CHAPTER XII.

ADA MONTROSE

Aunt Charlotte, Anna, and myself were sitting in the parlor one morning, about four weeks after our arrival in Boston, when the door-bell rang, and the servant ushered in a young lady, who I readily guessed was Ada Montrose, for there was about her an air of languor, as if she had just arisen from a sick-bed. All doubt on this point was soon settled by my aunt's exclaiming, as she hastened to greet her, "Why, Ada, my child, this is a surprise. How do you do?"

The voice which answered was, I thought, the sweetest and most musical I had ever heard, and yet there was in it something which made me involuntarily shudder. I do not know that I believe in presentiments, but sure I am that the moment I heard the tones of Ada Montrose's voice, and looked upon her face, I experienced a most disagreeable sensation, as if, in some way or other, she would one day cross my path. She was beautiful—she beautiful, that it seemed impossible to detect a single fault either in her features or complexion, though there was in the former an expression which made me feel, when her eyes were fixed upon me, much as the bird must when charmed by the rattlesnake. Do what I would, I could not rid myself of the idea that she was my evil genius, though how in any way she, a proud southern belle, could ever affect me, a plain schoolgirl of fourteen, was difficult to tell. She was, as I afterwards learned, twenty-two years of age, but being rather diminutive in size, and affecting a great deal of childish simplicity, she passed for four or five years younger; and, indeed, she herself gave her age as eighteen—looking up to Anna, who was really two years her junior, as a very ancient, matronly sort of person, who was supposed to remember as far back as the flood.

Divesting herself of her warm wrappings, which she left upon the floor, and shaking out her long curls, she informed my aunt that she had come to spend the day, saying, by way of apologizing for not having sent her word, that "she had ventured to come without an invitation, she felt herself so perfectly at home."

Of course Aunt Charlotte was delighted, and after assuring her of the fact, she suddenly remembered our presence, and introduced us to the lady as "Mr. Lee's nieces from the country." Not an instant did the large brownish black eyes rest on me, for I was of little importance compared with Anna, who the Thursday night previous had made her first appearance in society, where her sweet face and fresh, unstudied manners had produced something of a sensation, which had undoubtedly reached the ear of the reigning belle. What her thoughts were as she scanned my sister from head to foot, I do not know; but as I watched her, I fancied I could detect an expression of mingled scorn and surprise that one so unassuming should awaken an interest in those who were accustomed to pay her homage. When she had satisfied herself with Anna's personal appearance, she gave me a hasty glance, and then drawing from her reticule a fanciful mat which she was crocheting, she leaned back among the soft cushions of her chair, and commenced talking to my aunt in a very artless, childish manner, never noticing us in the least, except once when she asked me to pull the bell rope, which was much nearer to her than me. Several times I fancied she seemed to be listening for something, and when at last I heard Herbert's voice in the hall and saw the deepening flush on her cheek, I was sure that she felt more than a common interest in him.

In his usual good-natured, off-hand way he entered the room, tossing into my lap a letter from brother Charlie, and telling Anna that her beau hadn't yet written; then, as his eye fell upon Ada, he started back in evident surprise. Soon recovering himself, however, he said, as he took the little snowflake of a hand, which she offered him—

"Why, Ad, who knew you were here?"

"Not you, or you would have come sooner, I reckon;" said she, looking up in his face in a confiding kind of way, which brought a frown to Anna's brow.

"Maybe I shouldn't have come so soon," he replied laughingly, at the same time stealing a sidelong glance at Anna.

"Here, sit right down by me," said Miss Montrose, as she saw him looking for a seat. "I want to scold you for not calling on me oftener when I was sick. You don't know how neglected I felt. Why didn't you come, hey?"

And she playfully pulled his hair, allowing her hand to remain some time among his wavy locks. This was a kind of coquetry entirely new to me, and I looked on in amazement, while Anna, more disturbed than she was willing to acknowledge, left the room. When she was gone, Ada said, letting her hand fall from Herbert's head to his arm, "Tell me, is that the Lee girl, who attracted so much attention at Mrs. G——'s party?"

There was a look of gratified pride on Herbert's face as he answered, "Yes—the same—don't you think her pretty?"

They had probably forgotten my presence—Ada most certainly had, or else she did not care; for she replied, "Pretty enough for some tastes, I suppose, but she lacks polish and refinement. Is she at all related to you?"

"My stepfather's niece, that's all," replied Herbert, while Ada quickly rejoined in a low tone, "Then, of course, I shan't have to cousin her."

"Probably not," was Herbert's answer, which I interpreted one way and Ada another.

Her next remark was a proposal that Herbert should that afternoon take her out to ride; but to this he made some objection; whereupon she pretended to be angry, leaning back on the sofa and muttering that "she didn't believe he cared a bit for her, and he might as well confess it at once."

Here the dinner bell rang, and offering his arm to the pouting beauty, Herbert led her to the dining-room, where she was soon restored to good humor by my aunt, who lavished upon her the utmost attention, humoring every whim, and going so far as to prepare for her four different cups of black tea, which had been ordered expressly for her, and to which she objected as being too hot, or too cold—too weak or too strong. It took but a short time to show that she was a spoiled baby, good-natured only when all the attention was lavished upon her, and when her wishes were paramount to all others.

Dinner being over, Herbert did not, as was his usual custom, return to the parlor; but taking his hat he went out into the street, in spite of his mother's whispered effort to keep him at home. This, of course, vexed the little lady, and after thrumming a few notes upon the piano, she announced her intention of returning home, saying that "she wished she had not come." At this moment the door-bell rang, and some young ladies came in to call upon Anna. They seemed surprised at finding Ada, there, and after inquiring for her health, one of them said, "Do tell us, Ada, who that gentleman was that came and went so slyly, without our ever seeing him? Mrs. Cameron says he was from Georgia, and that is all we know about him. Who was he?"

Ada started, and turning slightly pale, replied, "What do you mean? I've seen no gentleman from Georgia. Where was he? and when was he here?"

"As much as three weeks or more ago," returned Miss Marvin. "He stopped at the Revere House, and Mrs. Cameron, who boards there, got somewhat acquainted with him."

"Mrs. Cameron!" repeated Ada, turning alternately red and white. "And pray what did she say?"

I fancied there was a spice of malice in Miss Marvin's nature; at least, she evidently wished to annoy Ada, for she replied, "She said he was ugly looking, though quite distingué; that he came in the afternoon, while she was in the public parlor talking with a lady about you and your engagement with Mr. Langley!"

"The hateful old thing!" muttered Ada, while Anna turned white as marble, and Miss Marvin continued—"When the lady had gone he begged pardon for the liberty, but asked her if she knew you. Of course, she told him she did, and gave him any further information which she thought would please him."

