Chapter Six.

Discontent.

In looking back on it afterwards, and in talking it all over with her sister, Fidelia could hardly decide whether she had had more pain or pleasure in the week which followed. It was a time she did not like to think about. There had been no real cause for pain, she acknowledged. She had acknowledged as much as that at the time, and she had known that she ought to be ashamed of herself.

That she—Fidelia Marsh—should have a single uncomfortable moment over a faded dress, or the appearance of a last summer’s bonnet, was humiliating—she who had never cared about her clothes! She had never thought much about her clothes in any way. Eunice had always done that for her, as she had done other things. At home she had thought herself as well dressed as her neighbours. At the seminary there had been no time to think about dress; and there had been other faded alpacas there as well as hers. Why should she think about her clothes now? She was ashamed of herself. But it was not clothes altogether. She did not “fit in” among these people. They were different from her—or, rather, she was different from them.

Everybody was pleasant and kind. Miss Avery even, whom she liked least, was especially friendly—she seemed to seek her out always. She sat with her on the lawn in the morning, and in the evenings brought a stool and sat at her feet, while they listened to Miss Kent’s music. They walked and talked together; and why should she not like Miss Avery, who seemed to like her and to wish to be with her? Why should she shrink from her questions about Eunice and their home life, and their friendship with the Everetts, and answer them briefly, and go over all that had been spoken between them in her own thoughts afterwards, in fear of having said something that she ought not to have said?

She liked Miss Kent, though she was a grave and silent person who did not seem to have much to say to any one. They had their love of music in common, and Fidelia was grateful for Miss Kent’s quietly given hints on that subject, and profited by them. She was at her ease with her, but she was not at ease with Miss Avery.

“And why not?” asked Nellie Austin, to whom she one day made the admission. “I’m sure she seems to think everything that is good about you. To-night, when you were sitting together, before the lamps were brought in, Mrs Kent said what friends you seemed to be; and Dr Justin said what a picture you made, sitting there in the fire-light.”

“Yes, I guess so! The picture of a hen and a humming-bird!” said Fidelia, laughing. “If he saw anything but Miss Avery and a feather duster it is a wonder. I have no doubt Miss Avery realised how pretty the picture was, as well as he. No, I am not cross nor sarcastic either, and I am willing to act as a set-off to her now and then, if it is to do her any good. But I can’t just say I like quite so much of that kind of thing.”

“Fidelia,” said Nellie gravely, “we shall have to let you go fishing again with the boys.”

“Yes, let us go. Is it too late to make a plan for to-morrow? We should have to make an early start.”

“It is too late to plan for to-morrow. Amos has gone to bed. And, besides, we couldn’t go to-morrow; we are going to Colonel Green’s. And the day after to-morrow we are all going to the Summit; and those who like can go by the way of Smellie’s Brook, and go to the Summit by the other path.”

“Well, I will go with the boys, and you had better come with us. That was the most delightful day I have had in Eastwood—the day I had with Amos and his brothers at the brook.”

“Thank you, for myself and all the rest. Faithful, what is the matter with you these days?” said Nellie, laying her hand gently on her friend’s hair, “There is something the matter, is there not, dear?”

“There must be, if you say so; but I can’t tell you what it is. I must be ‘gettin’ kind o’ nervous,’ as Deacon Ainsworth says of his wife. It’s queer, isn’t it? I, who never knew there were nerves, until I learned it out of a school-book! I guess I want Eunice. She’ll set me all right. I never had any bad feelings yet that she couldn’t deliver me from, in one way or another. Oh, yes; I shall be all right as soon as I see my Eunice!”

But she was not quite sure of it, even when she said it.

The next day, instead of going with the rest to pay a visit to friends in a neighbouring town, Fidelia chose to stay at home and help cousin Abby with her preparations for the expedition to the Summit, as the highest hill in the neighbourhood was called, and had a better time than if she had gone with the rest. She enjoyed helping Miss Abby, and she enjoyed her talk while the work went on. For Miss Abby Chase saw clearly—had all her life seen clearly—many things which eyes intent only on personal interests might easily have overlooked. Her talk did not flow on in “a straight stream,” so as to become wearisome; but now and then a remark was made, or a word of advice given, or a bit of personal experience told, of which Fidelia made a note, saying to herself: “I must remember to tell Eunice that. How Eunice would like to hear cousin Abby talk!”

They had not, for various reasons, been ready to begin “in the cool of the morning,” as was Miss Abby’s custom when there was anything special to do. The day was warm, and, though the work was pleasant work, it was hard work too in a way. But no feeling of weariness could interfere with the satisfaction with which they viewed results. The success was complete.

“They will spoil a good housekeeper if they make a schoolmistress of you!”—as Fidelia stood folding her apron, and regarding with admiring eyes a big chicken-pie which Mattie had just brought in from the oven. “But I don’t suppose you’d care about spending your life as a housekeeper, when you might have higher work to do.”

“Higher work? Yes, I suppose so. Teaching is either the highest work, or it is drudgery. I suppose it depends upon the teacher,” said Fidelia gravely. “But any sort of work is good if it is needed, and if it is well done—as we have done our work to-day,” added she, smiling.

“Yes; and it is something to do well the humblest work, when others are helped by it to do the highest. And then the Lord doesn’t always see ‘high’ and ‘low’ just as we do. And those who just help other folks’ works, and come into other folks’ lives, without having much of a life of their very own, may have a good time too—yes, and a good reward.”

“Yes,” said Fidelia, thinking of her sister. “Miss Abby, don’t you go visiting sometimes? Won’t you come to our house and see my sister? She would like to have you, and I am sure you would like each other.”

“I should be pleased to visit you and your sister. Yes, I should like her. I like what I have heard about her. I saw her once—she visited here a long time ago.”

“Did she? I don’t think I ever knew it. Was she a little girl? Was it with our father that she came?”

“No; she was a grown woman—a sweet and beautiful young woman. She stayed two or three days. There was company in the house, and I remember they all went one day to the Summit. It was with Dr Justin Everett that she came.”

“Ah!” said Fidelia, sitting suddenly down on the window-seat.

They had come into Miss Abby’s room by this time, and the old lady was resting in the rocking-chair while Fidelia lingered, going on with their talk.

“It was just about the time when her grandmother grew worse. No, I didn’t see much of her; I had more to do in those days. I saw her, but we did not speak together, and I have nothing special to tell you about her, dear, only that I saw her when she came. I have often thought of her since.”

Fidelia sat still, with her chin on her hand and her eyes fixed on the far-away hills; and Miss Abby could not but see the change that had passed over her face. But she did not speak.

The old trouble about Eunice was stirring at her heart. Eunice had always helped others; she had only come in for “a part in other folks’ lives,” as Miss Abby had said. Had Eunice “had a good time and a good reward?” She had been at least content during the last few years. Was she content still? Was she grieving over the past, or was she wishing for that which could never be hers?—“for that which is really not worth having or grieving for, if she only knew it!” thought Fidelia, with an angry flush rising to her cheeks, as the thought of Miss Avery, and the interest which Dr Justin seemed to take in her, came to her mind.

