I.
ALIVE IN FAMINE.

Rarely does a man go down to the verge of the grave, and look into its profound and pregnant depths, without carrying from henceforth traces of the journey. His views of life will be truer, if not sadder, forever afterward. The laws of moral perspective, though they do not change, will be better understood; so that objects at a distance are no longer dwarfed to the understanding, however they may appear to the eye. Character becomes the central "point of sight," toward which duty continually draws converging right lines, by the aid of which happiness, fame, and wealth, fall into their proper places, and assume their true proportions.

Bergan Arling was seated in his office at Savalla. At first sight, it might seem that he was little changed, but a closer inspection would have awakened some surprise that the lapse of little more than a year could have changed him so much. The youthfulness had gone out of his face,—that half-eager, half-wistful look which says so plainly, "The world is all before me, where to choose;"—it was now the face of a man among men, who had found his place and his work, who had grappled with many hard problems, and solved some, who was accustomed to deal with serious subjects in a serious way, and who had withal, a definite rule and object of life. In short, it was informed with a positive and noble individuality, born out of suffering, and not yet wholly oblivious of the pangs that had given it birth, but certain, in good time, to attain to the fulness of an inward joy, which, having a deep wellspring of its own, would be little dependent upon the ebb and flow of outward circumstance.

Nor had the year been fruitless of exterior results. Scarcely had Bergan mastered the details of his new office, when his partner, Mr. Youle, was taken sick, and he was left to conduct its affairs pretty much alone. Several cases of importance being in hand, he was thus afforded a rare opportunity to achieve a rapid fame. His reputation already overshadowed that of many of his legal brethren who had greatly the advantage of him in years and experience.

From the first, he had made it an invariable rule never to speak against his clear convictions of right; and it was curious to observe what an influence the knowledge of this fact was beginning to have upon the community. The cause which he embraced, however hopeless its aspect, always commanded a degree of respect, and was watched with a certain reservation of judgment, in consideration of his acknowledged integrity of purpose; while, as a necessary sequence (from which Bergan, in his humility, would have been glad to escape), the cause which he was understood to have declined was apt to be pronounced suspicious in the popular judgment, however it might go in the courts. So certain is the talent which is known to be conjoined with a pure aim and an upright life, to win, soon or late, high place and strong influence, even in a world that disallows its very principle of being! The visible fruits of righteousness commend themselves to all lips, whatever is thought of the root from whence they spring.

Bergan's desk was littered with papers, but his eyes were studying only the opposite wall, half in abstraction, half in perplexity. Nor did their expression alter much when the door opened, and he rose to greet Mr. Youle, who came in slowly and feebly, leaning on a cane. He was of medium height, with gray hair, a thin face, and a kindly blue eye; and it was easy to see, was on the best of terms with his talented young partner. No room in that ripe intellect and gentle nature for so ignoble a passion as jealousy!

"There, that will do, Arling," he said, humorously, when Bergan had helped him carefully to a chair; "the old gentleman is as comfortable as he's likely to be,—or deserves to be, for that matter. Well, how goes on our case?"

Bergan shook his head, with a faint smile. "Very badly, I should say,—if anything can be said to go badly, which is so entirely in the hands of Providence. I confess that I can make nothing of it."

Mr. Youle looked grave. "I warned you in the beginning," said he, "that there was not a reasonable peg to hang a line of defence on."

"But I believe the man to be innocent," rejoined Bergan. "And," he added, smiling, "'I warned you, in the beginning,' that I should never advocate a cause which seemed to be unrighteous, nor refuse one that seemed to be just, though the one should offer me a fortune in fees, and the other not a cent."

"Yes, yes, I know," replied Mr. Youle. "And I must admit that your two rules have worked miraculously well thus far; we have lost but one case, I believe, since you came into the office. Well, well, such a vein of good luck cannot be expected to last forever,—after the nugget, the rock or the sand. But I don't see how it is that you are so strongly persuaded of Unwick's innocence."

"You would easily understand, if you had looked into his face once; it is a clean passport to confidence. Besides, there is the unvarying testimony of his past life, as set forth by everybody that knows him.—sober, honest, frank, kind, religious, everything that is desirable. A man does not become a murderer in cold blood, all at once; he has to prepare himself for it by vice, or intemperance, or a course of hard, cold, selfish living. There is always a downward slope, before the final plunge."

"Granted; but I doubt if you can make the jury see it clearly enough to ground a verdict of acquittal upon it, in the face of all that terribly strong circumstantial evidence."

Bergan mused for a little time without answering. "I cannot rid myself," he said, at length, "of a conviction that that son of the murdered man could throw some light on the subject, if he chose."

Mr. Youle stared. "I did not know that he had been suspected, for a moment," said he.

"Nor has he. But he is the one who profits most by the murder, since he is heir-at-law. And what a reckless and disobedient youth he has been!—always on bad terms with his father, when he was at home, and doing nothing but write letters for money, while he was in Europe. By the way, I can't help wondering if he was in Europe, all this past year; though really, I don't know why I should doubt it. Well,"—rising and looking at his watch,—"it is time to go to court."

"And, as I am feeling better to-day, I think I'll go along," said Mr. Youle. "Since you seem to think that Providence has the case very specially in His hands,—indeed, I don't mean it irreverently,—I'd like to see how He conducts it."

"I am glad to think that He is conducting it," said Bergan, in a low voice; "else I should be utterly discouraged."

The trial dragged its slow length through the greater part of the morning, without any incident of interest. One witness after another came upon the stand, was examined, and dismissed; each adding something to the weight of evidence against the prisoner, Unwick. The son of the murdered man, Varley by name, sat nearly opposite to Bergan, by the side of the prosecuting attorney; and being of a restless temperament, as well as gifted with extraordinary facility in the use of a pencil, he busied himself, as he listened to the monotonous drone of a witness, with mechanically sketching the faces of the witnesses or the spectators, or scenes and places that he had visited, recalled to his mind by the evidence, or by his own roving thoughts. One of these caught Bergan's eye, and he furtively watched its progress, while seeming to be occupied with his papers. When finished, it was carelessly dropped on the floor, like those which had preceded it; and the skilful pencil quickly set to work on a new subject. In a moment or two, Bergan dropped one of his papers, in a way to take it well under the table, and immediately stooped to get it. When he reappeared, a close observer might have noticed that the look of patient watchfulness, which his face had worn so long, was gone; but the keenest eyes would have been puzzled to read his present expression. Was it triumph, or thankfulness, or perplexity, or a mixture of all?

Mr. Varley was now put upon the stand, to furnish some small link in the chain of evidence that the prosecution was drawing so skilfully around the prisoner. The little that he was desired to say being said, the opposing counsel politely inquired if Mr. Arling had any questions to ask.

"One or two, if you please," answered Bergan, quietly; and rising, and turning toward the witness, he said:—

"I believe you stated, Mr. Varley, that you had never seen the place where your father died?"

"No; he bought it, and removed to it after I went abroad."

"Have you visited it, since your return?"

"I have not. I only got here just before the commencement of this trial, and I have been kept too busy since to find time for the trip."

"Then you have never seen the room where your father came to his death?"

"No, certainly not," returned the witness, beginning to look a little startled by this unaccountable persistency.

"Has it ever been very minutely described to you?"

Varley hesitated;—more, it was evident, to consider what could be the possible drift of the question, than to search his memory for a correct answer. He finally ventured to say that to the best of his recollection he had been favored with no such description.

"According to my notes of the evidence taken during this trial," pursued Bergan, "the only facts about the room brought out with much distinctness, were the positions of the bedstead and the window near it;—does your memory serve you with any additional particulars?"

"N—o," faltered the witness, with symptoms of growing uneasiness.

"Then," said Bergan, with very distinct and deliberate emphasis, "if, as you say, you never have seen this room, nor heard it minutely described, how is it that you have been able to make so accurate a representation of it as this which I hold in my hand?"

There was a breathless silence, while Bergan held up a small, but distinct, pencil sketch to the view of the pale and trembling witness.

"This sketch," continued Bergan, after waiting a few moments for the answer that did not come, "as I can vouch, and as many of these witnesses can testify, is an exact representation of the room in question, as it would appear from the head of the bedstead;—the very spot in which, it will be remembered, the prosecution has assumed that the murderer must have been concealed; and where, doubtless, he remained long enough to fix all the details of this sketch in his memory. Here is the peculiar double window, facing the east, and wreathed round with vines, which is so marked a feature of the room, yet which there has been no need to mention, during this trial, except in the most casual way; and here, on the right, are the round table and large armchair, where Mr. Varley wrote, and, on the left, an old-fashioned chest of drawers, with a plaster cast of Shakespeare on top;—all in their proper places, just as I saw them when I visited the room, after undertaking the defence of this case. How is it, I ask again," he went on, turning to the witness, "how is it that you could make this sketch, if you never saw the room?"

"Who says he made it?" demanded the opposing counsel, sharply.

"I say it," calmly replied Bergan. "I saw him draw it, not half an hour ago, on a piece of the same paper that you are using for your notes, as you can satisfy yourself, if you choose to compare them. Besides," he added, looking keenly at the witness, "Mr. Varley will not deny that he made it."

No, plainly he would not, for he was physically incapable of speech. He was shivering as with an ague fit, his knees knocked together, his lips trembled convulsively, but no articulate sound came forth. In another moment, he fell forward heavily on the rail that divided the witness-stand from the lawyers' table.

"Carry him out! Give him air!" cried a dozen voices; "he has fainted."

"Yes, carry him out," said Bergan gravely, and not without a touch of compassion in his voice; "since he is not on trial, we have no further need of him. But let me recommend that he be not lost sight of, till this present trial is over."

And it was over very quickly. The influence of the scene just witnessed was not to be ignored nor overcome. Prosecution and defence were alike glad to waste no time on the road to a foregone conclusion. The summing up, on both sides, was brief almost beyond precedent, the judge's charge was correspondingly so, and the jury returned a verdict of "Not Guilty," without leaving their seats.

"Well," exclaimed Mr. Youle, when he and Bergan had finally succeeded in escaping from the gratitude of Unwick, and the congratulations of friends. "I must say, I never saw such a sudden turn of events as that, in all my legal experience." And after a moment, he added, with unusual gravity, "It does seem as if the blessing of God were with you, and your two rules, Arling."

"I hope so," rejoined Bergan, quietly, "for I have learned that I can do nothing worth doing, without it."

"I really think," mused Mr. Youle, "if I were to live my life over again, I would adopt your plan. I am afraid that I have helped to save many a scoundrel from deserved punishment, as well as to rob an honest man, now and then, of his just rights; and when one comes to look back on it all, from the stand-point of my age, it does seem as if one might have been in better business. Yes, I believe you are right, Arling; and you have my cordial consent from this time forth, to keep on as you have begun. I confess I thought it was a freak, a whim at first, that would soon give way to the temptations—what we usually call the necessities—of actual, steady practice; but I see that you have a solid principle at the bottom which there's no shaking. Nevertheless, Arling, you can't expect that your judgment is going to be infallible,—that you will never mistake the guilty man for the innocent one, and vice versa."

"I do not expect it," answered Bergan, seriously. "Errors in judgment, I take it for granted that I shall make, being mortal; but errors in will, I mean to do my best, with God's help, to avoid."

A plain carriage, with a trim African on the box, was in waiting when the two gentlemen descended the courthouse steps.

"Come, Arling," said Mr. Youle, in a tone of command rather than invitation, "go home and dine with me; there are several things I want to talk to you about."

Bergan hesitated; it was easy to see that the plan did not commend itself to his taste.

"Never rack your brain for excuses; they won't serve," pursued Mr. Youle, with good-natured peremptoriness; "I mean to take you with me, whether you will or no. It is time for you to overcome your morbid dislike of society; besides, you will see no one but my own family."

Thus urged, Bergan could only take a seat in the carriage, and be driven off; albeit, in direct contravention of his inclinations and habits. For, although, on coming back to life and health from the borders of death, he had been quick to hear, and to heed, the plain, stern call of Duty to work while it is yet day, there had been no gracious response in his heart, as yet, to that softer voice wherewith she enjoins brotherly kindness, as well in gentle, social courtesies and amenities as in deeds of benevolence. Life had become too serious a thing, he thought, to be wasted in trifles such as these. Busy at the centre of the circle, he had lost sight of the circumference; intent upon the weightier matters of the law, he forgot the tithes of mint, anise and cummin, which yet, said the Master, ought not to be left undone. But it was a natural mistake, under the circumstances; and there was still time for him to learn that, in every well-ordered life, there is a place for little things,—little courtesies, little duties, little friends.

II.
NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

"Well, Coralie," said Mr. Youle, an hour later, as he preceded Bergan into the drawing-room of the fine old family mansion that had been the home of the Youles for many years, "bring out your laurels, I have brought you a conquering hero."

"Oh! it is Mr. Arling; he is very welcome." And Coralie, who had seen Bergan two or three times in her father's office, greeted him with marked cordiality, and gave him her small, soft hand.

It is odd how strong a resemblance can co-exist with perfect dissimilarity of features and complexion. Though she was very lovely—this Coralie Youle—and with a blithesome and bewitching loveliness all her own, Bergan had never been able to look upon her, nor could he see her now, without some deep, keen pain, as from an unhealed wound. There were tones in her voice which reminded him of one that he would hear no more; and she had ways and gestures which continually awakened memories not yet softened by distance into lines and tints of perfect purity and peace. And yet, what an irresistible, subtle charm in her was this very power to pain him!

"You said that Mr. Arling was a conquering hero, papa," she went on, turning to Mr. Youle. "Have you gained the case, then, after all? That is wonderful indeed! How did it happen? Tell me all about it."

Nothing loath, Mr. Youle gave a sufficiently graphic account of the scene in the court-room, taking occasion to lavish no small amount of hearty encomium upon Bergan's share in it.

"How I wish I could have been there to see!" exclaimed Coralie, when the recital was ended, her cheeks glowing with sympathetic excitement; "it sounds like a chapter out of a novel, rather than a bit of real life. Mr. Arling does, in truth, deserve the laurels of victory; and, by the way—Diva! where are you?—here is some one who is worthy to give them to him."

No one had noticed, until now, that a lady was standing in the window, half concealed by the curtain. But, as she came forward everything else seemed to fade out of sight, for the moment, and leave only her, standing there alone in the clear, cold light of her marvellous beauty.

Before this, Bergan's ideal of proud and queenly beauty had been painted with dark hair and eyes; he now saw reason to change it at once and forever. The lady was the most perfect blonde that he had ever seen. Her hair was of the palest brown, with only a faint gold light in it; her eyes were blue or gray, he could not tell which, at the moment, nor would he have been less puzzled after a much longer acquaintance; and her complexion was fair and colorless, almost, as marble; yet never had he beheld anything so stately, so proud, so calm, and—it must needs be said—so cold. She came forth from the shadow of the curtain as Galatea might have done, had she been endowed with life only, not with love.

Worthy she might be to crown a victor, in right of her queenliness, but the laurels from her hands, Bergan thought, would be very chill!

"Miss Thane!" exclaimed Mr. Youle, "why this is a surprise, and a most pleasant one. It is seldom that you allow any of us to see you here, except Coralie."

"Because my visits are usually morning visits," replied Miss Thane, in a low, yet singularly musical monotone, that harmonized perfectly with her face, "when I know that you are sure to be better engaged than in gossipping with me."

Mr. Youle slightly raised his eyebrows, in good-humored recognition of the possibly careless, possibly studied, ambiguity of this explanation; but he let it pass without comment, as Coralie hastened to present her guests to each other.

Bergan bowed low, with the graceful deference which always marked his bearing toward women; but Miss Thane was guilty of no waste of civility. She slightly inclined her head, vouchsafed him a single glance out of her wondrous eyes, and coolly turned back to the window, to lose herself, a moment after, in a fit of abstraction.

Miss Youle—Mr. Youle's maiden sister, and the mistress of his household since his wife's death, many years ago—now appeared, clad in a thick, black silk that rustled like a field of corn in the wind, and dropped Bergan her stately, old-time courtesy. And Coralie immediately began to repeat the story of the trial to her, aided and abetted by Mr. Youle; from which embarrassing iteration Bergan would have been glad to escape, by joining Miss Thane at her window, had not her manner seemed to indicate so clearly that she was amply sufficient to herself, and did not care to be anything to anybody else. But the eloquence of Coralie and Mr. Youle finally came to a pause, if not to an end; Miss Thane roused from her abstraction; and the party went down to dinner.

