The next day was a wild, drifting storm. My first waking thought in the early morning was the unpleasant one that my promised visit to Mrs. Le Grande must be made during the day. When I raised my head from the pillow the pain was even more severe than on the previous evening, and a dizzy faintness seized me when I tried to rise. I was so unaccustomed to sickness I had not learned the happy art of accepting patiently its behests; so, after a few more efforts, I succeeded in dressing myself. I went to the window and, on looking out, was greatly relieved to see huge drifts piled between us and the outside world, which promised at least one day's blockade unless Thomas and Samuel worked much harder than their wont.

I put in an appearance at the breakfast table, although the sight of food was exceedingly repugnant, and made a pretence to eat what was placed before me. Mr. Winthrop very cheerfully announced that I was certainly a prisoner for that day—an announcement I received with perfect indifference—the mere thought of facing the outside world as I then felt made me shudder. Probably he was surprised that I took with such extreme calmness my temporary imprisonment; for he asked if I enjoyed being snow-bound.

"I do, to-day," I answered unthinkingly.

"You must have some special reason for such a state of mind."

I did not attempt to reply, and was glad to find that his suspicions were not aroused. After we arose from the table he stood chatting with us by the fire for some time, while Mrs. Flaxman with a little help on my part washed the china and silver, interjecting a word now and then with deep content. I could see these genial moods of my guardian gave her unbounded satisfaction; sometimes when I looked in her gentle, patient face and remembered how few real joys she had in her daily life, I used to get positively angry with him, because, as a rule, he was so chary with his smiles and gracious words. As he was leaving the room he turned to me and said:—"I would like you to come to the library after you get those important partnership duties completed."

"Do you mean our dish-washing?" I asked.

"Yes, certainly. You seem to enjoy menial work very much."

"It is woman's work, Mr. Winthrop, just as much as painting pictures or studying German metaphysics is,—a much more important work for me, if I marry a poor man and become my own maid of all work."

"Ah, indeed! you think, then, of becoming one of them. I mean one of your own favorite class. I presume you have not yet selected the happy pauper whose poverty you intend to share."

"Oh, no, I have not given the question of a husband, or settlement in life any serious thought as yet. I was only supposing a case. One never knows what may happen, and even royalties now and then are reduced to genteel beggary."

"You are merely getting accustomed to the life, taking time by the forelock, we might say," he said with an amused look. "Well, since you are not altogether committed to that way of living, and in case your dreams are not realized, we will continue the German metaphysics a little longer. I got in a fresh supply of books on Saturday. I would like you to come and look them over with me. You may see something you would like to take up."

I thanked him and promised to join him shortly.

When we were alone Mrs. Flaxman said, with a reflective air, as she stood polishing the cream jug; "I never expected to see Mr. Winthrop so nice to a woman as he is to you."

"Why, Mrs. Flaxman, do you call him nice?" I asked in amazement.

"Yes, dear, beautifully so. He puts on a brusque outside, but it is as much to conceal his liking for you as anything, and then he does more for you than he would for any one else in the world. Now, if I had tried for a lifetime, I could not have got him out to Beech Street Church and I doubt if there is any one besides yourself could have done it. Some men, unknown to themselves, have strong paternal instincts; and it only requires the right touch to waken these instincts."

"But he is too young to be my father; and any way he said he was not anxious for me to regard him in that way," I remonstrated.

"He is old in heart if not in years, my child. His has been an intense and also bitter life,—the last few years at least."

"Yes, I know," I said unthinkingly; "but a man like Mr. Winthrop is foolish to let a woman like Mrs. Le Grande embitter his life."

"Medoline, where did you hear of Mrs. Le Grande?" she asked sharply.

My face crimsoned guiltily, but I remained silent.

"Was it Mrs. Blake, or any of the Mill Road people told you?"

"No, indeed. I have told you before they never gossip about him."

"Was it any of our own friends, the Carters, or Flemings? I know they are vulgarly inclined, for all they are in good society."

"It was none of these, nor any one you have seen for a good many years, that told me what I know."

"You must tell me, Medoline, who told you. It is the first time I have tried to force your confidence."

"But I have promised not to tell you."

"Had you met Mrs. Le Grande before you were with her yesterday when she fainted in church?"

My answer was a sob.

"Where had you met her, Medoline?"

"You will tell Mr. Winthrop, and he will never forgive me."

"Then you have really been with her?"

"Yes, she sent me a letter requesting me to visit her."

"And you went. When was this?"

"A week ago. But I did not dream she was a rich woman or had ever known Mr. Winthrop. I thought it was some one poor and in distress. I did not know it was a person suffering from heartbreak."

"Heart-break!" she exclaimed, with such a flash of scorn, that the surprise her words created effectually dried my tears.

"She has no heart to get broken, except the organ that propels her blood—even a cat has the same."

"She is very beautiful, and is also extremely anxious to make reparation to Mr. Winthrop for the wrong she has done him."