“She doesn’t care. I don’t think she would care; but, oh, I wish I were quite sure! Surely the Lord would never let that trouble come into her life again, after all she has done and suffered.”

She sat long with her eyes fixed on the hills beyond the river, on which the glory of the sunset lay; and when at last she turned to meet the grave looks of Miss Abby, she started and grew red, with a feeling that the old lady must know her thoughts. But Miss Abby only said,—

“Think of it! I had forgotten all about the eggs. I must go down again.” And when she had gone out and shut the door, she opened it again to say,—“You had better stay right here in my room, hadn’t you, and rest? There will be some noise in the other part of the house when they all get home. I may go over to see Sally Hanson a minute; I have something to take to her. But I guess you had better stay here.”

Whether she went to see Sally Hanson or not, she stayed away a good while, and it was growing dark when she returned. Fidelia still sat with her cheek on her hand, and her eyes on the hills, hardly seen now in the gathering gloom.

“Well, dear, are you rested? You have been having a quiet time, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes! I was not tired—only lazy. I suppose I ought to go and brush my hair and change my dress before they all come home. I wonder if I need go down at all? They will be tired enough not to wish to see any one.”

“Well, yes, I’d go down a spell, if I were you, for the sake of being friendly.”

“Do you suppose I should be missed?” said Fidelia, with a laugh which did not sound so pleasantly to the old lady as Fidelia’s laugh usually did.

“You don’t feel very well to-night, do you, dear? I guess you are over-tired, though you don’t know it. Or is there anything else the matter with you, Miss Fidelia?”

“If there is I don’t know, or at least I can’t talk about it.”

She rose and approached Miss Abby as she spoke, conscious that her words might sound strange; but turned to the window again, and stood looking out into the gloom, and there was silence for a time. Then Miss Abby said gently,—

“But you know just where to carry your trouble, dear. Whatever it may be, it isn’t beyond help, is it? How can it be to a Christian?”

Fidelia made no answer to this.

“Have you been living up to your privileges over there in the seminary, dear? I have always heard that it was a good place in which to grow in knowledge and in grace. You haven’t been so much taken up with your books as to neglect better things, have you? Fidelia, are you a Christian?”

There was a moment’s silence before Fidelia answered.

“I once thought I was a Christian. Now I do not know—I am not sure.”

“And so you got kind of down and discouraged, and no wonder, dear.”

Fidelia had to resist a strong impulse to rush away, when Miss Abby rose and came to the window.

“But you needn’t be discouraged. If you are not sure of your hope, you must just let it go, and come again to Him who is our only hope, and it will be all right with you. If you have fallen back, it must be because you have failed to ask His help, or your heart has been after other things. But you haven’t done anything, or neglected anything that He will not be glad to forgive if you’ll tell Him of it, dear. You needn’t be a mite discouraged. I’d be glad to help you if I could,” said Miss Abby, laying her hand gently on that of the girl. “I’m an old woman now, and I’ve seen a good many things in my time, and I have suffered some, too, but not any more than I’m glad to look back upon now. Anyhow, it never pays to get discouraged.”

“Discouraged!” thought Fidelia. “Why, I think I am wrong all through. I am not sure that even Eunice can set me right now.” Aloud she said—“No; it does no good to be discouraged.”

Then they heard the south gate open, and knew that the young people had returned; and, before Fidelia had time to escape, Nellie was calling her name on the stairs, and there was no time for more.

Of course they went downstairs together, and heard all about the visit, and whom they had seen, and what they had said and heard and done, and how sorry every one was that Miss Marsh had not gone with them. And no one would have suspected that Miss Marsh was “discouraged,” or even tired, so interested was she in it all. Indeed, she seemed to have more to say than usual, and even became boastful, as Nellie declared, when allusion was made to the preparations for next day’s expedition to the Summit.

Miss Avery was even more demonstrative in her friendliness than usual that night; and as she was so much fatigued that she found it necessary to recline on the sofa, she would have Fidelia bring a low seat and sit beside her, saying she had seen enough of all the rest for one day. Fidelia sat down willingly enough, but she would not give up her hand to be caressed, as Miss Avery desired; she was busy covering a ball for Franky; and in a little she found it necessary to go nearer the light, but not before Miss Avery had whispered a few words in her ear.

“What a good woman your sister must be! How lovely she must have been when she was young! Dr Justin Everett thinks her nearly perfect.”

She had no time to say more. Fidelia rose suddenly, and, without a glance toward her, walked across the room; and Dr Justin, coming in with letters in his hand, alone saw the paleness of her face and the anger in her eyes. Miss Avery rose from the sofa, and in her pretty eager way came forward to claim her letters.

“Now, Dr Justin, there must be one at least for me! Do say you have got one for me this time,” said she, clasping her hands imploringly.

The doctor laid the letters on the table without a word. It was Nellie who distributed them, and the last one was for Fidelia.

“Now you will be happy! It is from your sister,” said she.

There were letters for several of the others; and in the interest of receiving and opening them, Fidelia was allowed to slip out of the room unnoticed, and only returned in time to say good-night.

“And it must be ‘good-bye’ too, I am afraid, as I must go home to-morrow morning. Eunice wants me. No; she is not sick, but she wants me. I have told Mrs Austin all about it, and she says I ought to go. Amos has promised to take me to the depÔt in the morning.”

“But our trip to the Summit?”

“You must stay for that!”

“One day can make no difference!”

Fidelia was sorry to miss the day’s pleasure, but a day would make much difference. The letter had been delayed one day already, and her sister had several reasons for wishing her to come home at once.

“But your packing! You will have to be up all night. You must let me help you, Miss Marsh! Now say you will,” pleaded Miss Avery with pretty beseeching gestures.

Fidelia laughed.

“My packing! It is all done already, thank you. You will see the last of me to-night.”

It was not quite the last to several of the party. The departure was not so early but that all the family were down, and even Miss Avery had a chance to say good-bye again from the window, as Fidelia and Amos drove off. She proposed that they should wait a little, that she might drive with them, but this was not to be thought of.

“Dr Justin wanted to drive you down, but I said I had promised,” said Amos gravely; “you don’t care, do you?”

“I should have been very sorry if you had forgotten your promise or broken your word. I would not have cared to trouble Dr Justin Everett.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t have troubled him any! He’d as lief come with you as not, I guess. If any one had come, it ought to have been Nellie; but I told her I had something to tell you, and she was very good about it. As for Miss Avery, I guess she didn’t care much about going. You like Miss Avery pretty well, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! Not as I like Nellie, you know. But Miss Avery has been—very—”

“Kind and condescending!” said Amos, as Fidelia paused for a word.

They both laughed a little, but nothing more was said about Miss Avery. A good deal was said about things in general, but not a word which Nellie and all the rest of them might not have heard; and Fidelia began to think she had misunderstood the boy as to his having something to say to her. But when the horse had been securely fastened at a safe distance from the track, they turned to walk up and down the platform. During the few minutes that remained, Amos said,—

“I am going to tell father that I am going to college this fall or next, just as he thinks best.”

