Fluff woke up before they reached their destination, very much refreshed by her brief nap. When the cab stopped before the side door of Mrs. Watkins’s, and she caught sight of Fern standing on the threshold, as though she had been waiting there some time, she gave a little cry, and literally jumped into her sister’s arms.

“Oh, Fluff, Fluff! what does this mean?” exclaimed poor Fern, who had passed a most miserable afternoon, picturing Fluff being borne in a policeman’s arms to the nearest hospital; but Fluff silenced her by an embrace so vehement that it nearly produced strangulation.

“It is all right, Fern, so don’t scold me. Grandpapa was not so very angry—at least, only just at first; but he sent me in the beautifulest supper, such nice things on a big gold plate—really gold, you know, like Princess Dove’s; and Mr. Erle was there, and Percy—and oh! I forgot the poor man in the cab, who is blind—quite blind, but he is very nice too.”

“Will you let me explain about your little sister, Miss Trafford,” said Raby in his pleasant voice; and Fern, turning in some surprise, saw a very tall man in clerical dress standing beside her, as she afterward expressed it to her mother, “with the very nicest face she had ever seen.”

“I do not know if you have ever heard my name; I am Mr. Ferrers, and your friend Miss Davenport, as she calls herself, is my sister’s cousin.”

“Oh, yes, I know,” and Fern’s voice grew pitiful all at once; “and you have come just as Crystal has left us; did Florence tell you? Oh, I am so sorry, so very sorry.”

“Yes, the child told me; but there is much that I want to ask you. May I come in? The cab will wait for me.” And then, as Fern guided him up the narrow staircase, she told him that her mother was out—an evening class had detained her; and she had been thankful that this had been the case, and that she should have been spared the anxiety about Fluff. Mrs. Watkins’s boy was scouring the neighborhood, making inquiries of every one he met; and she had just made up her mind to send for her mother when the cab drove up.

“And she really found her way to Belgrave House?” asked Fern, in a voice between laughing and crying; “oh, what will mother say,” and she listened with eagerness to Mr. Ferrers’s account of how the child had accosted him, and of her meeting with Mr. Huntingdon.

Raby himself had been much mystified—he had known nothing of his host’s past history; he had thought that the child was only paying an impromptu visit until she mentioned her name. Erle had told him that Mrs. Trafford was Mr. Huntingdon’s daughter, and that he had never seen her since her marriage. This clew guided him to the meaning of the sternness in Mr. Huntingdon’s voice; but he had hardly understood in what way Erle was implicated, or why the child should receive so little notice from her brother. When Raby had finished his account, which was annotated in a rambling and far from lucid manner by Fluff, Fern sent the child away to change her frock and make herself tidy, and whispered in her ear that she might stay with Mrs. Watkins for a little; and when Fluff had left them she began to speak of Crystal, and to answer the many questions he put to her without stint or reserve; she even told him that Crystal had left them on account of Percy’s mad infatuation.

“It was very wrong of Percy to take advantage of her unprotected situation, and I am sure she went to put a stop to it, and because it was so awkward for us. Crystal is not like other girls—she does not care for admiration; people turn round and look after her in the street because she is so beautiful, but she never seems to notice it.”

“No; you are right,” he returned, with evident emotion.

As Fern spoke, a scene rose to his memory—a fresh young voice behind his chair seemed to whisper in his ear, “Oh, king, live forever!” and there she stood, his dark-eyed Esther, in her girlish loveliness, her white neck and arms gleaming through lace, a ruby pendant on the slender round throat, the small head looking so queenly with its coils of smooth black hair; and he had turned coldly from her, and she never knew that his was the soul of a lover. “No; you are right,” he answered, gently; “she was as guileless and innocent as a child.”

Fern looked at him wistfully; all her heart seemed to go out to this sad, noble-looking man. Crystal had not said too much in his praise; but he looked older than she had imagined—for pain and the knowledge of his shorn and wasted powers had aged him, and there was certainly no youth in his aspect.

“Oh,” she said, eagerly, for she longed to say something that would comfort him, “I think sometimes that there is no one so good as Crystal—we have all grown to love her so. She has such high-spirited, troublesome pupils; but she is so patient with them when they are ill, she nurses them, and she has more influence over them than the mother; and she is always so kind and thoughtful, and no one ever sees her cross. She is angry with Percy sometimes; but then he deserves it; and she will not take any pleasure, but all she thinks about is to do little kindnesses for people; and though she is so unhappy that she has grown quite thin with fretting, she tries not to let us see it.”

“Has she told you all about herself?” he asked, in a very low voice.

