Extract 1st.—Mr. McDonald's.

May ——.

Well, that matter is over, and I can't say I am sorry, for the expression in that Thornton's eye I do not care to meet a second time. There was mischief in it, and it made one think of six-shooters and cold lead. I never quite indorsed the man,—first, because he was not as rich as I would like Daisy's husband to be; and second, because even had he been a millionaire it would have done me no good. That he did not marry Daisy's family, he made me fully understand; and for any good his money did me, I was as poor after the marriage as before. Then he must needs lose all he had in that foolish way; and when I found that Daisy was not exceedingly in love with married life, it was natural that, as her father, I should take advantage of the laws of the State in which I live, especially as Tom is growing rich so fast. On the whole, I have done a good thing. Daisy is free, with ten thousand dollars which Thornton settled on her; for, of course, I shall prevent her giving that back as she is determined to do, saying it is not hers, and she will not keep it. It is hers and she shall keep it, and Tom will be a millionaire if that gold mine proves as great a success as it seems likely to do; and I can manage Tom, only I am sorry for Thornton who evidently was in love with Daisy; and, as I said before, I've done a nice thing after all.

Extract 2nd.—Miss Thornton's Diary.

June 30th, 18—.

To-day, for the first time, we have hopes that my brother will live; but, oh! how near he has been to the gates of death since that night when he came back to us from the West, with a fearful look on his face, and a cruel wound in his heart. I say us, for Julia Hamilton has been with me all through the dreadful days and nights when I watched to see Guy's life go out and know I was left alone. She was with me when I was getting ready for Daisy, and waiting for Guy to bring her home,—not to Elmwood,—that dear old place is sold, and strangers walk the rooms I love so well,—but here to the brown cottage on the hill, which, if I had never had Elmwood, would seem so pleasant to me.

And it is pleasant here, especially in Daisy's room, which we shall never use, for the door is shut and bolted, and it seems each time I pass it as if a dead body were lying hidden there. Had Guy died I would have laid him there and sent for that false creature to come and see her work. I promised her so much, but not from any love, for my heart was full of bitterness that night when I turned her from the door out into the rain. I shall never tell Guy that, lest he should soften toward her, and I would not have her here again for all the world contains. And yet I did like her, and was looking forward to her return with a good deal of pleasure. Julia had spoken many a kind word for her, had pleaded her extreme youth as an excuse for her faults, and had led me to hope for better things when time had matured her somewhat and she had become accustomed to our new mode of life.

And so I waited for her and Guy, and wondered I did not hear from them, and felt so glad and happy when I received the telegram, "Shall be home to-night." It was a bright day in May, but the evening set in cool, with a feeling of rain in the air, and I had a fire kindled in the parlor and in Daisy's room, for I remembered how she used to crouch on the rug before the grate and watch the blaze floating up the chimney with all the eagerness of a child. Then, although it hurt me sorely, I went to Simpson, who bought our carriage, and asked that it might be sent to the station so that Daisy should not feel the difference at once. And Jerry, our old coachman, went with it, and waited there just as Julia and I waited at home, for Julia had promised to stay a few days on purpose to see Daisy.

The train was late that night, an hour behind time, and the spring rain was falling outside and the gas was lighted within when I heard the sound of wheels stopping at the door and went to meet my brother. But only my brother. There was no Daisy with him. He came in alone, with such an awful look on his white face as made me cry out with alarm.

"What is it, Guy, and where is Daisy?" I asked, as he staggered against the bannister, where he leaned heavily.

He did not answer my question, but said, "Take me to my room," in a voice I would never have known for Guy's. I took him to his room and made him lie down, and brought him a glass of wine, and then, when he was strong enough to tell it, listened to the shameful story, and felt that henceforth and forever I must and would hate the woman who had wounded my Guy so cruelly.

And still there is some good in her,—some sense of right and justice, as was shown by what she did when Guy was at the worst of the terrible fever which followed his coming home. I watched him constantly. I would not even let Julia Hamilton share my vigils, and one night when I was worn out with fatigue and anxiety I fell asleep upon the lounge, where I threw myself for a moment. How long I slept I never knew, but it must have been an hour or more, for the last thing I remember was hearing the whistle of the Western train and the distant sound of thunder as if a storm were coming, and when I awoke the rain was falling heavily and the clock was striking twelve, which was an hour after the train was due. It was very quiet in the room, and darker than usual, for some one had shaded the lamp from my eyes as well as Guy's, so that at first I did not see distinctly, but I had an impression that there was a figure sitting by Guy near the bed. Julia most likely, I thought, and I called her by name, feeling my blood curdle in my veins and my heart stand still with something like fear when a voice I knew so well and never expected to hear again, answered softly:

"It is not Julia. It's I."