Bergan was inclined to be somewhat silent, at first. Lonely dweller in offices, hotels, and restaurants, that he had been, for the year past, he had half lost the habit of conversation; besides, Coralie's tones continually swept the chords of association in a way to thrill him with a sombre mixture of pain and pleasure, and keep his mind confusedly vibrating between the present and the past. But he was too conscientiously courteous to allow himself long to remain a dead weight upon his hosts; and, though it cost him an effort, he was soon talking with the old ease and fluency, enriched by a profounder thoughtfulness, and a subtler play of imagination. In his hands, commonplace subjects discovered hidden treasures; while loftier themes gleamed and glowed like stained windows seen against a golden western sky. Miss Thane lost something of her apathetic manner, after awhile, and paid him the compliment of listening with attention, if not with interest. And opposite to him was Coralie's listening, speaking face, full of such quick comprehension and sympathy, that he could scarcely help being beguiled into a fuller, freer expression of thought, opinion, and feeling, than he would have believed possible, an hour before.

But was it not Miss Thane's subtle management, rather than Coralie's sympathy, which finally led the talk into the sombre channels dug by human disappointments, losses, and failures, and kept it there until they had returned to the drawing-room? Then Bergan said, by way of dismissing the subject:—"But all these things are to be looked at as materials, not results. Happy the prophetic vision which sees the perfect form of the Future rising from the chaos of past and present!—as a sculptor sees before him, not a rough block of marble, but the finished statue,—an architect, not shapeless heaps of stone and mortar, but the grand completed temple."

"Let him but look far enough," rejoined Miss Thane, "and he can behold a sadder phase,—the statue broken and defaced, the temple overthrown and prostrate; once more a rough block of marble, and shapeless heaps of stone."

"Nay," replied Bergan, "it is at that very point that Prophecy should spread her whitest wings, and soar to the temple not made with hands, and the jewelled walls of the city let down from the clouds. Miss Coralie," he continued, glancing at the open piano, "do you sing?"

"Not much; I play mostly. But Miss Thane does. Dear Diva, won't you sing for us?"

Miss Thane looked at Bergan, but he said nothing. If he had added a word to Coralie's entreaty, the chances are that she would not have sung. But since she had only Coralie to oblige—Coralie, who alone seemed to have found the deep way to her heart, and to whom she rarely refused anything—she went straight to the piano, took the first music that presented itself, which happened to be Rossini's "Cujus Animam," and began to sing, not only with perfect method—that might have been expected—but with exquisite feeling. Her voice was a rich contralto, deep and broad as a river flowing to the sea, and bearing the listener whither it pleased. There were tears in the eyes of her auditors, when she had finished, and would have been, doubtless, had she sung anything else, for the quality of her voice touched that point of perfection, which, in this world, gives a pleasure closely akin to pain.

She waited a moment, but no one spoke; then she put her fingers again on the keys, and, looking far out into the evening dusk, sang a dismal, hopeless dirge, which Bergan felt intuitively to be her own; and which wrung his heart with passionate longing and pain. She would sing no more.

Yet no one could talk after those heartbreaking strains. So Bergan quietly took his leave.

Coralie wound her arm round her friend's waist, and drew her to the window, to watch him down the street. "What do you think of him?" she asked.

"I think—that he has a genius for conversation," replied Miss Thane, coolly.

"Oh, Diva, you know that is not what I mean! How do you like him?"

"I like no one—but you. I think I might respect him in time. As for you, little one, take care you do not like him too well."

"Why?" asked Coralie, blushing.

"Because he has buried his heart—the best part of it—in somebody's grave."

III.
FARVIEW.

Diva Thane, it is perhaps needless to say, was a child of the North. Her peculiar type of beauty blossoms only out of soil, which, for half the year, withdraws its warmth into its deep heart, and wraps itself in a chill, white robe of snow. She had made her appearance in Savalla, about a twelvemonth before, unheralded and unknown, had rented the parlor of a decayed aristocratic mansion as a studio, and had tacked on the door a card signifying to the public that she was a painter in oils. She had thenceforth been an example of that freedom and independence of life which Art makes possible for its votaries, of either sex, as a compensation, in some sort, for the sacrifices that they are bound to make to her.

It soon became known that the Youles endorsed Miss Thane to the fullest extent, both socially and financially; else society might have given her a cool reception. But it could scarcely, in its haughtiest mood, have meted out to her a fuller measure of scornful indifference than she accorded to it, when, in due time, it made up its mind to hold out a condescending hand to her. She declined its invitations, she took no notice of its calls, she would none of its patronage. Just in proportion as it grew more eager, piqued by her indifference, and curious to penetrate the mystery which surrounded her, she became colder and more distant. Finally, society was compelled to understand that the sole favor which she would accept at its hands, was forgetfulness of her existence.

Nor was the public treated much better, in her capacity of artist. Visitors at her studio found free admission, and opportunity to examine, at their leisure, the pictures, sketches, and studies, which crowded the walls; but rarely did she turn from her easel, to give them more than the briefest glimpse of her statuesque beauty, or the most concise of answers to their questions. Generally, she found some reason for declining their orders; and fully one half of the pictures on her walls were labelled, "Not to be Sold," while the sale of the remainder was plainly a matter of the profoundest indifference to her. It must needs be inferred that she had means of subsistence other than her art, amply sufficient for her quiet, inexpensive mode of life.

Nevertheless, she worked with indefatigable industry, as well as undeniable talent. If her pictures evinced some lack of technical skill, they were endued with a force and feeling which more than atoned for its absence; since the one would address itself chiefly to connoisseurs, while the other went straight to the universal heart. They covered a wide range of subjects, yet a profound observer would have traced a certain connection and sequence in them all. The earlier and cruder efforts of her pencil were pleasant outdoor scenes,—children wading in a sunshine brook, farm youths and maidens tossing about new-mown hay, and village girls dancing under wide-spreading boughs,—scenes so perfect in their idealization as to seem familiar to every eye, yet never without that inestimable something added or eliminated, which constitutes the difference between the picturesque and the commonplace. After these came works not only marked by greater skill of design and felicity of color, but informed with a deeper feeling;—yet so delicately indicated that none but the finest instinct would have perceived how softly Love illumined the landscape, or shone in the smile of the youth, or looked up to the maiden from her own downcast eyes reflected in the water. Then came a sudden change,—pictures and sketches wherein the artist's pencil must have been driven by some terrible intensity of feeling, to have wrought with such sombre power;—such as an illimitable desert, with a man riding fast toward a wan, setting sun, and his long, backward shadow falling upon a woman's outstretched, yearning hands,—or the black silhouette of a drifting and dismantled ship, seen against a blood-red moon, setting in a dun and angry sea,—or a deep and dismal cavern, with a female figure lying bruised and broken at the bottom of a fissure, and a man, also torn and bleeding, seen at the end of a long vista, searching for what he will not find. These pictures affected the spectator like a nightmare; there was such a fell shadow of immitigable fate in them all, and so notable an absence of anything like hope or faith, that while he acknowledged their power, he shuddered at their spirit.

Of course, Rumor could not help busying herself with a subject so inviting as the artist, though so bare of definite results. She was variously reported to be an escaped nun, a bride that had nearly lost her life at the hands of an insane bridegroom, a widow—barely one month a wife—seeking to throw off an intolerable burden of grief by the help of new scenes, new faces, and a new manner of life, and an heiress, fled from the importunities of harsh guardians and an unwelcome suitor. It will serve as an indication of the occasional correctness of the popular instinct, that not one of these conjectures cast any shadow upon the whiteness of her fame. Not more inevitably did her face suggest snow, marble, and whatever was at once white and cold, than her demeanor suggested their chill purity. Moreover, notwithstanding that she led so unfettered and independent a life, as compared with the majority of her sex—dwelling under her own guardianship, and ordering her day's routine to her own liking—the closest scrutiny could not detect anything therein, that was not austere, lonely, and laborious enough to suit the cell of an anchorite.

Yet, though there was so little in her way of living to suggest affluence, it soon became known that her hands were open, and her purse deep, to any claim upon her benevolence. While it never appeared that she set herself to seek out objects of charity, to such as came to her, either in person or by proxy, her bounty was generally far in excess of the demand. The only grace which it lacked, was that subtle element of the giver in the gift, which imparts a sympathetic warmth to the silver or the gold, as it is dropped in the outstretched hand; augmenting, to a degree incalculable by any known arithmetic, its power of relieving the distressed heart. Though Miss Thane gave generously, she gave none the less carelessly and coldly.

The only person whom she distinguished by any mark of affection, or measure of confidence, was Coralie Youle. The two had been classmates at a Northern boarding-school, where the native girl had first soothed and petted the stranger through a severe attack of homesickness, and then had been devotedly nursed, in her turn, during a trying dispensation of scarlet fever; in consequence of which a friendship of more than ordinary warmth and tenacity had grown up between them; manifesting itself on Coralie's part, by a half worshipping admiration, and on Diva's, by the strong, yearning clasp of a nature that puts forth no slender, fragile tendrils, but clings only in virtue of a bend or coil of its own tough fibre. To Coralie she was never cold, never unresponsive; the girl knew that there was no veiled, inner chamber of her friend's heart to which she had not some time penetrated, and which she would be allowed to enter again, whenever her presence could throw one ray of light across its dusk. With that she was satisfied. One thing the two possessed in common—the most absolute trust in each other.

Still, though Diva always received Coralie at her studio with deep-lit eyes of welcome, and a hand-clasp into which she had the power of putting more tenderness than ordinary women would express by a close embrace, and though she often joined her in long walks through the city and suburbs, it was rarely that she could be persuaded to visit her in her own home. If she did so, it was usually at an hour when she would be little likely to meet the other members of the family. It was as a great favor, therefore, that she had consented to stay to dinner, on the day when Bergan had met her. Nevertheless, when Coralie really set her heart upon anything in her friend's power to give, she always gained her point. And so it came to pass that, a few weeks later, when the family left for their summer residence of Farview, in the hill-region of the State, she carried Diva with her, for a visit of a fortnight.

Thither, also, after awhile, came Bergan; yielding to Mr. Youle's entreaty that he would close the office, for at least a day or two, and give himself a breath of fresh air. Secure in his dearly bought acclimation, he had not purposed to leave the city; anticipating no worse effect from its summer atmosphere than a kind of dreamy languor, which, in his present state of mind, was perhaps more to be desired than any bracing of his energies. Nevertheless, he had come to feel for Mr. Youle a degree of filial affection; and he would not pain him by a churlish disregard of his kindness.

He reached Farview about sunset. For the last three or four miles, he had seen the low roof and broad piazzas of his goal looking down upon him from the hill top, as he journeyed up the valley, and when he finally stood on the green and flowery lawn, he felt as if his own being were suddenly and sympathetically magnified an hundred degrees, so wide was the lovely and luxuriant Southern landscape outspread before him. Field and forest spotted it with various verdure; a river drew a bright, wavy line across it; here, the yellow sunshine brought out clearly every line and tint; there, the clouds dimmed it with patches of shadow; and all around was a massive framework of sunset-gilded hills.

Half involuntarily, Bergan took off his hat. "How good are the works of God, and how harmonious in their relations to one another, when we get high enough to command a wide view of them!" he reverently thought. "So, too, I doubt not, I shall find it with the dealings of His providence, when once I have climbed to a proper standpoint whence to view them as a whole. Till then, let faith accept the truth which is hidden from sight!"

A larger party than he had expected to see, was gathered in the dining-room. A legal brother, who had received a general invitation from Mr. Youle to visit him during the Summer, had hit upon this occasion; one planter from the neighborhood was present by appointment, and another by accident; and there was also a lady friend of Miss Youle, with her young daughter, Nina, besides Miss Thane. The latter signified her remembrance of Bergan by a cool bow; but it was not until dinner was over, and the evening tolerably well advanced, that he found himself in her immediate vicinity. Coralie had been led to the piano, leaving him in a somewhat isolated position, near one of the long windows; and, while the notes of a fairy-like waltz seemed to be dropping from her slender fingers, as they flitted up and down the ivory key-board, he thought he might venture to step out on the moonlit piazza, for a few moments, without being missed. Suiting the action to the thought, he discovered that Miss Thane had made her escape before him. She was leaning against a pillar, looking out over the moon-silvered valley with a weary and wistful expression scarcely in keeping with the calm, icy indifference of her wonted aspect. With a brief apology for interrupting her, he was about to retire, when she spoke, in a tone that seemed to accord him permission to stay if he chose.

"Coralie's music sounds sweeter outside than within."

Bergan drew near to her, not to let his voice penetrate to the parlor.

"That is true, I suspect, of many things in life. To feel their full sweetness, one must get a little out of their immediate sphere."

"Is that true of persons, also?" she asked, with a keen glance.

Some moments elapsed before Bergan could answer. Compelled by the question to make a sudden, rapid investigation into the deeper things of the heart, he was confounded at the unexpected result. Too truthful, however, to attempt to hide it, he finally answered, thoughtfully;—

"In some measure, I think it is. Miss Thane, did you ever experience quite that deep delight in the presence of a friend, which you sometimes (please remember, I say only, sometimes) derive from the thought of him or her in absence?"

She did not answer the question. She only said, in a tone of cool irony;—"You do not flatter your friends, Mr. Arling." But in another moment, she exclaimed, with a sudden, startling intensity of passion and longing;—"Is there, then, nothing,—neither love, nor friendship,—absolutely nothing, which answers expectation, and satisfies desire? Horrible, horrible thought!"

"I do not think so," replied Bergan, gently; "though I confess that I was troubled, at first, by the necessity of answering your question as I did. But I now recognize the fact thus revealed to me as very satisfactory evidence that our affections, our friendships, are to know a richer and lovelier development than they can ever attain to on this earth. In heaven there must be room for every lofty ideal."

Then, with a sudden deep intuition of the real necessities of the soul beside him, he went on to say;—"Yet there, as here, I suppose, the one satisfying, completing thing will be the love of God. The soul was made to look up, not along a level; it can only find its highest joy in something superior to itself."

She turned, and looked him intently in the face.

"Do you believe what you say?" she asked, doubtfully.

Very solemnly Bergan answered;—"I do."

"Belief is nothing," she rejoined, after a pause, "action is the test. Do you live your belief?"

Bergan drew a deep breath. "I try to do so, Miss Thane."

She went on, seemingly so intent upon her own train of thought as to be utterly unmindful of the solemn and searching nature of the questions that she was putting;—

"You feel, then, this all-satisfying love of God in your heart?"

"In some measure, I trust I do."

"And when the sun suddenly dropped, or faded, out of your sky, and the past became a corpse, and the present a burden, and the future a blank, what comfort did it give you?"

"The comfort of knowing that all things work together for the good of those that love God," responded Bergan, not without a momentary wonder at the curious appositeness of the question to his recent experiences, but quickly divining that she was looking more into her own heart than his, in asking it.

"Good," she repeated, musingly; "you did not say, happiness."

"Good is a better word than happiness, in this world. In the world to come, they will be synonyms."

She gave him another long, penetrating look. Then she said, quite simply, and evidently with no thought or intention of paying him compliments;—"You have talents, you have culture, you have a clear and powerful intellect (I heard Judge Emly begin an argument with you just now, and you soon cut the very ground from under his feet), you have been wonderfully successful, too, considering your years,—yet you do not hesitate to bind yourself to these narrow theories."

"Narrow, do you think them? Broad, rather, since they link eternity to time, and give one the long outlook and overlook which alone reveal things in their true relations. No one can construe this world aright, or even satisfactorily, without doing it by the light of the next. As for intellect, Miss Thane, some of the most commanding intellects of the world have been defenders of the 'faith once delivered.' And, if such had been lacking, there is a certain Book that Time has not been able to make obsolete, nor Science to nullify, which tells how, aforetime, God chose the foolish things of the world to confound the wise: and He can do it again, when the necessity arises."

"You are content, then, to feel that your intellect, your learning, give you no advantage, in these matters, over the most ignorant of your neighbors?"

"I am content to know that, in religion as in most other things, though books may help, thorough knowledge is of experience. The man who feels most of the Spirit of God in his heart, and makes it most clearly manifest in his life, is the man most competent, other things being equal, to analyze its operations and effects. Political economy, Miss Thane, is not the only subject about which men may prate very learnedly, and know very little."

Coralie's music ceased suddenly. There was a little stir in the parlor, and a murmur of voices, as if some subject of interest were under discussion.

"Go," commanded Miss Thane, "they will be looking for you. I will follow you in a few moments."

He stepped back through the window. Coralie came toward him. "We are talking," said she, "of going down to the negroes' camp-meeting, a little below here; Mr. Sypher was just telling us that it is a sight well worth seeing, by night. Will you go?"

