It was at the close of a lovely September day that Raby Ferrers sat alone in the piazza of a large fashionable boarding-house in W——. This favorite American watering-place was, as usual, thronged by visitors, who came either to seek relief for various ailments from the far-famed hot springs, or to enjoy the salubrious air and splendid scenery that made W—— so notorious.

The piazza was always the favorite lounge at all hours of the day, but especially toward evening. A handsome striped awning, and the natural shade of the splendid tropical plants that twined round the slender pillars, gave a pleasant shade even at noonday. Broad low steps led to the gardens, and deck-chairs and cushioned rocking-chairs were placed invitingly at intervals.

A gay bevy of girls had just taken possession of these coveted seats, and were chattering with the young men who had just followed them out of the hot dining-room; but no one invaded the quiet corner where the English clergyman had established himself, though many a pair of laughing eyes grew a little sad and wistful when they rested on the grave, abstracted face of the blind man.

“He looks so dull,” observed one girl—a fair delicate blonde, who was evidently the belle, for she was surrounded by at least half a dozen young men. “I have half a mind to go and speak to him myself, only you would all be watching me.”

“Miss Bellagrove can not fail to be the cynosure of all eyes,” returned a beardless dapper young man with the unmistakable Yankee accent; but to this remark Miss Bellagrove merely turned a cold shoulder.

“His sister has been away most of the afternoon,” she continued, addressing a good-looking young officer who held her fan. “It was so clever of you to find out that she was his sister, Captain Maudsley. I had quite made up my mind they were married; yes, of course, every one must notice the likeness between them, but then they might have been cousins, and she does seem so devoted to him.” But here a whispered admonition in her ear made Miss Bellagrove break off her sentence rather abruptly, as at that moment Miss Ferrers’s tall figure, in the usual gray gown, was seen crossing one of the little lawns toward the piazza.

“She is wonderfully distinguished looking,” was Miss Bellagrove’s next remark. “Most Englishwoman are tall, I do believe; don’t you think her face beautiful, Captain Maudsley?” but the reply to this made Miss Bellagrove change color very prettily. Raby was profoundly oblivious of the interest he was exciting; he was wondering what had detained Margaret all these hours, and if she would have any news to bring him.

As yet their journey had been fruitless. They had reached New York just as Miss Campion and her companion had quitted it; they had followed on their track—but had always arrived either a day or an hour too late. Now and then they had to wait until a letter from Fern gave them more decided particulars. Occasionally they made a mistake, and found that Miss Campion had changed her plans. Once they were in the same train, and Margaret never found it out until she saw Crystal leave the carriage, and then there was no time to follow her. Margaret shed tears of disappointment, and blamed herself for her own blindness; but Raby never reproached her.He was growing heart-sick and weary by this time. They had spent six weeks in this search, and were as far from success as ever—no wonder Raby’s face looked grave and overcast as he sat alone in the piazza. Even Margaret’s protracted absence raised no sanguine expectation in his mind; on the contrary, as his practiced ear recognized her footstep, he breathed a short prayer for patience.

“Dear Raby,” she said, softly, as she took a seat beside him and unfastened the clasps of her long cloak; “I have been away a longer time than usual; have you been wanting me?”

“Oh, no,” with a faint smile; “Fergusson took care of me at dinner, and I had a pleasant American widow on the other side, who amused me very much—she told me some capital stories about the Canadian settlers; so, on the whole, I did very well. I begin to like Fergusson immensely; he is a little broad, but still very sensible in his views. He comes from Cumberland, he tells me, and has rather a large cure of souls.”

“Yes, dear”—but Margaret spoke absently—“but you do not ask me what I have been doing, Raby.”

“No”—very slowly; and then, with a touch of sadness: “I begin to think it is better not to ask.”

“Poor fellow”—laying her hand on his arm caressingly. “Yes, I understand you are beginning to lose hope. What did I tell you last night—that it is always the darkest the hour before dawn. Do you remember how fond Crystal was of that song? Well, it is true, Raby; I have been stopping away for some purpose this afternoon. Crystal and Miss Campion are here.”

“Here!” and at Raby’s exclamation more than one head turned in the direction of the brother and sister.

“Yes, in W——. Do not speak so loud, Raby; you are making people look at us. Take my arm, and we will go into the shrubberies; no one will disturb us there.” And as she guided him down the steps, and then crossed a secluded lawn, Raby did not speak again until the scent of the flowering shrubs told him they had entered one of the quiet paths leading away from the house.

“Now, tell me, Maggie,” he said, quickly; and Margaret obeyed at once.

