RECONCILIATION.

Alice Wilde had been taught by her father to "read, write, and cipher," and was not ignorant of the rudiments of some of the sciences; for, curiously enough, considering surrounding circumstances, there was quite a little library of books at the cabin-home, and some old-fashioned school-books among the number. If, when she first went into the seminary at Center City, some of the young ladies were disposed to ridicule her extreme ignorance upon some matters, they would be surprised by superior knowledge upon others; and finally were content to let her assert her own individuality, and be, what she was—a puzzle; a charming puzzle, too, for her kindness and sweetness made her beauty so irresistible that they could look upon it without envy. Another thing which helped her along both with teachers and pupils was the excellence of her wardrobe and her lavish supply of pocket-money, for it is tolerably well known that the glitter of gold conceals a great many blemishes. Before the first term was over she was the praise, the wonder, and the pet of the school; flying rumors of her great beauty and her romantic "belongings" having even winged their way over the pickets which sentineled the seminary grounds, and wandered into the city.

The evening that Philip Moore reached home, after his eastern journey, chanced to be the same as that upon which the seminary began its annual exhibition, previous to closing for the long August holiday. He would not have thought of attending any thing so tiresome; but, taking tea with his partner, whose pretty wife was going and urged him to accompany them, he was persuaded against his inclination.

"As you are already spoken of for mayor, Raymond, and as I am one of the city fathers, I suppose we must show a becoming interest in all the various 'institutions' which do honor to our rising town," laughed Philip, as he consented to attend with his friends.

"It will be very encouraging, especially to the young ladies, to see your wise and venerable countenance beaming upon them," remarked Raymond.

"But really, Mr. Moore, there's somebody there worth seeing, I'm told—somebody quite above the average of blue-ribbon and white-muslin beauty. I've heard all kinds of romantic stories about her, but I haven't seen her yet," chatted the young wife. "She's the daughter of a fisherman, I believe, who's grown enormously rich selling salmon and white-fish, and who's very proud of her. Or else she's an Indian princess whose father dug up a crock of buried gold—or something out of the common way, nobody knows just what."

Philip's heart gave a great bound. "Could it be?" he asked himself. "No—hardly—and yet"—he was now as anxious to be "bored" by the stupid exhibition as he had hitherto been to escape it.

They took seats early in the hall, and had leisure to look about them. Philip bowed to acquaintances here and there. After a time he began to feel unpleasantly conscious of some spell fastening upon him—some other influence than his own will magnetizing his thoughts and movements, until he was compelled to look toward a remote part of the room, where, in the shadow of a pillar, he saw two burning eyes fixed upon him. The face was so much in the shade that he could not distinguish it for some time; but the eyes, glowing and steady as those of a rattlesnake, seemed to pierce him through and transfix him. He looked away, and tried to appear indifferent, yet his own eyes would keep wandering back to those singular and disagreeable ones. At last he made out the face: it was that of the young man who had brought him down from Wilde's mill the last autumn. What was Ben Perkins doing in such a place as this? He began to feel certain who the mysterious pupil was.

"She has thought to please and surprise me," he mused; "yet I believe I would rather she would have kept herself just as unsophisticated as she was, until she learned the world under my tutelage."

Young ladies came on to the stage, there was music and reading—but Philip was deaf, for she was not amid the graceful throng.

At last she came. His own timid wild-flower, his fawn of the forest, stole out into the presence of all those eyes. A murmur of admiration could be heard throughout the hall. She blushed, yet she was self-possessed. Philip gazed at her in astonishment. Her dress, of the richest blue silk, the flowers on her breast and in her hair, the bow, the step, the little personal adornments, were all a la mode. His woodland sylph had been transformed into a modern young lady. He was almost displeased—and yet she was so supremely fair, such a queen amid the others, that she looked more lovely than ever. He wondered if everybody had been teaching her how beautiful she was. There was nothing of coquetry or vanity in her looks—but a pride, cold and starry, which was entirely new to her.

He turned to look at Ben Perkins, who had leaned forward into the light so that his face was plainly visible; and the suspicions he had often entertained that the youth loved Alice were confirmed by his expression at that moment.

"Poor boy! how can he help it?" thought the proud and happy gentleman, regarding the untaught lumberman with a kind of generous compassion. He now saw that Mr. Wilde was sitting by Ben's side, his heart and eyes also fixed upon the stage.