"I am entirely at your service," replied Bergan, courteously.

"And Diva!—where is she? Oh, there she comes."

Bergan turned. Miss Thane was standing between the curtains, with her usual expression of calm indifference.

Coralie explained what was wanted. "Would you like it?" she inquired, twining her arm round her friend. "There will be some fine artistic effects."

Miss Thane looked down upon her, with a softness that Bergan had never before seen in her face, and which gave it a marvellous beauty. "I like whatever you like, child," she answered, evasively.

In the hall, she stopped, and took a shawl from the rack.

"Oh, Diva," exclaimed Coralie, "you will not need that, it is so warm."

Miss Thane stood doubtful, with the shawl in her hand. Bergan took it from her quietly, and threw it across his broad shoulder. "It is always safe to carry a shawl, if not to wear it," said he, lightly.

There was no formal arrangement of the party. The path lay through the fields, and was often too narrow to admit more than one person; at other times, partnerships of two or three were formed or broken, very much by chance. A broad glory of moonshine not only lighted them on their way, but surrounded them with enchantment,—softening lines, and deepening shadows, and turning the whole earth into a new creation of silver and ebony.

IV.
A WORD IN DUE SEASON.

Ere long, the shadowy wood-line was reached, and very soon a red twinkle of light became visible through the trees, broadening and brightening as they advanced. The sweet and solemn notes of a hymn, sung by many voices, next pervaded the air; and in a few minutes more, they were standing on the edge of the camp-ground, interested observers of a singularly picturesque scene.

Opposite to them was the speaker's stand, well lighted, covered with evergreen boughs, and affording accommodation to a goodly company of preachers, but too distant to be unpleasantly prominent. Between them and it, the whole vast space was crowded with negro worshippers; some sitting, some kneeling; here, an uncouth figure bowed in an attitude of absorbed meditation (or, it might be, indulging in a peaceful sleep); there, a dusky, upturned face, intent, or agonized, or rapturous, according as the owner was devoutly receptive, torn with conviction of sin, or blissfully assured of pardon. From among them the brown trunks of the forest trees rose straight and shapely as the pillars of a vast temple; and overhead, the under surfaces of the leaves showed gray and spectral against the sombre night sky. Here and there, lanterns were fastened to the trees, but the place was chiefly illuminated by great fires of pitch pine, whence clouds of smoke arose ever and anon, and hung trembling in the tree-tops; and the flames of which, as they rose and fell, cast alternate glow and gloom upon the upturned faces, and seemed to work corresponding changes of expression,—sudden transitions of joy and sorrow for which there was no apparent cause. Outside of these fires, scattered groups of spectators now came out into bold relief, and now lost themselves in shadow; strong profiles caught the eye, and then vanished; here and there, too, white faces offered an effective contrast to their darker neighbors.

Altogether, it was a picture to delight an artist's eye; yet Miss Thane seemed scarcely to enjoy it. On the way hither she had been silent, shut up within herself, neither seeking nor giving amusement; and she now stood a little apart, letting her eyes rove absently from point to point, but without appearing to take intelligent cognizance of any! Yet she seemed to be listening, after awhile, to the voice of the white-haired negro preacher who occupied the stand, and talked of the comfort of religious faith in a way to argue profound personal knowledge of the subject,—albeit, his phraseology was illiterate, and occasionally absurd, calling a smile to some faces in the party. But Diva did not smile; her thoughts were evidently far below the surface of the subject, in depths where the gleaming ripple of the comic was unfelt and unseen.

The party was considerably scattered. Miss Youle and her friend, tired with their walk, had found a seat on the outermost of the benches, watched over by Judge Emly; the youthful Miss Nina and one of the planters had gone round to get a view from the other side; Coralie stood near a fire, listening to the low comments of Mr. Sypher; and Mr. Youle and Bergan were quite in the background, silent spectators, for the most part, of what was going on.

The white-haired speaker brought his brief address to a close; and a number of negroes quitted the benches and came up the path. Mechanically, Coralie stepped back to make way.

"Take care," exclaimed Mr. Sypher, in a warning voice, "you will catch fire."

But he was too late. She had moved within reach of the draft, and her light muslin robe was wafted into the blaze. Instantly, she felt the heat, saw over her shoulder a rising tongue of flame, and with the insane impulse which usually seizes upon those in like peril, turned to flee from the danger which it was so impossible to distance. But scarcely had she taken a step, before Bergan's strong arm caught her, and flung her, face downward, on the ground; with a deft movement of the other hand and arm, Miss Thane's shawl was shaken out and thrown over her; and, in spite of her frantic struggles, she was held fast by one knee, while he applied both hands to the task of smothering the flames. Miss Thane was the first to come to his aid; then the rest of the party woke from their momentary stupor of alarm, and joined their efforts to hers. In very brief space of time, the work of extinguishment was complete, and Coralie, being lifted to her feet, still enveloped in the friendly shawl, was found to be comparatively uninjured. Her floating curls were singed at the ends, one arm was slightly reddened and smarting, and her nerves were considerably shaken—that was all;—all I where there might so easily have been death, or torture and disfigurement worse than death.

The whole thing had taken place so suddenly and swiftly, that only such persons as were in the immediate vicinity had been aware either of the peril or the rescue; so that it was by chance, as it were, that the whole vast multitude now burst forth with the solemn old Doxology;—

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

The great wave of sound flowed round and over the little breathless party, and charitably veiled or soothed its emotions. Mr. Youle, standing with his arm round his daughter, bowed his face on her head, and a large tear glistened on her soft curls; Miss Youle sank on her knees by the bench where she had been sitting, and wept silently; others of the party bent their heads, or lifted their hats; Diva Thane held one of Coralie's hands close clasped in hers, but her face was turned away. Suddenly, she threw her voice into the last line of the Doxology,—

"Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,"

with a richness and power that were like the swell of an organ. It appeared to pervade and sustain the whole chorus of voices, and impressed them inevitably with its own character; which, to Bergan's ear, seemed not so much an expression of thankfulness, as the irresistible outbreak of a feeling that would gladly have given itself the more effectual relief of moaning aloud, had the opportunity been afforded it.

A bystander now considerately offered Mr. Youle the loan of his horse and buggy, and Coralie and her aunt were swiftly driven homeward. The remainder of the party walked back as they had come, Miss Thane and Bergan being in the rear. As they turned into the narrow wood-path, she motioned him to precede her; and he quietly obeyed, understanding, better than she knew, her desire to feel herself free from observation. Yet he failed not to listen for the sound of her light footsteps behind him, and to adapt his pace to hers. Meanwhile, his mind busied itself, almost against his will, with a new and serious question. In the little interval before the starting of the buggy, Coralie had taken his hands in hers, and thanked him for the service rendered her, with a look that haunted him still. There had been nothing in that look but what was most delicate and maidenly,—an involuntary attempt to help out with her eyes the broken words which yet expressed her gratitude so well; nevertheless, it had been possessed of some indefinable quality which had touched him deeply at the time, and now set him gravely to question within himself whether he had any right to be the object of a second look of the kind; at least, while the past was still a desolate grave, over which no grass yet grew green, no flowers bloomed. Trained to look difficult questions in the face, stripping them of all confusing or meretricious appendages, it did not take him long to arrive at an emphatic "No," as the only possible answer to this one. Fortunately, he had not committed himself to any particular length of stay at Farview, and the sudden recollection of an important paper that he had locked up in his desk, instead of committing it to the safer guardianship of the fire-proof safe, suggested itself as an excellent excuse for a speedy departure. He decided that he would take his leave early in the morning, and see Coralie no more until he had determined that the past had become so far a dream as to admit of a new dream of the future.

This honorable decision being reached, his mind was sufficiently at ease to allow him to notice that his pace had gradually become a very slow one, in half unconscious conformity to the lagging footsteps behind him,—footsteps which spoke so unmistakably of a troubled mind or an exhausted frame. It even appeared that Miss Thane stopped altogether, now and then, by reason of absorbing thought, or from the necessity of taking breath. Bergan hesitated for a moment, divided between the fear of being intrusive, and the kindly impulse to afford timely help; but the latter prevailed, and, the path having widened somewhat, he turned and offered her his arm. She shook her head absently, at first; then seemed to become suddenly aware that support was needful, and accepted it.

"We are privileged to be silent, I believe," said Bergan, as they moved on together, "only in the presence of strangers or friends. Count me in either category, as you please, and do not trouble yourself to talk. I see you are tired."

"Thank you," returned Miss Thane, in a cool tone of acquiescence.

Across the next two fields, their own linked shadows, sliding slowly over the ground in advance of them, were not more silent than they. The voices of their companions, who had far outstripped them, reached their ears only in subdued and harmonious murmurs. The moonlight lay over the earth like a visible blessing of peace; and even threw a kind of reflected brightness into Miss Thane's heart, by the aid of which she was better able to try to find some pathway out of its shadows. In that one terrible moment, when she had seemed to see Coralie wrapped in flames, a swift vision of herself, left standing alone in the world—without relative, without friend, without human affection, hope, or solace—a lonely, empty, unsatisfied heart—had risen before her, and left her appalled, even in the midst of her thankfulness that it was only a vision as yet, and not a reality. For, how easily, through the agency of a boat or an engine, a fever or a chill, a thousand every-day accidents, it might still become a reality! With what was she then to supply Coralie's place in her heart and life?

Awhile ago, she would have answered confidently, "With Art." Now, she knew better. For two years she had been testing Art's capacity to fill and satisfy an empty human heart, and her soul was exceeding bitter with the unexpected result. She had painfully experienced the truth (though she could hardly be said to understand it as yet) that he who embraces Art with a thought of self and not of service, will find it turn to ice or to ashes in his arms. In itself, it has neither balm for affliction, nor skilful surgery for remorse, nor sunshine to throw athwart the black gloom of despair.

Out of this bitter knowledge Miss Thane finally spoke, apparently recurring in thought to their previous talk on the piazza;—

"Mr. Arling, how is one to love God, if one does not?"

It was perhaps the most difficult of all questions to answer. How are the blind eyes to be opened, and the deaf ears unstopped? How is the frozen heart to be softened, and the slumbering affection to be wakened into leaf and bloom? How is the Father to be made acceptable to the children that are insensible of His goodness, and will none of His reproof? And how is the Saviour to be presented unto those to whom He has hitherto been without form or comeliness, in such beauty as that they shall desire Him?

"I think, where it is not spontaneous," Bergan answered, after a moment's consideration, "that such love is most surely to be attained through prayer and service;—a frequent lifting up of the heart to Him whom it would fain love; a constant endeavor to do His will, as the best means of developing and manifesting love."

Miss Thane looked down thoughtfully. "I have known—a man,"—she began slowly, with a shade of irrepressible sadness in her tone,—"a man not less gifted with talent and intellectual power than yourself, and with a somewhat longer and more varied experience in the use of his gifts, who would have laughed at the idea of any virtue in prayer, except as affording a pleasant illusion to a weak mind."

"I, too, have known such a man," replied Bergan, the image of Doctor Remy rising irresistibly before his mind, and causing a dull ache in his heart; "but was he—was this man of whom you speak—or had he ever been, in the devout, habitual use of prayer?"

She shook her head. "I do not know; probably not."

"Miss Thane, you would scarcely need to have me warn you that no man is to be accepted as authority, in law or medicine, who is not thoroughly conversant with the subject, both by study and practice. So those, and those only, who pray themselves, humbly, devoutly, persistently, have any right to pronounce upon the efficacy of prayer."

She looked up at him quickly and keenly. "Pardon me, but—have you the right to speak with authority?"

"In some small measure, yes. I can certify you that the medicine is good, because I have taken it; that the staff is strong, because I have leaned upon it; that the weapon is efficient, because I have fought with it. Allow me to hope that you do not need the certification."

Her eyes fell, and her cheek flushed slightly, but she answered with her usual straightforward candor:—"I was never taught to pray;—my mother died when I was born, and my father believed none of these things. I have no habit of prayer."

"Does no one pray for you?"

"I don't know—Coralie, perhaps."

Bergan looked down upon her, and a sudden moisture dimmed his eyes. His heart was taken complete possession of, for the moment, by a vast, sorrowful pity for this beautiful and gifted woman, who masked so empty and aching a heart with so cold a demeanor, impelling him irresistibly to help her, as he could.

"When you are next asked that question," said he, and there was a deep, rich melody in his voice, "do not say that you 'don't know,' for I promise to put up a prayer for you daily, from henceforth, until you send me word that you have learned to pray habitually and gladly for yourself. Hereafter, when you lie down to rest, remember that another—claiming no title of friend, but simply that of neighbor—has asked forgiveness for your day, protection for your night, and every strength that you need for your morrow."

The proud heart was touched at last. That is to say, Bergan's words were the effectual "last drop" in the full cup of the evening's varied emotions,—comparatively insignificant perhaps in itself, but none the less inevitably productive of overflow. Miss Thane's lips parted with a kind of gasp, scarcely distinguishable as sound, but profoundly suggestive of pain; and a perceptible tremor ran over her from head to foot. Suddenly releasing Bergan's arm, she sat down on a fallen tree by the side of the path, and covered her face with her hands, while tears, dripping through her slender fingers, glistened gem-like in the moonlight.

Yet it argued much for her power of self-control, that she made no sound, nor shook with any sob. Grief must be content to exercise over her limited, not absolute dominion.

Bergan withdrew to a little distance, and waited silently, looking out over the shadowy valley to the fair, flowing outline of the moon-silvered hills. Those womanly tears, he was certain, would afford most safe and seasonable relief to whatever pain and excitement, whatever distressful memories or dismal forebodings, had resulted from the evening's events. For himself, comparative stranger as he was, he had no right to give Miss Thane more than the silent sympathy of a heart itself not unacquainted with sorrow.

Suddenly, the deep silence was broken by the soft whirr of wings. A bird, flying as straight over the moonlighted fields as if let loose by an unseen hand for that purpose, alighted in the boughs over the two motionless figures, and shook down upon them a shower of liquid notes,—sweet, clear, and joyous,—a very prophecy of hope.

The song being sung, the bird soon spread its wings and flew back to its nest and its mate. Then Diva rose, and held out her hand to Bergan.

"I accept your offer," said she. "Something tells me that the time will come when I can repay you in degree, if not in kind."

And Bergan, as he took the white, cool hand—empty now, except perhaps of a half-reluctant gratitude, and a moderate measure of good-will—had a singular intuition that some day it would be held out to him with an inestimable gift in it.

"You are up early," said Diva Thane, when she entered Coralie's room on the morrow, and found her standing by the window, enjoying the fresh, fragrant air, and the innumerable sweet and cheery sounds of the summer morning. "I thought that you would sleep late after your accident,—or what came so near to being one."

"How could I sleep late, when I was ordered off to bed so early?" rejoined Coralie, smiling brightly, and turning her clear brown eyes on her friend. "Besides, I had so much to think about," she added, softly and gravely, letting her glance go back to the flower-beds on the lawn.

But it was evident that her reflections, though possibly not without an occasional deep bass note of solemnity, had for the most part sung her a very siren's song of pleasantness and hope; none the less entrancing because a song without words of definite purport. The smile and the flush, with which she had listened, still brightened her face; and a corresponding light was seen shining from what seemed an interminable depth in her eyes,—eyes never so deeply illumined till now. Indeed, it struck Diva with a kind of vague amaze and sadness, that she had never seen this Coralie before! There was an unfamiliar freshness and softness about her, as if she were newly created. The brightness of her face, too, was such as to make her seem more nearly akin to the summer sunshine falling on her through the window, than to mortal shadows and sorrows. In truth, Diva found herself fancying that the sunshine was a good deal the brighter for the happy glow that it caught from her features.

Surprised, ere long, at Diva's silence, Coralie lifted her eyes, and encountered her friend's intent gaze. Immediately she seemed to become aware that a wonderfully subtle and delicate insight was making, not her face only, but her heart, the subject of its deep regard. The moment before, she did not know that there was anything in either which she cared to hide. Now, as if the existence of some secret were suddenly suggested to her by the fear of another's perception of it, she let her eyes fall, and a deep flush overspread her features.

Diva turned away with a sigh. She felt scarcely less lonely than she had seen herself in the vision of the preceding evening, when Coralie had seemed to be passing swiftly beyond her reach and ken, in a chariot of flame.

