“I do think it is a perfect shame those horrid Glenn girls are to be invited up here to Rex’s wedding,” cried little Birdie Lyon, hobbling into the room where Mrs. Corliss sat, busily engaged in hemming some new table-linen, and throwing herself down on a low hassock at her feet, and laying down her crutch beside her––“it is perfectly awful.”

“Why,” said Mrs. Corliss, smoothing the nut-brown curls back from the child’s flushed face, “I should think you would be very pleased. They were your neighbors when you were down in Florida, were they not?”

“Yes,” replied the little girl, frowning, “but I don’t like them one bit. Bess and Gertie––that’s the two eldest ones, make me think of those stiff pictures in the gay trailing dresses in the magazines. Eve is nice, but she’s a Tom-boy.”

“A wh––at!” cried Mrs. Corliss.

“She’s a Tom-boy, mamma always said; she romps, and has no manners.”

“They will be your neighbors when you go South again––so I suppose your brother thought of that when he invited them.”

“He never dreamed of it,” cried Birdie; “it was Miss Pluma’s doings.”

“Hush, child, don’t talk so loud,” entreated the old housekeeper; “she might hear you.”

“I don’t care,” cried Birdie. “I don’t like her anyhow, and she knows it. When Rex is around she is as sweet as honey to me, and calls me ‘pretty little dear,’ but when Rex isn’t around she scarcely notices me, and I hate her––yes, I do.”

Birdie clinched her little hands together venomously, crying out the words in a shrill scream.

“Birdie,” cried Mrs. Corliss, “you must not say such hard, cruel things. I have heard you say, over and over again, you liked Mr. Hurlhurst, and you must remember Pluma is his daughter, and she is to be your brother’s wife. You must learn to speak and think kindly of her.”

“I never shall like her,” cried Birdie, defiantly, “and I am sure Mr. Hurlhurst don’t.”

“Birdie!” ejaculated the good lady in a fright, dropping her scissors and spools in consternation; “let me warn you not 145 to talk so again; if Miss Pluma was to once hear you, you would have a sorry enough time of it all your after life. What put it into your head Mr. Hurlhurst did not like his own daughter?”

“Oh, lots of things,” answered Birdie. “When I tell him how pretty every one says she is, he groans, and says strange things about fatal beauty, which marred all his young life, and ever so many things I can’t understand, and his face grows so hard and so stern I am almost afraid of him.”

“He is thinking of Pluma’s mother,” thought Mrs. Corliss––but she made no answer.

“He likes to talk to me,” pursued the child, rolling the empty spools to and fro with her crutch, “for he pities me because I am lame.”

“Bless your dear little heart,” said Mrs. Corliss, softly stroking the little girl’s curls; “it is seldom poor old master takes to any one as he has to you.”

“Do I look anything like the little child that died?” questioned Birdie.

A low, gasping cry broke from Mrs. Corliss’s lips, and her face grew ashen white. She tried to speak, but the words died away in her throat.

“He talks to me a great deal about her,” continued Birdie, “and he weeps such bitter tears, and has such strange dreams about her. Why, only last night he dreamed a beautiful, golden-haired young girl came to him, holding out her arms, and crying softly: ‘Look at me, father; I am your child. I was never laid to rest beneath the violets, in my young mother’s tomb. Father, I am in sore distress––come to me, father, or I shall die!’ Of course it was only a dream, but it makes poor Mr. Hurlhurst cry so; and what do you think he said?”

The child did not notice the terrible agony on the old housekeeper’s face, or that no answer was vouchsafed her.

“‘My dreams haunt me night and day,’ he cried. ‘To still this wild, fierce throbbing of my heart I must have that grave opened, and gaze once more upon all that remains of my loved and long-lost bride, sweet Evalia and her little child.’ He was––”

Birdie never finished her sentence.

A terrible cry broke from the housekeeper’s livid lips.

“My God!” she cried, hoarsely, “after nearly seventeen years the sin of my silence is about to find me out at last.”

“What is the matter, Mrs. Corliss? Are you ill?” cried the startled child.

A low, despairing sob answered her, as Mrs. Corliss arose 146 from her seat, took a step or two forward, then fell headlong to the floor in a deep and death-like swoon.

Almost any other child would have been terrified, and alarmed the household.

Birdie was not like other children. She saw a pitcher of ice-water on an adjacent table, which she immediately proceeded to sprinkle on the still, white, wrinkled face; but all her efforts failed to bring the fleeting breath back to the cold, pallid lips.

At last the child became fairly frightened.

“I must go and find Rex or Mr. Hurlhurst,” she cried, grasping her crutch, and limping hurriedly out of the room.

The door leading to Basil Hurlhurst’s apartments stood open––the master of Whitestone Hall sat in his easy-chair, in morning-gown and slippers, deeply immersed in the columns of his account-books.