“Yes, of course,” said Fidelia. “Well?”

“That is all; and it isn’t ‘of course’ by a good deal. I had about made up my mind for something else. I was going West, to see how it looked out there, any way.”

“Not without your father’s knowledge?”

“No—I don’t know as I should have gone with his knowledge and consent. But he’d have let me go, I guess, if I had kept at him, even if he had hated to.”

Fidelia shook her head.

“That is not the kind of talk I should expect to hear from you, Amos, with such a father as you have.” Amos hung his head, but said,—“Well, I’ve changed my mind. I am going to college, and I am going to do my best. Yes; it is partly to please father, and partly because I see things a little differently. Do you remember what you said to me that day on the hill?”

“I am afraid I talked a good deal that day. I don’t think I remember anything particular.”

“It was about the honour of having a part in the highest work of all, and about the duty of preparing one’s self to do it in the best way. I am going to have a try for it, any way,” said Amos, with a break in his voice.

Fidelia put out her hand and touched his, but she did not speak for a full minute. She was thinking,—“A word of mine! That can’t be—discontented, worldly-minded girl that I have proved myself to be! I am not worthy.” Aloud she said,—“I am glad, Amos. Tell me more.”

“It was only a word you said, but it set me thinking; though I don’t see why it should, for mother, and cousin Abby, and even Nellie, have said about the same to me often. I suppose it was because it seemed new as you said it; and I had got kind of used to cousin Abby’s good advice, and even to mother’s. But I made up my mind that I would see the thing through this time, and decide one way or another. What Dr Justin said helped me some. I mean to try and be a good man—a servant of God,” added the boy, speaking with difficulty.

“Amos,” said Fidelia, “do you mean that you have become a Christian?”

“I mean that I wish to be a Christian, and to have a part in the very highest work, if the Lord will have me for His servant.”

“If, Amos? There is no ‘if’ on the Lord’s side.”

Then she paused, telling herself that she too had desired to have a share in the highest work, and asking herself whether she had not drawn back. She did not know. She only knew that she was all wrong, and that she too must begin again.

“I, too, shall have to decide once for all. Oh, I must!”

There was no time for more, for the shriek of the engine was heard in the distance.

“Amos, I am so glad! And I am glad you have told me. I wish I knew just the right thing to say to you. I can only say I am glad. I wish you could come and talk with my Eunice. Oh, dear—just as if you hadn’t your father and mother, and cousin Abby! But my first thought is always of my Eunice,” added Fidelia, with an uncertain smile. “Good-bye, dear Amos. Everybody in your home has been so good to me; and I am glad for them all. They will be very happy.”

There was not time for another word. As Amos turned from the window as the train moved on, he stumbled on some one—or, rather, some one stumbled on him—and he had no idea who it was till a voice called out,—

“Just in time, Amos! A miss is as good as a mile;” and he ran forward in time to catch a glimpse of Dr Justin Everett on the platform of the cars as the train moved on.

Fidelia had not seen the approach of Dr Justin; and it was a surprise, to say the least, when he entered the car, and, bidding her “Good morning,” took his seat beside her, as if that had been the most natural thing in the world to do.

“I did not know you thought of going to Halsey this morning. What about the Summit?” said Fidelia.

“It looks ungrateful to leave them, does it not? But it could not be helped; I did not know till late last night that I was expected elsewhere this morning. And I am at least no more to blame than you are.”

Fidelia made no answer to that. They could see the Summit as they turned a curve among the hills.

“It looks pleasant up there!” said she.

“Yes, with the morning sunshine on it.”

“I am sorry it happened that I could not go up with Nellie and the rest. I should have enjoyed it, and it would have been something always to remember.”

“Yes, it would have been something to remember,” said Dr Justin.

The sound of his voice had quite changed, and the look on his face also, Fidelia thought, as she glanced up at him.

“Have you ever been at the Summit?” said she; and then she remembered.

“Yes. Once I was on the Summit,” he answered gravely; and he did not remove his eyes from the mountain while it was in sight, nor did a word pass between them for some time after that. It was Dr Justin who spoke first, and his first words were about her friend Amos.

“I should like to take him West with me; and your friend Jabez Ainsworth as well. They are bound to go there first or last.”

“Oh, but you must not think of such a thing! His father would not like it. Amos is going to please his father now, he says, and go to college. Don’t speak of his going West, please.”

“Well, no; not just at present; but when these boys are ‘thoroughly furnished,’ as there is good hope they may be in time, the great West is the place for them, and for many more of their sort. They are needed there now, and will be needed still more in the future.”

“I like Amos. He will do his part well wherever he is,” said Fidelia.

“Yes, I am sure he will.”

“And Jabez, too, in a different way. Jabez and I have always been good friends.”

“Yes, I know. You have helped them both.”

“I have helped Jabez with his arithmetic and grammar, and with good advice, too, sometimes,” added she, laughing; “but as for Amos, if I have ever helped him, it has been without knowing it.”

“That is the best kind of help to give, I think,” said Dr Justin, smiling.

The Austin family was a safe subject to discuss, and they held to it for awhile. Fidelia told about her good fortune in having Nellie for her room-mate at the seminary, and of the many pleasant things they had enjoyed together during the year. When she thought about it afterwards, she wondered at the ease with which she had talked with him, and hoped she had not talked too much.

As they drew near to the last stopping-place before reaching Halsey, Dr Justin stooped to lift his handbag, saying,—

“My brother is waiting for me here, I think. We are going to M— to see a patient of his, about whom he is anxious. Have you a message to send to any one in Eastwood: I go back there to-night.”

“I shall send a message to-morrow by mail, I thank you,” said Fidelia a little stiffly. She was indignant with herself in feeling a little disappointed that he was not going on to Halsey.

“Well, good-bye. We ought to be friends, you and I, and we shall be friends in time.” And then he was gone.

Chapter Eight.

Mrs Stone.

Mrs Stone did not tell her story straight on as she sat waiting there on the mountain side, but with many a break and pause, and with now and then an exclamation of wonder or indignation at her own foolishness, or the foolishness of some one else. But she told it quietly—making no moan for herself, though the troubles of her life had been neither light nor few.

“Yes, I have had a share of trouble, but no more than my share; and, take it altogether, I have had considerable enjoyment, too. There was Eunice—I could never tell the comfort I took with her when she was a little child. I was only a child myself—little more than twelve or thirteen years old—when my sister Myra let me go to take care of Eunice for a spell, when she came home, a motherless baby, to live with her grandmother Peabody on the hill. Her grandmother was a busy woman in those days, with many duties at home and elsewhere; and Eunice was a healthy, happy little creature; and after awhile she was mostly left to me night and day for years; and I did my very best for her, and we were very happy together till your father married again and took her home.

