MARIA GOES TO LONDON.

As the days lengthened, the cold strengthened, and New York experienced a winter of unparallelled severity. Food could only be procured with hard money, and at exorbitant prices, and the scarcity of fuel added greatly to the general distress. Wall Street surrendered most of its beautiful century-old shade trees, to warm the family of the German General Riederel, and before Spring, the streets and lanes of the city, the gardens and pleasure grounds of the burghers, were shorn of their finest fruit and shade trees. The aged, the very young, the men in the prisons and hospitals perished in great numbers, and the deathly cold of the atmosphere was full of the unspeakable misery everywhere present.

These distressing conditions were intensified by the fear of an attack from Washington. The waters around New York were for several weeks so hard frozen that the heaviest artillery could easily have crossed on them; and the city in losing its insular position, lost its chief advantage for defense. Knyphausen constantly expected Washington to cross the ice, and refugees and citizens alike, were formed into companies and subjected to garrison duty. During the dark, bitter watches, men sometimes froze at their posts, and women in their unheated rooms, knelt listening to the children's breathing, for the atmosphere was so deadly cold that the babes shivered, even in the covert of their mothers' breasts.

Yet, in this city of frost, and famine, and suffering, a hectic and most unnatural gaiety was kept up. Maria would have little part in it. She could find no pleasure in listening to comedies and songs, in a freezing temperature, and the warmth induced by dancing was generally followed by a most uncomfortable and dangerous chill. Her status in society also led her to feel more content in withdrawing from it a little. She was not yet to be classed among the married belles, nor was she quite at one with the girlhood that surrounded her. Her engagement to Lord Medway had set her a little apart; it was understood that she could not be in perfect sympathy with the plans and hopes of either maids or wives.

Yet her life was far from unhappy. She visited Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Jacobus a great deal; and the latter delighted in making little lunches and dinners, where the three ladies were joined by Lord Medway, and Neil Semple, and very often also by Major AndrÉ, whose versatile gifts and cheerful temperament were the necessary and delightful antitheses to Neil's natural gravity and Medway's cultivated restraint. The splendid rooms of Madame Jacobus were warm, her dinners well cooked, her wines of the finest quality, her good nature never failing. She made a pet of Maria, and Lord Medway—reclining with half-closed eyes in some luxurious chair—watched his betrothed managing this clever woman, so much older than herself, with infinite satisfaction and amusement. He foresaw that she would be equal to any social position, and it never occurred to him that it was likely she would manage Lord Medway quite as thoroughly as she managed Madame Jacobus. Occasionally, Medway gave return dinners, at which Madame Semple presided, and then Maria sat at his right hand, and he proved himself to be the most charming of hosts, and the most devoted and respectful of lovers.

Conversation was never to make, every one spoke as they listed, and as their prejudices or convictions led them. There was no Quentin Macpherson present, and opinions were as much individual property as purses. One day, toward the end of January, when the temperature was so low that the dining-table had been drawn close to the hearth, the usual party were sitting in the warmth and glow of its roaring fire. The dinner was over, the servants had left the room, Medway and Maria were picking their walnuts out together, and Major AndrÉ and Neil Semple talking of a game of chess. Then Madame Jacobus drawing her gay Indian shawl closer around her, said suddenly, "Pray what is the news? Has nobody a mouthful of intelligence? Are we to wait for the Americans to make us something to talk about?"

"Indeed Madame," answered Maria, "we have not yet exhausted their night attack on the British troops encamped on Staten Island."

"They got nothing but five hundred sets of frozen hands and ears," said Major AndrÉ.

"Oh, yes, they did, sir; blankets and food count for something these days," said Madame, "not to speak of the nine vessels destroyed at Decker's Ferry—and the prisoners."

"It was a dashing absurdity, Madame."

"With all my soul; yet I am glad, it was an American dashing absurdity."

"You should have seen Knyphausen when he heard of it," continued AndrÉ. He pulled his whiskers savagely and said 'Egad! Damn! These Americans have the come-back-again, come-back-again, of the flies; to drive them off—it is impossible—they come-back-again.' We have, however, had our turn. Four nights ago, our troops entered Newark and Elizabeth and made a few reprisals, and then he began to hum:

Medway laughed. "Madame," he said, "the Major was desperately dull last night, and I wondered at it. But, this morning, as you hear, he is delivered of his verse, and he is cheerful."

"Oh, if the war is degenerating into midnight robberies!" cried Madame, "why does not Washington come? What hinders him from at least trying to get into New York? I do believe if he simply stood on Broadway, he would draw three-fourths of the men in the city to him; why does he not try? It might end this dreadful war one way or the other, and people are beginning to be indifferent, which way. Why, in the name of wonder, does he not try?"