“I was at the station, as we planned, and saw them arrive; so for once the information was correct. Crystal got out first, and went in search of the luggage. I concealed myself behind a bale of goods—wool-packs, I believe—and she passed me quite closely; I could have touched her with my hand. She looked very well, only thinner, and I think older; it struck me she had grown, too, for she certainly looked taller.”

“It is possible; and you really saw her face, Margaret?”

“Yes; she was looking away. She is as beautiful as ever, Raby. No wonder people stare at her so. She is as much like your ideal Esther as she used to be, only there is a grander look about her altogether—less like the girl, and more of the woman.”

“Ah, she has suffered so; we have all aged, Maggie. She will think us both changed.”

Margaret suppressed a sigh—she was almost thankful that Raby’s blind eyes could not see the difference in her. He was quite unconscious that her youthful bloom had faded, and that her fair face had a settled, matured look that seldom comes before middle age; and she was glad that this was so. Neither of them spoke now of the strange blight that had passed over her young life. Margaret had long ceased to weep over it; it was her cross, she said, and she had learned its weight by this time.

“Well, Margaret?” for she had paused for a moment.

“I did not dare to leave my place of concealment until she had passed. I saw Miss Campion join her. She is a pleasant, brisk-looking woman with gray hair, and rather a young face. I followed them out of the station, and heard them order the driver to bring them here.”

“Here! To this house, Margaret?”

“Yes—wait a moment—but of course I knew what Mrs. O’Brien would say—that there was no room; so I did not trouble to follow them very closely; in fact, I knew it would be useless; when I did arrive I went straight to Mrs. O’Brien’s parlor, and asked if she had managed to accommodate the two ladies.

“‘I did not know they were friends of yours, Miss Ferrers,’ she said, regretfully. ‘But what could I do? There is not a vacant bed in the house, and I knew the hotel would be just as full; so I sent them down to Mrs. Maddox, at the corner house, down yonder—it is only a stone’s-throw from here. And, as I told the ladies, they can join us at luncheon and dinner, and make use of the drawing-room. I knew Mrs. Maddox had her two best bedrooms and the front parlor empty.’ Of course I thanked Mrs. O’Brien, and said no doubt this would do excellently for our friends; and then I walked past the corner house and found they were carrying in the luggage, and Miss Campion was standing at the door talking to a colored servant.”

“You actually passed the house? Oh, Margaret, how imprudent. Supposing Crystal had seen you from the window?”

“Oh, my cloak and veil disguised me; besides, there is a long strip of garden between the house and the road. I could hardly distinguish Crystal, though I could see there was some one in the parlor. And now, what are we to do, Raby? It will never do to risk a meeting at table d’hÔte; in a crowded room, Crystal might see us, and make her escape before I could manage to intercept her; and yet, how are we to intrude on Miss Campion? it will be dreadfully awkward for us all.”

“I must think over it,” he answered, quickly. “It is growing dark now, Margaret, is it not?”

“Yes, dear, do you feel chilly—shall we go in?”

“No, I want you to take me further; there is a gate leading to the road, is there not? I should like to go past the house; it will make it seem more real, Maggie, and you shall describe exactly how it is situated.”

Margaret complied at once—not for worlds would she have hinted that she was already nearly spent with fatigue and want of food. Cathy, the bright little mulatto chamber-maid, would get her a cup of tea and a sandwich presently. Raby’s lover-like wish must be indulged; he wanted to pass the house that held his treasure.

It was bright moonlight by this time, and the piazza had been long deserted. The shadows were dark under the avenue, for the road was thickly planted with trees. Just as they were nearing the corner house—a low, white building, with a veranda running round it—Margaret drew Raby somewhat hastily behind a tall maple, for her keen eyes had caught sight of two figures standing by the gate. As the moon emerged from behind a cloud, she saw Crystal plainly; Miss Campion was beside her with a black veil thrown over her gray hair.

Margaret’s whispered “hush!” was a sufficient hint to Raby, and he stood motionless. The next moment the voice that was dearer to him than any other sounded close beside him—at least it seemed so in the clear, resonant atmosphere.

“What a delicious night; how white that patch of moonlighted road looks where the trees do not cast their shadows so heavily. I like this quiet road. I am quite glad the boarding-house was full; I think the cottage is much cozier.”

“Cozier, yes,” laughed the other; “but that is a speech that ought to have come out of my middle-aged lips. What an odd girl you are, Crystal; you never seem to care for mixing with young people; and yet it is only natural at your age. You are a terrible misanthrope. I do believe you would rather not dine at the table d’hÔte, only you are ashamed to say so.”

“I have no right to inflict my misanthropy on you, dear Miss Campion; as it is, you are far too indulgent to my morose moods.”

