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Title: The soldier's orphans

Author: Ann S. Stephens

Release date: March 4, 2025 [eBook #75522]

Language: Nepali

Original publication: United States: T. B. Peterson, 1866

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS ***





                                  THE
                           SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.

                                   BY

                         MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

 AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BRICK,” “FASHION AND FAMINE,” “MARY DERWENT,” “THE
  OLD HOMESTEAD,” “THE REJECTED WIFE,” “THE HEIRESS,” “WIFE’S SECRET,”
                          “SILENT STRUGGLES.”


                            =Philadelphia:=
                      T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS;
                          306 CHESTNUT STREET.




        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
                          MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS,
 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                  for the Southern District of New York.




                               CONTENTS.


                           CHAPTER I.                               PAGE
 A FRIEND IN NEED                                                     21
                               CHAPTER II.
 PREPARING FOR THE FAIR                                               41
                              CHAPTER III.
 THE OLD MAID                                                         52
                               CHAPTER IV.
 THE FAIR                                                             61
                               CHAPTER V.
 AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER                                              75
                               CHAPTER VI.
 THE SOLDIER’S DEATH                                                  88
                              CHAPTER VII.
 THE UNCLE FLEECED                                                    97
                              CHAPTER VIII.
 BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS                                                  109
                               CHAPTER IX.
 THE NEWSBOY                                                         121
                               CHAPTER X.
 ROBERT GETS A SITUATION                                             127
                               CHAPTER XI.
 AN INTRUDER                                                         134
                              CHAPTER XII.
 AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE                                                  148
                              CHAPTER XIII.
 AN UNEXPECTED MEETING                                               155
                              CHAPTER XIV.
 LOVE AND MALICE                                                     171
                               CHAPTER XV.
 A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN                                              195
                              CHAPTER XVI.
 THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT                                            206
                              CHAPTER XVII.
 A NEW LIGHT                                                         220
                             CHAPTER XVIII.
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE                                                  231
                              CHAPTER XIX.
 A DECLARATION OF LOVE                                               248
                               CHAPTER XX.
 A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND                                         265
                              CHAPTER XXI.
 A HUNGRY HEART                                                      279
                              CHAPTER XXII.
 A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT                                            289
                             CHAPTER XXIII.
 AN ENGAGEMENT                                                       297
                              CHAPTER XXIV.
 CONCLUSION                                                          315




                         THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                           A FRIEND IN NEED.


God help the poor who have ever known the refinements of comfort! God
help that little family, for it had been driven first from comfortable
apartments, where many a tasteful object had rendered home cheerful, to
the garret rooms of a poor house in one of the most neglected streets of
Philadelphia. Upward, from story to story, those helpless ones had been
forced by that hard task master poverty, till they found shelter at last
under the very roof. Their attic had only one window, a small dormer
one, which looked out upon stacks of chimneys, grouped like black
sentinels huddled over uneven roofs, and down upon yards full of broken
barrels, old fragments of sheet-iron, scraps of oil-cloth, piles of
brick and broken stoves, rusted lengths of refuse pipe, and all the odds
and ends which scores of poverty-stricken families had cast forth from
their dwellings. Above these, from window to window, swinging high in
the wind, lines, heavy with wet clothes, were fluttering dismally,
giving forth a sudden rush of sound now and then like broken-winged
birds making wild efforts to fly.

This was the scene upon which that quiet old woman looked, as she sat in
a low chair close by the window. Not a scrap of green—not a tree-bough
broke the coarse monotony when her eyes turned earthward. But it was
near sunset, and over the house-tops came a flood of burning light,
bronzing the chimneys and scattering rich scintillations of gold on the
roofs; and this poor old woman smiled thoughtfully as she saw it,
praising God in her heart that he gave the glory of sunset and of the
dawn alike to the poor and the rich. She was a plain, simple,
pleasant-faced old woman, with a cap of soft, white muslin, harmonizing
sweetly with the hair folded back from her forehead, white as snow, and
soft as floss silk. Her dress, an old brown merino, had been darned and
patched, and turned in all its breadths more than once; but it was so
neat and fitted her dainty old figure so perfectly, that you could not
help admiring it. Over this she wore an old-fashioned kerchief, cut from
some linen garment, which lay in folds across her bosom, like the marble
drapery sculptured around a statue.

The old woman had her spectacles on, and her withered fingers were busy
with a child’s shoe. They trembled a good deal, and seemed scarcely able
to force her needle through the tough leather, which broke away from her
stitches with crisp obstinacy. Still she toiled on, striving to close a
great rent in the side of the shoe, till a stronger pull at the thread
tore the leather half across the instep, and rendered her task utterly
hopeless. That good old creature dropped the shoe to her lap, sighed
heavily, and, turning her eyes on the sunset, softened into patient
composure.

Just then two boys, the elder ten, the younger, perhaps, seven years of
age, came into the room very softly—for those bare feet made no noise on
the floor—each carrying a quantity of freshly-opened oyster-shells in
his arms. The two children sat down in a corner of the room, and began
to sort over the shells with eager haste.

“Here is one—here is one!” whispered the elder boy; “not so very small
either. Get me a knife.”

The little fellow went to a pine table close by, took a broken
case-knife from the drawer, and ran back with it to his brother, who
held a huge oyster-shell in his hand, to which was attached a tolerably
sized oyster still unopened. The elder boy snatched at the knife, beat
the oyster open, and, pressing the shell back, lifted it greedily toward
his lips; but when he caught the wistful look of his half-famished
brother, the generous child withdrew the morsel slowly from his mouth,
and gave it up to the two little, eager hands held forth to receive it.
The moment his fingers closed on the shell, this little hero sprang away
with it to his grandmother’s side.

“Here, grandma, grandma! take it quick—take it quick!” he cried,
breathless, with a spirit of self-sacrifice that might have honored a
strong man.

The grandmother turned her mild, brown eyes on the little, famished face
uplifted so eagerly to hers, and, understanding all the heroism
expressed there, gently shook her head, while a sweet, patient smile
crept around her lips.

“Eat it yourself, Joseph,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with
her withered hand. “There is only a mouthful, and you are the youngest.”

“No, no, grandma! It is for you—for you.”

“Hollo, I have found another, two, three—one apiece; and another left
for Anna, when she comes in. Eat away, grandma, there is enough for all.
That man who keeps the stand at the corner is a famous fellow; he threw
them in, I’ll be bound.”

Little Joseph thrust the open oyster into his grandmother’s hand, cut a
caper with his bare feet, and rushed back to the pile of shells in hot
haste.

“Save the biggest for Anna,” he shouted; “don’t touch that.”

With that the two children huddled themselves down among the shells; and
Robert, the elder, opened the two oysters that fell to their portion
with great ostentation, as if he delighted in prolonging his pleasure by
anticipation.

“Now,” he said, “eat slow and get the whole taste. It isn’t every day
that we get a treat like this.”

Joseph did his best to obey, but the greed of protracted hunger made
short work with his morsel. Still he smacked his lips and made motions
with his mouth, as if enjoying the treat long after it was devoured.

“Now,” said Robert, “let’s build a bridge across the hearth; or a
railroad, or something worth while.”

“A bridge—a pontoon bridge, such as Anna told us of when father’s
regiment crossed that river. Every oyster-shell shall be a boat, and the
hearth shall be a river; and—and—but there comes Anna, walking so tired,
I know it by her step. Open that other oyster, Robert, for she hasn’t
tasted a mouthful since yesterday; be quick.”

Robert seized his knife, and was using it vigorously when his sister
Anna came in, pale, weary, and so dispirited, that the heaviness of
utter despair seemed upon her.

“Oh, grandmother! she is not at home. I have not been able to collect
one cent. What shall we do?”

The young girl flung herself on a chair by the table, and, covering her
face, began to cry very noiselessly, but in the deep bitterness of
distress. “Not one cent, grandma, and I worked so hard.”

The old lady arose from her place by the window, where the sunset had
kindled up her meek face like a picture, and went quietly up to the
weeping girl.

“Don’t cry, Anna,” she said, smoothing the hair back from her
granddaughter’s forehead. “We have all had a little of something; and
to-morrow will be a new day. I suppose the lady is busy about the fair.”

“But I had depended on it so thoroughly,” sobbed the girl, looking
drearily at the oyster-shells scattered on the hearth. “I had promised
the boys _such_ a supper, and now all is emptiness; their poor, bare
feet, how cold they look!”

“But we are not cold, we rather like it,” cried Robert, forcing a laugh
through the tears that quivered in his voice. “Arn’t we learning to be
tough against the time that drummer-boys will be wanted?”

Anna smiled so drearily that Robert had no heart to go on. The old lady
bent over her granddaughter and asked, in a whisper, if any thing else
had happened. Anna was not a girl to give way like that for a single
disappointment, dark as the hour was for them; and the old woman knew
it.

“There has been a battle. Extras are out, but I had no money to buy
one,” Anna replied, in a broken whisper. “He may be dead!”

“No, no; don’t say that,” pleaded the old woman, retreating to her
chair. “God help us! We could not bear it!”

Robert listened keenly; the knife dropped from his hand; his very lips
were white. He crept toward the door and darted down stairs. Flight
after flight he descended at a sharp run, and then dashed into the
street. No newsboy ever hoped for custom in that neighborhood; but
around a far distant corner he saw one passing with a bundle of papers
under his arm. With the speed of a deer Robert leaped along the
pavement, shouting after the newsboy as he went. His cry, so shrill and
desperate, arrested the lad, who paused for his customer to come up.

“Oh I give me a paper!—give me a paper! My father was in the battle!”
cried Robert, shaking from head to foot under the force of his anxiety.

“All right,” answered the sharp boy—“all right; ten cents, and hurry
up.”

“I haven’t got the money; but my father was in the battle, and my sister
is breaking her heart to know——”

“Hand over a five, then, and be quick.”

“I haven’t got a single cent; but my father is a soldier.”

“Nary a red, ha! and keeping me like this. Oh! you get out. Business is
business, and sogers is sogers; a fellow can’t let his heart wear holes
in his jacket.”

“But I want it so—I want it so.”

The boy tore himself away from Robert’s feeble grasp, and went on
shouting lustily for new customers, leaving the soldier’s son shivering
in the street, his eyes full of tears, and his heart aching with pain.
Robert stood a moment looking wistfully at the newspapers flitting away
from him, and in his disappointment formed a new resolution.

When his sister went out that morning, she had mentioned the name and
address of a lady, celebrated for her energy in all charitable
associations, and who was now the leading spirit of a grand fair for the
benefit of the soldiers, which was soon to occupy fashionable attention.

This lady might be at home. She owed his sister money for fancy articles
made up for this fair. He would go and ask for enough to give them food;
at any rate, to get a paper, which might tell how bravely his father’s
regiment had fought.

Again the boy started off at a rapid run, and now his course lay toward
that part of the city which seems so far lifted above all the cares and
privations of life that it is little wonder the poor are filled with
envy when they creep out of their alleys and garrets to behold its
splendor. They little know how many cares and heartaches may be found
even in this favored quarter; and it is not remarkable that the outward
contrast presented to them should often engender bitter feelings, and
even intense hatred.

The boy had none of these thoughts. He was only eager to get food for
those he loved, and hear news that might bring smiles back to the lovely
face of his sister. He was naturally sensitive, and not long ago his
father had been among the most prosperous and respectable of the working
classes. At another time his naked feet and worn cap, which but half
concealed the bright waves of his hair, might have checked his ardor,
and sent him cowering back to the concealment of his garret-home. Now he
forgot the chill that penetrated his feet from the cold pavement, and
went on his way, resolute to save his sister from the sorrow that had
wounded him to the heart.

“She hates to ask these grand people for her money,” he thought. “I will
do it for her. It is a man’s place to take the brunt; and when father is
fighting for his country, I must try to be man enough to act as he did.”

With these thoughts, Robert mounted the marble steps of a spacious white
mansion, whose walls were like petrified snow, and whose windows were
each a broad sheet of crystal limpid as water. Robert’s cold feet left
their tracks on the pure marble, as he mounted the steps, and his little
hand drew the silver knob with breathless terror when he rang the bell.

A mulatto servant opened the door, saw the lad shivering outside the
vestibule, and drew back in a fit of sublime indignation.

“How dare you? What brings you here?” he exclaimed, eyeing the lad with
august scorn. “This is no place for vagrants or beggar-boys——”

“I—I am not a beggar-boy; and I don’t think I am the other thing. If you
please, I want to see the lady,” said the boy, resolutely.

“The lady! What lady can you have any thing to do with?” demanded the
servant.

“Mrs. Savage, I think that is her name.”

“Who told you that? What do you want of Mrs. Savage?”

“I want some money.”

“Yes, I thought as much. Now tramp, I tell you; and next time you come
to a gentleman’s house, learn to go to the back gate.”

“But no, no; pray don’t shut the door. My sister has done work for the
lady, and——”

“Very likely. Mrs. Savage is very likely to owe money to any one. My
young friend your story is getting richer and richer. _She_ owe you
money, indeed!”

“Indeed—indeed she does.”

“There, there, get out of the way. Don’t you see the young gentleman
coming up the steps? Make off with yourself!”

Robert turned, and saw a handsome young man spring out of one of those
light wagons sometimes used for riding, in which was a pair of fiery
young horses, black as jet, and specked about the chest with flashes of
foam. He flung the reins to a groom as he stepped to the pavement and
mounted the steps, smiling cheerfully, as if his drive had been a
pleasant one.

“What is this? Stop a moment, my boy,” said the young man, as Robert
passed him on the steps with angry shame burning in his face. “Did you
want any thing? Money to buy shoes with, perhaps; here—here.”

The young man took out his porte-monnaie, and selecting a bank-note from
its contents, handed it to the boy.

“No, sir—no, sir. I did not come to beg; though he says I did,” cried
the boy, with tears in his eyes.

“Then what did you come for, my boy?”

“The lady in yonder hired my sister to do some work for a fair, and it
is that I come about. We need the money so much; and Anna is ashamed to
ask for it. She would rather go hungry.”

“What, my mother owes money to a working-girl, who hesitates to ask for
it!—that must be from mistake or forgetfulness. Is Mrs. Savage at home,
Jared?”

“No, sir,” answered the servant. “She is with the committee, and will be
till late.”

The young man turned to Robert again. The boy was watching him with
wistful attention. Tears stood in those large blue eyes, and under its
glow of new-born hope the face was beautiful. No beggar-boy,
immortalized by Murillo, was ever more striking. Young Savage had a kind
heart, but his tastes were peculiarly fastidious; and it is doubtful if
a common boy, with bare feet and poverty-stricken clothes, could have
kept him so long on those marble steps.

“Come,” he said, bending a kindly glance on the lad, “if your home is
not far from here, I will go with you and settle this matter.”

The lad hesitated, and cast down his eyes. He was ashamed to take this
elegant gentleman into his home, or that his beautiful sister should be
found in that place. Young Savage mistook this hesitation for a less
worthy feeling. “The boy is a little impostor,” he said to himself. “He
has seen my mother go out, and hopes to obtain something by this
ridiculous claim. I will unearth the little fox!”

“Come, come,” he said, laughing lightly, “show me the way.”

Robert was a sharp lad, and read something of the truth in that handsome
face. He turned at once and went down the steps. Savage followed him,
interested in spite of himself, and half amused at the idea of ferreting
out a deception. Robert did not speak, but looked back, now and then, as
he turned a corner, to be sure that the gentleman was following him. The
face of young Savage grew more and more serious, as he passed deeper
into the neighborhood where low shanties, and high, barren-looking
tenement-houses were crowded together. He passed whole families huddled
together in the entrance to some damp basement, cold as it was, craving
the fresh air that could not be found within. Groups of reckless
children, happy in spite of their visible destitution, were playing in
the twilight, which filled the poverty of the street with a golden haze,
such as heaven alone lends to the poor. The sight pained him, and he
grew thoughtful.

“Here is the place, sir,” said Robert, pausing at the door of a tall,
bleak building, crowded full of windows that turned coldly to the north.
“If you please, I will run up first and tell them you are coming.”

“No, no, that will never do,” answered Savage. “I shall lose my way
along this railway of stairs.”

Robert saw that he was still suspected, and began to mount the stairs
without a pretext. Up and up he went, followed by the young man, till
they reached a place where the stairs gave out, and they stood directly
under the roof.

“Here is the room, sir,” said Robert, gently opening a door, and
revealing a picture within the little apartment which arrested young
Savage where he stood. This was the picture.

A young girl with raven black hair, so black that a purplish bloom lay
on its ripples, stood upon the hearth, stooping over a delicate little
boy, whose meagre white face was uplifted to hers with a piteous look of
suffering. An old woman, in a low, easy-chair, sat close by the child,
who huddled himself against her knees, and clung to her garments as if
he had been pleading for something. In the background was a lead-colored
mantle-piece, a hollow fireplace, and a few half extinguished embers
dying out in a bed of ashes. It was a gloomy picture, yet not without
warmth and beauty; for the dying sunbeams came through the window,
goldenly as an artist would have thrown them on canvas; and the pure,
delicate face of the child was like a head of St. John. Never on this
earth did human genius embody a more lovely idea of the Madonna than
Anna Burns made, with her worn dress of crimson merino, her narrow
collar and cuffs of white linen standing out warmly from the sombre
brown of the grandmother’s dress.

Savage unconsciously lifted the hat from his head, and stood upon the
threshold struck with a sort of reverence. Anna was speaking to the
child, and did not observe him, or her brother. Her voice, saddened by
grief, fell upon his ear with a pathos that thrilled him.

“Wait a little—only a little while, darling,” she said. “Don’t plead so,
I will go again. You shall have something to eat, if I beg for it in the
street, only do not look at me so.”

“But I am so hungry,” pleaded the child.

“I know it—I know it! Oh, grandma! what can I do?”

She changed her position, then, and wringing her hands, went to the
window, thus breaking up the picture, and sobbing piteously.

Young Savage entered the room, then, reverently, as if he were passing
by a shrine.

“Madam—young lady, I have come from—from my mother.”

Anna turned, and saw this strange young man standing before her, with
his head uncovered, and his handsome face beaming with generous emotion.
She hastily brushed the tears from her eyes, and, unconsciously,
smoothed her hair with one hand, ashamed of the disorder into which her
grief had thrown it.

“My name is Savage,” continued the young man, while a faint smile
quivered over his lips, as he observed this little feminine movement. “I
met this boy, your brother, I think. I—I wish to settle my mother’s
account. Pray tell me how much it is?”

“I beg pardon. I am very, very sorry to trouble any one so much.
Indeed——”

“She didn’t do it. I went on my own hook,” broke in Robert, who came
forward with a glow on his face. “She considers it begging to ask for
her own, but I don’t.”

“That is right, my good fellow,” answered Savage. “Business should be
left to men. You and I can settle this little affair.”

“No, that is not necessary,” said Anna, smiling. “It is so small a sum
that a word settles it. Only I should like your mother to know how
thankful I am to her for giving us something to do.”

“Will this be enough?” said the young man, placing a ten dollar note
upon the window-sill.

“Half of that—half of that, sir; but I have no change.”

The young man blushed.

“You can give it me some other time, perhaps.”

“I’ll run and get it changed,” broke in Robert.

Anna handed him the bank-note.

“No, no! I insist!” said Savage, earnestly. “There is no need of change.
My mother—in fact I want more work done. Let your brother come to me in
the morning; I shall have ever so many handkerchiefs to mark with
initial letters, which I am sure you embroider daintily. Besides, I have
a fancy to make my mother a present of one of those worsted shawls—all
lace-work and bright colors—such as nice old ladies can knit without
injury to the eyesight. I dare say you could do that sort of thing,
madam?”

“Oh, yes!” answered the old lady, brightening visibly. “If I only had
the worsted to begin with, and needles, and——”

“That is just what I leave the extra five dollars for. Robert, remember,
that is for grandma to begin her work with. It would so oblige me,
madam, if you could have the shawl done by Christmas.”

The old lady broke into a pleasant little laugh. Little Joseph, who had
been listening greedily, pulled at her dress and whispered:

“Grandma! Grandma! Can I have something now?”

“Yes, dear, yes! only wait a minute.”

“But I am tired of waiting, grandma.”

“Hush, darling, hush!”

Joseph nestled down to his old place, and, half hidden by his grandma’s
garments, watched the stranger with his great, bright eyes, eager to
have him gone.

The young man saw something of this; but he had never in his life
encountered absolute want, and could not entirely comprehend its
cravings.

“Let us see about the colors,” he said, approaching the grandmother.
“White, with a scarlet border, just a pretty fleece of soft, bright wool
turned into lace.”

“I know, I know!” said the old woman, nodding pleasantly. “You shall
see; you shall see.”

“Now, that this is settled,” said the young man, balancing his hat in
one hand with hesitation, “we must have a consultation, my mother and I,
about providing something a little more permanent.”

“You are kind, very kind, sir,” said the old lady, smoothing the
kerchief over her bosom, with a soft sweep of both hands. “When my son
comes home from the war, he will thank you. Anna, there, don’t exactly
know how to do it; and I am an old-fashioned lady, fast turning back to
my place among the children; but my son, her father, you know, is a very
smart man.”

“And brave as a lion,” shouted little Joseph, from behind the shelter of
his grandmother’s garments.

“Hurra! so he is! They made him a corporal the first thing they did.
By-and-by he’s going to be a lieutenant. Then, won’t we live! Well, I
reckon not; oh, no!” responded the larger boy.

“Robert! Robert!” said the sister, in gentle reproof.

“I couldn’t help it, Anna; can’t for the life of me. Beg the gentleman’s
pardon all the same, though.”

“Don’t ask pardons of me. I rather like it, my fine fellow,” answered
Savage. “But there has been a great battle; I hope no bad news has
reached you!”

“I do not know. That is what makes us so anxious. If I could but see a
paper.”

“Go and get one this moment,” said Savage, thrusting some currency into
Robert’s hand.

The boy darted off like an arrow; they could hardly hear his feet touch
the stairs. Directly he came back again, breathless and pale, with the
paper open in his hand, which he searched eagerly for news.

“They have been in the midst of it,” he cried. “The regiment is all cut
up; but I don’t see his name in the list. Dear, how I wish the paper
would hold still. Anna, you try.” The girl held out her hand, but it
shook like an aspen leaf; and Savage took the paper.

“What is your father’s name?” he inquired.

“Robert Burns.”

“I’m named after him, I am,” cried Robert, with an outburst of pride.

Savage ran his eyes hastily down the list of killed. The old woman left
her chair and crept toward him, white and still; while little Joseph
crept after, forgetting his hunger in the general interest. No one
spoke; there was not a full breath drawn. Savage looked up from the
paper, and saw those wild, questioning eyes, those white faces, turned
upon him with an intensity that made his heart swell.

“His name is not here,” he said.

Dry sobs broke from the women; but Robert shouted out, “Glory! glory!”
And little Joseph laughed, clapping his pale hands.

“But the wounded,” whispered Anna; “look there.”

“All right, so far,” answered Savage, running his eyes rapidly down the
list. “There is no Burns here.”

The old woman dropped into her chair, and gathering little Joseph to her
bosom, covered his face with gentle kisses; while Robert half strangled
his sister with caresses, and shook hands vigorously with Mr. Savage,
who was rather astonished to find his eyes full of tears, which threw
the whole room into a haze.

“Don’t forget to come in the morning,” he said, turning toward the door.

“Of course I wont,” answered the boy, following his new friend into the
passage; “but that yellow chap, will he let me in?”

“Come and see. But, Robert, I say, you and I must be friends—fast
friends, you know.”

“Yes, when we know each other through and through. But I’m in charge
here when father’s gone, and haven’t much time for anything else.
Good-by, sir; I’ll be on hand in the morning.”

Savage went away, with his mind and heart full of the scene he had just
witnessed. How poor they were? What barren destitution surrounded those
two women: yet, how lady-like they seemed. There was nothing in their
poverty to revolt his taste, fastidious as it was. Neat and orderly
poverty carried a certain dignity with it. He thoroughly respected these
two women; their condition appealed to every manly feeling in his
nature. Though distrustful from habit and education, he had faith in
them, and went home full of generous impulses, wondering how he could do
them good. Meantime, Robert went back to the room, radiant.

“Here,” he said, thrusting a bun into Joseph’s hand, “break it in two,
and give grandma half; Anna and I will wait awhile. Here is the money,
sister; I got it changed at the baker’s, where they wouldn’t trust us a
loaf yesterday. You didn’t know it, but I asked ’em. Didn’t their eyes
open when I took out that bill. How does the bun taste, Josey? Why, if
the fellow hasn’t finished up his half already. Here, give me back some
of that money; I’m off for a supper. There is three sticks of wood in
the closet, and a little charcoal; just throw them on the fire, and let
’em blaze away; who cares for the expense! Hurra!”

Away the boy went, bounding down the stairs like a young deer, leaving
Anna and the grandmother in a state of unusual cheerfulness. They raked
up the embers into a little glowing pile, crossed the wood over them,
and filled the tea-kettle as a pleasant preliminary. The hearth, clean
and cold before, was swept again; and as the darkness closed in, the end
of a candle was brought forth and lighted, revealing the desolate room
in gleams of dull light, that struggled hard against the shadows.

“How pleasant it is,” murmured the old lady, leaning toward the fire,
and rubbing her withered hands over each other. “See, darling, how the
firelight dances on the hearth. Hark, now! the kettle is beginning to
sing! That means supper, Joseph.”

“Are you hungry, grandma?” asked the boy, looking up to that kind, old
face.

“Yes, dear, a little.”

“But you wouldn’t eat a bit of the bun.”

“That was because I liked to see you eat it.”

“Oh, how nice it was! When will Robert come back with more?”

“Here I am!” cried Robert, dashing against the door, and forcing it open
with his foot. “Here I am, with lots of good things. There’s a ring of
sausages. Here’s bread and butter, and a little tea for grandma, bless
her darling old heart; and just one slice of sponge-cake for Anna—cake
is awful dear now, or I’d have got enough to treat all round. There’s a
paper of sugar, and—and here they go all on the table at once! Sort ’em
out, Anna, while I run for a pint of milk, and an apple to roast for
grandma. I forgot that. How she does like roasted apples. Get out the
frying-pan, and bustle about, all of you. Isn’t that young Mr. Savage a
splendid fellow? How I’d like to be a drummer-boy in his regiment. Hurry
up, Anna, I’m after the milk!”

Away the boy went again, with a little earthen pitcher in his hands,
happy as a lark.

Anna Burns brought forth the frying-pan, placed the links of sausages in
it, and surrendered them to grandma, who smiled gently on little Joseph
as they began to crisp, and swell, and send forth an appetizing flavor
into the room. The kettle, too, sent forth gushes of warm steam, hissing
and singing like some riotous, living thing held in bondage. Altogether,
the little room grew warmer and pleasanter every moment; and the bright
face of Anna Burns grew radiant as she moved about it, setting out the
table with a few articles of China left from their former comfortable
opulence, and spreading it with a tablecloth of fine damask, so worn and
thin, that the pawnbrokers had rejected it.

“Here we go!” cried Robert, coming in with the milk. “Hurra! all ready,
and the sausages hissing! That’s the time o’ day! Just get down that
China teapot, Anna, and let grandma make the tea. There, Joe, is an
apple for you; I reckon you can eat it without roasting. I’ll put one
down for grandma. Don’t she look jolly, with the firelight dancing over
her? Come, now, all’s ready; bring up the chairs, Josey, that’s your
part of the job.”

Little Joseph fell to work with great spirit, and dragged up the chairs,
while Anna was dishing the sausages and cutting the bread. Then the old
woman drew up to her place nearest the fire, with the teapot before her,
ready to do the honors; and, with her hands folded in meek thankfulness
on the table, asked a blessing on the only food they had tasted in two
days.

Well, God did bless that food, common as it was; and no Roman feast,
where libations were poured out to heathen gods, ever tasted sweeter
than this humble meal. There was quite a jubilee about that little, pine
table; and the old lady, who sat smiling over her teacup, was by no
means the least joyous of the little party. As for Robert, he came out
famously; talked of the brave exploits his father must have performed in
battle; told stories; got up once or twice to kiss his grandmother; and,
altogether, behaved in a very undignified manner for the head of a
family, as he proudly proclaimed himself. Even little Joseph came out of
his natural timidity, and burst into shouts of childish laughter more
than once, when Robert became unusually funny. And as for Anna, she
laughed, and smiled, and talked that evening, till the boys fairly left
their half-empty plates to climb on her chair and caress her. That happy
supper, and the pleasant evening that followed, was enough to reconcile
one with poverty, which, after all, is not the greatest evil on earth.