"She is as heartless and selfish as she is beautiful; and if she were to be allowed the privilege of making reparation, the second offence would be worse than the original one. But we will not mention her name again. Leave her alone as she deserves."

"She compelled me to give my promise to go and see her again. She looks for me to-day."

"Medoline, have you no sense of propriety? Mr. Winthrop's ward visiting, unknown to him, the woman who wrought him such grievous wrong? Can you expect him to forgive such an act, especially when he was getting to have such confidence in your honesty and purity?"

"You will tell Mr. Winthrop?"

"I must obey him. It was his hope you would never hear the disgraceful story. His special command if you did that I must tell him directly. I promised to do so and I must fulfill that promise, but at a cost, Medoline, that I dare not think of."

"Will you go directly then? Maybe this is my last day at Oaklands. I shall not stay here to suffer his contempt and displeasure." I said wearily, my bodily misery dulling to some extent the mental pain; for I was growing sick rapidly. With difficulty I gained the shelter of my own room, my one haven of refuge in the wide world. Crouching by the window I watched the mad, hurrying storm outside, and wondering vaguely if nature suffered in this elemental warfare as we did in our tempests of the soul when the very foundations of hope and happiness were getting swept from our feet. In imagination I re-lived my past months at Oaklands, my intercourse with Mr. Winthrop, his gradually increasing esteem, the friendship, nay rather the comradeship that was being cemented between us over literature and art, the help he was giving me in these, and the rare life that imagination was beginning to picture that we might enjoy through coming years together.

I realized then, as never before, how happy I had been in my new home; and with a clearness that gave me pain came the consciousness how much my guardian had become to me. After to-day I might never again call Oaklands my home. If I had gone at once and confessed to Mr. Winthrop on my return that day from Linden Lane that I had met Mrs. Le Grande he could not have been reasonably angry with me; but I had concealed from him the fact, and had also promised her another interview, and now with vision grown suddenly clear I could realize how he would receive my unwilling confession, after a whole week's silence. With aching head and heart I wondered at the cruelty of circumstance that forced the innocent to suffer with the guilty.

With my intense nature, so susceptible either to pleasure or pain, those lonely hours in my own room, that bitter day, left their trace on heart and body for long weary weeks. When at last Mrs. Flaxman came to me, her own face sad and troubled, I no longer felt the cold in my fireless room; for the blood now was rushing feverishly in my veins, and my head throbbing with intense pain. I listened to what she had to say in a dazed, half-conscious way. I heard her say something about Mr. Winthrop's displeasure, but I was too sick to care very much for anything, just then. I startled her at last by saying:—"I do not understand what you are saying. Please wait and tell me some other time."

"Sure, you have not been sitting all this time here in the cold. You should have gone where it was warm, or rung for Esmerelda to kindle your fire."

I rose and tried to walk across the room; but staggered and would have fallen only that she supported me.

"Are you sick, Medoline?" She asked, in great alarm.

"My head aches and I am very hot," I said uncertainly. I was unused to sickness and scarcely knew how much pain was necessary before I could truthfully say I was ill. I remember thinking the matter over with great seriousness, and wishing Mrs. Blake, with her superior knowledge of bodily ailments, was there to decide, until at last I got tired and tried to forget all about it. Then everything began to grow uncertain. I knew that I was lying in bed and the fire burning brightly in the grate, while persons were passing to and fro; but they did not look familiar. I kept wishing so much that Mrs. Blake would come with her strong, cheery presence to comfort me, and if she would give me a drink of pure cold water from one of her own clean glasses I should be content to turn my face to the wall and sleep. But after a time my one despairing thought was Mr. Winthrop's displeasure, while hour after hour, and day after day, I tried to tell him that I did not mean to deceive him, and wanted to be just to every one alike, but he was never convinced and used to come and go with the same stern, hard look on his face that nearly broke my heart. When just at the point of utter despair, when I thought all had turned against me, Mr. Bowen or Mrs. Blake used to step up and tell me they understood it all and believed in me, then for awhile I would shut my eyes and rest, only to open them again to plead once more for forgiveness; but to plead vainly. Then I would be on the point of leaving Oaklands forever, and bidding good-bye to every one in the household save Mr. Winthrop. He always turned away sternly and refused me his hand. I was not conscious when it was day or night. It was all one perpetual twilight. I would ask if the sun would never rise again, or the moon come back with her soft shining; but no one heeded my questions. I resolved to be so patient after this in answering people's questions when their heads were full of pain, since I knew how sad it was to go on day after day with these puzzling, wearying questions haunting one. Then there came a long, quiet time of utter forgetfulness when I passed down into the very valley of the shadow that Death casts over the nearly disembodied spirit, and here I had rest.

When at last I opened my eyes to see the old, accustomed place and faces, I was like a little child.