There was no faltering in her voice, no sound of apology. She spoke like one who had a right to be there, and this it was which so enraged me and made me lose my self-command. Starting to my feet, I confronted her as she sat in my chair, by Guy's bedside, with those queer blue eyes of hers fixed so questioningly upon me as if she wondered at my impertinence.

"Miss McDonald," I said, laying great stress on the name, "why are you here, and how did you dare come?"

"I was almost afraid, it was so dark when I left the train, and it kept thundering so," she replied, mistaking my meaning altogether, "but there was no conveyance at the station and so I came on alone. I never knew Guy was sick. Why did you not write and tell me? Is he very bad?"

Her perfect composure and utter ignoring of the past provoked me beyond endurance, and without stopping to think what I was doing, I seized her arm, and drawing her into an adjoining room, said, in a suppressed whisper of rage:

"Very bad,—I should think so. We have feared and still fear he will die, and it's all your work, the result of your wickedness, and yet you presume to come here into his very room,—you who are no wife of his, and no woman either, to do what you have done."

What more I said I do not remember. I only know Daisy put her hands to her head in a scared, helpless way, and said:

"I do not quite understand it all, or what you wish me to do."

"Do?" I replied. "I want you to leave this house immediately,—now, before Guy can possibly be harmed by your presence. Go back to the depot and take the next train home. It is due in an hour. You have time to reach it."

"But it is so dark, and it rains and thunders so," she said, with a shudder, as a heavy peal shook the house and the rain beat against the windows.

I think I must have been crazy with mad excitement, and her answer made me worse.

"You were not afraid to come here," I said. "You can go from here as well. Thunder will not hurt such as you."

Even then she did not move, but crouched in a corner of the room farthest from me, reminding me of my kitten when I try to drive it from a place where it has been permitted to play. As that will not understand my 'scats and gestures so she did not seem to comprehend my meaning. But I made her at last, and with a very white face and a strange look in her great staring blue eyes, she said:

"Fanny," (she always called me Miss Frances before). "Fanny, do you really mean me to go back in the dark, and the rain and the thunder? Then I will, but I must tell you first what I came for, and you will tell Guy. He gave me ten thousand dollars when we first were married; settled it on me, they called it, and father was one of the trustees, and kept the paper for me till I was of age. So much I understand, but not why I can't give it back to Guy, for father says I can't. I never dreamed it was mine after the—the—the divorce."

She spoke the word softly and hesitatingly, while a faint flush showed on her otherwise white face.

"If I am not Guy's wife, as they say, then I have no right to his money, and I told father so, and said I'd give it back, and he said I couldn't, and I said I could and would, and I wrote to Guy about it, and told him I was not so mean, and father kept the letter, and I did not know what I should do next till I was invited to visit Aunt Merriman in Detroit. Then I took the paper,—the settlement, you know, from the box where father kept it, and put it in my pocket; here it is; see—" and she drew out a document and held it toward me while she continued: "I started for Detroit under the care of a friend who stopped a few miles the other side, so you see I was free to come here if I liked, and I did so, for I wanted to see Guy and give him the paper, and tell him I'd never take a cent of his money. I am sorry he is sick. I did not think he'd care so much, and I don't know what to do with the paper unless I tear it up. I believe I'd better; then surely it will be out of the way."

And before I could speak or think she tore the document in two, and then across again, and scattered the four pieces on the floor.

"Tell Guy, please," she continued, "what I have done, and that I never meant to take it, after—after—that,—you know,—and that I did not care for money only as father taught me I must have it, and that I am sorry he ever saw me, and I never really wanted to be married and can't be his wife again till I do."

She spoke as if Guy would take her back of course if she only signified her wish to come, and this kept me angry, though I was beginning to soften a little with this unexpected phase of her character, and I might have suffered her to stay till morning if she had signified a wish to do so, but she did not.

"I suppose I must go now if I catch the train," she said, moving toward the door. "Good-bye, Fanny. I am sorry I ever troubled you."

She held her little white ungloved hand toward me and then I came to myself, and hearing the wind and rain, and remembering the lonely road to the station, I said to her:

"Stay, Daisy, I cannot let you go alone. Miss Hamilton will watch with Guy while I go with you."

"And who will come back with you? It will be just as dark and rainy then," she said; but she made no objection to my plan, and in less than five minutes Julia, who always slept in her dressing-gown so as to be ready for any emergency, was sitting by Guy, and I was out in the dark night with Daisy and our watch-dog Leo, who, at sight of his old playmate, had leaped upon her and nearly knocked her down in his joy.