                              CHAPTER II.
                        PREPARING FOR THE FAIR.


Young Savage went up those marble steps with a light heart and a
generous purpose. He would befriend this unfortunate family. His mother
should help him. That girl, with the bright, brunette face, was too
beautiful for her friendless condition, and the burden of those three
helpless creatures who depended on her. He could not get her picture, as
she stood by the fireplace, out of his mind.

“Where is my mother?” he inquired of the servant, passing him at the
door with a light step.

“Up in her own room, sir. She has just come in.”

Horace made his way up stairs, and entered one of the most luxurious
rooms of the noble mansion, in which his mother was sitting, or, rather,
lying, with her elbow buried in the satin pillows of a crimson couch,
and her foot pressed hard upon an embroidered ottoman. Horace opened the
door without noise, and walking across a carpet soft as moss, sat down
on the foot of his mother’s couch.

She was a handsome woman, this Mrs. Savage—large, tall, and commanding.
It was easy to see where the young man got those fine, grey eyes, and
brilliant complexion.

“Oh, Horace! I am glad you have come! Such a day as I have gone
through!” cried the lady, fluttering the white ribbons of her pretty
dress cap, by the despairing shake of her head. “Upon my word, I think
those women will be the death of me; such selfishness! such egotism!”

“It must be very tiresome; but then I sometimes think you like to be
tired out on such occasions, mother.”

“But the cause, Horace, the great cause of humanity. These poor soldiers
toiling in the field, suffering, dying—and their families. It is enough
to break one’s heart.”

Horace looked at his mother in her costly dress, trimmed half way up the
skirt with velvet, and lace, and fancy buttons, the cost of which would
have fed old Mrs. Burns for a twelvemonth; and, for the first time in
his life, a faint idea of her inconsistency broke upon his filial
blindness. The very point-lace of her tiny cap would have given a month
of tolerable comfort to the soldier’s orphans. Yet, with all this wanton
finery fluttering about her, the woman really thought herself a most
charitable person, and mourned the dead and wounded over each battle
right regally, under moire antique rippled with light, like a cloud in a
thunderstorm, at a cost of some ten dollars per yard.

“But it is of no use dwelling on that part of the subject; the proper
course is to find a remedy, which we have done in this fair. I tell you,
Horace, the country can produce nothing like it. It will be superb. The
only trouble is about the tableaux. Every lady of the committee has some
commonplace daughter that she insists on crowding into the foreground.
Thank heaven, I have no daughter to push forward after this coarse
fashion. There is Mrs. Pope, now, insists that Amelia shall stand as
Rebecca, in the great Ivanhoe tableau, when her eyes are a
greenish-blue, and her hair a dull brown; and I cannot reasonably
object, for there is not a passable brunette in the whole company. I was
thinking it over when you came in. The whole thing will be spoiled for
want of a proper heroine.”

“Who stands as Beatrice?” asked Horace, with the animation of a new
idea.

“Miss Eustice, of course.”

“Why, of course?”

“Because she is fair as a lily, blue-eyed, and so exquisitely feminine;
and for another reason.”

“What is that, mother?”

“You are to stand as Ivanhoe.”

Horace saw the way open by which his idea might be worked out at once,
and it must be confessed, dealt rather artfully with his mother.

“Not with an ugly Rebecca, though. I could not stand that.”

“But how can it be helped?”

“Mother, I saw by accident, this evening, the very person you want—a
soldier’s daughter, perfectly lady-like, and very beautiful.”

“Of the right type of beauty? Would she make a striking contrast to my
favorite?” inquired Mrs. Savage, eagerly.

“No contrast could be more decided.”

“But who is she?”

“A soldier’s daughter!”

“But is she presentable? Has she style, education?”

“She has everything that goes to form a lovely woman, I should say.”

“Where can I see her?”

“Perhaps she would come to you.”

“It is a bold step; but I can afford that. As my protegé, they will not
dare to ask questions. Where does the girl live? Could I see her
to-night, or early in the morning? I am so weary now. Upon my word,
Horace, you have helped me out of a most annoying dilemma. To-morrow
morning, before breakfast, I must see this person. What is her name?”

“Burns, mother—Anna Burns.”

“Thank you, Horace. Now, another thing. We must have something national,
patriotic, and all that. A soldier’s family, for instance; but the
dresses are so plain and unbecoming, that our young ladies fight shy of
it. Could you manage something of the kind for me?”

Horace thought of the picture he had seen that night, and answered that,
perhaps, it would be possible, only the whole thing must be managed with
great delicacy; and he, as a gentleman, must not be supposed to
interfere with it. His mother could write a little note to the young
person who had already done work for her.

“For me? Anna Burns? It must have been for the committee. I remember no
such person; but that will be an opening. Is she to form part of this
tableau, also?”

“The principal figure.”

“And the rest?”

“Two children, for instance, barefooted, hungry, and in clothes only
held together with constant mending.”

“Excellent.”

“And an old woman?”

“Better and better! Nice and picturesque, of course.”

“Neat and dainty, with the sweetest old face.”

“It will be perfect! Oh, Horace! what a treasure you are to me. Now,
turn down the gas, dear. You have set my mind at rest, and I mean to go
to sleep till your father comes home. Here, just put my cap on that
marble Sappho, and don’t crush it. Doesn’t she look lovely, the darling!
like the ghost of a poetess coming back to life? Now draw the curtains;
give me a quiet kiss, and go away to your club, or the opera, or
anywhere. Only be sure to have the girl here in time.”

Early the next morning, while Anna was dividing her little store of
money, and apportioning it toward the payment of various small debts,
she received a note, asking her to call on Mrs. Savage at once, if quite
convenient. Anna was too grateful for delay. So, putting on her shawl
and a straw bonnet, kept neatly for great occasions, she was on the
marble steps, almost as soon as the messenger who brought her note.

Mrs. Savage was taking a solitary breakfast in her own room. The
sunlight came in softly through the lace curtains, as if trembling
through flakes of snow, and turned the waves of maize-colored damask,
that half enfolded them in, to a rich gold color.

Mrs. Savage was seated in a Turkish easy-chair, cushioned with delicate
blue, and spotted with the gold-work of Damascus. She wore a morning
dress of dove-colored merino, and knots of pink ribbon gave lightness
and bloom to her morning-cap of frost-like tulle. She looked up as Anna
entered the room, and her whole face brightened. No peach ever had so
rich a bloom as that which broke over the girl’s cheek; no statue in her
boudoir could boast more perfect symmetry than that form. Walter Scott
had no finer ideal when he drew that masterpiece of all his women,
Rebecca.

“Come here, my child, and sit down close by me; I want to look at you,”
said the lady, beaming with satisfaction. “You have been doing work for
us, I hear.”

“Yes, madam,” answered Anna, with a grateful outburst, “yes, madam;
thank you for it.”

“Oh! it is nothing but our duty!” replied the lady, forgetting to ask if
the work had been paid for. “All our efforts are in behalf of the poor
soldiers’ families. Now I want you to help us in another way.”

“I will—I will in any way!”

“We shall open the fair with tableaux—a room has been built on purpose.
Of course, the charge will be extra; the pictures will be beautiful—you
must stand for two of them.”

“I, madam?”

“Certainly; for you are really beautiful. By the way, have you
breakfasted? Here is a cup of coffee; drink it, while I talk to you.”

Anna took the cup of delicate Sevres china, and drank its contents,
standing by the table.

“You have a grandmother, or something of that sort, I hear?” observed
the lady.

“Oh, yes! the dearest in the world.”

“And some brothers?”

“Yes, madam!”

“Picturesque, I am told; something like boys in the pictures of that
delicious old Spanish painter. We must have them, too.”

“What! my brothers?”

“Yes, yes; and the old lady. That will be our grand effort, and our
secret, too. Not wanting outside help, we can keep it for a surprise. Be
ready when you are called. I think they will come off on Monday. Never
mind the costumes; that dress will do very well for the family tableau.
As for Rebecca, I will take care of her. My son says the boys and that
old woman are perfect. Don’t change them in the least; it would spoil
every thing. Oh! Mrs. Leeds, I am so glad to see you. Late am I—the
committee waiting?”

This last speech was made to a little dumpty lady, who came fluttering
into the room unannounced, with both her hands held out, and an
important look of business in her face. The ladies kissed each other
impressively; then Mrs. Savage glided up to Anna and whispered,

“Run away now. She mustn’t get a good look at you on any account. Don’t
mind turning your back on us. Good-morning. Remember, I depend on you as
a soldier’s daughter; it is your duty.”

Anna went out in some confusion, hardly knowing whether she had been
well received or not. Coming up the broad staircase, she met young
Savage, and he stopped to speak with her.

“You have seen my mother?” he said, gently.

“Yes.”

“And will oblige her, I hope?”

“How can I refuse?”

“That is generous. I thank you.”

“It is I who should give the thanks,” answered Anna with a tremble of
gratitude in her voice.

Horace smiled, and shook his head.

“I am afraid you will not let us do enough for any claim to thanks,” he
said. “But do not forget to send that fine little fellow after my
handkerchiefs. I shall want them.”

Anna promised that Robert should be punctual, and went away so happy,
that the very air seemed to carry her forward.

On the afternoon of the third day from that, close upon evening, she
stood in Mrs. Savage’s boudoir, again contrasting its luxurious
belongings with her simple dress. Mrs. Savage was benign as ever. She
had driven her enemy out of the Ivanhoe tableau; and the triumph filled
her with exultation. From the boudoir Anna was swept off to the
temporary buildings erected for the great fair, hurried through a
labyrinth of festooned arches, loaded tables, lemonade fountains, and
segar stands, into a dressing-room swarming with young ladies, who took
no more heed of her than if she had been a lay-figure. Mrs. Savage was
ubiquitous that evening. She posed characters, arranged draperies,
grouped historical events, and exhibited wonderful generalship; while
Anna stood in a remote part of the room, looking on anxious for the
coming of her grandmother, and the two boys, who were to find their own
way to the fair at a later hour.

The old lady came in at last with her hood on, and wrapped in a soft,
warm blanket-shawl, which some one, she hadn’t the least idea who, had
sent to her just before she started. Alone? no, indeed; she did not come
alone. Young Mr. Savage had happened to call in just as she was ready,
and offered to show her the way. He had admired her shawl so much, and
didn’t think the little scarlet stripe at all too much for her, which
she was glad of; for it would be so much brighter for Anna when they
took turn and turn about wearing it. No, no, it could _not_ have been
Mr. Savage who sent it, he was so much surprised. The boys, oh! they
were on the way. Robert would take care of his brother, no fear about
that. But the fair, wasn’t it lovely? She was so grateful to Mrs. Savage
for thinking of her and the boys; the very sight would drive them wild.
Here Anna was carried away from her grandmother, and seized upon by two
dressing-maids, who transformed her into the most lovely Jewess that
eyes ever beheld in less than no time. Young Savage was called out from
a neighboring dressing-room, by his mother, to admire her; and his
superb dress seemed, like her own, a miracle. The surprise and glory of
it all gave her cheeks the richness of ripe peaches, and her eyes were
full of shy joy. It seemed like fairy-land.

But the children, where were they? Amid all the excitement, she found
this question uppermost in her heart. Poor little fellows! What if they
got lost, or failed to find an entrance to the fair? She whispered these
anxieties to Savage, who promptly took off his costume and went in
search of them, blaming himself a little for having left them behind.

The little fellows were, indeed, rather in want of a friend. They had
been for days in a whirl of excitement about the fair. More than once
Robert had wandered off toward the building, and reconnoitered it on all
sides; he had caught glimpses of evergreens wreathed with a world of
flowers; had seen whole loads of toys carried in, and made himself
generally familiar with the place. He had been very mournful when Mr.
Savage went off with his grandmother, and protested stoutly that he
could find the way for Joseph anywhere, and would be on hand for the
picture in plenty of time; and to this end he set off about dusk,
leading his little brother by the hand, resolved to give him a wonderful
treat in the fair before the pictures came on, which he could not
understand, and was rather afraid of. So the two hurried along, shabby
and ill-clad as children could be, but happy as lords, notwithstanding
their naked feet. It seemed to them as if they were going direct to
Paradise, where Anna and the old grandmother were expecting them. They
reached the entrance of the fair, and were eagerly pressing in, when a
man caught Robert rudely by the shoulder, gave him a slightly vicious
shake, and demanded his ticket.

The ticket? mercy upon him! he had left it at home, lying on the table.
He wrung himself away from the harsh hand pressed on his shoulder, and
darted off, calling on little Joseph to follow him. Joseph obeyed,
crying all the way with such sharp disappointment as only a sensitive
child can feel. Robert darted up stairs, and met Joseph half way up with
the ticket in his hand.

“Come,” he cried, brandishing it above his head; “never say die! We’re
time enough yet.”

But Joseph had been sorely disappointed once, and was down-hearted
enough. He had no hopes of getting in, and one rebuff had frightened him
so much that he longed to run home and hide himself. But Robert was not
to be daunted. He threw one arm over his brother’s shoulder and struck
into a run, carrying the timid child with him like a whirlwind. At last
they came to the entrance-door of the fair again, and then a panic
seized on Robert, also. What if it were too late? What if the ticket was
not good? What if the man drove him away again? Joseph, more timid
still, drew close to him and hung back, afraid to advance, and equally
afraid to leave Robert and go back.

“Let’s go ahead,” cried Robert, all at once, holding out his ticket and
making ready to advance. “Who’s afraid! Keep close to me, Josey, and
never mind if the fellow is cross.”

Still Joseph hung back.

“Hurra!”

This came in a low shout from Robert, who saw young Savage coming toward
them. He had been a little way up the street watching for their
approach. “All right, my boys,” he said, in a clear, ringing voice, that
made little Joseph’s heart leap with joy; “grandmother is waiting for
you. Come along!”

The next moment Robert and his little brother believed themselves
absolutely in Paradise.




                              CHAPTER III.
                             THE OLD MAID.


“Miss Eliza?”

“Well, my sweet child?”

“Would you lend me your pearls for this one night?”

“My pearls, darling? _My_ pearls? Oh, Georgie! you cannot understand the
associations connected with these ornaments—the painful, the thrilling
associations!”

“Don’t! Pray, don’t! When you clasp your hands, and roll up your eyes in
that fashion, it gives me a chill—it does, indeed!” cried Georgiana
Halstead, really distressed; for when Miss Eliza went into a fit of
sentiment, it was apt to go through many variations of sighs, smiles,
and tears, till it ended in hysterics.

“A chill, Georgiana? What is a single chill, compared to the agonies of
memory that haunt this bosom?” cried Miss Eliza, pressing one large and
rather bony hand on that portion of her tall person, for which her
dress-maker deserved the greatest credit. “Oh, child, if you had but
once listened to my history!”

“Couldn’t think of it! The first ten words would break my heart into ten
thousand splinters. Besides, I never could endure mysteries,” cried the
young lady, letting down a superb mop of yellow hair, which shimmered
like sunbeams over her shoulders, and posing herself before the mirror,
as it revealed her lovely person from head to foot.

“My life,” moaned Aunt Eliza, “has both a mystery and a history, which
will be found written on my soul, when this poor body, once so tenderly
beloved, is laid in the dust.”

“Under the daisies would be prettier, I think,” replied Georgiana,
braiding her hair with breathless haste, in two gorgeous bands, while
Miss Eliza was talking. “A great deal prettier. There, now, tell me if
you like this.”

The fair girl had woven the heavy braids of hair around her queenly
head, forming a coronet of living gold above a forehead white as snow,
on which the delicate veins might be traced like blue shadows. “This is
the way I intend to wear it, with the garland of pearls in front. Won’t
it be lovely?”

“No!” said Miss Eliza, shaking her head. “There was a time——”

“Yes, yes! I understand! The skirt will be white satin, the tunic blue
velvet, with a border of ermine so deep.”

Miss Eliza came out of her own history long enough to notice that the
ermine border would be at least six inches deep; then she retired into
herself again, and sighed heavily; and, dropping her head on one hand,
fell into a mournful reverie.

“Shall I wear a chain, or a collar of gold?” said Georgiana.

“Yes, it was one chain of flowers,” murmured Miss Eliza, exploring her
life backward. “Such flowers as only grow on the banks of Eden.”

“I am afraid Rowena could have sported nothing but wild flowers—a
garland of hawthorn-blossoms, or a bouquet of primroses,” said
Georgiana, crossing some scarlet ribbons sandal-wise over her ankles,
and regarding the effect with great satisfaction.

“Rowena! Rowena! I mentioned no such name. Indeed, I never do mention
names,” cried Miss Eliza, arousing herself, and setting upright. “Heaven
forbid that I should ever be left to mention names.”

The old maid, for such I am pained to say, Miss Eliza Halstead was,
arose solemnly, as she said this, and waving her niece off with a sweep
of both hands worthy of a wind-mill in full motion, began to pace up and
down the room with long and measured steps, that gave a tragic air to
the scene.

“How about the pearls?” questioned Georgie, tying the scarlet ribbon in
a dainty little bow. “We haven’t much time. It is getting dark, now, and
one doesn’t step out of a Waverly novel, in full rig, without lots of
preparation. Mine is the fourth tableau.”

“Tableau? Ah, yes! I remember you were going to stand up as——”

“As Rowena, in Ivanhoe.”

“Rowena! My dear child, you are not tall enough by five inches, and lack
the proper dignity. Mrs. Savage must have done this—she always was my
enemy from her girlhood; that is—that is, from the first time I dawned
upon her life. Let me ask you a question, Georgiana.”

“Be quick, then, please; for I want the pearls.”

“Was Mrs. Savage aware that I was an inmate of this house when she
selected you to represent the most queenly character in Sir Walter
Scott’s novel. I particularly wish to know.”

“I—I should think it very likely,” answered Georgiana, driving a laugh
from her lips which broke from her eyes in a gush of mischief. “It is
now six months since you came here.”

“She knew it, and yet invited another. This is life—this is ingratitude!
Has she no remembrance of the time when we two—— But why should I dwell
on that painful epoch of my life? Georgiana, you shall have the pearls.
Let me complete this soul’s martyrdom. Where is my trunk?”

“In the store-room, I think.”

“There again! Relics of the past huddled together in a common
store-room—and such relics!”

“Nothing ever was more beautiful!” said the young lady, proceeding with
her toilet; “only do bring them along!”

Miss Eliza stalked out of the room with a key grasped in her hands,
measuring off her steps like Juno in a fit of heathenish indignation.
She returned directly, bearing in her hand a faded red-morocco case, the
size of a soup-plate, and considerably battered at the edges. Seating
herself in an arm-chair, she opened the case, and began to shake her
head lugubriously over the snow-white pearls that gleamed upon her from
their neat purple satin. Georgiana looked eagerly over her shoulder.

“Oh, Miss Eliza, I didn’t begin to know how beautiful they were: so
large, so full of milky light! No wonder you prize them!”

“Alas! it is not their beauty,” sighed Miss Eliza. “Here, take them,
child; they were intended for a more queenly brow, but I yield to
destiny.”

Miss Eliza rendered up the case as if it had contained flowers for a
coffin, shrouded her features in a corner of the lace anti-macassar
which covered the maroon cushions of her easy-chair, and allowed a
touching little sob to break from her lips.

“Oh! the associations that are connected with those ornaments!” she
moaned.

“Now I will render them doubly dear,” laughed the young girl, laying the
white spray on the golden braids of her hair, and moving her head about
like a bird pluming itself.

“Destiny! destiny!” murmured Aunt Eliza.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” responded Georgia; and, running into a
neighboring dressing-closet, she came forth a lady of the olden times,
that might have danced with the lion-hearted Richard.

Aunt Eliza gave one glance at the radiant young creature, rose from her
chair, and left the room, wringing her hands like a tragedy queen.

Georgiana took no heed, but framed her pretty image in the glass, where
she looked like a picture to which Titian had given the draperies, and
Rubens the flesh-tints. As she stood admiring herself, as any pretty
woman might, the door opened, and a stately old woman entered, rustling
across the floor in a heavy black silk, and with quantities of white
tulle softening her face and bosom.

“Oh, Madam Halstead! I am so glad you’ve come! Tell me if this is not
perfect?”

“I never think you otherwise than perfect, child—who could?” replied the
sweet, low voice of the old lady. “The very sight of you makes me young
again.”

“How handsome you must have been,” cried Georgie, throwing one arm
around the old lady, and patting the soft cheek, which had a touch of
bloom on it, with her dimpled hand. “How handsome you are now!”

The old lady shook her head, and a faint blush stole over her face, and
lost itself under the shadows of her silver-white hair.

“Yes, dear, some few who loved me used to think so,” said the old lady.

“Here comes Miss Eliza,” cried Georgiana, seizing upon a large cloak of
black velvet, in which she enveloped her dress, and twisting a
fleece-like nubia over her head, cried, “Good-night! Good-night! Just
one kiss! Good-night!”

Away the bright young creature went, sweeping out of the room, and down
the stair case, like a tropical bird with all its plumage in motion.

“Good-night!” she repeated to Miss Eliza, who loomed upon her from the
extremity of the upper hall.

“Don’t be too late; I’ll send the carriage back!”

With a toss of her lofty head, and a wave of her hand, Miss Eliza seemed
to sweep the young creature out of her presence; then she entered the
room where old Mrs. Halstead was sitting in the easy-chair which her
daughter had so lately abandoned, and paused inside the door, gazing
upon that calm face with a look of mournful reproach.

“Thus, ever thus, do I find the place I have left filled,” she said;
“but my own mother, this is too much!”

“Is it that you want the seat, Eliza,” said the old lady, gently lifting
herself from the chair; “take it, I have rested long enough.”

“Oh! my beloved parent, that you should make this sacrifice for me!”
sighed Miss Eliza, dropping into the chair. “I know that your noble
heart would be pained if I did not accept it. I do—I do!”

That fine old lady had lived with her daughter too long for any surprise
at this wonderful outgush of gratitude; she only moved to a couch on the
other side of the room, and sat down, with a low sigh.

Miss Eliza began to mutter and moan in her chair.

“Are you ill? Is any thing the matter?” inquired the old lady.

“Did you see that child go out? Did you comprehend the conspiracy which
that wicked woman has organized to keep me out of these tableaux? Did
you observe the impertinence of that flippant girl? Oh! mother, these
terrible shocks will break your child’s heart!”

“Eliza! Eliza! this is all fancy,” answered the old lady.

“Fancy! fancy! What is fancy, pray?”

“That you have enemies; that persons wish to annoy you. Why should
they?”

Miss Eliza sprang up from her chair, and turned upon her mother.

“No enemies! no enemies! What keeps me here, then? Why is that silly
child set up in the tableau nature and cultivation intended me to fill?
Madam! madam! are you also joining in the conspiracy against me?” Miss
Eliza shook her long, white forefinger almost in the grand old face of
her mother, as she spoke. “Is it by your connivance that all gentlemen
are excluded from my presence?”

“No one has ever been excluded, Eliza.”

“Indeed!”

The word was prolonged into a sneer, which brought a faint color into
Mrs. Halstead’s face.

“To think,” added Miss Eliza, wrathful in the face, “to think of the
pincushions, penwipers, and lamp-mats, to say nothing of wax-dolls and
little babies, that I have made and dressed for this very fair—it’s
enough to break one’s heart. Not a stall left for me to attend; every
corner in the tableaux filled up with silly, pert creatures that I
wouldn’t walk over. This is justice—this is patriotism. I might be
direct from Richmond, for any attention they give me.”

“I am sure, Eliza, the committee were very thankful for your help,” said
old Mrs. Halstead, soothingly.

“Thankful, indeed! Oh, yes! it is easy enough to simper, and shake
hands, and speak of obligations. But why didn’t they treat all us young
girls alike? Why am I left out of every thing?”

Before Mrs. Halstead could answer, a servant entered the room and
informed Miss Eliza that the carriage had returned.

“But I will assert my rights,” cried the lady, gathering a rose-colored
opera-cloak about her, and pluming herself before the mirror. “You can
go, Thomas; I will be down in one moment.”

A little deficiency of the toilet had struck Miss Eliza; and searching
in some pocket hid away in her voluminous skirts, she drew forth a
little pasteboard box, turned her back squarely on the old lady, and
occupied herself, after a mysterious fashion, for some moments close to
the mirror.

“Do not defend these women, mamma,” she said, with angry emphasis. “I
blush for them.”

There certainly did seem to be some truth in this assertion, for Miss
Eliza’s cheeks had flushed suddenly to a vivid red; but then her
forehead and around her mouth had grown white in proportion, showing
great intensity of shame.

“Now I am going, mamma; but first give me your blessing.” Miss Eliza
dropped one knee to her mother’s foot-stool, bent her tall form before
the grand old lady, and seemed waiting for a solemn benediction; but the
sensible old lady put back the mass of false curls that fell swooping
over her daughter’s waterfall, and fastened them in place with a
hair-pin from her own silver-white hair.

“That will do, my dear. I see nothing else out of the way.”

Miss Eliza arose with a slight creak of the joints, and a look of
mournful reproach.

“Thus it is,” she said, “that one’s most sensitive feelings are thrown
back upon the heart. My own mother refuses me her blessing; but I can
define the reason—the hidden, mysterious reason.”

This intensified female gathered the opera-cloak around her as if it had
been a Roman toga, and sailed out of the room with the sweep of a
wind-mill. Mrs. Halstead shook her handsome old head, and sighed faintly
when Eliza disappeared.

“Will she never comprehend our position?” she murmured. “Never remember
that the bloom of girlhood does not run through mid-age? How good they
are to overlook all this.”




                              CHAPTER IV.
                               THE FAIR.


An old man sat alone in one of those large, old-fashioned houses, which
have been almost driven out of existence by the march of commerce into
the haunts of fashion. The rooms were broad, deep, and well lighted; for
there was plenty of land around the old house, which was half occupied
by the remnants of an old-fashioned garden, in which two or three quince
trees might be seen from the side windows, covered with plump,
orange-tinted fruit in the late autumn, but gnarled and knotted old
skeletons, as they appeared to their owner that frosty afternoon.

The room in which this man sat was large, old-fashioned, and gloomy
enough. A Brussels carpet, worn in places till the linen foundation
broke through the faded pattern, was stretched upon the floor without
quite covering it, and a breadth of striped stair-carpeting eked out the
deficiency, running along the footboards in meagre imitation of a
cordon.

A ponderous old sideboard of solid mahogany, which contained a multitude
of drawers and shelves for every thing, stood in a recess by the
fireplace. On this were decanters with silver caps; and tiny silver
shields hung around their necks, telling what manner of spirits was
imprisoned within, bespeaking the old-fashioned hospitality of forty
years ago; and over the sideboard hung a picture from some Dutch artist
in which bunches of carrots, heads of cabbages, birds, newly shot, and
fish ready for the pan, were heaped together in sumptuous profusion. It
was a fine appetizing kitchen scene, in which a few marigolds and
hollyhocks had been thrown, as tasteful market-men sometimes cast a
handful of coarse flowers on a customer’s basket. Some mahogany chairs,
with well-worn horse-hair seats, stood against the wall; and a stiff,
spindle-legged sofa, covered with the same useful material, occupied a
recess near the fireplace, like that filled by the sideboard.

This old man, who seemed a part and parcel of the room, sat at a round
table, old-fashioned as the sideboard, on which the remnants of his
solitary dinner still remained. A decanter, full of some ruby-tinted
liquor, stood before him; but the glasses were empty, and not a drop of
liquid had as yet stained them. With both elbows on the table, and both
hands bent under his chin, he sat gazing on the Dutch picture; but
apparently seeing something far beyond it, which filled his eyes with
gloom, and bent his brows with heavy thought. At last he moved heavily
in his chair, and pushed the decanter away toward the centre of the
table.

“Why should I think of him now more than at another time?” he muttered.
“The fellow is safe enough, I dare say; very likely isn’t in the army at
all. Am I a man to grow moody over a dream, or a bit of nightmare? I
wouldn’t have believed it if any one had told me so; but, spite of
myself, I do feel shaky, and tons of lead seem to be holding down my
heart. Hark! I heard the patter of feet running swiftly; now a cry.
There is news from the army. Tush! what is that to me? I have no one to
mourn or hope for again.”

The old man started from his chair and went swiftly into the hall,
crying out, in a hoarse voice, as he flung the door open,

“Boy, boy! I say—boy, a paper, quick!”

The newsboy broke up a shrill cry and came clamping back, selecting a
paper from the bundle under his arm as he moved.

