The shrill treble of a girl's voice, raised to its highest pitch in anger and remonstrance, broke in upon the scholarly meditations of the teacher of the Ridgemont grammar school. He raised his head from his book to listen. It came again, mingled with boyish cries and jeers, and the sound of blows and scuffling. The teacher, a small, fagged-looking man of middle age, rose hastily, and went out of the school-house.

Both grammar and high school had just been dismissed, and the bare-trodden play-ground was filled with the departing scholars. In the centre of the ground a group of boys had collected, and from this group the discordant sounds still proceeded.

"What is the meaning of this disturbance?" the master asked, coming near.

At the sound of his voice the group fell apart, disclosing, as a central point, the figure of a girl of thirteen or fourteen years. She was thin and straight, and her face, now ablaze with anger and excitement, was a singular one, full of contradictions, yet not inharmonious as a whole. It was fair, but not as blondes are fair, and its creamy surface was flecked upon the cheeks with dark, velvety freckles. Her features were symmetrical, yet a trifle heavy, particularly the lips, and certain dusky tints were noticeable about the large gray eyes and delicate temples, as well as a peculiar crisp ripple in the mass of vivid red hair which fell from under her torn straw hat.

Clinging to her scant skirts was a small hunch-backed boy, crying dismally, and making the most of his tears by rubbing them into his sickly face with a pair of grimy fists.

The teacher looked about him with disapproval in his glance. The group contained, no doubt, its fair proportion of future legislators and presidents, but the raw material was neither encouraging nor pleasant to look upon. The culprits returned his wavering gaze, some looking a little conscience-smitten, others boldly impertinent, others still (and those the worst in the lot) with a charming air of innocence and candor.

"What is it?" the master repeated. "What is the matter?"

"They were plaguing Bobby, here," the girl broke in, breathlessly,—"taking his marbles away, and making him cry—the mean, cruel things!"

"Hush!" said the teacher, with a feeble gesture of authority. "Is that so, boys?"

The boys grinned at each other furtively, but made no answer.

"Boys," he remarked, solemnly, "I—I'm ashamed of you!"

The delinquents not appearing crushed by this announcement, he turned again to the girl.

"Girls should not quarrel and fight, my dear. It isn't proper, you know."

A mocking smile sprang to the girl's lips, and a sharp glance shot from under her black, up-curling lashes, but she did not speak.

"She's allers a-fightin'," ventured one of the urchins, emboldened by the teacher's reproof; at which the girl turned upon him so fiercely that he shrank hastily out of sight behind his nearest companion.

"You are not one of my scholars?" the master asked, keeping his mild eyes upon the scornful face and defiant little figure.

"No!" the girl answered. "I go to the high school!"

"You are small to be in the high school," he said, smiling upon her kindly.

"It don't go by sizes!" said the child promptly.

"No; certainly not, certainly not," said the teacher, a little staggered. "What is your name, child?"

"Lilly, sir; Lilly O'Connell," she answered, indifferently.

"Lilly!" the teacher repeated abstractedly, looking into the dusky face, with its flashing eyes and fallen ruddy tresses,—"Lilly!"

"It ought to have been Tiger-Lily!" said a pert voice. "It would suit her, I'm sure, more ways than one!" and the speaker, a pretty, handsomely-dressed blonde girl of about her own age, laughed, and looked about for appreciation of her cleverness.

"So it would!" cried a boyish voice. "Her red hair, and freckles, and temper! Tiger-Lily! That's a good one!"

A shout of laughter, and loud cries of "Tiger-Lily!" immediately arose, mingled with another epithet more galling still, in the midst of which the master's deprecating words were utterly lost.

A dark red surged into the girl's face. She turned one eloquent look of wrath upon her tormentors, another, intensified, upon the pretty child who had spoken, and walked away from the place, leading the cripple by the hand.

"Oh, come now, Flossie," said a handsome boy, who stood near the blonde girl, "I wouldn't tease her. She can't help it, you know."

"Pity she couldn't know who is taking up for her!" she retorted, tossing the yellow braid which hung below her waist, and sauntering away homeward.

"Oh, pshaw!" the boy said, coloring to the roots of his hair; "that's the way with you girls. You know what I mean. She can't help it that her mother was a—a mulatto, or something, and her hair red. It's mean to tease her."

"She can help quarrelling and fighting with the boys, though," said Miss Flossie, looking unutterable scorn.

"She wouldn't do it, I guess, if they'd let her alone," the young fellow answered, stoutly. "It's enough to make anybody feel savage to be badgered, and called names, and laughed at all the time. It makes me mad to see it. Besides, it isn't always for herself she quarrels. It's often enough for some little fellow like Bobby, that the big fellows are abusing. She is good-hearted, anyhow."

They had reached by this time the gate opening upon the lawn which surrounded the residence of Flossie's mother, the widow Fairfield. It was a small, but ornate dwelling, expressive, at every point, of gentility and modern improvements. The lawn itself was well kept, and adorned with flower-beds and a tiny fountain. Mrs. Fairfield, a youthful matron in rich mourning of the second stage, sat in a wicker chair upon the veranda reading, and fanning herself with an air of elegant leisure.

Miss Flossie paused. She did not want to quarrel with her boyish admirer, and, with the true instinct of coquetry, instantly appeared to have forgotten her previous irritation.

"Won't you come in, Roger?" she said, sweetly. "Our strawberries are ripe."

The boy smiled at the tempting suggestion, but shook his head.

"Can't," he answered, briefly. "I've got a lot of Latin to do. Good-by."

He nodded pleasantly and went his way. It lay through the village and along the fields and gardens beyond. Just as he came in sight of his home,—a square, elm-shaded mansion of red brick, standing on a gentle rise a little farther on,—he paused at a place where a shallow brook came creeping through the lush grass of the meadow which bounded his father's possessions. He listened a moment to its low gurgling, so suggestive of wood rambles and speckled trout, then tossed his strap of books into the meadow, leaped after it, and followed the brook's course for a little distance, stooping and peering with his keen brown eyes into each dusky pool.

All at once, as he looked and listened, another sound than the brook's plashing came to his ears, and he started up and turned his head. A stump fence, black and bristling, divided the meadow from the adjoining field, its uncouth projections draped in tender, clinging vines, and he stepped softly toward it and looked across. It was a rocky field, where a thin crop of grass was trying to hold its own against a vast growth of weeds, and was getting the worst of it,—a barren, shiftless field, fitly matching the big shiftless barn and small shiftless house to which it appertained.

Lying prone among the daisies was Lilly O'Connell, her face buried in her apron, the red rippling mane falling about her, her slender form shaking with deep and unrestrained sobs.

Roger looked on a moment and then leaped the fence. The girl rose instantly to a sitting position, and glared defiance at him from a pair of tear-stained eyes.

"What are you crying about?" he asked, with awkward kindness.

Her face softened, and a fresh sob shook her.

"Oh, come!" said Roger; "don't mind what a lot of sneaks say."

The girl looked up quickly into the honest dark eyes.

"It was Florence Fairfield that said it," she returned, speaking very rapidly.

Roger gave an uneasy laugh.

"Oh! you mean that about the 'Tiger-Lily'?"

"Yes," she answered, "and it's true. It's true as can be. See!" And for the first time the boy noticed that her gingham apron was filled with the fiery blossoms of the tiger-lily.

"See!" she said again, with an unchildish laugh, holding the flowers against her face.

Roger was not an imaginative boy, but he could not help feeling the subtle likeness between the fervid blossoms, strange, tropical outgrowth of arid New England soil, and this passionate child of mingled races, with her ruddy hair, and glowing eyes and lips. For a moment he did not know what to say, but at last, in his simple, boyish way he said:

"Well, what of it? I think they're splendid."

The girl looked up incredulously.

"I wouldn't mind the—the hair!" he stammered. "I've got a cousin up to Boston, and she's a great belle—a beauty, you know. All the artists are crazy to paint her picture, and her hair is just the color of yours."

Lilly laid the flowers down. Her eyes fell.

"You don't understand," she said, slowly. "Other girls have red hair. It isn't that."

Roger's eyes faltered in their reassuring gaze.

"I—I wouldn't mind—the other thing, either, if I were you," he stammered.

"You don't know what you'd do if you were me!" the girl cried, passionately. "You don't know what you'd do if you were hated, and despised, and laughed at, every day of your life! And how would you like the feeling that it could never be any different, no matter where you went, or how hard you tried to be good, or how much you learned? Never, never any different! Ah, it makes me hate myself, and everybody! I could tear them to pieces, like this, and this!"

She had risen, and was tearing the scarlet petals of the lilies into pieces, her teeth set, her eyes flashing.

"Look at them!" she cried wildly. "How like me they are, all red blood like yours, except those few black drops which never can be washed out! Never! Never!"

And again the child threw herself upon the ground, face downward, and broke into wild, convulsive sobbing.

Young Roger was in an agony of pity. He found his position as consoler a trying one. An older person might well have quailed before this outburst of unchild-like passion. He knew that what she said was true—terribly, bitterly true, and this kept him dumb. He only stood and looked down upon the quivering little figure in embarrassed silence.

Suddenly the girl raised her head, with a flash of her eyes.

"What does God mean," she cried, fiercely, "by making such a difference in people?"

Roger's face became graver still.

"I can't tell you that, Lilly," he answered, soberly. "You'll have to ask the minister. But I've often thought of it myself. I suppose there is a reason, if we only knew. I guess all we can do is to begin where God has put us, and do what we can."

Lilly slowly gathered her disordered hair into one hand and pushed it behind her shoulders, her tear-stained eyes fixed sadly on the boy's troubled face.

The tea-bell, sounding from the distance, brought a welcome interruption, and Roger turned to go. He looked back when half across the meadow, and saw the little figure standing in relief upon a rocky hillock, the sun kindling her red locks into gold.

A few years previously, O'Connell had made his appearance in Ridgemont with wife and child, and had procured a lease of the run-down farm and buildings which had been their home ever since. It was understood that they had come from one of the Middle States, but beyond this nothing of their history was known.

The wife, a beautiful quadroon, sank beneath the severity of the climate, and lived but a short time. After her death, O'Connell, always a surly, hot-headed fellow, grew surlier still, and fell into evil ways. The child, with a curious sort of dignity and independence, took upon her small shoulders the burden her mother had laid aside, and carried on the forlorn household in her own way, without assistance or interference.

That she was not like other children, that she was set apart from them by some strange circumstance, she had early learned to feel. In time she began to comprehend in what the difference lay, and the knowledge roused within her a burning sense of wrong, a fierce spirit of resistance.

With the creamy skin, the full, soft features, the mellow voice, and impassioned nature of her quadroon mother, Lilly had inherited the fiery Celtic hair, gray-green eyes, and quick intelligence of her father.

She contrived to go to school, where her cleverness placed her ahead of other girls of her age, but did not raise her above the unreasoning aversion of her school-mates; and the consciousness of this rankled in the child's soul, giving to her face a pathetic, hunted look, and to her tongue a sharpness which few cared to encounter.