Nor was her sadness wholly for herself. She was gifted with a singular clearness of intuition, in regard to the relations of others; and Coralie's face affected her much as it would have done to find a rose suddenly budding out on a sunny winter's day, and mistaking it for the beginning of summer. Still, as is often the case with persons thus endowed, she did not fully trust her own intuitions, for the reason that they could give no clear account of themselves to her intellect. She now told herself, therefore, that her impressions were doubtless wrong, inasmuch as they were destitute of solid basis; she was even glad to believe so, quickly losing the thought of herself in that of her friend. Or it might be that she was seized with a diviner selfishness,—the certainty that, if any winter's night of frost and dusk were in store for Coralie, she herself must needs partake largely, through sympathy, of its chill and gloom.

As the friends stood thus silent, each busy with her own impressions (for they were of much too thin a consistency to be called thoughts), certain sounds from below, coming up to the window, attracted their notice. A horse was brought round to the side door, and, soon after, Bergan's voice was distinctly heard, speaking to Mr. Youle.

"That will do, thank you. I shall quite enjoy my ride through the valley, this lovely morning. Present my adieux to Miss Coralie; I trust that her night's rest has obliterated every trace of her last evening's experience. Good-bye."

"Why, that is Mr. Arling!" exclaimed Coralie, in sudden consternation. "What can have happened to take him away so suddenly?"

"I heard him telling your father, last night," answered Diva, calmly, "that he would be forced to return to town early this morning on business of importance."

"And he did not bid me good-bye!" murmured Coralie, discontentedly. "Besides, I have not half thanked him for saving me from those dreadful flames,"—and she shuddered at the recollection. "Oh, I must speak to him, before he goes."

She leaned out of the window, apparently with the intention of calling to him, but it was too late; he was already trotting down the avenue, followed by the groom who was to bring back the horse. She looked after him with a wistful gaze, and her eyes filled with tears.

Diva watched her thoughtfully,—intent, it would seem, upon some deeper and more perplexing phase of the matter than that immediately presented to her. Finally, she said, as if struck by a sudden thought:—

"If you want to speak to him so much, there is a way. You know the shorter path through the shrubbery to the entrance gate; we can intercept him."

"Oh, no! I could not do that," exclaimed Coralie, shrinking back and blushing deeply, "he would think—that is, it would look like thrusting myself in his way."

"He would think nothing," affirmed Diva, coolly, "except that we are out for a morning walk, as we have a good right to be; there never was a lovelier sky or earth to tempt one forth. Come, we must be quick."

And, without waiting for consent, or listening to remonstrance, Diva seized Coralie's hand, and hurried her down the stairs, and out through a different door from that by which Bergan had taken his departure,—where Mr. Youle still lingered,—so that they reached the shrubbery unobserved. Here, Diva slackened her pace a little, though she still kept hold of her half reluctant, and nearly breathless companion. They reached the gate before Bergan came in sight.

"Let us go back a little way," pleaded Coralie; "I don't want to be found waiting here."

"Why not?" asked Diva, composedly, seating herself on a low, broad stump by the way-side. "Mr. Arling is not a vain man, he will never suspect us of waiting for him. But if you must have an excuse for lingering here,—why, there are some exquisite ferns yonder,—gather them for your parlor vases."

Coralie hesitated, doubtful whether to stay or flee. Diva plucked a dainty leaf of wood-sorrel, and put it between the perfect curves of her own lips.

"Coralie," she suddenly asked, "how old am I?"

Despite her perplexity, Coralie could not help smiling at the absurdity of the question. "Are you losing your memory?" she inquired; "you are two years older than I."

"Oh, is that all? I thought I must have been at least a hundred,—it seemed such an age since I used to eat this green stuff with relish. But you are certainly young yet, though you do look a year or two older than you did yesterday."

Coralie quickly stooped over the ferns to hide her deeply-diffused cheeks. Diva continued, apparently without noticing her confusion:—

"However, if the little plant has lost much to the taste, it has gained more to the eye. I never noticed, in those days, what a delicately outlined leaf, and slender, translucent stem it had, nor how fresh was its tint of green. If Mr. Arling were here, now, he would turn that into a simile,—something about a spiritual sense developed out of an earthly one, or a refined enjoyment only to be attained through some loss of the capacity for commoner pleasures;—isn't that a little in his style? Ah! there he is."

Bergan was looking straight before him, so much absorbed in his own thoughts that he did not see the friends until he was close at hand. He immediately dismounted, flung his bridle to the groom, and came toward them with extended hand.

"So you were going to leave without bidding us good-bye," said Miss Thane, coolly, ignoring the offered hand, but looking him searchingly in the eyes.

If Bergan felt a little embarrassment under that look, he did not betray it.

"I supposed that you were not up," he answered, with perfect composure. "And whoever travels at this season of the year, had best do it betimes in the morning, before the sunbeams are hot as well as bright. Miss Coralie, I am glad to see you looking so fully yourself."

His sentence ended a little abruptly, as if whatever else he had intended to say was suddenly put out of his head. He, too, had become dimly aware of some subtle change or development in Coralie, since the evening before,—a more womanly grace, a new character of beauty; which, however, only served to bring the image of Carice vividly before him—Carice, as he had seen her last, and would never see her again, under the shadowy pines, by the dreaming river, with the newborn love-light in her eyes, and the dawn-rose of love in her cheeks. Scarce knowing what he did, he lifted his hand, to see if, haply, he might shut out both images together.

Coralie's eyes fell on that hand, which was carefully bandaged from wrist to knuckles; and the unconquerable shyness which had seized her, on Bergan's appearance, was instantly dissipated.

"What is that?" she asked;—"oh, Mr. Arling, were you burned last night in trying to save me?"

Bergan looked at Diva and smiled. "It is nothing," said he, lightly,—"only your aunt and Miss Thane insisted upon binding it up after I got home; and the least that I can do is to wear their kindly handiwork for a day or two."

"Oh, Diva," exclaimed Coralie reproachfully, the quick moisture coming into her eyes, "why did you not tell me?"

"Why should I?" replied Diva, with somewhat bitter emphasis; "hands heal quickly."

"Miss Thane is quite right," said Bergan; "the matter was not worth mentioning. Certainly, it was not worth one of those tears, Miss Coralie; you will make me too proud of having gotten a small scratch in the fray. If it were ten times as much, it would in nowise offset what I owe your father. Now I must bid you farewell, or I shall miss the train."

"Will you not come up again soon?" asked Coralie, coloring a little, but strong in the certainty that she could not err in showing her preserver the most cordial courtesy. "It must be good for you to leave the city as often as you can. And you have certainly earned the right to consider Farview as your home, whenever it suits you to do so."

"Thank you," said Bergan, bowing in acknowledgment of the kind and thoughtful invitation. "But I am necessarily a busy and homeless man, and it is the truest wisdom for me not to stray too far out of my proper orbit, lest I get dissatisfied with it. When I become more fully and firmly settled therein, a day's absence may not matter so much; and then, if your invitation still holds good, I shall be only too happy to avail myself of it."

"It must always hold good, just as a kindness once done is done forever," replied Coralie warmly, turning a deaf ear to the unseasonable inner voice that cried out against the coolness and reserve of Bergan's response, and holding out a tremulous little hand, by way of signature and seal to her promise.

Bergan gave the hand a friendly pressure, and bowed low to Miss Thane. "A pleasant summer to you both," said he, "full of flowers and sunshine, both material and metaphorical. Farewell."

He lifted his hat as he rode through the gate; very soon a turn of the road hid him from sight. Coralie stood looking somewhat wistfully at the point where he had disappeared.

"Peace go with him!" said Diva lightly. "He was in a great hurry to leave us, but he said 'Farewell' in a way to indicate that he should not be in a hurry to return. Fortunately, we are not the sort of damsels to pine after an unwilling knight."

Coralie turned instantly, and, with heightened color, signified her readiness to go home.

For some days her spirits were fitful and changeable; nothing now so gay, nothing now so sad, as her smile. During this time Diva watched over her with a silent, patient, careful devotion that surrounded her like the atmosphere, viewless, but beneficent. She saved her from annoyance; she shielded her from observation; she stood between her and her guests, taking up the burden of their entertainment in a way that would have seemed incredible to those accustomed to see her only languidly indifferent or coldly haughty. Though her heart might be narrow, it was certainly deep.

By and by, Coralie began to smile naturally once more, and Diva was satisfied that, though the rose could not "shut and be a bud again," it had received no lasting blight. If it could be kept from further harm, it might be expected to develop naturally into perfection of bloom and beauty,—not the hasty and one-sided maturity that comes of a worm at the heart.

She could now think of herself. Unselfish anxiety and effort had been very good for her thus far, there was not a doubt of that. Nevertheless, she was beginning to feel urgent need of quiet,—opportunity to commune with her own heart, and be still,—time to deal justly and thoroughly with questions seething in her mind ever since her talks with Bergan. But it was vain to look for quiet at Farview; the house was fast filling up with gay guests; and having once dropped her ice-mantle of reserve, she could not resume it without giving pain to her hosts. So, as Coralie was now quite capable of taking her rightful place as queen of the festivities, and as she had already stayed twice as long as had been contemplated at first, Diva went back to her studio.

VI.
AN AIMLESS STROLL.

Late one afternoon, about a month after Bergan's return to Savalla, he quitted the office, which seemed to have grown unaccountably barren and dreary of aspect, and set out for an aimless stroll through the city. The air was fresh and moist from a recent shower, and the slanting sunbeams were working alchemic wonders in the streets and squares; turning the polished leaves of the oak and olive trees to silver, and hanging them with prismatic jewels, enriching the grass with a vivider green, and the earth with a rich golden brown, and imprinting the sensitive surface of every tiny rain-pool with a lovely picture of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and pendent sprays of foliage.

Through all these pleasant sights Bergan moved slowly and half absently, occupying himself less with their beauty than with the sober monologue of his own thoughts. Yet his gaze was not without occasional moments of intelligence, and in one of these he noticed a child, attended by a large dog, standing with a curiously doubtful, undecided air, in the midst of the square that he was crossing. Suddenly making up her mind, it would seem, she held out her hand to a gentleman coming from the opposite direction, who took no further notice of the mute appeal than was implied by a shake of the head. The sight was a comparatively strange one in those days, when begging was resorted to as an occasional resource, rather than followed as a regular trade; and Bergan continued to observe the child with a certain degree of interest, though not with a wholly unpreoccupied mind, as he advanced toward her.

All at once, it struck him that there was something oddly familiar about her slender little figure. As for the dog, he was certainly an old acquaintance, as could easily be proven; and Bergan's lips emitted a low, peculiar whistle. There was an instant pricking up of the canine ears, and an inquisitive turning sidewise of the canine head, but the faithful animal would not leave his young mistress until he was absolutely certain that he recognized a friend. She, meanwhile, seemed to notice neither the whistle nor its effect; nor could she distinctly see what manner of man drew near, her eyes being dazzled by the level sun-rays, but she again mutely held out her hand.

It was instantly taken possession of. "Cathie," said Bergan, wonderingly, "what does this mean?"

She looked at him a moment in blank bewilderment, but ended by recognizing him and flinging herself into his arms exactly as the Cathie of a year before would have done; but with a deep, long-drawn, repressed sob, implying a profounder sorrow than had ever darkened the horizon of even that child of many and incomprehensible moods.

Yet Bergan was considerably relieved by her first words;—"Oh, Mr. Arling, don't tell mamma—don't tell Astra—please don't!" It seemed probable that the episode of the begging was simply one of the child's strange freaks.

"Did you do it for fun, then?" he asked.

"Fun?" repeated Cathie, with indignant emphasis, "do you think it's fun to beg, Mr. Arling? I don't. I was so ashamed that I wanted to hide my face with both hands."

"Then why did you do it?" asked Bergan, gravely.

The child's lip assumed its most sorrowful curve. "To get some money to give Astra," she answered. "We are very poor now; the Bank went and got broke, with all mamma's money in it; and she was taken sick, and Astra couldn't get much to do, and we've had to move into a little mean house, in a dirty little street, where there are no flowers, nor trees, nor anything that's nice. And this morning I saw Astra take the last money out of her purse, to pay the rent, and she looked—oh! I can't tell how she looked,—something like that big gray man, with the little boy on his back, that she made so long ago; and I did so wish that I could do something to help her, just a little bit. So, when she sent me out to take a walk with Nix, it came into my head that I could beg for her, if I couldn't do anything else, and I thought I'd try it. Was it doing wrong?"

Bergan did not answer except by stooping to kiss the child's upturned face. His eyes grew moist.

"I know it must be wrong," pursued Cathie, innocently, "if it makes you cry, Mr. Arling."

"No, Cathie," replied Bergan, smiling reassuringly. "I do not think it was wrong,—at least, you did not mean to do wrong, and that makes a great difference. But I don't think that you will need to try it again. Now, certainly you can do something better; that is, take me home with you."

On the way, Cathie, secure in the sympathy of this trusted friend of better days, gave a more detailed account of the misfortunes that had befallen the little family, since it left Berganton. His heart ached as he pictured to himself the weary and wasting struggle with poverty that Astra had maintained so bravely, yet so hopelessly; heavily weighted, on the one hand, with the burden of disappointed affection, and, on the other, with the anxiety caused by her mother's severe illness. For works of art, there had been no demand; for portrait busts and medallions, there had been only a scanty and fitful one. Her last resource had been pupils in drawing, but these had now failed her, in consequence of the usual summer exodus of the city's wealthier population; by reason of which she was reduced to the bitter straits shadowed forth by Cathie's earlier communications. It was touching, too, to see what real nobleness of character had all along been hidden under the child's caprice and waywardness, as evinced by the fact that she said little of the privations that had fallen to her own lot, but dwelt chiefly on her mother's lack of accustomed comforts, and the forlorn face that Astra wore, when out of that mother's sight.

The house was reached before the story had come to an end. It was a little better than Bergan's fears, but far worse than his hopes. It smote him to the heart to contrast it with the comfortable and spacious mansion that had opened its doors so readily to him at Berganton, and wherein he had come to feel himself so pleasantly at home.

Cathie ushered Bergan into the dingy little room that served both for parlor and studio, and then rushed through the opposite door, full of the importance of the news that she had to impart. There was a smothered exclamation of surprise from the adjoining room, followed by a murmured consultation; and then Astra appeared in the doorway.

But it was by no means the Astra of Bergan's remembrance. The features were the same, to be sure, but the light, the hope, the energy, that had animated them, and informed them with such rich and varied expression, was utterly lacking. There was a perceptible line between the eyebrows, as if the brow were wont to be knit over difficult problems; and the mouth expressed a settled melancholy, which a smile seemed only to vary slightly, not to displace. Nor could Bergan help detecting a little hardness in it,—the look of a defeated general, forced to lay down his weapons, but still unsubdued in will.

What he most marvelled at, however, was that it immediately brought Diva Thane's face before him, as if there were some subtle relation between them, though there was not the slightest resemblance.

Astra's manner to him was scarcely less altered than her face. It was not exactly cold, but it lacked much of the old warmth and heartiness. Bergan took no notice of it; he readily divined what chords of painful association were thrilled at the sight of him, and how inevitably her pride revolted against being seen in her present surroundings. Her hand was so cold, when he took it in his, that he pressed it between both his own, with a vague idea of warming it; then, stirred by a sympathy too deep for ordinary expression, he bent over and touched it with his lips.

"You are not wise," said Astra, with a faint smile; "you should not do homage to a fallen princess."

"Neither do I," rejoined Bergan, with a deep music in his voice. "She is not fallen, but holding out most bravely against the time when she may expect succor."

"Succor?" responded Astra, with a mixture of pride and mournfulness,—"from what or whom could acceptable succor come?"

Bergan smiled, and pointed upward. "From the Source of all succor, whatever be the channel."

Astra shook her head, and the lines of her mouth grew set and hard. "Acceptable succor comes in season," said she, "and through legitimate channels."

Bergan was confounded. This lack of faith, this arraignment of Providence, argued a more amazing change in Astra than he had yet suspected. At the same time it afforded him a clue to that mysterious connection, in his mind, between her face and Miss Thane's. Under the hardness of the one and the coldness of the other, the same scepticism lay hidden,—possibly engendered by similar causes. In Astra's case, he had no hesitation in attributing it to Doctor Remy's influence; and he could not but wonder at the singular and fatal power of the man over the minds of those who were brought into close contact with him. Was this deadly poison to be also instilled into the pure mind of Carice? He shuddered at the thought. Better for her to lie dead at the bottom of the river, by which he had last seen her soft, rapt face.

Feeling that this was no time to argue with Astra, Bergan turned to the table, which was littered with drawings and sketches, plaster reliefs, and small clay models, to a degree that implied no lack of patient industry, despite the want of encouragement, and the absence of faith.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Nothing, just now," she answered, mournfully. "I believe my hands have lost their cunning,—if ever they had any. That is the last." She pointed to a small bas-relief.

