"TWO, AND TWO, AND TWO"

It took but a little while for the Burnham household to settle down quietly to routine living; so easily, after all, does human nature adjust itself to tremendous strains and changes. Maybelle fitted into her place as though she had always been an acknowledged daughter of the house, come home after long absence. And the neighbors, even those morbidly curious ones, of which there are always a few in every community, took kindly to the new order of things and to the bright-faced stranger who rode and drove and walked and appeared in church with Erskine and his mother, and was introduced with punctilious care as "My wife's daughter, Miss Somerville."

They could not help, even from the first, saying kind and complimentary things about the beautiful young face, and after a few days of wonderment and conjecture they arranged their own story—with a very meagre array of facts to build upon—quite to their satisfaction.

"Oh, yes, I knew she was a widow when he married her; but I never heard of a child."

"Well, he married abroad, don't you know, and I suppose the girl just stayed on, with her relatives. Her mother must have been a mere child when she was first married; though this girl is very young, and Mrs. Burnham was probably older than she looked; for that matter, don't you know, I always said that she looked older than her husband? I suppose the girl has lived abroad all her life; that's what makes her look different, some way, from American girls, though her mother was born in this country, she told me so. Still, the girl would have English ways, of course, always living there. Did you hear her say the other day that the Somerville brothers, great English bankers that Ned Lake was asking her about, were her uncles?"

"It seems hard that the poor girl couldn't have been with her mother before she died," said one whose interests ran naturally in other channels than those of ages and pedigrees.

"Yes, it does," chimed in another home-keeping and home-loving matron, "but then her death was awfully sudden. Erskine's mother told me that they had no idea of her dying up to the very day; and I guess the girl has been separated from her a good deal. I have heard somewhere, and I am sure I don't remember where, that there was a fuss of some sort in the family. Probably her first husband's people didn't like the idea of her going into society and marrying again, especially marrying an American; English people are queer about some things, I have heard; I suppose they held on to the girl as long as they could."

Thus, with supposition and surmise, and a stray fact now and then, and vague remembrances, the story was worked over and shaped and pieced until it suited them. Meantime, the Burnham family went quietly on its way, having no confidants, and, while they spoke only truth when they spoke at all, judging it not necessary to tell the whole truth to any.

So quiet and peace settled once more upon Ruth Burnham's home, and it was proved again, as it often is, that a new grave in the family burial ground is more productive of peace than a life has been.

Erskine was habitually grave, and his mother told herself sorrowfully that sin, not death, had permanently shadowed his life. But by degrees his gravity took on a cheerful tone, and Baby Erskine, whom at first he had almost shunned, became a never failing source of comfort to him.

As for Maybelle, no grown-up daughter was ever more devoted to a father's interests than she became. She hovered about his home life with an air of sweet, grave deference, ministering to his tastes with unlimited thoughtfulness and tact, until from being to him an infliction for whose comfort he must be thoughtful from a sense of duty, she became first an interest, and then almost a necessity. The neighbors said how lovely it was in her to take her mother's place so beautifully.

Then, of course, there were some to say that they shouldn't wonder if she should succeed at last in comforting him entirely for his loss. Wouldn't it be romantic if he should marry her! Of course she was really not related to him at all, and great difference in age was much more common than it used to be. For that matter, Erskine Burnham was still a young man. For their part, they agreed almost to a woman, that it would be a nice idea—

But all that was before they made the acquaintance of Erskine Roberts. That young man was true to his word, and in the course of time came across the continent. That he came after Maybelle, as he had said he would, was perfectly obvious, but he did not take her back with him, as at one time he had tried to plan to do.

He had two more years to spend at the theological seminary, and during those two years it had been agreed by all concerned that Maybelle was to continue to bless her new home with her presence.

Erskine Roberts was one of the very few to whom the whole situation had been fully and carefully explained. Not only Maybelle, but Ruth herself had written the story, both to Erskine, and his mother; and then, when his namesake came out to them, the other Erskine had him into his private room one evening, and as he believed was his duty toward the man who was to make Maybelle his wife, went down with him into the lowest depths of his life tragedy. And Erskine Roberts, who had been half angry with the man ever since he had heard the strange story—though he admitted all the time to his secret soul that Erskine Burnham had been in no wise to blame, went over loyally and royally to his side, and said to Ruth while his honest eyes filmed with something like tears and his voice was husky:—

"Aunt Ruth, it must be a grand thing for a mother to have a son like that man across the hall. If I can be half like him in true nobility, my mother will have reason to be proud."