“I ought by rights to have gone with her, as they all wanted to have me; but sister Myra was married by this time, and lived on father’s old place, and she wanted me to come and make my home with her, as I had a good right to do, seeing the farm was as much mine as hers, by our father’s will. So I tried it a spell. She had two babies by this time, and I was good with babies, and could have helped her, and been contented after awhile.

“But Ezra Stone, Myra’s husband, wasn’t—well, he was peculiar. He was close—he came from a stingy family, and I don’t suppose he was more to blame for his stinginess than other folks are for being extravagant—he inherited it. Well, he thought I wasn’t needed there: he thought his wife hadn’t any too much to do with her babies, and her cows, and her housework—no more than other folks had, he said; and he said I might do better for myself some where else. And he kept at it in his worrying way, till he rather wore us out at last. And so, when Squire Peabody came over one day to say that his wife was sick and much in need of help, Myra said I had better go. I’d have a better time than I’d ever be likely to have in her house; and maybe after awhile I might be able to help her and the children more than I could now. So I went, and I stayed there till—well, till I was married.”

There was a long pause here, and Mrs Stone spoke very softly when she went on again.

“I didn’t see so much of Myra after that, as I ought to have done. I used to see her Sundays at meetings, and we met at some of the neighbours’ houses sometimes; but I did not go often to her house. I knew she wasn’t very happy. She was different from her husband. She had a big heart and a free hand, and hated his small ways. She was nervous too, and high strung; and when she had anything on her mind, it had to come out when occasion called for it. Yes, she could say hard things!

“But what she said touched her husband just as the water in the brook touches the stones in its bed. It never moved him; and she wore herself out at last. She had held out through a good deal for the sake of her boys; and when she gave up at last, the end was pretty near. I was with her the last few weeks. She hadn’t strength to say much, but it was—‘My boys, Ruby! Keep them in mind and help them all you can,’ whenever we were alone together.

“I think if she had asked me to come and take care of them, and make my home with them, I must have done it. But she didn’t. Ezra’s mother was living there then, and his sister Susan, and I wasn’t needed. But I did pity those pretty slender boys, and the baby between them all. But I couldn’t do anything about it, and I didn’t see much of them for a good while.

“Well, next June I got a letter, which I knew was from Ezra before I opened it; and I said to myself, ‘He wants me to sell out my share of the farm, or maybe sign off altogether for the benefit of Myra’s boys. I have been expecting it all along, and I shan’t do it.’

“But I was mistaken. That hadn’t come yet. It was a queer composition, that letter. It was to tell me that there was going to be a picnic at the Peak for two or three of the Sunday schools in the neighbourhood; and two of his boys were to be there, and wouldn’t I go and see them? There might be a good many easier ways to see them, I thought, than to go up the mountain to do it. However, some of the neighbours were going, so I said I would go.”

There was another pause here.

“I was in some trouble about that time myself. I never said anything to anybody, and I don’t suppose anybody suspected it. I had lost my sister lately, and that might well account for having less to say than usual. But I had lost another friend—one that would have been more than a friend if he had lived. We were not to say engaged. We hadn’t even kept company much; but when Jim Sedley died down there at Lowell it went hard with me, and for awhile the world seemed to have come to an end for me.

“But I went to the picnic with the rest, and I saw the boys and had a little talk with them, just long enough to find out that they missed their mother dreadfully, and that they were much in need of a mother’s care; and my heart ached for the little fellows; and, when they were called away to join in some play with the rest, I slipped off into the woods, so as to get away from the talk, and to think it all over by myself. But thinking didn’t help me much. There was one thing I could do. I could marry Ezra Stone, and so try to be a mother to them; and as the thought was in my mind I heard Ezra’s voice close to me. I would have hid myself or run away if I could have done it, for I was afraid that I would do or say something that I would be sorry for all my life. But I couldn’t get away; and there was Ezra saying how glad he was to see me, and that he had come to the Peak on purpose, and a lot more of the same kind.

“I was thinking about it all as I sat down there this morning,” said Mrs Stone after a little pause. “A hundred times in the days that followed I asked myself whether I could believe that the Lord was taking care of me that day, according to His promise. It was a great while before I could see it so. But I expect He was, though I never should have married Ezra Stone if I hadn’t gone up the Peak that day. At least I don’t believe I should.

“He didn’t begin about that, but about business. His sister Susan was going to be married to Nathan Pease, whose farm joined father’s old place; and he wanted to buy it, and would I be willing to sell my half of it? I never had calculated much on anything which was likely to come to me from the place; but Myra had always advised me to hold on to my share, and so I said I should have to think about it before I could say whether I would sell or not.

“There is no call to tell you all his talk. He didn’t seem to care about the place since Myra had gone, he said; and there did not seem to be much chance for him and his boys at the East. What he wanted to do was to take what he had and go West with them. There was the best of land to be had there cheap, and no such hard work needed, and a better climate. He knew just the place he could have out there in Wisconsin, and with a little money he could do well for his boys and himself; and he ended by asking if I would go West with him and help him do for Myra’s boys?

“He knew pretty well what my opinion of him was. I didn’t need to say anything about that. My sister hadn’t been much more than six months in her grave, and I didn’t waste words upon him. But all the time it was borne in upon me that it had got to be, and that it would come to that at last.

“‘It isn’t so much a wife that I want as a mother for Myra’s children,’ he said; ‘and I hope, when you come to think of it, you’ll see it your duty to come West with them. If you change your mind, you can let me know.’

“‘It isn’t very likely,’ said I; but all the time I felt that I would be as likely to go as not. I told him I would talk over business matters with Squire Peabody, and that I would sign any papers the squire told me to sign, when the right time came; but I let him understand that I meant to have the full value of my share. It would, I thought, be as safe for Myra’s boys in my hands as in his, though I didn’t just say that to him.

“Well, he went away, and I sat there thinking it all over, just on the spot where I sat to-day when you and the other girls were looking through Dr Justin’s spy-glass; and I told myself that I hadn’t much of anything to look forward to, and that, after all, I might as well do one thing as another. Life didn’t seem worth much to me, but I might make my life worth something to Myra’s boys. There is always duty left when hope is gone, and if I owed duty to any one, surely it was to my sister’s children—so I reasoned. I would wait and see.

“Well, the children came back, and had something more to eat, and sang some hymns, and then it was time to go. The boys kept close to me as we all went down to the place where the trains were waiting; and the poor little fellows cried, and did seem so forlorn when they went away, that I just couldn’t get them out of my thoughts for a long time.

“I didn’t think the sale of the farm would come off for awhile, but I was mistaken. Ezra came over to see the squire one day in October, and they talked it over, and matters were settled, and papers signed, and my share of the price of the land made over to me; and Ezra was to go away at the end of the month. The boys were to be left till spring, till he could make some kind of a home for them, and he said he depended more on me than on any one else to see that they were well done by till then: ‘For they are more and nearer to you than to any one else except myself,’ he said.

“‘It is not likely that I can do much for them while they are in your mother’s keeping,’ I said.