It represented a child, skipping lightly down a flowery slope, trailing a vine behind her. The face was turned so far away from the beholder, as to show only the rounded outline of the youthful cheek and brow, but the figure expressed a wonderful joyousness. In more senses than one, it was plainly, "In the Sunshine;" which title was lightly scratched in the plaster.

Bergan studied it attentively. "It is as fresh as a rose," said he, "and as sweet."

"The analogy, if there be any, goes deeper than that," rejoined Astra, bitterly. "A rose is born out of darkness and dampness and decay, and this is the offspring of pain and discouragement, and all that makes the hand weak and the heart sick."

"And that is probably the secret of its perfection," remarked Bergan, meditatively. "The loveliest graces of character—such as charity that thinketh no evil, and hope that lives by faith, not by sight—are the legitimate children of suffering. Then why not the finer works of art?"

Astra's eyes fell, and she did not answer.

"At any rate," pursued Bergan, "this 'Sunshine' is just what I want to brighten my office. I was thinking, this very day, that something must be done to make it less dismal. I suppose it is for sale?"

Astra bent her head a little stiffly. She doubted the reality of this new-born desire for office decorations.

He took out his purse, and laid a folded bank-note on the table. He expected that she would not look at it, until after he had gone, but she immediately took it up, opened it, and tendered it back to him.

"It is too much," said she proudly. And her look added, "I am no beggar."

"Is it?" inquired Bergan, with apparent surprise. "I thought it agreed tolerably well with the prices that you used to mention as the least you would receive for your works, in the future."

"I have lived to grow wiser," replied Astra,

"It is all the same," rejoined Bergan composedly, "I was about to say that, as my mother has long been entreating me to send her some sort of a portrait, it occurs to me that I cannot do better than to get you to make a medallion or a bust of me, whichever you please. The balance of the note can go toward the first payment. We will arrange for the sittings, as soon as you are at leisure."

Astra's lip trembled. Put in this way, the note might be retained; and no one knew so well as herself what an amount of relief to her, and of comfort to her mother, it ensured. But her pride was very sore, nevertheless, and her face was little grateful, as she dropped the note on the table, somewhat as if it had burned her fingers.

Bergan hastened to change the subject. "I am sorry not to see your mother," he began; but Astra interrupted him.

"She would like to see you very much," said she, "if you don't mind coming to her room. It is several days since she has left it; though I really think that she is better to-day."

"Why should I mind?" asked Bergan, smiling. "She used to call me her son sometimes; though you do take such pains to give me to understand that you utterly repudiate me as a brother."

Astra turned her face aside, to conceal the sudden unbending of the set mouth. "Indeed, I do not," she faltered.

Bergan drew her toward him, just as a brother would have done. "Then you will help me to persuade her to move into more comfortable quarters, at once. I promise you that it shall be arranged so carefully as to give her the least possible fatigue."

Astra shook her head. "It cannot be; it would excite her too much. Her disease is of the heart; and joy kills as surely as sorrow. When I moved her here,—being imperatively forced to do so, because I could not afford to stay where we were,—I determined that, let come what would, she should not be stirred again, until she is a great deal better or—worse. Thank you for the kind thought, but indeed she is best off here, for the present,—now that I have the means of making her tolerably comfortable."

In the last sentence, there was some trace of Astra's old self; and, glad to have gained thus much, Bergan followed her to Mrs. Lyte's bedside.

If he still cherished any belief in the feasibility of removing her, it vanished with the first sight of her face. He wondered what could have led Astra to think her better. Even to his inexperienced eyes, the struggling breath, the beaded forehead, the ashy pallor, indicated but too plainly that the thread of her life was wellnigh spun.

Yet she was less changed, in some respects, than Astra. Her smile had the old sweetness; her face—when the excitement caused by his unexpected visit was calmed a little, and she could breathe easier—had the old expression of gentle resignation. It lighted up, too, at sight of him;—as he had reminded Astra, she had come to regard him with a half-motherly affection, during his residence in her house.

"It is very good of you to come to us," she said, gratefully; "it seems a great while since I have seen any friendly face."

"If I had only known that you were in Savalla, I should have come much sooner," answered Bergan.

"And if I had known that you were here," she responded, "I should certainly have sent for you. It is strange, Astra, that we never happened to hear of him."

Astra's face flushed a little. "We are not in the way of hearing news," she replied, evasively. "But now that he is here, to sit with you a few minutes, I will run out and get that prescription filled, which the doctor left this morning."

Bergan rose instantly. "Let me go, rather," said he.

"N-o, no," said Mrs. Lyte, "it will do her good to have a little run. Besides, I want to talk with you."

Bergan sat down again, and Cathie nestled to his side. Nix, too, came and lay down at his feet, quite in the old Berganton fashion.

"I am very glad to see you," continued Mrs. Lyte, when Astra had left the room, "but I am afraid it is largely a selfish gladness. I am so certain that you will see what can be done for my children after I am gone."

Bergan opened his lips to speak, but she lifted her hand with a deprecating gesture, and went on:—

"Let me say what I want to say; I shall be so much easier in my mind. Do you know how we came to leave Berganton?"

"I do not; I only heard of it when I went back there, in the Fall."

Mrs. Lyte briefly explained the circumstances which had led to the removal. She stated, furthermore, that she had written to Major Bergan, upon the failure of the Bank where her money was invested, and inquired if he had sold the house, and whether there was any balance in her favor. To which he replied that he had done nothing about the matter, and proposed to do nothing, at present; he only wished that she would come back, and live in it, as before. But this was impossible, she had now no means of maintaining so large and expensive a place. She had, therefore, written again, to the effect that she asked nothing better than the immediate foreclosure of the mortgage, and the sale of the property. Would he attend to it at his earliest convenience, and forward her the balance? To this letter there had been no reply; she took it for granted that a purchaser had not been found. What she desired of Bergan, in the event of her death, which she believed to be near at hand, was to hurry forward the sale of the place, and secure something for Astra, if possible. This he promised to do; and he added, in a tone that brought instant conviction to her mind, and tears of gratitude to her eyes, that, however this matter terminated, neither Astra nor Cathie should lack friendly aid, at need.

When he finally took his leave, Bergan beckoned Astra to the door. "Are you alone here?" he inquired. "Is there no one to share your labors and your cares?"

"We brought our old Chloe with us," replied Astra; "she would not be left behind, and indeed, I do not know what we should have done without her. But lately the good old creature has insisted upon going out to do a day's washing, now and then, to bring something into the family purse; she is out to-day. When she is home, she does all she can."

Bergan recollected the old slave, and doubted nothing of her fidelity. But, in the woful event that he foresaw, Astra would need other help, other sympathy, he thought.

"Is there no one you can send for,—no relative, no friend, in Berganton, or elsewhere?" he persisted.

"None," replied Astra. "And what accommodations have we for such a friend, if we had one?"

There was nothing more to be said. He shook her hand warmly, told her that he had promised her mother to come again on the morrow, lifted his hat, with his usual courtesy, and went down the street, in such a maze of pity and perplexity, that he forgot to notice which way he went.

When he became cognizant of his whereabouts, he was standing before a large, old-fashioned mansion fronting on one of the principal squares of the city. On the door was a silver plate, bearing the name of "DIVA THANE, ARTIST."

VII.
ORDERED STEPS.

Bergan was much struck with the fact that his aimless walk—aimless, at least, so far as his own intention was concerned—had first led him, in virtue of his meeting with Cathie, to Mrs. Lyte's bedside, and next to the studio of Miss Thane. Accepting both these leadings as parts of the same providential plan, though he could discern but the slightest possible relation between them, he knocked at the studio door.

"Come in!" was the immediate response, in Miss Thane's clear, cold monotone.

Bergan pushed open the door, which was a little ajar, and found himself in the presence of the artist. She was standing at her easel, palette and brushes in hand; and she waited to give several touches to her work, before turning toward her visitor.

If she felt any surprise at sight of him, her face betrayed none. Yet it seemed to Bergan that some change had come over that face since he beheld it last—a certain suggestion of weariness under its languor, of dissatisfaction under its chill pride—which he accepted as a good augury for the task that he had in hand.

Miss Thane seemed to divine, at once, that his visit had some object other than the pleasure of seeing either herself or her pictures. After a few quiet words of greeting, she rested one hand upon her easel, and stood waiting, calm, proud, and exceeding beautiful, to be informed of its nature.

Bergan was scarcely prepared to make known his errand so abruptly. He had promptly entered the studio, in obedience to his first impulse; but he had counted upon some little time thereafter to arrange his thoughts and feel his way, some flow of conversation to be duly turned to his advantage, or some clue to the deep mystery of Miss Thane's sympathies,—possibly, too, some further light upon the inscrutable design of Providence, in sending him hither.

After all, was not the most straightforward course likely to be the best one?

"Miss Thane," said he, gravely, "my own volition has had so little to do with bringing me here, that I scarcely know why I am come. But I believe that it is to try to interest you in a sister artist—a sculptor—who is in sore need of aid that you might give her."

Miss Thane put her hand into her pocket, and drew out her purse; but before she could open it, Bergan stopped her with a deprecating gesture.

"Pardon me," said he, "but that sort of aid, I can give myself, if it be necessary."

"What am I to do, then?" asked Miss Thane, wonderingly.

"Whatever one delicate, refined, large-hearted woman can do for another, in the way of cheer, encouragement, sympathy, and consolation."

Miss Thane gave him a long look out of her deep eyes, partly surprised, partly meditative.

"What put it into your head to come to me on such an errand?" she finally asked, with a singular, half satirical emphasis.

"Because when I was wondering to whom I could go," answered Bergan, "I found myself standing before your door. Because you did me the honor, two weeks ago, to ask me a certain question, and I thought that this might be the beginning of a better answer than I was able to give you."

Miss Thane slowly walked to the other end of the room, and fixed her eyes on the deep red gold of the western horizon, whence the sun still shed a soft posthumous influence over the earth.

"What does it matter," she murmured to Herself, "if I do surrender somewhat of my freedom? I have had a fair trial of an isolated life—divested of every irksome bond, burden, and duty, shut up to the one friend that I trust, and the one occupation that I love—and what has it done for me? Absolutely nothing; except to make me daily colder in heart, and narrower in mind. Is it not time to try something else?"

She turned back to Bergan, and her face, though it was still weary, was no longer proud.

"I am sensible of the honor that you have done me," said she, with unusual gentleness; "I will try to deserve your good opinion. Where am I to find the lady of whom you speak, and in what way can I render her the most essential service?"

Bergan quietly placed a chair for her.

"Sit down," said he, "and let me tell you the whole story; at least, as far as I know it myself."

As he talked, the gold faded out of the sky, and the gray twilight shadows crept into the room, turning the pictures on the walls into pale, vague outlines, and giving a wonderful softness to Miss Thane's listening face. Nor did the story end until the pictures had become indistinguishable masses of shadow, and nothing was left of the face but its deep, lustrous eyes. Its owner had not once spoken; and it quite escaped Bergan's notice, in the dimness, that she gave a sudden, violent start when Mrs. Lyte's full name was mentioned.

"Thus, you see," he concluded, "it is not only a disappointed, discouraged, anxious heart (soon, alas! to become a mourning one) that I commend to your tender sympathies, but a sorely wounded faith. If you cannot heal the latter, do not, I charge you, help to destroy it."

"I will not," answered she, solemnly; "I promise you that I will not. How could I, when I am half inclined to believe that such faith—unfounded, illusory though it be—is a better thing than any reality that we exchange it for."

Bergan slightly lifted his eyebrows. "May I ask," said he, quietly, "to what reality, or realities, you refer?"

"You press me hard," answered she, bitterly, after a pause; "none, none that I can think of just now. Everything seems vague, unreal, unsubstantial."

"Fall back on faith," returned Bergan, smiling. "If it be not a reality itself, it works realities. It fosters real virtues, and inspires real heroism; by it men live nobly, and die courageously. What reality can do more for them,—indeed, what one does so much?"

He waited for a moment, expecting an answer. Seeing that none came, he bowed, and left her sitting there, gazing out into the silent night.

On the following morning, Astra was in her studio, busily plying her needle, while her mother slept, when there came a light knock on the door. Opening it, she found herself face to face with a lady of such rare and remarkable beauty, that she stood motionless, lost in wonder and admiration.

The stranger bent her head with the stately, yet friendly, grace of one princess to another; and a smile just touched her lips, and then seemed to sink into her eyes, shining farther and farther down in their clear depths, until it vanished from sight.

"Will you allow me the pleasure of looking into your studio?" asked she, in a voice as perfect as her face; "I have heard so much of its marvels, that I am desirous of seeing them for myself."

Astra mutely made way; her visitor glided into the room, cast a quick, comprehensive glance around, and sat down in front of the statue of Mercury.

"Do not let me interrupt you," she said to Astra, "but just go on with whatever you are about, and allow me to study this at my leisure."

Astra hesitated a moment, and then took up the work that she had dropped,—one of Cathie's much-enduring aprons, that she was trying to darn into some semblance of respectability. But she could not help stealing an occasional glance at the clear-cut profile of her guest, until, all her artistic instincts being thoroughly aroused, she was fain to seize upon crayon and cardboard, and make sure of the lovely outline, ere it should vanish, as she expected it would soon do, utterly and forever from her sight.

The guest, meanwhile, studied the Mercury in profound silence. Yet Astra soon felt that an uncommonly deep and delicate discernment was brought to bear on her work, capable of accurately measuring both its excellences and its faults. There was something inspiriting in the very thought,—it was so seldom that her sculpture was favored with a really intelligent glance! Her eyes brightened, her hands recovered their cunning, the crayon sketch grew into lifelikeness without effort, almost without consciousness, save when she stopped to marvel, now and then, at its exceeding beauty and delicacy. Yet it did no more than justice to the original,—scarcely that, indeed;—where did she get that face, and who could she be!

She had left the Mercury now, after a few—a very few words of commendation, yet spoken so cordially and discriminately as to be worth volumes of ordinary praise to Astra; and she was looking gravely into the upturned eyes of the Cherub. Glancing from, it to its creator, she said, with a faint smile;—

"I wish you could put that look into my face."

Astra shook her head. "I could not put it anywhere now," she answered, drearily.

The stranger gave her a compassionate glance. "I wonder," said she, musingly, "whether it is better to have had such faith and lost it, or never to have had it at all."

"It is better to have lost it," replied Astra quickly, and with a slight shudder. "One can live in the hope of finding it again."

The visitor sighed, and turned to look at the sketches on the wall.

By and by, she slid easily into a discourse about various art-matters; holding Astra spellbound, for awhile, with the fluent richness of her diction, and the extent of her knowledge. Nor was Astra allowed to listen only. A certain graphic portrayal of art-life in Italy having stirred her to the depths, and kindled the old fire and energy of enthusiasm in her eyes, she was skilfully drawn on to talk of herself and her work, her aims, longings, limitations, and needs, as she had never talked before, because she had never before met with so understanding and sympathetic an auditor.

In the midst of one of her animated sentences, a low moan was heard from the inner room. "Excuse me," said Astra hurriedly, amazed to see how completely she had forgotten her cares, fears, and griefs, in the magic of the stranger's presence,—"Excuse me, I must go to my mother."

Mrs. Lyte had waked, as was too often the case, in a spasm of pain. Astra hastened to call Cathie from the kitchen to assist the laboring breath with gentle wafts of air from a fan, while she herself measured some drops of a soothing mixture, and lifted her mother's head on her arm, to enable her to swallow and to breathe more easily. Several anxious moments had passed thus, in silence broken only by the painful respirations of the invalid, when a low, sweet strain of melody stole so gently into the room that Astra could not tell, at first, from whence it came. So soft was it that it melted into the ear without making any apparent demand upon the attention, yet so clear that not one liquid note was lost. The swollen veins of Mrs. Lyte's forehead subsided; her chest ceased its agonized heaving; a peaceful, happy smile broke over her face.

"What is it?" she asked, wonderingly, when the strain ended,—not abruptly, but gradually growing fainter, until it was impossible to tell just at what point sound became silence.

Astra whispered softly that she had left a strange visitor in the studio, who appeared to be singing unconsciously to herself.

"If she would only sing again!" murmured Mrs. Lyte, wistfully.

With her usual impulsiveness, Cathie rushed to the studio door. "Mamma wishes you would sing—" she began, and then stopped short, no less surprised and fascinated by the face that met her gaze than her sister had been.

