Miss Jerusha Flint was not the only one who appreciated the home of Dr. and Mrs. Lattinger, in Dorton. Not only the villagers, but people of the surrounding neighborhood had a warm feeling for the genial and hospitable residents of the old colonial mansion, which had been for generations in the family of Mrs. Lattinger, and where she had lived all her life. The Lattingers had also frequent visitors from Baltimore, where the doctor had spent the early years of his practice, some of them being former patients who came out for the day for change of air and scene.

One pleasant morning in June, Dr. Lattinger had the unexpected pleasure of a visit from a former college chum, a lawyer who had a short time before bought one of the pretty suburban homes, and, as was the doctor’s custom, he took him upon his round among his patients.

“Yes, doctor,” commented the visitor, when about noon they were returning to the village, on the same drive upon which they had set out, but in an opposite direction, “you are correct in your opinion of this region of country; it is prosperous and beautiful. There are so many picturesque spots. For instance that cottage nearly covered with ivy, which we are about to pass, is a picture in itself.”

“Yes, it is the home of an artist, Norman Ashley, who, with his wife, came here from Baltimore that he might have natural scenery for his pictures. They are handsome young people and live an ideal life.”

“That lovely little girl amid the roses on the lawn is, I suppose, their daughter.”

“No, she is Hilda Brinsfield, the orphan niece of Mr. Ashley.”

“Hilda Brinsfield!” echoed the gentleman in surprise. “My wife and I were wondering only yesterday what became of that sweet child after the death of her lovely young mother.”

“Then you are acquainted with her parents?” said Dr. Lattinger with interest.

“Only for the little time I have lived in my present home. Her father, Rev. Freeman Brinsfield, was pastor of our village church, his first charge. I heard incidentally that his means had been exhausted in his college and theological course, and he was very grateful for the call. My friend also added that he came of a long line of ministers, one or more of them being pioneer missionaries. Little Hilda is a child of prayer and has the promise of being cared for.”

“She certainly has a happy home with the Ashleys, who come as near idolizing her as Christian people will allow themselves to worship anything earthly. The three pass most of this beautiful June weather in the open, Mr. Ashley taking his artist equipments, Mrs. Ashley a book and a basket of luncheon, and Hilda her doll and toys, and in the shady woods or blossoming orchard they encamp.”

“Truly an ideal life; and now tell me who lives in that handsome villa just above it, but on the opposite side of the road?”

“That is the residence of Miss Anna Ashburton, and is called ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ for as you probably know, most country homes in ‘Maryland, My Maryland’ have names, generally pretty well adapted to their appearance. It was left to her by a widow—Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth—who died a few months ago. They were not the least related, but loved each other as mother and daughter.”

“Had Mrs. Joshua Farnsworth no relatives to whom she could leave her property, or who would contend for it?”

“No, her only near relative—her sister—the widow of the late Judge Lacy, of Springfield, Ohio, is wealthy, has no children, and has no need of what Mrs. Farnsworth gave to her foster daughter.”

“Miss Anna is elderly, I presume?”

“No, scarcely eighteen, is amiable and attractive, finely educated, a musician and artist; an orphan without a relative in the world, so far as is known.”

“But she does not live alone in that great mansion?”

“Yes, with the exception of a middle-aged woman—Miss Jerusha Flint—who lived with her brother, Horace, and his family in the brown cottage we passed this morning, about a mile beyond the other end of the village, and who was more than gratified when Miss Anna invited her to make her home at ‘My Lady’s Manor.’”

“They must live a lonely life there.”

“Not at all. Miss Anna is much beloved, and has many visitors, not only from the neighborhood, but from Baltimore. Moreover, the servants, who have known and loved her from babyhood, have their comfortable quarters back of the mansion, and as Miss Anna’s library and sleeping-room windows look directly down upon the doors of their cabins, Lois, Phebe and Judy are at all hours of the day and night within call.”

“It is not likely that Miss Anna, being young and attractive, will remain long unmarried.”