"Leo is glad to see me," Daisy said, patting the dumb creature's head, and in her voice there was a rebuking tone, which I resented silently.

I was not glad to see her, and I could not act a part, but I wrapped my waterproof around her and adjusted the hood over her hair, and thought how beautiful she was, even in that disfiguring garb, and then we went on our way, the young creature clinging close to me as peal after peal of thunder rolled over our heads, and gleams of lightning lit up the inky sky. She did not speak to me, nor I to her, till the red light on the track was in sight, and we knew the train was coming. Then she asked timidly: "Do you think Guy will die?"

"Heaven only knows," I said, checking a strong impulse to add: "If he does, you will have the satisfaction of knowing that you killed him."

I am glad now that I did not say it. And I was glad then, when Daisy, alarmed perhaps by something in the tone of my voice, repeated her question:

"But do you think he will die? If I thought he would I should wish to die too. I like him, Miss Frances, better than any one I ever saw; like him now as well as I ever did, but I do not want to be his wife, nor anybody's wife, and that is just the truth. I am sorry he ever saw me and loved me so well. Tell him that, Fanny."

It was Fanny again, and she grasped my hand nervously, for the train was upon us.

"Promise me solemnly that if you think he is surely going to die you will let me know in time to see him once more. Promise,—quick,—and kiss me as a pledge."

The train had stopped. There was not a moment to lose, and I promised, and kissed the red lips in the darkness, and felt a remorseful pang when I saw the little figure go alone into the car which bore her swiftly away, while I turned my steps homeward with only Leo for my companion.

I had to tell Julia about it, and I gathered up the four scraps of paper from the floor where Daisy had thrown them, and joining them together saw they really were the marriage settlement, and kept them for Guy, should he ever be able to hear about it and know what it meant. There was a telegram for me, the next evening, dated at Detroit, and bearing simply the words, "Arrived safely," and that was all I heard of Daisy. No one in town knew of her having been here but Julia and myself, and it was better that they should not, for Guy's life hung on a thread, and for many days and nights I trembled lest that promise, sealed by a kiss, would have to be redeemed.

That was three weeks ago, and Guy is better now and knows us all, and to-day, for the first time, I have a strong hope that I am not to be left alone, and I thank Heaven for that hope, and feel as if I were at peace with all the world, even with Daisy herself, from whom I have heard nothing since that brief telegram.

August 1st, ——.

The shadow of death has passed from our house, and I can almost say the shadow of sickness too, for though Guy is still weak as a child and thin as a ghost, he is decidedly on the gain, and to-day I drove him out for the third time, and hoped from something he said that he was beginning to feel some interest in the life so kindly given back to him. Still he will never be just the same. The blow stunned him too completely for him to recover quite his old happy manner, and there is a look of age in his face which pains me to see. He knows Daisy has been here, and why. I had to tell him all about it, and sooner too than I meant to, for almost his first coherent question to me after his reason came back was:

"Where is Daisy? I am sure I heard her voice. It could not have been a dream. Is she here, or has she been here? Tell me the truth, Fanny."

So I told him, and showed him the bits of paper, and held his head on my bosom, while he cried like a child. How he loves her still, and how glad he was to know that she was not as mercenary as it would at first seem. Not that her tearing up that paper will make any difference about the money. She cannot give it to him, he says, until she is of age, neither does he wish it at all, and he would not take it from her; but he is glad to see her disposition in the matter; glad to have me think better of her than I did, and I am certain that he is expecting to hear from her every day, and is disappointed that he does not. He did not reproach me as I thought he would when I told him about turning her out in the rain; he only said:

"Poor Daisy, did she get very wet? She is so delicate, you know. I hope it did not make her sick."

Oh, the love a man will feel for a woman, let her be ever so unworthy. I cannot comprehend it. And why should I? an old maid like me, who never loved any one but Guy.

August 30th, ——.

In a roundabout way we have heard that Mr. McDonald is going away with his wife and daughter. When the facts of the divorce were known, they brought him into such disgrace with the citizens of Indianapolis, who were perfectly indignant, and showed that they were in every possible way, that he thought best to leave for a time till the storm was over, and so they will go to South America, where there is a cousin Tom, who is growing rich very fast. I cannot help certain thoughts coming into my mind, any more than I can help being glad that Daisy is going out of the country. Guy never mentions her now, and is getting to look and act quite like himself. If only he could forget her, we might be very happy again, as Heaven grant we may.