"It would be a desperate 'try,'" answered AndrÉ.

"Yes, but when ordinary means fail, desperate remedies should be tried."

"I saw the exact copy of a letter written by General Washington on the eighth of this month," said Lord Medway, "and in it he declares that his troops, both officers and men, are almost perishing for food; that they have been alternately without bread and meat for two weeks, a very scanty allowance of either, and frequently destitute of both. Furthermore, he describes his troops as almost naked, riotous, and robbing the people from sheer necessity. Can you expect a general to lead men in such a condition to battle? He performs a miracle in simply holding them together."

"The poor fellows! And we are warm and comfortable. It seems almost wrong."

"Oh, no!" said AndrÉ. "It is the rebels who are wrong; they are like runaway horses, and, as I said to one who talked to me, 'my lad, a runaway horse punishes himself.'"

In such freedom of conversation, without a moment's doubt of each other, they passed the hours, and about four o'clock the party usually broke up, and Lord Medway wrapped Maria in her furs, and drove her home.

However, the weariest road sometimes comes to an end, and the long dreadful winter wore itself away, the ice broke up, and the sun shone warmly out of the blue skies, and the trees put forth their young, tender, little leaves. Every one was ready to cry with joy, the simple endurance of misery was over, men could now work and fight, and some movement and change would be possible. Coming home from a delightful drive in the sweet Spring evening, Medway told Maria this, and added that his furlough, so long extended by General Clinton's love, would probably terminate as soon as active hostilities began. But it was not yet a present case, and Maria did not take the supposition to heart. Besides, there had been frequent talk of her lover's departure, and somehow or other, he had never gone. At the Semple gate they stood a while. There were some lilies growing near it, and their fairy-like bells shook in the fresh wind and scattered incense all around. Maria stooped, gathered a handful, and offered them to her lover.

"Kiss them first, for me, Maria," he said, and she buried her lovely face in the fragrant posy, and then lifted it full of delight and perfume. He thought he had never before seen her so purely exquisite, so freshly adorable. His love was a great longing, he could hardly bear to leave her. So he stood holding her hands and the lilies, and looking into her face, but saying nothing, till Maria herself spoke the parting words: "I see grandmother at the door, Ernest, she is calling me; now we must say good-bye!" He could not answer her, he only kissed the lilies, leaped into the carriage, and went speechlessly away.

Maria watched him a few moments, and then hastened into the house. Madame met her at the door. "There is a letter from your father, Maria," she said; "I thought you might want to tell Ernest what news it contained, so I called you, but you didna answer me."

"Yes, I answered, 'coming, grandmother,' and here I am. What a thick letter! Have you one also?"

"Aye, there was one for your grandfather. Better take yours to your room. When you have read it, and changed your dress, tea will be waiting."

"Is grandfather at home?"

"He is; so do not stay up stairs too long."

She nodded a bright assent, and holding the letter in her hand went swiftly up the stairway. In half an hour she came back to the parlor, but her face was then troubled and even angry, and her eyes full of tears. She held out the letter to her grandmother, and asked, "Do you know what father has written to me about?"

"I have a very sure suspect," answered Madame; but she went on setting out her china, and did not lift her face, or offer any further opinion.

"It is a shame! I ought to have been told before."

Then the Elder rose, and came toward the tea-table, "Maria," he said, "you will not use such like words, whatever your father pleases to do. I hae nae doubt at all that he has chosen a good wife for himsel' and a good mother for you. You had a long letter; what does he say anent her?"

"She is a nonesuch, of course. No woman in England, or out of England like her."

"I expect as much; my son Alexander has my ain perception concerning women-folk. He would hae the best, or nane at a'. Wha was she? He said in my letter you would gie us a' the particulars."

"He has filled six pages about her. She was Miss Elizabeth Spencer. Father says her family is one of the best and oldest in England. The Reverend Oswald Spencer married them; he is rector of St. Margaret's Church in London, and a distant relative."

"A very fashionable congregation, and nae doubt the living is according."

"Father has become a member of St. Margaret's, and he has a large mansion in the wealthy Bloomsbury district. He tells me that I must come home, the first opportunity that gives me a respectable companion."

"And it is just destiny, Maria, and not to be," said her grandmother; "for Mrs. Gordon was here this afternoon to bid me farewell. Colonel Gordon has been exchanged, and has reached New York, and they sail in Saturday's packet for London. She will be delighted to hae your company, and a mair proper person to travel wi' you couldna find in America; for it isna only hersel', you will hae the Colonel also, to watch o'er you baith."