I lay quiet for some time wondering if it were possible for me to lift my hand. It was night, for the lamp was burning, and some one was sitting just within the shadow the lamp shade cast. I hoped it was Mrs. Blake, and lay wondering how I could find out. I tried to lift my head, but found the effort so wearying I went back into brief unconsciousness. Presently my eyes opened again; but this time there was a face bending over my bed, so that I had no need to muster my feeble forces to attract their attention. I smiled up weakly into the face that in the dim light I failed to recognize.

"Do you know me, dearie?" I was sure it was Mrs. Blake's voice sounding strong and real.

"Is it Mrs. Blake?" I asked uncertainly.

"Yes, dearie, it jest is." Then I shut my eyes, so tired I could not even think; but I heard a rustling sound, and a voice, that sounded a long way off, murmur, "Thank God!" The voice sounded familiar, but I could not recall whose it was. I tried to do so, but the effort wearied me. A spoon was put to my lips, the milk that was given to me brought back the long ago times—so long ago, I wondered if now I was an old woman; but after brief reflection I knew this could not be, since Mrs. Blake was still alive, and not much older in appearance than when I saw her last. To make sure of the matter I determined to look at her again, and opened my eyes to settle my perplexity; but this time the face looking down at me was not Mrs. Blake's. I tried to raise my head on the pillow the better to see who it was, when the person stooped near to me and said: "You are coming back to us, Medoline." I wondered who was calling me by that name. No one save Mr. Winthrop and Mrs. Flaxman were in the habit now of doing so; but my strength was so rapidly waning I could neither see nor hear very distinctly. After a few seconds, once more rallying all my forces, I looked up again.

"Who is it?" I whispered.

"Do you not know me, Medoline?"

"Is it,"—I paused, trembling so with excitement I could scarce articulate,—"is it Mr. Winthrop?"

"Yes, little one."

The old caressing name he had given me long ago, surely he must have forgiven me or he would not use it now. But I was not satisfied without the assurance that we were to take up again the kindly relations of the past; and so with an effort that seemed likely to sweep me back dangerously near that shore I had so lately been skirting, I looked up and said: "I am sorry I displeased you; won't you forgive me?" My voice was so weak I was afraid he could not catch the words I uttered; but he folded my thin, shadowy hand in his, which seemed so strong and muscular I fancied it could hold me back from the gates of Death if its owner so willed, and after a few seconds' silence, he said, gently: "You must never think of that again, Medoline. Just rest, and come back to us. We all want you more than we can tell."

"Then I am forgiven, and you will trust me once more," I pleaded softly.

"Yes, Medoline, as I expect to be trusted by you," he said, with a solemnity that made me tremble. My eyes closed in utter weariness and then I seemed to be floating, floating over summer seas, and under such peaceful, blessed skies, I began to wonder if I was not passing out to the quiet coast bordering on the Heavenly places.

Of one thing only was I certain—the hand that still held mine, which kept me from drifting quite away from the shores of time. I tried to cling to it, but my hand could only lie nerveless within its firm grasp. I believed if once the hold was loosened I should slip quietly out into the broader sea just beyond me. I wondered which was best—life or death,—then far down in my soul I seemed to grow strong, and could calmly say, "as God wills;" and for a long time I seemed to be passively awaiting His will. It was very strange, the thoughts I had, lying there so far within the border land; as if the faculties of mind and soul had nearly slipped the fleshly leash, and independently of their environment, boldly held counsel, and speculated on the possibilities of their immediate future.

But gradually the wheels of life began to turn more strongly. When next I opened my eyes the daylight was softly penetrating the closely drawn curtains. Mrs. Flaxman was standing near, looking worn and pale; but Mrs. Blake was also there, and loomed up before me, strong as ever—a look into her kindly face was like a tonic. When she saw me watching her she turned around, and very softly whispered to Mrs. Flaxman, who, casting a startled, anxious glance towards me, went silently from the room.

Mrs. Blake, without speaking, gave me some nourishment. After I had taken it I began to feel more like a living creature.

"Mrs. Blake," I whispered. She stooped down to listen. "Tell me, please, how long I have lain here."

"A good long bit, but the doctor says we mustn't talk to you, or let you talk."

"I am so tired thinking; won't you sing to me?"

"My voice ain't no great shakes; but I'll do the very best I can for you, dearie."

She went to the other side of the room, and seating herself in a comfortable easy-chair began in a low, crooning voice to sing one of Doctor Watts' cradle melodies.

Probably she had learned it in childhood from her own mother, and in turn sung it again to the infant Daniel. It soothed me better than Beethoven or Wagner's grandest compositions could have done. I lay with closed eyes, seeing in imagination the great army of mothers who had lulled their babies to sleep with those same words, and the angels hovering near with folded wings guarding the sleeping nestlings.

The voice grew indistinct, and presently sleep, more deep and refreshing than I had known for weeks, enfolded me. The doctor entered the room at last to put a stop to the music, and found Mrs. Blake tired and perspiring, but singing steadily on. Without missing a note she pointed to the bed and the peaceful sleeper. He smiled grimly and withdrew; no doubt realizing there were other soporifics applied by nature than those weighed and measured by the apothecary.