The stranger reflected for a moment, then her voice again pervaded the air, as with the very soul of restful melody. As she sang, the child moved slowly toward her, drawn as irresistibly as the magnet to the loadstone, till she stood close to her side, encircled by her arm, and gazing at her with round, wondering eyes. As the song ceased, she slid her hand half-curiously, half-timidly over her shoulder.

"Have you wings?" she asked, earnestly. "Did you fly down?"

Before the visitor could reply, except by a swift expression of something like pain that flitted across her face, Astra appeared in the doorway.

"Mother wishes to see you, and thank you," she said. "Will you step this way?"

The lady rose, and moved quietly into the inner room. At sight of her face, Mrs. Lyte gave a violent start; the thanks she was about to speak died on her lips; she could only cry out in amazement;—"Who are you?"

The stranger knelt by the bedside, and took both Mrs. Lyte's hands in her soft, cool grasp. "I am the daughter of your runaway sister, Aunt Katie," she answered, "and my name is Godiva Thane."

"But she died, and she left no child," said Mrs. Lyte, incredulously.

"She died in giving me birth," returned Diva, with convincing positiveness. "I have long suspected that my father did not let you know, he never forgot the opposition to his marriage; besides, he was jealous of his only child's affections. You must needs forgive him,—for he is dead."

Several questions followed, on Mrs. Lyte's part; to which Diva gave long, detailed answers, skilfully contrived to satisfy her aunt's curiosity, tranquillize her emotions, and bring her, in a brief space, to a tolerably peaceful and composed state of mind.

"Can I do anything for you before I go?" she then asked.

"Nothing, dear, unless you will sing to me—a hymn; there are tones in your voice which are more soothing than any anodyne."

Diva put her hand to her brow, and sent her thoughts back—a long, long way, it seemed to her—to a period in her childhood, when she had been under the care of a certain faithful nurse, afterwards discharged by her father for putting foolish, superstitious notions—as he averred—into her head. There she found two or three hymns; keeping tenacious hold of her memory, in virtue of their early grafting therein; which she sang in such soft, even tones, that Mrs. Lyte was first calmed, and then irresistibly lulled to sleep.

The two cousins stole out of the room together. In the studio, Diva put her arms around Astra and kissed her tenderly.

"Having found you, my little cousin, my art sister," said she, smiling, "I shall never let you go!"

VIII.
THOUGH HE SLAY.

Miss Thane had all along understood that a meeting with her mother's only and twin sister, either by accident or design, was quite within the scope of possibilities. She had even regarded it as perhaps the brightest prospect which the future afforded her, in case her present experiment in life should fail to give her satisfaction, or her heart should suddenly utter an importunate cry for that cup of cold water of human affection, which is only to be tasted in the society of one's own kin. Amid the gray monotony of her existence, she had often pictured that meeting to herself in a variety of pleasant coloring and dramatic shapes; but never, it is safe to say, in the solemn lights and sober shadows in which it finally took its place among the memorable scenes of her life.

Yet in no other way could it have operated so powerfully to awaken the instinct of kinship within her, to melt her reserve, to draw out her dormant sympathies,—in short, to call forth whatever was deepest, richest, and womanliest in her nature. And certainly, in no other way could it have brought so strong and subtle an influence to bear upon the sombre doubts and chill infidelities of her mind; setting over against her cool, speculative belief in a blind Chance or an inflexible Fate, Mrs. Lyte's calm trust in the goodness of God's providence, against the blighting, chilling, unbeauteous effects of suffering on her own heart, the gracious fruitage of patience, contentment, and love, ripening under its touch in Mrs. Lyte's, against her own dim outlook into an unknown future, her aunt's firm expectation of the eternal weight of glory. The contrast was too striking not to be noticed, its testimony in favor of faith over unbelief too strong to be ignored. Daily, as she watched by her aunt's bedside, questions that she had once settled, or laid aside as incapable of settlement, came up again, to be examined in new and diviner lights. Daily the good work which Bergan had been instrumental in beginning in her heart, went forward,—not like the work of doubt, tearing down what it could not rebuild, and taking away bread to give a stone,—but bringing order out of confusion, proportion out of inequality, solidity out of disintegration.

On the other hand, her advent was no less beneficial, in its way, to her aunt and cousins. Not to speak of the material comforts and luxuries which she managed so delicately to introduce into the sick-room, as to make them seem much like direct gifts of Providence, without any intervening hand, she brought into their forlorn, narrow, monotonous life an element of variety and interest, as well as of personal helpfulness, that was sorely needed. Mrs. Lyte soon grew to depend upon her constant presence and care scarcely less than upon Astra's. She never wearied of searching her beautiful face for fitful touches of resemblance to the darling twin sister, whose runaway marriage and subsequent death had been the great grief of her own earlier years, nor of drawing out such facts in relation to that sister's short married life, and Diva's birth, as the latter had been able to gather from others, and store in her memory. She was deeply interested, too, in Diva's own history,—her motherless childhood, her long sojourn in Europe, her art studies, her reasons for the isolated life that she had been leading of late. Especially did she delight in hearing her sing. Diva might busy herself in whatever part of the house's narrow precinct she pleased, if only her voice floated into the sick-room, and sweetened the air with the notes and words of some favorite "hymn of the ages," or the soft Italian melodies that she had learned in their native land. While the lovely voice kept on, Mrs. Lyte lay lapped in smiling content, or slept in perfect tranquillity, lulled more effectually than by any anodyne.

Nor was Astra any less ready to accept her kinswoman as a timely boon and blessing. It was not only an unspeakable relief to feel a part of her heavy burden of care lifted from her shoulders by hands so willing, so tender, and with so undoubted a right to the privilege; it was also a rare delight to have such thoroughly congenial companionship. As for Cathie, her heart was easily won,—all the more that she never seemed to quite rid herself of her first impression that the new-comer was celestial rather than human, and to be adored accordingly. In short, Diva soon found for herself so fit, definite, and essential a place in all these hearts and lives as to suggest the idea that it must have been prepared expressly, and kept waiting for her—she knew not how long. Nay, more,—she must have been prepared for it; carefully fitted, by many sad and stern circumstances, for this exchange of helpful influences, for her part in that solemn symphony of events which was rolling its profound harmonies through Mrs. Lyte's sick-chamber.

For the invalid did not rally. After one week of apparent pause, her life's lapse went steadily on. Day by day, she weakened and wasted; day by day, the spirit loosened its mortal garments, and made itself ready to put on immortality; day by day, her mind let go something of earthly cares, anxieties, wishes, and fears, and fixed itself more firmly upon the Rock of Ages, and the rest that remaineth. Nothing of life seemed left, by and by, but love; making manifest, by this true "survival of the fittest," its Divine origin and destiny.

One summer afternoon, when the sun was flooding all the earth and sky with the glory of his departure, Bergan knocked at the door of Astra's studio, according to his daily habit, to inquire if he could be of any service. No answer being returned to his knock, he let himself in and went softly to the bedroom door. A scene too beautiful to be called sad, though infinitely solemn, met his view.

Astra was seated on the bed, holding her mother in her arms, to afford her a grateful change of position. Cathie lay curled up at the invalid's feet, with her large eyes fixed on the rapt, hushed face,—the half-closed eyes and slightly parted lips of which suggested a soft sinking into that sweet slumber, which is yet not so much slumber as a happy dream. Diva knelt by the bedside, with her aunt's hand in hers, singing in tones that thrilled him through and through, much as he had learned in these days, of the marvellous beauty and pathos of her voice;—

"When I rise to worlds unknown,
And behold Thee on Thy Throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!"

As the last note died away, he stepped forward and lifted the unconscious form from Astra's arms. She looked up at him wonderingly.

"The earthly hymn was very sweet," said he gently, "but the song of the redeemed in Paradise is sweeter still."

Still she seemed not to understand. What words were at once tender and solemn enough for the full explanation? None but those of inspiration; at once old and fresh; having poured their balm all along down through the centuries, yet falling on each newly bereaved heart, as if still moist and cool with the dew of their birth. Reverently he quoted:—

"'Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them.'"

Mrs. Lyte was taken to Berganton, and laid in the churchyard by her husband's side, amid much kindred dust. Bergan accompanied the small funeral train to within two or three miles of the village, and then turned back; in obedience to Astra's wish, as expressed to him through Diva Thane. The poor girl remembered in what way her name and his had been connected, and naturally shrank from anything that might seem to give it confirmation. But as the train passed the avenue to Bergan Hall, the Major wheeled into the vacant place behind the carriage of the chief mourners, assisted them out at the gate of the cemetery, and offered Astra his arm.

"I am your father's nearest living relative," said he, huskily, "and though I behaved like a brute to your mother at one time, I have been sorry enough for it since, to have a right to follow her to the grave."

Many of Mrs. Lyte's old friends and neighbors gathered round to assist in the last solemn rites, and some of them came afterward to say a few words of sympathy and regret to Astra. She was not surprised that Doctor Remy was not of the number, but she did wonder a little that she saw nothing of Carice. She had observed Mrs. Bergan standing near the foot of the grave, looking strangely old and altered; but she seemed to have disappeared as soon as the service was ended.

Having conducted her back to the carriage, and seated her therein, Major Bergan took a folded paper from her pocket, tore it in pieces, and laid the fragments on her lap.

"There it is," said he; "and I wish that my hand had been sawed off before I ever wrote to your mother, to tell her of its existence. The place is yours now, free and unincumbered, to do what you like with. Good bye; and don't bear malice, if you can help it."

He gave her no opportunity to reply, but signalled to the coachman to drive on. Looking back, she saw him standing on the same spot, with uncovered head, watching the carriage until it was out of sight.

She was in nowise disposed to bear malice. She remembered too well how glad she had been, at the time, of an available pretext for leaving Berganton; besides, the Major had certainly made all possible amends for his hasty action.

Moreover, Mrs. Lyte's death-bed had not been without its softening and salutary effect upon her mind, also. Although she had fallen, for a time, into that saddest of all infidelities—a distrust of God's goodness to His children—the last lovely moments of her mother's life, the last grateful, joyous words from her mother's lips, and the still brightness of her mother's dead face, had set her feet—for a little while at least—on those Heights of Contemplation, whence life is seen to be good and valuable, not for what it is, but for what it shapes out; not for the materials that it heaps together, or the tools that it uses, but for the character which it moulds unto perfection, the soul which it slowly chisels into beauty and dignity and strength. So viewed, these last months of adversity became but the fine, finishing touches of the Master's hand, to Mrs. Lyte's already lovely spirit, and Major Bergan but one of the blind, necessary instruments, operating better than he knew or willed.

And come what would, Astra could nevermore forget that broad view of the real work and object of life's events; faith would ever after be easier for those moments of clear sight. She came back from her mother's grave with a bereaved heart, but with a spirit more at rest than it had been for many months; and her face wore the same expression of gentle, sweet resignation, which had been the prevailing characteristic of her mother's for years.

She came back—but not to the dingy little house, nor the desolate rooms, and certainly not to the straitened circumstances. Miss Thane had taken Bergan into her confidence, on the day before, and asked the favor of his superintendence of certain final steps toward the accomplishment of a plan that she had conceived and partly executed. Money and good-will, working together, usually achieve wonders in comparatively short space of time; as the result of their present cooperation, Astra was set down at Miss Thane's door on her return from Berganton, late at night, and ushered into a suite of rooms, opposite Diva's own, handsomely fitted up for the accommodation of herself and Cathie. One was a studio, to which all her own pictures, statues, and other artistic belongings had been carefully transferred, and skilfully arranged to produce an accustomed and home-like effect. Another was a pleasant little parlor, with her books and her work-basket on the centre-table, to lend it a familiar grace; and in the bedroom beyond, her faithful old Chloe was waiting, with joyful tears in her eyes, to welcome and to attend upon her.

Astra turned to her cousin, and tried to speak; but the too heavily freighted words were slow in coming forth, and Diva anticipated them by taking both her hands in hers, and saying gently;—

"We are sisters, now, Astra: children of twin mothers, and left alone in the world,—I more completely, even, than you; what better thing can we do, at least for the present, than to unite our forces, having one home, and living, loving, and laboring together for the same, or kindred ends? And Cathie shall be our joint charge; that, having two watchful elder sisters, she may never know, even partially, what I know so well, the misery of a motherless childhood. Is it a compact?"

Astra bowed her head in acquiescence, and her eyes shone bright through grateful tears. She was relieved beyond measure, to know that she was not to face the world single-handed. The loneliness that she had so dreaded was not to be encountered, the heavy responsibility of her little sister's care and training was to be, in some degree, shared. In Diva's strength and steadfastness of character, which she felt by intuition, and in its sweetness, which she had found out at her mother's bedside, as very few had done before her, there would be all needful protection, aid, and comfort; while, in its subtle quality of a wise and delicate reserve, there was ample assurance of respect for her own individuality, freedom for her own way of thought and work. Finally, thanks to Major Bergan's generous action in respect of the mortgage, she need not fear to be a burden on her cousin. Either by sale or lease, the place could be made to yield her a fixed moderate income, and her own labor would do the rest.

She did not suspect the extent of Diva's resources, nor what pleasant plans for her own and Cathie's happiness and advantage she was turning over in her mind. Of these things Diva would breathe no word, until the sisterhood of which she had spoken had become so real and firm a bond as to preclude any sense of obligation.

Meanwhile, the fact of living no more to herself, of having some one else to think of, to care for, to comfort and cheer, was doing wonderfully effective work in clearing and softening Diva's own character,—in uprooting the weeds which had chiefly testified to the richness of the underlying soil heretofore, and giving the plants of grace leave to branch out and blossom and bear fruit. Daily, as Bergan met her, in his visits to Astra's studio, or his walks, he saw that something was gone from the chill pride and weariness of her old expression, something added of sweetness, softness, and benignity, yet without any loss of that still and stately grace, in which had subsisted so potent a charm. Daily, too, he marvelled at her increasingly magnificent beauty; over which, none the less, still lingered some faint shadow from the past, like the soft haze hanging over an autumn landscape, and constituting its last, consummate grace. He could not help wondering whence that shadow came, and how it was to go, since it always gave him an indefinable impression of being connected with his own destiny.

One day he met her in the street alone, but, as he never presumed in the least upon the half confidential relations into which circumstances had thrown them, he was passing on with a courteous bow, when she stopped him.

"Mr. Arling," she said, flushing slightly, but in very clear, musical tones, "I have much to thank you for, but most of all for the promise which you made me at Farview, some weeks ago; and which, I doubt not, you have conscientiously performed. How much that performance has had to do with the important events that have taken place since, I cannot tell; but it is certain that I discern an order, a sequence, a relation of means to an end, during these last weeks, which I have never before been able to discover in the events of my life,—perhaps because my days have never before been so regularly and earnestly recommended to loving Divine guidance. Be that as it may, the time of which you spoke has come; I have learned to pray for myself—and for others. Thank you again, and good evening."

It was one of her peculiarities, resulting probably from some years of residence abroad, that she seldom gave her hand to a gentleman. Now, however, she offered it to Bergan, for the second time, as he remembered; and again, as before, he had a curious presentiment that within that white hand there lay an invisible, but precious gift for him, waiting its appointed time.

IX.
MISTAKES.

The summer ran its course, and came to an end. With the first frost of autumn, Hubert Arling arrived in Savalla, to pay a visit of indefinite extent to his brother. A few days after, Coralie, newly returned from Farview, called at the office, expecting to find her father there, according to appointment; but found only Bergan, as it appeared, writing in his usual place. He rose, bowed, and finally took her offered hand, with what seemed to her an odd mixture of hesitation and embarrassment, while she poured forth greetings, thanks, and questions.

"You are looking wonderfully well," she concluded; "one would think you had been rusticating in the mountains, instead of spending a hot and lonely summer in the city. But I suppose that you are lonely no longer; you must be very glad to have your brother with you; my father told me of his arrival."

He looked much amused. "I suspect that I am my brother," said he, smiling. "But I am not my brother whom you take me for. I wish I were,—to have the honor of your acquaintance."

It was Coralie's turn to look embarrassed. "I thought—is it not Mr. Arling?" she stammered.

"It is Mr. Arling—Hubert Arling, at your service. Can I do anything for you?"

Coralie was so much amazed, that it would have been difficult for her to decide, at the moment, whether he could do anything for her or not. But the entrance of Mr. Youle and Bergan relieved her from the necessity of answering, and gave her opportunity to compare the brothers at her leisure. Unquestionably, they were singularly alike, in personal appearance, manner, and somewhat, even, in mind. Only, when seen together, Bergan was found to be so much older and graver of aspect—far more than was justified by his two years of seniority—that she wondered how she could ever have mistaken one for the other. And, certainly, there was a rare charm about Bergan's gravity, a singular fascination in looking into his deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, and conjecturing what disappointment or sorrow lay darkly underneath. Still, Hubert's buoyancy and animation were wonderfully taking, too, in their way; and her youthfulness sprang involuntarily forward to meet his. On the whole, she was glad to know that Mr. Arling had a brother every way so worthy of him.