"Destiny or not, I won't go, grandmother."

"Dinna sow sorrow to yoursel'. They who cross destiny, make a cross for themsel's."

"I will hear what Ernest says about it."

"You arena your ain mistress yet, and God and man, baith, expect you to put your father's commands before all others," said the Elder.

"I think grandmother and you wish to get rid of me," and the tears sprang to her eyes, and she set her cup down with a noisy petulance.

There was a moment's silence and then the Elder continued, "Your education isna finished yet, as your father says; it was broken up by the war."

"And the lessons at Bradley's house were worse than nane at all," interrupted Madame.

"You are to have masters of a' kinds; and your stepmother is a grand musician, I hear, and willing to teach you hersel'."

"I will not go to school again. I know all I want to know."

"You will hae to be schooled for the station you are to fit; your father has turned his loyalty into gold, for he has got it noticed by His Majesty, and been appointed to a rich place in the government offices. Forbye, he tells me, his new wife has a fortune in her ain right, and sae the world stands straight with him and his. You'll hae society o' the best sort, and I hope you'll do your part, to show all and sundry, that a little Colonial maid isna' behind English girls, in any usefu' or ornamental particular."

But Maria was indignant and unhappy, and the thought of going to London and of being under authority again was very distasteful to her. The Elder went early upstairs, in order to escape her complaining, and Madame after his departure, was a little more sympathetic. She petted her grandchild, and tried to make her see the bright side of the new life before her.

"You'll be taken to Court, doubtless, Maria, and there is the grand opera you have heard so much about, and lords and ladies for company——"

"I have had enough of lords and ladies, grandmother."

"And fine houses, and nae cold rooms in them; and plenty o' food and clothing at Christian prices, and a rich, powerfu' father, and a musical mother——"

"Stepmother you mean. Nobody can have more than one mother. My mother is dead, and no other woman can take her place."

"Ay, weel, I suppose you are nearby right. And I hae seen—mair than once or twice—that the bairn who gets a stepmother gets a stepfather, also. Sae mind your ways and your words, and give nae occasion to friend, or foe, for complaint."

As they were talking thus, they heard the garden gate open, and Madame said, "That is your Uncle Neil at last;" but Maria, with an eager, listening face, knew better. "It is not Uncle Neil," she said, "it is Ernest. Why does he come to-night? He told me he was going to a military dinner, given in honor of Colonel Gordon's return."

"If it is Lord Medway, bring him in here," said Madame. "Your grandfather is needing me, and doubtless wondering and fretting already at my delaying." She left the room with these words, and Lord Medway immediately joined Maria. He appeared hurried and annoyed, and without any preliminaries said:

"I must leave New York immediately, my dear Maria; sit down here, close beside me, my sweet one, and comfort me. I have worn out the patience of Lord Clinton, and now I must obey orders, not desires."

"I, also, am in the same predicament, Ernest. I am ordered to London, and must go by the first opportunity," said Maria; and then she told her lover the fear and trouble that was in her heart, and found plenty of sympathy in all that either wounded or angered her.

"But there is a remedy, my darling," said Medway. "Marry me to-morrow morning. I will make all the arrangements to-night—see the clergyman—see Mrs. Gordon, and your uncle Neil——"

"Stop, Ernest. It is useless to talk of such a thing as that. It is beyond our compact, too."

"The compact is idle wind before our love—you do love me, Maria?" and he slipped down to his knees beside the little maid, and putting his arm around her waist, drew her face within the shining influence, the tender eagerness, of his entreating eyes.

Then a strange, wilful contradictious spirit took possession of her. This very outlet to her position had been in her mind—though unacknowledged—from the first presentment of the journey, and the new mother, and the resumed lessons; but now, that the gate was opened to her desire, something within her obstinately refused to move a step. Half the accidents in the hunting-field arise from arresting the horse in the leap, and half the disappointments of life may be laid to that hesitation, or stubbornness of will, which permits happiness—coming without notice, and demanding a confiding and instantaneous decision—to go past, and be probably lost for ever.

"You do love me, Maria? Oh, yes! you must have caught love from me. At this hour, say one word to assure me—will you not? Maria! Queen of my soul, say you love me—Speak—only yes——Maria!"

He waited, he watched her lovely face for some tender change, her eyes for some assuring glance, her lips for the one little word that would make the hour heaven to him, and she was still and speechless as some exquisite picture.