“‘Oh, mother thinks everything of you!’ he said, with a foolish laugh; ‘and you’ve got your share all right. Squire Peabody has seen to that.’

“That was the first winter that Mrs Peabody’s health began to fail. It wasn’t long before your father died, and the squire took her South for the winter, and the house was left to my care; and they said, if I liked, I might have one or two of Myra’s children to keep me company. So I went over and got Jim, the eldest, so as to give him a chance at our winter school, and the baby, as everybody called him, though he was nearly four years old.

“You’ve heard me tell about my Davie before. I needn’t say much about him. The very first feeling of rest and comfort that had come to me, after months of lonesome pain, came the first time he fell asleep in my arms, with his little chapped hand upon my cheek: it was like the coming back of the time when I had baby Eunice to care for; but it was different; too, in some ways. Jim was as good and as bright a boy as need be, and we had a happy winter together.

“Well, in the spring the squire and his wife came home, and she seemed better. They hadn’t been home long when a letter came from Ezra, saying he wanted the boys to be sent out to him. He couldn’t, without considerable loss of time, go for them, but there were chances every day of people coming West, who would look after them all they needed. A chance of any one willing to trouble himself with the care of four boys, one of them little more than a baby, wasn’t likely to come very soon, and the summer was over before we heard again; and all that time Jim and Davie had stayed on with me. Then there came another letter, saying that the boys were to be sent on alone. Nothing would be likely to happen to them, as they needn’t change cars more than once before they reached Chicago, and he would meet them there.

“Then I wrote, saying the rest of them might go so, and I would keep Davie for some better chance; or, if his father said so, I would keep him altogether, and do for him till he was old enough to do for himself. Well, quicker than ever an answer came before, a letter came, saying ‘No!’—Davie must come with the rest. He saw his way clear to do well by all his boys. Farming was a better thing out West than in New England. He wanted all his boys.

“Afterwards I thought of two or three ways I might have taken to keep the child with me, but nobody encouraged me much to undertake it; and I saw no better way at the time than just to go with them myself a part of the way, especially as a gentleman, who had to do with western railroads, offered me a free ticket to Chicago and back. The squire and Mrs Peabody said all they could to put me off the notion.

“‘Ruby,’ said she, ‘if you go, you’ll marry Ezra Stone.’

“‘That’s his idea, anyway,’ said the squire; ‘and Ruby, don’t you do it.’

“‘I know Ezra Stone,’ said I, thinking all the time that what they said might be true. And so it was.

“Ezra met us at Chicago; and as soon as I saw his face I felt sick at the thought of letting Myra’s children go off with him alone. ‘What kind of a woman will he put over them?’ said I to myself.

“Well, you know all about it. I did marry him, right there in Chicago. He didn’t say much. Nothing he could have said would have had much influence with me one way or another. But I saw Myra’s eyes looking at me every time that Jim or the baby smiled at me, and I couldn’t let them all go away alone to I didn’t know who or what. No, he didn’t say much; and afterwards he rather twitted me with being ready the minute I was asked. I don’t suppose I should have done any different if I had known just all that was before me. I wasn’t a free agent in the matter.

“Yes—oh, yes!—I laid the matter before the Lord, or I thought I did. I knew that I wasn’t going to have any easy time, and that it wasn’t my own pleasure I was seeking; and that made me feel as though I was just trying to do my duty, and that the Lord would see me through. Yes, I was self-willed about it. I was faithless, I suppose, and afraid just to leave the boys in God’s hands. Oh, yes, He did see me through; and more than made up for the trouble I had to endure, and I wouldn’t have anything different from all that He sent me! But I am making a long story, and there isn’t really much to tell.

“The next three years was just a dead level. Nothing happened but just summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest. But such harvests! Full and rich beyond any experience we had ever had of harvests. High prices were given too, and much money must have come in. But with that part of it the boys and I had nothing to do. There was nothing but hard work, early and late, to show as far as we were concerned.

“I did my best for them. I kept them at their books, Sundays and rainy days, and winter evenings; and they were smart boys and learnt well. They were good boys and pleasant-natured, taking after their mother, and I took comfort with them in many ways. They were good boys to work too. There wasn’t a lazy bone in one of them; and, while they did the work that was expected of them, everything went well between them and their father. He let them pretty much alone at other times. His heart was set on just one thing, and that was making money, and the more he got the more he wanted. He didn’t spare himself, and he didn’t spare any one else, if the chance to make a dollar came along.

“Jim was doing the work of a man before he was fifteen; and every year brought more to be done, for more land was taken up as fast as it could be paid for. Ezra did have wonderful success. After the narrow stony fields of the old place, it was a sight to see the scores of acres of wheat growing so full and strong. It was threshed right there on the ground, and sometimes it was sold there; and if he had only been content with moderate success, he might have been living now, and well-to-do.

“I blame myself when I think of those times—the times that came after the first three years. I think maybe, if I had done differently, things might have turned out differently for us all. In this third spring my Eunice was born—my only baby, and while she stayed with us she made the world a better place for us all. The boys did think everything of her, and her father too. But she died of croup. If we had had a doctor near us, or if I had known better how to deal with it, she might have lived, I thought, and that made it very hard to bear. Ezra felt so about it too, and we had a dark winter.

“But spring came, and the work had to be done. We couldn’t get all the help we wanted; and from daylight till dark Jim and his brothers had to be in the fields. Even little Davie had his share to do; and, though they were not inclined to shirk their work, it was hard for them, and they did sometimes complain. I complained for them, but I might just as well have held my tongue, and I did after awhile. They grew fast. Jim was as tall as his father when he was sixteen, and if he had had any chance he would have been a strong man in a few years. But he was slim and stooping, and had little flesh on his bones, and I worried about him a good deal; and one day I asked his father how many acres of wheat he supposed it would take to pay for the life and health of a boy like Jim.

“‘He’s my boy,’ said he, ‘and not yours, and it ain’t worth while for you to make the calculation. I know all about it.’

“‘He is my boy more than yours,’ said I, ‘if love means anything. I can’t make you answer me, but some time pretty soon you’ll have to answer his Maker and yours, and you’d best reckon up in time, for as sure as you go on as you are going now, you’ll have to bury him; and that’s my last word.’

“He gave an angry laugh at that, and said my last words came pretty often; but I saw him looking curiously at Jim that night, and I guess he’d have let him take it easier for a spell if Jim had known how to take it easy. But there was just so much to do, and he kept on along with the rest. It was Asher, the second one, who gave out first.

“Once or twice he had complained to me that he had dizzy turns, when he kind of lost himself, and I had doctored him a little, not thinking him very sick, till one day they brought him home from the field insensible; and, if he ever knew any of us again, he could never tell us so, and he died in just a week after he was brought home. Yes, we had a doctor. Jim went twenty miles for one without asking any one’s leave. He came twice, but he couldn’t help him. All the time he was sick I never spoke a word to his father about him unless he first spoke to me, till one day, when he came in from his work, he found his boy lying still and white, with his hands clasped on his breast, dressed ready for the grave.