And he even admitted to Maybelle that, since he could not have her to himself yet awhile, he was glad that that man who was worthy that she should call him father was to have the comfort of her.

It was noticeable to themselves that they said very little about the mother. Poor mother! she had forfeited her right to be talked of in the tender and reverent way that Maybelle would have talked, or with the passion of longing for something had, and lost, that used to mark her words to Ruth. She said that word "mamma" no more; the tone in which she used to speak it had been peculiar, and had marked it as set apart for a special and sacred use. Evidently it meant more to her than the word "mother," or at least meant something different. Now, in speaking to Ruth, she said always: "My mother," and said it in a hesitating, half-deprecating tone, almost as if she must apologize for her.

It was not that the girl was bitter; on the contrary she was markedly tender of her mother's memory and pitiful toward her.

Ruth, with the reflex influence of this upon her, found herself searching for all the lovable qualities in Irene that she could by any possibility recall, and by degrees it appeared that death was having its inevitable and gracious influence over hearts, softening the past and casting a halo of excusing pity over that which had at the time seemed unpardonable. But her daughter never again said in a passion of exquisite tenderness: "My mamma!"

She had learned to say "father," and used the word with a shy grace that was fascinating; she had learned also what was of far more consequence: to have the utmost respect for and faith in the man to whom she gave the title. Respect deepened steadily into love, and he became indeed "father" to her, in her very thought. Yet she never put into the word the throbbing love that had shone in the words "My papa!"

They were a peaceful household, with a fair and steadily increasing measure of happiness. "Baby Erskine," as they still called him and probably would, his father said, until he was ready for college, lived his beautiful, carefully ordered life, blossoming into all the graces and sweetnesses of judiciously trained and sheltered childhood, and being familiarized with all the sweet interests and excitements that belong to a baby beloved. His first tooth, his first step, his first definite word were as eagerly watched for and as joyously heralded as though a fond mother had been there to lead. Never had child a more devoted sister and admirer and willing slave than Maybelle; and no words ever expressed more exultant pride and joy than those in which she introduced him to transient guests: "My little brother."

She labored patiently by the hour to teach the boy to shout "Papa!" as soon as he caught a glimpse from the window of the man who would presently ride him upstairs on his proud shoulder; but they never tried to train the baby lips to say "mamma."

"I am glad," said Maybelle one day, breaking suddenly into speech in a way she had, over a train of thought, the steps by which she had reached it being kept to herself: "I am glad that he will always have the dearest and wisest of grandmothers close at hand."

Ruth smiled indulgently.

"By inference," she said, "I am led to believe that you are speaking of Baby Erskine and his grandmother, and am duly grateful for the compliment, but the last remark you made was about the climbing roses on the south porch. Am I to be told or simply be left to imagine the steps by which you reached from rosebuds to Baby Erskine?"

Maybelle laughed softly. "The transition was not so very great, dear doting grandmother! Confess that you think so." Then, the color deepening a little in her face, she added:—

"I was thinking, dear, of our home here, and of the coming changes, and of other—possibilities. To be entirely frank, I thought of a possible second mother for Baby Erskine. Father is still so young that one cannot help thinking sometimes of possibilities. And then, even though I want you so much, I could not help being glad that in any such event you would be close to Baby Erskine."

Ruth held from outward notice any hint of the sudden stricture at her heart over these quiet words, and said cheerfully:—

"The near at hand probabilities are crowding us so hard just now, darling, that I don't think we have room for remote possibilities; let us leave the unknown future, dear child, to One who knows."

It was true that the coming changes were almost beginning to crowd upon them. The climbing rose bushes over the south porch were even thus early thinking of budding; which meant that June and Flossy Roberts and her family would be with them in two months more.

Time had flown on swift wing after all. It hardly seemed possible that the young man, who had seemed to begin his theological studies but yesterday, was already receiving letters addressed to "The Reverend Erskine Shipley Roberts!"