“Great battle, sir; list of killed and wounded a yard long! Ten cents;
thank you! Can’t stay to give change. Most of our fellers ’ed stick you
with a week older, and take the money at that. But I mean ter have yer
for a general customer. Hallo! there comes another chap yelling like
blazes; bet yer a copper, old boy, that I get round the corner fust.”

Away the sharp, young rogue darted down the street, with the clatter of
his thick shoes beating the pavement like a pair of flails, and his
shrill, young voice cutting the frosty air with a shrill clearness that
made the old man on the door-step shiver.

“It is very cold,” he said, buttoning his coat over his chest with
trembling fingers. “Yet I could see the wind whistling through that
little fellow’s hair, and he did not seem to mind it, or think that his
voice is a death-cry to so many. Why did I get this? What do I care who
lives or dies?”

The old man went into the house as he spoke, and sat down on the
spindle-legged sofa, unfolding his damp paper in the light of a window
behind it. It was the first time he had interested himself in the war
news enough to purchase an extra. Now his breath came quickly, and his
hands shook with something beside cold.

The boy had spoken no more than the truth. Column after column of names
filled up the dead-list; and that was followed by so many names of the
wounded and missing, that the most eager affection would tire in
searching them. But the eyes of this weary old man seized upon each
name, and dropped it with the quickness of lightning. He had so long
been accustomed to adding up columns of intricate figures, that names of
the dead glided by him like shadows. One column was despatched, and then
another.

“What folly,” he said, looking up from the paper. “Why should a dream
set me to searching here? Ha! Oh! God, help me! It is here!”

The paper dropped from his hold; his head fell forward. Besting an elbow
on each knee, he supported that drooping head with two quivering hands.
After a time he arose from the sofa, and began to walk slowly up and
down the room with his arms behind him, and his fingers interlocked with
a grip of iron.

“Her only son—her only hope.”

This hard, perhaps we may say, this bad man, had been so shaken by a
dream that had seized upon his conscience in the night, that he was
almost given up to regrets; for the dream was reality now—that paper had
told him so.

“Why should I have bought that?” he said, starting from the paper which
rustled against him as he walked. “Just as I was thinking to search him
out, too. Oh, me! it is hard—it is hard!”

It is an old man I am writing about—a hard, stern man, self-sufficient,
and above such small human weaknesses as grow out of the affections; but
his whole nature was broken up for the moment. Some plan of atonement,
generosity, or ambition, had been overthrown by the reading of that one
name among the killed of a great battle.

These thoughts crowded on the lonely man so closely, that he felt
suffocated even in that vast room, and went into the hall, beating his
breast for the breath that was stifling him. But even the cold hall
seemed without atmosphere. So the old man seized his hat, put on an
overcoat that hung on the rack, and went into the street. He had no
object, save that of finding air to breathe, and wandered off, walking
more briskly than he had done for years, though his cane had been left
behind. For more than an hour the old man wandered through the streets,
so buried, soul and sense, in the past, that he scarcely knew whether it
was night or day. At last he came opposite the great fair. Around the
entrance a crowd was gathered, and people were passing through in
groups, as if some special attraction carried them there.

The old man remembered at once that he had been applied to for
contributions to this fair, and, being in a crusty mood, had refused to
contribute a cent. Now, when the effect of that name in the death-list
was upon him, he groaned at the remembrance of his rudeness; and forcing
his way with the crowd, purchased a ticket and went in.

This old man was not much given to amusing himself; and the beautiful
scene before him had more than the charm of novelty. The flags, wreathed
among flowers and heavy evergreen garlands, made the enclosure one vast
bower, haunted with lovely women, ardent, generous, and radiant with
winning smiles. The lights, twinkling through gorgeous draperies and
feathery-fine boughs, almost blinded him as he came in from the dark
street. The life, the hum of conversation, the laughter that now and
then rang up from some stall, or group, fell upon him strangely. These
people seemed mocking the heavy, dead weight of sorrow that lay upon his
soul. At another time he would have gone away in disgust, muttering some
sarcasm, and escaping out of the brightness with a sneer. But he was
just then too wretched.

He had refused money when it was asked of him; but now—now, when
conscience was crowning his soul with thorns, he would be liberal.
Fortunately, there was plenty of money in the breast-pocket which almost
covered his heart—that should redeem him from his own reproaches. He
would buy any amount of pretty nothings, and, for once, fling away his
money like dirt—why not? It was his own, and no one in this world had a
right to question him.

With these new thoughts in his mind, the old man paused before one of
those fairy-like enclosures, which, in such places, seem to have drifted
out of Paradise. It was one mass of evergreens, living ivy, and creeping
plants, rich with blossoms; back of the little bower this wealth of
foliage was drawn back like the drapery of a window, and through its
rich green came the gorgeous warmth of hot-house plants in full flower.
Fuchsias, with a royal glow of purple at heart, and rich crimson folding
it in, drooping over a Hebe vase of pure white alabaster, whose pedestal
was planted among azalias white as clustering snow, pink as a
summer-cloud, or blood-red, in great blossoming clusters, that fairly
set the atmosphere ablaze with their gorgeousness. Behind all this was
some tropical tree of the acacia species, drooping like a willow over
the whole, and laden with raciness of delicate golden blossoms. Around
the pedestal of the vase was a wreath of fire, composed of tiny jets of
gas, trembling up and down like jewels half transmuted into the
atmosphere, which shed a tremulous brilliancy into the cups of the
flowers, and over the greenness of the leaves.

In the midst of this lovely spot stood a young girl, with a fleecy white
nubia twisted around her head, and a heavy velvet sacque shrouding her
under-dress from head to foot—or, rather, so far as her person was
visible. She had evidently only stepped into the stall to supply the
place of its usual occupant, and looked a little bewildered when the old
man came up and inquired the price of a wax-doll.

“This,” said Georgiana Halstead, seizing the doll, which gave out a
little, indeed, sullen shriek, as her hand pressed its bosom, “this
lovely little lady in full ball costume, with a flounce of real lace,
and this heavenly sash. Well, really, sir, I should think—let me see,”
here Georgiana cast a side glance at her customer—“I should think,
twenty, or—yes, twenty-five dollars—thirty, say——”

The nature of the man arose above his sorrow. He cast a withering glance
at the fair young face turned upon him, and withdrew his hand from under
his vest, where he had half thrust it in search of his pocket-book.

“Thirty dollars for that thing?” he growled.

“For this thing! this loveliest of lovely little ladies! Why, one blink
of her eyes is worth the money. Just see her fall asleep,” cried
Georgiana; and with a magic twist of her finger, the doll closed its
blue eyes in serene slumber. “Thirty dollars—I am astonished at myself
for asking so little.”

A grim smile stole over those thin lips, and the old man’s eyes sparkled
through their gloom, as he looked on that cheerful face dimpling with
mischief, turned now upon him, now upon the doll. The scarlet
ball-dress, in which the mimic fashionable was arrayed, sent a flush
down the white arm that held it up for admiration, and from which the
velvet sleeve had fallen loosely back, revealing a bracelet of pure
gold, formed of two serpents twined together, and biting each other. The
old man’s face became suddenly of a grayish white as he saw the
ornament.

“Where—where did you get that?” he questioned, in a low, hoarse voice,
touching the bracelet with his finger.

“That, sir,” cried Georgiana, lowering the doll till her sleeve fell to
its place again, and speaking with sudden dignity, “why should you ask?”

“Because I have seen one like it before, and only one. Do not be angry,
young lady. I have no wish to be rude; but tell me where you got those
twisted snakes?”

“They belong to Mrs. Halstead, my father’s stepmother,” answered
Georgiana, impressed by the intense earnestness of the man.

“Mrs. Halstead! I do not know the name; but I should like those
serpents. If this Mrs. Halstead is one of your benevolent women, who are
willing to fling their ornaments into the national fund, I will pay her
handsomely for them—very handsomely.”

“Of course, grandmamma is as charitable as the day is long, and would
give almost any thing to help those who suffer for our country; but I
don’t know about these pretty reptiles. She may have a fondness for
them—some association, as Miss Eliza says.”

“No, no, that cannot be! they have no connection with her. She must have
bought them at some pawnbroker’s sale. They can have no value to her,
except as a curiosity. Ask her if she will sell them for ten times their
weight in gold!”

“I—I will ask her, if you wish it so much; but she will think it
strange.”

“No matter—ask her. And now, to show you that I am in earnest, here is
thirty dollars for that bit of satire on womankind, which you may hand
over to the first little girl that comes along. Ah! here is one now,
looking meek and frightened. Little woman, would you like a doll?”

The little girl thus addressed turned her great, brown eyes from the old
man to the doll, shrinking back, and yet full of eager desire.

“Is it for me?—for me?” she said at last, as the glorious creature was
pressed upon her. “Please, don’t make fun of me!”

“He isn’t making fun, indeed he isn’t, my little lady,” cried Georgiana,
delighted with the whole proceeding. “I dare say he hasn’t any little
girl of his own, and wants to do something nice by the little girl of
somebody else. Take it in your arms, dear, and don’t forget the good
gentleman when you say your prayers.”

“I won’t, indeed, sir. I’ll put you into the long prayer, and the short
one, too, special,” cried the little creature, dimpling brightly under
her happiness, and huddling the great doll up in her arms as if she had
been its mother. “Aunt, aunt, see here!” Away the little creature darted
toward some woman, who was so mingled up with the crowd that her bonnet
only could be distinguished.

“There is one person made happy by your thirty dollars, sir,” said
Georgiana, brightly; “to say nothing of those who will receive your
money. Any thing more that I can show you? Here comes a couple of little
boys barefooted, and looking so poor.”

The old man turned toward the two boys, who had wandered away from some
inner room, and were gazing around them with eager curiosity. Something
in their faces seemed to strike him, for his countenance changed
instantly, and he took a step forward to meet the children, who paused
before the stall where Georgiana presided, lost in admiration.

“What would you buy here, if you had plenty of money?” asked the old
man, laying one hand on the elder lad’s shoulder.

“If I had plenty of money?” repeated the boy, staring into the dark face
bending over him. “I—I don’t know. I never had plenty of money.”

“But you would like to buy some of these nice things?”

“Oh! yes, I would.”

“Well, what is there here that you like?”

The lad took a swift survey of the brilliant articles arranged in Miss
Halstead’s stall.

“I’d buy one of them caps for grandma,” he said; “and that shawl, with
the red and white border, for sister Anna.”

“No, no! buy ’em a whole heap of candy, and cakes, and oranges, and
peanuts,” cried the younger child, pulling at his brother’s coat.

“Come here,” said the old man, in a tone of compassion, “let me look in
your face.”

The elder lad turned frankly, and lifted his eyes to those of the old
man. That was a frank, honest young face, full of life and purpose,
notwithstanding the pallor which spoke of close rooms and insufficient
food.

“These are thin clothes for winter,” said the old man, grasping Robert’s
shoulder almost roughly. “What is your father doing, that you have
nothing better than these things?”

“My father went to fight for his country,” answered the lad, bravely.
“It isn’t his fault.”

“It isn’t his fault,” repeated the younger boy, creeping behind his
brother as he spoke, dismayed by his own voice.

“No shoes!” muttered the old man.

“A soldier’s boys know how to go barefooted,” said Robert. “It don’t
hurt us—much.”

“Come with me! come with me! I saw some things round here that may be
worth something!”

The old man strode away as he spoke, followed by the two boys, who ran
to keep up with him. He stopped at a less showy stall than that he had
left, and spoke to the rather grave female who presided there.

“Take a good look at these children, and fit them out with warm, decent
clothing. You can supply something fanciful in the way of a hat or cap
for the little fellow with the curls. Let the boots be thick and strong.
Leave nothing out that will make them comfortable for the winter. Make
them up in two bundles; they’ll find strength to carry them, I dare
say.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” almost shouted the boys in unison.

“We know how to carry carpet-bags and bundles, don’t we?” continued
Robert, addressing Joseph, who was shrinking away from the sound of his
own voice.

“You do,” whispered the little fellow; “you do.”

“Come along with me,” said the old man, who had cast off half the weight
of his sorrow since these children had approached him. “There is
something to eat around here.”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Joseph, with a sigh of infinite delight; “oranges,
maybe, or peanuts.”

“Sir,” said Robert, lifting his clear eyes, bright with thankfulness, to
the old man’s face, that was so intently regarding him, “would you just
as leave let me stay behind, and take grandmother and sister Anna?
They’d like it so much.”

“No, no! come along! I’ll give you something for them. We can’t have
women about us.”

He spoke peremptorily, and the children obeyed him, almost afraid.

All sorts of delicious things broke upon the lads when they entered that
portion of the fair which was used as a restaurant; and these
half-famished young creatures grew wild with animal delight when cakes,
pies, and oranges were placed in their hands.

The old man sat down, and, leaning his elbows on a table, watched these
happy children as they eat the food he had given them. In years and
years he had not tasted pure joy like that. Any one, to have watched him
then, would never have believed him the hard old fellow that he was. His
eyes sparkled, and he chuckled softly when little Joseph hid away an
orange in his pocket, thinking how nice it would be for grandma; and,
after a little, he fell to himself, and began to eat with relish. The
very sight of those children enjoying themselves so much had given him
an appetite.

The bundles were all ready when this strange group returned for them.

“Now for the red and white shawl, and that cap,” said the old man. “Here
are lots of candies, and the other things in this paper, which we will
roll up in them.”

“Will you, though?” said Robert, taking a bundle under each arm. “I say,
sir, won’t you let me hold your horse and run errands for all this? I’ll
do it first-rate.”

The old man looked down kindly upon him.

“Perhaps, who knows,” he said, answering some idea in his own mind
rather than what the lad was saying. “Here is the stall, but the lady is
gone.”

True enough; another person had taken the place of Georgiana Halstead,
of whom the shawl and cap were bought.

The old man was keenly disappointed, for he had intended to learn
something more about the serpent-bracelet. But the young lady in charge
had no knowledge of the lady who had preceded her temporarily.

While the old man was questioning this lady, a young girl came hurrying
through the crowd, eagerly looking for some one in eager haste. She saw
the boys, and came breathlessly up.

“Oh! I am so glad to have found you, boys!” she cried, addressing them
in haste. “The ladies are waiting for you!”

“Oh, Anna! he has been so kind! You wouldn’t believe it!” cried Robert,
looking down at his bundles. “Such clothes!”

“Such cakes and candies,” chimed in Joseph.

“And something for you. Such a shawl—there it lies; and a cap for
grandma!” said Robert. “Thank him, Anna; I cannot do it half!”

“I don’t understand—I am in such haste. The time is up, sir; but I think
you have done something very generous, that my brothers want me to thank
you for. I do it with all my heart. But we must go.”

“Not till you have taken these,” said the old man, hastily rolling up
the paper of bon-bons in the shawl, which he had just paid for. “It is a
present from this fine lad; wear it for his sake.”

“I’ll carry it for her, and the cap, too,” cried Joseph, seizing on the
carelessly-rolled bundle.

“Good-night, sir! I wish I had time to thank you,” said Anna, earnestly.
“Good-night!”

“Good-by, sir!” said Robert, with a faltering voice; for he was near
shedding tears of gratitude.

“Good-by! I wish I could do something for you.”

Away the three went, after uttering their adieus, passing swiftly
through the crowd.

The old man followed them at a distance till they led him into that
portion of the building devoted that evening to tableaux, when they
disappeared through a side door.

“A dollar extra, here!” said a man stationed near the door. “The seats
are almost filled!”

The old man took some money from his pocket, and went in, feeling
interested in the persons he had befriended, and resolved to find them
again if possible. He sat down on a bench near the door, and waited. The
room was full, the light dim, and a faint hum of whispering voices
filled the room.

At last a bell rang. Some dark drapery, directly before him, was drawn
back, and then appeared before him those boys huddled together near an
old lady, in poverty-stricken garments, with a yawning fireplace in the
background, and a young girl brightening the tableau with her beauty.

There was breathless stillness in the room—for the picture was one to
touch the heart and fire and refine the imagination. No one stirred; and
every eye was bent on that living picture of misery. But, all at once,
some confusion arose near the door; an old man was pressing his way out
so eagerly that he pushed the doorkeeper, who was leaning forward to see
the picture, so rudely aside, that he almost fell.




                               CHAPTER V.
                        AN UNEXPECTED PERFORMER.


Twice Anna Burns had changed her costume, first to satisfy Mrs. Savage,
that it would be all that she desired for the Ivanhoe tableaux; and
again, that no detail of poverty should be wanting to that picture
which, alas! has been so often duplicated in real life, “The Soldier’s
Destitute Family.” As she was putting on a Jewish garment a second time,
in the little drawing-room, a rather heavy hand was laid on her
shoulder, and a voice that made her start, from the deep tragedy of its
tones, sounded in her ear.

“Are you the young person?”

“I—I—— What young person?” faltered Anna, turning crimson under the
touch of that hand.

“Mrs. Savage has a dependent or protegé, here, who is to stand in the
Ivanhoe picture. Are you that person?”

Anna turned suddenly, and looked her tormentor in the face. She was a
tall, angular person, with a complexion that seemed washed out and
re-dyed, pale blue eyes, full of impatient ferocity, and a mouth that
was perpetually in motion.

“Are you that person?” she repeated, giving the shoulder she pressed a
slight shake.

“I came here at the request of Mrs. Savage, if that is what you to wish
to know,” answered Anna Burns, stepping back with a gesture of offended
pride.

“And you are her Rebecca?” answered Miss Eliza Halstead, shaking out her
laced handkerchief, and inhaling the perfume which it gave forth with a
proud elevation of the head. “So she is determined to monopolize every
thing. Has Miss Georgiana Halstead arrived yet?”

“I do not know the lady.”

“Not know her, and she is to be your foil—your rival. When you go off
the stage she will come on, robed in azure velvet, crowned with
pearls—my pearls; while I——but never mind, there is blood in my veins
which can protect itself. Oh! here she comes. Say nothing; be secret as
the grave! You will see! You will see!” Miss Halstead put one long
finger to her lips, and glided backward out of the room just as
Georgiana Halstead came in by a side entrance.

For a moment these two young girls stood looking at each other; one with
a rosy blush on her cheeks and a smile on her lips; the other shy, pale,
and shrinking. She felt like an intruder there.

Georgiana was the first to speak.

“I suppose, from that dress, that you are Miss Burns,” she said, with
graceful cordiality. “There is no one here to introduce us; but I am
Miss Halstead, as the dear, delicate, stupid Rowena, who is to get
Ivanhoe away from you.”

A flush of scarlet came over Georgiana’s face, as she became conscious
of her own light speech, and felt the strange look which Anna turned,
unconsciously, upon her; but she turned this embarrassment off with a
sweet laugh; and throwing aside her velvet sacque, stood out in the dim
room a picture in herself.

“How beautifully you are dressed,” she said, scanning Anna’s costume
with an admiring glance. “That crimson velvet tunic, with its warmth and
depth of color, has singular richness. And the diamond necklace, how the
light quivers over it. Upon my word, Madam Savage has exhibited a taste
for once. The whole effect is wonderful.”

“It is her taste; I had nothing to do with it,” said Anna, glancing at
her own loveliness in the glass. “The diamond necklace, if it is
diamonds, belongs to her. Indeed, I scarcely know myself in this dress
or place.”

“But I hope to know you, and intimately, some day,” answered Georgiana,
with prompt admiration. “But here comes the madam, with a train of
committee-ladies, ready to give us inspection. Don’t let them change a
fold of that turban, or a single thing about you. Remember, those who
have the least taste will be the first to interfere.”

“Here they are all ready, and looking so lovely,” cried Mrs. Savage,
sweeping into the room, followed close by half a dozen associates, whose
silken dresses rustled sumptuously as they moved. “Isn’t she perfect,
dear child? But when is she otherwise?”

Here Mrs. Savage stooped and kissed Georgiana’s white neck with a glow
of natural fondness, which the girl felt in her heart of hearts, and
became radiant at once.

“And Miss Burns, too. How completely she has followed out my idea. Isn’t
she the most fascinating little Jewess that ever lived? Ah! are they
ready? Come, Georgie, child, you are wanted. Ladies, hurry back to your
seats. I would not have you lose this tableau for any thing.”

A little storm of exclamations followed this speech. Then the silks
began to rustle violently again, while the committee made a rush, and,
with a confusion of whispers, diffused itself in the audience, which was
soon enveloped in darkness. A bell tinkled; the dark curtain swept back,
and through a screen of rose-colored gauze Ivanhoe and Rowena were seen
surrounded with rich draperies, heavy carvings, and all the appointments
of a feudal picture. Rowena was looking down overpowered by the
love-light in Ivanhoe’s glance; a soft, rosy bloom lay on her cheek; a
smile hovered about her lips; no flower ever drooped more modestly in
the sunshine that brightened it. The young creature did not move, but
you could see the slow heave and fall of her bosom. There was no acting
there; the presence of love, pure and vital, made itself felt, though it
might not have been thoroughly understood. Ivanhoe gazed down upon her
with admiration, and it may be that more tender feelings called forth
the bright smile on his face. But young Savage was thinking of the
character he was to maintain—she was thinking only of him. A single
minute this noble picture defined itself before the crowd; then the
curtain fell, and all was dark again.

The tableau was one which had been designed to repeat itself by a change
of position in the characters. While the applause was loudest, and young
Savage stood behind the curtain holding Georgie’s hand; while he
described the position she was to assume, a rather impatient voice from
behind the scenes called for Miss Halstead. The young lady, who was
blushing and shrinking under the careless touch of his hand, ran out,
and found one of the servant-girls in attendance, who said that she must
come at once and speak with Mrs. Savage before the curtain rose again.

Georgie followed the girl in haste, and the moment she disappeared a
figure came out from one of the dark corners and entered upon the stage,
which was but dimly lighted from behind the scenes. Savage saw the
glitter of her dress, and without looking closer spoke in eager haste.

“Just in time. They are getting impatient. There, stand there, with your
head averted, as we arranged it: now your hand.”

Savage dropped on one knee as he spoke, took the hand which dropped
lovingly into his, and lifted his fine eyes to the but half averted
face. A start, which brought him half up from his knees; a quick ringing
of the bell, and every face in the audience was turned in amazement on
Miss Eliza Halstead, whose tall, gaunt form was arrayed in blue satin,
surmounted by a tunic of maize-colored velvet; a band of pointed gold
girding her head like a coronet, and from under it flowed out a mass of
dull brown curls, wonderful to behold. Her head was turned aside; one
hand was half uplifted, as if to conceal the blushes that lay immovable
on her cheeks; and a simper, which had a dash of malicious triumph in
it, gave disagreeable life to her face.

Young Savage had sunk back to his lover-like position as the bell rang,
and went through his part with a hot flush on his cheek, and a quick
sense of the ridiculous position he filled quivering around his handsome
mouth. But though master of himself, he heard the bell ring with a sense
of infinite relief, and instantly sprang up, uttering what I am afraid
would have been a very naughty exclamation had it been allowed to go
beyond his breath.

“Ah! I thought you would be surprised,” cried Miss Eliza, beaming upon
him in the twilight of the stage. “Believe me, dear Mr. Savage, I never
suspected that you had any share in the conspiracy to keep me in the
shade. But I have defeated them for once; and I saw by that flush on
your cheek how completely you triumphed with me.”

Savage struggled to keep from laughing, and submitted to the pressure
which Eliza gave his hand between her two palms with becoming
philosophy.

“I suppose they will expect us to give place to the next tableau,” he
said, quietly releasing his hand. “This way, if you are going to the
dressing-room.”

Miss Eliza took his arm, and marched triumphantly off the platform. At
the first step she met Georgiana coming back breathless.

“It is over,” said Miss Eliza, solemnly; “the evil machinations of my
enemies has, for once, been defeated; tell Mrs. Savage and her crew
this, with my compliments. The audience out yonder can tell you that,
for once, they have seen a genuine tableau, truthful, artistic, rich in
passionate silence. Mr. Savage here can tell you how it was received
with touching and intense stillness; then a ripple of admiration; then a
buz of admiring curiosity. We came away to avoid the outburst of
enthusiasm, which was no doubt overwhelming.”

“What is this about? What does it all mean?” said Georgiana, bewildered.
“Am I too late? After all, it seems that no one really sent for me.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, with a toss of the head. “Have you just
found that out?”

“The tableau is over,” said young Savage, laughing in spite of himself.
“Miss Halstead has honored me by taking your place.”

Georgiana was dumb with angry astonishment; a flood of scarlet rushed
over her face and neck. She even clenched her little hand, and, for
once, made a fist of it that would have done great credit to a
belligerent child ten years old. Then she burst into a laugh, musical as
a gush of bird songs in April.

“You didn’t do that, Miss Eliza. Oh! it is too, too delicious. Savage on
his knees, you ——”

Again she burst forth into a musical riot of laughter, while Eliza stood
before her frowning terribly. I am afraid Savage joined her; but the two
voices harmonized so well that Miss Eliza never was quite certain.

“Georgiana Halstead, I hate you!” she cried, with a sweep of the right
arm.

“I—I can’t help it,” pouted the young girl, pressing a hand hard against
her lips; “the whole thing is so comical. What will Mrs. Savage say?”

Georgiana might well ask, for Mrs. Savage had been in front, and sat
aghast during the whole performance, which only lasted a few minutes.
After which she went into something as near rage as well-bred women
permit themselves; and absolutely tore a handkerchief made of gossamer
and lace into more pieces than she would have liked to confess even to
herself. A half-suppressed giggle, which came from that portion of the
room where the committee was clustered, brought the proud lady to her
composure; and leaning toward her most inveterate rival, she whispered
confidently,

“It went off tolerably, after all, just as I expected.”

“Oh!” said the lady rival, smiling sweetly, “then you arranged it.”

“Georgiana Halstead was so kind. It quite annoyed her to have Miss
Halstead cut out so entirely. Such a lovely disposition. Then there is
great power in contrast, you know; and my young friend, who comes next,
is directly opposite to Miss Halstead. Contrast, contrast, my dear, is
every thing. You’ll see that I am right. How splendidly Savage bore
himself. But I knew that we could trust to him.”

During this long speech, the lady to whom Mrs. Savage addressed herself,
took an occasion to whisper to her next neighbor, who bent toward the
person who sat next her; this swelled into a buz, which ran through the
committee, and beyond it, checking all laughter as it went.

Then Mrs. Savage rose with dignity, and went back of the scenes,
rustling her silks like a green bay-tree, and biting her lips till they
glowed like ripe cherries. She met Miss Halstead sailing majestically
toward her carriage, still clinging to the arm of young Savage with
desperate pertinacity.

“Here comes your mother, sir, my bitterest enemy. As a defenceless
female, I claim your protection,” cried that lady, pausing suddenly, and
clasping both hands over his arm, as Mrs. Savage came up.

“My dear Miss Halstead, how beautifully you did it. I came at once to
thank you. Fortunate, wasn’t it, that my messenger overtook you?”

Mrs. Savage said this, smiling blandly, and with her gloved hand held
forth with a cordiality perfectly irresistible.

“Messenger, Mrs. Savage,” said Eliza Halstead, drawing herself up with
an Elizabethian air. “I do not understand!”

“Not understand, and yet acted the part so well. Oh, Miss Halstead!”

Eliza Halstead was eccentric and headstrong; but she was not quite a
fool. In fact, few people possessed so much low cunning. She had all the
craft and calculation of a lunatic, without being absolutely crazy. It
flashed across her mind instantly that she would do well to accept at
once the doubtful invitation hinted at, and thus escape the odium of a
rude intrusion.

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Savage, you are so good,” she cried, bowing her head,
but still keeping both hands clapsed over that reluctant arm. “Still I
was but just in time. I am _so_ glad you were pleased; Mr. Savage here
was delighted.”

“The whole thing was charming,” answered Mrs. Savage, setting her teeth
close and turning away. “The ladies are all delighted. Horace, pray make
haste and escort Miss Halstead to her carriage, if she _must_ go; the
ladies are dying to thank you for this surprise. How prettily Georgiana
entered into our little conspiracy. Good evening, Miss Halstead; be
careful and not take cold. Adieu!”

“What a charming woman your mother is—so queenly, so gracious,”
whispered Eliza, leaning toward her companion. “So magnificently
handsome, too. Never in my life did I see a son and mother resemble each
other so much. Thank you, Mr. Savage! thank you! If I remember rightly,
Rowena gave Ivanhoe her hand to kiss—ungloved, I fancy—there, this
once.”

Miss Halstead leaned out of the carriage, and held forth her hand,
beaming gently upon young Savage, who took the hand, pressed it, bowed
over it, and laid it gently back into Miss Halstead’s lap.