"I've seen that face before," whispered Mr. Raymond; "where was it? Ah, I remember it well, now. I can tell you who she is, Philip. She's the daughter of Captain Wilde, that queer customer of ours, who hails from the upper country. She's a glorious, remarkable girl! By the way, Phil., did you flirt with her? Because I've a message for you. Capt. Wilde told me to inform you that if you ever set foot on his premises again he should consider himself at liberty to shoot you."

"Flirt with her! let me tell you, Raymond, I'm engaged to her, and intend to marry her just as soon as I can persuade her to set a day. I love her as deeply as I honor her. There's something gone wrong, somewhere, or her father would not have left such word—he's a stern, high-tempered man, but he does not threaten lightly. They could not have received my letters."

"I presume I made part of the mischief myself," confessed Raymond, "for almost the first thing I told them when they entered my store this spring, was, that you had gone off to marry your elegant cousin. You needn't look so provoked, Phil.; I told them in good faith. You used to love Virginia in the days when you confided in me; and if you'd have kept up your confidence, as you should, I would have been posted, and could have given your friends all the information they were in search of. Don't you see 'twas your own fault?"

"I suppose it was," replied Philip, with a smile, but still feeling uneasy, and oh, how intensely anxious to get where he could whisper explanations to the heart, which he now saw, had suffered more in his absence than he could have dreamed. Henceforth his eyes were fixed only upon Alice. Soon she perceived him; as their eyes met, she grew pale for a moment, and then went on with her part more calmly than ever. To him, it seemed as if they both were acting a part; as if they had no business in that hour, to be anywhere but by each other's side; he did not even know what share she had in the performances, except that once she sung, and her voice, full, sweet, melancholy, the expression of the love-song she was singing, seemed to be asking of him why he had been so cruel to her.

The two hours of the exercises dragged by. The people arose to go; Philip crowded forward toward the stage, but Alice had disappeared. He lingered, and presently, when she thought the hall was vacated, she came back to see if her father had waited to speak with her. He was there; other parties were scattered about, relatives of the pupils, who wished to speak with them or congratulate them. She did not see him, but hurried down the aisle to where her father and Ben were standing. She looked pale and fatigued—all the pride had gone out of her air as the color had gone out of her cheek.

"Alice! dear Alice!" exclaimed Philip, pressing to her side, just as she reached her father.

Instantly she turned toward him with haughty calmness.

"Mr. Moore. Allow me to congratulate you. Was that your bride sitting by your side during the exercises."

"That was Mrs. Raymond, my partner's wife. But what a strange question for you to ask, Alice. I supposed you had consented to take that name, if ever any one. Mr. Wilde, I received your message through Mr. Raymond, but I knew you were once too sincere a friend of mine, and are always too honorable a man, to refuse me a chance of explanation."

"Say your say," was the raftsman's curt reply.

"You need not speak one word, Philip. It is I who ought to beg your forgiveness, that I have wronged you by doubting you. Love—oh, love, should never doubt—never be deceived!" exclaimed Alice.

"It would have taken much to have disturbed my faith in you, Alice."

"Because I had every motive for loving you; while you—you had pride, prejudice, rank, fashion, every thing to struggle against in choosing me."

"Indeed!" cried Philip. "Yes, every thing, to be sure!" and he cast such an expressive glance over her youthful loveliness that she blushed with the delicious consciousness of her own charms. "Old, ugly, awkward, and ignorant, how ashamed I shall be of my wife!"

"But, Philip!" her tearful eyes, with the smiles flashing through them, made the rest of her excuses for her.

Holding her hand, which was all the caress the presence of strangers would permit, Philip turned to the raftsman.

"I asked you for your daughter's hand, in the letter which I sent you on the return of the young man who brought me from your home, last autumn, since your sudden change of plans prevented my asking you in person. I have not yet had your answer."

When he said "letter" Alice's eyes turned to Ben, who had been standing within hearing all this time; he met her questioning look now with one of stubborn despair.

"You gave us no letters, Ben."

Philip also turned, and the angry blood rushed into his face.

"Did you not deliver the letters I sent by you, young man?"