Those who knew her best—her teachers, and a few who would not let their inborn and unconquerable prejudice of race stand in the way of their judgment—knew that, with all her faults of temper, the girl was brave, and truthful, and warm-hearted. They pitied the child, born under a shadow which could never be lifted, and gave her freely the kind words for which her heart secretly longed.

There was little else they could do, for every attempt at other kindness was repelled with a proud indifference which forbade further overtures. So she had gone her way, walking in the shadow which darkened and deepened as she grew older, until at last she stood upon the threshold of womanhood.

It was at this period of her life that the incidents we have related occurred. Small as they were, they proved a crisis in the girl's life. Too much a child to be capable of forming a definite resolve, or rather, perhaps, of putting it into form and deliberately setting about its fulfilment, still the sensitive nature had received an impression, which became a most puissant influence in shaping her life.

A change came over her, so great as to have escaped no interested eyes; but interested eyes were few.

Her teachers, more than any others, marked the change. There was more care of her person and dress, and the raillery of her school-mates was met by an indifference which, however hard its assumption may have been, at once disarmed and puzzled them.

Now and then, the low and unprovoked taunts of her boyish tormentors roused her to an outburst of the old spirit, but for the most part they were met only with a flash of the steel-gray eyes, and a curl of the full red lips.

One Sunday, too, to the amazement of pupils and the embarrassment of teachers, Lilly O'Connell, neatly attired and quite self-possessed, walked into the Sunday-school, from which she had angrily departed, stung by some childish slight, two years before. The minister went to her, welcomed her pleasantly, and gave her a seat in a class of girls of her own age, who, awed by the mingled dignity and determination of his manner, swallowed their indignation, and moved along—a trifle more than was necessary—to give her room.

The little tremor of excitement soon subsided, and Lilly's quickness and attentiveness won for her an outward show, at least, of consideration and kindness, which extended outside of school limits, and gradually, all demonstrations of an unpleasant nature ceased.

When she was about sixteen her father died. This event, which left her a homeless orphan, was turned by the practical kindness of Parson Townsend—the good old minister who had stood between her and a thousand annoyances and wrongs—into the most fortunate event of her life. He, not without some previous domestic controversy, took the girl into his own family, and there, under kind and Christian influences, she lived for a number of years.

At eighteen her school-life terminated, and, by the advice of Parson Townsend, she applied for a position as teacher of the primary school.

The spirit with which her application was met was a revelation and a shock to her. The outward kindness and tolerance which of late years had been manifested toward her, had led her into a fictitious state of content and confidence.

"I was foolish enough," she said to herself, with bitterness, "to think that because the boys do not hoot after me in the street, people had forgotten, or did not care."

The feeling of ostracism stung, but could not degrade, a nature like hers. She withdrew more and more into herself, turned her hands to such work as she could find to do, and went her way again, stifling as best she might the anguished cry which sometimes would rise to her lips:

"What does God mean by it?"

Few saw the beauty of those deep, clear eyes and pathetic lips, or the splendor of her burnished hair, or the fine curves of her tall, upright figure. She was only odd, and "queer looking"—only Lilly O'Connell; very pleasant of speech, and quick at her needle, and useful at picnics and church fairs, and in case of sickness or emergencies of any kind,—but Lilly O'Connell still,—or "Tiger-Lily," for the old name had never been altogether laid aside.

Ten years passed by. The good people of Ridgemont were fond of alluding to the remarkable progress and development made by their picturesque little town during the past decade, but in reality the change was not so great. A few new dwellings, built in the modern efflorescent style, had sprung up, to the discomfiture of the prim, square houses, with dingy white paint and dingier green blinds, which belonged to another epoch; a brick block, of almost metropolitan splendor, cast its shadow across the crooked village street, and a soldiers' monument, an object of special pride and reverence, adorned the centre of the small common, opposite the Hide and Leather Bank and the post-office.

Beside these, a circulating library, a teacher of china-painting and a colored barber were casually mentioned to strangers, as proofs of the slightness of difference in the importance of Ridgemont and some other towns of much more pretension.

Over the old Horton homestead hardly a shadow of change had passed. It presented the same appearance of prosperous middle age. The great elms about it looked not a day older; the hydrangeas on the door-step flowered as exuberantly; the old-fashioned roses bloomed as red, and white, and yellow, against the mossy brick walls; the flower-plots were as trim, and the rustic baskets of moneywort flourished as green, as in the days when Mrs. Horton walked among them, and tended them with her own hands. She had lain with her busy hands folded these five years, in the shadow of the Horton monument, between the grave of Dr. Jared Horton and a row of lessening mounds which had been filled many, many years—the graves of the children who were born—and had died—before Roger's birth.

A great quiet had hung about the place for several years. The blinds upon the front side had seldom been seen to open, except for weekly airings or semi-annual cleanings.

But one day in mid-summer the parlor windows are seen wide open, the front door swung back, and several trunks, covered with labels of all colors, and in several languages, are standing in the large hall.

An unwonted stir about the kitchen and stable, a lively rattling of silver and china in the dining room, attest to some unusual cause for excitement. The cause is at once manifest as the door at the end of the hall opens, and Roger Horton appears, against a background composed of mahogany side-board and the erect and vigilant figure of Nancy Swift, the faithful old housekeeper of his mother's time.

The handsome, manly lad had fulfilled the promise of his boyhood. He was tall and full-chested; a trifle thin, perhaps, and his fine face, now bronzed with travel, grave and thoughtful for his years, but capable of breaking into a smile like a sudden transition from a minor to a major key in music.

He looked more than thoughtful at this moment. He had hardly tasted the food prepared by Nancy with a keen eye to his youthful predilections, and in the firm conviction that he must have suffered terrible deprivations during his foreign travels.

Truly, this coming home was not like the comings-home of other days, when two dear faces, one gray-bearded and genial, the other pale and gentle-eyed, had smiled upon him across the comfortable board. The sense of loss was almost more than he could bear; the sound of his own footsteps in the cool, empty hall smote heavily upon his heart.

The door of the parlor stood ajar, and he pushed it open and stepped into the room. Everything was as it had always been ever since he could remember—furniture, carpets, curtains, everything. Just opposite the door hung the portraits of his parents, invested by the dim half-light with a life-like air which the unknown artist had vainly tried to impart.

Roger had not entered the room since his mother's funeral, which followed close upon that of his father, and just before the close of his collegiate course.

Something in the room brought those scenes of bitter grief too vividly before him. It might have been the closeness of the air, or, more probably, the odor rising from a basket of flowers which stood upon the centre-table. He remembered now that Nancy had mentioned its arrival while he was going through the ceremony of taking tea, and he went up to the table and bent over it. Upon a snowy oval of choicest flowers, surrounded by a scarlet border, the word "Welcome" was wrought in purple violets.

The young man smiled as he read the name upon the card attached. He took up one of the white carnations and began fastening it to the lapel of his coat, but put it back at length, and with a glance at the painted faces, whose eyes seemed following his every motion, he took his hat and went out of the house.

His progress through the streets of his native village took the form of an ovation. Nearly every one he met was an old acquaintance or friend. It warmed his heart, and took away the sting of loneliness which he had felt before, to see how cordial were the greetings. Strong, manly grips, kind, womanly hand-pressures, and shy, blushing greetings from full-fledged village beauties, whom he vaguely remembered as lank, sun-burned little girls, met him at every step.

He noticed, and was duly impressed by, the ornate new dwellings, the soldiers' monument, and the tonsorial establishment of Professor Commeraw. But beyond these boasted improvements, it might have been yesterday, instead of four years ago, that he passed along the same street on his way to the station. Even Deacon White's sorrel mare was hitched before the leading grocery-store in precisely the same spot, and blinking dejectedly at precisely the same post, he could have taken his oath, where she had stood and blinked on that morning.

Before the tumble-down structure where, in connection with the sale of petrified candy, withered oranges, fly-specked literature, and gingerpop, the post-office was carried on, sat that genial old reprobate, the post-master, relating for the hundredth time to a sleepy and indifferent audience, his personal exploits in the late war; pausing, however, long enough to bestow upon Horton a greeting worthy of the occasion.

"Welcome home!" said Mr. Doolittle, with an oratorical flourish, as became a politician and a post-master; "welcome back to the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

Whereupon he carefully seated himself on the precarious chair which served him as rostrum, and resumed his gory narrative.

A little further on, another village worthy, Fred Hanniford, cobbler, vocalist, and wit, sat pegging away in the door of his shop, making the welkin ring with the inspiring strains of "The Sword of Bunker Hill," just as in the old days. True, the brilliancy of his tones was somewhat marred by the presence of an ounce or so of shoe-pegs in his left cheek, but this fact had no dampening effect upon the enthusiasm of a select, peanut-consuming audience of small boys on the steps.

He, too, suspended work and song to nod familiarly to his somewhat foreignized young townsman, and watched him turn the corner, fixing curious and jealous eyes upon the receding feet.

"Who made your boots?" he remarked sotto voce, as their firm rap upon the plank sidewalk grew indistinct, which profound sarcasm having extracted the expected meed of laughter from his juvenile audience, Mr. Hanniford resumed his hammer, and burst forth with a high G of astounding volume.

As young Horton came in sight of Mrs. Fairfield's residence, he involuntarily quickened his steps. As a matter of course, he had met in his wanderings many pretty and agreeable girls, and, being an attractive young man, it is safe to say that eyes of every hue had looked upon him with more or less favor. It would be imprudent to venture the assertion that the young man had remained quite indifferent to all this, but Horton's nature was more tender than passionate; early associations held him very closely, and his boyish fancy for the widow's pretty daughter had never quite faded. A rather fitful correspondence had been kept up, and photographs exchanged, and he felt himself justified in believing that the welcome the purple violets had spoken would speak to him still more eloquently from a pair of violet eyes.

He scanned the pretty lawn with a pleased, expectant glance. Flowers were massed in red, white and purple against the vivid green; the fountain was scattering its spray; hammocks were slung in tempting nooks, and fanciful wicker chairs, interwoven with blue and scarlet ribbons, stood about the vine-draped piazza. He half expected a girlish figure to run down the walk to meet him, in the old childish way, and as a fold of white muslin swept out of the open window his heart leaped; but it was only the curtain after all, and just as he saw this with a little pang of disappointment, a girl's figure did appear, and came down the walk toward him. It was a tall figure, in a simple dark dress. As it came nearer, he saw a colorless, oval face, with downcast eyes, and a mass of ruddy hair, burnished like gold, gathered in a coil under the small black hat. There was something proud, yet shrinking, in the face and in the carriage of the whole figure. As the latch fell from his hand the girl looked up, and encountered his eyes, pleased, friendly and a trifle astonished, fixed full upon her.

She stopped, and a beautiful color swept into her cheeks, a sudden unleaping flame filled the luminous eyes, and her lips parted.

"Why, it is Lilly O'Connell!" the young man said, cordially, extending his hand.

The girl's hand was half extended to meet his, but with a quick glance toward the house she drew it back into the folds of her black dress, bowing instead.

Horton let his hand fall, a little flush showing itself upon his forehead.

"Are you not going to speak to me, Miss O'Connell?" he said, in his frank, pleasant way. "Are you not going to say you are glad to see me back, like all the rest?"

