That room of Mrs. Watkins’s was unusually quiet that May evening, only Fern Trafford was sitting alone by the open window looking out listlessly at the few passers-by.

Fern’s busy hands were idle to-night, and the work lay unheeded in her lap. There was a shadow too on the fair face, and a little pucker of anxiety on the smooth girlish forehead, as though some harassing problem were troubling her.

Fern was not quite happy in her mind. Erle Huntingdon had been there that very afternoon, but he had not stayed long, and his manner had been different somehow.

Fern was revolving the visit in rather a troubled way. She wondered if Erle’s decided nervousness and want of ease had been owing to her mother’s rather cool reception of him. Mrs. Trafford had not been cordial in her manner; she had treated the young man with some restraint and dignity, and had not pressed him to prolong his visit. Erle must have felt that he was not wanted, for he had very soon risen to take his leave, and had gone away a little sadly.

Fern was too loyal to blame her mother, but she wished she had been a little kinder to poor Erle. Something was vexing him she was sure; he was not in his usual spirits. Once or twice when there had been a moment’s pause, she had looked up from her work and found him watching her; and once she was sure that there were tears in his eyes. If they had only been alone she would have asked him what was the matter, and if anything was vexing him. He wanted to tell her something, she was sure, but her mother had been there all the time, and had followed him to the door herself; and though she had gone to the window for a parting look he had not once glanced up—he had walked away very fast with his head bent, as though he were absorbed in thought.

It had not been quite a happy winter to Fern. First Erle and then Crystal had been away, and she had missed them both terribly. It was not as though she had other friends to take their places, and their absence had made quite a blank in her existence.

If her mother could always stay at home and talk to her, if Fluff were older and more of a companion, she might not have missed them so much; but somehow her day-dreams were hardly as consoling as usual. They seemed more shadowy and unreal, and now and then Fern felt a little dull. Ever since her mother and Crystal had given her those hints about Erle, the girl had felt some hostile influence threatening her sweet content. Her thoughts were always straying to that unknown Evelyn Selby of whom Percy had spoken. Now and then she would question Erle about her in her innocent way, but he always evaded these questions.

“Oh, yes, I see her sometimes,” he would answer. “What makes you so much interested in Miss Selby? I have other lady friends, dozens and dozens of them;” and then Fern would look confused and uncomfortable, and would change the subject; but all the same this girl was never out of her thought. She was rich and well-born and beautiful, and Erle was always meeting her.

Fern tried to hide these thoughts, but Mrs. Trafford often fancied the bright face was a little clouded. Fern laughed and talked as much as ever, and worked as busily for them all; but more than once, when she had returned earlier than usual, she had found Fern with her hands lying idly in her lap, and a very thoughtful look on her face. Fern would jump up at once, with a merry laugh at her own idleness; but her mother did not always forget the look. It was far too dreamy and abstracted, she said to herself, as she watched her child tenderly.

Crystal was thinking much the same as she entered the room rather quietly that May evening—so quietly, indeed, that Fern was not conscious of her presence till she pat her hand on her shoulder with a light laugh.

“Asleep, or only dreaming with your eyes open, Fern. What is the matter, little one?”

“Oh, Crystal, how you startled me,” exclaimed Fern, turning crimson under Crystal’s sharp scrutiny. “What made you come in so noiselessly? I never even heard your footsteps. Yes, I was dreaming, I believe,” pushing back her hair with rather a tired gesture. “Fluff was sleepy and went to bed, and mother had to help Miss Martingale with the accounts, and one gets stupid sitting alone.”

“I never heard you say that before,” rather incredulously; “you are the brightest girl I know, Fern; your mother’s name ‘Little Sunshine’ just suits you; you always seem to me the very essence of sunshine.”

“Oh, one must be dull and stupid sometimes,” returned Fern, with a suspicion of tears in her voice. “Never mind about me; tell me about your afternoon, Crystal; have you enjoyed yourself?”

“Yes—no—well, the children did. The flowers were beautiful and the gardens so pretty, and there were plenty of gayly dressed people there. Oh, by the bye, I saw Mr. Huntingdon; he was walking with such a handsome girl.”

Fern felt an odd choking sensation in her throat. “You must have been mistaken, Crystal; Mr. Erle has been sitting with us.”

“Oh, yes, he told us so, for of course he came up to speak to me when Miss Selby had joined her friends; they came in very late, just as we were leaving.”

“And—and—it was Miss Selby?”