"Ha! ha! ha! no, by thunder, I didn't! Did you think a man was such a fool as to help put the halter round his own neck? I didn't give the letters, but I told all the lies I could to hurt you, Philip Moore. You ought to be a dead man now, by good rights. The game's not up yet. Let me tell you that!" and scowling at the party, he strode away into the night.

"He ought to be arrested—he is a dangerous fellow," said Mr. Wilde, looking after him uneasily.

"I am sorry for him," said Philip, "but that can do him no good."

"Look out for him, Philip; you can not be too wary—he will kill you if he gets a chance. Oh, how much trouble that desperate boy has given me. I can not be happy while I know he is about."

"Thar', thar', child, don't you go to getting nervous again. We'll take care of Ben. Don't you trouble your head about him."

"If you could guess what I have suffered this winter past," whispered Alice, pressing closer to her lover.

"My poor little forest-fawn," he murmured. "But we must stop talking here; eavesdroppers are gathering about. I suppose this ogre of a seminary will shut you up to-night; but where shall I see you to-morrow, and how early? I have yet to explain my absence to you and your father—and I'm eager, oh, so eager to talk of the future as well as the past."

"Meet us at the Hotel Washington, at my room," replied Mr. Wilde, speaking for her. "We will be there at nine o'clock in the morning. And now good-night, puss. You did bravely to-night. I'm going to see Philip safe home, so you needn't dream of accidents."

Alice kissed her father good-night. That she wanted to kiss his companion too, and that he wanted to have her, was evident from the lingering looks of both; but people were looking askance at them, and their reluctant hands were obliged to part.

That night the store of Raymond & Moore was discovered to be on fire; the flames were making rapid headway when the alarm was given; it was the hour of night when sleep is soundest, but the alarm spread, and persons were thundering at the door and windows in two minutes.

"Does any one sleep in the store?" shouted one.

"Yes! yes! young Moore himself—he has a room at the back."

"Why don't he come out then? He'll be burned alive. Burst in the doors. Let us see what has happened him."

"The fire seems to come from that part of the building. He will surely perish."

The crowd shouted, screamed, battered the doors in wild excitement—some ran round to the back, and a ladder was placed at the window of his room, which was in the second story. Light shone from that room. David Wilde, whose hotel was not far distant, mingling with others who rushed out at the alarm, as is the custom in provincial towns, was the first to place his foot upon the ladder; his strength was great, and he broke in the sash with a stroke of his fist, leaped into the building, appearing in a moment with the young man, whom he handed down to the firemen clambering up the ladder after him.

"He's nigh about suffocated with the smoke—that's all. Dash water on him, and he'll be all right presently," he cried to those who pressed about. "It's that Ben, I know—cuss me, if I don't believe the boy's crazy," he muttered to himself.

Philip soon shook off the stupor which had so nearly resulted in the most horrible of deaths, and was able to help others in rescuing his property. The fire was got under without much loss to the building, though its contents suffered from smoke and water. The young firm was not discouraged by this, as all loss was covered by insurance; they had the promise of a busy time "getting to rights" again, but that was the worst.

It was apparent, upon examination, that the fire was the work of an incendiary; Philip felt, in his heart, what the guilty intention was, and shuddered at his narrow escape. It was decided by him and Mr. Wilde to put the authorities upon the proper track; but the perpetrator had fled, and no clue could be got to him in the city. Mr. Wilde at once suspected he had gone up the river, and feeling that they should have no peace until he was apprehended, and not knowing what mischief he might do at the mill, he took the sheriff with him and started for home, leaving Alice, for the present, at the school, with permission of the principal to see her friends when she chose, as it was now vacation. Before he left there was a long consultation between the three—Philip, Alice, and her father. Philip explained his absence. As he went on to speak of Mortimer Moore and his daughter, of his death, the troubled state of the family affairs, etc., the raftsman betrayed a keener interest than his connection with those affairs would seem to warrant.

"Poor Virginia! she is all alone, and she is your cousin, Philip," said Alice.

"She tried hard to get back her old power over me, Alice. You must beware how you compassionate her too much. But when we are married, and have a home of our own, we will share it with her, if you consent. I've no doubt she can find somebody worthy of her, even in this savage West, as she thinks it. And, by the way, I think we ought to get a home of our own as soon as possible, in order to have a shelter to offer my cousin—don't you, Alice?"