The color had all faded from the girl's cheeks and neck. She returned his smiling glance with an earnest look, hesitating before she spoke.

"I am very glad, Mr. Horton," she said, at last, and, passing him, went swiftly out of sight.

The young man stood a moment with his hand upon the gate, looking after her; then turned and went up the walk to the door, and rang the bell. A smiling maid admitted him, and showed him into a very pretty drawing-room.

He had not waited long when Florence, preceded by her mother, came in. She had been a pretty school-girl, but he was hardly prepared to see so beautiful a young woman, or one so self-possessed, and so free from provincialism in dress and manner. She was a blonde beauty, of the delicate, porcelain-tinted type, small, but so well-made and well-dressed as to appear much taller than she really was. She was lovely to-night in a filmy white dress, so richly trimmed with lace as to leave the delicate flesh-tints of shoulders and arms visible through the fine meshes.

She had always cared for Roger, and, being full of delight at his return and his distinguished appearance, let her delight appear undisguisedly. Although a good deal of a coquette, with Roger coquetry seemed out of place. His own simple, sincere manners were contagious, and Florence had never been more charming.

"Tell us all about the pictures and artists and singers you have seen and heard," she said, in the course of their lively interchange of experiences.

"I am afraid I can talk better about hospitals and surgeons," said Horton. "You know I am not a bit Æsthetic, and I have been studying very closely."

"You are determined, then, to practise medicine?" Mrs. Fairfield said, with rather more anxiety in her tones than the occasion seemed to demand.

"I think I am better fitted for that profession than any other," Horton answered.

"Y-yes," assented Mrs. Fairfield, doubtfully, looking at her daughter.

"I should never choose it, if I were a man," said Florence, decidedly.

"It seems to have chosen me," Horton said. "I have not the slightest bent in any other direction."

"It is such a hard life," said Florence. "A doctor must be a perfect hero."

"You used to be enthusiastic over heroes," said Horton, smiling.

"I am now," said Florence, "but——"

"Not the kind who ride in buggies instead of on foaming chargers and wield lancets instead of lances," laughed Horton, looking into the slightly vexed but lovely face opposite, with a great deal of expression in his dark eyes.

"Of course you would not think of settling in Ridgemont," remarked Mrs. Fairfield, blandly, "after all you have studied."

"I don't see why not," he answered.

"But for an ambitious young man," began Mrs. Fairfield.

"I'm afraid I am not an ambitious young man," said Horton. "There is a good opening here, and the old home is very dear to me."

Florence was silently studying the toe of one small sandalled foot.

"Well, to be sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, who always endeavored to fill up pauses in conversation,—"to be sure, Ridgemont is improving. Don't you find it changed a good deal?"

"Why, not very much," Horton answered. "Places don't change so much in a few years as people. I met Lilly O'Connell as I came into your grounds. She has changed—wonderfully."

"Y-yes," said Mrs. Fairfield, rather stiffly. "She has improved. Since her father died, she has lived in Parson Townsend's family. She is a very respectable girl, and an excellent seamstress."

Florence had gone to the window, and was looking out.

"She was very good at her books, I remember," he went on. "I used to think she would make something more than a seamstress."

"I only remember her dreadful temper," said Florence, in a tone meant to sound careless. "We called her 'Tiger-Lily,' you know."

"I never wondered at her temper," said Horton. "She had a great deal to vex her. I suppose things are not much better now."

"Oh, she is treated well enough," said Mrs. Fairfield. "The best families in the place employ her. I don't know what more she can expect, considering that she is—a——"

"Off color," suggested Horton. "No. She cannot expect much more. But it is terrible—isn't it?—that stigma for no fault of hers. It must be hard for a girl like her—like what she seems to have become."

"Oh, as to that," said Florence, going to the piano and drumming lightly, without sitting down, "she is very independent. She asserts herself quite enough."

"Why, yes," broke in her mother, hastily. "She actually had the impudence to apply for a position as teacher of the primary school, and Parson Townsend, and Hickson of the School Board, were determined she should have it. The 'Gazette' took it up, and for awhile Lilly was the heroine of the day. But of course she did not succeed. It would have ruined the school. A colored teacher! Dreadful!"

"Dreadful, indeed," said Horton. He rose and joined Florence at the piano, and a moment later Mrs. Fairfield was contentedly drumming upon the table, in the worst possible time, to her daughter's performance of a brilliant waltz.

The evening terminated pleasantly. After Horton had gone, mother and daughter had a long confidential talk upon the piazza, which it is needless to repeat. But at its close, as Mrs. Fairfield was closing the doors for the night, she might have been heard to say:

"You could spend your winters in Boston, you know."

To which Florence returned a dreamy "Yes."

The tranquillity of Ridgemont was this summer disturbed by several events of unusual local interest. Two, of a melancholy nature, were the deaths of good old Parson Townsend and of Dr. Brown, one of the only two regular physicians of whom the town could boast. The latter event had the effect to bring about the beginning of young Dr. Horton's professional career. The road now lay fair and open before him. His father had been widely known and liked, and people were not slow in showing their allegiance to the honored son of an honored father.

Of course this event, being one of common interest, was duly discussed and commented upon, and nowhere so loudly and freely as in the post-office and cobbler's shop, where, surrounded by their disciples and adherents, the respective proprietors dispensed wit and wisdom in quantities suitable to the occasion.

"He's young," remarked the worthy post-master, with a wave of his clay pipe, "an' he's brought home a lot o' new-fangled machines an' furrin notions, but he's got a good stock of Yankee common-sense to back it all, an' I opine he'll do."

And such was the general verdict.

His popularity was further increased by the rumor of his engagement to Miss Florence Fairfield. Miss Fairfield being a native of the town, and the most elegant and accomplished young woman it had so far produced, was regarded with much the same feeling as the brick block and the soldiers' monument; and as she drove through the village streets in her pretty pony phaeton, she received a great deal of homage in a quiet way, particularly from the masculine portion of the community.

"A tip-top match for the young doctor," said one. "She's putty as a picter an' smart as lightnin', an' what's more, she's got 'the needful.'"

"Well, as to that," said another, "Horton ain't no need to look for that. He's got property enough."

To which must be added Mr. Hanniford's comments, delivered amidst a rapid expectoration of shoe-pegs.

"She's got the littlest foot of any girl in town, an' I ought to know, for I made her shoes from the time she was knee-high to a grasshopper till she got sot on them French heels, which is a thing I ain't agoin' to countenance. She was always very fond o' my singin', too. Says she,'You'd ought to have your voice cultivated, Mr. Hanniford,' says she, 'it's equal, if not superior, to Waktel's or Campyneeny's, any time o' day.' Though," he added, musingly, "as to cultivatin', I've been to more'n eight or ten singin'-schools, an' I guess there ain't much more to learn."

The death of Parson Townsend brought about another crisis in the life of Lilly O'Connell. It had been his express wish that she should remain an inmate of his family, which consisted now of a married son and his wife and children. But, with her quick intuition, Lilly saw, before a week had passed, that her presence was not desired by young Mrs. Townsend, and her resolution was at once taken.

Through all these years she had had one true friend and helper—Priscilla Bullins, milliner and dress-maker.

Miss Bullins was a queer little frizzed and ruffled creature, with watery blue eyes, and a skin like yellow crackle-ware. There was always a good deal of rice-powder visible in her scant eyebrows, and a frost-bitten bloom upon her cheeks which, from its intermittent character, was sadly open to suspicion, but a warm heart beat under the tight-laced bodice, and it was to her, after some hours of mental conflict, that Lilly went with her new trouble. Miss Bullins listened with her soul in arms.

"You'll come and stay with me; that's just what you'll do, Lilly, and Jim Townsend's wife had ought to be ashamed of herself, and she a professor! I've got a nice little room you can have all to yourself. It's next to mine, and you're welcome to it till you can do better. I shall be glad of your company, for, between you and me," dropping her voice to a confidential whisper, "I ain't so young as I was, and, bein' subject to spells in the night, I ain't so fond of livin' alone as I used to be."

So Lilly moved her small possessions into Miss Bullin's spare bedroom, and went to work in the dingy back shop, rounding out her life with such pleasure as could be found in a walk about the burying-ground on Sundays, in the circulating library, and in the weekly prayer-meeting, where her mellow voice revelled in the sweet melodies of the hymns, whose promises brought such comfort to her lonely young heart.

From the window where she sat when at work she could look out over fields and orchards, and follow the winding of the river in and out the willow-fringed banks. Just opposite the window, a small island separated it into two deep channels, which met at the lower point with a glad rush and tumult, to flow on again united in a deeper, smoother current than before.

Along the river bank, the road ran to the covered bridge, and across it into the woods beyond. And often, as Lilly sat at her work, she saw Miss Fairfield's pony phaeton rolling leisurely along under the overhanging willows, so near that the voices of the occupants, for Miss Fairfield was never alone, now, came up to her with the cool river-breeze and the scent of the pines on the island. Once, Roger Horton happened to look up, and recognized her with one of those grave smiles which always brought back her childhood and the barren pasture where the tiger-lilies grew; and she drew back into the shadow of the curtain again.

Doctor Horton saw Lilly O'Connell often; he met her flitting through the twilight with bulky parcels, at the bedsides of sick women and children, and even at the various festivals which enlivened the tedium of the summer (where, indeed, her place was among the workers only), and he would have been glad to speak to her a friendly word now and then, but she gave him little chance. There was a look in her face which haunted him, and the sound of her voice, rising fervid and mournful above the others at church or conference-meeting, thrilled him to the heart with its pathos. Once, as he drove along the river-side after dark, the voice came floating out from the unlighted window of the shop where he so often saw her at work, and it seemed to him like the note of the wood-thrush, singing in the solitude of some deep forest.

Before the summer was over, something occurred to heighten the interest which the sight of this solitary maiden figure, moving so unheeded across the dull background of village life, had inspired.

It was at a lawn party held upon Mrs. Fairfield's grounds, for the benefit of the church of which she was a prominent member. There was the usual display of bunting, Chinese lanterns, decorated booths, and pretty girls in white. A good many people were present, and the Ridgemont brass band was discoursing familiar strains. Doctor Horton, dropping in, in the course of the evening, gravitated naturally toward an imposing structure, denominated on the bills the "Temple of Flora," where Miss Fairfield and attendant nymphs were disposing of iced lemonade and button-hole bouquets in the cause of religion. The place before the booth was occupied by a group of young men, who were flinging away small coin with that reckless disregard of consequences peculiar to very youthful men on such occasions. All were adorned with boutonniÈres at every possible point, and were laughing in a manner so exuberant as might, under other circumstances, have led to the suspicion that the beverage sold as lemonade contained something of a more intoxicating nature.

Miss Fairfield was standing outside the booth, one bare white arm extended across the green garlands which covered the frame-work. She looked bored and tired, and was gazing absently over the shoulder of the delighted youth vis-À-vis.

Her face brightened as Doctor Horton was seen making his way toward the place.

"We were laughing," said the young man who had been talking with her, after greetings had been exchanged,—"we were laughing over the latest news. Heard it, Doctor?"

Dr. Horton signified his ignorance.

