The spring was long, cold, and trying. The sun shone brightly, but the north wind sweeping over the ice-fields in the Gulf of St. Lawrence breathed chill and disconsolate on shivering Nova Scotia until well into May.

Then to the great delight of the robins, that had come back rather earlier than usual, and had been greeted by a snowstorm, there was a change in the weather. One leap and they were into the jolly summer, clad in his “cassock colored green,” and having on his head a garland. Swelling tree-buds, bursting flowers, and universal greenness prevailed. During the latter part of May, energetic work was carried on in field and garden in preparation for the brief but lovely season which lasts in the seaside province through June, July, and August, until the golden days of September and October come.

The twenty-first of June is the natal day of Halifax, and on this day an annual concert is held in the lovely Public Gardens. The flower beds are roped off, electric lights shine far overhead among the treetops, and lines of Chinese lanterns and rows of torches glow nearer the earth. Two or three military bands play favorite airs to thousands of people, who saunter to and fro listening to the music, haunting ice-cream booths, or watching the effect of fireworks set off from a small island in the center of a pond from which unhappy ducks and geese fly, quacking and gabbling their disapproval of proceedings so disturbing.

From one of these annual concerts held on a perfect June night, Mrs. Colonibel, Vivienne, Judy, and Mr. Armour were returning. Judy, exhausted by much walking to and fro on the Garden paths, had fallen asleep in the carriage with her head on Armour’s shoulder. Mrs. Colonibel and Vivienne sat with faces upturned to the dull blue of the sky listening, the one absently the other intently, to Armour’s description of the wonderful Wolf-Rayet stars.

His voice was calm and measured, yet Vivienne had known all the evening that something had happened to worry him. When they reached the house, and Mrs. Colonibel and Judy went upstairs, she lingered an instant as she said “Good-night.”

There was no response to her glance of inquiry. Whatever his trouble was he had resolved not to impart it to her, and she slowly proceeded to her room, and putting aside her hat, sank on a heap of cushions by her open window and looked out in the direction of the Arm, which lay like a dull, solid expanse of crystal at the foot of its lines of wooded hills.

It was a dark night, and she could see nothing very distinctly. There was a slight murmur in the pines about the house, but beyond that the stillness was perfect. Her thoughts were on the cottage, though she could see nothing of it. Things were not going well there. Valentine had finally taken up his abode with his father, and they rarely saw him up at the larger house. This evening Vivienne knew that Colonel Armour was entertaining some of his friends. Probably that was the cause of the shadow on her lover’s brow, for she knew that he strongly disapproved of his father’s midnight parties.

“Then why does he not say that they shall not take place?” she uttered half aloud, as she thought of the burdens that Stanton Armour was obliged to carry. “I would not endure it were I in his place.”

“A woman only has power over Ephraim to weep and implore and make supplication unto him,” said a voice behind her.

Vivienne scarcely turned her head. She had become fully accustomed to having Mammy Juniper creep upon her at all times and seasons. Ever since the day that the old Negro woman had seen Stanton Armour’s magnificent diamond ring flashing upon Vivienne’s finger she had changed her tactics with regard to her. The girl was to be taken into the family, hence she must be treated with respect, and strange to say, in a very short time she was as much fascinated by Vivienne, and as completely under her influence, as she had formerly been antagonistic and threatening to her. Her insane prejudice, which had been largely a matter of duty, entirely passed away. The girl’s slight imperiousness exercised the same charm over the Maroon woman’s half-crazed mind that it did over Joe’s stolid one, and she followed her new mistress about with offers of service and petitions for the privilege of performing some of her ancient duties of lady’s maid, that sometimes amused and sometimes annoyed Vivienne.

To-night she stood motionless for some time beside the reclining figure, then seeing that the girl did not wish to be disturbed, moved softly about the room, turning up the wicks of the different lamps, arranging the furniture and gathering up books and papers, till finally coming back to Vivienne, she saw that she had fallen asleep.

Deftly, and with a gentle touch, the woman drew out the large pins that confined the girl’s hair, and allowed it to fall in a dusky mass over her shoulders, then dropping a rug over her sat down and watched her.

“To-day the chaff driven by the whirlwind came into my room,” she muttered, “and the doves went mourning about the house. The anger of the Lord is about to come upon us; woe to him that sets his nest on high. Shall they not rise up suddenly that shall bite thee? Ephraim has brought shame to his house by cutting off many people. For the stone shall cry out to the wall and the beam out of the timber shall answer it. Woe to him that buildeth a house with blood.”

The night wore on and Vivienne, undisturbed by Mammy Juniper’s mutterings, still slept. There was no sound to break the deathly stillness inside and outside the house, till shortly after one o‘clock the girl started up with a low cry of “Stanton!”

Mammy Juniper went over to her. “Awake, my princess, the hour of the Lord is at hand.”

Vivienne’s dazed glance took in the black figure standing over her, the bright lamps of the room, the darkness outside, then she shuddered. “I have had a distressing dream. Is Mr. Armour here? I thought that he was hurt.”