"Of course she did—the meddling widow!" again interrupted Ada; after which Miss Marvin proceeded—"Mrs. Cameron didn't mean to do anything wrong, for how could she guess that 'twould affect him in any way to know you were engaged?"

"And she told him I was engaged! It isn't so. I ain't," exclaimed Ada, while the angry tears dropped from her glittering eyes.

"What does that mean then?" asked Miss Marvin, laughingly, pointing at the ring on Ada's finger.

Her first impulse was to wrench it from her hand and cast it from her, but she remembered herself in time, and growing quite calm, as if to attribute her recent agitation to a different cause, she said: "I wish people would attend to their own affairs, and let mine alone. Suppose I am engaged—is that a reason why Mrs. Cameron should discuss the matter with strangers? But what else did she say? And where is the gentleman now?"

"Gone home," answered Miss Marvin, glancing mischievously at her companions. "He went the next morning, and she said he looked very much disturbed, either at your illness or your engagement, the former probably, and that is why I think it strange that he didn't stop to see you; though maybe he did."

"No, he didn't," chimed in Miss Marvin's sister, "for don't you know she said he went to the theater?"

All this time my interest in the unknown Georgian had been increasing, and at this last remark I forgot myself entirely, and started forward, exclaiming, "Yes, he was there, I saw him and spoke with him too."

The next moment I sank back upon the ottoman, abashed and mortified, while Ada gave me a withering glance, and said scornfully, "You spoke to him! And pray, what did you say?"

An explanation of what I said, would, I knew, oblige me to confess the fainting fit, of which I was somewhat ashamed, and so I made no reply; nor was any expected, I think, for without waiting for my answer, Ada said to Miss Marvin, "Mrs. Cameron, of course, learned his name, even if she had to ask it outright."

"Yes, she made inquiries of the clerk, who wouldn't take the trouble of looking on the book, but said he believed it was Field, or something like that," returned Miss Marvin.

As if uncertainty were now made sure, Ada turned so white that in some alarm her young friends asked what they should do for her; but she refused their offers of aid, saying, "it was only the heat of the room, and she should soon feel better."

"And is it the heat of the room which affects you, Miss Lee?" asked one of the girls, observing for the first time the extreme pallor of Anna's face.

"Only a headache," was her answer, as she pressed her hand upon her forehead.

She was fearfully pale, and I knew it was no common thing which had thus moved her, and when not long afterwards the young ladies left us, I was glad, for I felt that both she and Ada needed to be alone. The moment they were gone Anna left the parlor, while I, frightened by the agonized expression of her face, soon followed her; but the door of our room was locked, and it was in vain I called on her to admit me, for she only answered in a voice choked with tears, "Go away, Rosa; I would rather be alone."

So I left her and returned to the parlor, where I found Ada weeping passionately, while my aunt, who had not been present during the conversation which had so affected her, was trying in vain to learn the cause of her grief.

"Nothing much," was all Ada would say, except that "she wanted to go home."

In the midst of our excitement, Herbert came in. He had repented of his ungracious refusal to ride with Ada, and now the carriage stood at the door, but she refused, saying petulantly, when urged by my aunt to go, that "if she couldn't ride when she wanted to, she wouldn't ride at all."

"Where's Anna? she'll go, I know," said Herbert, glancing around the room, and adding in a low tone, which reached my ear only, "and I'd far rather she would."

When I explained to him that she had a headache, and did not wish to be disturbed, he exclaimed, "What ails all the girls to-day? Anything the matter with you, Rose? If there isn't, put on your bonnet and I'll show you the city, for I'm resolved upon riding with somebody."

As my aunt made no objection, I was soon ready and seated by the side of Herbert, in the light vehicle, which he drove himself. I think he exerted himself to be agreeable, for I never saw him appear so well before, and in my heart I did not blame my poor sister for liking him, as I was sure she did, while at the same time I wondered how he could fancy Ada Montrose. As if divining my thoughts, he turned suddenly towards me and said, "Rosa, how do you like Ada?"

Without stopping to reflect, I replied promptly, "Not at all."

"Frankly spoken," said he, and then for several minutes he was silent, while I was trying to decide in my own mind whether or not he was offended, and I was about to ask him, when he turned to me again, saying, "We are engaged—did you know it?"

I replied that I had inferred as much from the conversation which I had heard between her and Miss Marvin, saying further, for his manner emboldened me, that "I was surprised, for I did not think her such an one as he would fancy."

"Neither is she," said he, again relapsing into silence. At last, rousing up, he continued, "I must talk to somebody, and as you seem to be a sensible girl, I may as well make a clean breast, and tell you all about it. Ada came up here from Georgia last spring, and the moment mother saw her, she picked her out for her future daughter-in-law. I don't know why it is, but mother has wanted me to get married ever since I began to shave. I believe she thinks it will make me steady; but I am steady enough now, lor I haven't drank a drop in almost a year. I should, though, if Ada Montrose was my wife. But that's nothing to the point. Mother saw her and liked her. I saw her and liked her well enough at first; for she is beautiful, you know, and every man is more or less attracted by that. They say, too, that she is wealthy, and though I would as soon marry a poor girl as a rich one, provided I liked her, I shall not deny but her money had its influence with me, to a certain extent. And then, too, it was fun to get her away from the other young men who flocked around her, like bees round a honey jar. But, to make a long story short, we got engaged—Heaven only knows how; but engaged we were, and then"—— Here he paused, as if nearing a painful subject, but soon resuming the thread of his story, he continued: "And then I stopped writing to Anna, for I would not be dishonorable. Do you think she felt it?"

The question was so unexpected, that I was thrown quite off my guard, and replied, "Of course, she did; who wouldn't feel mortified to have their letters unanswered?"

"'Twas wrong, I know," said he. "I ought to have been man enough to tell her how it was, and I did begin more than a dozen letters, but never finished them. Do you think Anna likes me now, or could like me, if I was not engaged, and she knew I'd never get drunk again?"

Could he have seen her when first she learned that his affections were given to another, he would have been sufficiently answered, but he did not, and it was not for me, I thought, to enlighten him; so I replied evasively, after which he continued, "As soon as I was engaged to Ada, she began to exact so much attention from me, acting so silly, and appearing so ridiculous that I got sick of it, and now my daily study is how to rid myself of her; but I believe I've commenced right. Can I make a confidante of you, and feel sure you'll not betray me to any one, unless it is Anna?"

I hardly knew how to answer, for if it was anything wrong which he meditated, I did not wish to be in the secret, and so I told him; but it made no difference, for he proceeded to say, "I shall never marry Ada Montrose, never; neither would it break her heart if I shouldn't for she's more than half tired of me now."