He was abstractedly studying the effect of a bunch of red columbine nodding at a white throat just before him. He had secured those flowers himself, with some trouble, that very day, during a morning drive, and he alone knew the sweetness of the reward which had been his.

"A marriage, Doctor," went on the youth, jocosely. "Marriage in high life. Professor Samuel Commeraw to Miss Lilly O'Connell, both of Ridgemont."

Horton looked up quickly.

"From whom did you get your information?" he asked, coolly regarding the young fellow.

"From Commeraw himself," he answered, with some hesitation.

"Ah!" Dr. Horton returned, indifferently. "I thought it very likely."

"I don't find it so incredible," said Miss Fairfield, in her fine, clear voice. "He is the only one of her own color in the town. It seems to me very natural."

Dr. Horton looked into the fair face. Was it the flickering light of the Chinese lanterns which gave the delicate features so hard and cold a look?

He turned his eyes away, and as he did so he saw that Lilly O'Connell, with three or four children clinging about her, had approached, and, impeded by the crowd, had stopped very near the floral temple. A glance at her face showed that she had heard all which had been said concerning her.

The old fiery spirit shone from her dilated eyes as they swept over the insignificant face of the youth who had spoken her name. Her lips were contracted, and her hand, resting on the curly head of one of the children, trembled violently.

She seemed about to speak, but as her eyes met those of Doctor Horton, she turned suddenly, and, forcing a passage through the crowd, disappeared.

Dr. Horton lingered about the flower-booth until the increasing crowd compelled Miss Fairfield to to resume her duties, when he slipped away, and wandered aimlessly about the grounds. At last, near the musicians' stand, he saw Lilly O'Connell leaning against a tree, while the children whom she had in charge devoured ice-cream and the music with equal satisfaction. Her whole attitude expressed weariness and dejection. Her face was pale, her eyes downcast, her lips drawn like a child's who longs to weep, yet dares not.

Not far away he saw, hanging upon the edge of the crowd, the tall form of Commeraw, his eyes, alert and swift of glance as those of a lynx, furtively watching the girl, who seemed quite unconscious of any one's observation.

Some one took Horton's attention for a moment, and when he looked again both Lilly, with her young charge, and Commeraw were no longer to be seen. He moved away from the spot, vaguely troubled and perplexed.

The brazen music clashed in his ears the strains of "Sweet Bye-and-Bye," people persisted in talking to him, and at last, in sheer desperation, he turned his steps toward the temple of Flora. It was almost deserted. The band had ceased playing, people were dispersing, the flowers had wilted, and the pretty girls had dropped off one by one with their respective cavaliers. The reigning goddess herself was leaning against a green pillar, looking, it must be confessed, a little dishevelled and a good deal out of humor, but very lovely still.

"You must have found things very entertaining," she remarked, languidly. "You have been gone an hour at least."

"I have been discussing sanitary drainage with Dr. Starkey," Horton answered, taking advantage of the wavering light to possess himself of one of the goddess's warm white hands, and the explanation was, in a measure, quite true.

Miss Fairfield made no other reply than to withdraw her hand, under the pretext of gathering up her muslin flounces for the walk across the lawn. Horton drew her white wrap over the bare arms and throat, and walked in silence by her side to the hall door. Even then he did not speak at once, feeling that the young lady was in no mood for conversation, but at last he drew the little white figure toward him, and said:

"You are tired, little girl. These church fairs and festivals are a great nuisance. I will not come in to-night, but I will drive round in the morning to see how you have slept."

To his surprise, the girl turned upon him suddenly, repulsing his arm.

"Why," she began, hurriedly, "why are you always defending Lilly O'Connell?"

She shot the question at him with a force which took away his breath. She had always seemed to him gentleness itself. He hardly recognized her, as she faced him with white cheeks and blazing eyes.

"It was always so," she went on, impetuously, "ever since I can remember. You have always been defending her. No one must speak of her as if she were anything but a lady. I cannot understand it, Roger! I want to know what it means—the interest you show, and always have shown, in that—that girl!"

Horton had recovered himself by this time. He looked into the angry face with a quiet, almost stern, gaze. The girl shrank a little before it, and this, and the quiver of her voice toward the close of her last sentence, softened the resentment which had tingled through his veins. Shame, humiliation, not for himself, but for her, his affianced wife, burned on his cheeks.

"What interest, Florence?" he said, repeating her words. "Just that interest which every honest man, or woman, feels in a fellow-creature who suffers wrongfully. Just that—and nothing more."

Her lips parted as if to retort, but the steadiness of her lover's gaze disconcerted her. He was very gentle, but she felt, as she had once or twice before, the quiet mastery of his stronger nature, and the eyes fell. He took both her hands and held them awhile without removing his eyes from her face.

"Good-night, Florence," he said, at last, almost with sadness.

She would have liked to let him see that she was sorry for her ill-temper, or rather for the manifestation of it, but she was only overawed, not penitent, and bent her head to his parting kiss without a word.

Two or three evenings later, Doctor Horton received an urgent summons from one of his patients, who lived at the end of a new and almost uninhabited street. A lamp at the corner of the main street lighted it for a short distance, beyond which the darkness was intense. When just opposite the lamp, and about to cross over, he observed a woman pass swiftly across the lighted space in the direction toward which he was himself going. There was no mistaking the erect figure and graceful gait—it was Lilly O'Connell. After an instant of wondering what could have brought her there at such an hour, for it was late, according to village customs, he changed his intention as to crossing, and kept down the other side.

The sight of this girl brought back afresh that brief, unpleasant scene with Florence, which he had tried to forget, but which had recurred to him very often, and always with a keen sting of pain and shame. His faith in the woman he loved was so perfect! Should hers be less in him? For him there was no happiness without repose. To doubt, to be doubted, would end all. He walked on in the darkness, lost in such thoughts, and quite forgetting where he was, but all at once he became aware of other footsteps behind him, and involuntarily looking back, he saw, just on the edge of the lamp-lit space, the figure of a man—a tall figure, with a certain panther-like grace of movement. There was but one such in the town, that of Commeraw, the mulatto.

The sight gave him a disagreeable shock. That he was following Lilly O'Connell he had no doubt. Could it be true, then, the rumor to which he had given so little credence? He remembered, now, that he had seen this fellow hanging about at various times and places when she was present. Might it not have been pretence—her proud indifference and scornful evasion of his advances? He asked himself, with a hot flush of mortification, the same question which Florence had put to him. It was true that he had many times openly defended her. He had been forced to do so by that quality of his nature which moved him always to espouse the cause of the weak. Perhaps he had elevated this girl to a higher plane than she deserved to occupy. After all, it would not be strange if her heart, in its longing for sympathy, had turned toward this man of her dead mother's race. Then her face, so sensitive, so overshadowed with sadness, came before him, and he could not think of it in juxtaposition with the brutal face of Commeraw. He banished the thought with disgust.

In the meantime, the man could be seen creeping along, a black shadow thrown into faint relief against the white sand of the overhanging bank. There was something furtive and stealthy in his actions which excited Horton's fears. He saw that he had at last overtaken the girl, and he quickened his own pace until he was so near that the sound of their voices came over to him.

"There is no other answer possible," she was saying. "You must never speak to me in this way again."

She would have gone on, but the man placed himself before her. There was a deliberation in the way he did so which showed his consciousness of power.

"This is a lonesome place," he said, with a short, cruel laugh.

She made no answer.

The man muttered an imprecation.

"You are not going to leave me so," he said. "Curse it! why do you treat me so, as if I were a dog? What are you more than I am? Are you so proud because you have a few more drops of their cursed white blood in your veins than I have? What will that help you? Do you imagine it will get you a white husband?"

"Let me pass!" interrupted the girl, coldly. "You can kill me if you like. I would rather die than give you any other answer. Will you let me pass?" and she made another swift motion to go by him.

A savage cry came from his lips. He sprang toward her. She made no outcry. The two shadows struggled for a moment in deadly silence, but it was only for a moment. Quick as thought, Horton flung himself upon the man, who, taken thus by surprise, loosened his hold upon the girl, shook himself free, and, with a fierce oath, fled.

Lilly staggered back against the bank.

"Do not be afraid," said Horton, panting. "The fellow will not come back."

"Doctor Horton!" she said, faintly.

"Yes, it is Doctor Horton. Where were you going? I will see you in safety."

"I was on my way to watch with Mrs. Lapham," she answered, in firmer tones.

"I am going there too," said Horton. "If you feel able, go on, I will follow after awhile. Or will you go home?"

She came forward, walking a little slowly.

"I will go on; she expects me."

And in a few moments she had disappeared from sight.

Horton remained where she had left him for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he proceeded on his way. An old woman admitted him to the house, and he went into the sick-room. Lilly O'Connell was sitting by the cradle of the youngest child, which lay across her lap. She greeted him with a bow, and averted her head, but the glimpse he had of her face showed him that it was not only pale, but drawn as if with physical pain.

As he was about to leave his patient's side he looked toward her again, and his eyes fell upon the arm which supported the child's head. About the sleeve, a handkerchief, stained with blood, was tightly bound.

He went over to the corner where she was sitting.

"Will you come into the next room?" he said. "I would like to give you some directions about the medicine."

She gave him a quick, upward glance, arose, laid the baby in the arms of the old woman, and followed him mutely into the adjoining room, where a light was burning on the table, and stood before him, waiting for him to speak.

"You are hurt," he said, taking the bandaged arm in his hand. "That fellow has wounded you."

"I suppose he meant to kill me," she answered, leaning with the disengaged arm against the table.

Horton unbound the handkerchief. The blood was oozing from a deep flesh cut below the elbow. With skilful fingers, he ripped open the sleeve and turned it back from the fair round arm. Then, with the appliances the country doctor has always at hand, he dressed the wound. When he had finished, Lilly drew the sleeve down and fastened it over the bandage.

Horton looked into her face. She was deadly pale, and her hands, which had touched his once or twice during the operation, were like ice.

"You are weak and unstrung. You have lost a great deal of blood. Sit down, Miss O'Connell."

She did so, and there was a little silence. The young man's nerves were still thrilling with the excitement of the last hour. For the moment, this girl—sitting there before him, this fair girl with her hard, cruel destiny—filled him completely.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, at length.

"Do?" she repeated. "Nothing."

"You will let this villain escape justice?" he said. "You will take no measures to protect yourself?"

Lilly raised her head. A look of intense bitterness swept across her face.

"I shall not do anything," she said. "Doctor Horton, you have always been good to me. As far back as I can remember, you have been my friend. I want you to promise me not to speak of what has happened to-night."

Horton bit his lips in perplexity.

"I do not think I have any right to make such a promise," he said, after a little pause. "This was an attempt at murder."

She rose and came close up to him.

"You must promise me. Do you not see?" she went on, passionately. "If I were any one else, it would be different—do you not understand? To have my name dragged before the public—I could not bear it! I would rather he killed me outright!"

Doctor Horton walked the floor excitedly.

"It is a terrible thing," he said. "I cannot blame you, but it does not seem right. Think the matter over. Perhaps you will feel differently. In the meantime, I will do nothing without your consent."