“Mourn not for the elder but for the younger branch, O princess,” chanted the old woman. “Ephraim is a proud man. He transgresseth by wine, neither keepeth at home. He enlargeth his desire as hell and as death, that cannot be satisfied.”

“Hush, Mammy,” said Vivienne.

“Can you not hear the feet of him that bringeth bad tidings?” rejoined the woman. “Howl, O fir trees, for the lofty cedar has fallen—howl, ye oaks of Bashan, for the forest of the vintage has come down. Woe, woe to him that buildeth a house with blood!”

Vivienne shuddered again, and to avoid looking at the blending of wrath and suffering on Mammy’s ugly face, leaned far out of the window. Down in the direction of the cottage a sudden confused noise had arisen, followed a few seconds later by a sound of footsteps hurrying over the walk to the house. She listened intently till the person below came up to the veranda steps and rattled a key in the door of the back hall. “There must be something wrong at the cottage,” she said, getting up and walking across the room, “and that is Joe.”

“Joe goes as a snake by the way, my princess,” said Mammy seizing a lamp and following her. “It is Vincent.”

Vivienne went out into the hall and looked down over the railing of the circular opening at the night-light burning outside Armour’s door.

Vincent was coming quietly upstairs. His feet made no sound in passing over the thick carpet and he had only to tap at Mr. Armour’s door to have it thrown open to him.

He said a few words in a low voice that they could not hear, then disappeared as quickly as he had come. In a very few minutes Armour emerged from his room, thrusting his arms into his coat as he hurried after his servant.

“O Ephraim, he that dasheth in pieces is come up before thy face,” mumbled Mammy Juniper in a choking voice. “Keep the munitions, watch the way!”

“What is it?” exclaimed Vivienne; “what has happened? You speak knowingly.”

The old woman suddenly became calm. “Come and see,” she said quietly.

Vivienne followed her down the staircase. The house was intensely still. No other persons were stirring. When they reached the lowest hall Vivienne paused. “Mammy, I shall not go down there among those men. Do you go and bring me back news of what has happened.”

Mammy looked at her regretfully. “The Assyrians led by Ephraim bring reproach upon themselves. Only a princess of the house can warn and deliver.”

“I know what you mean,” said the girl proudly; “but I cannot be sensational. I will speak to your master. Now go and see if you can be of any use.”

She walked into the dining room, and the old servant carefully placing the lamp in the middle of the long table, left her alone.

There was a clock on the mantelpiece, and with a dull and heavy sense of apprehension Vivienne watched the hands scarcely moving over its face. Twenty, thirty, forty minutes passed, and still Mammy did not come.

At the end of that time there was a step in the hall and she hurried to the door to be confronted by Stanton Armour.

“Are you here, Vivienne?” he asked in a kind of subdued surprise.

“Yes,” and she anxiously scanned his gloomy, dispirited face.

“You had better go to bed. Why did you get up?”

“I had not gone to bed. I fell asleep by my window after I came home, and waked up when I heard Vincent coming for you.”

He made no reply and she went on: “What was the trouble, Stanton?”

“Valentine got himself into a scrape.”

“That unhappy boy!” she said mournfully.

“Do not worry,” said Mr. Armour, trying to clear his face, “it may not be so bad as we think.”

“How bad is it? why do you hesitate?” she said in a low, disturbed voice.

“I do not like to tell you disagreeable things, Vivienne.”

“Am I a doll or a child that I can endure nothing? I do not like to be so treated, Stanton. What was Valentine doing?”

“You know that he has been drinking lately?”

“Yes.”

“This evening when my father and his guests were at supper Valentine came in and made some remarks that they considered insulting.”

“Indeed!”

“And they drove him into a corner, and some one threw a wineglass at him; I hate to tell you this, Vivienne.”

“That is no surprise to me.”

“They had all been drinking,” he went on a little doggedly; “and in some way or other they have hurt Valentine’s eyes. I fancy that he continued to be irritating, as he knows well how to be, and they continued shying wineglasses at him. They didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“And Vincent heard them and came for you to break up this pleasant party?”

“Yes.”

“How are they leaving here?”

“Vincent is driving them.”

“And he is taken from his rest to do so?”

“Yes, unavoidably so.”

“Have you sent for Dr. Camperdown?”Camperdown?”

“I have.”

“And Mammy Juniper is with Valentine?”

“She is.”

“And you are half annoyed with me for coming down,” she said, seizing a handful of her long, hanging hair and pushing it back from her face.

“No, only worried about Valentine.”

“Is there nothing more than that?”

“Nothing more that I care to tell you,” he said evasively.

“You are pale, you suffer,” she said in a low voice.

He gently put back her masses of perfumed hair so that he might see her face more distinctly.

“What a simpleton I used to be,” she suddenly exclaimed; “so young, so deplorably ignorant!”

“Why do you say this?”

“Because I thought that engaged people entered upon a dream of bliss; while you—the more intimately I know you the higher rises some dreadful, dreadful barrier between us. Stanton, tell me, tell me why you are so moody and restless with me lately? Do you not wish to marry me?”

He stooped and kissed her lustrous eyes. “You are mine, mine,” he repeated in accents of repressed passion. “Would to God that you were my wife now.”