“‘He’ll never be tired any more,’ I said.

“He turned and went out without a word; and Asher’s name was never spoken between us for years after that.

“It was different with Jim. He kept on till the winter he was eighteen; and I shall always be glad to remember how easy and pleasant his last days were made to him. It was a mild winter, and he kept about doing something or other most of the time. His father, let him do pretty much as he liked, and went on hoping that the spring would make him all right again. He even talked of sending him back to the old place for a change when the summer came; and Jim used to listen, and sometimes said what he would do when he got there. But he knew better. He knew he was dying, and he was not afraid. But he had something he wanted to do before he could be quite willing to go.

“One day, after he had been sitting beside me quietly thinking for awhile, he said—‘It’s hard on father.’

“‘Has anything happened to the fall wheat, or to any of the horses? What is it that is hard on him?’ said I.

“He shook his head, turning to me with a strange grieved look in his eyes.

“‘It is hard that he should have to lose another of his boys,’ said he.

“‘He should have taken better care of them, and he might have kept them,’ said I.

“‘Mother,’ said Jim, ‘I think you are hard on father sometimes.’

“‘Am I? Oh, well, I guess nothing that I’m likely to say or do will ever hurt him much!’ But I knew he was right in a way.

“‘Mother, come in here. I want you to lie down on the bed, and I will sit beside you. You are all tired out. And I have got something that I want to tell you.’

“What came into my mind when I turned and looked at him was a kind of wonder what the world would be like to me when he had gone out of it; but what I said was—‘I don’t feel more tired than common. You lie down on the bed, and I’ll get Davie’s jacket and mend it while we have a little talk.’ So I got the jacket and held it, though I couldn’t put a stitch in. My hands shook so that I couldn’t thread my needle. Jim took and threaded it for me. And then he lay still, with a look of trouble on his face that made me say at last,—

“‘I think I know what you are going to say, Jim. It will be a dreadful trouble to me and your father; but you oughtn’t to be troubled about it, Jim. You are going to a better place: you are not afraid, Jim?’

“‘No, dear mother, not for myself—nor for you. You’ll get over it after awhile, and you’ll come too—you and the boys. But, mother, I want father to come too.’

“I hadn’t a word to say. I must have been a wicked woman. For half a minute it seemed to me that heaven itself would be spoiled if Ezra Stone were there.

“‘And you must help him, mother,’ said Jim.

“‘I haven’t helped him much lately about anything,’ I said.

“‘No; I think you’re a little hard on father, mother;’ and then he turned on his pillow and put his two arms round my neck, and drew my face down to his. His words hurt me dreadfully.

“‘The Lord Himself will have to take hold to change him,’ I said.

“‘Yes, of course, mother; and you’ll help him.’

“He didn’t say any more; and in awhile he fell asleep, and neither of us stirred till I heard his father’s step on the floor. I did not stir then, though it had been our way all those years to keep out of his sight any special sign of affection between us.

“He came in and stood a spell looking at us, I suppose; and then he went out, knowing for certain the thing which in his heart he had been dreading all along, for he must have seen the signs of death on his boy’s face that day.

“Jim lived full three weeks after that, and he was a very happy boy. His fear of his father had all gone. Jim showed how glad he was every time he came into the room; and he would smile, and hold his hand, and speak softly to him, words which the rest of us could not hear, till he could stand it no longer. Then Ezra would rise and go out alone. He never came to me for comfort, and, if he had, I had none to give.

“Just once I heard Jim say, ‘You will, won’t you, father? God will help you, and—mother.’

“His father groaned, and with good reason, for God seemed far away from him, and he could not count much on help from me.

“Well, Jim died in his sleep, and we buried him near the other two; and it was very quiet in the house for a spell, and then everything fell into place again, and all went on as before, as far as those looking on could see.”

Chapter Ten.

A Bad Dream.

“Eunice,” said Mrs Stone, “there is something I want to say to you, only I am afraid you won’t like it.”

“Even if I shouldn’t like it, I don’t know that that would be a good reason why you shouldn’t say it,” responded Eunice, with a smile.

They were sitting together in the front porch, into which the sun was shining brightly; and in September days, when the afternoons are shortening, the sunshine is welcome among these hills, for warmth as well as brightness. They had been sitting there for an hour or two, sometimes exchanging a word about their work, or their neighbours, or the passers-by, but on the whole inclined to silence. Eunice had a book on her lap, and her sewing also, but they had both been neglected for a while. Mrs Stone was knitting steadily on, as if there were nothing more interesting to her at the moment than her monotonous work.

Fidelia had gone with the Everett children and their mother, and several other young people, on the long-talked-of blackberrying expedition, which had been delayed so often for one reason and another that the chances were against success, as far as the fruit was concerned. There had been some discussion as to the wisdom of calling it a nutting expedition instead, though it was early yet to think of getting nuts. But it did not really matter about either the one or the other. The chances were they would find that which they were seeking, though they should get neither nuts nor berries.

The young people had gone in Deacon Ainsworth’s hay-cart, seated on a pile of fragrant hay, and with Jabez in charge of the oxen. Mrs Stone had been invited to go with them, but she had declined.

“Mother is coming in the chaise, and Uncle Justin,” said Susie Everett. “Mother was afraid of the hay-cart. If you can drive, you might go with mother, Mrs Stone. Uncle Justin wouldn’t mind going in the cart, I am sure.”

“No, I don’t much believe he would, under the circumstances,” Mrs Stone had answered; but she still declined. The invitation had been renewed when the chaise passed half-an-hour afterwards, but had been again declined.

“I should have liked to go, just to know how it would seem to be there again,” said she. But she had a stronger reason for staying than for going. She had something to say to Eunice which it would be as well to say when Fidelia was not within call.

“Well?” said Eunice, after a pause.

“Well; it isn’t so much that I am afraid you won’t like it, as that I shall hurt you.”

“But if it is to do me good, I shall not mind the hurt after a little.”

“But then I should feel dreadfully if you were to turn round and tell me I’d better mind my own business.”

“A good deal of my business is yours now, Ruby,” said Eunice, smiling still, but with a slow rising of colour to her cheeks.

“Well, I don’t know, certainly, that you will think this is; but I know that I mean you nothing but good, and her too.”

“Fidelia! Say what you have to say, Ruby.”

“Well, I will. Hasn’t it ever come into your mind that Justin Everett was letting his thoughts turn towards Fidelia?”

“Justin Everett!—Fidelia!”

There was not another word spoken for a good many minutes. Eunice sat with her eyes cast down and with her colour coming and going; and Mrs Stone, seemingly intent on her knitting, noted every change on the beautiful face. But she waited for Eunice to speak first, and in a little she did so quietly enough.

“I cannot say that I have never thought such a thing possible; but I have never seen any reason to make me think that it had happened. Have you, Ruby?”

“Well, if anybody—say Mrs Holt or Mrs Ainsworth—were to come and tell me all that I could tell you, I expect as likely as not I should tell them that all that amounted to nothing. It does not seem anything to tell. Well, a glance maybe, or a long look at her when he never supposed there was any one to take notice! It does not seem much to tell it, but the thought has come into my mind.”

