The next day I lured Reuben off on a fishing excursion to a mountain lake, and so congratulated myself on escaping ordeals to which I found myself wholly unequal. We did not reach the farmhouse till quite late in the evening, and found that Mr. Hearn and Miss Warren were out enjoying a moonlight ride. As on the previous evening, all the family gathered around Reuben and me as we sat down to our late supper, the little girls arranging with delight the sylvan spoil that I had brought them. They were all so genial and kind that I grieved to think that I had but one more evening with them, and I thought of my cheerless quarters in New York with an inward shiver.

Before very long Mr. Hearn entered with Miss Warren, and the banker was in fine spirits.

"The moonlit landscapes were divine," he said. "Never have I seen them surpassed—not even in Europe."

It was evident that his complacency was not easily disturbed, for I thought that a more sympathetic lover would have noted that his companion was not so enthusiastic as himself. Indeed Miss Warren seemed to bring in with her the cold pale moonlight. Her finely-chiselled oval face looked white and thin as if she were chilled, and I noticed that she shivered as she entered.

"Come," cried Mr. Yocomb, in his hearty way; "Emily, thee and Mr. Hearn have had thy fill of moonlight, dew, and such like unsubstantial stuff. I'm going to give you both a generous slice of cold roast-beef. That's what makes good red blood; and Emily, thee looks as if thee needed a little more. Then I want to see if we cannot provoke thee to one of thy old-time laughs. Seems to me we've missed it a little of late. Thy laugh beats all thy music at the piano."

"Yes, Emily," said Mr. Hearn, a little discontentedly, "I think you are growing rather quiet and distraite of late. When have I heard one of your genuine, mirthful laughs?"

With a sudden wonder my mind took up his question. When had I heard her laugh, whose contagious joyousness was so infectious that I, too, had laughed without knowing why? I now remembered that it was before he came; it was that morning when my memory, more kind than my fate, still refused to reveal the disappointment that now was crushing my very soul; it was when all in the farmhouse were so glad at my assured recovery. Reuben had said that she was like a lark that day—that she equalled Dapple in her glad life. I could recall no such day since, though her lover was present, and her happiness assured. Even he was beginning to note that the light of his countenance did not illumine her face—that she was "quiet and distraite."

Manlike, I had to think it all out, but I thought swiftly. The echo of his words had scarcely died away before the light of a great hope flashed into my face as my whole heart put the question:

"Can it be only sympathy?"

She met my eager glance shrinkingly. I felt almost as if my life depended on the answer that she might consciously or unconsciously give. Why did she fall into painful and even piteous confusion?

But her womanly pride and strong character at once asserted themselves, for she arose quietly, saying, "I do not feel well this evening," and she left the room.

Mr. Hearn followed precipitately, and was profuse in his commiseration.

"I shall be well in the morning," she said, with such clear, confident emphasis that it occurred to me that the assurance was not meant for his ears only; then, in spite of his entreaties, she went to her room.

I wanted no more supper, and made a poor pretence of keeping Reuben company, and I thought his boy's appetite never would be satisfied. My mind was in such a tumult of hope and fear that I had to strive with my whole strength for self-mastery, so as to excite no surmises. Mrs. Yocomb gave me a few inquiring glances, thinking, perhaps, that I was showing more solicitude about Miss Warren than was wise; but in fact they were all so simple-hearted, so accustomed to express all they thought and felt, that they were not inclined to search for hidden and subtle motives. Even feigning more bungling than mine would have kept my secret from them. Adah seemed relieved at Miss Warren's departure. Mr. Hearn lighted a cigar and sat down on the piazza; as soon as possible I pleaded fatigue and retired to my room, for I was eager to be alone that I might, unwatched, look with fearful yet glistening eyes on the trace I had discovered of an infinite treasure.

I again sat down by the window and looked into the old garden. The possibility that the woman that I had there seen, undisguised in her beautiful truth, might be drawing near me, under an impulse too strong to be resisted, thrilled my very soul. "It's contrary to reason, to every law in nature," I said, "that she should attract me with such tremendous gravitation, and yet my love have no counteraction.

"And yet," I murmured, "beware—beware how you hope. Possibly she is merely indisposed. It is more probable that her feelings toward you are those of gratitude only and of deep sympathy. She is under the impression that you saved her life, and that she has unwittingly blighted yours; and, as Mrs. Yocomb said, she is so kind-hearted, so sensitive, that the thought shadows her life and robs it of zest and happiness. You cannot know that she is learning to return your love in spite of herself, simply because she is pale and somewhat sad. She would think herself, as she said, inhuman if she were happy and serene. I must seek for other tests;" and I thought long and deeply. "Oh, Will Shakespeare!" I at last murmured, "you knew the human heart, if any one ever did. I remember now that you wrote:

"'A murd'rous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid.'

"Oh, for the eyes of Argus. If all the mines of wealth in the world were uncovered, and I might have them all for looking, I'd turn away for one clear glimpse into her woman's heart to-night. Go to New York on Monday! No, not unless driven away with a whip of scorpions. No eagle that ever circled those skies watched as I'll stay and watch for the faintest trace of this priceless secret. No detective, stimulated by professional pride and vast reward, ever sought proof of 'murd'rous guilt' as I shall seek for evidences of this pure woman's love, for more than life depends on the result of my quest."

Words like these would once have seemed extravagant and absurd, but in the abandon of my solitude and in my strong excitement they but inadequately expressed the thoughts that surged through my mind. But as I grew calmer, Conscience asked to be heard.

"Just what do you propose?" it asked; "to win her from another, who now has every right to her allegiance and love? Change places, and how would you regard the man who sought to supplant you? You cannot win happiness at the expense of your honor."