"Thank you, Doctor Horton," she said.

A feeble call came from the sick-room, and she turned away. Soon after, Doctor Horton left the house.

The next day Commeraw's shop remained closed, and it was discovered that he had fled the town. Numerous debts and embarrassments which came to light sufficiently accounted for his departure, and were also ample guarantee against his return. In this way, the question which had vexed Doctor Horton's mind was unexpectedly settled.

He did not see Lilly O'Connell for several days, but met her at last on the street in such a way that she could not well avoid him.

"It goes against my sense of justice that that scoundrel should escape so easily," he said, after having made professional inquiries after the wounded arm, "but at least you will now be safe," and, touching his hat respectfully, he turned to leave her. At that instant, Miss Fairfield's phaeton dashed around the corner. The occupant drew the reins slightly and regarded the two with a flash of the turquoise eyes; then, bowing coldly, she gave her horse a touch of the whip and dashed on again.

When Horton appeared at Mrs. Fairfield's that evening, however, Florence received him with unusual sweetness, and when chided playfully for the coldness of her greeting on the street, replied only with a light laugh.

The next morning rain was falling steadily, but it did not prevent Miss Fairfield from appearing in Miss Bullins's shop, taut and trim in her blue flannel suit, the yellow hair and delicate rose-tinted face finely relieved against the black velvet lining of her hat. She found Lilly O'Connell in attendance and the shop otherwise unoccupied, as she had expected. She was very gracious. She brought with her a parcel containing costly linen and laces, which she wished made into mysterious garments after the imported models inclosed.

"My dresses will be made in Boston," she explained, with a conscious blush, "but I want these things made under my own supervision—and I want you to make them."

What was it in her crisp, clear tones which gave the common words so subtle an effect? The two girls looked each other full in the face for a moment. Miss Fairfield was the first to look away.

"You do your work so beautifully, you know," she added, with a very sweet smile.

There was nothing more to say, yet she sauntered about the shop awhile, looking at the goods displayed, or out into the rainy street.

"I'm sorry to see you looking so badly," she said, at last, turning her eyes suddenly upon the pale face behind the counter. "But I don't wonder, either. It is natural you should take it hard."

Again the gray eyes met the blue in that mute encounter.

"I don't think I know what you mean," said Lilly, her fingers tightening upon the laces she was folding.

Miss Fairfield raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, of course," she went on, sympathetically, "of course, you don't like to talk about it, but I'm sure you are not in the least to blame. It was shameful of Commeraw to go off the way he did. I am really sorry for you. Good-morning!"

A moment later, when she was well outside, a little laugh broke from her lips. It had been very well done—even better than she had meant to do it.

The new minister, a susceptible young man, meeting her at this moment, thought he had never seen his fair parishioner looking so charming.

Just after, he was equally struck by another face, framed in reddish-golden hair, which was gazing out from the milliner's window at the murky sky. Its set, hopeless expression startled him.

"What a remarkable face!" he reflected. "It is that girl whose voice I noticed the other evening." And, being a well-meaning young man, he mentally added, "I really must speak with her, next conference-meeting."

Summer passed tranquilly away, autumn ran its brief course; and in November, when the days were getting toward their shortest and dreariest, something happened which startled quiet Ridgemont out of the even tenor of its way. The small-pox broke out among the operatives in the paper-mill, and spread so rapidly during the first days as to produce a universal panic. The streets were almost deserted; houses were darkened, as if by closed shutters one might shut out the fatal guest. Those who were compelled to go about, or whose social instinct overcame their fear, walked the streets with a subdued and stealthy air, as if on the lookout for an ambushed foe.

The village loafers were fewer in number, and their hilarity was forced and spasmodic. Jokes of a personal nature still circulated feebly, but seemed to have lost their point and savor, and the laughter which followed had a hollow ring. Mr. Hanniford was visibly depressed, and the sallies which his position as local humorist compelled him to utter were of a ghastly description. He still endeavored to enliven his labors with his favorite ditty, but it had lost perceptibly in force and spirit.

Mr. Doolittle, the post-master, bore himself with a dignified composure truly admirable, going fishing more persistently and smoking more incessantly than ever.

"What you want, boys," he remarked, with great earnestness, to the few faithful retainers whom the potent spell of gingerpop rendered insensible to other considerations,—"what you want is to take plenty of exercise in the open air, and smoke freely. Tobacco is a great—a—prophylactic."

Meetings of citizens were held, and all the usual sanitary means adopted and put in execution. An uninhabited farm-house, whose rightful owner was in some unknown part of the world, was chosen for hospital uses, and thither all victims of the disease were carried at once. From the beginning, Dr. Horton had been most prompt and active in suggesting prudential measures, and in seeing them carried out. By universal consent, he was invested with full powers. Dr. Starkey, the only other physician, on the ground of failing health, willingly submitted to the situation. The young physician's entire energies were aroused. He worked indefatigably, sparing neither strength nor pocket; for among the victims were several heads of families, whose sickness—and, in a few cases, whose death—left want and misery behind them.

One of the greatest obstacles encountered was the scarcity of nurses, most of those responding to the call becoming themselves victims in a few days. Two men only—veteran soldiers—were equal to the occasion, and acted in multifarious capacities—as drivers of the ambulance, housekeepers, cooks, nurses, undertakers, and grave-diggers.

On the evening when the certainty of the outbreak was established, Dr. Horton, after a day of excessive labor, went around to Mrs. Fairfield's. It was a dark, rainy evening, and the house seemed strangely cheerless and silent. A faint light shone from one upper window, and he fancied, as he reached the steps, that he saw a girlish figure leaning against the window-sash. The housemaid who admitted him, after a second ring, did so with a hesitating and constrained air, eyed him askance as she set her lamp upon the parlor table, and retreated hastily.

He was kept waiting, too, as it seemed to him, an unnecessarily long time. He was tired and a little unstrung. He was in that mood when the touch of a warm, tender hand is balm and cordial at once, and the delay fretted him. He could hear muffled footfalls over his head, and the murmur of voices, as he wandered about the room, taking up various small articles in a listless way, to throw them down impatiently again; pulling about the loose sheets of music on the piano, and wondering why so lovely a creature as Florence need to be so scrupulously exact about her toilet, with an impatient lover chafing and fretting not twenty paces away. But at last there was a sound of descending footsteps, a rustling of skirts, and the door opened to admit—Mrs. Fairfield. She, at all events, had not been spending the precious moments at her toilet-table. Something must have thrown her off her guard. She was negligent in her attire, and certain nameless signs of the blighting touch of Time were allowed to appear, it may be safely asserted for the first time, to the eyes of mortal man. She was also flustered in manner, and, after giving Dr. Horton the tips of her cold fingers, retreated to the remotest corner of the room, and sank into an easy-chair. He noticed as she swept by him that her person exhaled camphor like a furrier's shop.

"It's dreadful, isn't it?" she murmured, plaintively, holding a handkerchief saturated with that drug before her face. "Perfectly dreadful!"

Dr. Horton was at first puzzled, and then, as the meaning of her remark came to him, a good deal amused. He had not felt like laughing, all day; but now he was obliged to smile, in the palm of his hand, at the small, agitated countenance of his future mother-in-law, seen for the first time without "war-paint or feathers."

"It is certainly a misfortune," he said, reassuringly; "but it is not wise to become excited. The disease is confined at present to the lower part of the town, and, with the precautions which are to be taken, it will hardly spread beyond it."

Mrs. Fairfield shook her head incredulously.

"There's no telling," she murmured, sniffing at her handkerchief with a mournful air.

"I have only a few moments to stay," the young man said, after a slight pause. "I have to attend a citizens' meeting. Is not Florence well?"

"Y-yes, she is well," came in hesitating and muffled accents from behind the handkerchief. "She is not ill, but she is terribly upset by the state of things, poor child! She has such a horror of disease! Why, she can't bear to come near me when I have one of my sick headaches. So sensitive, you know. So——"

A light had gradually been breaking upon Horton's mind. He colored, and stepped forward a little. He had not been asked to sit down, and was still in overcoat and gloves.

"I think," he said, slowly, looking Mrs. Fairfield full in the face,—"I suppose I know what you mean. Florence will not come down. She is afraid to—to see me."

Mrs. Fairfield fidgeted in her chair, and a red spot burned in her sallow cheek.

"You must not think strange of it, Roger," she began, volubly. "You know how delicately organized Florence is. So nervous and excitable. And it would be such a misfortune—with her complexion!"

Dr. Horton took one or two turns across the room. He was not apt to speak on impulse, and he waited now. He stopped before a portrait of Florence, which hung over the piano. The tender face looked out upon him with the soft, beguiling smile about the small, curved lips, which had become so dear to him. Above it was a bunch of gorgeous sumac, which he had gathered for her one heavenly day, not long ago; and on the piano-rack stood the song she had taught him to believe the sweetest song in all the world:

He looked at the face again. She was "like a flower." How could he have found it in his heart to blame her, even by the remotest thought?

"I'm sure," came the plaintive voice again, "you ought not to blame her. I think it's perfectly natural."

Dr. Horton turned toward her, with a cheerful smile.

"Yes, it is quite natural. Of course I have taken every precaution; but it was wrong of me to come without finding out how she felt. Tell her I will not come again until"—he paused, with an unpleasant feeling in his throat—"until she wishes me to come."

"Well, I am sure," said Mrs. Fairfield, rising with an alacrity which betrayed how great was her relief, "you must know what a trial it is to her, Roger. The poor girl feels so badly. You are not angry?" giving her hand, but holding the camphorated handkerchief between them.

"No," Dr. Horton said, taking the reluctant fingers a moment, "not at all angry."

He went away into the outer darkness, walking a little heavily. The house-door shut behind him with a harsh, inhospitable clang, and as he went down the steps the wind blew a naked, dripping woodbine-spray sharply against his cheek, giving him a curiously unpleasant thrill.

When he was part way down the walk, he looked back. At the upper window the girlish figure was still visible, the face still pressed against the pane. His heart bounded at the sight, and then sank with a sense of remoteness and loss for which, a moment later, he chided himself bitterly.

Mrs. Fairfield waited only until she believed Roger was off the grounds, when she threw open all the windows in the room, sprinkled everything liberally with carbolic acid, and went up-stairs to her daughter.

She found Florence standing at the window where she had left her.

"What did he say?" she asked, without looking around.

"Oh, he was very reasonable," Mrs. Fairfield answered, seizing the camphor-bottle from the bureau, "very, indeed. He said it was wrong in him to have come under such circumstances, and he would not come again until the danger was over. Roger always was so sensible."

Tears rolled from the girl's eyes down over her blue cashmere wrapper, and she bit her lips to keep back the sobs which threatened to break out.

"Hannah says three more cases were reported to-night," said her mother, re-entering, after a short absence. An exclamation escaped the girl's lips, and she wrung her fingers nervously.

"We'd better go, hadn't we?" said Mrs. Fairfield.

"No!" cried the girl. "Yes! Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" and she threw herself upon the bed, crying hysterically.