“And Fidelia?”

“Oh, as to Fidelia—I guess she’s all right! I can’t tell you anything about Fidelia. She didn’t like him at first—anybody could see that. They are friendly now. Oh, yes, quite friendly! but I guess, Eunice, it is as your friend that Fidelia thinks of Justin Everett.”

“He is my friend,” said Eunice gravely. And after a little she added—“We will not speak any more about this just now, Ruby. By-and-by perhaps I may. No, you haven’t hurt me. And I could bear to be hurt by you, Ruby, for my good or for Fidelia’s.”

And not another word was spoken on the subject for a long time after that.

The sun was set, but the moon was up before the young people came home. The chaise came first, and was stopped a minute at the gate. Eunice stayed in the porch, but Mrs Stone went down to speak to Mrs Everett at the gate.

“I have got Fidelia with me,” said Mrs Everett. “I wanted Justin to stay to take care of the young people. I should have been troubled about them; they are so full of frolic that they forget to take care of themselves. And I knew I should feel safe with Fidelia driving.”

“I am going to drive Mrs Everett all the way home, Eunice,” said Fidelia.

“There is no need. I guess I can drive myself the rest of the way.”

But, knowing the lady’s timidity, Eunice told Fidelia she had better go on.

“And I will send Jotham back with her at once,” said Mrs Everett.

And so she did; and the chaise had not gone again before the sound of voices singing told that the party in the hay-cart were drawing near. There was a general outcry when it was discovered that Fidelia had not remained at Dr Everett’s, where the young people were to have tea, and spend the evening. She was intreated to return with them. Dr Justin had gone to the door to speak to Eunice, and Susie followed him, begging him to ask permission for Fidelia to go. But Eunice said, in her gentlest voice, that she would like Fidelia to stay at home; and Dr Justin said nothing.

“Would you like to have gone, Fidelia?” asked Eunice, as they went into the house.

“No; I didn’t care about going. I have had enough of noise and nonsense for one day. Oh, yes, I enjoyed it! We didn’t get many berries; and—there!—they have carried mine off with them. I am hungry. I will tell you all about it by-and-by.”

But there was nothing of very much interest to tell. Dr Justin’s name came in with the rest, rather more readily than had been the case when she first came home, and neither of her listeners lost word, or tone, or gesture. But Fidelia had nothing of special interest to tell, and certainly she had nothing to conceal.

“She does not care for him. She is not thinking about him,” said Eunice to herself.

“She does not care for him, or she does not know it,” thought Mrs Stone; and both women were glad in their hearts that Dr Justin’s visit was drawing to a close.

And so were others among his friends. At that moment Dr Everett and his wife were saying a few words to one another on the same subject.

“I am afraid he is thinking about her—that he does care for her,” said the gentle little lady, who, much against her will, had been induced to go with the young people in the afternoon, because her husband had said it was the right thing to do. “No; I am quite sure he has not spoken, and I don’t think Fidelia has the least thought of such a thing.”

“And he mustn’t speak. I would not have Miss Eunice troubled now for more than I can say. No he must not speak; and yet I don’t see how I can tell him so, unless he first speaks to me.”

“But, husband, do you think it would trouble her? I think Eunice Marsh is far beyond all such trouble now. And if—”

“We will not speak about it. Eunice is very near heaven, as I believe; but she can never be beyond caring for what must affect her sister’s happiness. Justin must not speak. It would be the same sad story over again. Fidelia would never leave her sister if she knew her state. And she would have to know it. I do not think Justin will speak—now—unless he should be betrayed into it. But one can never tell. I am thankful he has but another day.”

“But another day!” Dr Justin had said those words a good many times to himself during the afternoon, but he had not said them, as his brother did, with thankfulness. He did not mean to speak to Fidelia. He told himself that he must not speak; that speaking to her now could do no good—only evil. He wished the day well over, and for the moment he did not care to look beyond it.

They all said—“Only another day!” But much, either for good or ill, may happen in one day—even in one moment. And the next day it happened to Fidelia that the knowledge came to her, not of Justin Everett’s secret, but of her own. It was nobody’s fault, but it was a great misfortune; and it happened in this way.

In the afternoon, while the sisters and Mrs Stone were sitting in the porch in the sunshine, Jabez Ainsworth passed in the doctor’s chaise, and he stopped to tell them that he was going down to the depÔt to see about Dr Justin’s filly.

“Dr Justin will be along in a few minutes riding her. She must be aboard the cars to-night, they say, and I am to stay with her to see that she doesn’t get scared or anything. Dr Justin will drive home in the chaise.” And Jabez went on.

Before a word was spoken Dr Justin came in sight.

“Eunice,” said Fidelia eagerly, “come down to the gate and see Dolly. She is the most beautiful creature, and gentle as a lamb. She minds Dr Justin’s least word.”

They went down to the gate, and Mrs Stone followed, much interested for various reasons. A beautiful brown creature was Dolly, gentle and full of spirit, with shy, bright eyes, and a mouth which answered to the slightest touch. She was duly praised and petted, and all expressed the hope that she might reach her new home in safety, and be happy there.

“You are not in danger of being too late, are you?” asked Mrs Stone, in a tone which might imply that she thought the danger certain.

“We don’t go to-night—I mean Dolly does not go to-night. Miss Eunice, you promised to give me the address of your friend,” said Dr Justin, taking his note-book and pencil from his pocket. He was riding his beautiful mare as he used to ride the horses in the pasture when he was a boy—with a bridle, but with no saddle, and he dropped the rein on the creature’s neck as he prepared to write.

“There come the cars!” said Mrs Stone in a whisper, and the shriek of the engine rose and echoed and re-echoed among the hills. Neither of the women for months heard the sound without a thrill of pain. For it startled the pretty, gentle creature into terror which the loose rein gave Dr Justin no power for the moment to soothe or to control, and she sprang forward with a bound which, happily, failed to unseat her rider, and was out of sight round the corner of the road in a moment.

“Come, Aunt Ruby! No—stay with Eunice!” cried Fidelia; and she flew rather than ran up the hill, and out of sight. To see—what? Dr Justin standing with his arm thrown over the neck of his favourite, while, with hand and voice, he soothed her into quiet again.

The sudden relief moved Fidelia as the sight of no catastrophe could have moved her. With a cry she sprang forward, clasping with both hers the hand he held out to her; and, in the single instant of meeting, his eyes read in hers the secret which she herself had not known.

“My Faithful!” he breathed. She cared for him. He had but to speak the word, and she would be his for ever.

But he did not speak it. Something—was it a sense of honour, or an old memory, or was it the sudden change in the beautiful moved face that kept him silent?

“Eunice!—I must go and tell Eunice! We were all so frightened,” she said hurriedly.

“I was in no danger. I hope your sister has not been startled. I will go back with you.”