“I dare not presume! I have not the audacity!” he said. “Adieu! adieu!
Believe me, I shall never forget this evening!”

“Oh, heavens! nor I!” exclaimed Miss Eliza, kissing her own hand where
he had touched it, with infinite relish. “Of all the nights in my life
this is my fate!”

Young Savage was at a safe distance when Miss Eliza uttered this tender
truth; but, as she declared afterward, “Her soul went with him, and
joined its home forever more!”

As Horace Savage returned, he met Anson Gould, a young man about whom
all uppertendom raved, as the most splendid creature that ever lived; so
rich, so distinguished, so talented, and so on.

“Hollo! Gould! what are you doing here, wandering about like a lost babe
in the woods? Searching for my mother, eh?”

“No,” answered Gould, laughing; “I am in search of what is called the
gentlemen’s dressing-room. Your mother has booked me for Bois Guilbert,
with a Rebecca that she promises shall be stunning—a Miss Burns. Tell me
who she is, Savage. I do not remember the name in our set.”

Savage felt a hot glow coming to his cheek. His light, off-handed way of
mentioning that young girl annoyed him exceedingly.

“Miss Burns is a friend of my mother’s—not in society yet, I believe,”
he answered, quietly. “But I keep you waiting; that is the way to your
dressing-room.”

“Gould moved on, and, for the first time, young Savage remarked how
wonderfully handsome he was. I think he congratulated himself somewhat
by remembering that the Templar was also a splendid specimen of a man,
and yet Rebecca could not be persuaded to love him. Still the young
gentleman’s spirits became somewhat depressed from that moment, and,
forgetting that he had promised to make himself generally useful in his
mother’s behalf, he crept away into a corner of the audience-chamber,
and there, half of the time in semi-darkness, watched the curtain rise
and fall, dismissing each picture presented with something like angry
impatience.

At last the bell sounded with a vim, and the audience were all on the
alert. The noise of more than usual stage preparations had whetted
curiosity; and it had been whispered about that something superb was
coming, in which Anson Gould would be a principal character—Anson Gould,
the greatest catch of the season. No wonder there was a buzz and rustle,
as if summer insects and summer winds were playing among forest-boughs
in that portion of the room where young ladies most prevailed.

As I have said, the bell sounded with a vim; the curtain swept back, and
there was a picture worth seeing. Just a little scenery had been
introduced into the background. An antique window, showing glimpses of a
battlement beyond, and, poised on this battlement, with one foot
strained back, ready for a spring, and her face turned back, with a
gesture of passionate menace, stood one of the most beautiful girls that
eyes ever dwelt upon. She was superb in her haughty poise; superb in
that proud outburst of despair which had sent her out on that dizzy
height, choosing destruction rather than dishonor. Her dark eyes, like
those of a stag at bay, were bent on the kneeling Templar, whose face
and form would have won the general attention from any one less
gloriously beautiful than that girl.

Young Savage started to his feet, and leaned forward, absorbed. His
heart stood still for the moment, and a strange feeling of pain came
upon him. By what right did that man gaze upon her with such passionate
admiration. It was real; the wild love-light in those eyes knew no
dissembling. Young Gould was his rival—yes, his rival! There was no use
in attempting to deceive himself, he was in love—really in love—for the
first time in his life—and with whom? He remembered that low garret—the
old woman—the child; and that young creature bending with such sad,
loving pity over them both. He remembered the pile of oyster-shells in
the chimney-corner, and all the poverty-stricken appointments of the
room with a strange thrill of passion. His love should lift her out of
those depths. Gould should never have an opportunity of kneeling to her
again—even in the seeming of a picture. But then his mother, his proud,
aristocratic father—what of them?

Mrs. Savage came up to her son where he stood, and laid one of her white
hands on his arm. “Was there ever a success like that?” she said,
looking back upon the tableau with enthusiasm. “It sweeps away that
absurd scene with the old maid. How did that happen, Horace? Don’t tell
me now, some of them may be listening. Oh! I see you admire this as I
do. It is the great triumph of the evening.”

“Mother,” said Horace Savage, rather abruptly, “why did you cast Gould
in that piece?”

“In order that you might stand with Georgiana, Horace. I thought you
understood,” answered Mrs. Savage, a little surprised.

“Yes, yes; I understand. It was very kind. See, they are clamoring for a
second sight. I don’t wonder. How confoundedly handsome the fellow is!”

The curtain was drawn aside at the demand of the audience, and once more
Rebecca was seen ready to seek death rather than listen to unholy vows,
which could only bring dishonor. The room was still as death; not a
whisper sounded; scarcely a breath was drawn. The picture was more
lifelike, more replete with silent passion than before; while the breath
stood still on every lip, and all eyes were turned on the beautiful
girl, a deadly white settled on her face; her lips parted with a cry
that prolonged itself into a wail of pain that thrilled through and
through the crowd, and the poor creature fell headlong into the
darkness, carrying the mock battlement with her.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                          THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.


It was the voice of a child that had struck the life from that young
heart; a voice so changed and lost in anguish that it seemed to cleave
its way through her whole being.

“Anna—sister Anna—come down! Our father is killed! He is dead—he is
dead!”

As the last syllable trembled on the boy’s lips, his sister fell upon
the floor at his feet, white, cold, and insensible. He thought the news
had killed her. Down he went upon his two knees, and strove to lift up
her head, around which the turban gathered like a mockery.

“Oh! lift her up! Take off these things,” pleaded the poor boy, lifting
his agonized face to those who crowded around him. “She is dead, too! I
killed her—it was me! Take them off—take them off; they look so hot and
bright—she so cold. Won’t she move? Try and make her look up. See how
limp her hand is. Anna, Anna! Oh, sister Anna! must you go, too?”

Robert fell down by the side of his sister, shaking in all his limbs,
and moaning in piteous sorrow. It did seem as if his cry had killed that
fair young creature, who lay there under those rich vestments like a
pure white lily in the glow of a warm sunset.

The boy lay with his arms on the floor, and his face buried on them,
sobbing piteously.

The noise of his grief reached that benumbed heart. Anna moved, and
lifting her arm feebly, laid it over her trembling brother. He started
up with a cry, and rained tears and kisses on her face till she, too,
rose up, clinging to him.

“Was it you—was it you, Robert, that said it?”

“Yes, Anna! Don’t cry; don’t break down again. I could not help telling
you; my heart was breaking. Oh! Anna, Anna! my heart is all broken up!”

Anna sat upright on the floor. Her hands wandered upward and took the
hot turban from her head.

“Oh! if these things were put away—if I had my old dress on! How shall
we get home, Robert, I—I am so weak?”

“Come with me,” said a sweet voice, “come with me. Your dress is all
ready; I will help you put it on.”

It was Georgiana Halstead, whose pretty face, all anxiety and tender
compassion, bent over her.

“Come with me, Anna, for I am so sorry for you.”

Anna looked up piteously. “My father is dead!” she answered.

“I know—I know. There, lean on me; the dressing-room is close by.”

Georgiana was crying softly as she spoke; and she wound her arm around
that poor girl, supporting her tenderly as Robert followed them to the
dressing-room door. Patiently, and with tears stealing down his face,
the boy waited for his sister. She came out directly in her brown dress
and modest bonnet.

“They want me to wait for a carriage, Robert; but I cannot—I cannot. You
and I will go alone.”

“No,” said a voice at her elbow. “Come, both of you, I have a carriage
ready.”

Anna looked up, and Savage caught a glimpse of her face. It was white
and quivering, like a white rose wet with rain.

“My poor child, this is terrible!” he said, folding the thin shawl
around her; “but you shall not bear it alone, you have friends.”

Anna gave him a grateful look through her tears, and fresh sobs broke to
her lips.

“It may be possible that there is a mistake in the record,” said Savage,
making a desperate effort to comfort her.

Anna looked up suddenly with a gleam of light in her eyes; but her head
drooped on the moment, and she answered sadly.

“I feel that he is dead! If he were alive, there would be some warmth
_here_.”

A carriage waited near the entrance of the fair, and young Savage lifted
her in. Then he made way for Robert, and when the lad hesitated, took
him up bodily and landed him on the front seat. It was a gloomy ride;
few words were spoken, and those were lost in sobs.

“How can I tell her? Oh! it will kill my grandmother. He was her only
son—all she had in the wide, wide world.”

Savage took the two hands which Anna clasped in her lap, and pressed
them between his.

“Shall I tell her for you?” he said, gently.

“No; that would be cruel.”

“I—I will do it,” sobbed Robert, who was huddled up in a corner of the
carriage. “It is my place, for I am all the man left to take care of
her. When there is any thing hard to do, I must do it; and I will.”

“That is a brave boy,” said Savage.

“No, sir, I’m not brave. I tremble all over at the thought of telling
her; but I’ll do it,” sobbed the boy.

“Poor little Joseph, too; how he will feel when he knows how it is. Oh,
sir! you’d be sorry for little Joseph, if you knew how miserable this
will make him. He won’t eat a morsel for days and days. He’s so
delicate—Joseph is—like a girl.”

“Yes, Robert, I can understand that,” said Savage.

“It is all very pitiful; but, remember, your father died for his
country!”

“Oh! I wish it had been me—I wish it had been me,” cried the boy, with a
fresh outburst of grief.

They were at the door now, close by the gloomy entrance of that
tenement-house, which was darker than ever to those unhappy young
creatures. Savage went with them to the door. There he hesitated,
reluctant to leave them. He feared to intrude on their grief.

“Shall I bid you good-night?” he said, addressing Robert rather than
Anna.

“Let us go up alone,” said the boy, shivering. “Good-night, sir; Anna
and I had better go up alone. We thank you all the same.”

Young Savage watched them sadly as they went up the dark staircase,
hand-in-hand, slowly and mournfully, like criminals mounting a gallows.
The young man’s heart went with them every step; and he returned home
with strange tenderness brooding in all his thoughts.

Up one flight of stairs after another those two young creatures crept,
pausing more than once to cling together and comfort each other. At last
they reached the door of the room, and stood there breathless, without
daring to turn the latch. A glow of light came through the crevices, and
they could hear the childish voice of little Joseph chatting to his
grandmother with unusual glee.

“Hark! I think I hear ’em; something stirred outside,” they heard him
saying. “I’ll open the door—I’ll open the door.”

They heard the quick patter of his feet coming that way, and turned the
latch.

“There, didn’t I say so? Here they are! Look, Anna! look at grandma in
her new shawl. I made her put it on; and the cap, too. Isn’t she grand?
Isn’t she just the handsomest, darlingest old grandma——”

“Joseph, dear,” said the old lady, “hush! hush! or we’ll never let you
go out again.”

“But isn’t she splendid?” cried the boy; “and just look at me. A pocket
here, and here, in the trousers, too; bright buttons everywhere. Oh! how
I love that old man! Why, we’ve got a pint of peanuts left! Don’t she
look like a lady?”

It was, indeed, a bright contrast from the dark staircase, and from the
usual gloom of the apartment. Joseph had lighted two tallow-candles, and
kindled a good fire, by which he had been a full hour admiring his
grandmother, who had the soft worsted shawl over her shoulders, and a
cap of delicate lace on her head. She did, in truth, look like a lady,
every inch of her.

Joseph, also, was resplendent in his new clothes; the very buttons
seemed to illuminate the poverty of the room with gleams of gold.

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said the happy child, pointing to his old
garments piled on a chair, with the frontless cap lying on the top.
“We’ll give those things to some poor boy that hasn’t got friends to
take him to fairs and put him in pictures, like us. We mustn’t be mean,
if we are rich.”

Robert went away to a corner of the room, and pretended to be very busy
untying the bundle which held his own old clothes; but his hand shook so
violently that he gave it up, and stood looking mournfully at his
grandmother, with no heart to speak.

Anna was a long time in taking off her shawl and bonnet. She was afraid
of revealing the sorrow that seemed to have turned her face into marble.
Robert saw how she shrank away and shivered when those kind old eyes
were turned upon her. He was, in truth, a brave boy, even with that
terrible sense of desolation upon him. Lifting up his young head, and
choking back the sobs that swelled in his throat, he went up to that
dear old woman.

“Grandmother,” he said, laying one hand on her shoulder, and bending his
face to meet her startled glance, for his voice troubled her,
“grandmother, let me put my arms around you and lay your head on my
shoulder. It reaches high enough. I am almost a man now. Let me kiss
you, grandmother.”

She lifted up her sweet, old face, and the boy kissed it, his lips
quivering all the time.

“Grandmother!”

“Well, darling!”

“Grandmother!”

“What is the matter, Robert? This has been such a pleasant night; but
you seem troubled—what is it?”

The boy fell down upon his knees, and cried out in a wild burst of
grief. “Oh, Anna, Anna! tell her that our father is killed! I cannot do
it. Oh, I cannot!”

Anna came forward and fell on her knees by his side; but she said
nothing, the mournful truth had struck home in the passionate words
which Robert had uttered. The old woman clasped her withered hands
quickly, and held them a moment locked and still. Then her head fell
back, her meek eyes closed, and two great tears broke from under the
lashes, and quivered away among the wrinkles on her cheeks. Her lips
moved faintly; and the children, who knelt with their awe-stricken faces
lifted piteously to hers, knew that she was praying.

Little Joseph crept close to his grandmother, and stole his arm around
her neck. She bent down her head and rested it against his, praying
still.

Never, in this world, was grief so intense, and yet so noiseless. At
last the old woman unlocked her hands, and laid them on the young heads
bowed before her.

“Children,” she said, in her meek, low voice, “God knows best what is
good for us.”

“Oh, grandmother!” cried Robert, “shall we ever see him again?”

“All—all; and I very soon,” answered the old lady.

“Oh, grandma! don’t talk so; we could not live without you,” said Anna,
in a burst of tender grief.

“Remember, my darlings, when death divides a family, it is not forever.
How lonely it would be if no one we love were on the other side of the
grave to meet us when we go there.”

“All the brave soldiers that died on that battle-field will bear him
company,” said Robert.

“And mother—will she be there to meet him?” said little Joseph, in a low
voice. “I remember her so well!”

Anna lifted her face from her grandmother’s lap, and, reaching up her
lips, kissed the child.

“Yes, Joseph, dear, they are together now. It is only their poor
children who are lonely.”

“And grandmother!” said Joseph.

“Grandmother can live or die, as God wills,” answered that meek, old
woman. “Here, she has three dear, dear grandchildren. There, she has
them.”

The children had almost stopped weeping. There was something almost holy
in the calm of that gentle woman’s grief that subdued theirs into
sadness.

“He died for his country!” said Robert, with a gleam of pride. “Died
bravely, I know.”

“How glad mother must have been when he came,” whispered Joseph. “I
wonder if they thought of us.”

“They will never cease thinking of us, darlings,” said Anna. “God help
us! we are not alone. Thousands of helpless children are made orphans
with us, all mourning as we do.”

“Oh! how sorry I am for them!” cried Robert. “Some may be little babies,
with no brother that can do things to take care of them. You are better
off than that, grandmother.”

“I dare say a great many are in a worse condition than we are, child.
Some have no friends. Let us be thankful and patient.”

“Yes, grandmother, we will.”

“Now go to bed, boys, and try to sleep.”

“May we say our prayers here—the closet is so dark?”

“Yes, dear!”

“Will he know it? Will he hear us?” whispered Joseph.

“Yes, darling, I think so; I am sure of it.”

“That is almost like having him here,” was the gentle answer.

“He is here,” said Anna, smiling through her tears, “my heart is so
still and quiet. It seems as if a dove were brooding over it.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
                           THE UNCLE FLEECED.


Two young men sat in the parlor of the Continental. It was after dark,
and the chandelier was lighted over a small, round dinner-table, spread
elaborately, at which the two young men had just completed a sumptuous
repast.

They had both taken segars, as a luxurious conclusion to the meal; and,
leaning back in the coziest of Turkish chairs, were chatting socially
together, while clouds of thin purplish smoke curled and eddied lazily
over the rich confusion of the table, where fruit glowing in silver
baskets; claret jugs cut into sharp ridges of light like splintered ice;
tiny glasses, amber-hued, green, or ruby red, half full of rich wines
from many a choice vintage, were crowded close and huddled together like
jewels on a queen’s toilet. Here and there the glossy whiteness of the
tablecloth was stained, like a map, with a little sea of pink champagne,
or oceans of claret, proving that there had been some unsteadiness of
the hand at the latter portion of the banquet. Indeed, the cheeks of
these two young men were hotly flushed with scarlet, which glowed
through the smoke as it curled from their lips.

“So you are at last taken in and done for?” said one of the men,
flirting the ashes from his segar with a little finger, on which a small
diamond glittered like a spark of fire. “I don’t believe you are in
earnest yet, and shan’t till you’ve slept on it at least forty-eight
hours. What kind of an angel is she—blonde, or brunette, _petite_, or
queenly?”

“No matter about that, Ward. I have no taste for showing up a woman’s
points as if she were a racehorse. She is beautiful, and that should
satisfy you.”

“But who is she?”

“That is the question. She is somebody that Madam Savage chooses to
patronize without deigning to make explanations.”

“Did she introduce you?”

“Why, hardly. She just named us to each other, and hurried us off into a
tableau, where I found myself kneeling to one of the loveliest creatures
you ever saw, whose duty it was to scorn and avoid me with a tragic
threat of throwing herself down a battlement of pasteboard at least six
feet from the floor. Upon my soul, Ward, she was so beautiful in that
position that I could have knelt forever, just to keep her in that one
graceful poise; but in the midst of my enchantment away she plunged over
the battlement, breaking up the picture in a twinkling, and leaving me
on my knees startled out of my wits. The curtain fell, and all was
confusion for a time. Before I could get out of the darkness, the girl
was gone. I waited half an hour about the scene, hoping that she would
appear again. She did come at last, but young Savage was with her,
looking confoundedly handsome and tender. I could have knocked the
fellow down with a will.”

“Did you see where they went?”

“Into a carriage—the madam’s own carriage—no hack. There was a boy with
them, too.”

“That looks respectable.”

“But her dress, when she came out, was poor; a brown merino, or
something of that sort, with a straw bonnet, pretty, but out of
fashion.”

“And you wish to know something of this girl?”

“I will know something of her.”

“Why not ask Savage?”

“I tell you, the fellow loves her himself. I saw it in his eyes as he
looked under that outre little bonnet.”

“And you?”

“Don’t question me in that way, Ward. Of course, I’m deucedly in love
with her. You must find her out for me by some means.”

“That would be easy, if I were intimate with Mrs. Savage’s coachman. He
would of course know where he drove the party.”

“Well, get intimate with the fellow.”

“I will think about it; but now to other business. You haven’t a check
for a thousand about you—or two five hundred notes in greenbacks? That
was about the amount of your losses the other night.”

“What, was it so much? I had no idea of it. No, my bank account has run
down to nothing; and as for ready money, I dare not trust myself with
it. This filmy paper is so handy to light segars with. One does that
sort of thing occasionally. I did the other night. But I’ll tell you
what, Ward, instead of paying you the thousand, I’ll introduce you to a
fellow that’s throwing away his money like wild-fire, thousands on
thousands in a week. One of those petroleum chaps, with wells that gush
up fortunes in a day.”

“And what is the fellow doing here?”

“Spending his money.”

“Thank you for the offer of an introduction; but Gould, upon my word, I
am in want of ready money.”

“My dear fellow, so am I.”

“I must have it!”

“Indeed, I hope you will not be disappointed.”

Gould leaned back as he spoke, rested his head on the crimson curve of
his cozy chair, and emitted a soft curl of smoke from his finely-cut
lips.

“Now, Gould, this is too bad,” said Ward, impatiently. “Remember, this
is a debt of honor.”

“Can’t help it, my dear fellow! Haven’t got ready cash enough to pay for
these segars; to say nothing of the wine, and so forth, that a fellow
must have.”

“But there is your uncle. He refuses you nothing.”

“Hark! that is his step; speak of—— Ah! my dear uncle, I am so glad to
see you. Called at the house this morning, but you were out.”

The person who entered to receive this greeting, was the old man whom we
have seen at his dinner in that solitary house, and who afterward gave
so much happiness to the soldier’s orphans in the fair. He entered the
room with a grim smile on his face, and stood near the door a moment
with his brows bent, and his sharp eyes turned upon the sumptuous
disarray of that dinner-table. The smile on his thin lip turned to a
sneer as he took in the picture. Tiny birds, with their bones half
picked; fragments of a delicious dessert; and all that rich coloring of
half-drained wine-glasses, gave an idea of satiety at a glance, which
brought out the disagreeable points in the old man’s character, and
brought the color to Gould’s face.

“Take this seat, uncle,” cried Gould, starting up, eager to divert the
old man’s attention from the debris of his little feast. “You will find
it comfortable. Let me take charge of your hat and cane.”

The old man looked at his nephew with a sharp gleam of the eye, and
drawing a chair to the table, laid his hat and cane on the carpet. Then
he took up the glasses, one after another, and tasted their contents
with great deliberation, occasionally pouring a little from the bottles
and decanters, while he muttered to himself, “Champagne, Burgundy,
sherry, claret, old Madeira, and the Lord knows what, with roasted
canary birds, and peaches of ice by way of substantials. Wholesome
eating for a young man.”

Gould pushed his chair away, and came to the table; all his indolent
composure gone, and with the hot-red of a school-boy on his handsome
cheeks.

“Shall I ring, uncle? Will you try one of these birds served hot? They
are very fine.”

“No; thank you, nephew; they are too expensive eating for an old fellow
like me.”

“Too expensive for you, uncle—the idea amuses me.”

“Remember, young gentleman,” said the old millionaire, with grim
pleasantry, “that I have no rich uncle to depend on. A moderate glass of
port, or claret, now and then, is as much as I can afford. But, then, it
is so different with you.”

Gould bent over the old man’s chair, and whispered with deprecating
humility,

“Uncle, don’t be so hard upon me before my friend.”

“Your friend!” repeated the old man, aloud. “So this is one of your
friends. Let me take a good look at him.”

With cruel deliberation he took out a pair of gold spectacles, fitted
them to his eyes, and searched Ward from head to foot with one of his
sharp, prolonged glances. The young fellow colored, winced, and at last
turned fairly around in his chair, muttering, “Hang the old fellow! his
eyes seize on me like a pair of pincers.”

“Gould,” said the uncle, folding up his glasses, and shutting them in
their steel case with a loud snap of the spring, “Gould, I congratulate
you.”

“What for, uncle?”

“That this exquisite young gentleman is your friend. He does credit to
your choice—great credit. Such honors do not often drop into our humble
way. Sir, I am your servant.”

The old satirist arose, and making a profound bow, sat down again, where
he could see Ward’s face burning like fire.

“I found your note at the counting-house, Gould, speaking of the serious
nature of your illness, and came up to see if a consultation of doctors
would be necessary.”

“That was written this morning when I was seriously ill. You remember,
Ward?”

“Oh, yes! Upon my honor, sir, Gould was desperate with—with a—that is,
neuralgia in the head. You would have been quite concerned about him. We
tried chloroform—a great thing that chloroform. Did you ever try it,
sir?”

“So the chloroform cured my nephew. I am delighted to hear it. That is
it upon the mantle-piece, I dare say. Give me a little.”

The old tormentor pointed to a flask of Bohemian glass, dashed with
gold, that stood on the mantle-piece.

“That, uncle? Oh! that is extract of violet. It sometimes serves to
carry off a headache better than any thing else. Will you try it?”

The old man held out his hand for the bottle; took a great red silk
handkerchief from his pocket, and emptied half the extract into its
folds, scenting the room like a violet bank in May.

“Your note, Gould, asked for money—an unusual thing; so unusual, that I
brought the check in my pocket.”

At the mention of a check, Ward started round in his chair, and fixed a
hungry glance on that hard, old face. A check! His thousand dollars
might not be so very far off, after all.

Gould bent eagerly over his uncle’s chair.

“You are too good, uncle. I—I——”

“Oh! not at all, Gould. You deserve all that I am going to do for
you—richly deserve it. Give me a light while I sign the check; thank
you. There now, see how careless. You haven’t a stamp about you, I
fear.”

“Oh, yes!” cried Ward. “Here is one.”

He reached over in handing the stamp, and caught a glance at the amount.

“By Jove! it’s for two thousand!” he said, inly. “Gould shall go halves
before I leave him.”

The old man smiled one of his iron smiles as he pressed the stamp in its
place. Then he signed the check, with a broad, old-fashioned flourish
under the name.

“Will that do?” he asked, lifting his face to that of his nephew, who
bent over his shoulder delighted.

“Is the figure large enough?”

“Oh, uncle! It is more than I dared hope for.”

“Not at all, Gould. Remember, I filled it in thinking you ill. No, no!
do not put out the taper yet. What a pretty stand you have for it;
filigree gold, as I am a miserly old sinner. That makes a pretty blaze,
doesn’t it?”

Gould made a snatch at the check, but it was in a light blaze; and the
old man held it till it burned down to his fingers, and fell in black
flakes over the taper, and the daintily warm gold that held it.

Ward jumped up from his chair with an oath on his lips. Gould turned
white, and staggered back.

“Uncle, uncle! I owed every dollar of that money,” he cried out. “My
honor is at stake.”

The old man picked up his hat and cane with silent deliberation.

“Sir. Sir, I say! Gould owes me half the money; and, by Jove! I must
have it,” cried Ward.

“Owes you! What for?”

This curt question made the young gambler start and bethink himself.

“What for? What for? Why for money I lent him the other night for the
Soldier’s Fair. That nephew of yours, sir, is one of the most
benevolent, tender-hearted fellows that the sun ever shone on. That
night he met me in front of the fair, really distressed.

“‘Ward,’ said he—my name is Ward, sir. Gould forgot to present me, but
Ward is my name—‘Ward,’ said he, ‘I’ve just done a foolish thing. You’ll
say so, when I tell you what it is——’

“Said I, interrupting him, ‘I’ll lay five to one that you’ve been at
your old tricks—emptying both pockets to help some miserable soldier’s
family out of trouble. But it’s in you, this tender-heartedness; and all
I can say will never drive it out.’

“‘No,’ says Gould, ‘you’re wrong there. It is no family this time; but
you know a draft has been made.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ said I, ‘and you have been drawn.’

“‘Wrong again,’ says your nephew. ‘But every man owes a life to his
country. I cannot serve; it would break my dear uncle’s heart should I
be killed; and he is too good a man for me to give him one moment’s
pain.’ I beg your pardon, Gould, for saying this; but truth will out,
and your uncle will forgive me.

“‘Well, what have you done?’ said I.

“‘Simply this,’ replied Gould, blushing like a girl. ‘I’ve given every
cent that I have on hand to a brave fellow to take my place in the ranks
and fight my battles. It’s a mean way of doing things; but I could not
leave my uncle, not—not even for my country; and Burns was determined to
go.’”

“Who? What name did you say?” cried the old man, grasping his cane hard.

“Burns, sir. Burns was the name I used.”

“A man who left two boys, a young girl, and an old woman behind to
suffer while he fought? Was that the person?”

“Yes, sir; no doubt of it. Gould would never tell you of it; but these
were the facts.”

“How long was this ago?”

“I—I—how long was it, Gould? I know when you told me, but it was before
that.”

“I cannot say. All this is unauthorized, sir. I never dreamed that he
would tell this story. Indeed——”

“I cannot say the exact time,” cut in Ward; “and he won’t. But it was
long enough ago to keep him in hot water month after month. You have
been very liberal to him, I know, sir; but it has all gone that way.
‘Soldiers’ widows, soldiers’ children—they must be fed,’ he argues.
‘What if these things do plunge me in debt; if my uncle knew, he would
not condemn me.’

“‘Then tell him,’ said I; ‘tell him at once, and relieve yourself from
all embarrassment.’

“‘No,’ he said, ‘that would be making him responsible; that would be
forcing my charities on him. Only help me, as a friend should, and I
will find my way out of this trouble. He is generous—munificent—this
good uncle of mine, let men say what they please. Some day he will give
me all the money I want; and while he thinks that I spend it in
extravagance, perhaps, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing where it
goes, and who it helps.’

“The very day that your nephew told me this I lent him a thousand
dollars; five hundred of that sum went for subscriptions in less than an
hour. The rest would have been given to a family that composed the most
touching picture of distress that I ever saw—but I prevented it. I would
not let him go home penniless.”

“Was it a tableau within the fair? Did an old woman—a lady, every inch
of her—sit in the picture? Was there a young girl, and two boys—bright,
handsome little fellows—crouching at her feet?”