"After all these happy weeks, will you send me away without one word? It is incredible—impossible! Why are you so cold?—now—when we must part—or be always together? Are you afraid to be with me always? You have promised to marry me——"

"Yes—when the time comes."

"Cannot love put the time forward?"

"I don't know."

"We could then go South together."

"I do not want to go South."

"With me, Maria?"

"No."

"Then you will go to London, and your father will have complete control of you, he may make you marry some other man."

"No one can make me break my word of honor—you have my promise."

"I am wretched. I am broken-hearted. I have failed in making you love me. I will go to the front—what does it matter if I am killed? You will not care."

"Of course I shall care, Ernest."

"Say that a little differently, then I shall be satisfied. Put your arms round my neck; kiss me, if only once, you never have kissed me yet, say, 'I love you, Ernest'; come, my dear one, comfort me a little!"

Her heart was on fire, it throbbed and struggled like a bound creature. She looked sadly, even tenderly at her lover, but she could not break the thrall of careless impassiveness that bound her, as streams are bound in ice. Medway wearied himself with entreaty. She trembled to its passion, but remained inarticulate. He was at first disappointed, then astonished, then, weary with his own emotion, wounded and sorrowful. He rose, put on his hat and gloves, and prepared to leave her. It was like the nailing of the coffin lid over a sensitive form; but still that strange, insuperable apathy was not broken.

"Good-bye, Maria! My life, my love, good-bye! and if forever, still——Maria! Maria!" and those two last words were not only speech, they were a cry from a heart hurt beyond hoping, a cry full of despairing affection. The door closed to them, and its clash broke the icy bounds of that soul stupor which had held her like a spell.

"Ernest! Ernest!" she called passionately, but he was beyond hearing, and ere she reached the parlor door, she heard the entrance door clash in the same fatal, final manner. Yet, walking as if in some evil dream she reached it, and with a great effort threw it wide open. Her lover was just beyond the garden gate. Would he not turn his head? Oh, would he not look round and see her! No. He caught no sound of her sorrowful entreaty; he cast no backward glance to the distracted girl, who reached the outer gate, only to see his tall, soldierly figure blend itself with the misty night shadows, and then vanish entirely.

Never, never in all her life had Maria been so wretched. In the Bradley affair, she had at least the consciousness that it was not her doing; she was the victim of circumstances she could not control; but this cup of sorrow she had stubbornly mixed for herself. And that was the smallest part of her remorse; she had made the man who loved her so dearly, drink of it also. And it had all happened in such a tragically short time. Oh, to call back the last hour! only five minutes of it, that she might see again the handsome face that had never turned to her except with love and tender kindness! Alas, alas, there is no return to our lost Edens! Whatever gardens of pleasure we may find in the future, our past Edens are closed. The cherubim are at the gate, and the flaming sword.

She went despairingly to her room, and sat for two bitter hours speechless, astonished at her own folly and wilfulness. She could blame no one. Destiny in this case had used only the weapons she herself put into her hand. She did not complain, nor even weep, her grief found no passage to her eyes, it sank inward and seemed for the first hour or two to drown her heart in a dismal, sullen stillness, which made her feel the most forlorn and abandoned of creatures.

But even in these dark hours she was trying the wings that should take her out of them. As she sat musing the inner woman returned to the post she had so criminally deserted, and at once began to suggest remedies. "Nothing is desperate," she whispered; "in every loss, but the loss of death, there is room for hope; write a letter, Neil will take it, he may yet be detained."

She took out pen and paper, and wrote the words Medway had begged her to say; wrote, indeed, far more than the one tender "yes" he had asked for. Then she sealed the letter and sat with it in her hand, waiting for Neil. He was so late that she thought he must have reached his room unheard, and toward midnight she tip-toed along the corridor to his door. There was no light, no sound, and when she knocked, no response. Anxiously she resumed her watch, and soon after twelve o'clock heard him enter the house. She went noiselessly down stairs to meet him. "Neil," she said, "can you find Ernest? Oh, if you can, you must carry this letter to him! Neil, it is the very greatest favor I can ever ask of you. Do not speak, if you are going to refuse me."

"My dear Maria, I know not where to find Lord Medway. He ought to have been at the dinner given to Colonel Gordon, and he was not there."

"He was here," she said wearily; "he is going South at once; he must, he must have this letter first. Neil, good, kind Uncle Neil, try and find him!"

"Be reasonable, Maria. If he is paying farewell calls—which is likely—how can I tell at whose house he may be; at any rate it is too late now for him to be out, the city is practically closed; any one wandering about it after midnight is liable to arrest, and if Ernest is not visiting, he is in his rooms, and likely to be there till near noon to-morrow. I will carry this letter before breakfast, if you say so, but——"

"I tell you he is going to General Clinton at once. He told me so."