I thought of the dark stranger, and felt that he was right, but I said nothing, and he went on: "Sometimes I thought I'd go up to Meadow Brook, tell Anna all about it, ask her to marry me, and so settle the matter at once; but then I did not know but she might have grown up raw, awkward, and disagreeable, so I devised a plan by which I could find out. Mother would burn her right hand off, I believe, to save me from a drunkard's grave, and when I wish to win her consent to any particular thing, all I have to do is to threaten her with the wine cup."

"Oh, Herbert! how can you?" I exclaimed, for I was inexpressibly shocked.

"It's a way I've got into," said he, laughing at my rueful face. "And when I suggested that Anna should spend the winter here, I hinted to the old lady that if she didn't consent, I'd go off with a party of young men on a hunting excursion. Of course she yielded at once, for she well knew that if I joined my former boon companions, I should fall."

"And so we are indebted to you for our winter in Boston," said I, beginning to see things in a new light.

"Why no, not wholly," he answered; "mother consented much easier than I supposed she would. The fact is, she's changed some since she was at Meadow Brook. She's joined the Episcopal Church, and though that in my estimation don't amount to much, of course, she has to do better, for it wouldn't answer for a professor to put on so many airs."

As the daughter of a deacon, I felt it incumbent upon me to reprove the thoughtless young man, but it did no good, for he proceeded to say, "It's all true, and there's only one denomination who are sincere in what they profess, and that's the Methodist. They carry their religion into their whole life, while the Episcopalians, Presbyterians, and Baptists sit on different sides of the fence, and quarrel like fun about High Church and Low, Old School and New, close communion and open communion, and all that sort of thing. I tell you, Rose, if I am ever converted—and mother thinks I will be—I shall be a roaring Methodist, and ride the Circuit at once!"

I was unused to the world, and had never heard any one speak thus lightly of religion; but I knew not what to say, so I kept silence, while he continued, "But I am rambling from my subject. Mother is a different woman, if she does read her prayers; and as she has never known a word about my writing to Anna, she consented to her coming, without much trouble, saying she would try to make it pleasant for her, and proposing that you too should accompany her, and go to school. You can't imagine how delighted I was to find Anna what she is, and from the moment I met her in the parlor, Ada Montrose's destiny, so far as I am concerned, was decreed; that is, if I can secure your sister; and I think I shall have no difficulty in so doing, for notwithstanding her affected coolness, it is easy to see that I am not indifferent to her."

It was in vain for me to argue that he was doing Ada a great wrong, for he insisted upon saying that he was not. "She hadn't soul enough," he said, "to really care for any one, and even if she had, he would far rather commit suicide at once, than be yoked to her for life; she was so silly, so fawning, so flat!"

It was nearly dark when we reached home, and as the lamps were not yet lighted in the parlor, I went immediately to my room, where I found Anna lying upon the sofa, with her face buried in the cushions. I knew she was not asleep, though she would not answer me, until I had thrice repeated her name. Then lifting up her head, she turned towards me a face as white as ashes, while she said, motioning to a little stool near her, "Sit down by me, Rosa, I must talk to some one, or my heart will break."

Taking the seat, I listened while she told me how much she had loved Herbert Langley—how she had struggled to overcome that love when she thought he had slighted her, and how when she saw him daily in his own home, it had returned upon her with all its former strength, until there came to her the startling news that he was engaged to another. "I cannot stay here," said she. "I am going home. I have written to mother—see," and she pointed to a letter which lay upon the table, and which she bade me read. It was a strange, rambling thing, saying that "she should die if she stayed longer in Boston, and that she was coming back to Meadow Brook."

"You can't send this, Anna," said I, at the same time tossing it into the grate, where a bright coal fire was burning.

At this bold act of mine she expressed no emotion whatever, but simply remarked, "I can write another or go without writing."

"And you indeed love Herbert so much?" I said.

"Better than my life—and why shouldn't I?" she replied. "He is all that is noble and good."

"Suppose he proves to be a drunkard?" I queried, looking her steadily in the face, while she answered simply, "And what then? Would that be harder to endure than a life without him?"

I know not whether the spirit of prophecy was upon me, or whether I felt a dim foreshadowing of my sister's wretched future, but from some cause or other, I proceeded to picture to her the sorrows of a drunkard's home and the utter degradation of a drunkard's wife, while she listened shudderingly, saying when I had finished, "God save me from such a fate!"

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Herbert's voice was heard at the door, asking for admittance. He had often visited us in our room, and now, without consulting Anna's wishes, I bade him enter, going out myself and, leaving them alone. What passed between them I never knew, but the supper table waited long for Herbert, and was finally removed, my aunt thinking he had gone out, "to see Ada, perhaps," she said, and then she asked me how I liked her, telling me she was to be Herbert's wife, and that she hoped they would be married early in the spring.

I made her no direct reply, for I felt I was acting a double—nay, a treble part, in being thus confided in by three, but I could not well help it, and I hoped, by betraying neither party, to atone in a measure for any deceit I might be practising. After that night there was a great change in Anna, who became so lively and cheerful that nearly all observed it, while Herbert's attentions to her, both at home and abroad, were so marked as to arouse the jealousy of Ada, who, while she affected to scorn the idea of being supplanted by "that awkward Lee girl," as she called her, could not wholly conceal her anxiety lest "the Lee girl" should, after all, win from her her betrothed husband. Something of this she told my aunt, who, knowing nothing of the true state of affairs, and having the utmost confidence in her son's honor, laughed at her fears, telling her once in my hearing, though she was unaware of my proximity, that, "however much Herbert might flirt with Anna, he had been too well brought up to think of marrying one so far beneath him."

"But he does think of it—I most know he does," persisted Ada, beginning to cry; "and I wish you'd send her home, won't you?"

I did not hear my aunt's reply, but with Ada, my own heart echoed, "send her home," for much as I liked Herbert, I shrank from the thought of committing my gentle sister's happiness to his keeping, and secretly I resolved upon writing to my father and acquainting him with the whole; but, alas! I deferred it from day to day, until it was too late.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE FLIGHT.

One bright morning about the middle of January, Herbert announced his intention of going to Worcester with Anna, who, he said, wished to visit the Lunatic Asylum, and as a young physician of his acquaintance had just commenced practising there, it would be a good opportunity for them to go over the building. To this my aunt made no objection, merely proposing that Ada, too, should go. Afterwards I remembered the peculiar look in Herbert's eye, as he replied, "Oh fie! mother, Ada's nerves are not strong enough to endure it. She can go with me some other time."

Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to make the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and gave her whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every article which belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave it no further heed, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often, turning back even after she had reached the door to bid me another good-by. Slowly the day passed away and night came on, dark, cold, and stormy. Even now, as I write, I can recall to mind the gloom which pervaded my spirits, as I listened to the sound of the sleet and hail, which drove past the window, where I had watched so long for their return. Seven, eight, nine, ten, was rung from more than one church dome, and then we gave them up, for the shrill whistle of the last train on which they would be likely to come, had long since sounded in our ears.

"They must have stayed somewhere; don't you think so?" said my aunt, addressing her husband, who, man-like, was not in the least alarmed, but sat conning his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake.

"Of course they have," said he, looking up at his wife's inquiry. "I wouldn't come in this storm, if I were in their places."

That night I watered my pillow with tears, scarcely knowing why I wept, save that I felt oppressed with a sense of desolation, as if Anna was gone from me forever. The next day came and went, but it brought no tidings of the missing pair, and half unconscious of what she was doing, my aunt went from room to room, sometimes weeping and again brightening up, as she enumerated the many things which might have prevented their return. At evening, Ada came in, and my aunt immediately began urging her to spend the night. This she did willingly, seeming very anxious concerning the absence of Herbert, and feeling, I was sure, a little suspicious that I might know more of his whereabouts than I chose to tell, for once, when we were alone, she turned towards me and very haughtily asked, if "I had any idea where they were!"

"None, whatever," said I, and she continued—

"Has it never occurred to you that this Anna Lee manifested altogether too marked a preference for a gentleman whom she knew to be engaged?"

"The preference was mutual," I replied. "Herbert liked Anna, and Anna liked Herbert."

"And they have gone off to consummate that liking by a marriage," interrupted Ada.

"I do not know that they have," I returned; "but such a termination of affairs would not surprise me."

She was very pale, and there were tears in her eyes, but I thought they arose more from a sense of mortification than from any real love which she bore for Herbert Langley, and so I did not pity her as I should otherwise have done. The next morning at breakfast both she and my aunt (particularly the latter) looked weary and worn, as if neither had slept at all during the night. My uncle, on the contrary, seemed to be unmoved. He probably had an opinion of his own, but whatever it was he kept it to himself, merely saying that if the eastern mail brought no letter he would go in quest of them himself. I know I could not study in my present excitement, and so I asked permission to remain at home. Stationing myself at the window, I watched anxiously for the return of Herod, who, as usual, had been sent to the office. He came at last, bringing his pocket full of letters, two of which were for me, one postmarked Meadow Brook, and the other Albany! With a trembling hand I tore open the latter, which was in my sister's handwriting. Glancing at the signature, my fears were confirmed, for there stood the name of "Anna Langley" in Herbert's bold dashing hand!

"She had refused to write it thus," he said, in a postscript, "and so he had done it for her."

The letter contained no apology from either for what they had done, but merely informed me of the fact that instead of stopping in "Worcester, they had gone straight on to Albany, which they reached about six o'clock, going to the Delevan House, where in less than an hour they were husband and wife; Herbert's old comrade, Tom Wilson, accompanying them, and being a witness of the ceremony. What affected me more unpleasantly than all the rest, was the derisive manner in which Herbert spoke of Ada.

"Give her my love," he said, "and tell her not to feel too badly. I'd like well enough to marry her, too, but under the present laws a man can't have two wives, unless he joins the Mormons. Maybe I shall do that sometime, and then I'll remember her!"

Of his mother he wrote differently, and though there was no cringing, no acknowledgment of wrong, he spoke of her kindly and respectfully, saying, "he hoped she would love his Anna for his sake."

Of course I could not tell Ada what he said of her, neither was it necessary, for guessing the truth from my face, she came up softly behind me, and looking over my shoulder, read every word until she came to the message intended for her. Then stamping her little foot, she exclaimed passionately, "The villain, to insult me thus! As if I, sprung from the best blood in Georgia, would stoop to become a rival of that low-born country girl. No! By this act Herbert Langley has shown that he is all unworthy of me, and I rejoice in my escape, while I give him much joy with his highly refined and polished bride."

All my Lee temper, which is considerable, was roused, and turning towards the lady, I exclaimed, "My sister, Miss Montrose, is as good as you, aye, or as Herbert Langley either, and the news of her marriage with him will carry sorrow to our home at Meadow Brook, where they will say she has literally thrown herself away."

"Very likely," returned Ada, sarcastically. "It is quite probable that a poor laborer will object to his daughter's marrying into one of the first families in Boston."

"He isn't a poor laborer," I replied, "and even if he were, he would object to his daughter's marrying a drunkard, for such Herbert Langley has been and such he will be again."

A deep groan came from the white lips of my aunt, and for the first time since Ada's outbreak, I remembered that she was there. She did not reprove me angrily, but in trembling tones she said, "Rose, Herbert is my child, my boy, and it becomes not a girl of your age to speak thus of him in the presence of his mother."

I was humbled, and winding my arms about her neck, I asked forgiveness for the harsh words I had spoken; and she forgave me, for she meant to do right, and if sometimes she erred, it was owing more to a weakness of the flesh than an unwillingness of the spirit. In the midst of our excitement Tom Wilson was ushered in. He had returned in the same train which brought the letter, and had come to give us any further information, which we might be desirous of knowing.

"When will Herbert come home?" was my aunt's first question, her whole manner indicating how much interest she felt in the answer.

"Not very soon," returned Tom. "He is tired of the city, he says, and besides that he wishes to avoid the unpleasant remarks his elopement will necessarily occasion."

"More like he wishes to avoid introducing his bride into society, which he knows has no wish to receive her," muttered Ada.

Tom paid no attention to this spiteful speech, but continued, "He has drawn his money from the —— Bank, and with it he intends purchasing a farm in the western part of New York."

"An admirable plan," again interrupted Ada. "That Lee girl is just calculated for a farmer's wife."

Taken alone there was nothing particularly disagreeable in the three words "that Lee girl;" but spoken by Ada Montrose they sounded insultingly, and every time she uttered them, I felt my blood boil, for I, too, was a Lee girl, and I was sure she included me in the same contemptuous category. As Herbert had said, I did not think the disappointment would break her heart. She was too angry for that, and I believe now, as I did then, that most of her feeling arose from the mortification of knowing that a "poor country girl," as she called Anna, was preferred to herself. For half an hour or more Tom Wilson and my aunt conversed together, she asking him at least a dozen times "if he did not think Herbert could be induced to return." At last, with quivering lips and flushed cheeks, as if it cost her pride a great effort, she said, "Of course I mean Anna, too, when I speak of Herbert's return. She is his wife, you say, and though I might, perhaps, wish it otherwise, it cannot now be helped, and if he only would come back to me, I should love her for his sake."