“Morose fiddlesticks,” was the energetic reply. “But, there, I do like young people to enjoy themselves like young people. Why, if I had your youth and good looks; well”—with a change of tone sufficiently explicit—“it is no use trying to make you conceited; and yet that handsome young American—wasn’t he a colonel?—tried to make himself as pleasant as he could.”

“Did he?” was the somewhat indifferent answer; at which Miss Campion shook her head in an exasperated way.

“Oh, it is no use talking to you,” with good-natured impatience. “English or American, old, ugly, or handsome, they are all the same to you; and of course, by the natural laws of contradiction, the absurd creatures are all bent on making you fall in love with them. Now that colonel, Crystal, I can’t think what fault you could find with him; he was manly, gentlemanly, and as good-looking as a man ought to be.”

“I do not care for good-looking men.”

“Or for plain ones, either, my dear. I expect you are romantic, Crystal, and have an ideal of your own.”

“And if I answer, yes,” returned the girl, quickly, “will you leave off teasing me about all those stupid men? If you knew how I hate it—how I despise them all.”

“All but the ideal,” observed Miss Campion, archly; but she took the girl’s hand in hers, and her shrewd, clever face softened. “You must forgive an impertinent old maid, my dear. Perhaps she had her story too, who knows. And so you have your ideal, my poor, dear child; and the ideal has not made you a happy woman. It never does,” in a low voice.

“Dear Miss Campion,” returned Crystal, with a blush; “if I am unhappy, it is only through my own fault; no one else is to blame, and—and—it is not as you think. It is true I once knew a good man, who has made every other man seem puny and insignificant beside him; but that is because he was so good and there was no other reason.”

“No other reason, except your love for him,” observed the elder woman, stroking her hand gently. “I have long suspected this, my dear.”

“Oh, you must not talk so,” answered Crystal, in a tone of poignant distress; “you do not know; you can not understand. Oh, it is all so sad. I owe him everything. My ideal, oh, yes; whom have I ever seen who could compare with him—so strong, so gentle, so forgiving? Oh, you must never let me talk of him; it breaks my heart.”

“Come away, Margaret,” whispered Raby, hoarsely, in her ear. “I have no right to hear this; it is betraying my darling’s confidence. Take me away, for I can not trust myself another moment; and it is late—too late to speak to her to-night.”

“Hush! they are going in; we must wait a moment. Crystal is crying, and that kind creature is comforting her. We did not mean to listen, Raby; but it was not safe to move away from the trees.”

“You heard what she said, Margaret—her ideal. Heaven bless her sweet innocence; she is as much a child as ever. Do I look like any woman’s ideal now, Margaret. I always think of those lines in ‘Aurora Leigh,’ when I imagine myself

And yet, she really said it; her ideal. Ah, well! A woman’s pity sometimes makes her mad. What do you say, Maggie?”“That you are, and that you ever have been Crystal’s ideal.” And after that they walked back in silence.

“You and I will go again to-morrow morning,” Raby said to her as they parted for the night; and Margaret assented.

Raby had a wakeful night, and slept a little heavily toward morning.

Margaret had already finished her breakfast when he entered the long dining-room, and one of the black waiters guided him to his place. Raby wondered that she did not join him as usual to read his letters to him, and make plans for their visit; but a few minutes later she joined him in walking dress, and sat down beside him.

“Have you finished your breakfast, Raby?” And, as he answered in the affirmative, she continued, with a little thrill of excitement in her sweet voice—“Miss Campion has gone down to the springs—I saw her pass alone. Crystal is writing letters in the parlor—I saw her. Shall we come, my dear brother?”

Need she have put the question. Even Charles, the head-waiter, looked at Mr. Ferrers as he walked down the long room with his head erect. A grand-looking Englishman, he thought, and who would have imagined he was blind. Margaret could hardly keep up with the long, even strides that brought them so quickly to the corner house; at the gate she checked him gently.

“We must be quiet, Raby—very quiet—or she will hear our footsteps. She is sitting with her back to the parlor door—I can see her plainly. Tread on this grassy border.”

And as Raby followed her directions implicitly, restraining his impatience with difficulty, they were soon standing in the porch. The door stood open for coolness, and the little square hall, with its Indian matting and rocking-chairs, looked very inviting. Margaret whispered that the parlor-door was open, too, and that they must not startle the girl too much; and then, still guiding him, she led him into the parlor and quietly called Crystal.

“We are here, dear Crystal.” And as Crystal turned her head and saw Margaret’s sweet, loving face, and Raby standing a little behind her, she sprung from her chair with a half-stifled scream. But before she could speak, or Margaret either, Raby was beside her; and in another moment his arms were round her, and his sightless face bent over her. “Hush, darling, I have you safely now; I will never let you go again,” Margaret heard him say as she left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Her turn would come presently, she said to herself; but now she must leave them together.