"He cannot go until the Arethusa sails. She leaves to-morrow, but the tide will not serve before two o'clock. Give me the letter; I will see he gets it very early in the morning."

With a sigh she assented to this promise, and then slipped back into the sorrowful solitude of her room. But the talk with Neil had slightly steadied her. Nothing more was possible; she had done all she could to atone for her unkindness, and after a little remorseful wandering outside the Eden she had herself closed, she fell asleep and forgot all her anxiety.

And it is this breaking up of our troubles by bars of sleep that enables us to bear them and even grow strong in conquering them. When the day broke Maria was more alert, more full of purpose, and ready for what the morning would bring her. Neil was missing at breakfast and she found out that he had left the house soon after seven o'clock. So she dressed herself carefully and took her sewing to the front window. When she saw her lover at the gate, she intended to go and meet him, and her heart was warm and eager with the kind words that she would at last comfort him with.

It was half-past eight; by nine o'clock—at the very latest by half-past nine—he would surely answer that loving letter. Nine o'clock struck, and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock—to eleven—to noon. But long before that hour Maria had ceased to sew, ceased to watch, ceased to hope. Soon after twelve she saw Neil coming and her heart turned sick within her. She could hardly walk into the hall to meet him. She found it difficult to articulate the questioning word "Well?"

He gave her the letter back. "Ernest sailed this morning at two o'clock," he said.

She looked at him with angry despair. "You might have taken that letter last night. You have ruined my life. I will never forgive you."

"Maria, listen to me. Ernest went on board an hour before you asked me. The ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on her at half-past ten. I could not have given him the letter, even if I had tried to."

"No; of all the nights in the year, you must stop out last night until twelve o'clock! I never knew you do such a thing before; well, as grandmother says, it is destiny; I am going to my room. I want no dinner; don't let them worry me, or worry about me."

Sitting alone she faced the circumstances she had evoked, considered them in every light, and came to a conclusion as to her future:

"I will go to London, and make no fuss about it," she decided; "here I should miss Ernest wherever I went; miss him in every way, and people would make me feel he was absent. I have been a great trouble and expense to grandfather and grandmother. I dare say they will be glad to be quiet and alone again. I don't know much about father—he has always been generous with money—but I wonder if he cared much for me! He sent me away, first to nurses, then to school; I saw little of him, but I can make him care. As for Madame, my stepmother, I shall not let her annoy me. And there will be Mrs. Gordon for a refuge, if I need one. She has always been good to me, and I will see her at once. I cannot help understanding that I am come to the end of this road; but there are many roads in life, and from this moment, I am on the way to London."

Evidently it was destiny, for there was never a let or hinderance in all her preparations. The Gordons took her as a godsend, and all her arrangements went without a hitch. And when it was known she was absolutely going away from New York there was a great access of kindness toward her. The young women she had known—and not always pleasantly—brought her good-bye mementoes; books to read on the voyage, book-marks of their own working, little bags and cases of various kinds for toilet needs, and needlework; and all were given with a conspicuous intention of apology for past offense and conciliation for any future intercourse.

Maria valued it pretty accurately. "It is far better than ill-will," she said to her grandmother; "but I dare say they think I am going home to be married, and as they all look forward to England eventually, they feel that Lady Medway may not be unserviceable in the future."

"Dinna look a gift-horse in the mouth, Maria. Few folks give away anything of real value to themselves. You needna feel under any special obligation for aught but the good will, and that's aye worth having. As for being Lady Medway, there is many a slip between cup and lip, and oceans between you and a' the accidents o' war, and love not unchangeable in this warld o' change; and there's your father's will that may stand in your road like a wall you can neither win round nor over. I'm real glad at this hour that your grandfather was wise enough to write naething about Lord Medway. You can now tell your ain news, or keep it, whichever seems best to you."

"Do you mean to say, grandmother, that my father has not been told about my engagement to Lord Medway?"

"Just so. At first your grandfather was too ill to write one thing or another; and by the time he was able to hold a pen, we had, baith o' us, come to the conclusion that silence anent the matter was wisdom. It would hae been a hard matter to tell, without telling the whole story, Police Court and young Bradley included, and then there was aye the uncertainty of a man's love and liking to be reckoned with; none o' us could be sure Lord Medway would hold to his promise; he might meet other women to take his heart from you; he might be killed in battle, or in a duel, for it is said he has fought three already; the chances o' the engagement coming to naething were so many on every side we came to the conclusion to leave a' to the future, and I'm sure we did the best thing we could do."