One shadow Maybelle had, and Ruth understood it well, although it was rarely mentioned between them. Erskine Burnham, the very soul of unselfish thoughtfulness for others, had yet held with unaccountable tenacity to one strange feeling. He shrank with evident pain from the thought of Mamie Parker's presence in the house. She had returned from China early in the previous year, and Maybelle's first eager hope that "Aunt Mamie would come to them at once" for a stay of indefinite length had been wonderingly put aside upon the discovery that "father" apparently shrank from even the mention of her name.

He made a painful effort to explain to his mother.

"Of course, mamma, I do not mean for one moment to stand in the way of anything that you and Maybelle really want, and I do not know that I can explain to you why I feel as I do; but—she is associated, painfully associated, as you know, with that which is like the bitterness of death to me. And I cannot—We will not talk about it, mamma."

Ruth understood and was sorry for the morbid strain which it revealed. She made earnest effort to combat it, not vigorously but with suggestive sentences as occasion offered. It hurt her that Erskine should allow so comparatively small a matter to retard his progress. He had not only gone bravely through his peculiar trial, but had made a distinct advance in his spiritual life. Maybelle's constant prayer for him had assuredly been answered. The Lord Christ had, manifestly, a stronger grip on his personality than ever before. All the details of business and literary life were learning from day to day that they were not to be masters but servants to this man, and that One was his Master.

But this sore spot which could not be touched without pain, his mother felt sure would continue to burn as long as he hid it away. If he could know Mamie Parker as she now was, it was almost certain that the sting of pain and shame which her name suggested would lose its power.

But Maybelle felt sure that Aunt Mamie would never come unless invited by the host.

"And I can't want her to, grandmother, much as I long to see her, so long as her presence is not quite comfortable to father."

So the grandmother bided her time, and spoke her occasional earnest words.

"In short, mamma," Erskine said one morning, turning from the window where he had been standing a silent listener to what she had to say, "In short, mamma, you are ashamed of your son, are you not? And I don't wonder; he is rather ashamed of himself. You have been very patient, you and Maybelle, but this whole thing must cease. Of course the child must have her friend with her. Invite her, mamma, in my name, to come at once and remain through the season. I want it to be so. I do, indeed, now that I have settled it; make Maybelle understand that I do."

After he had left the room he turned back to say pointedly:—

"Of course, mamma, it will not be necessary for me to see very much of her; but I shall try to do my duty as host."

She saw how hard it was for him, but she rejoiced with all her heart at this triumph over the morbid strain.

And Mamie Parker came; and was met in due form by her host and treated in every respect as became an honored guest.

There came an evening when Ruth sat alone by the open window of her room. She had turned out the lights, for the room was flooded with moonlight. It outlined distinctly the little white bed in an alcove opening from her room, where her darling lay sleeping. She had just been in to look at him, and had resisted the temptation to kiss once more the fair cheeks flushed with healthy sleep. Downstairs in the little reception room she knew that Maybelle and Erskine Roberts were saying a few last words together; the girl and the boy who, to-morrow, would begin together the mystery of manhood and womanhood, "until death did them part." From time to time she could hear Maybelle's soft laughter float out on the quiet air; they were very happy together, those two.

From one of the guest chambers near at hand the murmur of voices came to her occasionally. It was growing late, and most of the guests had retired early to make ready by rest for the excitements of the morrow; but sleep had evidently not come yet to Flossy and her husband. They were talking softly. They were happy together, those two. Downstairs on the long vine-covered south porch two people were walking; the murmur of their voices as they walked and talked came up to her, Mamie Parker's voice, and Erskine's. And the mother knew, almost as well as though she could hear the words, some of the things they were saying to each other.

"Mommie," her son had said but a little while before as he bent over and kissed his boy, and then turned and put both arms about her and kissed her, using the old name that of late had almost dropped away from him:—

"Mommie, can you give me your blessing and wish me Godspeed?"

She had not pretended to misunderstand him. She had known for days, it almost seemed to her that she had known before he did, the trend that his life was taking. There had been no word between them, but Erskine had told her once, that he believed she knew his thoughts almost as soon as they were born, and he seemed to take her knowledge for granted.

