy table near
the stage, the very drooping fringe of tal
low about the candles in the flies. Then
someone seemed to look up from the
stage and perceive her, and Mareh came
bounding up the stairs.
“Wait a moment, Miss Van Cleef,” he
said, and started upon the bridge.
“No, no," she begged, in a voice which
she strove hard to control; “it’s not
sale.”
“Ob, yes, 1 think so,” said March, with
a reassuring 6mile; but his face was pale.
He took another step.
“Oh, uont, dent! Please don’t!”
“Verv well,” returned he, as ho retired
to the gallery. “Try it alone,” he said,
kindly, as he stood waiting for her.
“I can’t. I think—”
“Well?”
“I think I could do it now if you won’t
watch me.”
March promptly turned his back. He
waited a full minute. There was no
sounti. She was still grasping the rail as
he looked about, and without speaking he
went quickly out on the bridge, and tak
ing her hand, while he moved backward
himself, grew her gently but firmly in.
She dropped upon a battered gilt throne
which had been stowed in a ebrner of the
gallery, and throwing an arm over the
back let her face fall upon it. Her
closed eyes were turned from March, but
after a moment or two she looked up with
a weary smile. He was regarding her
anxiously.
“How silly!” she breathed.
“Do you think so? It seemed to me
very natural. Y’ou ought not to have at
, tempted it.”
“Of course. I know. But Mrs. Bart
lett put her epergne here and I came to
look for it.”
“Her epergne? Isn’t this an odd place
for it ?”
“No, she was afraid of the boys, and
then, 1 suppose, she thought it might be
stolen. But perhaps sho has hidden it a
little too carefully. 1 don’t see it. Do
you?”
“I suppose it’s on the other side. Did
she specify?”
"I uid’t ask. I didn’t know there were
two sides when 1 started.”
“But there is a stair leading up to the
opposite gallery. It’s not easy to under
stand why you didn’t come down and
take that.”
“Ob, yes, it is if you are acquainted
with me. ft was my pride. 1 thought I
could do it.”
“You know they raise and lower tbe
curtain from the other gallery, and that
is where most things used about thestage
are kept,” said March, declining the dis
cussion of her loibles. “This side is used
very little.”
“1 didn’t know,” said Constance.
“Was your epergne a large one dec
orated in gold? 1 think I saw something
like that when I went up into the opposite
gallery for Mrs. Echols. She also is using
it as a store-room.”
Constance said that he had probably
seen the object of her search, and Ue went
quickly across the bridge and presently
returned with it.
“Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed, “and
let me thank you now too for rescuing
me. I’ve scarcely recovered lrom my
fright yet and I had forgotten. How did
you know? I hadn’t heard you were
uere.”
“You gave a little cry, you remember,
and 1 was just below at work on a Rebec
ca’s well.”
“Were you? I didn’t see you. Sit down,
Mr. March, if you ean find a seat. I’m
not half readv to move yet.”
She looked at him smilingly. Her ami
ability was hard to bear. Hi turned
away with a disturbed face to find a chair.
He discovered one of those plain wooden
chairs painted white which m rural thea
tres are the property man’s concession to
the classical repertoire. One of the legs
had been broken half way up, and tue
other three had been sawed to correspond
with this infirmity. He sat down with
his hands olenehed as it he were restrain
ing himself.
“1 shan’t keep you long, aud with Re
becca’s well waiting I shouldn’t venture
to keep you at all for a purely selfish pur
pose; but, Mr. Mareh, I’ve found you
out.”
She enjoyed his startled look.
“I’ve tracked one ot your secret, under
hand, generous acts to its lair,” she went
on, smilingly, “and I mean to bring it out
into the light of day and make it pay the
penalty ot concealment. One would think
tues.” : m of y° ur modest vir
ing her tone, “it wi”s ß fe? cried, chang
never to let me know what younad'O’ oll
for father!”
March blushed a little and looked at
his hand, which he unfolded for the pur
pose.
“I was glad to conceal it. It wasn’t a
thing to be proud of. 1 have never for
given myself for accepting the place
originally. My only excuse is that I did
not know your father’s age and his at
tachment for the position.”
“You must let me put my own estimate
on your goodness. 1 ean never tell you
how much 1 feel it. It was more than
kind. It was beautiful!” Her eyes
tilled. •#You were right in thinking that
it would hurt father to lose it. Nothing
could have grieved him more. Pardon me
if I don’t know what to say to you. lam
not accustomed to having to find words
for such a favor. There are none. But I
ask you to believo my gratitude.”