The evil news being corroborated by the milkman next morning, led to another conference between mother and daughter, the result of which was that the following notes awaited Dr. Horton on his return from an exhausting day's work:

"My Dearest Roger: Do not be too much hurt or shocked to hear that mother and I have left town on the 3.30 train. We think it best. It is hard, of course; but the separation will be easier than if we were in the same place. I assure you, dear Roger, it pains me to go, dreadfully; but I cannot bear such a strain upon my nerves. Do, dearest, take care of yourself—though, of course, you won't take the disease. Doctors never do, I believe. I don't see why, I'm sure.

"Oh, how I wish you had settled in Boston, or some large place, where your practice would have been among first-class people only. Those low mill people are always breaking out with some horrid thing or other. It is too bad. We are going to stay with Aunt Kitty, in Boston. She has been wanting me to spend the winter with her. She is very gay, but of course, dearest, I shall have no interest in anything. Of course you will write.

"Your own, as ever,

"F. F."

Doctor Horton read this letter twice before opening the other, which was from Mrs. Fairfield herself, and ran as follows:

"My Dear Roger: I am sure you will not blame me for taking our darling Flossie out of harm's way, nor her for going. As I told her last night, you always were so sensible. The poor child has been in such a state, you've no idea! We feel real anxious about you. Do take every precaution, for Flossie's sake, though they say doctors never take diseases. Do wear a camphor-bag somewhere about you. I always did wish you had chosen the law—it is so much nicer. Of course Flossie will expect letters, but don't you think you had better soak the paper and envelopes in carbolic acid beforehand? They say it's very efficacious.

"Yours, affectionately,

"A. Fairfield.

"P. S.—You have no idea how the darling child's spirits have risen since we began packing. She is quite another creature.

"A. F."

Doctor Horton smiled as he read, but as he put both notes away in his desk, his face became grave and sad again.

"It is perfectly natural," he said to himself, as he went down to his lonely tea. "Perfectly so, and I am glad she has gone. But——"

The terrible disease whose presence had sent such a thrill of horror through the quiet little town had been raging for two weeks, and though the inevitable rebound from the first pressure of dread was making itself universally felt, as a topic of conversation it had lost none of its charms.

On a wild, wet afternoon, Lilly O'Connell sat in the stuffy work-room sacred to the mysteries of making and trying on the wonderful productions of Miss Bullins's scissors and needle. She was sewing the folds upon a dress of cheap mourning, while Miss Bullins sat opposite with lap-board and scissors, her nimble tongue outrunning the latter by long odds.

"What's friends for," she was saying, "if they aint goin' to stand by you when the pinch comes? Folks that's got husbands and lovers and friends a plenty don't realize their blessin's. As for Florence Fairfield, it makes me ashamed of bein' a woman—the way that girl did! They say she wouldn't even see Roger Horton to bid him good-by. I never heard the like!"

Lilly turned her head toward the window, perhaps because the dress in her hands was black, and the light dull.

"They say he's workin' himself to death for all them poor people, and he aint got nobody—no sister nor mother—to nurse him up when he comes home all tuckered out; though Nancy Swift thinks a sight of him, and she'll do her duty by him, I make no doubt. He's just like his father, and he was a good man. Florence Fairfield don't deserve her privileges, I'm afeard."

The street door opened, and with a gust of cold wind entered Widow Gatchell, the village "Sairey Gamp." She was an elderly woman, tall, stiff and dry as a last year's mullein-stalk. Her dark, wrinkled face was fixed and inexpressive, but the small black eyes were full of life. She was clothed in rusty garments, and carried a seedy carpet-sack in her hand.

"How d'ye do?" she said, in a dry voice, dropping on to the edge of a chair. "I jest come in to tell ye, if ye was drove, 'taint no matter about my bunnit. I sha'n't want it right away."

"Why not?" said Miss Bullins, looking up.

"I'm goin' to the pest-house nussin' to-morrow," returned the old woman, in the same quiet tone.

"Good land! Sarah Gatchell!" cried Miss Bullins, upsetting her lap-board. "Aint you 'most afraid?"

A quaint smile flitted across the widow's face.

"What'd I be afeared of," she said, "'s old 'n' homely 's I be? The small-pox aint agoin' to touch me. I'd 'a' gone a week ago, but I couldn't leave Mis' Merrill, an' her baby not a week old. I've jess been a-talkin' with Dr. Horton," she went on. "He says they're sufferin' for help. They's three sick women an' two children, an' not a woman in the house to do a thing for 'em. They've been expectin' two nusses from the city, but they aint come. Seems to me 'taint jest right fur men-folks to be fussin' 'round sick women an' childern."

"Oh my, it's awful!" sighed Miss Bullins, pinning her pattern crooked in her distress.

"Not a woman there?" said Lilly O'Connell, who had been listening with her hands idle in her lap.

"There'll be one there in the mornin'," said the widow, rising to go. "I'd 'a' gone to-night, but I couldn't be o' much use till I'd gone 'round the house by daylight, an' got the hang o' things."

"Wall, you've got good grit, Sarah," said the milliner, with enthusiasm. "You're as good as half a dozen common women. I declare, I'd go myself, but I shouldn't be a bit o' use. I should catch it in a day. I was always a great one for catchin' diseases."

"Aint ye well?" said Mrs. Gatchell, turning suddenly toward Lilly. "Ye look kind o' peakÈd. I guess ye set still too much."

"I am perfectly well," said Lilly.

"Ye be? Wall, sewin' is confinin'. Good-by."

Lilly had no appetite for her tea, and immediately after she put on her cloak and hat, and went out. The wind had gone down as the sun set, the rain had ceased, and a few pale stars were struggling through the thin, vapory clouds.

The streets were very quiet, and she met but few people. The choir in the Orthodox Church were rehearsing, their voices ringing out clear and not inharmonious in a favorite hymn. She stopped, and bowing her head upon one of the square wooden posts, waited until the hymn closed. Then she went on her way. It was quite dark when she reached the end of her walk—the residence of Dr. Starkey. She seized the brass knocker with a firm hand, and was shown into the office. In a few moments Dr. Starkey entered.

He was an old-school physician, and an old-school gentleman as well. He would have considered it indecent to appear before the world in any other garb than a broadcloth swallow-tail coat of ancient date, and with his long neck wrapped in white lawn nearly to the point of suffocation. He entered the room, and bowed with courtly gallantry on seeing a feminine figure standing by the table; but, as Lilly looked up and the lamp-light fell upon her face and hair, there was a perceptible congealing of his manner.

"Miss—a——" he began.

"I am Lilly O'Connell," she said, simply.

"Oh—a—yes! Miss O'Connell. Hm! Sit down, Miss O'Connell,—sit down!" he added, observing her closely from under his shaggy brows.

The girl remained standing, but the doctor seated himself before the glowing grate, and placed himself in an attitude of professional attention.

"You are—indisposed?" he asked, presently, as she remained silent.

"No; I am quite well," she answered; and then, after a little pause, during which her color mounted and faded, she continued: "I have heard that there is need of more help at the hospital, and I came to ask you to take me as nurse, or anything you most need."

Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were fixed eagerly upon the doctor's face.

He turned square about, the withered, purple-veined hands clutching the arms of his chair tightly, a kind of choking sound issuing from his bandaged throat.

"Will you say that again?" he asked abruptly, staring with raised eyebrows at the pale, earnest face.

Lilly repeated what she had said, more firmly.

"Good heavens!" ejaculated the old man, measuring the girl from head to foot slowly.

"Child," he said, after a pause, "do you know what you are talking about?"

"I think so," the girl answered, quietly.

"No, you do not!" the old man said, almost brusquely. "It is a place to try the nerves of the strongest man, to say nothing of a woman's. It is no place for a girl—no place."

"I am not afraid," the girl said, her voice breaking. "They say I am good in sickness, and I will do any kind of work. It is dreadful to think of those poor little children and women, with no one to do anything for them but men. Oh, do not refuse!" she cried, coming nearer and holding out her hands entreatingly.

The doctor had fidgeted in his chair, uttering a variety of curious, inarticulate exclamations while she was speaking.

"But, child," he repeated, earnestly, "it would be as much as your life is worth to enter the house. You would come down in a week. You might die!"

Lilly looked up into the mottled old face, and smiled sadly.

"I am not afraid," she said again, "and there is no one to care very much. Even if I should die, it would not matter."

Dr. Starkey reflected, rubbing one shrivelled finger up and down the bridge of his nose. He knew how woman's help was needed in that abode of pestilence and death. He looked at the white, supple hands clasped over the gray cloak before him, and thought of the work which they would be required to perform, then shook his head slowly, and rose.

"No," he said, "I cannot consent."

Lilly made a motion as if to speak, but he raised his hand deprecatingly.

"It would be as bad as murder," he went on. "I respect your motive, Miss O'Connell, I do, indeed; but you are too young and too—a—delicate for the undertaking. Don't think of it any more."

He took one of the hands which dropped at her side and held it in his glazed palm, looking kindly into the downcast face. He knew the girl's whole history. He had been one of the fiercest opponents of her application for a teacher's place, and from conscientious motives solely, as he believed; but he remembered it now with sharp regret. There was nothing in this fair and womanly figure to inspire antipathy, surely. For the first time, a realizing sense of her solitary life came to him, and he was pained and sorry. He wanted to be very kind to her, but felt strangely unable to express himself.

"Don't say no one would care what befell you," he began, his gruff voice softening. "A young woman of your—a—attractions should have many friends. Consider me one, Miss O'Connell," he continued, with a blending of the sincere and the grandiose in his manner,—"consider me a friend from this day, and let me thank you again for your offer. It was very praiseworthy of you, very."

Lilly bowed—she could not trust herself to speak—and went away.

Dr. Starkey walked up and down his office several times, raised and lowered the flame of the lamp, poked the fire, looked out into the starlit night, and, with a fervent "Bless my soul! how extraordinary!" settled himself for his customary nap over the Boston paper.

Lilly hurried home through the silent streets. Miss Bullins's shop was empty of customers, and she herself, her hair bristling with crimping-pins and curl-papers, was putting things in order for the night. She studied Lilly's face with watchful anxiety, as she joined in her labors.

"I hope to gracious she aint comin' down sick!" she reflected. "You aint got backache and pains in your limbs, have you?" she inquired, with thinly veiled anxiety.

Lilly laughed.

"No, Miss Bullins; nothing of the kind."

"I thought you looked kind o' queer," said the good creature, coloring.

"I am only a little tired; not sick."

She came and stood by the old maid's chair, as she sat warming her feet at the stove, and laid her hand on the thin gray hair.

"Good-night, Miss Bullins."

"Good-night, dear. Hadn't you better drink a cup of pepper-tea before you go to bed?"

"No, thank you; I am only tired."

She sat by the window of her little bedroom over the shop a long time before lighting her lamp. Dim and dark, the river wound along, its surface gleaming here and there faintly through the leafless branches of the willows. Overhead, the solemn stars shone coldly. The houses along its banks were already dark and silent. At some involuntary movement, her hand fell upon a soft white mass of needle-work which strewed the table near her, and the contact seemed to rouse her. She rose, lit the lamp, folded the dainty, lace-trimmed garment, and made it into a parcel with some others which she took from a drawer, and went to bed. It was long before she slept, but the early morning found her asleep, with a peaceful smile upon her face.