She was glad that she had controlled her voice, and that her answer had been quick and free:—

"Yes, indeed, my son; God bless and prosper you."

She knew he would be prospered. At least a woman knows a woman's heart. They would be happy together, they two.

Two, and two, and two, everywhere! the youth and maiden, the mature man and woman, the father and mother who were smiling together over their son's espousals, always "they two."

It had been "they two" once with her. And again, and for many years, mother and son; but now—It seemed for a moment to the lonely woman as though the whole world beside was paired and wedded and only herself left desolate. She pressed her hands firmly against the balls of her closed eyes. Should she let one tear mar this night of her son's new joy?

And then, tenderly, like drops of balm upon an aching wound, came the echo in her soul of an old, old pledge: "With everlasting loving-kindness will I have mercy on thee, said the Lord, thy Redeemer... I will betroth thee unto me in faithfulness."

"I am a happy woman," she said aloud, in a quiet voice; "I am blessed in my home, and in my—children, and in the abiding presence of my Lord."

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THE PANSY BOOKS.

NOTE.—The Books in each of the series marked with a brace are connected stories.

Ester Ried Series

$1.50 each

Chautauqua Series

$1.50 each

General Series

$1.50 each

$1.25 each

$1.00

By Pansy and Mrs. Livingston

$1.50 each

By Pansy and Faye Huntington

$1.50 each

By Pansy and Her Friends

$1.50

Juvenile Books

$1.50 each

$1.25

$1.00 each

75 cents each

Golden Text Stories

50 cents each

The Pansy Primary Libraries

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., Boston

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BOOKS BY ANNIE H. RYDER.

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Hold up Your Heads, Girls!

12mo, cloth, $1.00.

"The author of 'Hold up your Heads, Girls!' has, in the treatment of a very important subject, invested it with an interest and brightness which will make it pleasant and even fascinating reading for the class of young people to whom it is addressed. In the eleven chapters of which the contents consist there is more sound practical advice, sensibly put, on points of every-day interest to girls, than we have ever before seen put into the same number of pages. It is a book for study, for companionship, and the girl who reads it thoughtfully and with an intent to profit by it will get more real help and good from it than from a term at the best boarding-school in the country."—Boston Transcript.

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Margaret Regis and some other Girls.

12mo, illustrated, $1.25.

"The college life of young women is described in this book in a very entertaining way, and in a spirit the most wholesome and cheerful. Margaret Regis is a splendid creation of the author's fancy, just such a young woman as all of us like to read about. In her schooldays she is not different from others. There is a shade of profound thought in her description of this period of life: 'She is like the many, many girls, increasing in numbers every year, who, unfixed and restless, go into college or the office, with a vague determination to do something that shall make them independent or superior to the greatest number of girls, but with no definite idea of how they are to use the knowledge and experience they gain.' Margaret Regis does not remain long in this unsettled state. She is emphatically a woman with a purpose. How its current was turned from the intended course makes an interesting narrative which the reader will find full of profit."—Cleveland Leader.

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New Every Morning.

A Year Book for Girls. Edited by Annie H. Ryder. Square 16mo, cloth, $1.00; gilt, $1.25; limp, seal, $2.50.

A book of choice reading for girls for every day in the year.

"There is a happy blending of practical common sense, pure sentiment and simple religious fervor."—Education, Boston.

BOSTON:

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.

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WHEN GRANDMAMMA WAS FOURTEEN

By MARION HARLAND

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WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND NUMEROUS PICTURES IN THE TEXT PRICE $1.25

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Later adventures of the heroine of "WHEN GRANDMAMMA WAS NEW."

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THOSE who recall this noted author's delightful story, "When Grandmamma was New," will be glad to hear that in this book are the adventures of the heroine at a later period. Through the eyes of fourteen-year-old Molly Burwell, the reader sees much that is quaint, amusing and pathetic in ante-bellum Richmond, and the story has all the charm of manner and rich humanity which are characteristic of Marion Harland. All healthy-hearted children will delight in the story, and so will their parents.