Before she left, the brothers received and accepted an invitation from Mr. Youle to dine with him. But for Hubert's sake, Bergan would gladly have declined it. Having once introduced his brother into pleasant society, however, he could leave him to make his own way in it,—as he was fully qualified to do.

When the door closed on the father and daughter, Hubert looked at his brother, and smiled meaningly.

"Why did you not tell me?" he asked.

"What should I tell?" rejoined Bergan, composedly.

"That your future was likely to atone so prettily and pleasantly for your past."

Bergan looked grave. "Not another word of that, Hubert, if you please. The past is not atoned for, in that sense; in another, I hope it may be. Miss Coralie is, to me, simply my kind old partner's very admirable and estimable daughter."

Hubert looked half incredulously into his eyes, but there was no resisting the strong confirmation of their quiet, steady, answering gaze.

"But, Bergan, you are a goose!" he broke out.

"At your service," was the reply, with a bow of mock courtesy.

"Pshaw! Then, if I go and trade on your capital, you will never call me to account?"

"Never."

Hubert held out his hand; Bergan gave it a firm, strong clasp. There was not another word; they understood each other.

In the midst of the desultory chat that followed, there came a knock at the door; and in answer to Bergan's prompt "Come in," his former client, Unwick, entered.

"My brother," explained Bergan, as the new comer looked a little hesitatingly at Hubert. "Would you like to see me alone?"

"As you please," replied Unwick. "It is your business rather than mine that brings me here; if anything so vague and indefinite can be called business."

"Then, proceed. I have no secrets from my brother. Will you take a chair?"

Unwick sat down, and cleared his throat.

"It is a long story; but I will make it as brief as I can. You know that my cousin Varley is now in prison, under sentence of death for the murder of which I came so near to being convicted myself,—and should have been, but for you. Well, he sent for me a few days ago, to ask my pardon, and to beg me to take charge of a certain child of his. It seems that, two or three years ago, he was inveigled into a marriage with a beautiful but unprincipled girl, belonging to one of the worst families in this vicinity; her parents keep a low tavern, generally known, I believe, as the 'Rat-Hole,' about a mile out of town, on the Berganton road. Do you know it?"

"Yes, it has been pointed out to me," replied Bergan.

"Well, the girl is dead; but there is a child, left in the grandmother's hands, which Varley wants me to get possession of, and bring up in a respectable way. Poor fellow! he has seen what is the result of evil associations, and desires to save his child from a similar fate. Still, he wishes the matter to be arranged quietly, if possible. So, yesterday, I went out to see the grandmother—that explains how I came to be in so vile a place. Well, I was made to wait for a half hour in a dirty little back room; and having nothing else in the world to interest me, my attention was attracted by a conversation on the other side of the thin board partition which divided the room from the next one. Still, I doubt if I should have taken the trouble to try to make it out, if I had not heard your name spoken. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly be able to do you a good turn, in part payment of what you had done for me. So, swallowing my scruples as best I could, I put my ear to one of the cracks, and listened. There were two men on the other side, but they were wise enough not to call names,—I did not get the least clue to whom or what they were. One talked quite low, but in a clear, though rather thin voice, which made it comparatively easy to catch what he was saying. The other talked louder, but pretty thick, as if he were a good deal the worse for liquor; and he mixed up everything that he said with such a queer medley of proverbs—"

"Proverbs!" interrupted Bergan, starting, and beginning to look interested.

"Yes,—proverbs in every language under the sun,—Latin, Greek, Spanish, German, and all the rest,—a regular Tower-of-Babel performance. Do you recognize him?"

"I suspect that I do. Go on."

"Well, his companion,—have I given you any clue to him?"

"None as yet. Perhaps I may get one as your story progresses."

"He was persuading this old proverb-spouter to sign some paper,—a will, I think; but it was only after a good deal of arguing, and bribing, and threatening, that he succeeded in doing so. Now comes your part in the matter; the old fellow's great objection seemed to be that he didn't want to injure you."

"Me!" repeated Bergan, in much astonishment; "what had I to do with it?"

"That is exactly what I couldn't find out; but I thought you might be able to tell. You cannot?"

"Not in the least. What else was there?"

"Nothing, only the old bundle of proverbs also wanted to know 'what would be to pay,' if they were found out,—would it be felony, or compounding of felony, or what?"

"Why!" exclaimed Bergan, "the will was a forgery, then!"

"I cannot say as to that. The man who didn't spout proverbs set the other's scruples at rest, first, by asserting that there was not the least danger of detection; and secondly, by declaring that you would not sustain any injury, because the property was certain to come to him, soon or late, anyhow. Whereupon the drunken Solomon muttered, sotto voce, 'Into the mouth of a bad dog, often falls a good bone,' and appeared to sign his name as required. At least, I heard the scratching of a pen on paper; and, after that, some money was told out on the table, as a first instalment of the bribe agreed upon; and another instalment was to be paid at the same place to-morrow. Do you get any light on the transaction yet?"

Bergan looked very grave. He remembered old Rue's assertion that Doctor Remy had wedded Carice simply to get possession of the Hall estates, through his uncle's will in her favor. "Was the first voice that of an educated man?" he asked.

"Thoroughly so; an exceedingly distinct, even intonation, and the language was well chosen, too. It would have been a very pleasant voice to the ear, except that it seemed to lack heart, emotion; it was just clear and cold, like ice. Are you beginning to see your way through the affair?"

"Very dimly, if at all. But I think that I know the parties."

"Is there anything to be done about it? Can I help you in any way?"

Bergan shook his head. He remembered that Doctor Remy was the husband of Carice. He sat silent, his heart swelling with unselfish pain and pity for the pure, delicate nature thus linked to the dark and vile one; he hoped that the latter had not lost the art of concealing somewhat of its hideousness.

Mr. Unwick rose. "I will not detain you any longer. I am glad—or sorry, whichever is proper—that my story proves to be of so little importance."

"Thank you, nevertheless, for taking the trouble to come and tell it to me. By the way, did you get the child you went after?"

"Not yet; the grandmother declared that it was not in the house, though I did not believe her. Bad woman as she is, I think she really loves it, and would like to keep it. But I was authorized to offer her a considerable sum of money to get it quietly out of her hands; and she knows that the law gives the father the right to dispose of its future. I am going, to-morrow afternoon, to get a final answer from her, after she has consulted with her husband, who was out when I was there."

"Will you let me go with you? I should like to see if I recognize any old acquaintance around the place; and if I do, to give him a friendly warning to take care not to be seen there again. I happen to know that the premises are now under constant surveillance, as a suspected depository of stolen goods, and that the police are meditating a descent upon them in a day or two."

"I shall be only too happy to have your company," replied Unwick, courteously.

"And I will go along, too, if you don't object," remarked Hubert. "If the place is of the character you mention, the more the safer, as well as merrier, I should say."

"Then, I will call for you to-morrow, at three o'clock," said Unwick, "if that suits your convenience."

The "Rat-Hole" wore an appearance of exceeding quietness, in the sunny autumn afternoon. A half tipsy vagabond or two lounged about the stoop, but the greater part of its frequenters were of the owl species, careful not to show their heads in the daytime.

Having signified to the bar-keeper that his business was with the mistress of the house, Unwick was shortly summoned to her presence, leaving the brothers waiting in the bar-room. After a considerable time he reappeared, and beckoned to Bergan.

"I have persuaded Mrs. Smilt to allow of a witness to our transaction," said he. And he added, in a low tone, "The pair that I spoke of, are on the other side of the partition again; you can hear their voices, and satisfy yourself whether you know them or not."

Mrs. Smilt was a hard, ill-favored woman, of about fifty; she had a child on her lap, and there were tears in her eyes.

"Mr. Unwick wants a witness to our business," she remarked, grimly, to Bergan. "Well, here's the child, and there's the money that he's to pay me for't. It's a fair bargain, and I don't mean to shirk it; though I'd rather keep the child, a good deal, myself. But my husband 'ud rather have the money; and he's captain."

Bergan bowed. He would not speak lest his voice should be heard and recognized in the adjoining apartment. He drew near the partition, but there was only a sound of footsteps on the other side, and the closing of a door; he was too late to get any satisfaction from this quarter. He stood waiting impatiently for Unwick to bring his business to an end, and half inclined to excuse himself, and make his escape, when he heard a pistol-shot, and a brief struggle, ended by a heavy fall, in the direction of the bar-room. He opened the door, and ran thither, closely followed by Unwick and Mrs. Smilt.

A singular scene was presented to his eyes. Prostrate on the floor lay Doctor Remy, with an exceedingly black and discomfited face; while Hubert was standing over him like a young gladiator. On one side, stood Dick Causton pouring forth a volley of utterly incoherent proverbs and entreaties, addressed to his "dear young friend Mr. Bergan;" and, on the other, stood the barkeeper, so bewildered, apparently, by this sudden and unaccountable fracas, as to be undecided which side or what tone to take. At sight of Bergan, Dick reeled backward, and looked completely confounded; Doctor Remy set his teeth hard, and his face grew blacker than ever.

Bergan looked at Hubert. "What does this mean?" he asked.

"Upon my soul, I wish I knew!" responded Hubert. "This—gentleman"—there was a deeply sarcastic emphasis on the word—"did me the honor to point a pistol at me. I knocked it up, and him down; that is all I know about the matter."

Bergan motioned him to stand aside, and helped Doctor Remy to his feet. "Thank God—if you ever do such a thing"—said he solemnly, "that you have been saved from the commission of another crime. Go, now; and, for your own sake, as well as for the sake of those connected with you, take care to be seen here no more. I assure you that it is a dangerous place for persons without legitimate business and fair credentials."

Doctor Remy had recovered his composure, in part. He drew himself up haughtily. "Keep your advice for those who need it," he rejoined; "I am here simply as a physician, in attendance upon a sick man. What your business may be, is none of mine: good evening." And he strode out of the door.

Hubert stood looking on, the picture of astonishment. "Was there ever such a riddle!" said he. "First, an unknown man attempts my life; and next, you bid him go in peace, or something very like it!"

"He took you for me," said Bergan, quietly.

"I appreciate the compliment. But are you in the habit of serving for a target?"

"Hush! It was Doctor Remy."

Hubert looked more amazed than ever, for a moment; then his brow flushed, and his eyes lit up. "Lucky for him that you did not tell me that before," said he. "He should never have gotten out of my hands, except into those of a policeman. Why, Bergan, what are you thinking of, to let him escape us thus?"

"I will explain all to you, when we get home," answered Bergan, wearily. "Mrs. Smilt, I beg your pardon for having been the unintentional cause of such a commotion in your house; I think I can assure you that no harm has been done. Mr. Unwick, are you ready to go?"

At the door, Bergan stopped and looked around for Dick Causton; but he had taken advantage of the discussion between the brothers to sneak out. The fact was a suggestive one to Bergan, taken in connection with Unwick's story of the preceding day. Never before, in spite of his bad habits and fallen estate, had Dick Causton been known to flee from before any man's face.

X.
LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.

Bergan could not help wasting a little wonder on Doctor Remy's choice of the "Rat-Hole" as a place for transacting business, of whatever character. Yet the explanation was simple. The doctor was there, as he had stated, professionally. One of the habituÉs of the place had been severely wounded in an encounter with a policeman, some weeks before; and although he had succeeded in escaping unrecognized, the affair had made so much stir that his friends had not deemed it prudent to put him into the hands of any of the city physicians, for treatment. Doctor Remy had therefore been summoned from Berganton, and had not only conducted the case with his usual skill, but, foreseeing a possibility of turning the circumstance to future account, had won the ruffian's warmest gratitude by keeping his secret and declining any fee. Having thus gotten the run of the place, and the good will of its inmates, he had chosen it for the scene of his interviews with Dick Causton, because he had his own excellent reasons for not wishing these interviews to be seen or suspected by anybody in Berganton. And Dick made no objections, inasmuch as various small errands, which he dignified with the title of "business," had taken him to Savalla, for two or three consecutive days; and the "Rat-Hole" was a convenient stopping-place, and, moreover, furnished liquor which had the two-fold merit of being of a better quality than any to be had at the "Gregg Tavern," and of being quaffed at Doctor Remy's expense. Dick was not likely to trouble his head much about the character of any house possessing these strong recommendations.

In regard to the signing of the fraudulent will, he had shown himself a little more scrupulous; his habit of intoxication had not yet accomplished its evil work of obliterating all sense of right, and every consideration of honor. At the first broaching of the subject, he had indignantly refused to listen to it for a moment. Later on—having apparently gotten some new lights on the question in the meantime—he had quietly suffered his objections to give way, one after another, to the doctor's arguments and bribes; to the great satisfaction of the latter, who found his task, on the whole, easier than he had expected.

Yet he might have felt some misgivings, if he had followed Dick out of the house, immediately after the signing of the will, and heard the low, satisfied chuckle with which he tumbled into his superannuated chaise, and started his horse on a jog-trot toward Berganton. The potent draught just swallowed had as yet taken effect only in quickening his sense of the humorous, and putting him on excellent terms with his own self-conceit. His eyes twinkled with amusement, too intense to be denied the occasional vent of a loud burst of laughter, or an appropriate string of proverbs.

"Wer dem Spide zusicht, kann's am besten, my dear Doctor Remy," he muttered; "or, in other words, the looker-on sees more of the game than the player. What would you give to know what I know, I wonder! Just wait till the right time comes; then you'll find out that 'He is worst cheated, who cheats himself.'"

A mile further on, his potations beginning to make themselves felt, he suddenly broke out, with a tipsy laugh and leer;—"'Man kan ei drage haardt med brudet Reb,' mine excellent doctor,—you cannot haul hard with a broken rope! Ha! ha!"

And, although his shamefaced flight from Bergan's presence, on the second day, may seem to indicate that he was not quite certain of the uprightness of all his acts and motives, no sooner was he fairly on the road to Berganton than he began to chuckle again.

Bergan, meanwhile, was questioning within himself whether he ought not to make known Unwick's story to Major Bergan. He hesitated only because he foresaw that the information might possibly be set down to his self-interest, rather than his desire to serve his uncle. Nevertheless, it did not take him long to decide that he must do what he knew to be the right thing, regardless of consequences. Nor was it certain that his uncle would misconstrue his motives:—not long since, he had received an intimation from Rue that he was sure to meet with a cordial reception whenever he could make it convenient to visit Berganton; the Major's anger having so completely wasted away under the double attrition of time and favorable report,—not to mention her own steady influence in his behalf,—that he had lately expressed a wish to see him. There was really no good reason, therefore, why he should hesitate to present himself at the Hall, except that the whole neighborhood was certain to bristle with unpleasant recollections. However, he must face them some time, and as well now as ever.

Still, as nightfall was at hand, and he knew of no reason for hurry, he thought it expedient to postpone the visit till the morrow. He would ride over to the Hall, he thought, betimes in the morning. Having made his arrangements accordingly, and committed his office to Hubert's care, he retired early, and soon forgot the fatigues and excitements of the day in a profound sleep.

He had not slept long, however, before he woke from a dream—wherein Doctor Remy figured as an iconoclast, overthrowing and demolishing the ancient gods of Bergan Hall—to the consciousness that some one was knocking loudly at his door.

"Who is there?" he called.

"It's me, Massa Harry," responded a voice, with the unmistakable negro intonation; but, nevertheless, a voice too much disconnected with the present to meet with immediate recognition from his but half-awakened faculties.

"Who is 'me'?" he demanded again.

"You's own boy Brick, Massa Harry," was the reply.

With an instant intuition of evil, Bergan sprang out of bed, and opened the door. "What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Massa Harry! ole massa's dyin'," replied Brick; "an' gramma Rue, she sent me for you to come right off'; she say,—'Tell him to ride fast, dere's not a minit to lose.' An' I'se brought Vic 'long for you; an' while you's a-dressin', I'll jes' go an' give her a drink, an' rub her down a lilly bit, so she'll be right smart and fresh when you's ready to start."

It was one o'clock in the morning when Bergan saw the great dusky pile of the Hall, and the dark masses of the live oaks, rise before him, in the pale light of the waning moon. He knew that its master lay within. Brick had narrated how Rue had ordered and superintended his removal thither, in one of his moments of comparative quiet and exhaustion;—the old woman being of the opinion that it was not fitting for him to die otherwhere than under the ancestral roof, in the same room where one after another of his forefathers had likewise laid down the burden of the flesh, and begun the new life of the spirit. To this room, Bergan was easily guided by his groans and cries.