The old man asked these questions eagerly. His hand worked around the
top of his staff; his eyes kindled under those bent brows.

“Yes, sir. Yes, that is the very family.”

“And you gave the father of this family a thousand dollars when he went
to the wars, Gould?”

Gould shook his head. “I did not say so, uncle. I never would have told
you so.”

Ward broke in upon him with breathless haste.

“But he did it, sir—he did it.”

“I saw this family. I was at the fair that night,” said the old man,
with a touch of pathos in his voice. “Can you tell me where they live?”

“No, I cannot. Doubtless they have been moving from place to place since
then, as poverty sent them.”

“But with that money they should not have been so poor,” said the old
man with a return of keen intelligence.

“But it did not go to them, sir,” said Ward, hastily. “This man Burns
was deep in debt, and the money went to clear him.”

“Ward! Ward!” exclaimed Gould, starting up; “this is too much. I will
not permit it.”

“Be silent, Gould!—be silent! I ought to know this. You should have told
me yourself; perhaps I should have been glad to help you,” interposed
the uncle, with strange gentleness in his voice. “I may condemn such
extravagance as this. I do condemn and repudiate it utterly.
Extravagance is always wicked, coarse, unbearable. I was angry——”

“Not with your nephew, I trust, for that which is altogether my fault,”
interposed Ward. “I confess to it, my tastes are ruinously luxurious.
Gould would never have thought of any thing so absurd; but I was lonely,
and asked leave to share his parlor awhile. The unfortunate dinner was
served by my order, and at my expense. As for the pretty gimcracks, it
is my fancy. I like to have such things around me. But, my dear sir, you
must not think me effeminate and worthless, for all that.”

The old man’s face brightened wonderfully after this speech. He dropped
his cane and placed his hat on the carpet once more.

“Bring back the pen and ink! Give me another stamp! Here, Gould, take
that. But, remember, find out where this family lives. I wish to know—I
must know.”

Gould took the check, which rattled like a dead leaf in the old man’s
hand.

“Uncle! uncle!” he said, “I ought not to take this; I have no right.”

The old man snatched up his hat and cane, while these honest words were
on his nephew’s lips, and left the room.

When he was gone, Ward snatched the check from Gould, and leaping on the
seat of his chair, brandished it on high.

“What author ever got so much for a single romance, I wonder!” he cried.
“I say, Gould, I must turn my attention to literature, or the stage. Did
ever a lie out of whole cloth tell so famously. Pour out bumpers, my
fine fellow, and let us drink the old fellow’s health!”

“Be silent, sir!” Gould’s voice trembled with passion. There was too
much good in him for a relish of such companionship, when it took that
form of broad dishonesty. “Be silent, sir! if you would not have me hate
you, and myself also.”

With these hot words the young men parted.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                          BRAVE YOUNG HEARTS.


The orphan brothers sat together under the shadow of a garden wall,
talking with earnest energy, as if their young lives were in the subject
under discussion. A tender sadness lay on their faces; tears now and
then broke through their words; and more than once their small hands
clasped lovingly, as if companionship gave sweetness even to grief. A
carriage drove by as they talked, scattering drops of mud on the sleeve
of Joseph’s jacket. Robert brushed it off with great care, and patted
the child on his shoulder in finishing.

“Now you see how it is, Joe, you and I are the men of the family.
Grandma is splendid at mending and darning, and making things go a long
way; but she can’t earn money. So it all comes on sister Anna. Isn’t she
a beautiful darling? Wasn’t she stupendous that night in the turban and
red velvet jacket?”

“She’s always good and handsome,” said Joseph, with touching simplicity;
“but I like her best in that brown dress and the straw bonnet. She
didn’t quite seem like our sister in the other things.”

“But she outshone every one of them, Joseph.”

“Yes, I know; but yet she wasn’t exactly like our sister Anna.”

“I was proud of her. It did me good to walk by her side. I tell you,
Joseph, Anna was born for a lady.”

“So was grandma. She _is_ a lady.”

“She’s a dear, old blessed grandma, she is!” cried Robert. “If it hadn’t
been for her my heart would have burst. It was wonderful how she quieted
us all down. I wonder if the angels are more still and sweet than she
is? Oh, Joseph! it isn’t many soldiers’ children that have a woman like
that to comfort them when bad news comes; but we came out here all alone
to have a sort of private convention about things in general. As I was
saying, Anna is too pretty for a working-girl; men turn round and look
at her in the street when she goes out. I’ve seen it, and it made me so
mad that I’ve longed to knock them down. Once I did stamp on a big
fellow’s boots, and it did me good to hear him cry out, ‘Oh!’ He never
knew why it was done; but I knew, and his Oh! made me dance with joy on
the pavement. What business have strangers to be looking at her?”

“She doesn’t mind ’em—she doesn’t know it herself,” said Joseph, lifting
his soft eyes appealingly, as if some one had been blaming him. “She
never looks up, nor seems to notice.”

“I know that. Of course, she doesn’t. I’m not saying she does; but she’s
very, very pretty, Joseph—too pretty for a poor man’s child; and now
that she’s only a poor soldier’s orphan, who will take care of her, if
we don’t?”

“But I am so small, I shouldn’t even dare to stamp on a big fellow’s
boots. It isn’t her fault if she’s so pretty, you know, Robert. I dare
say she’d help it if she could.”

“This isn’t exactly an idea of mine,” answered Robert. “I never should
have had the sense to think of it, but I heard father grieve about Anna
being so handsome before he went away to that glorious death of his! It
troubled him then—and it troubles me now.”

“Still I like to see her so pretty,” said Joseph, smiling, “it makes my
heart swell here.”

Joseph put one hand on his breast, and sighed, as sensitive people will,
over a remembrance of beauty in any thing.

“Well, brother, it is natural. I love grandma for her beauty, too. Other
people, I dare say, think her a little, old woman; but I know there is
something more than that, just as I feel when a rose is near by its
scent. How lovely she looked that night when we knelt around her! Anna
is pretty—but grandma looks so good. Her beauty seems to have turned to
light, which shines from her eyes and makes her old mouth so lovely. I
can’t just say what I mean, Joseph, but there is something about grandma
that is sweeter than beauty.”

Joseph had lifted his young face to that of his more ardent brother,
with a look of tender interest in all that he was saying that seemed
beyond his years.

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh, “I feel that when grandma looks at me.
Besides, she never hurts one. Her hand is so soft and light, it seems
like a bird’s wing brushing you. Then she steps so softly. Dear, old
grandma!”

The boys looked into each other’s faces, and saw dimly though unbidden
tears, of which the elder was instantly ashamed.

“Why, Joseph, this is children’s play. We came here to talk like men,
not whimper like babies. Wipe up—wipe up! that’s a brave little fellow,
and let us go to business at once.”

“Well, I’m ready,” answered Joseph, wiping his eyes. “What shall we say
next?”

“Joseph, these two lovely women—for they are lovely, we both agree on
that—have got to live. All hopes from our brave father is dead and
gone.”

“I know it! Oh! I know it!”

“Don’t cry, Joseph—that is, if you can possibly help it; but listen. You
and I must support the family.”

“You and I? Oh, Robert! think what a little shaver I am!”

“Yet, I’ve thought of that over and over again; but in this world there
is something that every one can do. Think how soon little chickens begin
to scratch up worms for themselves.”

“Yes, Robert; but then the worms are about, and they know where to find
’em.”

“So is money about, and we must learn how to find it.”

“But what can I do? Studying double lessons won’t bring money, or I’d
get them every night of my life.”

“No,” said Robert; “we can have no more school.”

“No more school?”

“Both of us must go to work in earnest.”

“I will be in earnest—but how?”

“Joseph Burns, I’m going to make a newsboy of you.”

“A newsboy of me?”

Joseph was absolutely frightened, his eyes grew large, his lips
trembled. “Of me?”

“Yes, little brother. It must be a splendid business. I saw one of those
chaps with a whole jacket full of money; besides, it’s a healthy
occupation, and leads into a literary way of life.”

“I—I would try it, Robert, if I only knew how to begin,” faltered the
gentle child, with tears in his eyes.

“Begin! Why you’d learn in no time.”

“Would I?”

“Of course; why not?—and bring home your fifty cents a day, clear
profit, in less than no time.”

“I—I’ll try, of course. I’ll do my best.”

“Why, how you shake! Do keep that poor little mouth still. Nobody’s
going to hurt you, Joseph, dear.”

“But—but have I got voice enough?”

“Voice! You little trooper, I should think you had. Can’t you yell, oh!
no?”

Joseph laughed through his tears.

“I’d like to do it.”

“Well, that’s settled. As for the schooling, grandma is a lady, and
could teach, if they ever let old ladies do that. Why, she’s grand in
figures, and writes beautifully. You shall study with her night and
morning—so will I. Work shall not cheat us out of our education, you
know.”

Joseph began to brighten up considerably after this suggestion. He had
his dreams, poor boy, and loved books with a passionate longing. The
very idea that boys sold a species of literature, went far to reconcile
him with their noisy pursuit.

“Yes,” he said, cheerfully, “that would be almost like school.”

“Besides all that,” persisted Robert, “a boy that has learned to read
and write, who can cipher a little, and so on, must be a poor creature
if he can’t teach himself. Reading and spelling is the key which unlocks
every thing else.”

“Besides, I can read the newspapers at odd times,” said Joseph.

“Certainly you can. But I tell you what, Joe, if there comes news of a
battle, and any poor boy looks at you longingly, hand out a paper for
nothing. I know what it is—I know what it is.”

“I’d do that—you know I would. But, Robert, I wish you were going along.
How we would make the streets ring.”

“I’m thinking of something else, Joseph. If that fails, perhaps I shall
take the lead with you.”

“What are you thinking of, brother?”

“You know that old man, Joseph?”

“Yes, I know—how can you and I ever forget him?” answered Joseph,
glancing proudly down at his new clothes.

“I mean to offer myself at his place of business as an errand-boy, or
something like that. I think he rather liked us, Joseph.”

“Yes, he did; I’m sure of that.”

“Well, I shall only ask for work.”

“So I would, Robert; and I’ll come down every day with the papers, you
know.”

“That’ll be jolly. Hark! there comes a fellow along. What a voice he
has! Splendid business for the lungs. I’ll make a man of you, Joe.”

The newsboy came up the side-walk, calling out his papers, and looking
lazily from window to window. He had nothing very special that day, and
was taking the world easy, scorning to lay out all his powers for less
than a battle of fifty thousand strong. He came opposite the two boys,
who were watching him so earnestly, and, thinking that they might be in
want of a paper, crossed over to where they sat.

“Want a paper—morning Ledger?”

“No, no! we were only talking about papers; not in the least wishing to
buy them,” said Joseph, blushing crimson.

“Oh! that’s all,” said the boy, settling the bundle of papers under his
arm, and resting one shoulder against the wall. “Seen you afore, haven’t
I, my jolly rover? Wanted me to sell you a paper for half price one
night? I remember them eyes of yourn. Jerusalem, didn’t they look wild!”

“I—I was so anxious, so——”

“Don’t talk about it. I feel the blood biling into my face only with the
thought. I never was so mean before, and don’t expect to be agin. Will
you take half a dozen Ledgers now, and make up? I went back to give you
one. You won’t believe me, but I did—you’d gone, though. Didn’t get a
wink of sleep that night, I felt so mean. ‘What if his father was in
that battle?’ says I to myself. ‘What if he wanted to look over the
list, and hadn’t got another copper? You’re a beast,’ said I to myself;
‘a brute beast of the meanest kind! A generous Newfoundland dog, now,
would a given that boy the paper without a cent; but you—oh! get away, a
kennel is too good for you!’ That was the way I pitched into myself all
night long; but I got over it. Business was good, and it drove sich
idees out of my head. But the sight of you here, huddled agin the wall,
like two rabbits in a box, riled me up agin myself again. If you don’t
want the paper, suppose we go round the corner and pitch into a pile of
oysters. Sales are slack, and a feller may as well enjoy himself.
Besides, I shall feel amost friendly with myself again if you’ll let me
treat once. Precious nice mince-pies to be had if oysters don’t suit
that little shaver, and sich peanuts.”

Robert got up and took Joseph by the hand. “Yes, we will go,” he said.
“My brother, here, is thinking of the literary business for himself; and
I’d like to talk with some one who understands it.”

“The what?” asked the newsboy, opening his mouth in vague astonishment.
“What business did you say he was thinking of?”

“Selling newspapers.”

“That delicate little trooper, with eyes like a girl’s, and lips that
tremble if you look at him. He’d never do!—never!”

“But he is strong; runs like a deer, and shouts like any thing,” said
Robert.

The newsboy faced Joseph squarely, and examined him with keen attention.

“Handsome as a picture,” he muttered; “and looks as if he could run.
Just give a holler, my boy; I want to know how far a gentleman could
hear you if he was shut up and shaving himself for church on Sunday
morning.”

Joseph stood up, half frightened to death, and gave out a dismal cry,
while his face turned from crimson to white in the attempt.

“Don’t be afraid, we ain’t a college faculty, we aint. There’s voice
enough in the little codger’s chest, if he wasn’t too scared to let it
out. Now let’s see your fist clenched—savagely, remember.”

Joseph clenched his right hand into as formidable a fist as he could
make of the delicate material, and held it out.

“Whew!” exclaimed the newsboy, with a comical glance at the tiny fist.
“Wouldn’t knock down a canary bird; but mine will—so what’s the use
talking.”

“It’s small, but I’m strong,” Joseph burst forth. “Ask Robert if I
haven’t pummelled him splendidly. If anybody was to hurt him, now,
wouldn’t I fight!”

“It ain’t to be expected that you could do a great deal among the boys;
but they’re generous, as a common thing, and only pitch into fellers
that can pitch back; besides, I’m on hand, and they know me.”

“And you’d be kind to him?” said Robert. “He’s all the brother I’ve got;
and you see what a tender, nice little fellow he is. We’ve got a sister
and a grandmother to support, and we mean to do it, Joe and I do. Don’t
we Joe?”

Joseph lifted his flushed face and sparkling eyes to the tall newsboy.

“Yes, we mean to do it, and we will,” he said, with gentle firmness.

The tall boy threw up his bundle of papers, and caught it again as it
whirled downward, in evidence of his warm approval.

“That’s the time o’day! Here’s the right sort of stuff done up in little
parcels,” he shouted. “Now look here, you feller,” he added, turning to
Robert, “I’ll enter into a sort of partnership with you, and we’ll join
hands on it at once. I’ll take this little chap under my wing, and set
him a going in the business. How much money can you put in?”

“Three dollars,” answered Robert.

“That isn’t a stunning capital; but then I began and set myself up on
fifty cents—but that was in specie times. What I was going to say is
this, I’ll stand by this little feller tooth and nail. I’ll take him
down to the press-rooms myself, and get his stock put up; and if any of
the old stagers attempt to hustle him, or sich like, because he wears
bright buttons, and looks like a gentleman’s son, let ’em try it, that’s
all. They’ve felt the weight of these mud-grapplers afore this, and know
how much there is in ’em. Why, I’ve been in the business three years;
but these extra times is a wearing me out, and my run grows longer and
broader every day. He shall have a part of it—all the fancy work. Why
them eyes, looking up to the windows where ladies sit in their muslin
dresses and ribbons in the afternoon, would set ’em to beckoning you up
the steps like fifty. They don’t take to tall fellows like me, as women
ought to. Yes, yes! I’ll give you the fancy work, and no mistake. My!
what purty girls I’ve seen looking out of the parlor doors when some
gentleman has beckoned me into the hall. Molly! they’d let you go right
in—shouldn’t wonder a bit!”

“I—I should rather not,” said Joseph, shrinking modestly from this
magnificent idea. “Excepting grandma and Anna, I don’t know much about
ladies.”

“Live and learn! Live and learn! I only wish them eyes and that face
belonged to me, wouldn’t I make ’em bring in the coppers and five cent
greenbacks. But then you are a little fellow, and don’t know the value
of such things.”

“I only want to earn money for them,” said Joseph. “I’m little, and
don’t know a great deal; but if you will be kind enough to let me run
with you a day or so, then, perhaps, I might learn.”

“And what are you going into?” asked the newsboy, addressing Robert.

“I—I was thinking of going into the mercantile way,” answered Robert,
blushing crimson; “an errand-boy, or something of that sort.”

“Know how to read?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Fine print, and all?”

“Yes, all kinds of print.”

“You don’t say so. Next thing you’ll be telling me that you can write.”

“Write? Of course I can! Don’t I look old enough?”

“Old enough? Why I’m twice your size.”

“And can’t write?” inquired Robert.

“Not a pot-hook; tried once, but broke down on the z’s—couldn’t curl ’em
up to save my life; but I can count, and read headings—and that’s enough
for the business. But you’re bound to be a gentleman, anybody can see
that; sich an edecation isn’t to be flung away on the street. What if I
know the place what would suit you?”

“No, you don’t say that?” cried Robert, beaming with hope.

“But I do, though. Gould & Co. wants a boy. I’ve got acquainted with the
old gentleman within the last few days. He buys lots of papers—every
extra. Anxious about somebody, I reckon. The other day he came after me
full chisel, with his hat off, and the wind whistling through his gray
hair like sixty. The way he snatched at my papers and pitched a dollar
bill, into my hand, was exciting. Wouldn’t stop for the change—a thing I
never knew of him in my whole life—but hurried back, and shut the door
of his great, dark house with a bang.”

“Poor man!” said Robert, mournfully; “perhaps he had a son, or some one,
in the army, that he loved.”

“Just as likely as not,” continued the newsboy, “for, as I was going
round the block a second time, he came out of his house looking as white
as a ghost. I saw his face plain by the street lamp; and he went off
almost upon a run, like a crazy man. Something had struck him right on
the heart, I’m sure of that. But come along, if you have a mind to try
your luck with the old feller. I’ll trust this little shaver with my
papers till we come back.”




                              CHAPTER IX.
                              THE NEWSBOY.


Little Joseph received the bundle of newspapers offered to him, flushing
crimson under the trust—and the two lads went off together.

“Don’t go off the block,” said the newsboy, looking over his shoulder.
“Walk up and down, and who knows but a little business may drop in.”

Joseph nodded, smiled, and settled the bundle of papers under his arm;
at which the boy gave an encouraging flourish of the hand, and
disappeared around the corner; while Robert paused a moment, and sent
more than one anxious glance back upon his brother.

Joseph waited till they were both out of sight, then gathered up his
courage and began marching up and down the side-walk with a bold step,
but stopped still, and turned his eyes away in dread if any one
approached him. Once or twice he attempted to cry out, but that was when
no one was within hearing. Even then the voice fell back in his throat,
and he looked around half frightened to death, terrified lest some
customer should come upon him suddenly.

“Oh, dear! I shall never do it! There is no use in trying!” he muttered,
disconsolately. “If it was only play, now, what a shout I could give.
Goodness! there comes a man! If grandmother was only here, I do believe
I Should hide behind her dress. But there isn’t a place, and he comes on
so fast. Dear me!”

The man was, indeed, walking fast, and seemed a good deal excited.
Joseph made a brave attempt at boldness, and marched toward him,
blushing at his own audacity.

“Ledger! Dispatch!”

The words broke from his lips in a frightened cry; he trembled all over,
and stood still, terrified by the sound, faint and hoarse as it was.

The very singularity of his cry drew the young man’s attention, and he
turned quickly.

“Give me a paper,” he said, taking some money from his pocket-book. “Any
one—I have no choice. Why, what a young thing it is—so well dressed,
too! Selling newspapers must be a prosperous business, my little man?”

“I—I haven’t got a cent of change. What shall I do?” cried Joseph,
looking wistfully at the twenty-five cents which loomed before him.
“Please, sir, I never did this before, and don’t know how.”

“Never did it before,” cried the young man, smiling upon the lad. “I
thought you looked above the business. Then you are such a mere baby;
keep the money. By the way, you seem a sharp little fellow, and I can
put you in the way of earning twice that amount.”

“Can you, sir? I’m glad of that. What shall I do?” cried the boy, all in
a glow of delight.

“Nothing very difficult. Just keep along this garden wall, turn the
corner, and you will see the house it belongs to. Watch the door till a
young lady in a brown merino dress and straw bonnet comes out; follow
her where she goes. Be sure you take the papers, that she may not think
it strange; take sharp notice of the house she enters; then come back
here at dusk, and I will give you a dollar bill.”

“A greenback, sir?”

“Yes; a new greenback, with Mr. Chase’s picture on the end.”

Joseph gathered up his papers in breathless haste; his cheeks glowed,
his eyes sparkled with delight.

“I’ll do it—I’ll do it!” All at once his countenance fell, and his small
figure drooped in abject disappointment.

“No, I can’t,” he said, with tears in his eyes. “These papers belong to
another boy, and he told me not to leave the block.”

“That’s unfortunate,” said the young man, smiling at Joseph’s evident
distress. “But you can stand at the corner and tell me which way she
turns?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Better still,” cried the young man, struck by a sudden idea. “She had a
parcel in her hand, and appears as if she took in work. Speak to her as
she comes out; tell her that you know a person who wants some fine
sewing done, and ask her where you shall bring it to. She’ll trust that
face, no fear about that. So you shall earn the money, and keep that
promise about leaving the block.”

“I—I should be a little ashamed to speak to a strange lady, sir.”

“Oh, nonsense! She isn’t exactly a lady, you know, only a sewing-girl.
So there need be no trouble about speaking to her; I shouldn’t hesitate
to do it myself. Just find out where she lives; but not a word about me,
remember, and the dollar is yours.”

“I—I’ll try, sir,” was the faltering answer.

“That’s a brave fellow! Come here, just at dark, tell me all about it,
and get your money.”

The young man passed on as he spoke, leaving the money in Joseph’s hand,
forgetting, also, to take his paper.

“This is mine, all mine; he gave it to me,” thought the boy, gazing upon
the money. “What a splendid man he is—and yet his eyes. I don’t like his
eyes, they seem so tired. I wonder is he sick, or can’t he sleep at
night? It looks like that. I wish he hadn’t asked me to do that other
thing. How shall I speak to her? Not a lady because she sews! Why,
grandma patches and mends, and turns, and washes, too; but I know she’s
a lady, every inch of her. Then there’s sister Anna—isn’t she a lady, I
wonder? I don’t like that man. He hasn’t the least idea what a lady is;
I know he hasn’t.”

Joseph moved along the garden wall as these thoughts filled his mind,
and found himself at the corner in view of a large white marble house,
with a good deal of ornamental ground lying around it. A flight of
marble steps led to the side-walks, and scrolls of carved work ran down
each side white as drifted snow.

Robert would have recognized this house at once; but little Joseph had
never seen it before, and stood gazing upon the steps, wondering if the
lady, who was not a lady, because she took in sewing, would ever come
out.

The boy had been watching, perhaps ten minutes, when a female came
gliding down those marble steps, in a brown dress and straw bonnet, that
seemed strangely familiar to him. He started forward and, uttering a
glad cry, met his sister Anna face to face.

“Why Joseph, is it you? Dear child, how flushed his face is! What are
you doing with all these papers, dear? Why, you look like a little
newsboy!”

“So I am, Anna—that is, I’m going to be, and earn lots of money. I’ve
hollered out papers once, and it didn’t frighten me very much. Some day,
Anna, I’ll come and call out, ‘Ledger! Ledger!’ right under your window;
that is, when I can do it without shaking so.”

Anna’s face had brightened beautifully when she first saw the boy; but
you could see that tears lay close to her eyes as he ceased speaking.

“Poor child! poor, dear child!” she said, laying one hand on his
shoulder, “perhaps we may come to this; but I hope not—I hope not.”

“See! I have got twenty-five cents already,” cried the lad, holding up
the tiny note. “A gentleman gave it to me, and forgot to take his paper;
and—and—oh, sister! I forgot; he wants to find out where you live, and
has got lots of fine work for you. He is in such a hurry to have it
done, that he offered to give me a dollar only to find out where to send
it. Only think! But then he didn’t know that I was your brother. A
dollar for finding you out! Isn’t that splendid, Anna?”

“Joseph, dear, what are you talking about?” said Anna, a little startled
by this intelligence. “No gentleman can want me.”

“Oh, yes! there does. Only—only, now I think of it, he said you wasn’t a
lady; and I know you are, and will tell him so to his face; that is, I
would, only I am such a little boy.”

“Poor darling! It is of no consequence what any one thinks about us—so
don’t let it fret you; but tell me, what was this man like? Did you ever
see him before?”

“No, indeed, sister Anna, I never did.”

“Not on the night when we made pictures?”

“No; he wasn’t there.”

“It is strange,” muttered the young girl, a little troubled. “What could
any one want of me?”

“He said that it was work he wanted done,” answered the boy, earnestly.
“Perhaps Mrs. Savage has told him how nicely you stitch, and embroider,
and hem handkerchiefs.”

“I think not,” said Anna, quite seriously. “Was he a tall man, Joseph?”

“No; not near so tall or large as Mr. Savage. But there he come—there he
comes.”

Anna looked across the street, and saw a rather small young man, with
marks of age on his features; which years had never given them; and
those heavy, dim eyes, which grow out of sleepless nights and unsettled
habits of life.

“It is a stranger; I never saw him before,” said Anna, in a low,
frightened voice. “Come home with me, Joseph—come away at once. He looks
this way, as if he were coming over.”

“No, he won’t. He’s walking on; don’t be frightened, Anna. He’s a very
nice gentleman, and only wants some work done.”

“No, no! Come with me, child!”

“I mustn’t till Robert and the boy comes back; the papers are not mine,
you know.”

“True, true; but come home the moment you can, dear; and tell that man
nothing about me. I am afraid of him.”

“I won’t tell a word, Anna; nothing shall make me. There, he’s coming
back again.”

Anna caught one glance of the man and walked on.

The moment she was out of sight, the young man came across the street,
taking out his port-monaie as he approached the boy.

“Here is your money,” he said. “Now tell me where the young lady
lives—where I can send the work?”

“She doesn’t want any work, sir!”

“Won’t you take the money, my boy?”

“No, sir!”

“Why not?”

“Because that young lady is my sister, and told me not.”




                               CHAPTER X.
                        ROBERT GETS A SITUATION.


Robert Burns and his new friend made their way into the business part of
the city. They entered a large warehouse, and passed through it into a
back room—found a young man writing notes at one of the desks. He looked
up, saw the two boys, and suspended his writing long enough to question
them with his eyes.

“This is a boy that I want Mr. Gould to engage, sir. Where is the old
gentleman?” said the newsboy, designating Robert by a wave of his not
over-clean hand. “True as steel, sir, and honest as a morning paper,
sir. Where’s the boss?—perhaps you don’t know,” he added, eyeing an
antique seal ring on the gentleman’s white hand. “New feller in these
premises, any way. I never see you afore.”

The young man went on with his writing, and took no apparent heed of
this rather elaborate address. His pen ran over a sheet of note-paper
with a quick and noiseless motion, that filled the newsboy with admiring
astonishment. Then the note was folded, and something placed with it in
the long, narrow envelope, which rustled under the touch of those
fingers, silkily, like a bank-note. Then a wax taper, coiled up like a
garter-snake, was lighted, a drop of pale green wax fell from it to the
note; and while the young man stamped the seal with his antique ring, he
seemed to become suddenly conscious that the boys were gazing on him
with no common curiosity.

“Well,” he said, smiling down upon the seal as he examined the
impression he had made, “what is it? Did you want something, boys?”

“Yes, sir, that is just it. We want to see the old boss!”

“The old what?” cried the young gentleman, with a look of comic
astonishment—“the old what?”

“The boss, sir; the old gentleman who runs this ere machine!”

“Oh! you mean the governor. Too late; sailed for Europe yesterday.”

“But he told me I might look up a boy for him the very last time I
brought the weeklies here; and I’ve found just the chap.”

“Oh! the errand-boy. So the governor commissioned you—just like him. We
do want a handy lad, I think. I say, Smith.”

Smith came in from a little den of a room at the left, with a pen behind
his ear.

“Did you call, sir?”

“Did the governor say any thing about engaging a boy?”

“Yes, sir. He was particularly anxious to get a good one, smart and
honest.”

“With all my heart, if he can find the paragon. Well, what do you think
of that little fellow?” The young man pointed his pen carelessly at
Robert without troubling himself to look that way.

Smith looked at the boy keenly, who blushed crimson under his gaze.

“He seems modest, at least, and looks intelligent,” was the kind answer.

“Then you like him? Come here, sir, and answer me a few questions.”