In my heart I blessed her for these words, and mentally resolved to leave no argument untried, which might bring the fugitives back. But it could not be. Herbert was decided, he said. He meant to be a farmer and live in the country, adding what he knew would silence his mother sooner than aught else he could say, "that temptations for him to drink were far greater in the city than in the country, and it was for this reason partly that he preferred living in the latter place."

And so my aunt yielded the point; but from the day of her son's desertion, there was in her a perceptible change. Far oftener was she found in the house of prayer, and less frequently was she seen in places of amusement, while more than once I heard her in secret asking that her wayward boy might be shielded from the great temptation. Alas! for thee, poor Herbert Langley, sleeping in thine early grave! There were prayers enough, methinks, to save thee; for at the old Meadow Brook home, thou wert remembered in the early morn, and not forgotten when at eve, my father knelt him down to pray. Why, then, didst thou fall ere thy sun had reached the meridian of manhood? Was it because in thine early training there was an error which no after exertions could repair? We answer, Yes. The fault was there, and little know they what they do, who set before their sons the poisonous cup, and bid them, by their own example, drink and die. How many young men, from the higher walks of life, now sleeping in the dishonored grave of a drunkard, might at this moment be filling some honorable position, had it not been for the wine or beer drinking habit acquired in childhood by their own firesides, and at their father's table? Look to it, then, you around whose hearthstones promising sons are gathered, and if in the coming years you would escape the sleepless nights, the bitter tears, and the broken hearts of those whose children walk in the path, which, sooner than all others, leadeth down to death, teach them, both by precept and by practise, to "touch not, taste not, handle not," for therein alone lieth safety.

CHAPTER XIV.

TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS.

Early in March, as I was one Saturday morning seated with my aunt in her pleasant, cozy sewing-room, a little boy brought me a note from Dell Clayton, in which she requested me, if possible, to spend the afternoon with her. She was sick, she wrote, unable to sit up, and what was worse than all, she was homesick and unhappy! Her aunt, she said, was out of the city, and as she had no acquaintance, she thought the sight of a familiar face would do her good.

Aunt Charlotte, to whom I handed the note, consented to my going, and immediately after dinner, which that day was served at an earlier hour than usual, I started. Long and daily walks have always been to me a luxury, and so, though I had been but a few months in Boston, I was tolerably well acquainted with most of its localities, and had no trouble in finding the once stylish, but now rather dilapidated and gloomy looking block, in one part of which Dr. Clayton was keeping house. Since the night when I met him at the theater, I had never seen him, and all that I knew of him was that he had left the Tremont. Subsequently, however, I heard the whole history of their proceedings—partly from the doctor, partly from Dell, and partly from other sources, and as a recital of it may not be wholly uninteresting to my readers, I will give it before proceeding with a description of my call.

It seems that boarding at the Tremont was rather too expensive for a physician, whose patients were not so numerous as to be troublesome, and several times had the doctor proposed returning to his old place in Sturbridge, where everything was cheaper; but to this Dell objected, for she well knew it would be an admission that they could not succeed in Boston, and against this her pride revolted. "People at home," she reasoned, "would never know how matters really were, and as long as she could keep up an appearance of gentility and upper-ten-dom with her former friends, she should do so," preferring, like many others, almost absolute want in the city, to plenty in the country. From this, the reader is not to infer that the doctor was extremely poor; for when he first went to Boston he was worth about fifteen hundred dollars, which, in a country village, with a prudent wife, would have surrounded him with all the comforts of life, besides leaving him with something for that "rainy day," about which everybody blessed with a careful grandmother has heard more or less.

In the city of course, it needed a great deal of money to keep up the kind of style upon which Dell insisted, and which, after all, was far from satisfying her—it was so much inferior to the elegance she saw around her; and as check after check of the doctor's little hoard was drawn from the bank to meet their expenses, while but few would get sick, or being so would send for him, his heart sank within him, and without really meaning to do so, he began to wonder "when that old grandmother would die!" Finding that he could not much longer pay the enormous bills, which were presented to him weekly at the Tremont, he decided at last upon housekeeping, and exercising in this case his own judgment, in spite of the tears, sulks, and remonstrances of his wife, he hired a house in an obscure street, where the rents were much lower than in the more fashionable part of the city. Very neatly he fitted it up, going rather beyond his means, it is true, but depending a great deal upon the fast failing health of Grandmother Barton, to set all things right.

Everything was at last arranged, and with that comfortable feeling which other men have experienced in similar circumstances, he took his seat for the first time at his own table, forgetting in his happiness that the smiling, handsome face of the lady opposite, in blue merino morning gown and clean white linen collar, had ever worn any look save that which now sat upon it. Breakfast was hardly over, when the door-bell rang violently and a man appeared telling the doctor that his services were required immediately by the wealthy Mrs. Archer, who lived in an adjoining street, and who owned the entire block in which he lived.

Mrs. Archer belonged to that class of people who are always dying, first with one fancied disease and then with another, in the end, however, living much longer than those whose business it is to minister to their wants. Being freakish and whimsical, she seldom employed the same physician longer than a year, but during that time a man with limited wants was sure of a livelihood, for his services were required every day, and the remuneration for the same was so prompt and liberal as to make her patronage much sought after, particularly by new practitioners. Having taken a violent fancy to Dr. Clayton when he bargained with her for the house, she had decided henceforth to employ him, if on trial he proved to be all she wished.

The doctor was well aware of her peculiarities, and for several days past had indulged a faint hope that she might favor him with a call. This she had now done, and very eagerly he prepared to visit her. As he reached his gates he was met by a boy who brought a telegraphic despatch from Wilbraham, saying that Grandma Barton was dead! Yes, the old lady was gone, and Dell was undoubtedly the heiress of ten thousand dollars at least, and probably more, for her grandmother bore the reputation of being miserly, and rumor said that twice ten thousand was nearer the actual sum of her possessions. To ascertain the truth as soon as possible was the doctor's great desire, and as the next train bound for the east started in about two hours, he decided to go at once, though the funeral was not to take place for two or three days.

Suddenly Mrs. Archer's message occurred to him, but matters were now changed—he was a rich man, and as such Mrs. Archer's patronage was not of vital importance. Still it would hardly do to slight her, and rather unwillingly he bent his steps towards her dwelling. When there he appeared so abrupt and absent-minded, telling her there was nothing whatever the matter with her as he could see, that the good lady was wholly disgusted, and the moment he was gone, she despatched the servant for another physician, who, possessing more tact, and not having recently come into the possession of a fortune, told her with a grave, concerned look, that "he never saw anything like her case—it really baffled his skill, though he thought he could cure her, and it would give him pleasure to try."