"She's tongue-tied. Girls always lose their tongues when they need 'em the most."

"Now, father, I should think you might answer for me," said Alice, trying to raise her eyes, but blushes and confusion would get the better of her, and she took refuge in her father's lap.

"Well, puss, I s'pose you want to go to school five or six years yet—tell him you've made your cacklations to keep in school till you're twenty-two."

"School! I'll be your teacher," said Philip.

"Choose for yourself, puss. I s'pose the sooner you shake off yer old father, the better you'll like it."

"I shan't shake you off, father. Neither shall I leave you alone up there in the woods. That matter must be settled at the start. I shall never marry, father, to desert you, or be an ungrateful child."

"Suppose we arrange it this way then. We will live with your father in the summer, and he shall live with us in the winter. I don't want a prettier place than Wilde's mill to spend my summers in."

"Oh, that will be delightful," exclaimed the young girl; and then she blushed more deeply than ever at having betrayed her pleasure.

"Then don't keep me in suspense any longer, but tell me if you will get ready to go back to New York with me in the latter part of September. We will be gone but a few weeks, and can be settled in the new mansion I've given orders for, before the winter is here. Shall it be so?"

"Say 'yes,' cubbie, and done with it, as long as you don't intend to say 'no.' I see she wants to say 'yes,' Mr. Moore, and since it's got to be, the sooner the suspense is over, the better I'll like it;" and with a great sigh, the raftsman kissed the forehead of his child and put her hand in that of Philip. With that act he had given away to another the most cherished of his possessions. But children never realize the pang which rends the parent heart, when they leave the parent nest and fly to new bowers. "All I shall be good for now, will be to keep you in spending-money, I s'pose. You're going to marry a fashionable young man, you know, cubbie, and he'll want you tricked out in the last style. How much can you spend before I get back?" and he pulled his leather money-bag out of his pocket.

"I haven't the least idea, father."

"Sure enough, you haven't. You'll have to keep count of the dollars, when you get her, Mr. Moore; for never having been indulged in the pastime of her sex, going a-shopping, she won't know whether she ought to spend ten dollars or a hundred. Like as not, she'll get a passion for the pretty amusement, to pay for having been kept back in her infancy. You'd better get some of your women friends to go 'long with you, puss. Here's, then, for the beginning." He poured a handful or more of gold into her lap.

"Nay, Mr. Wilde, you need not indulge her in any thing beyond your means, upon my account, for—although she may have to conform to more modern fashions, as she has already done, since moving among others who do—she will never look so lovely to me in any other dress, as in those quaint, old-fashioned ones she wore when I learned to love her. And Alice, whatever other pretty things you buy or make, I request you to be married in a costume made precisely like that you wore last summer—will you?"

The raftsman heard, two or three times, on his way up the river, from boatmen whom he hailed, of Ben's having been seen only a little way ahead of him, and he, with the sheriff, had little doubt but they should capture him immediately upon their arrival at Wilde's mill. But upon reaching their destination they could not find him. The men had seen him hovering about the mill, and Pallas had given him his dinner only a few hours before, when he came to the house, looking, as she said, "like a hungry wild beas', snatching what I give him and trotting off to de woods agin."

Help was summoned from the mill and the woods scoured; but no farther trace of the fugitive could be discovered. They kept up the search for a week, when the sheriff was obliged to return. David Wilde wished to believe, with the officer, that Ben had fled the country and gone off to distant parts; but he could not persuade himself to that effect. He still felt as if the unseen enemy was somewhere near. However, nothing further could be done; so cautioning the house-servants to keep a good watch over the premises, and the mill-hands to see that the property was not fired at night, or other mischief done, he returned for his daughter.

"Give Pallas this new dress to be made up for the occasion, and tell her to be swift in her preparations, for the time is short. It will be a month, Alice, before I see you again—a whole, long month—and then I hope for no more partings. I shall bring Mr. and Mrs. Raymond to the wedding, with your permission," said Philip, with other parting words, which being whispered we can not relate, as he placed her on the sail-boat, well laden down with boxes and bales containing the necessary "dry-goods and groceries" for the fete.

"We'll charter a steam-tug next time," growled the raftsman, looking about him on the various parcels.