Robert moved up to the desk, and lifted his honest eyes to the young
man’s face.

“How old are you, my fine fellow?”

“Twelve, sir, and going on thirteen.”

“Rather young, isn’t he?” said the gentleman, appealing to Smith.

“That will not matter so much, Mr. Gould. He seems healthy, and is
intelligent.”

“You like him, then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Robert, with tears in his eyes. “I’m much
obliged, and—and——”

“That will do—take him on, Smith; but stay a minute. Are you acquainted
with the city?”

“Pretty well, sir.”

“Can you read writing?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And write yourself?”

“Yes, I can write.”

“See if you can read that.”

Gould handed the note he had just directed, and Robert read the address.

“J. Ward, Girard House.”

“That will do. Now, your first duty will be to carry that note.”

“I am ready, sir.”

“Of course he’s ready,” cried the newsboy, rejoicing over his friend’s
success; “but hadn’t you better do things a little ship-shape? About the
wages, now. This young gentleman has got a mother——”

“Grandmother,” whispered Robert.

“Just so. A grandmother and sister to support; and money is money to
him.”

Gould laughed.

“How much did we give the last fellow?” he said, addressing Smith in
careless good humor.

“Three dollars a week.”

“Give this one four. I’ll be responsible to the governor. With an old
grandmother, and all that sort of thing, it won’t be too much.”

“Oh, sir! I am so glad—so very, very glad!” cried Robert, crushing his
hat between both hands in a paroxysm of grateful feelings. “I wish you
could see her; she would know how to thank you, I don’t.”

“He’s young and green—don’t mind him,” cut in the newsboy, drawing the
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes. “Consarn the dust, how it blinds a
fellow! By-and-by he’ll take things like a man.”

“I only wish I was a man; oh, sir! how I would work for you.”

Gould got up from his seat and laid his white hand on the boy’s
shoulder.

“Boy! boy! I would be a child again, could that give me back the feeling
which fills those eyes with tears. Oh, Smith! how much we men lose in
hardening ourselves. It is only the pure and good who can be really
grateful. Heavens! how I envy this boy!”

“Me, sir?” said Robert; “envy me. But then it is something to earn so
much money; and more yet, to know that your father died for his country,
fighting in the front ranks. I’m all they have to depend on, sir. You
haven’t any idea how rich this four dollars a week will make us. But
I’ll earn it! I’ll earn it—see if I don’t!”

“Of course you will!” exclaimed the newsboy, who was getting rather
tired of the scene. “But here comes another gentleman—hadn’t we better
make ourselves scarce till to-morrow?”

As the lad spoke, a strange gentleman came into the counting-room, and
shook hands with Gould.

“Well, I’ve been on the war-track, with some success, too,” he said
eagerly. “Saw her going into that house——”

“What house, Ward? What house?”

“Why——” here Ward broke off, and took young Gould aside, to whom he
spoke in a low, eager voice for some minutes. The young man listened
with a little impatience; and more than once his face flushed angrily.
At last he came away from the window, where they had been conversing,
with a sparkle of indignation in his fine eyes.

“Take no unworthy means,” he said; “I will neither sanction or take
advantage of any thing forced or dishonorable.”

Ward laughed.

“What has come over you?” he said. “Capricious as ever; carried off by
some other pretty face, I dare say?”

“No, there you mistake.”

“Well, well! you will join us to-night?”

“No; I promised my uncle to give all that sort of thing up.”

“You did?”

“Yes; God bless the dear old fellow! He came down so handsomely—without
a word, too; asked no promise—found no fault.”

“But you made a promise and a very silly one.”

“Possibly—time will show; at least I will be neither false nor
ungrateful, if I can help it.”

Here Ward’s eyes fell upon the note, with its dainty seal—and he laughed
a little maliciously.

“Oh! Ha! I understand! A new flame,” he cried.

“You can look at the address,” said Gould, quietly; “and read it, if you
like.”

Ward took up the note, and looked surprised.

“This lad would have brought it to you in half an hour,” said Gould.

Ward tore the note open, and a thousand dollar bill dropped out. He
picked it up, glanced at the amount, and then at Robert.

“And you would have intrusted this to that child—who is he?”

“Our new errand-boy.”

“But his name?”

“I really don’t know it.”

“And without knowing his name, you would intrust him with this?”

“Yes, or ten times as much.”

“But what do you know about him?”

“Nothing.”

“Who recommended him?”

“I recommended him,” broke forth the newsboy. “What have you to say
against that, I want to know?”

Ward measured the indignant newsboy with his scornful eyes, folded up
the treasury-note, and left the counting-room a good deal crest-fallen
and annoyed.

Robert and his literary friend followed him, and, I regret to say, the
latter put both hands up to his face, and ground an imaginary
coffee-mill with vigor during the moment in which Ward turned to look
upon him as he passed round the nearest corner. As for Robert, he did
not clearly comprehend the movement, for old Mrs. Burns had kept him
in-doors a great deal of the time, and his education, in some
particulars, was incomplete.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                              AN INTRUDER.


When Anna Burns left her little brother near the garden wall, she turned
down the next street, and met young Savage coming from an opposite
direction. His face flushed pleasantly, and his eyes brightened as he
saw her.

“Miss Burns, how happy I am to have met you,” he said, turning back and
walking by her side. “I would have called, but was afraid of intruding
upon your sorrow. How is the dear old lady?”

Anna had been flushing red and turning white, like the sensitive, modest
creature she was, till he looked kindly down into her face, and asked
this question; then she lifted her eyes and answered him with a smile
that made his heart leap.

“Thank you very much! Grandmother is well, and happier than any of us.
She is so good that even grief seems to make her more and more gentle. I
never heard her complain in my life.”

“Still, this must have been a terrible blow.”

“It was! it was! But she yields—bends; resists nothing that God sees fit
to inflict.”

“And you?”

His voice was full of tender compassion. His eyes brought tears into
hers.

“I cannot be so good, my heart will ache; my very breath is sometimes
painful! Oh, sir! you cannot tell how I loved my father!”

“He must have been a superior man,” said Savage, gently; “a very
superior man, to have brought up a family so well, under what seems to
me great difficulties.”

“He was a——”

Anna broke down here—tears drowned her voice.

“Forgive me! I am cruel to wound you so; but it is not meant unkindly,”
said Savage.

“I know—I know!” faltered Anna, behind her veil; “but you cannot think
how noble he was—what beautiful talent he had. I think Joseph takes
after him; he begins to draw pictures even now.”

“Was your father an artist, then?”

“Yes; a designer on wood. He was just beginning to make himself known.
But he could do many things beside that. We all loved him so—and now he
is dead!”

Anna drew her veil close, and, for a time, the young pair walked on in
silence, unconscious of the course they were taking. They were aroused
by a carriage dashing past, in which a lady sat alone. She leaned
forward, revealing an eager face, surmounted by a bonnet of lilac
velvet, with masses of pink roses under the narrow front. The horses
moved so rapidly that Savage scarcely recognized the face of Miss Eliza
Halstead as she swept by; but Anna saw it clearly, and shrunk within
herself.

Miss Halstead had recognized Savage with a killing smile on her lips;
but when she saw his companion, the smile withered into a sneer, and she
seized the checkstring in fierce haste.

“Drive round the block again, fast at first, then slower,” she said.

The man obeyed, and dashing round the block, came upon the young couple
again at a slower pace. Now Miss Eliza leaned out, kissed her hand to
Savage, and searched Anna’s face through the veil that shaded it with
her vicious eyes.

“I thought so—I thought so!” she muttered, biting the fingers of her
canary-colored gloves till the delicate kid was torn by her teeth. “It’s
that creature, not Georgiana, who stands in my way. Oh! I have made a
discovery! It’s her! It’s the same girl that I saw at the fair. Some
poor seamstress or sewing-machine operator, or I’m dreadfully mistaken.”

The carriage moved slowly on as Eliza registered these convictions in
her mind; and before it was out of sight, Savage had forgotten its
existence, so deeply was he interested in the conversation of the young
girl who walked so modestly by his side—so completely did the feelings
of the moment carry him away.

They parted at last not far from Anna’s dwelling. Her hand was in his
for an instant; her eyes met his ardent glance as he whispered farewell;
and warm, red blushes dried up the tears that had been upon her cheek.

“I will see you again—I must see you again,” he said, while her hand
trembled in his; “without that hope, I should not care to live.”

These words, sincere and impassioned, were enough to flood her face with
blushes, and set her to wondering why the heart that had seemed so
heavy, rose and throbbed like a nightingale startled on its nest by the
song of some kindred bird.

With a light step and beaming face, the young creature turned into the
dark paths of her every-day life, and climbed the stairs which led to
her garret-home, lightly as angels tread a rainbow. The old lady looked
up when she saw her grandchild coming, and smiled meekly, feeling that
she would need such comfort; but she was surprised when Anna smiled
back, and, taking off her bonnet, turned a face that was almost radiant
upon her.

“What is it, love? What has happened, that you should look so bright, so
happy?”

“Happy? Am I happy, grandmother? No, no! It was but last night I told
you that nothing on earth could ever make me happy, now that he was
dead.”

“Yes, child; but God does not permit eternal grief to the young.”

“Grandmother,” said Anna, leaning over the old woman’s chair, that her
face might not be seen, “have you not always told me that God is love?”

“Yes, darling, God _is_ love.”

“Then, grandmother, all love must be divine—born of heaven?”

“Yes, child, all love is born of heaven.”

“Grandmother?”

“Well, my dear.”

“Did any one ever love you?”

The old lady’s hands fell into her lap, and clasped themselves tightly.

“I—I thought so once,” she said, in a low voice. “Yes, I thought so.”

“Did you ever love any one, dear grandmother?”

“Did I ever love any one? God help me, yes, I have; I——”

Anna flung herself on her knees before the old woman, struck to the
heart by her own cruelty. The poor old lady was trembling from head to
foot; her lips quivered like those of a grieved child; her heart was
troubled as the earth stirs when a lily has been torn up by the root.

“Oh, grandmother, forgive me!” cried the young girl; “I did not mean it.
Can love last so long? Is it rooted so deep in the life?”

A quivering smile stole over that gentle face.

“Do you think that love is only given to the young? That it is mortal
like the body? That it leaves the soul because bright hair turns to
silver on the head? No, no, my child! Love is the one passion which time
deepens holily, but cannot kill. The soul, when it seeks eternity,
carries that with it. There is no real life to the woman that does not
love.”

“Oh, grandmother! how solemnly you speak.”

“The love of an old woman is always solemn.”

“And of a young woman—what is that grandmother?”

“With her, my child, it is the blossom which precedes the fruit,—bright,
delicate, heavenly,—perishing, sometimes, with the first frost, or under
a warm burst of sunshine; but when the blossom falls only to shrine its
shadow in the core of the fruit that springs from it, changing itself
only to meet the sweet changes of womanhood; then, and not till then,
can the soul know how faithful, how true, how immortal love is.”

Anna bent her head and listened to that sad, low voice, which spoke of
love with such sweet solemnity. The blossoms of a first love seemed
opening in her heart, then, and flooding it with perfume.

“Oh, grandmother! how beautiful life is!” she said, with a deep sigh,
which had no pain in it. “I think the whole earth brightens every day.”

“Anna,” said the old lady, gently.

“Well, grandmother.”

“How long is it since the world has become so beautiful to you?”

“Oh! I don’t know; but it seems to me forever.”

“Still it is but a little time since we heard that my son—your father——”

“Yes, I know—I know. For a time all the universe was dark as night to
me; but now it seems as if my father had come back, and brought glimpses
of the heaven he inhabits with him. Oh, grandmother! why is it that I am
not unhappy? I know he is dead; I know that we are poor and helpless;
that this is a miserable room, with nothing lovely in it but this
precious old face, yet it seems like a paradise to me. I could sing here
as nightingales do among the roses.”

“Anna, my child, I fear this is love.”

“Love, grandmother!” cried the girl, in a quick, startled voice. “No,
no! not that! I never thought that it was really love.”

That bright, young face turned white as she spoke; and Anna’s eyelids
drooped suddenly.

“Oh, grandmother! what makes you say that?”

“I did not say it unkindly, darling.”

“You never do say any thing unkindly, dear grandmother—but this
frightens me. Am I doing wrong?”

“Doing wrong! There can be no wrong in an honest affection; but there
may be, and is, great danger.”

“Danger, grandmother—how?”

“I cannot explain—cannot even point out the danger; but this young man
is rich, proud, highly educated. His parents are said to be ambitious
for him beyond any thing.”

“Yes, grandmother, I suppose they are; and I am so lowly, so very poor;
so, so——”

The poor girl’s eyes filled, and her sweet lips began to quiver with the
tenderness of new-born grief.

“I did not think of them. I never thought of any thing, only——”

She broke off and covered her face with both hands.

“Only that he loved you. Has young Mr. Savage told you this, Anna?”

“I don’t know. Yes, it seems to me as if he had. How dark every thing is
growing. This room is black and shabby. I wonder he could ever come
here. I remember, now, the boys were playing with oyster-shells when he
came in, and they had no shoes on, poor, little fellows! He never would
have said those things to me here. Never, never!”

Anna buried her face in the old lady’s cap, and that little, withered
hand began to smooth her hair with gentle touches of affection, that
went directly to the young heart.

“Be quiet, be patient, my dear child. What have I said that you should
sink into such despair?”

Anna lifted her head, and put the hair back from her eyes with both
hands.

“Oh, grandmother! what do you mean?”

“Only this, my dear. If the young man loves you, the obstacles which I
have pointed out will be overcome; for as there is nothing on this earth
so pure as love, neither is there any thing so powerful. Through the
strong affection which a mother feels for her son, even that proud lady
may yield. Do not let the poverty of this room, or of your dress, weigh
too heavily upon you. It is well that he should have seen you thus at
first; and remember, a modest, good girl, well informed, and
well-mannered, is the match of any man in a country like ours.”

“Dear grandmother!” exclaimed Anna, gratefully.

“Now tell me,” said the old lady, “what did this young man say to you?”

“Indeed, indeed, I cannot tell. Every word is in my heart; but I could
as soon give you the perfume from a rose as repeat them understandingly.
I know that it is true; but that is all.”

“And enough, if it, indeed, prove true. But listen, I think it is the
boys coming home.”

Yes, it was Robert and Joseph rushing up stairs with unusual
impetuosity. You might have known by their deer-like leaps up the steps,
and the joyous struggle to outstrip each other, that there was good news
on their lips.

“Oh, grandmother! we’ve done it! We’re men of business, both of us. Four
dollars a week for me, and Josey unlimited, but magnificent. He’s got a
voice. I wish you could hear him. Twenty-five cents, clear cash, in an
hour. That newsboy wouldn’t touch a cent of it. Oh! he’s a capital
fellow, a gentleman every inch of him—that is, in heart. He got me that
place; he’s been a benefactor to me, a prince, a first-rate fellow! Kiss
Joe, grandmother, I’m getting a little too large; but, but—no, I’m not.
I shall die and shake up if somebody don’t kiss me. Only think, four
dollars a week. Hurrah!”

Robert flung his new cap up to the ceiling, and leaped after it with the
spring of an antelope. Joseph had both arms around his grandmother’s
neck, and was pressing the twenty-five cent note upon her.

“It’s all mine, every cent. You and Anna can spend it between you; buy
new dresses with it, or shawls, or a pretty bonnet for Anna. Don’t be
afraid, I can earn more—lots and lots more. He’s going to give me some
of the papers that have pictures on them to sell; perhaps father’s
pictures may be among them. He didn’t think that I should ever sell the
beautiful things he made, did he? But I shall, and it will make me so
proud to see people admiring them. Kiss me, grandma, and say that you’re
glad.”

“I am very glad that you come home so happy, my children—but what is it
all about?” said the grandmother, kissing Joseph on his pure white
forehead, while she reached forth her hand to Robert.

“Oh! it’s just this. I’m engaged as an errand-boy in a first-rate house
for four dollars a week; and Joseph there—who’d believe it of the little
shaver—has got a newspaper route ready for him; and he’s ready for it.
Between us we mean to support you and Anna first-rate, and dress her up
till she looks like a pink. I mean to get her a velvet cloak, like that
Miss Halstead had on at the fair, the very first thing, and long, gold
earrings, and—and every thing. Indeed, I do. Don’t we, Joseph?”

“That’s just what I told grandma when I gave her that twenty-five cent
bill,” said Joseph, magnificently. “Said I, get dresses and shawls with
it. Didn’t I, grandma?”

The grandmother smiled tenderly, smoothed his hair with her palm.

“And who is it that you are engaged with, Robert?” she said; “you have
not told us any thing yet.”

“No, I haven’t. I wonder what’s the matter with me? It’s with Gould &
Co. Splendid, I can tell you. Warehouse, as they call it, a hundred feet
long. Oh, Anna! I wish you could see the young gentleman—he is splendid.
But grandma, what is the matter with you? How white you are! How your
poor hands shake! Dear me, what is the matter?”

The old lady’s head had fallen forward on her bosom; the borders of her
cap quivered like a white poppy in the wind. She grasped some folds of
her dress with one hand, as if to steady its trembling.

“Grandma, what is the matter?”

The old lady lifted her wan face, and looked at the eager boy bending
over her vaguely, as if she did not quite know him.

“Oh! grandma, grandma! what is the matter?”

“Nothing—nothing!” gasped those thin, pale lips. “Never, never mind me,
children, I am not—not very well.”

Anna, who had taken off her bonnet and shawl, came forward now, and,
taking the old woman in her arms, laid her head on her bosom.

“She is tired, Robert; your good news has taken her unawares.
Grandmother is not strong.”

“I—I didn’t mean to hurt her,” said Robert, penitently. “Who would have
thought it?”

“You have not hurt me, dear,” answered the faint old voice. “See, I am
better now.”

“Wouldn’t a cup of tea do her good?” whispered Joseph. “It almost always
does.”

“That’s a bright idea,” cried Robert. “Fill the tea-kettle, Joe, while I
make a fire. Dear, me, who’s that, I wonder?”

A knock at the door had startled the little group, for such sounds
seldom interrupted them in their garret-room.

Robert opened the door, and a young man, whom Joseph recognized at once,
stepped into the room, lifting his hat as he entered.

“I beg pardon,” he said, glancing around the apartment; “but chancing to
see my young friend there—pointing to Joseph—enter this house, I
ventured to follow. We entered into a little negotiation regarding some
fine sewing, which I am anxious to complete. Is this young lady the
sister you spoke of, young gentleman?”

Joseph retreated slowly toward his grandmother, and stood looking at the
stranger, turning white and red, like the frightened child he was.

“She is my sister,” cried Robert, flinging down a handful of kindling
wood on the hearth, and coming forward. “But just now I can support her
handsomely myself, on what Mr. Gould pays me. He wouldn’t have followed
me home like that. We are very much obliged; but sister Anna has all the
fine work she can do, and never takes any thing of the kind from
gentlemen—at any rate, unless they are very particular friends, indeed,”
added the boy, with a blush, remembering that Anna had done some work of
the kind for young Savage, and seemed to enjoy the doing of it very
much, indeed.

“Then your sister does, sometimes, accept such work as I offer?” said
the young man, bowing to Anna. “I am glad to hear that; it saves me from
feeling quite like an intruder. May I hope, young lady, that you will
make me one of the exceptions?”

“She don’t want any work,” interposed Robert, coloring crimson. “I’ve
got an idea above that for her, and I mean to carry it out, too. Our
Anna, sir, is a lady, if she does live up here under the roof.”

“No one could doubt that for a moment,” answered Ward, casting a glance
of warm admiration on the young girl.

Here the old lady arose, still pale, but gently self-possessed.

“Will you be seated,” she said, with quiet dignity, “and let us
understand what it is that you desire of us? My grandson seems to have
met you before.”

“Yes, grandma, I saw the gentleman at Gould & Co.’s, and he seemed as if
he would like them not to take me; hinted that I wouldn’t carry a lot of
money from one person to another honestly, and hurt my feelings,
generally. I don’t know what he wants to come here for.”

Here Joseph gave his grandmother’s dress a pull, and whispered, as she
bent toward him, “It was he who paid me the twenty-five cents. Give it
back to him—give it back to him.”

The old lady patted his head, and turned to the stranger.

“If I understand, you wish to have some sewing done, and thinking my
grandchild wants work, bring it to her. We are much obliged; but she is
very busy just now, and it will be impossible for her to undertake any
thing more than she has on hand.”

“But at some future time, madam,” said the young man. “I can wait.”

“It will be impossible to promise for the future,” answered the old
lady; “as the persons who employ my child now must always have the
preference. Perhaps we had better think no more about it.”

Ward did not rise; but sat balancing his hat by the rim between both
hands. He evidently wished to prolong the interview; but the old lady
stood quietly as if she expected him to go, and he could not muster
hardihood enough to brave her even with a shower of extra politeness.
All this time, Anna had not spoken a word; but sat by the window,
looking out like one in a dream. Even the intrusion of this strange man
could not drive her from the heaven of her thoughts.

Ward arose, almost awkwardly, for the gentle breeding of that sweet old
lady had been a severe rebuke to the audacious ease with which he had
entered the room.

“Then I will take leave,” he said, glancing at Anna, who was far away in
her first love-dream, and did not even see him. “Of course, I am
disappointed; but will hope better success when I call again.”

No one answered him; and the young man went his way crest-fallen and
bitterly annoyed. He had certainly found out where the young girl lived,
still nothing but humiliation had come out of it. Gould, too, had almost
snubbed him that morning. The thousand dollar note was some compensation
for that; but these people in the garret, poor and proud—how should he
avenge himself on them? How debase the pride that had so humbled him? As
he went down stairs, a paper on one side of the outer door attracted his
attention. A room to let—that was all; but it struck the young man with
a most wicked idea.

“Inquire in the front room, first story,” he muttered. “Yes, I’ll do it
now; that will give me a right to go in and out when I please.”

He went into the front room, first story, and came out with a key in his
hand, remounted the stairs, and entered a room directly beneath that
occupied by the Burns family. It was a mean room, scantily furnished,
looking out on the chimneys and back yards, which have already been
described. But the glimpse of blue sky and a rich sunset, which could be
obtained from the upper window, was broken up by flaunting clothes-line
and bare walls here. A more lonely place could not well have been found.

But young Ward cared nothing for this. A paltry lie had secured him a
legal foothold in the house. How he would use that privilege would be
developed in the future. He had vague ideas, but no plans. The people up
stairs had attempted to freeze him from the house, and he would teach
them that it could not be done. That was about all he calculated on at
the time.

Ward went back into the front room, first story, where he found a tall,
gaunt woman seated in a Boston rocking-chair, working vigorously on some
woollen garment which she called slop-work. She wore no hoop, and her
scant dress fell short at the ankles, revealing a pair of men’s
slippers, which had once been red-morocco, and a glimpse of coarse yarn
stockings.

“Well,” she said, pressing the side of her steel thimble against the eye
of her needle, as she took a vigorous stitch, “suited with the premises,
or not? Would a gone up with you, only hadn’t time. Ten cents apiece for
a blouse like this don’t give a woman many play spells.”

“I like the room, and will pay two months’ rent in advance,” said Ward,
taking out his porte-monnaie.

“Then that’s settled,” answered the woman, nodding her head as he laid
the money down. “Good-day! Good-day!”




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          AN ECCENTRIC DRIVE.


Miss Eliza Halstead was very eccentric in her drive about town that day.
She had some shopping to do, but forgot it entirely, for the first time
in her life. Miss Eliza had a taste for that especial amusement; and it
must have been an absorbing passion that could have drawn it from her
mind. As it was, Chestnut street saw but little of the Halstead carriage
that day; but it appeared in parts of the town where such equipages
seldom presented themselves; threaded cross-streets, and drove slowly by
tenement-houses, astonishing the children that played on the doorsteps,
and chased each other along the unswept side-walks. Once or twice Miss
Eliza left her carriage and examined the numbers of these houses
herself, rather than trust the coachman to leave his horses. This
singular conduct disturbed the serenity of this high potentate, who
muttered his indignation to the air, and lashed little boys with his
whip, as if they had been to blame for bringing him into a neighborhood
which revolted every aristocratic sense of his nature. Miss Eliza, too,
held up her skirts as she crossed the pavements, and threaded the
side-walks with an air of infinite disdain; but comforted herself by
reflecting that the people who saw her would believe that some noble
purpose of charity had brought her there; and, to strengthen this idea,
she took a showy porte-monnaie from her pocket, and tangled its gold
chain in her gloved fingers, which was suggestive of unbounded
benevolence searching in the highways and hedges for objects of charity.

Miss Eliza was a good deal puzzled by all the numbers, which she found
contradicting each other along the battered doors, and was about to
abandon the exploration, when she saw a young man leave one of the
houses, and walk down the block, as if in haste to leave the
neighborhood.

“That is young Ward, I’ll stake any thing,” said Miss Eliza, leaning out
of the carriage she had just entered. “What on earth can he be doing
there?”

Young Ward did not notice her, but turned a corner and disappeared; but
Eliza had taken a correct survey of the house, and ordering the coachman
to drive slowly by it, took the number in her memory.

“She came down this block and darted into a door somewhere close by this
very place, I’ll be sworn to that,” muttered the spinstress. “Savage
kept by her side almost to the corner. They must have walked together a
full hour, and he with his head bent half the time—the artful creature.
I wonder if he knows that she left him to meet this handsome young
gambler in that place? Oh! it’s all true! That boy in the door is her
brother, one of the barefooted creatures who stood in the picture of ‘a
soldier’s home.’ There is no mistake about the thing now. Jacob! I say,
Jacob! You may drive home!”

Jacob muttered heavily under his breath, and, seeing a long space of
broken pavement, avenged his outraged dignity by driving through it so
roughly that the carriage rocked and toiled in the ruts like some ship
in a storm. Liking the faint screams that came from within the carriage,
Jacob resolved to give his lady the full benefit of the neighborhood she
had forced him into; so he lost his way, and drove around in a circle,
where the squalid children were thickest along the side-walks, and women
with naked arms, sometimes dripping with soapsuds, thrust their heads
from the windows, wondering at the splendor of her equipage. But Jacob
revolted himself at this amusement, after a little, and drove back to a
level with aristocracy again, after which he condescended to take a
tolerably straight line for home.

Miss Eliza went into her step-brother’s house in a state of sublime
exaltation. Two distinct tints of red flushed her cheeks; her pale blue
eyes darkened and gleamed. Up the steps she ran, and into the house,
eager to unbosom herself of the secret that possessed her. Some feline
instinct carried her directly to the little room in which Georgiana
Halstead spent her leisure hours, and where she then was somewhat lonely
and dispirited. Georgie had kept much by herself during the last few
days, for a gentle sadness had fallen upon her, such as loving hearts
know when locked up with anxious suspense.

It was a beautiful room which the girl occupied, half library, half
boudoir, warmed with the mellow sunshine and bright with tasteful
ornaments. The walls were wainscoted with black walnut, enriched with
gilded beading, and the ceiling was crossed with beams of the same dark
wood, giving an antique air to the whole. The floor was also of polished
walnut, which a Persian carpet, bright with scarlet and green, left
exposed at the edges. Turkish chairs, and a pretty couch, all cushions
and crimson silk, gave warmth to the dark shades of the wall, while
crimson curtains imparted to them a double richness when the sun shone
through them. Mosaic tables blended these commingling shades
harmoniously. A harp, that seemed one net-work of gold, stood in one
corner. A guitar, around which clustered a wreath of gold and
mother-of-pearl, lay upon the couch; and superbly bound books were
scattered on the tables. But all these had given no happiness to pretty
Georgiana, who lay huddled together in one of the Turkish chairs, pale
as a lily, and with soft, bluish shadows deepening under her eyes.
Whoever the man was that she grieved about, I think he never could have
resisted so much tender loveliness, had he seen Georgie then, with her
hair disturbed and rippling, half in ringlets, half in waves, shading
her face here and revealing it there, absolutely rendering her one of
the most interesting creatures in the world. A morning dress of very
pale green merino, with some swans’-down about the neck and sleeves, lay
in soft folds around her. She had been crying, poor girl! and the dew of
her tears hung on those long, curling lashes, which were brown, and
several shades darker than her golden hair.

Georgie heard Miss Eliza’s step, and wiped the tears away quickly with
her hand, starting up and holding her breath, like a white hare afraid
of being driven from its covert, as the rustle of silk drew nearer and
nearer.

“Oh, you are here yet! I fancied so,” cried Miss Eliza, flinging open
the door, and sweeping into the room with a rush and flutter which
always accompanied her movements; “and in that morning dress, too,
intensely interesting. But do you know it is almost dinner-time?”