“Yes, and her aunt, Lady Maltravers; and they had other people with them. I liked the look of Miss Selby; she has a nice frank face. I think she looks charming, and she walks so well too. I do like a girl to hold herself well.”

“And Mr. Erle was walking with her?”

“Yes, they are evidently very intimate;” but Crystal forbore to add that Erle had looked decidedly uncomfortable at the sight of her, though he had come up to her, and had entered into conversation. She had not thought him looking either well or happy, though Miss Selby had seemed in high spirits. But she kept these thoughts to herself.

Fern did not ask any more questions. A miserable consciousness that was new to her experience kept her tongue tied.

Erle had not mentioned that he was going to the Botanical Gardens with Miss Selby; he had only muttered something about an engagement as he took his leave.

Crystal saw that Fern looked discomposed, but she took no notice. She thought the sooner that her eyes were open the better, for in her own mind she was convinced from what she had seen that afternoon that Erle Huntingdon was on the eve of an engagement to Miss Selby, if he were not actually engaged. They were quite alone when she had met them first. Lady Maltravers was sitting down at a little distance, and Miss Selby was blushing and smiling and looking excessively happy, and Crystal had been rather indignant at the sight.

“Pray do not let me keep you from your friends,” she had said rather coldly when Erle came up to her. “That was Miss Selby, was it not, the tall young lady in gray with whom you were walking? what a nice face she has;” and Erle had reluctantly owned that it was Miss Selby.

“Go back to her by all means,” Crystal had replied, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice; “she is looking round and wondering whom you have picked up. Oh, yes, I like the look of her very much. I think you are to be congratulated, Mr. Huntingdon;” and then Erle had marched off rather sulkily.

“She looks absurdly happy, and I suppose she is in love with him; just see how she smiles at him. What fools we girls are,” and Crystal had turned away, feeling very sorry for Fern in her heart, but all the same she knew better than to say a word of sympathy to Fern.

“He has made himself very pleasant to her, but it can not have gone very deep. I do not believe Fern knows what love is,” she said, very bitterly to herself, and then she changed the subject.

“Oh, do you know, I had such a surprise,” she continued, cheerfully, as Fern averted her face and seemed much engrossed with a Savoyard and his monkey on the opposite side of the way. “When I got to Upton House this morning I found Miss Campion had arrived unexpectedly, and of course she went with us.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Norton’s sister?” asked Fern, with languid curiosity.“Yes, Aunt Addie, as the children call her; she is staying at some private hotel, and she drove over to see them. I was so pleased to see her, for you know how kind she was to me at Hastings. I do believe that she has taken a decided fancy to me, and it does seem so strange.”

“It is not strange at all,” exclaimed Fern, rather roused by this; “many people take a fancy to you, Crystal. I did directly mother brought you in that evening.”

“Oh you,”—smoothing the fair hair caressingly—“you are a darling, and you love every one, but Miss Campion—well, she is quite different. One would never expect a clever woman of the world who has friends and acquaintances in all quarters of the globe to be guilty of this sort of sentimentality; but all the same,” with a little laugh, “she seemed to be delighted to see me, and of course the American scheme was revived.”

“Oh, Crystal,” with a very long face, “I thought you had given up that idea.”

“Not at all; but I wanted to hear more about it, and I could not quite make up my mind.”

“You talk as though you were thinking seriously of it. Mrs. Norton would never consent to part with you.”

“Mrs. Norton would do exactly what her sister wished her to do, my dear. Aunt Addie’s will rules Upton House. I begin to understand things better now. We used to wonder how Mrs. Norton could afford all those pretty gowns and bonnets, and why the curate’s wife was so much better dressed than the vicar’s wife, and how they could afford to go out of town and have all those nice things for the children, but of course it is all Aunt Addie’s doing.”

“Miss Campion is rich then.”

“Yes; Mrs. Norton told me all about it when we were in the gardens. She says some old uncle left her all his money. She does so much good with it; and she is especially kind to Mrs. Norton, who is her favorite sister. She has promised to send the boys to school when they are old enough, and she pays my salary, and, in fact, the whole household are much benefited by Aunt Addie. So Mrs. Norton told me rather sorrowfully that if I made up my mind to go to America with her sister they would not say a word to prevent it.”

“But you will not go, dear,” coaxingly.

“Miss Campion has friends in New York,” returned Crystal, evasively; “but she does not mean to stay there long. She wants to see Niagara and Colorado, and I forget the route she has planned; but a companion she must have, and she offers such handsome terms, and after all she will not, be away more than five or six months, and as she says the change will do me good; the only thing is she will start early next week and, as I tell her, I have nothing ready, but she only laughed and said we should have plenty of time to market in New York; and that she loved shopping.”