Of course he was employed, and just as Dr. Clayton and Dell were stepping into the omnibus, which took them to the dépôt, a note was handed to the former, saying his services were no longer needed by Mrs. Archer. Without giving it a thought, the doctor crushed the note into his pocket, and then springing into the carriage, took his seat by Dell, to whom he was unusually attentive, for she had risen in his estimation full ten thousand dollars' worth, and what man, for that sum of money, would not occasionally endure a cross look, or a peevish word! Not the doctor most certainly; and when on reaching the dépôt, they found that the cars would not leave for half an hour or more, he could not resist her entreaties to go with her to a jeweler's, on —— street, where the day before she had "seen such a beautiful set of cameos, earrings, bracelet, and pin to match—then, too, they were so cheap, only $50. She knew he would buy them!"

'Twas in vain for him to say that he had not fifty dollars for she replied, that "he could take it from the bank and replace it when she got her fortune;" adding, "I'll give you a hundred in place of it: so gratify me this once, that's a dear, good man."

Of course, the dear good man was persuaded as many another dear good man has been, and will be again by a coaxing woman. The cameos were bought, and in the best of humor the young couple took their seats in the cars which were soon bearing them swiftly towards the house of death. Very pleasant were the doctor's reflections as the train sped on over valley and plain: he was a fortunate, happy man, and if when they paused at the Meadow Brook station he thought for an instant of the girl Rosa Lee, her memory was to him like an idle dream, which had passed away in the golden beams of day. Arrived at Wilbraham dépôt, they took a carriage for the village, which is about two miles or more from the railroad.

The old brown shutters of the large wooden building, where Mrs. Barton had lived and died, were closed, and about the house there was no sign of life. But this was hardly different from what it had been during the old lady's life, for she was one who lived mostly within herself, seldom seeing company, though always sure to go whenever she was invited. Exceedingly penurious, she stinted her household to the last degree of endurance, and denied herself even the comforts of life, while her last request had been that her body might be suffered to remain in her sleeping-room, so as not to litter up the parlor, or wear the carpet!

At the head of the family was Mabel Warrener, a poor young girl, who for three years had lived with Mrs. Barton in the capacity of half waiting-maid, half companion, and to her the neighbors now looked for directions. Anxious to pay all due deference to the wishes of her late mistress, Mabel at first said, "Let the body remain where it is;" but when she reflected that "the fashionable Mrs. Clayton from Boston," with her proud husband (for so were they considered), would probably be there, she changed her mind, and the deceased was carried into the dark, damp parlor, where a fire had not been kindled for more than a year. The same was also true of the chamber above, which was designed for the doctor and his lady, the latter of whom shivered as she entered it, rather haughtily bidding Mabel, who accompanied her, "to make a fire there as soon as possible, for she was not accustomed to cold rooms, and should freeze to death."

Very meekly Mabel complied, not only with this requisition, but with fifty others from the same source; for Dell, thinking she was now mistress of the house, took upon herself many airs, ordering this, that, and the other, until the neighbors, quite disgusted, left poor Mabel alone, with the exception of the deaf old woman, who ruled in the kitchen as cook. The morning following the arrival of the doctor, Capt. Thompson, wife, and son came out from Sturbridge to attend the funeral; for though they were in no way connected with Mrs. Barton, they knew her well, and wished to pay her this last tribute of respect. Then, too, Mrs. Thompson was very desirous of seeing Dell, who was now an heiress, and as such entitled to attention. Long they talked together concerning the future, Dell telling how she meant "to fix up the old rookery for a summer residence," and inviting her sister-in-law to spend as much time with her as she possibly could. The cameos were next duly inspected, admired, tried on, and then the two went down to the room below, and turning back the thin muslin which shaded the face of the dead, gazed upon the pinched, stony features which seemed so much to reproach them for their cold-hearted selfishness, in thus planning ways and means by which to spend her hoarded wealth even before she was buried from their sight.

That afternoon there was heard a tolling bell, and along procession moved slowly to the churchyard, where the words "ashes to ashes—dust to dust," and the sound of the hard frozen earth, rattling upon the coffin-lid, broke the solemn stillness, but disturbed not the rest of those, who, henceforth, would be the fellow-sleepers of her now committed to the grave. When the party of mourners had returned to the house, the doctor began to speak of the necessity there was for his returning immediately to the city, at the same time hinting to Capt. Thompson that "if there was a will, he would like to see it."

Mabel Warrener, who was supposed to know more than any one else concerning Mrs. Barton's affairs, was called in and questioned, she replying that "her mistress, one day, about two weeks before her death, had said to her that if, after her death, an inquiry should be made concerning her will, it could be found in the private drawer of her secretary, where was also a letter for Mrs. Clayton." Both of these were brought out, and with her handkerchief over her eyes, Dell listened while Capt. Thompson read aloud the astounding fact that the entire possessions of Mrs. Barton, amounting to $15,000, were given to MABEL WARRENER, who, having had no suspicion whatever of the fortune in store for her, fainted away, and was borne from the room, as was also Dell; while the doctor, it was confidently asserted, went out behind the woodshed and actually vomited, so great was his disappointment! Soon rallying, however, both he and his wife declared it a fraud, accusing the still unconscious Mabel of treachery, and it was not until the lawyer who had drawn the will was produced, that they could be convinced. Suddenly remembering her letter, Dell broke it open and found therein the reasons for this most unaccountable freak. Always peculiar and naturally jealous, Mrs. Barton had felt piqued that she was not invited to Dell's wedding, which, considering that she was spending the summer in Albany at the time when it took place, was not very remarkable. Then, too, she was not consulted, and she didn't believe in doctors, they killed more than they cured; but the head and front of the offense seemed to be that instead of hiring two or three rooms and keeping house in a small, economical way, they boarded at the Tremont, where Dell had nothing to do but "to change her dress, eat, sleep, and laze"—so the letter ran—"and she (Mrs. Barton) would not suffer a penny of her money to go for the support of such extravagance: she preferred giving it to Mabel Warrener, who was a prudent, saving girl, and would take care of it; while the paltry doctor would spend it for cigars, fast horses, patent leather boots, and all sorts of fooleries."

The letter ended with an exhortation to Dell to "go to work and earn her own living, as her grandmother had done before her."