“If the opinion of the neighborhood be correct, she will in the near future bestow her hand and heart upon Mr. Valentine Courtney—the brother-in-law of our good pastor Rev. Carl Courtney, of ‘Friedenheim,’ the old homestead of the Courtneys. He is a lawyer, has his office in Baltimore, but makes his home at ‘Friedenheim.’ He is one of the most useful and liberal members of his brother-in-law’s church, and is in every respect an estimable young man.”

“You say ‘brother-in-law’—and yet the Rev. Carl is a Courtney.”

“Yes, he is a distant relative of his wife, and of her brother, Valentine, and his home from childhood has been at ‘Friedenheim,’ which was inherited by Mrs. Courtney.”

“That walk upon the roof of Miss Anna’s villa must give a fine view of the surrounding country.”

“Fine indeed, and it has a history, and a mystery. About twenty-five years ago, Mr. Joshua Farnsworth died there, it is believed, by an unknown hand.”

“In what manner?” asked his visitor, full of interest.

“As I was informed by my wife and others of the residents of the neighborhood, Mr. Farnsworth, who was in his usual excellent health the evening of his death, had gone to the village postoffice, and while perusing a letter just received, a hand was laid upon his shoulder by a stranger, who said in a low tone, ‘Joshua!’

“Mr. Farnsworth turned very pale, the two went out, and walked to ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ talking earnestly. Later in the evening they were seen upon the roof, seated upon the bench that lines the ironwork balustrade, still engaged in earnest conversation, and a few hours after, the villagers were shocked to hear that Mr. Farnsworth was found there, dead, and the stranger gone, no one knew when nor where.”

“But was there no investigation as to the cause of his death?”

“Yes, and the verdict at the inquest was death from heart failure; but those who witnessed the meeting at the postoffice, and the villagers who saw them on the walk upon the roof believe that the stranger took his life.”

“And you say that no one knew how and when the stranger left the place?”

“No. Judge and Mrs. Lacy were visiting there at the time. They and Mrs. Farnsworth had retired, as had the servants, all the doors and windows were locked for the night and the shutters closed; and thus they were found when about midnight search was made for Mr. Farnsworth. Not a footfall had been heard, or sound of any kind giving token of the departure of the stranger. It was, and has remained a mystery.”

An elegant suburban home indeed was “My Lady’s Manor”—a three-storied granite building, light gray in color, with sea-green cornice and shutters and partly screened by maple trees from the road leading to Dorton.

From the walk upon the roof could be had a charming view of woodlands, meadows, farmhouses, country-seats, mill properties, the creek that flowed past them, and villages; among them Dorton, with its one church spire.

In the distance Baltimore’s monuments were clearly discernible, the harbor with its forest of masts, the Patapsco flecked with sails, Federal Hill and Fort McHenry; all uniting in a varied and attractive landscape.

Yes, “My Lady’s Manor” was one of the choice places of the neighborhood, and Jerusha Flint felt it a pleasant change to be the respected companion of its young lady owner, and, having given up her despised occupation, was blooming into youth and beauty in the sunlight of a happy home.

Among Anna’s many acquaintances there was no one whose friendship she prized more than that of Mrs. Ashley. They were congenial in every way, save that Mrs. Ashley, though but a few months older, cared but little for society, where she would have been such an ornament with her fine presence, deep blue eyes, wealth of auburn hair and a complexion of matchless fairness. The company of her husband, Hilda and Anna was all she solicited, and had but a speaking acquaintance with the people of Dorton and its neighborhood, making no calls except to “My Lady’s Manor” and “Friedenheim.”

The Civil War was darkening the land, and Norman Ashley laid aside palette and brush to join in the struggle between the blue and the gray.

He was not willing to leave his wife and Hilda in the cottage without a caretaker, and as Providence willed it, Diana Strong was indulging in a respite from hospital work in the home of Mrs. Horace Flint and was willing to assume the light duty of housekeeper at the Ashley cottage.

Jerusha Flint was the negotiator in the affair, and as she generally carried to a successful issue whatever she undertook, Diana was duly installed and Mr. Ashley went to join his regiment with the comforting thought that his little family was in good hands.