"I am so glad you did it, grandmother. I shall now go home on my own merits. If I win love, it will be because I am Maria Semple, not because I am going to be Lady Medway. And if my engagement was known I should never hear the last of it. I should be questioned about letters—whether they came or not; my stepmother might talk about the matter; my father insists on a public recognition of my position, and so on. There would be such endless discussions about Lord Medway that I should get weary to even hear his name. And I must bear my fate, whatever it is."

"Nonsense! Parfect nonsense! There is nae such thing as fate. You're in the care and guidance of a wise and loving Creator, and not in thrall to some vague, wandering creature, that you ca' Fate. Your ain will is your Fate. Commit your will and way to God, and He will direct your path; and you may snap your thumb and finger at that will o' the wisp—Fate!"

In such conversation over their duties together the three last days were spent, and the girl caught hope and strength from the feeble old woman as they mended and brushed clothing and put it into the trunks standing open in the hall. The Elder wandered silently about. The packing was a mournful thing to him; for, with all her impetuosities and little troublesome ways, Maria was close to his heart, and he feared he had given her the impression that she was in some way a burden. Indeed, he had not felt this, and had only been solicitous that she should obey her father's wishes, and obey them in a loving and dutiful spirit. On the last morning, however, as they rose from the breakfast table, he put even this wise intention behind his anxious love, and drawing her aside he said:

"Maria, my dearie, you will heed your father, of course, in a' things that are your duty—but—but—my dear bairn! I ken my son Alexander is a masterfu' man, and perhaps, it may be, that he might go beyond his right and your duty. I hae told you to obey him as your father, that's right, but if he is your father, he is my son, and so speaking in that relation, I may say, if my son doesna treat you right, or if he lets that strange English woman treat you wrong, then you are to come back to me—to your auld grandfather—to sort matters between you. And I'll see no one do you wrong, Maria, no one, though it be my auldest son Alexander. You are in my heart, child, and there is always room in my heart for you; and I speak for your grandmother and uncle as well as for mysel'." His voice was low and broken at this point, tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and he clasped her tenderly in his arms: "God bless you my little lassie! Be strong and of a good courage. Act for the best, and hope for the best, and take bravely whatever comes."

To such wise, tender words she set her face eastward, and the Elder and Neil watched the vessel far down the river, while in her silent home Madame slowly and tearfully put her household in order. Fortunately, the day was sunny and the Spring air full of life and hope, and as soon as they turned homeward, the Elder began to talk of the possibility of Maria's return:

"If she isna happy, I hae told her to come back to us," he said to Neil, and then added: "Your brother is sometimes gey ill to live wi', and the bit lassie has had, maybe, too much o' her ain way here," and Neil wondered at the brave old man; he spoke as if his love would always be present and always sufficient. He spoke like a young man, and yet he was so visibly aging. But Neil had forgotten at the moment that the moral nature is inaccessible to Time; that though the physical man grows old, the moral man is eternally young.

Not long after the departure of Maria, Neil was one morning sorting and auditing some papers regarding the affairs of Madame Jacobus. Suddenly the thought of Agnes Bradley came to him with such intense clarity and sweetness that his hands dropped the paper they held; he remained motionless, and in that pause had a mental vision of the girl, while her sweet voice filled the chambers of his spiritual ears with melody. As he sat still, seeing and listening, a faint, dreamy smile brightened his face, and Madame softly opening the door, stood a moment and looked at him. Then advancing, the sound of her rustling silk garments brought Neil out of his happy trance, and he turned toward her.

"Dreaming of St. Agnes?" she asked, and he answered, "I believe I was Madame."

"Sometimes dreams come true," she continued. "Can you go to Philadelphia for me? Here is an offer from Gouverneur Morris for my property on Market Street. He proposes to turn the first floor into storage room. At present it is a rather handsome residence, and I am not sure the price he offers will warrant me making the change."

Neil was "ready to leave at any time," he said, and Madame added, "Then go at once. If it is a good offer, it will not wait on our leisure."

He began to lock away the papers under his hands, and Madame watched him with a pleasant smile. As he rose she asked, "Have you heard anything yet from Miss Bradley?"

"Not a word."

"Do you know where she is?"

"I have not the least idea. I think the Hurds know, but they will not tell me."

"I will tell you then. Agnes is in Philadelphia."