Then Reason added, with quiet emphasis, "Even though your conscience is not equal to the emergency, hers will be. She will do what seems right without any regard for the consequences. If you sought to woo her now, she would despise you; she would regard it as an insult that she would never forgive. It would appear proof complete that you doubted her truth, her chief characteristic."

Between them they made so strong a case against me that my heart sank at the prospect. But hope is the lever that moves the world onward, and the faint hope that had dawned on my thick night was too dear and bright a one to leave me crushed again by my old despondency, and I felt that there must be some way of untangling the problem. If the wall of honor hedged me in on every side, I would know the fact to be true before I accepted it.

"I do not propose to woo her," I argued; and possibly my good resolution was strengthened by the knowledge that such a course would be fatal to my hope; "I only intend to discover what may possibly exist. I never have intentionally sought to influence her, even by a glance, since I knew of her relation to Mr. Hearn. I'm under no obligation to this prosperous banker; I'm only bound by honor in the abstract. They are not married. Mrs. Yocomb would say that I had been brought hither by an overruling Providence—it certainly was not a conscious choice of mine—and since I met this woman everything has conspired to bring me to my present position. I know I'm not to blame for it—no more than I was for the storm or the lightning bolt. What a clod I should be were I indifferent to the traits that she has manifested! I feel with absolute certainty that I cannot help the impression that she has made on me. If I could have foreseen it all, I might have remained away; but I was led hither, and kept here by my illness till my chains are riveted and locked, and the key is lost. I cannot escape the fact that I belong to her, body and soul.

"Now suppose, for the sake of argument, that gratitude, respect, friendliness, a sense of being unprotected and alone in the world, have led to her engagement with the wealthy, middle-aged banker, and that through it all her woman's heart was never awakened: such a thing at least is possible. If this were true, she would be no more to blame than I, and we might become the happy victims of circumstances. I'm not worthy of her, and never shall be, but I can't help that either. After all, it seems to me that that which should fulfil my hope is not a ledger balance of good qualities, but the magnetic sympathy of two natures that supplement each other, and were designed for each other in Heaven's match-making. Even now my best hope is based on the truth that she attracts me so irresistibly, and though a much smaller body morally, I should have some corresponding attraction for her. If her woman's heart has become mine, what can she give him? Her very truth may become my most powerful ally. If she still loves him, I will go away and stay away; if it be in accordance with my trembling hope, I have the higher right, and I will assert it to the utmost extent of my power. Shall the happiness of two lives be sacrificed to his unflagging prosperity? Could it ever be right for him to lead her body to the altar and leave her heart with me? Could she, who is truth itself, go there and perjure herself before God and man? No! a thousand times no! It has become a simple question of whom she loves, and I'll find out if Shakespeare's words are true. If she has love for me, let her bury it never so deeply, my love will be the divining-rod that will inevitably discover it."

Having reached this conclusion, I at last slept, in the small hours of the night.

I thought I detected something like apprehension in her eyes when I met her in the morning. Was she conscious of a secret that might reveal itself in spite of her? But she was cheerful and decided in her manner, and seemed bent on assuring Mr. Hearn that she was well again, and all that he could desire.

Were I in mortal peril I could not have been more vigilantly on my guard. Not for the world would I permit her to know what was passing in my mind—at least not yet—and as far as possible I resumed my old manner. I even simulated more dejection than I felt, to counterbalance the flash of hope that I feared she had recognized on the previous evening.

I well knew that all her woman's strength, that all her woman's pride and exalted sense of honor would bind her to him, who was serenely secure in his trust. My one hope was that her woman's heart was my ally; that it would prove the strongest; that it would so assert itself that truth and honor would at last range themselves on its side. Little did the simple, frank old Quaker realize the passionate alternations of hope and fear that I brought to his breakfast-table that bright Sunday.

All that my guarded scrutiny could gather was that Miss Warren was a little too devoted and thoughtful of her urbane lover, and that her cheerfulness lacked somewhat in spontaneity.

It was agreed at the breakfast-table that we should all go to meeting.

"Mrs. Yocomb," I said, finding her alone for a moment, "won't you be moved this morning? I need one of your sermons more than any heathen in Africa. Whatever your faith is, I believe in it, for I've seen its fruits."

"If a message is given to me I will not be silent; if not, it would be presumptuous to speak. But my prayer is that the Spirit whom we worship may speak to thee, and that thou wilt listen. Unless He speaks, my poor words would be of no avail."

"You are a mystery to me, Mrs. Yocomb, with your genial homely farm life here, and your mystical spiritual heights at the meeting-house. You seem to go from the kitchen by easy and natural transition to regions beyond the stars, and to pass without hesitancy from the companionship of us poor mortals into a Presence that is to me supremely awful."

"Thee doesn't understand, Richard. The little faith I have I take with me to the kitchen, and I'm not afraid of my Father in heaven because he is so great and I'm so little. Is Zillah afraid of her father?"

"I suppose you are right, and I admit that I don't understand, and I don't see how I could reason it out."

"God's children," she replied, "as all children, come to believe many blessed truths without the aid of reason. It was not reason that taught me my mother's love, and yet, now that I have children, it seems very reasonable. I think I learned most from what she said to me and did for me. If ever children were assured of love by their Heavenly Father, we have been; if it is possible for a human soul to be touched by loving, unselfish devotion, let him read the story of Christ."

"But, Mrs. Yocomb, I'm not one of the children."

"Yes, thee is. The trouble with thee is that thee's ashamed, or at least that thee won't acknowledge the relation, and be true to it."

"Dear Mrs. Yocomb," I cried in dismay, "I must either renounce heathenism or go away from your influence," and I left precipitately.

But in truth I was too far gone in human idolatry to think long upon her words; they lodged in my memory, however, and I trust will never lose their influence.