“Yes, and it is that that makes her so unhappy. Oh, she told me all about it, and I thought she would never, never stop crying—it preys upon her mind, and her remorse will not let her be happy: she seems to dread even forgiveness. ‘I go back to him, when I have blighted his life and darkened his days?’ oh! you should have heard the despair in her voice when she said that, Mr. Ferrers,” and here Fern’s sweet tones trembled. “Mother and I sometimes think that it will kill her in time, unless she has help and comfort.”

“Do not fear, Miss Trafford, she shall have both soon; it will not be long before I find her.”

“But she is in America—at least, she is on her way there.”

“There are other steamers than the one in which she has crossed,” returned Raby, with a smile. “I suppose she means to write to you?”

“Oh, yes, she will write from every place—she has promised me long letters, and of course Mrs. Norton will hear from Miss Campion; do you really mean to follow her, Mr. Ferrers?”

“Yes; and to the world’s end if it be necessary. I have a strong will, and even blindness will not hinder me. Tell me how did she seem last night; did she leave cheerfully?”

“Well, no, Crystal puzzled us all night,” returned Fern, quickly; “she went out to bid good-bye to her pupils, and Percy waylaid her, as usual, but she got rid of him somehow; but she was out a long time, and she would not give us any reason; but when she came back her eyes were swelled, and she had a dreadful headache, and yet she said Percy had nothing to do with it.”

A sudden, wild idea flashed into Raby’s mind. “How was she dressed, Miss Trafford—I mean what colored gown did she wear?”

Fern seemed surprised at the question. “Oh, her old brown gown—she was all in brown, I think;” but she did not understand why Mr. Ferrers seemed so strangely agitated at her answer.

“The tall young lady in brown, who seemed to notice you wanted help;” he remembered those words of Miss Merriman. Good Heavens! it must have been she; it must have been her little hand that guided him so gently; oh, his miserable blindness. Of course she had seen this Percy Trafford, and he had told her all about the guest they expected, and she had come to the station just to see him once again.

But he would not speak of this to Fern; his darling’s secret should be kept by him; he would hide these sweet proofs of her love and devotion in his own breast. Fern wondered why the miserable, harassed look left his face. He looked quite young—a different man—as he bade her good-bye; his shoulders were no longer stooping, his head was erect.

“Good-bye, Miss Trafford,” he said. “I shall come and see you and your mother again before I leave. I shall go back to Sandycliffe next week, and set my house in order, and talk to my sister. I do not doubt for a moment that she will offer to accompany me. I shall not come back until I bring Crystal with me.” And Fern quite believed him. There were restless sleepers that night in Belgrave House. Raby was revolving his plans and wondering what Margaret would say; and on the other side of the wall Erle tossed, wakeful and wretched, knowing that his fate was sealed, and that Evelyn Selby and not Fern Trafford was to be his future wife. And now, as he lay in the darkness, he told himself that in spite of her goodness and beauty he could never love her as he loved Fern. He knew it at the moment he asked her to marry him, and when she put her hand in his and told him frankly that he had long won her heart.

“You are too much a gentleman to treat a woman badly,” Mr. Huntingdon had said to him, well knowing the softness and generosity of Erle’s nature; and yet, was he not treating Fern badly?

He had thought over it all until his head was dizzy; but his conscience had told him that his sin against Fern had been light in comparison with that against Evelyn. What were those few evenings in Beulah Place compared to the hours he had passed in Evelyn’s society?

He had been in Lady Maltravers’s train for months; he had suffered her to treat him as a son of the house. He had ridden with Evelyn in the Row; she had been his favorite partner in the ball-room. When they had gone to the opera Erle had been their escort. It was perfectly true, as Mr. Huntingdon said, that she had a right to expect an offer from him; their names had long been coupled together, and Erle’s weakness and love of pretty faces had drawn the net round him. And there were other considerations that had moved him—his dread of poverty; the luxurious habits that had become a second nature; and above all, reluctance to disappoint the old man who, in his own way, had been good to him. Erle knew that in spite of his hardness and severity, his uncle clung to him as the Benjamin of his old age.No, he could not help himself, he thought bitterly. And yet how dreary the prospect seemed. He had given up the first young love of his life, and now the barren splendors of Belgrave House seemed to oppress him—the walls closed round him like the walls of a prison.

And yet other men would envy him, and wonder at his luck. Evelyn had many admirers—many a one nobly born and nobly gifted would grudge him his prize; though he knew, and hated himself for the knowledge, that they envied him in vain.

Erle found it difficult to play his part well; but his young fiancÉe was too unsuspecting in her happiness to guess at her lover’s secret trouble. His slight gravity spoke well for him, she thought; most likely a greater sense of responsibility oppressed him. She was too much in love herself to notice how often he lapsed into silence.

Every one thought him a most devoted lover; he was always at his post—always ready to escort them to picture-galleries and flower-shows, or to stand sentinel at the back of Lady Maltravers’s box. His uncle’s generosity enabled him to load his betrothed with gifts. Evelyn used to remonstrate with him for his lavishness, not knowing that Mr. Huntingdon had prompted the gift.