This separation was a terrible trial to the young husband and wife, and Anna Ashburton was Mrs. Ashley’s faithful friend and comforter. She had also great affection for Hilda and would have her for hours at a time at the villa, to the secret displeasure of Jerusha, who had no love for any child, much less for one connected in any way with Mrs. Ashley, looked upon by Miss Flint as proud, cold and self-sufficient.

Moreover, that grim tyrant, jealousy, had taken possession of Jerusha, assuring her that it was a blessed relief to the cultivated intellect of Anna Ashburton to exchange for a time her dull companionship for that of the cultured and accomplished Mrs. Ashley.

The first time that Anna made an engagement with Mrs. Ashley to gather wood flowers, she invited Miss Flint to accompany them, but her courtesy was rewarded by a haughty refusal and a scornful flash of the black eyes.

Anna knew that this was not intended for her, but for the waiting Mrs. Ashley down at the cottage, who knew nothing of Jerusha’s feeling in regard to her, nor did Anna think it kindness to enlighten her.

On her part, Jerusha considered that in view of the information contained in her mother’s letter in the ebony box, she had a better right to be proud than had Mrs. Ashley, and therefore would not take a step out of her way to be in her company.

“Where did you first meet Mr. Ashley?” Anna asked one summer afternoon while they were arranging flowers under the shade of an oak tree, while Hilda, who always accompanied them, was busy gathering more.

“In a hail-storm in Ohio. Shall I tell you of it?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Anna gleefully, “the beginning being so romantic, it cannot fail in interest.”

“Yes, a little romance and a great trial; for it has partly estranged me from my sister and her husband—Dr. Cyril Warfield—with whom I made my home after the death of our parents.

“The estrangement is more my fault than theirs. I should not have treated them with coldness and reserve in return for their lightly expressed opposition to my marriage,” and her beautiful eyes filled with tears.

“I should not have mentioned the subject; please do not continue it if it distresses you,” pleaded Anna, her eyes filling in sympathy.

“I am glad you mentioned it. I have wished to tell you of myself, but never felt sufficiently acquainted until this summer, and you cannot realize what your companionship has been to me since my husband left for the battlefield.

“While our parents lived, they, with their three children—Sarah, Herbert and I—resided in our old homestead in Ohio, near the village of Woodmont, a few miles from Springfield.

“Papa had intrusted the property for his children to the hands of friends in whom he had confidence; but through their failure we lost heavily, and when the estate was closed there was but a remnant left of what he intended for us.

“When Sarah, who is ten years older than I, married Cyril, she went with him to the Warfield homestead which adjoined our place, and there they have lived happily. But Cyril is in feeble health and Sarah is very anxious, fearing he will never be better.

“Herbert, with his share, bought the store of a merchant in Woodmont and Sarah and Cyril took me to their home where I was treated as tenderly as are their two boys, Paul and Fred.

“One afternoon in June I had driven to the village postoffice and was returning as quickly as possible, for the appearance of the clouds betokened a storm. I had passed a turn in the road when rain came down in torrents, then hail fell fast, the wind blowing it in my face, stunning and nearly blinding me.

“The terrified pony ran. Then as the hail storm increased in violence, she crouched down and I was about to spring from the carriage when a hand restrained me.

“‘You are safer there,’ said Mr. Ashley, for it was he who spread the carriage robe over the pony and encouraged her to rise; then he stepped into the carriage, took the lines from my trembling hands, and, turning about, drove to the shelter of a large tree. It was all the work of a moment, and he had scarcely glanced at me until I spoke, thanking him for his assistance.

“‘The storm will soon be over,’ he remarked in response. ‘Will you allow me to see you safely home? My name is Norman Ashley and my home is in a village near Baltimore with my widowed sister, Mrs. Brinsfield. I am an artist and, with several of my fellow-artists, am traveling upon a sketching tour. They have gone further west, I remaining in Woodmont, having found some picturesque views for sketching and putting later upon canvas.’

“‘I do not wish to keep you so long in damp clothing,’ I said.

“‘Oh, we tramps do not mind such trifles,’ he replied lightly, and as soon as the hail ceased falling we sped home.

