Elsie was twenty now, but looking younger from her fragile form and the extreme delicacy of her complexion. The reader knows how winsome and playful her manners were; how she was loved and cherished by her brother, and it seemed hard that a creature like her, so innocent and winsome, should have even a knowledge of the secret which oppressed Elizabeth. It seemed to prove more depth of character than one would have expected, that she was in any way able or willing to help her sister-in-law to bear her secret burthen, let that burthen be what it might.

The vague thoughts which had troubled Grantley Mellen on the night of his arrival, had died out. On calm reflection he could understand that it was quite in keeping with the restrained intensity of Elizabeth's nature, that the very violence of the storm should have forced her into it. That the sudden sound of his voice and step should have brought on the nervous weakness to which she so seldom gave way, was equally natural after so much excitement.

Then Elsie came back so blithe and blooming, brought so much sunshine into the house, and drew them both so much into her amusements, that the first days of Mellen's return were pleasant indeed.

The weather had been delightful; they enjoyed rides and drives, moonlight excursions upon the water; there had been visits to receive and return among neighbors and friends; people had heard of Mellen's return, and came uninvited from New York, bringing all that festal bustle and change which puts holidays every now and then into the ordinary routine of our lives.

The first days passed and still the sky was unclouded. Grantley Mellen began to think that he was at last to be happy, and grew cheerful with the thought. So for a time love cast out all fear in the husband's heart.

There had been no further return of that inexplicable nervousness in Elizabeth; the strained, anxious look almost entirely left her face; she was even more lively than was customary with her. It was not that the fear and dread had left her mind, but she was on her guard, and there was a reticence and strength in her character which even those who knew her best did not fully understand. A stern, settled purpose would keep her through her course, whatever might lie behind.

During those happy days there had been no more confidences between her and Elsie; indeed it seemed almost as if Elizabeth avoided the girl—not in a way to be noticed even by Mellen's quick eyes—if it was so, Elsie on her side did not attempt to break through these little restraints that had fallen around them. It was natural that she should be glad to escape from the gloom which surrounded Elizabeth, and in this respect the fickleness of her character was fortunate; from her lack of concentrativeness, the girl was able to throw off any trouble the moment its actual danger was removed from her path.

Thus the first days had passed, allowing them to settle down into tolerable quiet, but not too much of it, for Elsie could not endure that. Society was her element; trifle and champagne seemed her natural nourishment, and she drooped so quickly if compelled to seclusion, that, with his usual weakness where she was concerned, Mellen relinquished his own desires to gratify her caprices.

You may think this not in keeping with his character and habits, but reflect a little and you will see that it was perfectly natural. The promise which he had made to his mother was always in his mind; he never forgot his fears for Elsie's health; she was more like a daughter than a sister to him, and her very childishness was a great charm to a man of his grave nature. The very servants delighted in waiting on her, though her requirements were numerous; but they did it all willingly, and put a great deal more heart into her service than they ever exhibited in obeying Elizabeth's moderate and reasonable requests. They mistook Mrs. Mellen's quiet manners for pride, and held her in slight favor in consequence; so dazzled by Elsie's manner, that when she gave them a cast-off garment or a worthless ornament, it seemed a much greater boon than the real kindness Elizabeth invariably displayed when they were in sickness or trouble.

Elizabeth humored her sister-in-law with the rest, but there was a soreness at her heart all the while; for sometimes when she saw this young creature clinging about her husband, her face wore the strange expression it had done while she watched their meeting after his return.

The domestic life at Piney Cove was nearly happiness at this time. But for Elizabeth's hidden anxieties, Mellen's return would have made that old house almost like heaven. As it was, this haunted woman would sometimes forget her causes of dread, and break out into gleams of loving cheerfulness in spite of them.

After the night on which the bracelet was lost, the sunshine which had brightened the little household at Piney Cove was dimmed by a thousand intangible shadows. In spite of all his efforts, Grantley Mellen's suspicions were aroused and kept on the alert, searching for proofs that could only bring unhappiness when found.

You would not have said that he was suffering from jealousy; there was nothing upon which his mind settled itself that gave rise to that feeling, but he fretted absolutely because he had no power to discover every thought of Elizabeth's soul during his absence. Then as he reflected upon the mystery connected with his arrival, came up afresh the disappearance of the bracelet, and he lost himself in a maze of irritating conjecture, of which his fine judgment often grew ashamed.

Elizabeth wore her old proud look for several days after the night of the dinner-party. Grantley felt that the ice of the past was freezing between them once more, and the idea caused him acute pain.

He sat watching her one day as she bent over her needlework, talking a little at intervals, listening occasionally to passages from his book; oftener sitting there with her fingers moving hurriedly, as if she were pressed for time, but her anxious face proving how far from this occupation her thoughts had wandered.

More than once Mellen saw the dark brows contract as if under actual distress, and as he ceased to speak, and seemed wholly absorbed in his book, he could see that her reverie became more absorbing and painful.