"Madame! Madame! I——"

"I am sure of it. On this slip of paper you will find her address. She boards with a Quaker family called Wakefield—a mother and four daughters; the father and brothers are with the American army. I suppose you can leave to-day?"

"In two hours I will be on the road. I need but a change of clothing and a good horse."

"The horse is waiting you in my stables. Choose which animal you wish, and have it saddled: and better mount here; you can ride to Semple house quicker than you can walk."

Neil's face spoke his thanks. He waited for no explanations, he was going to see Agnes; Madame had given him her address, it was not worth while asking how she had procured it. But as he left the room he lifted Madame's hand and kissed it, and in that act imparted so much of his feeling and his gratitude that there was no necessity for words.

"Poor fellow!" sighed Madame, and then she walked to the window and looked sadly into Broadway. "Soldiers instead of citizens," she murmured, "war horses instead of wagon horses; that screaming fife! that braying, blustering drum! Oh, how I wish the kings of earth would fight their own battles! Wouldn't the duello between George of England and George of America be worth seeing? Lord! I would give ten years of my life for the sight."

With the smile of triumph on her face she turned to see Neil re-entering the room. "Madame," he said, "I must have appeared selfishly ungrateful. My heart was too full for speech."

"I know, I know, Neil. I have been suffering lately the same cruel pain as yourself. I have not heard from Captain Jacobus for nearly a year. Something, I fear, is wrong; he takes so many risks."

"He is sailing as an American privateer. If he had been captured by the English, we should have heard of the capture."

"That is not all. I will tell you just what Jacobus would do, as soon as he was fairly out at sea, he would call his men together on deck, and pointing to the British colors, would say something like this: 'Men, I don't like that bunting, and I'm going to change it for the flag of our own country. If there is any one here that doesn't like the American flag, he can leave the ship in any way he chooses,' then down would go the British flag, and up, with rattling cheers, the American. So far he would be only in ordinary danger, but that is never enough for Jacobus; he would continue after this extraordinary fashion: 'Men, you have all heard of these French and Spanish alliances. As the son of a hundred thousand Dutchmen, I hate the Spaniards, and I'm going to fight and sink every Spanish ship I meet. Allies! To the deep sea with such allies! We want no Spanish allies; we want their ships though, and we'll take them wherever on the wide ocean we can find them.' Then he would put his hand on his first mate's shoulder and continue, 'Here's Jack Tyler, an Englishman from beard to boots, born in the city of London, and there's more on board like him. What does an Englishman want with Frenchmen? Nothing, only to fight them, and that we'll do wherever we meet them! And as for English ships coming our way, they're out of their course, and we'll have to give them a lesson they'll remember. So then, all of you, keep your eyes open for English, French, or Spanish sails. Nothing but American colors in American waters, and American water rolls round the world, as I take it.' So you see, Neil, Jacobus would always have a threefold enemy to fight, and I have not a doubt that was his first thought when he heard of our alliance with France and Spain. And though we might hear of his capture by a British vessel, it is not likely we should do so if he fell into the hands of a French or Spanish privateer. When you come from Philadelphia we will consider this circumstance; but now, good-bye, and good fortune go with you."

It did not take Neil long to go to the Semple house and obtain a change of clothing, and after this short delay nothing interfered with the prosperous course of his journey. The weather was delightful, and his heart so full of hope that he felt no fatigue. And he had such confidence in all Madame Jacobus said, or did, that no doubts as to finding Agnes troubled him. It was, however, too late in the evening of the day on which he reached Philadelphia, to make a call, and he contented himself with locating the house to which he had been directed. He found it in a quiet street, a small brick house, with white wooden shutters, and a tiny plot of garden in front. No sign of light or life appeared, and after walking a while in front of it, he returned to his inn and tried to sleep.

But he was not very successful. His hopes and his fears kept him waking. He fancied the house he had been directed to looked too silent and dark to be occupied; he longed for the daylight to come that he might settle this fear; and then the possibility of its reality made him sick with anxiety and suspense, holding a measure of hope, seemed better than certain disappointment. In the morning his rigid, upright business instinct asserted itself, and he felt that he must first attend to those affairs which were the ostensible reason of his journey. So it was the early afternoon before he was at liberty to gratify the hunger of his heart.

Happily, when he reached the house indicated, there were many signs of its occupancy; the windows were open, and he saw a young woman sitting near one of them, knitting. His knock was answered by her. He heard her move her chair and come leisurely toward the door, which she opened with the knitting in her hand, and a smile on her face.

"Does Mr. Wakefield live here?" he asked.

"This is his house, but he is not at home now."

"I was told that Miss Bradley of New York was staying here."