“No, no! There is no need;” and she waited to hear no more. She was out of sight in a moment. She met Mrs Stone toiling slowly up the hill.

“It is all right,” said Fidelia. “He is walking and leading Dolly up the hill. We got our fright for nothing.”

“And a good thing, thank God!” said Mrs Stone. “Now, Eunice, hadn’t you better go and lie down? You have had enough excitement for one night,” she added, as they entered the gate.

Eunice was pale, but quite calm. She was thinking, not of herself, but of her sister.

“You ran too fast, Fidelia.”

“A great deal too fast. And up the hill too. And then to see him standing there—all right—with his arm over Dolly’s neck, as cool as a cucumber! It was an anti-climax, Aunt Ruby, if you know what that is.”

“Well, you didn’t stay long to sympathise with him, did you?” said Mrs Stone.

“He didn’t need it; and it was Eunice I was thinking of;” and Fidelia, who did not yet understand what had happened to her, looked at her sister with wondering eyes. “Were you frightened, Eunice? Is your heart beating in that uncomfortable way again? Come in and lie down, as Aunt Ruby says.”

They went in, but Eunice did not lie down. They had tea as usual, and then Fidelia moved about, a little restless for a time; and then she sat down quietly with her work, and a book on the table beside her. It was Mrs Stone who went to the door when Jabez stopped to ask for Miss Eunice, and to explain that it had been thought best to give the mare a quiet night after her fright before beginning her journey, and that she was to leave at four the next day, and that Dr Justin was to travel a certain distance in the slow train with her, till he saw how it was to be.

“To-morrow afternoon they go. Were you scared Mrs Stone? And how is Miss Eunice?”

“Miss Eunice is all right, and so is Fidelia. Yes, I was scared a little, but not enough to hurt me; and I hope this is the last of Dr Justin for to-night anyway.”

But it was not. Fidelia heard his voice at the door after she had gone to her room for the night. She did not hear what he said, but she heard Mrs Stone’s answer.

“Yes, you did give us a scare. But there is no harm done. At least I hope not. They’ve both gone to bed anyhow. You can’t very well see either of them to-night.”

“I will call to-morrow, if possible. But if I should not see them again to-morrow—”

That was all Fidelia heard.

“Not see him to-morrow! No, nor the next day, nor the next—nor ever again, I hope and pray,” said Fidelia, hiding her face in her hands. For she was beginning to understand what had come upon her. And had she been a traitor to herself as well as to Eunice? Had she read aright the triumph in his eyes? And was he a traitor too?

“And, oh, Eunice—Eunice—Eunice!”

That was the burden of her thoughts, through many weary hours. She slept towards morning, and woke with a burden of shame and anger, and sorrow and dread, which made all trouble which she had passed through; or which she dreaded, seem as nothing to her.

But one night of sleepless misery does not pale the face, or dim the eye, or quell the courage of a healthy girl of eighteen; and she rose early and did all that she usually did in the morning, and, for all that Mrs Stone’s watchful eyes could see, enjoyed her breakfast as usual.

The morning passed as other mornings had, except that, perhaps, the time given upstairs to her books was a little longer than she gave on most days. But she came down in the middle of her work to read a bit to Eunice, as she sometimes did, either that she might claim admiration for something which she herself admired, or to ask an explanation of something which she did not quite understand. After dinner, she declared herself inclined to go and see old Mrs Belknap, which, she owned, she ought to have done long ago.

“Will you go with me, Mrs Stone?”

Mrs Stone hesitated.

“Well, no; I guess I’ll stay with Eunice. Oh, yes, she’s well enough!—but I guess I’ll stay. If you’ll wait till to-morrow I’ll try to go.”

“But I am going somewhere else to-morrow. I guess I’ll go.”

“You’ll miss seeing the last of Dr Justin if you go. He goes at five.”

“Oh, I can be back long before five! I don’t mean to stay to tea, even if she should ask me, which is not likely. I wonder if there is anything I could carry to the poor old lady.”

“I thought of sending her the stockings I finished last. And you might take her a bottle of pickles. I’ll put them in the basket if you are bound to go.”

“Why, Fidelia, you’ll miss saying good-bye to Dr Justin,” said Eunice also, when Fidelia went into her room before starting.

“I can be back before five. Three hours—nearly four. Oh, yes, I can be back! If I don’t go to see the old lady to-day I can’t this week, and perhaps not at all. I think I had better go, Eunice. I’ll take the near way through the woods.”

She went slowly up the hill, pausing a moment before passing the big rock, then hurried on till she came to the place where she entered the woods. She lingered there, making believe that she was enjoying the sunshine and the pleasant air, and singing as she crossed the level to the grey solitary house standing where two roads met.

Her visit was as successful as visits to Mrs Belknap usually were, but she did not linger over it. She should have taken sweetmeats instead of pickles to the old lady, she told Mrs Stone afterwards, for she was sharp and sour enough by nature. But she told her a good many things about the seminary, and about her visit at Dr Austin’s, and about getting lost on the mountain with Mrs Stone. She answered many questions also, some of which were not very easy to answer, and on the whole mollified the old lady before she went away.

“And how is Eunice these days? Yes, I know she looks pretty well. I worried considerable about her when I heard that Justin Everett was coming home. But I always thought she showed her sense by letting him go away, and staying herself. I guess she’ll let him go again. What do you think of him? Has he changed any? He hasn’t as much as looked at my place since he came.”

“That is strange!” said Fidelia. “I don’t remember him before he went away. Yes, he is going away pretty soon. Mrs Belknap, when are you coming over to see Eunice and Mrs Stone?”

“Ruby Peck that was? She was a pretty smart girl when I used to know her, and I expect she did a pretty smart thing when she married Ezra Stone. Folks say she’s got enough to keep her all her life, which is more than can be said of me; and Ezra Stone could not hold a candle to the kind of man my husband was!” and so on.

Fidelia heard it all, and remembered it, and made Eunice and Mrs Stone smile by repeating some of the old lady’s words, but all the time she was saying to herself—

“Shall I hurry home—or shall I stay till it is too late? Oh, I must go! No, I must not go.”

She went at last hurrying over the meadow and through the wood, till she came breathless to the gap in the fence by the road, and then she sat down to rest. And then slowly up the hill came the doctor’s old Grey, as usual, choosing his own pace. She did not see him, but she knew it was old Grey, and then she heard a voice say—“Let him breathe a minute;” and the old horse stood still.

Fidelia held her breath lest she should be discovered, then watched them as they went on, till the old chaise passed out of sight. Then she turned homewards, pausing at the spot near the big rock where last night she had seen Justin Everett soothing his frightened mare with hand and voice.

“Only last night!” she repeated. “It was a dream—only a dream; and everything shall be as before—yes, everything! Only I wish Eunice would tell me—”

To outward seeming, all was as before. And, though every thought of Dr Justin hurt her, it was chiefly because of her own treachery to Eunice, as she angrily called it. And so a few days passed, and she grew afraid of the dull, persistent pain at last, and said—“I will speak to Eunice.”