The next day, being Saturday, was a busy one, for let Death stalk as he will, people must have their Sunday gear. The little shop was full at times, and feminine tongues and fingers flew without cessation, mixing millinery and misery in strange confusion.

"You don't say that's Mis' Belden's bonnet, with all them flowers on it? Well, I never! And she a member!"

"Why, you're a member, too, ain't you, Mis' Allen?" says another, with a glance at the first speaker's head, where feathers of various hues waved majestically.

"Oh, you mean my feathers?" was the spirited answer. "Feathers an' flowers is different things. You must draw the line somewhere, an' I draw it at feathers."

"They say one o' the women died up to the pest-house yesterday," said one woman, in the midst of an earnest discussion as to the comparative becomingness of blue roses and crimson pansies.

"Dear me!" said Miss Bullins, compassionately, "an' not a woman there to lay her out! Sarah Gatchell didn't go up till to-day."

"They don't lay 'em out," remarked the other, unconcernedly, holding a brilliant pansy against her bilious countenance. "They roll 'em up in the sheet they die on, and bury 'em in the pasture."

Lilly's hands trembled over the bonnet she was lining.

"Well, good-day, Miss Bullins. I guess I'd better take the roses. I'm most too old for red. Get it done if you can. Good-day."

It went on so all day. At one time there was a rush for the window.

"It's Doctor Horton!" cried a pretty girl. "Oh my! Ain't he sweet? He's handsomer than ever, since he got so pale. I don't see how in the world Flossie Fairfield could do as she did. They say she's afraid to have him write to her."

"She loves her good looks more'n she does him, I guess," said another.

"And they to be married in the spring," said Miss Bullins, pathetically. "Lilly, here, was making her underclo'se, and they're a sight to see,—all hand-made, and so much lace in 'em that it ain't modest, I do declare!"

"If she got her deserts she wouldn't have no use for weddin' clo'se," said another, with acerbity; "not if I was Roger Horton."

"Wall, you ain't," said her companion, drily, "an' he ain't no different from other men, I guess."

Lilly worked on with feverish haste. About four o'clock she rose and went out, pausing an instant at the door, and looking back. Miss Bullins, intent upon some button-holes for which every moment of daylight was needed, did not look up. Lilly closed the door, and went up to her room.

It was small and simple, but it was the best she had known. There were some innocent efforts at decoration, a daintiness about the bed, a few books on hanging shelves, and a pretty drapery at the one window. She looked around with a sinking heart. There was a small writing-desk upon the table, and she went to it and wrote a few lines, which she sealed and directed. She packed a few articles in a satchel, put on her cloak and hat, and stole down the stairs.

Choosing the quietest street, she walked rapidly through the village until the last house was passed, and the open country lay before her, bare and brown and desolate, except for the blue hills in the distance, which, summer or winter, never lost their beauty.

Two or three farmers, jogging homeward with their week's supplies, passed her, and one offered her a lift as far as she was going, which she declined.

A mile from the village, a road turned off to the left, winding through barren fields, until lost in the pine woods. As she turned into this, a man driving toward the village reined in and called to her, warningly:

"The pest-house is up yonder!"

She merely bowed and kept on. The man stared a moment, and whipped up his horse again. It was dark in the woods, and chilly, but she felt no fear, not even when the sere bushes by the way-side rustled, or twigs snapped as if beneath the tread of some living creature.

As she came out into comparative light she saw a buggy driven rapidly toward her. She recognized its occupant at once, and with a quick heart-throb sprang behind a clump of young pines, and dropped upon her knees.

Dr. Horton drove by, his face turned toward her place of concealment. He did not know that any human eye was upon him, and the heaviness of his spirit appeared unrepressed in every feature. His eyes followed listlessly the irregular outline of the way-side walls and bushes, but it was evident that his thoughts were not of surrounding things, otherwise he must have seen the crouching figure and the white face pressed against the rough bark of the tree whose trunk she clasped.

The girl's eyes followed him until he was lost to sight in the woods. Then she came out and pursued her way.

A curve in the road brought her in sight of the house now devoted to hospital uses. It was a two-story farm-house, black with age, shutterless and forsaken-looking. Over it hung the cloud of a hideous crime. A few years before, the owner, led on by an insane passion, had murdered his aged wife in her bed. The sequel had been a man's life ended in prison, a girl's name blasted, a dishonored family, a forsaken homestead,—for the son, to whom the property had fallen, had gone away, leaving no trace behind him. It had stood for years as the murderer had left it; its contents had been untouched by human hands; the hay had rotted in the barn; the fields were running waste. The very road itself was avoided, and the old wheel-ruts were almost effaced by grass and weeds. Swallows had possessed themselves of the cold, smokeless chimneys and sunken, mossy eaves; vagrant cats prowled about the moldering mows and empty mangers. The old well-sweep pointed like a gaunt, rigid finger toward heaven. The little strips of flower-beds beneath the front windows were choked with grass, but the red roses and pinks and columbines which the old woman had loved, still grew and bloomed in their season, and cast their petals about the sunken door-stone, and over the crooked path and neglected grass.

There were no flowers now,—only drifting masses of wet brown leaves. The setting sun had just turned the windows into sheets of blood, and down in the pasture could be seen the rough clods of several new-made graves. The silence was absolute. Faint columns of smoke, rising from the crumbling chimneys, were the only signs of human presence.

A tremor shook the girl from head to foot, and she ceased walking. After all, she was young and strong, and the world was wide; life might hold something of sweetness for her yet. It was not too late. She half turned,—but it was only for a moment, and her feet were on the door-step, and her hand on the latch.

She turned a last look upon the outer world,—the bare fields, the leafless woods, the blue hills, the fading sky. A desperate yearning toward it all made her stretch out her hands as if to draw it nearer for a last farewell. Then from within came the piteous cry of a sick child, and she raised the latch softly and entered the house. The air of the hall smote her like a heavy hand, coming as she did from the cool outer air; but guided by the cry, which still continued, she groped her way up the bare, worn stairs, pushed open a door, and entered.

The child's voice covered the sound of her entrance and, sickened by the foul air, she had leaned for some moments against the wall before Widow Gatchell, who was holding the child across her knee, turned and saw her. The old woman's hard, brown features stiffened with surprise, her lips parted without sound.

"I have come to help you," said Lilly, putting down her satchel and coming forward.

"Who sent ye?" the widow asked, shortly.

"Nobody. I offered my services, but Dr. Starkey refused to let me come. I knew you would not send me away if I once got here, and so I came."

"What was folks thinkin' of to let ye come?" asked the old woman again.

"Nobody knew it," Lilly answered.

"Wall," the widow said, "ye had no sort o' business to come, though the Lord knows they's need enough of help."

"Perhaps He sent me, Sarah," the girl said, gently. "Oh, the poor, poor baby! Let me take it."

Widow Gatchell's keen eyes swept the girl's compassionate face with a searching gaze. She rose stiffly and laid the child in her arms.

"There!" she said, drawing a long breath. "You're in for it now, Lilly O'Connell, and may the Lord have mercy on ye!"

When Dr. Horton entered the pest-house in the morning, the first person he encountered was Lilly O'Connell, coming through the hall with a tray in her hands. In her closely fitting print dress and wide apron, the sleeves turned back from her smooth, strong arms, her face earnest, yet cheerful, she was the embodiment of womanly charity and sweetness. He started as though he saw a spectre.

"Good heavens!" he said; "how came you here? Who—who permitted you to come here?"

"No one," said Lilly, supporting the waiter on the post at the foot of the stairs. "I just came. I asked Dr. Starkey to take me as nurse, but he refused."

"I know, I know," said the young man. He stepped back and opened the door, letting in the crisp morning air. "But why did you come? It is a terrible place for you."

"I came to be of use," she answered, smiling. "I hope I am useful. Ask Mrs. Gatchell. She will tell you that I am useful, I am sure."

Horton's face expressed pain and perplexity.

"It is wrong—all wrong," he said. "Where were your friends? Was there no one who cared for you, no one that you care for, enough to keep you from this wild step?"

She looked up into his face, and, for one brief moment, something in her deep, luminous eyes chained his gaze. A soft red spread itself over her cheeks and neck. She shook her head slowly, and taking up the tray, went on up the stairs.

Miss Bullins found the little note which Lilly had left for her, when, as no response came to her repeated summons to tea, she mounted the stairs to see what had happened.

She read the hastily written lines with gathering tears.

"You can get plenty of milliners and seamstresses; but those poor women and children are suffering for some one to take care of them. Forgive me for going this way, but it seemed the only way I could go. May be I shall be sick; but if I do, there is no beauty to lose, you know, and if I die, there is nobody to break their heart about it. You will be sorry, I know. I thank you, oh so much, for all your kindness to me, and I do love you dearly. May God bless you for all your goodness. If I should die, what I leave is for you to do what you please with.

"Your grateful and loving

"Lilly."

The good little woman's tears fell faster as she looked about the empty room.

"I never was so beat in my life," she confided to a dozen of her intimate friends many times over during the next week. "You could have knocked me down with a feather."

Dr. Starkey's amazement surpassed Miss Bullins's, if possible. He first heard of the step Lilly had taken from Dr. Horton. He saw her himself a day or two later, on making his tri-weekly visit to the hospital, and commended her bravery and self-sacrificing spirit in phrases something less stilted than usual.

He could not entirely banish an uneasy feeling when he looked at the fresh young face, but he became tolerably reconciled to the situation when he saw what her energy and tenderness, in cooperation with Widow Gatchell's skill and experience, were accomplishing.

As for the girl herself, the days and nights passed so rapidly, making such demands upon body and mind, as to leave no time for regret. The scenes she witnessed effaced the past entirely for the time. In the midst of all the pain, and loathsomeness, and delirium, and death, she moved about, strong, gentle and self-contained, so self-contained that the vigilant eyes of the old nurse followed her in mute surprise.

"I never see nothin' like it," she said to Dr. Horton one day. "I've known her since she was little, an' I never would 'a' believed it, though I knew she'd changed. Why, she used to be so high-strung an' techy, like, an' now she's like a lamb."

On the tenth day after her coming, Dr. Horton in making his round entered an upper chamber, where Lilly was standing by one of the three beds it contained. She had just drawn the sheet over the faces of two who had died that morning—mother and child.

The dead woman was the deserted wife of a man who had left her a year before, young, weak and ignorant, to certain want and degradation.

"I cannot feel sorry," Lilly said. "It is so much better for them than what was left for them here."

Dr. Horton hardly seemed to hear her words. He was leaning wearily against a chair behind him; his eyes were dull, and his forehead contracted as if with physical suffering.

"You are ill!" she said, with a startled gesture.

"No, only getting a little tired out. I hope the worst is over now, and I think I shall hold out."

He went about from room to room, and from bed to bed, attentive and sympathetic as ever, and then left the house. A half hour later, one of the men came into the kitchen where Mrs. Gatchell was stirring something over the fire.

"Got a spare bed?" he asked, laconically.

The widow looked up.

"'Cause we've got another patient."