Never before had he seen a man in the terrible grasp of delirium tremens; and now, after a brief look, he was glad to turn away his eyes.

Major Bergan was on the bed, but he was only held there by the main strength of two stout negroes. A frightful spasm contorted his face and twisted his limbs. Great drops of perspiration stood on his brow; and from his mouth flowed a mingled stream of oaths, curses, shrieks of horror, threats of defiance, and groans of agony. His bodily anguish was only less than his mental torture. His eyes started from his head at the phantom-creations of his delirious imagination. The furniture was alive, watching him with fiery eyes, and threatening him with envenomed teeth and claws; the shadows took mocking shapes and gibed and jeered at him; and the pictures were demons setting them all on. The very hairs of his head turned to slimy snakes, and the bed-clothes were now damp winding-sheets, and now devouring flames.

"Have you had a doctor?" asked Bergan of Rue, who had met him at the door.

"Yes; Doctor Remy has been here twice; he left not much more than half an hour ago. He said he had a critical case on hand, that must be seen to; and there was nothing to be done here, except what we could do as well as he."

"What are you doing?"

"Giving him soup to keep up his strength, and opium to quiet him. A few minutes ago, too, in a lucid moment, he called for some powders that he has been in the habit of taking, which, he said, always did him more good than anything else. There were only two left; we gave him one, as he was so bent on having it; I thought if it did no good, it couldn't do any harm."

"Did Doctor Remy say that he would call again?"

"He did, but, Master Bergan, a blind woman's ears are quick at catching meanings as well as words, and he did not mean to come very soon,—not, I reckon, till all is over."

Bergan meditated. Though he had long known that his uncle's habits would be likely to bring him, sooner or later, to a drunkard's most miserable end, he could not but think it somewhat suspicious that the seizure should have followed so closely upon the completion of the fraudulent will.

"When was my uncle taken?" he asked.

"Early this evening. He had been drinking a good deal for two or three days past; he said he did not feel well, and he would keep at the brandy bottle, in spite of all that I could say to him. About ten o'clock this morning, Doctor Remy came in to see him, and I suspect, told him something that made him angry,—for I heard him swearing furiously to himself, after the doctor had gone. And then, probably, he fell to drinking worse than ever; but it was not until about four o'clock that I heard him groaning and crying out, and he has kept it up a good part of the time ever since. But now, I think, he seems to be getting a little easier."

Bergan turned to the bed. The spasm was over, and the Major lay exhausted, with his eyes closed. Opening them, they immediately brightened with a look of recognition.

"Is that you, Harry?" he asked, feebly.

"Yes, uncle," replied Bergan, taking his hand; "Rue sent for me, and I came at once. I am sorry to see you so ill."

"I think you are, my boy, I think you are," responded Major Bergan; "you look like it, and besides, a Bergan never lies. And I'm sorry, too,—all the more, because I suspect that it's my own fault. If ever you learn to drink—and I don't feel quite so sure that it's necessary as I did once—don't drink too hard, Harry, don't drink too hard! If ever I get over this bout, I swear I'll think twice, hereafter, before I drink once. And if I don't, I'm glad you're here, Harry, boy; it's well for the new master to be on before the old one is off."

"I hope that you will live to carry your good resolutions into effect," said Bergan earnestly.

"Do you? Well, so do I."

He lay quiet for a moment, busy with his own thoughts. All at once he started up, exclaiming;—

"Fire and fury! what's that?"

The negroes caught hold of him, expecting a fresh convulsion of the same nature as the preceding ones; but, though his face was frightfully distorted, and his form writhed with pain, there was no accompaniment of phantasmal horrors.

"Brandy!" he finally gasped, through his set teeth.

Rue motioned to one of the women in waiting to bring some. Bergan put his hand on her arm. "Surely you will not give it to him now," said he, impressively.

"The doctor said he must have a little, now and then," she answered.

But before the glass could be put to his lips, he groaned, shuddered from head to foot, and fell back on the pillow, with his eyes rolled up in his head, his hands clenched, and a dark froth issuing from, between his shut teeth. He was dead.

XI.
AFTER MANY DAYS.

There was a sudden silence—the shadow of God's hand. In it the lately agonized, writhing body lay at peace, the anxious spectators stood awed and motionless. Yet this silence was more voiceful than any sound,—full of solemn questionings and more solemn answers, subtle suggestions, grave warnings, and momentous intimations. Of the value and the valuelessness of life, of the night and the morning of death, of the character and the import of the Hereafter,—on all these topics it discoursed more eloquently than the most silvery of oratorical tongues.

It had also its more commonplace and definite purport to the simple-minded dependents gathered in the gloom of the broad gallery and the black oaken staircase; which was no sooner fully apprehended, than the sound of weeping was heard among them,—though not noisily demonstrative, according to the African wont, for their awe of their late master had been greater than their affection, and was in nowise diminished by the knowledge of the dread change that had come upon him. It was genuine sorrow, nevertheless, for, though he had been a hard master, of late, most of them remembered when he had been kinder; and, at the worst, he had not been without gleams of good humor and leniency, upon which their minds now dwelt willingly and tenderly. Some few gray heads, too, there were among them, who recollected the grace and promise of his youth, and how proud they had been of their gay, handsome, generous, high-spirited master; and these, striving to forget that the promise had not been kept, or to set down its failure to adverse fate rather than wilful shortcoming, crowded the doorway, or stole in pairs to the foot of the bed, and looked through tears at the dead face, and whispered to each other that something of its youth had come back to it;—the soul, as it took its departure, had stamped the features with their original nobility and grace. And then they stole out, to prompt each other's memories with anecdotes of that vanished youth, and to dilate the eyes of their juniors with descriptions of the ancient splendors and hospitalities of the desolate old Hall;—the banquets that had been served in the dusky dining-room, the gay measures that had been trodden in the long parlor, the wedding-trains and the funeral processions that had passed through the great door; and, finally, of the ghosts that still walk the empty rooms, and may be expected to be seen stalking through the long passages to-night, or holding solemn conclave around the deserted tabernacle of the latest comer among them.

Hark! is not that the sound of footsteps, falling airily, yet heavily, too, in some distant chamber? And there, in the upper gallery, is certainly the rustle of the supernaturally stiff silk robe of the first Lady Bergan, who was found dead in her bed, so many years ago! And now creaks the door at the end of the wing, through which old Sir Harry is wont to march majestically forth, sword in hand, to take vengeance on any degenerate scion of the house that he encounters in his path! This last apparition is too much for their nerves. They shrink together, and flee noiselessly to their cabins, hearing the footsteps of the angry knight following them all the way, and leaving the old house untenanted save by the-ghosts, and the few faithful watchers in the death-chamber.

Rue is kneeling by the corpse. She has closed the eyes—sightless as her own;—she has smoothed back the disordered hair; she has pressed the lips together over the set teeth; now she is passing her withered hand gently over the blind features, thinking more of the baby that she nursed, the child that she petted and spoiled, and the youth that she admired and loved, than of the middle-aged man that she had served with her best strength, or the elderly one that she had stood by so faithfully, striving in vain to hold him back from his evil ways. Finally, she touches the cold lips with her own.

"I kissed him when he was born," she murmurs, half apologetically, to Bergan, "and there will be no kiss on his dead lips, unless I leave it there."

Bergan looks at her wonderingly. Her face is calm—there are no tears in her eyes; she has the satisfied and relieved expression of one who, after long and patient waiting, beholds the expected rest or gladness close at hand, and is already half content.

"One little trust more to be fulfilled," she says softly to herself, "and then my work is done, my long service of the family is over. My God, have I served Thee as well?"

And although, in her deep humility, she shakes her head, and pronounces herself an unprofitable servant, we, who can hear better that voice in the silence, making little of rank, wealth, talent, and culture, and much of faith, patience, and integrity, may be sure that it utters benignantly,—"Well done!"

Rising, at last, Rue turned to Bergan, and made him a low, reverential courtesy.

"Master Bergan," she asked, "have you any orders to give?"

Bergan started. There was a quiet significance in her tone and manner that made his heart beat fast, for just one moment,—not with elation, however, so much as with a heavy weight of responsibility; as if the chill corpse, the crumbling Hall, the hundreds of negroes, the far-stretching lands, and all the cares and complexities thereto pertaining, had been suddenly flung on his shoulders. But the feeling passed quickly; he remembered the will in favor of Carice, as well as its fraudulent successor (which, he now bethought himself, it might be impossible to nullify, even if he could bring himself to come in conflict with Carice's husband); and the weight slid easily from his shoulders, though not without leaving some correlative heaviness in his heart.

Still there were orders to be given; and, until a more legitimate authority or a closer relationship should supersede him, he, being on the spot, must answer the immediate need of headship. He despatched messengers, therefore, in various directions,—one to Godfrey Bergan to apprise him that the long, bitter feud was ended, and between him and the corpse of his brother there might be peace; another to Doctor Remy, with a supplementary direction that if he was not to be found, Doctor Gerrish should be summoned also; and a third to the undertaker, to arrange for the sombre funeral paraphernalia. When all was done, he was glad to retire for awhile to his room, leaving Rue, as she desired, alone with her dead. Yes, hers,—no living person had so strong a prescriptive right to that sad and tender vigil; no other love held the sufficient warrant of such long and loyal service.

Bergan remembered, long afterward, just how she looked as he bade her good night; standing, tall, gaunt, and erect, by the high, old-fashioned bedstead, drawing the heavy curtains round the silent dead with one hand, and extending the other toward him with a free and lofty gesture that suggested the unveiling of a new and golden future.

"Good night, Master Bergan," said she, "or rather, good morning. For you, the night is past, and the dawn is near. For you the Bergan star shines bright in the morning sky; for you and the old Hall a new reign of peace and prosperity is begun. Neglect not the warnings of the past; rejoice in the promise of the future. God bless you, now and evermore!"

The last words were spoken with a solemnity befitting a long farewell. At the moment, a vague apprehension flitted across Bergan's mind; but, looking back, he saw that she had seated herself quietly by the bed, like one whose only purpose was to watch and wait. Besides, she had spoken freely of the morrow's necessities and duties, and of her own part in them; it was plain that she had no apprehension for herself, and he might dismiss his fears.

In the hall, he was met by the solemn ticking of the tall old clock, which some one had set in motion; probably with a vague idea that a human soul's last minutes of time should be carefully measured, and the moment of its entrance upon eternity definitely marked. He could not help shivering at the sound. His mind involuntarily followed the departed soul in its journeyings beyond the bounds of time, picturing the heights or depths it had already reached, the scenes opened to its awed vision, the momentous truths dawning upon its startled comprehension. These thoughts not only accompanied him to his room, but would not be shut out by the closing door.

Weary as he was, he had no disposition to sleep. He sat down by the table, leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to sombre reflections. The gloomy deathbed that he had just witnessed, the emptiness and decay of the old ancestral home, the tangled questions of right and expediency that might present themselves for decision at any moment,—all these weighed heavily on his mind, and depressed his spirits. For one moment he half forgot his rooted trust in an overruling Providence, at once wise and tender, in the contemplation of the chill chain of events that appeared to be tightening around him, the seemingly mysterious fate that had twice compelled his return to this dreary old dwelling,—tomb rather,—to experience some new phase of sin or sorrow, after he had turned his back upon it, as he believed, for many years, if not forever. No wonder the negroes thought it haunted; its heavy, musty atmosphere was much better adapted for ghosts to float about in than to be breathed into living lungs; it might well be crowded with the spirits of his whole ancestry, to make it so stifling!

He went to the window, to see if it were any better there. Scarcely. The moon had vanished behind a cloud; the night was dim; the outside air seemed not less burdened with woe and mystery than that within; he even fancied that he heard light footsteps on the path below. He flung himself again into his chair, and an almost superstitious awe stole over him, a feeling that there was no such thing as emptiness, but only invisibility,—that the air was teeming with mystic shapes, busily tying circumstance to circumstance, cause to effect, motive to result, and life to life, with cords of terrible strength and indestructibility.

Cords:—The word struck lightly on the sensitive chain of association, and there was an instant response from the past;—"Holden with the cords of his sins." No doubt that was the essential truth. Strictly speaking, a separate act or an individual life was an impossibility; each was bound to each by influence or consequence; sin, especially, entailed its results upon a wide circle of inheritors,—the sinner himself, his kindred, friends, neighbors, even his descendants unto remote generations. Doubtless the sins of many old-time Bergans had helped to twist the cords which had held the mansion of their pride to so sad a period of desertion and decay, if not their scion to so woful a death. With how many such cords was he himself holden, and to what, and for how long?

He lifted his eyes with a start. A dim shadow had fallen on the floor; something was intercepting the gray dawn-rays, which feebly lit the room. He looked at the open window; it framed a slight graceful figure, a wan, but lovely face,—both so well remembered, so fondly loved, so mournfully lost! Of course, it was an apparition, a creation of his own excited fancy, called forth to furnish another illustration of the strange ramifications and knottings of those mystical cords, and soon to disappear, and make way for some other sharer of his bonds.

And disappear it did; but with a sudden crash, and a startled cry of "Bergan!"—neither of which had any touch of the supernatural. The unexpected sounds at once his awe; he ran to the window, saw that the rotten flooring of the upper piazza had broken down under some recent weight, leaped the gap, flew down the steps, and found lying underneath a motionless form and a lily-pale face, both half hidden in long, flowing tresses. No apparition this, but a living, breathing Carice,—or what had lately been such;—she looked deathlike enough now.

It may well be questioned whether love ever dies. It disappears from sight, no doubt; it ceases to be felt as motive or end; the very heart from whence it sprang believes that it is no more; perhaps a new—and true—affection occupies its place and does its work. But is this apparent death anything more than a partial decay, analogous to that by which thousands of perennial plants seem annually to perish from the face of the earth, under the frosts of autumn, but the roots of which, nevertheless, carefully preserve their life-principle within, ready to respond with swift springing verdure to the tender kisses and tears of the springtime sun and rain? Is not all death only a sleep?

Bergan had striven conscientiously to destroy his love for Carice, as a thing which, however innocent in its birth, had grown to be a sin. And he had measurably succeeded. His worst heartache was over. Life had ceased to look unattractive; if it did not promise happiness, it offered plenty of work, and a sober well-being. He was beginning to feel the beneficent operation of the law of change, to find that sorrow was not meant to be the life-tenant of any human heart. If he had met Carice under other circumstances, less calculated to throw him off his guard, he would doubtless have approved himself master of the situation; meeting her with calm cousinly courtesy and kindness, and stifling only a momentary pang in his deep heart. But seeing her thus,—pale, motionless, unconscious,—dying, perhaps, if not already dead,—flung back at his feet, for sympathy and succor, by some mysterious turn of the same tide of circumstance which had borne her away,—a lost jewel, restored after many days,—it is scarcely to be wondered at that, for one moment, as he knelt by the inanimate form, he forgot all the sorrowful past in the anxiety of the present, and touched the mute lips with the warm kiss of a love which, though long repressed and slumbering, seemed now to have neither wasted nor died.

He soon recollected himself, however; when, seeing that Carice still breathed, and was probably only stunned by her fall, he at once addressed himself to the consideration of the serious question what was to be done with her. She had fled suddenly, it would seem, led by some wild, uncontrollable impulse; nothing shielded her from chill or from observation but a nightdress and a light shawl; on one foot was a thin slipper, the other was bare and bleeding; and her dishevelled hair fell round her shoulders, some locks of which, he now noticed, were encrimsoned by blood flowing from a deep cut in her head.

He glanced quickly round; the dawn was yet gray, there was no one astir at the Hall, and probably not at Oakstead; unless she had been missed, there was still time to save her from what, he knew, she would feel to be worse than death, when fully restored to consciousness. He lifted her in his arms—it went to his heart, even at that moment, to feel how thin and light she was—and bore her swiftly to the door of her home. There Mr. Bergan and Rosa met him; they had just discovered her absence, but had not given the alarm; they were still too bewildered to know precisely what steps should be taken for her recovery. Bergan carried her to the library, and laid her on the sofa. As he did so, she opened her eyes, turned from him to Mr. Bergan, and cried out, in a voice of mingled entreaty and determination;—

"Father, I cannot be Doctor Remy's wife!"

Bergan looked at his uncle with a mixture of surprise and apprehension. "She is delirious," said he.

"No, thank God!" answered Mr. Bergan, with a look of ineffable relief and gladness; "she is herself again—clothed and in her right mind."