The doctor's reflections, as he rode back to Boston, were not of the most enviable nature; and who can wonder if he was rather testy towards his wife, who retorted so angrily as to bring on quite a sharp quarrel, which was prevented from being heard by the roar of the machinery; and if at Meadow Brook he did think again of Rosa Lee, half fancying that 5,000 divided by 13, if shared with her, might be preferable to nothing divided by nothing, shared with Dell; who can blame him? Not I, most certainly. Wasn't he terribly disappointed? Hadn't he just lost $15,000, to say nothing of a patient, whose patronage would have insured him a living for at least a year, besides introducing him into a broader field of practise; and if the cameo earrings were rather becoming to the dark hair and black eyes of his wife, did that in any way compensate him for the fifty dollars which stood on the Cr. side of his bank-book? Still, I see no good reason why, after their arrival home at a late hour of the night, they should sit up for more than an hour in a cold, cheerless room, telling each other—the one that she wished she had never married him, for "he alone stood in the way of her inheritance;" while the other replied, that "but for her extravagance he should now have had $1,500 in the bank instead of five hundred."

Wretched couple! Their history is like that of many others, who marry without a particle of love, or at most, only a passing fancy. Had Dell chosen, she could in time have won the affection of her husband, but being naturally selfish and exacting, she expected from him every attention; while in return she seldom gave him aught save cross looks and peevish words, complaining that he did not treat her now as he once had done. As long as the doctor had a fortune in expectancy, he bore his wife's ill humor tolerably well, but now that hope was gone, his whole being seemed changed, and Dell was not often obliged to quarrel alone.

At last, broken in spirits, and being really sick, she had sent for me, as I have before stated. I found her in bed, propped up on pillows, her shining hair combed back, and her large black eyes seeming blacker than ever, from contrast with her colorless cheek. All her old haughtiness was gone, and the moment she saw me she stretched her arms towards me, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, "Oh, Rose, I am so glad you have come. I was afraid you wouldn't, for I knew your aunt was very aristocratic, and I thought she might not be willing to have you visit poor, obscure people like us."

There was much of bitterness in the last part of this speech, and it grated harshly upon my feelings; but it was like her, I knew, and she had only judged my aunt by what she well knew she should herself be in a similar position; so I took no notice of it, save to assure her that Aunt Charlotte was perfectly willing I should come, while at the same time I expressed my sorrow at finding her so unwell, and asked "what was the matter."

"Oh, nothing much," said she. "I have no particular disease, unless it be one of the mind, and that you know is not easily cured."

I made no answer to this; but after a moment's silence, I ventured to inquire for her husband. Instantly there came a bright glow to her cheek, as she replied, "Oh, he is as well as could be expected, considering his terrible disappointment."

Of course I asked what disappointment, whereupon she proceeded to narrate a part of what I have already told to my readers, withholding nearly all the points wherein she had been to blame, and dwelling with apparent delight upon the faults of her husband, who, she protested, was wholly selfish and avaricious. "I know," said she, "why he married me; 'twas for the sake of the few dollars he thought my grandmother would leave me, and now being disappointed in that, he cares no more for me than he does for you—no, nor half so much, for he always preferred you to me, and I wish I had let you have him, for you liked him, I know, better than I did."

As she said this, she looked me steadily in the face, as if to read my inmost soul. I felt provoked, for I now thought of my former affection for the doctor as something of which I was a little ashamed, and I did not much like to be reminded of it by his wife. So I ventured to say that "whatever I might once have felt for her husband, it was all over now, and I could think of no greater misfortune than that of being his wife!"

Now, I should know better than to speak thus to any woman concerning her husband, for however much she may talk against him herself, she certainly has no desire or expectation that her listener will agree with her. On this occasion, Dell grew angry at once, telling me "I needn't speak so lightly of her husband—he was good enough for anybody," while at the same time she muttered something about "sour grapes!"

I was taken quite aback, and remained silent, until she at last said, laughingly, "I don't wish to quarrel with you, Rose. Pardon any ill humor I may have manifested. I get nervous and fidgety staying here alone so much."

"Is not the doctor with you sometimes?" I inquired.

"Oh, yes; once in a great while," said she; "but he can bear the atmosphere of any other sick-room better than mine. So he's off—hunting up patients, I suppose. I tell him he gets his living that way, and a poor living it bids fair to be. Between you and me, Rose," she continued, growing excited, "he is shiftless, if you know what that means, and we are worth to-day just as much as we ever shall be."

I felt that she wronged him, and told her so, at the same time enumerating his many good qualities, while she listened, evidently better pleased than when I had spoken lightly of him. In the midst of our conversation there was a familiar step in the hall, and a moment after the doctor himself entered the room. He looked care-worn and haggard; but at the sight of me, whose presence surprised him, his face quickly lighted up, and there was much of his olden manner as he took my hand and expressed his pleasure at finding me there. 'Twas but for a moment, however, for catching the eye of his wife, he became almost instantly reserved, and seating himself near a window, he pretended to be much occupied with a book, which I accidentally discovered was wrong side up! It was strange how much waiting-upon Dell suddenly needed. Heretofore she had been very quiet, saying she did not wish for anything, but now that he was there, her pillows must be turned, her head must be bathed, the window must be opened and then shut, while with every other breath, she declared him to be "the awkwardest man she ever saw," saying once, "she didn't wonder he had no more practise if he handled all his patients as roughly as he did her."

After this unkind speech, the doctor made no farther attempt to please her, but left her side and returned to his seat by the window. Ere long the supper bell rang. I had not supposed it was so late, and starting up announced my intention of going home, but to this neither the doctor nor Dell would listen, both of them insisting upon my staying to tea; she, because she felt that common civility required it, and he, because he really wished it. Once out of her sight, he was himself again, and playfully drawing my arm within his, he led me to the dining-room, placing me at the head of the table, where Dell was accustomed to sit, while he took the seat opposite. As we sat there thus, I shall not say that there came to my mind no thought of what might have been, but I can say, and truthfully too, that such thoughts brought with them naught of pain; for though Dr. Clayton had once possessed the power of swaying me at his will, that time had gone by, and he was to me now only a friend, whom I both liked and pitied, for I knew he was far from being happy. Once, when I handed him his second cup of tea, he said, smiling upon me, "It makes me very happy to see you there—in that seat."

I made no answer; and, as if thinking he had said what he ought not, he immediately changed the conversation, and began to question me of my studies, etc., asking me among other things, if I went to dancing-school. Instantly I remembered Mrs. Ross's slippers with the little wads of cotton, and I laughed aloud. It seems his thoughts took the same direction, for he, too, laughed so loudly that when we returned to Dell's room, she rather pettishly inquired what we found to amuse us so much, saying "she hadn't seen the doctor look so pleased since—since, well, since grandma's death," she finally added, at the same time glancing at him to witness the effect of her words.

He turned very white about the mouth, and I am quite certain I heard the word "thunder!" At all events, his eyes flashed angrily upon the provoking woman, who again inquired at what we were laughing. When I told her, she too laughed, saying, "Oh, yes, I remember it well, and have sometimes thought that I owe my present position to that awkward misstep of yours."