"Elizabeth!" he said suddenly.

His wife started. In her preoccupation she had forgotten that he was in the room—forgotten that she was not alone with those dark reflections which cast their shadow over her face.

"Did you speak, Grantley?"

"Yes; how you started!"

"Did I start?" she asked, trying to laugh. "I don't know how it is that I grow so nervous."

"You never were so afflicted formerly."

"No; I don't remember," she replied quickly. "But you know I had a good deal of care and responsibility during your absence; it may be that which has shaken me a little."

"Do you believe it?" he asked, in a constrained voice.

She shot one glance of indignant pride at him; for an instant she looked inclined to leave the room, as had frequently been her habit during the first months of their marriage, when he irritated her beyond endurance.

But if Elizabeth had the inclination she controlled it. After a moment's silence she laid down her work and approached the sofa where he was lying.

"Don't be severe with me, Grantley," she said, with a degree of humility unknown to the past; "my head aches drearily—I don't think I am well."

His feelings changed as he looked at her; she was not well; he could see the traces of pain in the languid eyes and the contracted forehead, but whether the suffering was mental or physical even a physiognomist could not have told.

He reached out his hand and drew her towards him; she sat down on the sofa and leaned her head against his shoulder with a little sigh of weariness.

"I can rest here," she whispered; "it is my place, isn't it, Grantley?"

There was tender, almost childish pleading in her voice; he lifted her face, looked into her eyes and saw tears there.

"What is it, Bessie?" he asked. "Have I hurt you?"

The recollection of all the doubts and suspicious thoughts which had been in his mind came back, and forgetful of his idea that some recent anxiety made the change in her manner, he reproached himself with having brought a cloud between them by his own actions.

"Have I pained you in anything, Bessie?" he repeated.

"I feared the old trouble was coming back," she whispered.

"No, no; it must not, it shall not, Bessie! I am to blame—but if you knew what this wretched disposition makes me suffer! Every heart I trusted in my early life deceived me. I have only you left now—you and Elsie."

Perhaps it was natural that she should feel a little wifely jealousy at having his sister forced in, even to their closest confidence; her face was overclouded for an instant, but she subdued the feeling and said, kindly:

"I know what you have suffered, dear; I can understand the effect it has had upon your character—but you may trust me—indeed you may."

"I know that, dear wife; I believe that!"

He drew her closer to him; for a few moments she sat with her hand among the short, dark curls of his hair, then she said, abruptly:

"Grantley?"

"What is it, dear?"

"I want to ask you something."

"It can't be anything very terrible; you need not hesitate so."

"Only because it sounds foolish!"

"Nothing ever can seem foolish from your lips," he said, softly; and she blushed like a girl at his praise.

"That woman you—you loved once," she said; "was she dearer to you than I am?"

Grantley Mellen's face darkened.

"Let me blot out all thought of that time," he exclaimed, passionately; "I would like to burn out of my soul every trace of those years in which she had a part. I loved her with the passion of youth—no, Bessie, it was not a feeling so deep and holy as my love for you, and it is over for ever."

His face softened, and his voice trembled with a more gentle emotion, for he thought of that lone grave on the hillside, which he had so lately seen closed over his first love.

"Then you do love me?" whispered his wife; "you do love me?"

"What a question, darling!"

"Yes, I know it is silly."

"Bessie," he exclaimed, after a moment's thought; "I cannot help the feeling—you seem changed."

"I—changed, Grantley?"

"It may be my fault; but I feel as if there was a something which kept us apart—a mystery which I cannot penetrate—a gulf which no effort of mine can bridge."

She was a little agitated at first, but that passed.

"What mystery could there be?" she asked. "I don't understand you, Grantley."

"I hardly know what I mean myself. Is it my fault, Elizabeth? Are you angry still at what I said the night you lost your bracelet?"

She did not stir; she kept the hand he held even from quivering, but the face he could not see grew white and contracted under a sterner pain.

"Were you angry, Bessie?" he repeated.

"Not angry," she said, in a low voice, hesitating somewhat. "I was hurt and indignant—you ought to trust me, my husband."

"I do, dearest, I do trust you! Why should I not? There is no secret between us, Bessie—no mystery—nothing which keeps our hearts asunder!"

She was silent—she was struggling for power to speak, knowing that every second of hesitation told against her in a way which volumes of protestation could never counteract.

"There is no such cloud between us?" he said again.

"No, Grantley, no!"

She spoke almost sharply.

"Don't be angry with me, Elizabeth."

"I am not, indeed I am not!"

She was speaking firmly now—her voice was a little hard, like that of a person making an effort to appear natural.

"I am not angry, but I ask you to reason—to reflect. What secret could I have—what mystery?"

"None, wife, none; I know that!"

"And yet you cannot be at rest?"

"I am—I will be."

For a few moments they sat together in silence, then Mellen said:

"Even in your past, Bessie, you have no secret!"