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WHEN GRANDMAMMA WAS NEW

The Story of a Virginia Girlhood in the Forties
By Marion Harland 12mo Illustrated Price $1.25

The BOSTON JOURNAL says:

"If only one might read it first with the trained enjoyment of the 'grown-up' mind that is 'at leisure from itself,' and then if one might withdraw into ten-year-old-dom once more and seek the shadow of the friendly apple-tree, and revel in it all over again, taste it all just as the child tastes, and find it luscious! For this book has charm and piquancy. And it is in just this vivid remembrance of a child's mental workings, in just the avoidance of all 'writing down' to the supposed level of a child's mind, that this story has its rare attractiveness. It is bright, winsome, and magnetic."

The INTERIOR, Chicago, says:

"'Grandmamma' may have charmed other folks,—has charmed them all, incontrovertibly,—but she has never tried harder to be vivid and dramatic and entertaining, and to leave a sweet kernel of application, withal, than in these memory-tales of a sunny childhood on a big Virginia plantation. It is a book which will delight, not children alone, but all such as have the child heart and a tender memory of when they were 'new.'"

AT ALL BOOKSELLERS, OR SENT POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE BY THE PUBLISHERS

LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON

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A Little Maid of Concord Town

A Romance of the American Revolution

By MARGARET SIDNEY. One volume, 12mo, illustrated by F. T. Merrill, $1.50

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A DELIGHTFUL Revolutionary romance of life, love and adventure in old Concord. The author lived for fifteen years in the home of Hawthorne, in Concord, and knows the interesting town thoroughly.

Debby Parlin, the heroine, lived in a little house on the Lexington Road, still standing, and was surrounded by all the stir and excitement of the months of preparation and the days of action at the beginning of our struggle for freedom.

By Way of the Wilderness

By "PANSY" (Mrs. G. R. Alden) and MRS. C. M. LIVINGSTON. 12mo, cloth, illustrated by Charlotte Harding, $1.50

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THIS story of Wayne Pierson and how he evaded or met the tests of misunderstanding, environment, false position, opportunity and self-pride; how he lost his father and found him again, almost lost his home and found it again, almost lost himself and found alike his manhood, his conscience and his heart is told us in Pansy's best vein, ably supplemented by Mrs. Livingston's collaboration.

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the
FAMOUS PEPPER BOOKS

By Margaret Sidney
IN ORDER OF PUBLICATION

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Five Little Peppers and How they Grew. Cloth, 12 mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid.

This was an instantaneous success; it has become a genuine child classic.

Five Little Peppers Midway. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid.

"A perfect Cheeryble of a book."—Boston Herald.

Five Little Peppers Grown Up. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid.

This shows the Five Little Peppers as "grown up," with all the struggles and successes of young manhood and womanhood.

Phronsie Pepper. Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.50, postpaid.

It is the story of Phronsie, the youngest and dearest of all the Peppers.

The Stories Polly Pepper Told. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Jessie McDermott and Etheldred B. Barry. $1.50, postpaid.

Wherever there exists a child or a "grown-up," there will be a welcome for these charming and delightful "Stories Polly Pepper Told."

The Adventures of Joel Pepper. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Sears Gallagher. $1.50, postpaid.

As bright and just as certain to be a child's favorite as the others in the famous series. Harum-scarum "Joey" is lovable.

Five Little Peppers Abroad. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Fanny Y. Cory. $1.50, postpaid.

The "Peppers Abroad" adds another most delightful book to this famous series.

Five Little Peppers at School. Cloth, 12mo. Illustrated by Hermann Heyer. Price, $1.50; postpaid.

Of all the fascinating adventures and experiences of the "Peppers," none will surpass those contained in this volume.

Five Little Peppers and Their Friends. Illustrated by Eugenie M. Wireman. Cloth, 12mo, $1.50; postpaid.

The friends of the Peppers are legion, and the number will be further increased by this book.

Ben Pepper. Illustrated by Eugenie M. Wireman. Cloth, 12mo, $1.50.

This story centres about Ben, "the quiet, steady-as-a-rock boy," while the rest of the Peppers help to make it as bright and pleasing as its predecessors.

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LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY

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THE GIRL WHO KEPT UP

By MARY McCRAE CUTLER

Illustrated by C. Louise Williams. 12mo. Cloth. $1.25