“I was not going down to dinner, Aunt Eliza,” answered Georgie; “my head
aches a little, I think.”

“What! have your dinner sent up? Why, child, this is putting on airs.”

“No, I am not putting on airs, Aunt Eliza.”

“Aunt Eliza! How often am I to tell you that I detest the title;
besides, it does not belong to me. I am aunt to no one, certainly not to
a person who has not a single drop of my blood in her veins.”

“I am sorry to have used the word; excuse me,” said Georgie, with
childlike sweetness. “I never wish to offend you, Miss Eliza.”

“No one wishes to offend me; and yet—but no matter, I came to tell you
something, but I dare say it will only set you off into hysterics, or
something of that kind. I have made a discovery, a painful,
heart-rending discovery. It ought not to concern you, but you have a
woman’s heart, and can sympathize with me.”

“What, what has happened?” cried Georgie, sitting up, and turning her
eyes full upon Miss Eliza. “Nothing very serious, I hope.”

“That depends,” answered the spinster, sitting down on the floor with a
swoop of her garments that raised a little whirlwind around them, and
leaning her elbow on Georgiana’s lap. This was a favorite position with
Miss Eliza when the spirit of extreme youthfulness grew strong within
her. “That depends on the susceptibility of the heart that is wounded.
Oh, child! may you never be gifted with those exquisite feelings which
make up that heavenly thing called genius in a human soul; but without
that you can never know how I suffer, how the pride of suppressed
tenderness struggles in this soul!”

Georgiana had heard these intense rhapsodies before, and knew what
trifling occasions could bring them forth. She closed her eyes wearily,
and laid her head back on the cushions of the chair, waiting in weary
patience for the explanation that might be long in coming.

“No wonder you sigh; no wonder the lids droop over your eyes. My own are
full of unshed tears. But I must be brave. I will be brave, and struggle
against the destiny that threatens me.”

Georgiana sighed a little wearily and moved back in her seat, for Miss
Eliza’s arm pressed heavily upon her.

“Is there—is there a man on earth that may be trusted, who is not ready
to break the heart that confides in him?”

Georgiana shrunk back from the prying glance fixed upon her, and strove
against the thrill of pain that passed over her.

“Whom are you speaking of, Miss Eliza?” she inquired, in a faint voice.

“Of the man whom you, weak, silly thing, have loved vainly; and I—oh!
too well!—too well! He is faithless, like the rest—cruelly, cruelly
faithless—I saw it with my own eyes. After that scene in the carriage,
too, when my hand rested in the firm clasp of his; when his eyes met all
the maidenly tenderness that flooded mine. Oh, Georgiana! that was a
heavenly moment; but the earthquake has come; the tornado is passed, and
my heart lies a wreck under his feet.

          ‘He may break—he may ruin the vase, if he will,
          But the scent of the roses will cling to it still.’”

Here Miss Eliza took out her cobweb of a handkerchief, and wiped some
mythical tears from her pale, gray eyes. Then grasping the handkerchief
tightly in her hand, she cried out, “But you cannot feel. He never loved
you, never encouraged your love.”

Georgiana started up, and shook the arm from her lap with some
impatience.

“Who are you talking about? What does all this mean?” she said.

“It means,” said Eliza, gathering herself up from the floor, “that the
man you love to idolatry—but who loves me in spite of every thing—is
fascinated with that girl who played Rebecca in that hideous tableau. I
saw them walking together a whole hour this very day, his face bent to
hers, her hand clasping his arm.”

Georgiana sunk to her chair again, white and faint.

“Aunt Eliza, please let me rest a little, I am not well, you know.”
Tears were in her voice, tears trembled on her eyelashes. Eliza was
satisfied, and went out of the room.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                         AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.


“What are you doing, Joseph?”

The child did not answer at first; the bright red came into his innocent
cheeks, and he gave a little laugh of mingled confusion and glee as he
trotted out of the corner, and came toward his grandmother.

The old lady had paused for a second in her work; but she could not
afford to forget herself into stopping completely, and her wasted
fingers began moving as assiduously as ever.

“I thought you were trying to fly,” said she, smiling in her sweet,
patient way, the sort of smile that human lips only wear when they have
been purified by great and patient suffering. “I didn’t know but you had
a pair of wings hid away under your jacket.”

“I wish I had!” exclaimed Joseph, impetuously. “Oh! I wish I could fly,
grandma!”

“Why, what would you do, Joey?” she asked, looking almost wonderingly
down at his eager face all aglow with enthusiasm.

“I’d fly away to heaven and bring father back,” he whispered, nestling
close to her side.

The old woman dropped her work, and folded her arms close about him;
while one dry sob, that takes the place of tears with the aged, shook
her breast.

“I’m afraid the angels wouldn’t let you come back,” she whispered;
“grandma couldn’t lose her boy.”

“No, no! I’d come back,” he said, eagerly; “and I would just tell father
how we want him.”

“The good Father of all knows best, Joseph,” she answered, with sweet
submission. “You mustn’t wish anybody back that has gone over the black
waters.”

“Only we need him so, grandma.”

“Yes, deary; but you don’t forget your little hymn. We ain’t alone, you
know.”

“No, grandma! Oh! if I was only a big man!” he cried, with immense
energy.

“Were you trying to stretch yourself into one?” she asked, bringing
herself back to ordinary reflections; for she had learned, poor soul, in
those years of trial, how dangerous it is to give way to yearning
thoughts after the dear ones who have gone forward to the eternal rest.

“Yes, grandma,” said the boy, bursting into a laugh at his own
performance—such a merry, rippling laugh, that it made the old woman
think of the sound the mountain brooks made among the wild country
scenes she had so loved in the days when life was still an actual
pleasure.

“Well, not quite that, grandma,” he added, in his scrupulously truthful
way. “But I was trying to see if I hadn’t got up above the mark sister
Anna made for me in the corner.”

“And you couldn’t stretch yourself to satisfy you? It’ll come soon
enough, my boy—soon enough.”

“I think it’s very slow work, grandma; and the birthdays are so far
apart. What a great while a year is, grandma, aint it? It don’t seem as
if it ought to take many of them to make eternity.”

The smile was quite gone from her face now. She had forgotten the work
that must be done; her face was uplifted, and the shadowy eyes looked
eagerly out, as if the tired soul were trying to pierce the mists that
lay between it and its haven of rest.

The boy looked at her wonderingly; then her silence, and her strange,
far-off look filled him with a vague trouble. He slid his little hand
into hers and pulled her toward him, exclaiming,

“Grandma! grandma!”

“Yes, dear,” she answered, dreamily.

“Oh! don’t look as if you were going away!”

Truly, his innocent words, whose import he himself so dimly
comprehended, was the most perfect translation of that look which words
could have found.

“What were you thinking about, grandma?”

“Thinking? Ever so many things—so many!”

“Don’t the years seem a great way apart to you, grandma?”

“So short; and such ages and ages to look back on,” she answered; but
replying more to her own thoughts than seeking to make her words plain
to his childish understanding.

“Why, you don’t have birthdays any oftener than I, do you?” he asked,
somewhat jealously; perhaps afraid he was being defrauded of his
rightful dues in regard to the number and frequency of those blessings
that grow such very doubtful ones as the years get on.

“It’s only that they seem to come closer and closer, Joey,” she
answered, brushing his hair back from his handsome face. “When anybody
gets old, little boy, the years grow very short in passing, and so long
to look back on.”

“I guess I don’t quite understand it yet, grandma,” he said, with a
somewhat puzzled look.

“Time enough, little Joseph. Don’t you try to hurry things; you’ll
understand soon enough.”

“Will I?” and he gave a sigh of relief—the promise and the anticipation
were almost as consoling as any reality—the anticipations of childhood
are so golden in the light of the future.

Joseph nestled close to her feet on the little stool, and, resting his
thoughts on the promise she had made, brought himself back to safer
themes, both as regarded his mental capacities and the old lady’s peace.

“This is just the morning for a good long talk, ain’t it, grandma?” he
said, in his quaint, old-fashioned way, that was so pretty and original.

“Almost any morning seems just the one for you and me,” she answered,
pleasantly, taking up her work again, and proceeding to make amends for
lost time with great energy.

“Well, so it does,” said Joseph, after considering the matter for a
little. “You and I don’t seem to get talked out very easy, do we,
grandma?”

“Not very, dear; you have a tolerably busy tongue of your own.”

“Sister Anna says, sometimes she’s afraid you find it most too long,”
said Joe, honestly.

“There isn’t any danger of that, my boy; it’s as sweet to your old
grandmother as the birds’ songs used to be.”

“Only not like that parrot in the baker’s shop,” amended Joseph, with a
laugh.

“More like the wood-thrushes I used to hear up in Vermont,” she said;
for his laughter brought back again the memory of the brooks, and the
beautiful summers that lay so far off behind the shadows of all those
later years.

“How does a wood-thrush sing?”

Then there had to be an elaborate explanation; at the end of which he
must ask, in great haste:

“Did you live in Vermont, grandma?”

“No, dear; but I spent a summer there once—so long, long ago.”

“But you have forgotten about it?”

“Forgotten, child? Oh! I couldn’t forget it!”

“Was it so very pleasant, grandma?”

The feeling that surged up in her heart was like a glow from her
perished youth, so warm and powerful was it; the soft wind from that
summer of the past blew across her soul and made her voice sweet as a
psalm.

“So pleasant, Joey—so pleasant!”

“Was grandpa with you?”

“Yes; he was there part of the time.”

“I think I should like to hear about it,” said Joe; “it sounds like a
story.”

So it was—the story every youth knows, varied according to individual
experience; but the old story still, that is always so beautiful.

“Won’t you tell me about it, grandma?”

“Indeed, dear, there is nothing to tell! It was like a story to me,
because I was so very, very happy, and the birds sang as I don’t think
they ever have sung since; and I haven’t heard any thing, either, like
the sound of the brooks, only your dear voice; and it was such a
beautiful time of rest.”

She was far beyond little Joe’s comprehension now; but the unusual look
in her face interested him, and her voice sounded like a blessing, it
was so soft and caressing.

“What makes you think the birds haven’t sung so since?” he asked, with
that tendency to be direct and practical, which children show in so odd
a way when they are perplexed by a conversation that makes new echoes in
their untrained souls.

“That was only grandma’s foolish fancy,” she said, trying to come back
from the phantom world, where her thoughts had wandered. “Dear boy, the
birds never stop singing! Never forget that as you grow older, and
troubles begin to weary you. Even if you can’t hear them for a time,
they are singing still; and so are God’s blessed angels, too, and
sometime we shall hear both clearly again.”

“Up in heaven,” said Joe, gravely and thoughtfully.

“Up in heaven!” repeated the old woman, and her voice was a
thanksgiving.

The boy caught her hand and held it fast. There was an expression of
such trust and hope, making her face young again, that a vague fear shot
into his mind that she was just ready to float away from his sight
forever.

“Don’t, grandma!” he exclaimed.

“What, dear?”

“Did you hear ’em sing?” he whispered, in a sort of awe-stricken way.

“What do you mean, little one?”

“You looked as if they were calling you—the angels, you know. You won’t
go away!”

“They will call sometime, my boy, and your poor, old, tired grandma will
go to her rest. Only we must have patience, Joey—a little patience.”

“I don’t want you to go,” said Joe, stoutly; “and I don’t think I like
the angels either!”

“Why, Joseph!” said the old lady, startled into a practical view of
things by the expression of a sentiment so dreadfully heterodox. “What
do you mean? Not like the angels that live up in heaven? Just think a
little.”

“Well, they’re always taking folks away,” he replied, rebelliously; “and
I wish they wouldn’t! I’m sure they can’t love you as well as I do, for
I’ve known you all my life; and they’re only strangers, after all.”

Joe spoke as solemnly as if his little existence had endured several
scores of years; and grandma, in spite of feeling it her duty to impress
a proper orthodox lesson on the child’s mind, could not help a smile at
the idea of the angels being considered interlopers, and unjustifiably
inclined to meddle with human affairs.

“They love us, Joey,” she said.

“Yes; but not so well as we love each other, I guess.”

“They come to take us home,” she added.

“Then I want ’em to take us all together,” retorted Joe. “They might
have a family ticket, as they had at the fair,” he added, briskly, after
meditating a little; and he looked quite delighted at his brilliant
suggestion.

“Oh, Joe!” said the old lady; but grandma’s devotion was of a very sweet
and loveable kind, and, certain that the child had meant no irreverence,
she could not quite feel it her duty to give him a serious lecture upon
the enormity of giving expression to such proofs of total depravity.

“That wasn’t wicked, was it, grandma?”

“You didn’t mean it to be, dear,” she answered, softly. “But you must
remember the angels do love us, and they wont be strangers to us when we
see them.”

Joe did not attempt to dispute a point that his grandmother stated so
distinctly; but he remained sufficiently doubtful to make him desirous
that the unseen visitants should not hasten their coming; and he still
held fast to his grandmother’s hand, giving a long breath of
satisfaction when he saw the glow of exaltation die slowly out of her
face, and the every-day look of patience and resignation settle down
over its pallor.

“You are making me very idle,” said the old lady, shaking his little
fingers gently off her hand; “and we both forgot you haven’t said any
lesson this morning, little boy.”

“I’ll get my book,” said Joe, rising with his usual prompt obedience,
rather glad to get his mind back to safer and firmer ground. “I’ll say a
good long one, grandma, to make up.”

“That’s my good boy.”

So the lesson was gone through with great earnestness, and with the most
entire satisfaction on both sides; for Joe was as quick at his book as
with his queer fancies that made him so pleasant a companion to the old
lady.

“There’s somebody coming up stairs,” said Joe, as he closed his book
after receiving a kiss of approval. “Oh! it’s Anna,” he added, as the
door opened, and the girl entered.

“Why, I didn’t expect you home so soon, dear,” said the old lady.

“I brought the work to do it here,” she answered, laying her bundle on
the table.

“I am glad of that; it’s always pleasant to have you at home.”

“But grandma wasn’t lonesome,” added Joe, hastily. “We have had one of
our good old talks, haven’t we, grandma?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And I said my lesson splendid, Anna,” he continued, too eager to be
quite grammatical.

“I am glad of that,” she answered, a little absently, and passed on into
the little room she called her own, closing the door behind her.

She was not accustomed to lose much time in dreaming or idling; but then
she sat down on the bed, and threw her bonnet wearily away, as if her
head ached even under its light weight.

She looked weary and disheartened—the look so painful to see in a young
face; so sad to feel that life’s iron hands settle too heavily over all
the youthful dreams and hopes that ought to make youth joyous and
beautiful.

There she sat quiet, and absorbed in her thoughts till the tired look
wore away; and if there had been any to see, they might have told
accurately by the expression of her face, and the new light in her eyes,
how her thoughts stole, gradually, from the stern, harsh reality into
the realm of some beautiful dream-land, whose flower-wreathed gates no
care or trouble could pass.

She was so young and so lovely—ah, let her dream on! The stern reality
lay just outside; the brightness of elf-land might only make its
coldness more bleak when she was forced to return; but I would have
hesitated to take from her the ability to wander away among her glorious
visions.

There comes a time when we can dream no longer—you and I know it. But
would we lose the memory of the reason when such reveries were more real
than the details of the untried existence about us?

I think not. I am sure not; and since care and suffering must come, and
every human heart learn its appropriate lesson, I would not deprive the
young of any share of the glow and brightness which belongs to that
feverish season; and you and I both know that its chief sunshine comes
from that ability to weave golden visions, and sit in breathless ecstasy
under their light. And then Joseph’s voice called outside the door,

“Anna—sister Anna?”

“Yes, dear; I am coming.”

The dream-world vanished; the rose-clustered portals closed, and she
came back to the real life—came back, as we all must. But, oh! woe for
the day when the fairy gates close with a dreary clang, and we know that
never for us can they open again “till these hearts be clay.”

She passed into the outer room, where Joseph was very busily engaged in
helping, or hindering his grandmother to array herself in the worn shawl
and bonnet, which had so long before done duty enough to have entitled
them to pass out of service.

“Grandma and I are going for a little walk, Anna,” he said, in his
quaint way. “I think it’ll do her good.”

“Dear boy,” said the old lady, with her sweet smile; “there never was
such a thoughtful creature.”

“I am sure it _will_ do you good, grandmother,” Anna said; “but you must
put my shawl on under yours; the wind blows cold.”

Joseph ran off to get it, and the pair wrapped the old lady up with a
fondness and attention which many a rich woman would give all her India
shawls, and diamonds to boot, to receive from her children.

Then Joseph led her carefully down the stairs, and Anna brought her pile
of work to the fire, and sat down in her grandmother’s chair. She could
not afford to waste the precious moments with so much dependent upon her
exertions; but fast as her fingers flew, still faster travelled her
young, unwearied thoughts; and that they were pleasant ones one could
have told by the smile that stole every now and then, like a ray of
sunlight, across her mouth, brightening her beauty into something
positively dazzling.

There was a quick knock at the door, but supposing it to be some of the
neighbor’s children on an errand, Anna did not pause in her work,
calling out dreamily,

“Come in.”

The door opened hesitatingly, and Anna added, “Is it you, little Alice
Romaine?”

“It is not little Alice; but may I come in?”

Anna sprang to her feet in astonishment and turned toward the door, and
stood confronting Georgiana Halstead.

“Excuse me,” Georgiana said, hastily, in her graceful, childlike way. “I
thought Rowena might come to see Rebecca. You are not vexed, are you?”

In spite of her retired life, Anna was too truly a lady to feel either
confusion or embarrassment; not even shame at the exposure of their
dreary poverty, but one of those flashes of thoughts, which travel like
lightning through the mind, struck her painfully as she looked at
Georgiana Halstead standing there in her beautiful dress, like the
goddess of luxury come to look poverty in the face, and find out what it
was like.

“I have been wanting to come so much,” continued the girl, going up to
Anna and holding out her hand.

“You are very kind,” she answered, pleasantly enough; and the momentary
bitterness died in cordial admiration of her visitor’s loveliness.

They made a beautiful picture as they stood, and the contrast only added
to the charms of either. Had a painter desired models for the patrician
descendant of Saxon kings, and the dark, passionate-eyed Jewess, he
could not have found more perfect representatives, at least of his
ideal.

“Will you sit down?” Anna said. “It was very kind of you to come.”

Her composure was quite restored, brought back more completely, perhaps,
by a pretty little hesitation in Georgiana’s manner, such as a petted
child might betray when venturing upon some step for which it feared
reproval.

“Thank you; ah! it’s nice of you not to be offended,” said Georgiana,
sitting down by the fire. “Mrs. Savage gave me your address; and ever
since the tableau I have been so wanting to come.”

“In what way can I serve you?” Anna asked, with a proud humility.

“Oh, now! if you are going to be stately, you will frighten me off
altogether,” cried Georgiana; “so please don’t, for I’m not at all
stately myself.”

Anna smiled as a queen might have smiled at a spoiled child. Ah! the
spell of wealth and station may be ever so strong, there is a power in
nature’s patents of nobility which is stronger still.

“I don’t think I know much about being stately,” she said, with one of
her rare laughs, which were so musical. “Certainly it would be a poor
way of showing my thanks for your kindness in even remembering me.”

“As if anybody could forget you! Why, the whole city has been raving
about you ever since that night!” exclaimed Georgiana; “and the men have
done nothing but beg Mrs. Savage for another sight of the queen of
beauty.”

Such words would have been very pleasant to a young girl whose life was
golden as youth ought to be; but to Anna, oppressed with care and daily
anxieties, they brought only a bitter pain.

Dear Mrs. Browning has told us in her passionate way—

              “How dreary ’tis for women to sit still,
              On Winter nights, by solitary fires,
              And hear the nations praising them far off.”

And more than one woman’s heart has ached to feel its truth; but truly,
for a woman to hear that her beauty is the theme of idle tongues, while
she sees those dear as her own life almost hungering for bread, is a
bitter comment still on the vanity of human life.

“So I thought I would come,” continued Georgiana; “and I want you to do
me a favor.”

“If I can,” Anna said; “but don’t ask me to take part in any more such
exhibitions. I can’t, indeed I can’t.”

“No, no!” returned Georgiana, hastily; “I wont. You shall not be
bothered. But I’ll tell you what I wish you would do. Now do you
promise?”

“I think I may,” Anna replied, with her lovely smile. “You don’t look as
if you could ask any thing very terrible.”

“Indeed I wont!” cried she, in her enthusiastic way. “I like you so
much; don’t be vexed. I don’t want to be patronizing or snobbish. I hate
it so; but——”

“I am sure you don’t. Please go on.”

“Well, I’m such a sad, idle creature, and I thought if you would come to
me, sometimes, and help me get through a perfect pyramid of embroidery,
and work that has been accumulating since the year one, I should be so
delighted.”

“I shall be very glad of the work, Miss Halstead, and I thank you
heartily for remembering me.”

“Oh! don’t speak that way. It’s I that ought to thank you! Why, it will
be a perfect treat just to sit and look at anybody as beautiful as you
are.”

“And I shall have that satisfaction over and above the satisfaction of
getting the work, of which I am so very, very glad.”

There was an earnestness in her voice which sobered the volatile
creature who listened. Her life had been such a fairy dream that it was
difficult for her to realize there were such evils as care and poverty
in the world. It seemed so inexplicable to her that this beautiful girl
could come, day after day, in actual contact with them.

“I will try and make it pleasant for you,” she said, more gravely than
she often spoke. “I am a spoiled, selfish girl, but I mean to be good.”

“I think you would find it difficult to be any thing else,” Anna said,
heartily.

“Oh! you don’t know. Aunt Eliza reads me the most frightful lectures; by
the way, she is a sad, catty old maid; but don’t you mind her.”

Then she began talking with her accustomed volubility; and it was as
bewitching to poor, lonely Anna as the Arabian Nights are to children.
It seemed so strange to have these glimpses at a young life so widely
separated from the clouds that hung over her own youth.

Georgiana Halstead never did things by halves; and in her usual headlong
way, she had plunged into a violent interest for this lovely stranger,
and sat there talking to her as freely as if she had known her half a
life.

“I must be going!” she exclaimed, at last. “Oh, dear me! I have been out
ages; and Aunt Eliza is waiting for the carriage; how she will scold me!
Then you’ll come, miss? Mayn’t I call you Anna?”

“Indeed you may.”

“Thanks! I like you so much. You are like a picture, or a poem. Now,
please like me.”

“Just as a prisoner might the sunlight!” exclaimed Anna, with
unconscious earnestness.

Georgiana gave her a hearty kiss, and a cordial pressure of the hand.

“Come to-morrow,” she said. “Now wont you?”

Before Anna could answer, there was a knock at the door, which startled
them both—they had been so completely absorbed.

“Who is that?” Georgiana asked.

“Only some of the neighbors, probably,” Anna answered. “Come in,
please.”

The door opened. The girls turned simultaneously toward it, and there
stood Horace Savage.

He advanced without any hesitation, saying,

“Excuse my intrusion, Miss Burns. Ah, Miss Georgiana, this is an
unexpected pleasure.”

The girl’s brow contracted slightly; her quick glance went from one to
the other.

“And to me, also,” she said.

There had been one vivid burst of crimson across Anna Burns’ cheek; then
it faded, leaving her paler than before; but she stood there perfectly
quiet and self-possessed.

“Will you sit down, Mr. Savage? If Miss Halstead will wait a moment she
wont have to go down our dark staircase alone.”

“Miss Halstead never waits,” returned Georgiana, laughingly; but the
childlike glee had forsaken both voice and face.

“My errand is a very brief one,” said Horace. “I only wanted to inquire
after my little pets, the boys. I hope Miss Burns will not consider me
impertinent.”

“I thank you,” Anna said; “they are, both of them, out now.”

“Dear me, it is very late,” said Georgiana. “Good-by, Miss Burns. You
wont forget?”

But the voice was colder, and Anna noticed it.

“I shall be at Miss Halstead’s command,” she said, gravely.

“And I shall do myself the honor of seeing her safely down the stairs,”
said Horace.

She did not seem to hear him, but ran away through the passage. He stood
a second irresolute. Anna’s grave face did not change; and after a few
confused words he followed Georgiana Halstead down the stairs.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                            LOVE AND MALICE.


Savage walked home with Georgiana Halstead, but there was little
conversation between them. She was a good deal excited, and walked with
a quick, almost impetuous step, while her eyes brightened, her lips
parted, and a warm red came into her cheeks. She said nothing, and
seemed almost to wish the handsome young fellow by her side far away;
his presence annoyed her.

Savage was grave, anxious, and so pre-occupied that he did not observe
this change in the graceful young creature whose friendship had always
been so dear to him. When they reached Mrs. Halstead’s residence he
hesitated a moment, lifted his hat, and said, with a smile,

“May I go in, Miss Georgie?”

“Certainly, of course; how rude I was,” she answered, and the color on
her cheeks flushed over her whole face in a scarlet cloud. “They will
all be glad to see you.”

“But I would rather see you alone, just for once, in your own pretty
room—is it quite inadmissible?”

“In my room? Well, why not? Come this way. I only hope Aunt Eliza won’t
be looking over the bannisters.”

Georgie laughed, in spite of all the painful feelings that swelled her
young heart, when she looked upward, with her foot upon the first stair,
and saw the long face of Miss Eliza peering down upon her.

Savage, too, caught a glimpse of the restless female, and joined Georgie
in her sweet, low laugh, but decorously pretended not to see that tall
figure as it drew back and darted away.

The young people entered Georgie’s little sitting-room. Savage placed
his hat on one of the mosaic tables, Georgie placed her bonnet beside
it, and threw her India shawl across a chair, unconsciously forming a
sumptuous drapery which swept the carpet.

“Upon my word,” she said, shaking her bright curls loose, and pressing
them back from her flushed cheeks with both hands, “this seems romantic.
I wonder what Aunt Eliza will say?”

“Never mind what she says.”

“Oh! but you would mind, if she lived in the house with you; but there
is dear, old grandmamma to help me out if she bears down too hard—so
find yourself a chair. The fire is delightful after our cold walk. What
a change it is from that room to this?”

Georgiana had seated herself in the Turkish chair, and sat nestled in
its cushions, with the firelight glimmering over her as she made this
remark. Savage drew a low ottoman to her side, and sat down upon it.

“You were thinking of that garret-room in the tenement-house?” he said.

“Yes, and thinking, too, how thoughtless and ungrateful I am for all
this comfort, for which I have done nothing, while——”

Georgie broke off, and her eyes filled with tears, softly and brightly
as violets gather dew.

“While that poor girl is compelled to toil for the bare necessaries of
life; that’s what was in your heart, I know,” said Savage, taking her
hand gently in his. “I—I would speak to you about her.”

“To me—and about her?” said Georgie, drawing her hand away. “I scarcely
know her. She is a nice girl, I dare say; but why should any one wish to
talk to me about her?”

“Because you are good and generous; because she is helpless and
beautiful.”

“Beautiful!—is she? I did not particularly observe it. A brunette, isn’t
she? Some people like that style. I—I—but you had something to say, and
I interrupted you.”

“Oh, Miss Halstead! you could be of such service to this sweet girl.”

“I of service to her?” said Georgie, lifting her head with a little
fling of pride. “I thank you for the idea. What does she want of me?”

“What, Anna Burns? Nothing. Poor girl! she is not one to ask help; but
knowing you so good and gentle, I thought to interest you in her behalf.
She is a lady.”

“Yes, yes! she is nice and very lady-like, I admit that; and good as she
is beautiful. That means nothing, Mr. Savage. When beauty lies in the
fancy of the beholder, we cannot measure other qualities by it,” said
Georgie. “Please go on and tell me what I can do?”

“You can do every thing for this young girl. She is so lonely, so
isolated in that comfortless place.”

“Yes, it is terrible,” cried Georgie, shivering among her cushions. “Yet
you did not seem to find it so very disagreeable.”

“No place where she is can be disagreeable to me,” answered Savage, with
deep feeling.

Georgie turned white, and shrunk back in her chair, as if some one had
struck her. Her voice scarcely rose above a whisper when she forced it
into words,

“You love this girl, then?”

“Love her, Georgie? Yes, better than my life—better than all the world
beside!”

There was silence for a moment. Georgie’s lovely face grew cold and
white as marble. She seemed to wither up like a flower cut at the
stalks. The very lips were pale. At last an almost noiseless sob broke
through them, and she started into life.

“Does she love you?”

“I hope, I think so. She has said as much.”

“And then?”