*he put out her hand impulsively and
Mareh took it. Something in her il
lumined face, its frank friendliness, its
generous wishfulness to say her feeling,
affected him indescribably. He read, or
thought that Le read in her
eager eyes a large-minded vis
ion in which the doubts and
perplexities and questionings of the past
fortnight grew ineffably small. He felt
that he had descredited her in not trust
ing the liberality of her outlook—it seemed
so large at the moment. It could not avoid
making some account of the facts, but
they were less important to it, he was sure,
than they had been in his thought. Lin
coln’s argument recurred to him and he
found his capacity and will to resist them
failing from him. He felt theobligation to
combat them, out he could not eompelhis
tutored resolution to his aid. His scrupu
lously woven theories about her and their
relation seemed crumbling about him in a
fatal ruin, and for the instant he was reck
lessly glad. If she cared for him she
could not be sorry that he had spoken,
and if she did not her generosity would
see less than he did in his offense.
He continued to hold her hand as he
said in a low voice, bending toward her:
“Don’t use that miserly word. There
can be no such thing as gratitude be
tween us.” She looked up start'ed. “Do
you think that the poor little things I have
been able to do have been done to win
your gratitude? My dear girl, it has
been because I loved you, though X haven’t
known it.”
Ile looked into her lace with a glowing
tenderness before which her eyes dropped.
She gently withdrew her hand.
“You are too good to say wbat you have
the best right to say; 1 have not always
thought so. No, that’s true, and once I
was brutal enough to say so.” Constanee
blushed vividly. “I see 1 needn’t remind
you. It was shameful and I hope you be
lieve that I have the grace to feel I’ve no
right to speak now, exeept such as l find
in your charity. 1 had agreed with my
self never to speak, aud you see how I
keep my resolve. I’ve no "excuse—unless
you call my love an excuse. That is for
you to say. Tell me, Constance —is it?”
“Stop! stop! It's treason to let you say
what you have said. It’s disloyal to let
you go on. lam already bound—sacredly
bound.”
The pain that possessed him translated
itself through his eyes, 90 that when he
said: "I need not ask to whom,” she an
swered very gently:
"I don’t know. It is to Mr. Keator. You
remember him?"
“So clearly that I’ve no difficulty in
measuring the slightness of my chance
against him.” He rose and stood by his
chair while he said: “I can’t presume to
ask your pardon for having spoken,
though, I think, in your goodness, you
would grant it, but I "can tell you that I’ll
not trouble you again, if that’s any
amends, aud say ‘good-bye.’ ”
He put out his hand. "*he rose and took
it mechanically.
“Good-bye,” she said, slowly; “no, no!
What do you mean ?”
“What do >/ou mean?” he asked, breath
lessly, as he looked down into her eyes.
She resumed her throne abruptly and
he sank into his seat. Constanee brushed
her hand lightly and repeatedly over her
dress while she regarded it in absorption.
“You don’t understand,” she said, at
length, in a low voice without looking up.
“I should greatly like to,” he returned,
gravely.
She set her hand skimming in swilter
motions over the smooth surface of her
dress.
“It is—it i9 only temporary,” she told
him, looking up suddenly with a smile
which dizzied him.
March stayed himself against his chair
as a mad fancy darted through him.
“Temporary ? What?’’ ne asked, huski
ly, as he leaned forward.
“I ought not to cal! it that. It is as
j binding as any engagement can be—only
I that he will not claim its fulfillment.”
A light broke over March’s face.
“You can’t expect me to believe that?”
j he said.
Constance smiled.
"Ab, l see that I shall have to ex
plain.”
She went back aud gave him 6ome part
of the history of her relation with Mr.
Keator.
“Poor Keator!” exclaimed March, as
she finished. “No wonder bis resolution
failed him tor a moment. After 6oh a
sacrifice if he had not taltered for a fit
tie, one couldn’t feel sympathy with him
as a fellow-man. To think of his giving
you up because of his duty to the church.
Compared with a surrender like that
what have I ever done to merit a thought
of yours?”
Constauce gave him an arch smile.
“I’m sure I can’t fancy,” she said,
roguishly.
“It’s a*kind of impudence to name my
self after such a man,” he went on, quick
ly. not heeding her answer, “but 1 must
Know now. Dearest, I don’t ask you to
promise anything—it would be treason,
as you say. But I have a right to know
your feeling. Constance, you don’t dis
like me?”