"She is here. Does thee want to see her?"

A great weight rolled from Neil's heart. "Yes," he answered, "will you tell her that Mr. Neil Semple of New York desires to speak with her."

She bowed her head, and then took him into a small darkened parlor. He was glad the light was dim; he had a feeling that he looked worse than he had ever looked in all his life. He knew that he was pale and trembling with a score of fears and doubts, and the short five minutes of suspense seemed to him a long hour of uncertain apprehensions. Yet it was barely five minutes ere he heard Agnes coming down the stairs, and her steps were quick and eager; and he took courage from the welcoming sound in them, and as the door opened, went with open arms to meet her. He held her in his embrace, her cheek was against his cheek—what need was there for speech? Both indeed felt what they had no power to express, for as all know who have lived and loved, there is in the heart feelings yet dumb; chambers of thought which need the key of new words to unlock them. Still, in that heavenly silence all was said that each heart longed for, and when at length they sat down hand in hand and began to talk, it was of the ordinary affairs of the individual lives dear to them.

Neil's first inquiry concerned John Bradley and his son, and he was glad to notice the proud pleasure with which Agnes answered him. "My father is now in his proper place," she said, "and I have never seen him so well and so happy."

"Is he under arms?"

"Not unless there is fighting on hand; but he is in camp, and all day he is busy mending the accoutrements of the soldiers. At night he sings to them as they sit round the camp fires, or he holds a prayer meeting, or he reads the Bible; and every Sunday he preaches twice. St. Paul made tents, and as he stitched found time to preach Jesus Christ crucified; my father mends saddles and bridles, and does the same thing, and he is happy, oh, so happy! What is better still, he makes the men around him happy and hopeful, and that is a great thing to do, when they are hungry, and naked, and without pay. Sometimes, when the camp is very bare and hungry, he takes his implements and goes to the outlying farms, mends all their leather, and begs in return corn, and flour, and meat for the men. He never fails in getting some relief; and often he has so moved the poor farmers that they have filled a wagon with food and driven it to the perishing soldiers."

"And Harry? Where is he?"

"With the greatest and best of men. He is now a regular soldier in Washington's own regiment."

"I am glad, and my dear one, are you happy here?"

"As I can be, out of my own home. There are six women in this house; all the men are at the war; some at Morristown; some are gone South. We spend our time in knitting stockings for the soldiers, or in any needlework likely to be of service. But how is Maria? Tell me about her. I thought you might have brought me a letter."

"Maria is on her way to England. Her father has married again. He has obtained an excellent place in the government and furnished a home in London. Naturally, he desired Maria to join him at once. You know that she is engaged to Lord Medway?"

"No. Poor Harry! He still dreams that Maria is faithful to him. I think she might have given Harry one year's remembrance."

"What did she tell you about Harry in your last interview?"

"Nothing. She was more fretful and unreasonable than I ever before saw her. She could only cry and make reproaches; we parted in sorrow, and I fear in misunderstanding."

"Yes, if you do not know the price paid for your brother's life."

"The price paid! What do you mean, Neil?"

"The night Harry was condemned to death Lord Medway came to see Maria. He told her he would save Harry's life, if she would marry him. He would listen to no compromise, and she accepted the terms. It was a decision bitter as death at the time, but she has learned to love Medway."

Agnes did not appear to listen, she was occupied with the one thought that Maria had been the saviour of her brother.

"It seems incredible," she said at length; "why did she not tell me that last—last time I saw her. It would have changed everything. Oh, Maria! Maria! how I have misjudged you!"

"You had better tell Harry, and be very positive, there is really not a shadow of hope for him. Maria had to forget; it was her first duty."

Neil spent nearly three days with his beloved, and then they had to part. But this parting was full of hope, full of happy plans for the future, full of promises in all directions. In those three days Neil forgot all the sorrowful weeks of his despairing love. As a dream when one awaketh, they slipped even from his memory. For Agnes was loving and faithful, a steady hand to hold, and a steady heart to trust. And oh, she was so lovely and desirable! As he rode joyfully home, he could think of nothing but Agnes; of her eyes, gray as mountain lakes and full of light and shadow; of her smile, that filled even silence with content; her white arms, her brown hair, the warm pallor of her cheeks catching a rosy glow from the pink dimity she wore! Oh, how perfect she was! Beauty! Love! Fidelity! all in one exquisite woman, and that one woman loved him!

Ah, well! Love wakes men once in a lifetime, and some give thanks and rejoice, and some neglect and betray; but either way, love, and their childhood's unheeded dream

Is all the light, of all their day.