"Who is it?" she asked, quickly.

"Come and see."

She followed the man to the rear of the house, where, upon a stone which had fallen from the wall, Dr. Horton was sitting, his head bent in slumber. She listened a moment to his heavy breathing, laid her hand upon his forehead, and turned silently away.

A bed was made ready, and the young doctor, still wrapped in the heavy sleep of disease, was laid upon it, and one of the men was sent for Dr. Starkey.

In the delirium which marks the first stages of the disease, young Horton would allow no one but Lilly O'Connell to minister to him. Sometimes he imagined himself a boy, and called her "mother," clinging to her hand, and moaning if she made the least effort to withdraw. At other times, another face haunted him, and another name, coupled with endearing words or tender reproaches, fell from the half-unconscious lips.

Who but a woman can comprehend the history of those days and nights of watching and waiting? Each morning found her more marble-pale; purple rings formed themselves about the large eyes, but a deep, steady light, which was not born of pain and suffering, shone in their clear depths.

At last, one night, the crisis, whose result no human judgment could foretell, was at hand. No delirium, no restlessness now—only a deep sleep, in which the tense muscles relaxed and the breath came as softly as a child's.

Widow Gatchell shared the young girl's watch, but the strain of the last month had told upon her, and toward morning she fell asleep, and Lilly kept her vigil alone. Only the ticking of the old clock in the hall and the breathing of the sleepers broke the deep silence which filled the house. The lamp threw weird shadows across the ceiling and over the disfigured face upon the pillow. Of all manly beauty, only the close-clustering chestnut hair remained, and the symmetrical hands which lay nerveless and pale, but unmarred, upon the spread.

Statue-like, the young girl sat by the bed-side, her whole soul concentrated in the unwavering gaze which rested upon the sleeper's face. A faint—ever so faint—murmur came at last from the hot, swollen lips, and one languid hand groped weakly, as if seeking something. She took it gently and held it between her own soft palms. It seemed to her fine touch that a light moisture was discernible upon it. She rose and bent over the pillow with eager eyes. A storm of raptured feeling shook her. She sank upon her knees by the bed, and pressed the hand she held close against her breast, whispering over it wild words which no ear might hear.

All at once, the fingers which had lain so inert and passive in her grasp seemed to her to thrill with conscious life, to return faintly the pressure of her own. She started back.

A ray of dawning light crept under the window-shade and lay across the sick man's face. His eyes were open, and regarding her with a look of perfect intelligence.

The girl rose with a smothered cry, and laid the drooping hand upon the bed. The dark, gentle eyes followed her beseechingly. It seemed as if he would have spoken, but the parched lips had lost their power.

She went to the sleeping woman and touched her shoulder.

"Sarah, I think he is better," she said, her voice trembling.

Instantly, the old nurse was on the alert. She went to the bed, and laid her hand upon the sick man's forehead and wrist, then turned toward Lilly, with a smile.

"Go and take some rest," she said in a whisper. "The crisis has passed. He will live."

Dr. Horton's recovery was not rapid, but it was sure.

From the hour of his return to consciousness, Lilly O'Connell had not entered his room.

When a week had passed, he ventured to question his faithful attendant, Widow Gatchell, in regard to her. For twenty-four hours he had missed the step and voice he had believed to be hers, passing and repassing the hall outside his door. The old woman turned her back abruptly and began stirring the already cheerful fire.

"She ain't quite so well to-day," she answered, in a constrained voice.

The young man raised his head.

"Do you mean that she is sick?" he asked hastily. "She was took down last night," the widow answered, hesitating, and would have left the room; but the young man beckoned her, and she went to his side.

"Let everything possible be done for her," he said. "You understand—everything that can be done. Let Mason attend to me."

"I'll do my part," the old nurse answered, in the peculiarly dry tone with which she was accustomed to veil her emotions.

Dr. Starkey, who, since the young doctor's illness, had been, perforce, in daily attendance, was closely questioned. His answers, however, being of that reserved and non-committal nature characteristic of the profession, gave little satisfaction, and Horton fell into a way of noticing and interpreting, with the acute sense of the convalescent, each look of his attendant, each sound which came to him, keeping himself in a state of nervous tension which did much toward retarding his recovery.

Three or four days had passed in this way, when one morning, just at daybreak, Dr. Horton was roused from his light sleep by sounds in the hall outside his door—hushed voices, shuffling footsteps, and the sound of some object striking with a heavy thud against the balusters and wall. He raised himself, his heart beating fast, and listened intently. The shuffling steps moved on, down the creaking stairs and across the bare floor below. A door opened and shut, and deep silence filled the house again. He sank back upon his pillow, faint and bewildered, but still listening, and after some moments, another sound reached his ears faintly from a distance—the click of metal against stones and frozen mold.

He had already been able, with some assistance, to reach his chair once or twice a day; now he rose unaided, and without consciousness of pain or weakness, found his way to the window, and pushed aside the paper shade with a shaking hand.

It was a dull, gray morning, and a light snow was falling, but through the thin veil he could see the vague outlines of two men in the pasture opposite, and could follow their stiff, slow motions. They were filling in a grave.

He went to his bed and lay back upon it with closed eyes. When he opened them, Widow Gatchell was standing by him with his breakfast on a tray.

Her swarthy face was haggard, but her eyes were tearless, and her lips set tightly together. He put his hand out and touched hers.

"I know," he said, softly.

The woman put the tray on the table, and sank upon a chair. She cleared her throat several times before speaking.

"Yes," she said, at last, in her dry, monotonous voice. "She is gone. We did all we could for her, but 'twarn't no use. She was all wore out when she was took. Just afore she died she started up and seized hold o' my hand, her eyes all soft an' shinin', an' her mouth a-smilin'. 'Sarah,' says she, 'I shall know the meaning of it now!' The good Lord only knows what she meant—her mind was wanderin', most likely—but them was her last words, 'I shall know the meanin' of it now, Sarah!'"

The old woman sat a while in silence, with the strange repressed look which watching by so many death-beds had fixed upon her face; then, arranging the breakfast upon the stand, went out again.

It snowed persistently all day. From the chair by the window, Doctor Horton watched it falling silently, making everything beautiful as it fell,—rude wall, and gnarled tree, and scraggy, leafless bush,—and covering those low, unsightly mounds with a rich and snowy pall. He watched it until night fell and shut it from his sight.

Lilly O'Connell's was the last case. The disease seemed meantime to have spent its force, and in a few weeks the unbroken silence of midwinter rested over the drear and forlorn spot.

Doctor Horton was again at home. He was thin, and his face showed some traces of the disease from which he had just recovered, but they were slight, and such as would pass away in time. The pleasant chamber where he was sitting was filled with evidences of care and attention, for every woman in Ridgemont, old or young, desired to show in some way her admiration and esteem for the young physician. Fruit and jellies and flowers and books filled every available place.

He was seated before a cheerful fire. Upon the table by his side lay many papers and letters, the accumulation of several weeks. One letter, of a recent date, was open in his hand. A portion of it ran thus:

"***It has been very gay here this season, and mother and Aunt Kitty have insisted upon my going out a great deal. But I have had no heart in it, dearest, especially since I knew that you were ill. I assure you, I was almost ill myself when I heard of it. How thankful I am that you are convalescent. I long to see you so much, but Aunt Kitty does not think I ought to return before spring. Oh Roger, do you think you are much changed?***"

Shading his eyes with his thin hand, he sat a long time in deep thought. At last, rousing himself, he went to his desk and wrote as follows:

"My Dear Florence: I am changed; so much that you would not know me; so much that I hardly know myself; so much, indeed, that it is better we do not meet at present.

R. H."

With a smile so bitter that it quite transformed his genial, handsome face, he read and re-read these lines.

"Yes," he said aloud, "it is the right way, the only way," and he sealed and directed the letter, and went back to his reverie by the fire.

Lilly O'Connell's death made a deep impression in the village. That which her life, with all its pain and humiliation and loneliness, its heroic struggles, its quiet, hard-won victories, had failed to do, the simple story of her death accomplished. It was made the subject of at least two eloquent discourses, and for a time her name was on every tongue. But it was only for a time, for when, in the course of years, the graves in the pasture were opened, and the poor remains of mortality removed by surviving friends to sacred ground, her grave remained undisturbed.

It was not forgotten, however. One day in June, when the happy, teeming earth was at her fairest, Dr. Horton drove out of the village, and turning into the grass-grown, untraversed road, went on to the scene of the past winter's tragedy of suffering and death. The old house was no longer in existence. By consent of the owner (whose whereabouts had been discovered), and by order of the selectmen of the town, it had been burned to the ground. Where it had stood, two crumbling chimneys rose from the mass of blackened bricks and charred timbers which filled the cellar, the whole draped and matted with luxuriant woodbine and clinging shrubs. Birds brooded over their nests in every nook and cranny of the ruin, and red roses flaunted in the sunshine and sprinkled the gray door-stone with splashes of color. The air was as sweet about it, the sky as blue above it, as if crime and plague were things which had no existence.

Dr. Horton left his horse to browse on the tender leaves of the young birches which grew along the wall, and went down into the pasture. The sod above the graves was green, and starred with small white flowers. There were fifteen graves in all, distinguished only by a number rudely cut upon rough stakes driven into the ground at their heads.

He went slowly among them until he came to one a little apart from the others, in the shadow of the woods which bordered the field. A slender young aspen grew beside it, its quivering leaves shining in the sun. Soft winds blew out from the fragrant woods, and far off in their green depths echoed the exquisite, melancholy note of the wood-thrush. At the foot of the grave, where the grass, nourished by some hidden spring, grew long and lush, a single tiger-lily spread its glowing chalice.

The young man stood there with uncovered head a long, long time. Then, laying his hand reverently upon the sod for one instant, he went away.

Several years have passed since these events. Dr. Horton is still unmarried. This is a source of great regret in the community with which he has become so closely allied, and by which he is held in universal regard and honor. There are some prematurely whitened locks upon his temples, and two or three fine straight lines just above his warm, steadfast eyes, but he is neither a morose nor a melancholy man, and there are those who confidently hope that the many untenanted rooms in the old homestead may yet open to the sunshine of a wife's smile, and echo to the music of childish voices.

It was two years before he met Miss Fairfield, she having spent that time in Europe with her mother and "Aunt Kitty." It was a chance meeting, upon Tremont Street, in Boston. He was in the act of leaving a store as she entered, accompanied by her mother. He recognized them with a friendly and courteous bow, and passed on.

Miss Fairfield leaned against the counter with a face white as snow.

"He is not—changed—so very much," she whispered to her mother.

Mrs. Fairfield, who had had her own ideas all along, kept a discreet silence.

The Fairfields spend a part of their time in Ridgemont, and the elegant little phaeton and the doctor's buggy often pass each other on the street; the occupants exchange greetings, and that is all.

Miss Fairfield is Miss Fairfield still. Always elegant and artistic in her dress, she is not quite the same, however. The porcelain tints have faded, and there is a sharpness about the delicate features, and a peevishness about the small pink lips. She is devoted to art. She paints industriously, and with fair result. Her tea-sets are much sought after, and she "spends her winters in Boston."