"I am very glad I fell, then," said I, rather impatiently, while I threw on my hood and shawl, preparatory to going home.

"Hadn't you better call an omnibus for her?" asked Dell of her husband, who was putting on his overshoes.

"I am going round with her myself," he answered. "I have a patient on the way," and he hurried from the room ere she could say anything further.

It was a beautiful moonlight night, and as I took his arm I recalled the time when once before we had walked thus together. I think he remembered it too, for he asked me "if I ever visited Pine District?"

"Not often," I replied; and he continued to say, that "notwithstanding that it was little more than a year and a half since he first saw me there, it seemed to him an age," adding; "and it is not strange either, for I have passed through many trials since then."

To this I made no reply, and ere long he proceeded to speak further of himself, and of his disappointment, first with regard to his business, and next with regard to his domestic relations, which he gave me to understand were not particularly happy. Very delicately and carefully he handled the latter subject, speaking not one-half so harshly of Dell as she had spoken of him. Still I felt that he had no right thus to speak to me, and so I told him.

"I know it, Rose," he returned. "I know it all; but for this once you must hear me, and I will never trouble you again. I committed a great error in marrying one, while my heart belonged to another—stay," he continued, as I was about to interrupt him. "You must hear me out. It is not of my love for that other that I would speak; but, Rose, I would know how far I have wronged you. Did you love me, and had I asked you to share my home, when at a suitable age, would you have done so?"

He was very pale, and the arm on which my hand was resting, trembled violently, but grew still when he heard my answer, which was, "I did love you, but 'twas a childish love and quickly passed away. And were you now free as you once were, I could be to you nothing save a friend."

There was a mixture of disappointment and pleasure on his face; but he replied, "I am glad that it is so, and shall now feel happier, for the hardest part of all was the though that possibly you, too, might suffer."

"Not at all," I answered, adding, "it would be foolish to break my heart for one man, when there are so many in the world."

This I said with bitterness, for I remembered the time when I had wept in the shadowy woods of Meadow Brook, and if for a moment I experienced a feeling of satisfaction in knowing that what I suffered then, he was suffering now, I can only plead woman's nature as an apology. 'Twas but for a moment, however, and then, casting off all such feelings, I spoke to him kindly of his wife, telling him he could be happy with her if he tried, and that if he were not, it was probably as much his fault as hers. Brighter days, too, would come, I said, when his practise would not be limited to three patients, one of whom was too poor to pay, and another was already convalescent, while the third was in the last stages of her disease, and would need his services but a few days longer.

"You are my good angel, Rose," said he, when at last we reached my uncle's door, "and your words inspire me with courage. Come and see us often, for the sight of you does me good, and God knows how much I stand in need of sympathy. Farewell."

He pressed my hand, and hastily raising it to his lips, turned away, dreading, as I well knew, a return to the sick-room, where naught would greet him save reproachful complaints, and where the dark eyes, which had first won his admiration, would flash angrily upon him. In the hall, I stood for a time, pondering in my mind some way by which I could assist him, and I even thought of feigning sickness myself for the sake of adding another patient to his list! But this, I knew, he would easily detect, and possibly he might misconstrue my motive for so doing, and this project was abandoned, and I entered the parlor in quest of my aunt, who, I learned from one of the servants, was in her own room, suffering from a severe headache. She had taken a violent cold, which, by the next morning, had developed itself into a species of influenza, at that time prevailing in the city. Added to this was a general debility and prostration of the nerves, brought on by her recent trouble and anxiety concerning Herbert.

My uncle, who was always alarmed when she was ill, wished for medical advice; but to this she objected, as Dr. Mott, the family physician, was absent, and she knew of no other, whom she dare trust. Instantly I thought of Dr. Clayton. If she could be prevailed upon to employ him, I knew she would like him, for I could testify to his extreme kindness in a sick-room, and good nursing was what she most needed. When I suggested that he should be called, she at first refused; but before night, being much worse, she consented, and never had I experienced a moment of greater happiness than when I hastened to the kitchen with a message for John, who was to go immediately for Dr. Clayton. Then taking my uncle aside, I explained to him the straitened circumstances of the young physician, hinting to him that prompt remuneration for his services would undoubtedly be acceptable.

"Yes, yes, I understand," said he; "you want me to pay him to-day."

Here we were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Dr. Clayton had come, and the result was as I had hoped. My aunt was greatly pleased—he was so kind and gentle, humoring all her fancies, and evincing withal so much judgment and skill that she felt confidence in his abilities; and when he was gone, expressed herself as preferring him even to Dr. Mott, "who," she said, "was getting old and cross."

As he was leaving the house, my uncle placed in his hand a five-dollar bill, whereupon the doctor turned very red, and asked if he were not expected to call again.

"Certainly, certainly," said my uncle, who, manlike, hadn't the least bit of tact; "keep coming until Charlotte is well. I only paid you for this call to please Rosa."

Instead of the displeased, mortified look, which I expected to see on the doctor's face, there was an expression of deep gratitude, as he turned his eyes towards me; and I thought there was a moisture in them, which surprised me, for I did not then know how much that five dollars was needed: it being the exact amount requisite for the payment of the girl, who refused to remain with them another day unless her wages were forthcoming. To such straits are people, apparently in easy circumstances, sometimes reduced.

For more than a week my aunt was confined to her room, while the doctor came regularly, always staying a long time, and by his delicate attentions winning golden laurels from his patient, who was far better pleased with him than with the fussy old man, who, being always in a hurry, only stopped for a moment, while he looked at her tongue, felt her pulse, and recommended blistering and bleeding, with a dose of calomel, neither of which Dr. Clayton believed to be a saving ordinance, and indispensable to the comfort and recovery of his patients. By this, I do not mean anything derogatory to the good old custom of tormenting folks to death before their time, but having a faint remembrance of certain blisters, which, together with cabbage leaves and the tallowed rags, once kept me in a state of torture for nearly a week, to say nothing of the sore mouth, the loose teeth, and the tightly-bandaged arm, I cannot help experiencing a kind of nervous tremor at the very mention of said prescriptions.

Dr. Clayton's attendance upon my aunt was a great benefit to him, as, through its means, he became known to several of the higher circle, who began to employ him, so that by the last of May, the time when I left Boston for Meadow Brook, he had quite a large practise. For some reason or other, Mrs. Archer, too, sent for him again; and as he had now no ten thousand dollars in prospect, he succeeded in pleasing the whimsical lady, thereby securing her patronage for a year at least. Here, for a time, I leave him, while I go back to the dear old home at Meadow Brook, over which a shadow, dark and heavy, was brooding.