She pretended to consider a moment.
“No,” she said, judicially.
“Then—”
“Oh. Mr. March, Mr. Keator asked me
of there was no one, nothing to interfere
with my keeping my promise. And I told
him no one—nothing.”
Her faee crimsoned and she caught ou t
her handkerchief to hide it.
••Do you think,” she murmured, as she
looked studiously down aud made fold af
ter fold in her dress, “that I ought to tell
you—that—”
“That you have the folly to care for such
a poor fellow as I? No, darling, don’t ex
pose yourself in that way. Let us take it
for granted,” he whispered, as he drew
her toward him.
“I’m afraid we are not doing right,”
she said, doubtfully, as they began the
descent of the steep stair some minutes
later.
“If the pleasantness ol a thing proresit
wrong we are committing nothing less
than a crime,” owned March, with the
complaisance of his happiness.
“I am thinking what Mr. Keator would
say. But what could ho say ? I promised
nothing, you know.”
“Yes, 1 know. But you think that he
will uot claim you before the year is
out?”
“You know Mr. Keator; do vou think
it likely ?”
31 arch shrugged his shoulders.
“1 know men aud it does not seem im
possible. I think of my own feeling*
darling,” he whispered, as they paused on
the stair, “and it seems certain.”
[TO BE CONTINUED.!
Iliaguolut Stalin.
HAGAN’S
Magnolia Balm
is a secret aid to beauty.
Many a lady owes her fresh
ness to it, who would rather
not tell, and you can t tell
(fSlcutro, Tiootmi, UFtr.
NOTICE!
HUGO.
V SPECIAL Clearance Sale of brokea lota
is now taking place in my Retail Depart
ment, during which a rare opportunity ia df
ferecl for ladies and gentlemen to suppiv
themeeives with Cut-class seasonable goods
at a reduction of nearly one-half from prices
looked for and actually paid a month ago.
Among the different lilies of goods may he
KID GLOVES,
Ladies’ and Geuts’ Hosiery.
Ladies’ and Gents’ IlaiulkerehieiH.
Ladies’ Silk Circulars.
Ladies’ Seal Plush Cloaks.
lilaek and Colored French Cash
meres.
Plain and Fancy Dress Goods re
duced Tally 50 per cent.
Black and Colored Silks, 'icst
French makes,
Black and Colored Silk Velvets.
SPECIAL REDUCTION IN
CHILDREN’S MISSES'SUITS
I will sell Children’s Cashmere Suits at $i
that were |1 50.
I will sell Children’s Cashmere Suits at
$1 25 that were $2.
I will sell Children’s Cashmere Suit* at ?2
that were ?2 T 5.
I will sell 3lis£Cß’ Flannel Suits at IS that
were $4.
I will sell Misses’ Flannel Suits at $3 '5 that
were ?175.
i will bell 3llssea’ Flannel Suits at $5 .hat
were |7 50.
I will sell 3lissca’ French Cloth Suite at 5*
that were *l2.
300 BOYS’ SUITS
To be Closed at Half Price, to
make room for spring stock.
500 pieces Embroideries
Fully 50 per cent, under last year's prices.
DANIEL HOGAN.
NEW GOODS!
JUST received, anew stock of Fine Jai
broideries in
Cambric, Nainsook & Swiss,
Colored Embroideries in Popular S vle
and N6w Designs.
New India Lawns,
Kangiug in price from $3,14, ft 50, tto t 6
per piece. EXCELLENT QUALITY.
New GINGHAMS, in all grades, from iOc.
up; finest Scotch at 40c.
I have a few pair of 1? 4 CALIFO3NIA
BLANKETS which 1 will dispose of at less
than cost, so as not to keep them over.
GERMAINE’S,
132 Broughton street (next Fnrber'sv.
jsportmett o ®oooe.
P. O. KESSLER & GO.
17* BROUGHTON STREET,
IMPORTERS AND DEALERS IN
FIRE ARMS.
Agents for King’s Or. West. Gunpow tar.
1884. OPEN THE SEASON 1886,
With a fine selected stock of
Fire Arms at Importers’ Prices.
GUNS WARRANTED. GUNS FOR XURE.
Repairing done. Shells loaded. Chok; Cor
ing done.
gy- send for Illustrated catalogue.
3