"None," she answered, and her voice was perfectly open and sincere now. "There is not in all my girlhood the least thing that I could wish to conceal from you; it passed quietly, it was growing very dreary and cold when you came with your love and carried me away to a brighter life."

"It is so sweet to hear this, Bessie!" he whispered, as his face grew gentle with the tenderness which warmed his heart. "We have been separated so much, had so little time to realize our happiness, that neither of us have quite learned to receive it quietly—don't you think it is so, dear child?"

"It may be," she exclaimed, and her voice deepened with sudden intensity. "Only trust me, my husband; trust and love me always. I will deserve it. Only trust me!"

"Always, Bessie, always! My darling, I have only you in the whole world—all my hopes, my love, centre upon you—I am like a miser with one treasure which he fears to lose."

"Only a treasure to you," she said, playfully; "you would be astonished to see what a common-place pebble it is to other people."

"That is not so; you know it, Bessie."

"Never mind how it may be; if I am precious in your eyes it is all I ask."

So they talked each other into serenity for the time. Their married life had been so broken up that it was natural that much of the enthusiasm of lovers should remain—even in their old difficulties there had been none of the common-place quarrels which degrade love, and wear it out much more quickly than a trouble which strikes deeper ever does.

"Since I came back," Grantley said, "I have sometimes thought it might be a little feeling towards Elsie which made you so strange."

"What feeling but kindness could I have?" she asked.

"True; it would not be like you, Bessie. You love her, don't you? It was through her we knew each other—remember that!"

"I do, and very pleasantly; but I have no need to think of that to be kind and gentle with her—when have you seen me otherwise?"

"Never; I can honestly say never!"

"Has Elsie complained?"

"No, dear, and never had such a thought, I am certain."

"When I married you, Grantley, your sister became mine—I could not be more anxious for her, more willing to guard and cherish her, if she had been a legacy from my own dead mother, than I am now."

"I am certain of that, and I love and honor you for it. But in your place I should perhaps be annoyed even to have a sister share affection with me."

"It is not like your love for me?"

"No, no; no love could be like that! But Elsie is such a child, such a happy, innocent creature, and I never look at her without remembering my dying mother's last words. If any harm came to her, Bessie, I think I could not even venture to meet that lost mother in heaven."

"No harm will come to her, Grantley—none shall!"

"I think she is one of those creatures born to be happy; I trust she may never have a great trial in all her life. I don't believe she could endure it; she would fade like a flower."

"It is impossible to tell how any one would receive suffering," Elizabeth replied; "sometimes those very fragile natures are best able to bear up, and find an elasticity which prevents sorrow taking deep root."

"It may be so; but I could not bear to have any pain come near her—It would strike my own heart."

"Could any one be more light-hearted and careless than she is?"

"Oh, she is happy as a bird—only let us keep her so."

Even into the utmost sacredness of their affection, that sister's image must be brought—it did cause Elizabeth pain in spite of all her denials—Mellen might have discovered that if he had seen her face. But the feeling passed swiftly, the face cleared, and while it brightened under his loving words the strength of a great resolution settled down upon it.

They sat in that old fashioned room talking for a long time. It was the happiest, most peaceful day they had spent since Mellen's return.

After a time, Mellen proposed that they should go out to ride, for the afternoon was sunny and delightful.

"A long gallop over the hills will do you good," he said; "it is a shame to spend such weather in the house."

While he ordered the horses, Elizabeth went up to her dressing-room to put on her habit.

She dressed herself without assistance, and with a feverish haste which brought the color to her face and light to her eyes.

"I will be happy," she muttered; "I will not think. There is no looking back now; it is too late; only let me keep the past shut close and go on toward the future."

As she stood before the glass, gazing absently at the reflection of her own face and repeating those thoughts aloud, her husband's voice called her from the hall below.

"Bessie, come down—the horses are at the door."

She broke away from her reverie and hurried downstairs, where he met her with a fond smile and a new pride in her unusual beauty.

"The very thought of the fresh air has done you good," he said.

"It is not that, Grantley—not that."

He looked at her tenderly, understanding all that her words meant.

"Because we are happy?" he whispered.

"With your love and confidence to bless my life I have all the happiness I can ask," she said, earnestly.

He led her down the steps, seated her upon her horse, and they rode away down the hill, and dashed out upon the pleasant road.

"We will go over the hills," Grantley said; "the air is so delightful there, and one has such a magnificent view of the ocean."

"I believe you would be wretched away from the boisterous old sea," said Elizabeth, laughing.

"I do love it; when I was a boy my one desire was to be a sailor. Some time, Bessie, we will have a yacht and go cruising about to our heart's content; after Elsie is married though, for she suffers so dreadfully from fright and illness."

"It would be very pleasant, Grantley."

"Would it not? Just you and I alone; it would be like having a little world all to ourselves. Allons, Bessie; here is a nice level place for a gallop; wake Gipsy up."

They rode on swiftly, growing so light-hearted and joyous that they were laughing and talking like a pair of happy children, seeming quite out of reach of all the shadows which had darkened their hearts during the past days.