“Of course I love you to bring me things,” she would say, looking up in his face with her clear, candid eyes; “but indeed, dear Erle, I do not need so many proofs of your affection.”

“I feel as though I should never do enough for you, Eva,” he answered, hurriedly; “you must not refuse to let me give you things. I am always thinking how I am to please you;” and as he clasped the diamond bracelet on the slender wrist he suddenly remembered what a pretty hand Fern had, so white and dimpled, and a vivid longing came over him, turning him nearly sick with pain, to see that sweet face again, and to hear from those frank, beautiful lips that she was glad to see him; but he never yielded to the temptation.

On the contrary, he had put all such visits out of his power; for he had written to Mrs. Trafford within a few days of his engagement, telling her that his uncle had interdicted them, and that he dared not risk his displeasure, deeply as he regretted such a break in their intercourse; and he told her that he and Miss Selby were engaged, and would probably be married in the autumn; and then he sent his kind remembrances to her daughter.

Mrs. Trafford thought it a very manly and straightforward letter. He had not acted so very badly after all, she thought; her father’s strong will had evidently coerced him, and she knew how strong that will could be. He had meant no harm; he had only said pleasant things because it was his nature to say them; if only it had not gone very deep with Fern.

“I have had a letter from Mr. Erle, my darling,” she said, quietly, as she noticed the girl had turned a shade paler, as though she had recognized the handwriting; but she had not spoken, only bent lower over her work.

“Yes, mother,” in a very low voice; “and I suppose he has told you the news.”

“What news, my pet?”

“That he and Miss Selby are engaged. Oh, yes, I knew it directly I saw the letter. It is good of him to tell us so soon. I am glad; you must tell him we are glad, mother.”

“Will that be the truth, Fern?” looking at her doubtfully.

“One ought to be glad when one’s friends are happy,” was the unsteady answer. “If he loves her, of course he must want to marry her. Crystal says that she is very handsome and looks so nice. You must write a very pretty letter to him, mother, and say all sorts of kind things. And it is for us to be glad that he has got his wish, for I think he has not looked quite happy lately.” And Fern folded up her work in her old business-like manner, and then went about the room, putting little touches here and there; and if she were a little pale, the dusk soon hid it. Mrs. Trafford had no fault to find with her daughter that evening; nevertheless she did not feel easy; she thought girlish pride was bidding her conceal the wound, and that in reality her child was unhappy.

If any one had asked Fern what were her feelings when she saw that letter in her mother’s hands she would have answered most truly that she did not know. When a long-dreaded trouble that one knows to be inevitable at last reaches one, the mind seems to collapse and become utterly blank; there is a painless void, into which the mental vision refuses to look. Presently—there is plenty of time; life is overlong for suffering—we will sit down for a little while by the side of the abyss which has just swallowed up our dearest hopes.

Numbness, which was in reality death in life, blunted Fern’s feelings as she worked, and talked, and fulfilled her little duties. When she went up to her room and looked at Crystal’s empty bed, she thought the room had never looked so desolate. She undressed slowly, with long pauses, during which she tried to find out what had happened to her; but no real consciousness came until she laid her head on the pillow and tried to sleep, and then found her thoughts active. And the darkness seemed to take her into its black arms, and there seemed no rest anywhere. They were all over—those beautiful dreams that had glorified her life. No bright-faced young prince would ride out of the mist and carry her away; there would be no more kind looks full of deep, wonderful meanings for her to remember over her work; in the morning she would not wake and say, “Perhaps he will come to-day;” no footstep would make her heart beat more quickly; that springy tread would never sound on the stairs again. He was gone out of her life, this friend of hers, with his merry laugh and his boyish ways, and that pleasant sympathy that was always ready for her.

Fern had never imagined that such sad possibilities could wither up the sweet bloom of youthful promise; she had never felt really miserable except when her father died, and then she had been only a child. She wondered in a dreary, incredulous way if this was all life meant to bring her—every day a little teaching, a little work, quiet evenings with her mother, long streets that seem to lead nowhere; no meadows, no flowers, no pretty things except in the shop windows; would she still live over Mrs. Watkins’s when she was an old woman?

“Oh, how empty and mean it all seems,” she moaned, tossing restlessly on her hot pillow.

“Are you awake still, my darling?” asked her mother, tenderly. Some instinctive sympathy had led her to her child’s door, and she had heard that impatient little speech. “What is the matter, dearest; you will tell your mother, will you not?”

“Oh, mother, why have you come? I never meant you to know.” But here she broke down, and clasped her mother’s neck convulsively. “I am glad—I will be glad that he is so happy; but oh, mother, I want him so—I want him so.” And then Mrs. Trafford knew that the wound was deep—very deep indeed.