“I feel like a restless wave beating against a rock,” she said mournfully. “Am I never to share your troubles?”

The hand resting on her shoulder trembled, and she saw that he was wavering in his hitherto fixed resolve not to confide in her.

“Now—now,” she said eagerly; “tell me tonight. If you love me, trust me.”

“I am racked with anxiety,” he muttered. “What you ask me to do is the right thing, yet you may shrink from me; you may never marry me.”

“Have you ever done anything dishonorable yourself?”

“No; but I have shielded my own flesh and blood; more from instinct than from affection, perhaps, I have done it.”

“Then I will never give you up,” she murmured.

Her beseeching arms were around his neck and he could no longer resist. In halting accents, that were sometimes angry, sometimes ashamed, he told her all she wished to know, and she listened, still clinging to him, but with her hair bound about her face so that he could not see its expression.

When he finished she drew a long sigh, and he found that she was crying.

“Well,” he said, “are we to be husband and wife, or must we separate?”

“We shall never separate, if it rests with me,” she said gently. “But why, oh, why did you dislike my mother?”

“I will make it up to the daughter,” he said, and vehemently. “Can you not see, Vivienne, that if things had not been as they were I would have been spared my worst anxiety?”

“I am so shocked at the wickedness of the world,” she said, “so shocked! I never dreamed of it when I was at school.”

“Yes,” he said gloomily, “it is a bad world.”

“But there is much goodness,” she went on with a sudden radiance of face; “and I am not one to say that the world becomes worse instead of better.”

His face brightened. “Yes, men and women do each other good as well as a frightful amount of evil.”

“And you feel better for telling me this, do you not?”

“Yes; I have been carrying on a wearisome struggle these last few weeks. You will preserve my confidence. There is no one else to whom I talk; no one who knows me. You, my dear innocent lamb,” and he suddenly became loverlike and tender, “are the only being in the world that understands me.”

“You will find my father for me?” she said softly.

“If it is a possible thing; there is no news yet.”

“And when he comes you will try to clear him? Yet stay, Stanton; can you do nothing in his absence?”

“I scarcely think so.”

“Is there no one who knows? What about Mammy Juniper and MacDaly, who talk so strangely about your father? You are silent. Remember, Stanton, I too have a father. Tell me, would you clear him to-morrow if you could, though at the expense of disgracing your own parent?”

“Yes, I would,” he said.

“That is enough,” she said in a low, intense voice. “Have no more scruples about marrying me. I take the responsibility.”

She gave him her hand like a princess, and leaving him standing, a lonely figure in the half-lighted room, went toward the hall to Mammy Juniper, who was waiting for her.

He stood for some time after her departure, staring at the floor, till he heard in abrupt language:

“Where is Mammy Juniper?”

“She is upstairs,” and he lifted his head to see Camperdown pawing the hall carpet like an impatient horse.

“I want some linen, and I wish that she would come down to the cottage. By the way, Stanton,” and he paused as he was about to fling himself out of the doorway, “how much longer are you going to let this thing run on? Fristram and Shelly were here this evening gambling with your worthy sire; the young scamps ought to have been at home with their wives.”

“I know,” wearily; “but what can a man do? I am reproached now with having thrust my father out of doors.”

“Nobody that understood the facts would blame you,” said Camperdown seriously. “But can’t you hedge him around with restrictions?”

“If I draw too sharp a line he will leave here.”

“And you don’t want him injuring the family reputation elsewhere. But isn’t there any way you can devise of keeping these silly young flies from him? Let him amuse himself with old spiders like himself.”

“He must do it in future,” said Armour.

“Who made you promise?” asked Camperdown curiously.

“Vivienne.”

“I thought so; good little girl!”

“I have decided to send Valentine away till after our marriage,” said Armour; “can you suggest any one to go with him?”

Camperdown frowned, hesitated, and muttered: “Better wait a bit.”

“You do not think that his eyes are seriously injured, do you?” said Armour quickly.

“I think nothing, and what I know I’ll keep to myself,” and Camperdown again made an attempt to leave the room, but turned on his heel to come back and say, “Your ancestors were Puritans, weren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“Strictest of the strict and fastidious about Sundays, and would scarcely smile on week days?”

“Yes.”

“And they grew rich and were high in favor with God and man?”

“So the family history assures us.”

“Then they waxed self-indulgent. Your great-grandfather began a merry dance that is culminating with your father and Valentine, and you—poor, dull, and misanthropic clod—would dry up and sterilize but for that lovely little simpleton upstairs, who is probably dreaming that you are a Prince Charming.”

An indescribable air of animation took possession of Armour’s heavy, handsome features. “She probably is,” he said with a smile.

“If you‘ve any sense at all,” continued Camperdown with assumed disdain, “if you‘ve any idea of perpetuating a decent family line, agree to anything she says. In her fine-spun, aristocratic, philanthropic notions, which are strictly opposed to all that is earthly, sensual, and devilish, is your only salvation.” And with a volley of menacing glances he vanished, and shortly afterward crunched under foot the gravel below as he walked toward the cottage muttering: “Blind, blind! Poor fools, how will they stand it? Better Puritans than Sybarites!”