“Crystal, I do believe that you have made up your mind to leave us.”

Crystal hesitated a moment, and her dark eyes grew a little misty.

“And if it be my duty, Fern, will you say a word to keep me, my darling?” as Fern looked sorrowfully in her face. “I am not leaving you for good and all; I will never do that until—” but here she paused, and then hurried on. “The fact is, Fern, your mother can no longer protect me; your brother’s unmanly persecution is driving me away. No, I will say nothing bitter of him to-night; after all he is your brother; but it will be better for him if I leave here—a brief absence may help to cure him.”

“But his selfishness must not drive you away, my poor Crystal.”

“Dear, it will be far better for me to go,” returned Crystal with a sigh. “I am growing restless again, and, as Miss Campion says, the change will do me good; I came home to tell you this to-night I have told Miss Campion that I will go.”

“Next week!”

“Yes, probably next Wednesday or Thursday, about a week from to-day. I shall have to be very busy, you see. Don’t look so pale over it, Fern; six months will soon pass. Do you know,” rather sadly, “I have had such a curious feeling all day, as though something were going to happen, and that I wanted to get away first. Oh, I can’t explain it; I felt the same yesterday. Fern, did Mr. Huntingdon tell you anything more about those friends of his whom he met down at Sandycliffe?”

“No, dear,” with rather a wondering look, “he only just mentioned them, you know. What nice people they were, and so kind and friendly; he took rather a fancy to them.”

“Yes, but I thought he might have spoken of them again.”

“Oh, no, he only saw them twice; he just went over to tell them how Lady Redmond’s ankle was; it was only the accident that made him speak of them at all. How interested you seem in those Ferrers, Crystal.”

“Yes,” was the quick response; but something in her voice made Fern look at her inquiringly. “Did you—did you know them, Crystal?” she asked, in some surprise.

“Yes,” was again the brief answer; but after a moment’s silence she said, “Fern, you have been very good, very patient all this time, you have never asked me any questions about my past life. I think as I am going away from you, and as one can not tell what may happen, that I should like you to know my miserable story. Oh, it will be safe with you; I do not fear that for a moment; I have only hesitated all these months because of the pain of telling it, and for fear you should cease to love me if you knew of the faults I am so bitterly expiating.”

“Faults,” incredulously; “I have never seen them, Crystal, you always seem so good and brave and patient.”

“My dear,” she answered, mournfully, “appearances are deceitful sometimes. Do you remember the story of the poor demoniac whose name was Legion, and how he sat clothed and saved and in his right mind: to me it is one of the most touching and beautiful instances of the Redeemer’s power. He was so galled by his chains, he was so torn and wasted by those evil spirits among the Galilean tombs. Fern,” with a deep pathetic look in her eyes, “sometimes it seems to me that, thank God, the evil spirit is exorcised in me too—that there is nothing in my heart now but passionate regret for an unpremeditated sin.”

“My poor dear Crystal, is it so bad as that?”

“Yes,” with a sigh; “shall I tell you about it—as I told your mother—oh, how good she was to me, how she tried to comfort me, and she had suffered so much herself. Of course, you have always known that my name is not really Davenport, but you have never guessed that it is Crystal Ferrers.”

“Ferrers! Do you mean that you belong to Mr. Erle’s friends, the blind clergyman who lives with his sister at the Grange?”

“Yes, I am Margaret Ferrers’s cousin, the young cousin whom they adopted as their own child, and who lived with them from childhood. Well, I will tell you from the beginning, for you will never understand without hearing about my mother. Give me your hand, dear; if you are tired, and do not want to hear more, will you draw it away. I am glad it is getting dusk, so you will not see my face; the moon will rise presently, so we shall have light enough.”

“One moment, Crystal; does Mr. Erle know?”

“No, of course not, he is a mere acquaintance; what should put that in your head, Fern?”

“Oh, nothing, it was only fancy,” returned the girl; she hardly knew why she had put the question; was it something in Erle’s manner that afternoon? He had asked her, a little anxiously, if Miss Davenport were going away again, and if she would be at home the following week. “For she had been such a runaway lately,” he had said with a slight laugh, “and I was thinking that it must be dull for you when she is away.” But Fern had assured him that Crystal had no intention of going away again, for she had no idea of the plot that Crystal and Miss Campion were hatching between them.