“My sister and brother-in-law had been terribly anxious and were rejoiced to see me unhurt. They welcomed Mr. Ashley cordially, invited him to dine with us the following day, and then Cyril’s farmer, Ben Duvall, took him in the phaeton to Woodmont.”

“He came next day, I am sure,” smiled Anna.

“Yes, and the next and the next; and Dr. Warfield and every member of the family enjoyed his genial society. He brought his sketch book, and every day that Cyril had leisure he took him to the prettiest spots in the neighborhood, and at other times Paul, Fred and I accompanied him in woodland rambles and watched in surprise the quickness and accuracy with which the scenes were sketched.

“His companions returned from their tour and his stay in Woodmont was ended; and the morning he called to say good-bye he presented sister Sarah with a fine oil painting from one of the sketches she had admired.

“He asked to correspond with me and letters passed between us for more than a year. Through the meeting in Springfield of a former classmate, a resident of Baltimore, Cyril learned that Mr. Ashley was a consistent church member, a Sabbath school teacher and in every way an estimable young man. Therefore the only objection that he and sister Sarah made to our marriage lay in what Mr. Ashley had considered it his duty to tell them, and me, that his only means of maintenance was in the sale of his paintings, and they feared that it was an uncertain dependence.

“The following autumn we were married and he brought me to his sister’s home near Baltimore. She was the widow of a young minister and the mother of our loved Hilda. She was in frail health, but lingered until spring, and oh, Anna, during that winter I learned how a Christian can meet death. She had not reached her twenty-fifth year and her callers from the city were principally her former classmates, her church, Sabbath school, music and art associates, and not one, I am sure, visited her without being impressed and benefited by the sweet serenity of her manner and the almost angelic expression upon her lovely features. She was an embodiment of gratitude to God who had answered her prayers, that her life might be spared until her brother married, and that his wife would be one who would be willing to take her only child, her beloved Hilda, and one to whom she would intrust her. She blessed me with tears of joy that I proved to be that one. She gave Hilda to me and I accepted the charge, promising to do the same by her that I would were she my own child.

“One sweet morning in May she was called to come up higher, and a week or so later we left the city and came to the cottage.”

“Thank you for telling me of yourself and those near to you,” said Anna. “I feel that you and Hilda are dearer to me than ever, and I have interest in your sister, Mrs. Warfield, and her family. Does she resemble you?”

“Yes, the description of one would answer for both so far as appearance is concerned, but Sarah is more practical than I; a noble, energetic, useful woman; one to depend upon in every circumstance in life and at the same time a loving wife, mother and sister.”

“There comes Mr. Merryman’s errand boy, Perry,” said Anna, as the boy came whistling across the field on his way to “Fair Meadow” from Dorton. “He has a letter; perhaps it is for one of us, as he has come a little out of his way,” and both arose as he came near.

“The postmaster gave me a letter for you, Mrs. Ashley,” he said. “It has a black border and he thought it might be one that you should have as quickly as possible. I called at your house but you were not in and I left it with Miss Diana Strong. Was that right?”

“Perfectly right, Perry, and I thank you for your kindness,” and the boy passed on with the mail for the “Fair Meadow” home, whistling and halting occasionally to pluck a flower.

“Oh, Anna,” said Mrs. Ashley anxiously, “I am afraid that letter brings sad news of Dr. Warfield. Will you stop with me and see?”

“Willingly; and I sincerely hope that your fears will not be realized.”

The two ladies, followed by Hilda, hurried through the meadow and up the road to the cottage, where Anna listened to the reading of the missive which gave the intelligence that Mrs. Warfield was a widow and Paul and Fred fatherless.

Mrs. Ashley’s tears fell fast in sympathy for her sister’s bereavement, and Anna wept with her and stayed for a time to give what comfort was in her power.

“I will write to Sarah this evening,” said Mrs. Ashley, when Anna arose to go home; “I wish I had written oftener and less reservedly while Cyril lived. He was always kind to me and never knew how much I appreciated his goodness. Oh, Anna, will we never learn to be tender and considerate with our fellow pilgrims? We never appreciate them as we should until they are gone; or if we do we never let them know it.”