“Oh, Mr. Hurlhurst,” cried Birdie, her little, white, scared face peering in at the door, “won’t you please come quick? Mrs. Corliss, the housekeeper, has fainted ever so long ago, and I can’t bring her to!”

Basil Hurlhurst hurriedly arose and followed the now thoroughly frightened child quickly to the room where the old housekeeper lay, her hands pressed close to her heart, the look of frozen horror deepening on her face.

Quickly summoning the servants, they raised her from the floor. It was something more than a mere fainting fit. The poor old lady had fallen face downward on the floor, and upon the sharp point of the scissors she had been using, which had entered her body in close proximity to her heart. The wound was certainly a dangerous one. The surgeon, who was quickly summoned, shook his head dubiously.

“The wound is of the most serious nature,” he said. “She can not possibly recover.”

“I regret this sad affair more than I can find words to express,” said Basil Hurlhurst, gravely. “Mrs. Corliss’s whole life almost has been spent at Whitestone Hall. You tell me, doctor, there is no hope. I can scarcely realize it.”

Every care and attention was shown her; but it was long hours before Mrs. Corliss showed signs of returning consciousness, and with her first breath she begged that Basil Hurlhurst might be sent for at once.

He could not understand why she shrunk from him, refusing his proffered hand.

“Tell them all to leave the room,” she whispered. “No one must know what I have to say to you.”

Wondering a little what she had to say to him, he humored her wishes, sending them all from the room.

“Now, Mrs. Corliss,” he said, kindly drawing his chair up close by the bedside, “what is it? You can speak out without reserve; we are all alone.”

“Is it true that I can not live?” she asked, eagerly scanning his face. “Tell me truthfully, master, is the wound a fatal one?”

“Yes,” he said, sympathetically, “I––I––am afraid it is.”

He saw she was making a violent effort to control her emotions. “Do not speak,” he said, gently; “it distresses you. You need perfect rest and quiet.”

“I shall never rest again until I make atonement for my sin,” she cried, feebly. “Oh, master, you have ever been good and kind to me, but I have sinned against you beyond all hope of pardon. When you hear what I have to say you will curse me. Oh, how can I tell it! Yet I can not sleep in my grave with this burden on my soul.”

He certainly thought she was delirious, this poor, patient, toil-worn soul, speaking so incoherently of sin; she, so tender-hearted––she could not even have hurt a sparrow.

“I can promise you my full pardon, Mrs. Corliss,” he said, soothingly; “no matter on what grounds the grievance may be.”

For a moment she looked at him incredulously.

“You do not know what you say. You do not understand,” she muttered, fixing her fast-dimming eyes strangely upon him.

“Do not give yourself any uneasiness upon that score, Mrs. Corliss,” he said, gently; “try to think of something else. Is there anything you would like to have done for you?”

“Yes,” she replied, in a voice so hoarse and changed he could scarcely recognize it was her who had spoken; “when I tell you all, promise me you will not curse me; for I have sinned against you so bitterly that you will cry out to Heaven asking why I did not die long years ago, that the terrible secret I have kept so long might have been wrung from my lips.”

“Surely her ravings were taking a strange freak,” he thought to himself; “yet he would be patient with her and humor her strange fancy.”

The quiet, gentle expression did not leave his face, and she took courage.

“Master,” she said, clasping her hands nervously together, “would it pain you to speak of the sweet, golden-haired young girl-bride who died on that terrible stormy night nearly seventeen years ago?”

She saw his care-worn face grow white, and the lines of pain deepen around his mouth.

“That is the most painful of all subjects to me,” he said, slowly. “You know how I have suffered since that terrible night,” he said shudderingly. “The double loss of my sweet young wife and her little babe has nearly driven me mad. I am a changed man, the weight of the cross I have had to bear has crushed me. I live on, but my heart is buried in the grave of my sweet, golden-haired Evalia and her little child. I repeat, it is a painful subject, still I will listen to what you have to say. I believe I owe my life to your careful nursing, when I was stricken with the brain fever that awful time.”

“It would have been better if I had let you die then, rather than live to inflict the blow which my words will give you. Oh, master!” she implored, “I did not know then what I did was a sin. I feared to tell you lest the shock might cost you your life. As time wore on, I grew so deadly frightened I dared not undo the mischief my silence had wrought. Remember, master, when you looked upon me in your bitterest, fiercest moments of agony, what I did was for your sake; to save your bleeding heart one more pang. I have been a good and faithful woman all my life, faithful to your interests.”

“You have indeed,” he responded, greatly puzzled as to what she could possibly mean.

She tried to raise herself on her elbows, but her strength failed her, and she sunk back exhausted on the pillow.

“Listen, Basil Hurlhurst,” she said, fixing her strangely bright eyes upon his noble, care-worn face; “this is the secret I have carried in this bosom for nearly seventeen years: ‘Your golden-haired young wife died on that terrible stormy night you brought her to Whitestone Hall;’ but listen, Basil, ‘the child did not!’ It was stolen from our midst on the night the fair young mother died.”