“Oh! my sweet friend, it is for her I want your help. I know how
difficult it will be to reconcile my mother; she has such lofty
expectations regarding me.”

“Who has not?” murmured Georgie.

“Do you know,” cried Savage, laughing, and patting her hand as if it had
been a pet bird he was playing with, so much occupied that he did not
feel its marble coldness, or read the agony in those shrinking eyes, “do
you know she has set her heart on making a match between you and me; as
if people who have played together in childhood ever fell in love with
each other; but she will not give up this hope without a struggle,
though I have told her fifty times that we like each other too well for
love.”

“You are right, we do,” said the lovely young creature, sitting upright,
and putting the hair back from her throbbing temples. “What an idea!”
and a laugh broke from her which startled him a little; there was such a
ring of pain in it.

“She is so fond of you, Georgie. Indeed, who could help it? Then we have
been a good deal together. I got a habit of coming here somehow, and it
wasn’t so very strange, after all; only it seems absurd to us, who never
thought of such a thing.”

“Yes, very absurd,” cried Georgie, with another laugh, which brought
fresh tears into her eyes.

“And now, when I am in such deadly earnest, when I would give the world
to make Anna Burns my wife, even this foolish idea comes up as an
obstacle.”

“But you have told your mother that there is nothing in it?”

“Yes, fifty times; but she will not believe me.”

“She will believe me when I tell her it is impossible—ridiculous!”

Poor Georgie, she caught her breath, and broke up a great sob before she
could utter the word ridiculous; but carried it off with a laugh, which
the blind young fellow passed over without a thought of the pain which
made it sound so unlike her usual silvery outgushes of merriment.

“Will you do this, Georgie? Say that you never fancied me in that light,
that nothing would induce you to marry me?”

“But she—she will hate me forever after,” said Georgie, mournfully; “and
I think she did like me.”

“Oh! it will not last a month; and I—I shall love you so dearly for this
help. Anna, also, you cannot think how much she admires you.”

“I am sure she is very kind.”

“Kind—no! She is only the most appreciative creature in the world. Then
you are my friend?”

Georgie shrunk from all this praise, which was bitter when mingled with
that of another so much more beloved than she ever was, and desperately
changed the subject.

“But there was something else; you had more than this on your mind.”

“But I shall oppress you with my selfishness.”

“No, that you cannot. I—I shall only be too happy in serving you.”

“That is my old, dear friend,” cried the young man, looking brightly
into her face, which must have struck him as strangely pallid but for
the firelight that fell upon it. “Do you know, Georgie, that something
in your way of receiving my confidence has almost chilled me?”

“Indeed, it is because you cannot read my heart—that is not cold; try it
and see.”

“I am trying it,” answered Savage, quite unconscious of the cruel truth
he spoke. “Last night, as I thought all this over in my room, I said if
there is a creature on earth that I can trust, heart and soul, it is
Georgiana Halstead.”

“And so you can,” cried Georgie, holding out both her trembling hands,
which he clasped eagerly. “I am not very strong, and sometimes I have
felt pain; but I will be your faithful friend.”

“And hers, Georgie?”

“Yes, and hers,” answered the young creature, bravely. “Now tell me what
more can I do?”

“I will, Georgie. This girl, Anna Burns, you know, is very poor. Her
father was an artist, and, I think, must have been educated as a
gentleman, for his children have received great care; but he died in the
army, and left his family helpless, even more destitute than you saw
them to-day.”

“Dear me,” murmured Georgie, glad of any excuse to weep, “that seems
scarcely possible.”

“How kind you are; so tender-hearted, so good—do not cry. How you sob!
There, there! the worst of this suffering is over now. A little help
will make them comfortable.”

Georgie buried her face in both hands, and gave way to the grief that
had been struggling in her heart till it was almost broken.

Savage rose, and bent over her, smoothing her bright hair caressingly
with his hand.

“Dear, tender-hearted girl,” he said, full of self-reproach: “and I
thought her cold, unsympathizing. Georgie, can you forgive me?”

“Forgive you! forgive you!” repeated the poor girl, removing her hands,
and lifting those deep, troubled eyes to his face. “Oh, yes! I am sure
to forgive you; but what a child I have been, crying about troubles that
are nothing. Now tell me what it is that I can do for these people. It
is a shame that any man who has died fighting for his county should
leave suffering to his family.”

“But many a soldier’s family have suffered, and will, notwithstanding
the people’s gratitude. This is what I desire of you. This family are
even now suffering great privation. It is terrible for refined and
educated persons to be crowded, as they are, under the roof of a house
crowded with low families. You saw how pale they were; what a look of
weariness lay even on the faces of the children. They need neat, airy
apartments, pure air, wholesome food. All this it would be easy to give;
but I cannot do it in my own person.”

“Why not?” inquired Georgie, in her innocence.

Savage smiled, and began to smooth her hair again.

“Simply for this reason, dear friend: that nice old lady would not take
a dollar of my money for any purpose; nor would Anna, I am certain. But
from you it would be different. Let me find the money, and you shall be
my agent—the fairest and sweetest that ever served a friend.”

“I understand now. Yes, you are right; they could not receive benefits
from you; but I am different. Let me once reach their hearts, and all
will be easy.”

“Then you will do this?”

“Why should you ask me? Have I not promised? But I only ask one
privilege; let me tell grandmamma. She will help me as no one else can.”

“But will she consent? Will she keep our secret?”

“What, grandmamma? Of course she will.”

Here a knock at the door disturbed the young people. Savage drew back
and leaned against the mantel-piece, while Georgie bade the intruder
enter.

A servant came in with Miss Eliza Halstead’s compliments, and she
trusted Mr. Savage would give her a few moments’ conversation up stairs
before he left the house. Miss Eliza had something very particular,
indeed, which she wished to communicate.

Mr. Savage sent word that he should be delighted to pay his respects to
Miss Eliza, and would do himself that honor in a few minutes.

The servant closed the door. Then Savage, with ardent thanks, that went
to the young girl’s heart like arrows tipped with flame, took his leave
of Georgiana, and left her alone with her wounded life.

Miss Eliza had been in a state of wild commotion from the moment she saw
young Savage enter the house from her stand-point over the banisters.
She, too, had her boudoir, which, however, was half dressing-room, into
which she made a plunge with a breathless determination to convert the
confusion, which usually reigned there, into a state of picturesque
elegance, suggestive of her own poetic mind. To this end she hustled a
pile of paper-covered books, two or three pairs of old slippers, a faded
bouquet, and a dilapidated dressing-case into the next room; dusted the
tables with a fold of her morning-wrapper, in which she had been
indolently reading, and then took a general survey of the apartment.
Over the small centre-table, which she had just dusted, hung a basket of
artificial flowers, somewhat faded and dusty, but in good preservation,
considering that they had done duty for more than one season on Miss
Eliza’s head. Over this, apparently plunging downward, as if intent on
burying himself in the flowers, dust or no dust, was a moderately-sized
cupid, white as snow, suspended to the ceiling by an invisible wire, and
holding his arms out toward the flowers which that envious wire
permitted him to contemplate, but forbade him to reach.

Miss Eliza glanced up at the cupid with a simpering smile, made a dash
at the basket with her handkerchief, which set both that and the cupid
in motion, and made another application to the table necessary; then
scattering some books over it in picturesque confusion, she took a
volume of Tennyson, laid it open, with the leaves downward, on the edge
of the table, drew an easy-chair into position, and hurried into her
bed-chamber.

Miss Eliza never allowed any person to witness the mysteries of her
toilet, so I cannot describe what took place in the inner room. But
after a time she came forth, radiant, in a white merino dress, ruffled
half a yard deep with convolutions of blue ribbons. Long streamers of
the same color fell from the clustering bows on her shoulders, and
another ribbon was drawn, snood fashion, through a mass of crimped hair
lifted high from her temples, and floated off airily with a mass of
curls that fell from the back of her head.

Miss Eliza rang the bell, turned up her eyes with a devout look, which
made the little cupid tremble on his wire, and sunk into her easy-chair,
smiling upon the folds of her dress as they settled around her with
statuesque effect. Then a new idea seized upon her. A gardiniere, full
of plants, stood in one of the windows. In eager haste Miss Eliza
gathered therefrom two or three sweet-scented geranium leaves, and a
half-open rose; these she placed on her bosom, and returned to her seat
beneath the cupid, and sat waiting with her hand upon the volume of
Tennyson, and one foot pressed upon an ottoman, as if she had been
sitting for a portrait.

I am certain she heard that light footstep the moment it touched the
stairs, thick as the carpet was, for a soft flutter of delight stirred
her garments as if they had been the plumage of a bird; and starting
suddenly, she stood a moment on the ottoman, flirting her handkerchief
upward till the cupid went off in an ecstasy of motion, and seemed quite
unable to contain itself. Then she settled down again, and cried out
softly, “Come in,” when Savage knocked at the door.

“Oh, Mr. Savage! how long you have been in coming,” she said, reaching
forth her left hand with a motion which threw the sleeve back from an
arm that had once been round and white, but keeping her seat all the
time, not caring to destroy the effect of her position. “Indeed, you are
too bad, I have quite thrilled myself with Tennyson waiting for you.”

“I have but just got your summons, Miss Halstead,” said Savage.

“Indeed! but there are moments in life when moments seem like ages.”

“Oh! don’t talk of ages, Miss Halstead, it makes one feel so old!”

Miss Eliza waved her head with a gentle smile, and looked upward, which
assured her that the cupid was softly vibrating above her.

“Ah, Mr. Savage! there ever will exist persons who cannot grow old!”

Savage bowed, and answered that it needed no words to convince him that
she spoke truly. The young man laid his hand on the back of a chair as
he spoke; but removing her foot from the ottoman, she motioned him to
sit there.

“Forgive me, I dare not presume,” he said. “Once at your feet, I might
never be able to leave them.”

Miss Eliza looked down modestly, and a sigh disturbed the geranium
leaves on her bosom.

“You sent for me, Miss Halstead?” said Savage, a little embarrassed by
these gentle demonstrations.

“Sent for you? Oh, yes! But let us waive the subject a little longer; it
will be soon enough for the serpent to creep into our paradise when it
cannot be kept out.” She glanced upward, and Savage, following her eyes,
saw the god of love hovering over them. Spite of himself a smile broke
all over his face.

Miss Eliza had reached a phase in her programme which required a
drooping of the eyelashes, and she lost the smile while performing her
part.

“We were speaking of age,” she said, dreamily; “not that it is a subject
which can, as yet, interest either of us; but I sometimes think that the
lightness of selfish enjoyment and surface life of mere youth is more
unendurable than age itself. There is my niece down stairs now——”

“What! Georgie? She is the very embodiment of all that is sweet and
lovable in youth. You cannot say more in her praise than I will indorse
heart and soul,” cried Savage, whose heart was brimful of gratitude for
the young creature who, all unknown to him, was weeping so bitterly in
the room below. “If you wish to depicture all the grace and bloom of
youth in its perfection, a lovelier object could not be found.”

Miss Eliza moved restlessly in her chair, clasped her hand fiercely in
the folds of her dress, and choked back the venom that burned for
utterance with the resolution of a martyr.

“You—you think so? Well, yes; the same roof shelters us, and magnanimity
is always a virtue. Georgiana is, as you say, very lovely; and no one
can dispute that she is young—verdantly so, I fear. Why, Mr. Savage, you
would hardly believe it, but she—in her innocence, I will not say
obstinacy—is always doing the most extraordinary things. Why, this very
day she has been in one of the most extraordinary neighborhoods,
absolutely disreputable, and visiting a house—really, I cannot tell you
how low her associates sometimes are. I expostulated with her, reasoned
with her; but it was of no earthly use; go she would, and go she did.”

“But where did she go? I do not understand.”

“You remember that night when you first knelt at my feet before an
admiring multitude. Oh! shall I ever forget it! There was a young person
admitted into social communication with the choice few, by what
influence we will not now wait to question, who was absolutely raked up
from the very dregs of society—a poor sewing-girl. Worse than that, a
creature brought up in one of those loathsome dens called
tenement-houses; a low bred——”

“Madam—Miss Halstead!” cried Savage, while his face wore one flush of
indignation.

“I do not wonder that you are astonished,” persisted Miss Eliza. “It was
an insult; no amount of prettiness could excuse it—not that I think the
creature pretty, far from it. Well, this girl, after standing up in one
of the most vulgar, poverty-stricken pictures you ever saw, in her real
dress, and character, too, flaunted herself in velvet, and gold, and
jewels, as Rebecca, in a gorgeous tableau, with young Gould as the
Templar. This was directly after our exquisite representation, and, I
dare say, intended to rival it. Well, somehow, Georgiana, who is always
doing childish things, got acquainted with the girl then and there,
behind the scenes, I believe, where the artful thing had pretended to
faint.”

“Oh! Miss Halstead, this is too much!” exclaimed Savage, starting up
with anger in his eyes.

“I thought that you would feel this keenly, knowing how nearly
Georgiana, foolish child, is related to myself,” resumed Miss Eliza,
with great self-complacency. “And this generous indignation touches me
to the heart. Oh! it is so sweet to be thoroughly appreciated. But this
is not all; Georgiana was full of this girl’s praises, pitied her, raved
about her beauty-beauty, indeed! but that was to annoy me—the silliness
of youth is often very malicious; and at last went off to the horrid
place where this creature lives, in defiance of my wishes, in absolute
scorn of my opinion. This very day she visited this disreputable
creature in her garret, as if she had been an equal.”

“Disreputable!” repeated Savage, starting up, pale with suppressed
wrath. “Miss Halstead, I cannot listen to this. I, too, have visited the
young lady you condemn so bitterly.”

“Young lady, Mr. Savage! and to me!” faltered Miss Eliza, with a flame
of natural color overpowering the permanent roses of her cheek. “Great
heavens! to me!”

“Yes, Miss Halstead, I said lady; and that Miss Anna Burns certainly is,
if one ever lived.”

Miss Eliza grew livid about her mouth and forehead; even her hands
turned coldly white.

“A lady, and live in that house!” she said, with a snarling laugh.

“Yes, madam; even there.”

“Madam! You call me madam—you!” cried the spinster, burying her face
between both hands. “Has it come to this, and for her sake?”

“Poverty, undeserved poverty does not change a refined nature. That
girl, madam, is good, gentle, intelligent. Her presence would make any
place beautiful.”

“Oh! oh! my heart, my heart!” cried Miss Eliza, pressing both hands to
her side, and rocking to and fro in her chair. “These words pierce me
like a poisoned arrow!”

“Forgive me; I do not wish to be harsh; but this young girl is so
unprotected.”

“Forgive you! Alas! this poor heart has no choice,” cried the lady,
reaching out her arms with touching impulsiveness. “Its fibres are too
delicate; the touch of woe wounds it. With me, forgiveness is a sweet
duty.”

A smile quivered over the young man’s lip, spite of anger; at which Miss
Eliza drew in her arms, and clasped her hands, with a deep, deep sigh.

“Oh! how grieved you will be when the whole is told you,” she said,
seating herself on the chair he had resigned, and clasping her fingers
over the hand which still rested on its back. “You have been in that
house? Horrible desecration! I shudder to think of it. How you have
wronged me. It was not this creature’s poverty that shocked me so, but
her depravity.”

“Depravity!”

“Her artfulness! her duplicity! Do not look at me so sternly. I, too,
have been in that tenement-house.”

“You, Miss Eliza?”

“Yes, even that I have endured, in hopes of saving our Georgiana from a
dangerous acquaintance. I have seen the woman who keeps the house—a
coarse, vicious creature, buried to her knees in slop-work, who eyed me
like a terrier when I went in, and would hardly stop working while I
inquired about the people up stairs. A weak person might have been
driven away by this rudeness; but I had a duty to perform, and that
thought gave me courage. I took out my porte-monnaie and laid some money
in her lap; then she told me all—all!”

Savage, spite of himself, grew interested; for now Eliza spoke
naturally, and seemed really in earnest; her dull eyes lighted up with
venomous fire. She was eager as a snake when it charms a bird to
destruction.

“And what did she tell you?” he said, ashamed of the question as he
uttered it.

“Mr. Savage, I had seen this girl more than once in the street, talking
with gentlemen.”

Savage blushed crimson.

“With gentlemen, Miss Eliza? I know that you saw her once with me,
coming from my mother’s.”

“Yes, I saw it. Oh! God forgive you the pang the sight gave me—but that
was not all. I said _gentlemen_.”

“You saw her with some one else, then?”

“I did, and who—a gamester—a blackleg—a hotel-lounger—that Ward, who is
so much with young Gould.”

“What! Ward? And you saw him walking with Anna Burns?”

“Worse than that; I saw them standing together on the public pavement,
conversing earnestly.”

“But that might have been innocent enough.”

“Yes; but was it quite so innocent when he followed her home an hour
after?”

Savage laid his hand almost fiercely on the spinster’s shoulder.

“Woman, is this the truth?”

“Do you question it? I saw him with my own eyes enter the house.
Georgiana’s infatuation about the girl made me vigilant.”

“But this was only once,” said the young man, desperately. “I cannot
believe she encouraged him in this impudence.”

“This was the first time; but he went there again and again—I know it—I
am sure of it; the woman told me so.”

Savage clenched his teeth hard, and, going up to the gardiniere, tore a
branch from the geranium and flung it angrily from him.

“It is impossible—I will not believe it,” he said, with passionate
violence. “There is some combination against her.”

“What combination could have induced this gambler, Ward, to hire a room
and become an inmate in this squalid house?”

“And is this so?”

“The woman herself showed me his chamber—a miserable, shabby room, for
which he had paid the rent in advance, she stated.”

“Great heavens! this is terrible! Woman, woman, I charge you, tell me
the truth! Is there no mistake in this?” His lips quivered, his eyes
were bright with pain.

“Go to the woman yourself if you doubt me,” was the answer. “Then say if
I am not right in forbidding our Georgiana ever to enter that place
again. She may be obstinate enough to insist; but I shall have done my
duty.”

Miss Eliza folded her hands over each other, and rubbed them gently as
she spoke. Savage looked at her with no pleasant expression in his eyes.
Up to this time she had amused him by her ridiculous affectation; but
now he began to hate her, for he saw under all her extravagance a vein
of bitter malice, subtle as the venom of a serpent. He could not
altogether disbelieve her, but detested her the more for that. We never
love, and seldom forgive, those who destroy our illusions.

Miss Eliza took the half-open rose from her bosom, blew a kiss into its
leaves, and gave it to him.

“We have wasted some precious minutes on this worthless girl,” she said,
“let this compensate for the annoyance.”

Savage took the rose and crushed it ruthlessly in his hand.

“As I could crush her!” he muttered, turning away and leaving the room
before Eliza had time to stop him.

She started up and ran to the door, calling out, “Mr. Savage! Mr.
Savage!”

He heard her, and muttered something between his teeth, which was
neither a compliment nor a blessing. That moment he was opposite the
door of Georgiana’s room.

“I ought to go in and release her from that kind promise; but not
yet—not yet. I have not the courage to tell her yet. Besides, it may be
false—it may be false! Georgiana, herself, did not seem more innocent
than she was; and the old woman, too—was all her sweetness put on? I
have heard of such things—seen them, too. The meekest looking woman I
ever saw had murdered two husbands, and was caught looking out for a
third. If mother Burns is one of that sort, no wonder her grandchild is
mistress of her art. But it is not true—I cannot believe it. So sweet,
so gentle, so——”

With a gesture of passionate grief Savage turned from the door of
Georgie’s room, which he had almost opened, and hurried down stairs.
Miserable, jealous, and burning with fierce indignation, he followed a
passionate instinct, and went directly into the neighborhood where Anna
Burns lived. He had formed no positive design, but went blindly to work,
fearing that every step he took would tear that dear image from his
heart, yet eager to seize upon the bitter truth. Following the scent of
fried ham, which came to him on the stairs, he knocked at an ill-fitting
door, through which a hissing sound bespoke the fair progress of some
meal, and was told by a loud voice to come in.

It was the room which we have once described, and the same coarse,
repulsive woman presided in it. But this time she was busy over a
cooking-stove, turning some slices of ham in a short-handled frying-pan,
where they hissed and sent off steam, as if she were torturing them with
her knife. A basket, crowded full of slop-work, stood in one corner of
the room, and a little side-thimble lay upon the narrow window-sill,
close by a cushion of scarlet cloth, bristling all over with coarse
needles and crooked pins.

When Savage entered the room, the woman turned her face, which flamed
out, hot and red, from its cloud of steam, and stood, with her knife
half suspended, waiting for him to speak.

“Madam, are you the mistress of this house?” he said, lifting the hat
from his head.

“I believe they generally call me so,” she answered, bending the point
of her knife against the stove. “Wont you walk in and help yourself to a
chair?”

“No, thank you. I come to inquire for a gentleman who has a room here, I
think—Mr. Ward.”

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed the woman. “Didn’t know but it might
be another big-bug struck with a liking for the house. Suppose it must
be because they’ve took sich a fancy to me all at once. Anna Burns has
nothing to do with it. Oh, no!”

Here the woman thrust her knife under a slice of ham and turned it over
with emphasis, laughing a low, disagreeable laugh, and shaking her head,
as if greatly enjoying her own words.

“You want to see Mr. Ward?” she said at last, coming out of her laugh.
“Jest mount the next stairs, and you’ll find his room on the left, right
under their’n. I shouldn’t wonder if he ain’t at home, though. Never had
a more uncertain person under this roof. But then I never had a genuine
big-bug afore. Wait a minute, and I’ll show you the way.”

“No, thank you, I can find it,” answered Savage, turning away white and
faint. Until that moment he had hoped that something might arise to
refute Miss Eliza’s slander—but bitter confirmation met him at every
step. He made no effort to see Ward; indeed, had no intention of meeting
him from the first. His name had only been used as an excuse for
questioning that fiery-faced woman, who was cross and coarse, but not
bad at heart.

“If you want a room, or any thing of that sort, I may as well out with
it, and say that it can’t be had,” cried that female, standing up
resolutely with the knife in her hand. “It don’t set easy on my
conscience letting in that other chap. There’s something mean and
underhanded about his coming here, or I don’t know good from bad. The
fact is, I offered him his money back, and would a put up with the loss;
but he said he had got friends in the house, and couldn’t think of it.
This riled me more than any thing, for I had a liking for that old woman
and the girl, to say nothing of the little boys, that are worth their
weight in gold, going up and down stairs chattering and laughing so
bright; and I told him it was a shame to come here just to unsettle a
poor young cretur’s head that had got trouble enough already. At which
he laughed and hitched up his shoulders, and woke up my temper till I
could a boxed his ears, and gloried over it like sixty, if it hadn’t
been for the law, which makes sich things salt and battery, and six
months in the penitentiary; which I shouldn’t like, being respectable,
and working for one of the best clothing houses in the city, besides
hiring this house on speculation; and a purty speculation it’s been, one
month in advance, and then three dunning for—and obliged to turn ’em out
at last; except that family in the top, I never dunned them, poor
creturs! and wouldn’t anyhow, knowing that they would starve rather than
not pay, if they had it. Poor girl! Poor girl! I feel as if I’d helped
to hunt her down, somehow, and it sets hard here.”

The woman placed her hand, knife and all, against her right side,
solemnly impressed with an idea that her heart lay in that direction;
and a heavy sigh was lost in the hissing which rose from the frying-pan.

“No, no! I’ll have nothing to do with tenants that come here with kid
gloves and coral studs in their bosom. It isn’t for me, a hard-working
woman, to put temptation in the way of my own sect. So, if You’d just as
lieve, I’d rather you wouldn’t come here no more. I’ve seen you more an
once going up to the top of the house, and it kinder made the heart ache
in my bosom.”

Savage listened to all this with an aching heart and changing
countenance. The coarse, hard honesty of the woman enforced his respect;
and he stood with his hat off gazing upon her with strange interest.

“It is not likely that I ever shall come again,” he said, with a pang at
his heart, laying his hand on the door-knob.

“It was that live-folks picture that did it,” said the woman; “afore
that time no living creature ever went to see them. Now it is ladies in
their flounces and with lace parasols; and gentlemen in broadcloth,
cutting up and down all the time. I wish they’d a let the poor soul
alone.”

“And so do I,” answered Savage, with deep feeling. “It was kindly meant.
But I will bid you good-day, madam. If I should ever come here again,
pray believe that it is with no unworthy motive. I cannot permit you to
think otherwise in common self-respect.”

“Well, then, don’t come again, and I’ll believe you. In fact, I do now.
There’s a difference between gentlemen and gentlemen. I only wish the
other chap had a face that could turn red and white like yours. The long
and the short of it is, I wish he was straight out of my house; that
poor child don’t seem like the same cretur since he came here.”

Savage did not stay to ask in what this change consisted, the subject
had become altogether too painful; so, with a bend of his head, he went
out. One moment he paused upon the staircase; his heart turned with
passionate longing toward that lonely upper room. Even in her
unworthiness, he yearned to look upon Anna’s face once more; to hear her
sweet voice proclaim the innocence he never could believe in again. But
he thought of Ward, the gambler and convenient toady, whom so many men
used in his scoundrelism, and despised, as they used him, with a
sensation of such intense loathing, that it turned his very compassion
away from the young creature he had loved with such self-sacrificing
truth.

“Had it been any one else,” he muttered through his shut teeth, “I could
have borne it better; but this paltry wretch, this miserable hound!
Great heavens! and she, so gentle, so exquisitely pure! It is beyond
belief. Never till now did I believe in the utter duplicity of the sex.
Poor girl! Poor, wrecked girl! Could she have known how I loved her?”

With these thoughts, which broke in half-formed words against his shut
teeth, the young man went down stairs, and into the poverty-stricken
neighborhood beyond, feeling, for the first time, in all its force, how
squalid and offensive it was. Scarcely had his foot touched the
pavement, when he saw Anna Burns coming down the side-walk with a small
parcel in her hand. Her face lighted up as she saw him, her cheeks
dimpled, and a warm love-glow came into her eyes. Savage stood
motionless, looking at her with his stern eyes on fire, and his lips
set.

She did not see the expression of his face, for, after the first glad
recognition, her eyelids had drooped in shame at her own eager joy, and
she came up to him shrinking and covered with blushes—came up and held
out her hand; for was he not her declared lover, this brave, handsome
young fellow, whom any lady of the land would have gloried in.

Savage did not touch that eager little hand, but lifting his hat with
haughty coldness, walked on, leaving her chilled with dismay. She turned
and looked after him with a cry of surprised pain, scarcely kept back
from the parted lips which closed slowly, and seemed freezing into
marble as his stern, unyielding footsteps bore him further and further
away. Then, just as he was turning a corner, the cry broke from her,
“Oh, come back! Come back!” and turning wildly, she ran a few steps
after him, till she was checked on the pavement, her face so wildly
pale, coming suddenly opposite that of young Ward, who seized one of her
hands, and asked what it was that had frightened her so.

That moment Savage turned the corner and looked back.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                        A HARD-HEARTED VILLAIN.


Ward attempted to draw Anna’s hand through his own, but she resisted
him, and at last tore it away in passionate anger.

“Mr. Ward,” she said, “this is unkind—it is rude. You have no right to
take such liberties with me.”

There was fire enough in those eyes, then, and a world of scorn on the
lovely mouth. She turned one look in the direction which Savage had
taken, saw that he was gone, and turned fiercely upon Ward again.

“You are wicked—you are cruel!” she said. “Knowing how helpless I am,
you persecute me horribly!”

“I persecute you, sweet one—the idea! Is it in this way you mistake my
adoration?”

Anna’s red lips curved with scorn; her eyes flashed, her whole form
trembled.

“Great heavens!” she exclaimed, “I never knew what a terrible thing
poverty was before. But for that you could not have forced yourself
under the same roof with a poor, helpless girl; but for that you dare
not have spoken to me.”

“Do not accuse poverty for the acts which spring out of love, sweet
one.”

Anna heard no more; but gathering her shawl about her with the haughty
grace of an empress, she turned away from him and walked quickly into
the house. The young gambler followed her, laughing; the excitement of
her anger charmed him. Quickly as he walked, Anna had mounted the third
flight of stairs before he entered the passage. He just caught a glimpse
of her dress on the upper landing, and that was all. But he went up
stairs, smiling to himself and humming a tune, conscious of his power to
see her almost when he pleased.

Old Mrs. Burns was busy darning the only tablecloth in that poor
establishment, when Anna came in, all on fire with wounded affection and
outraged pride.

“Grandmother,” she said, “we must move; this house is no place for us.
Let us go to-night—this hour!”

The old lady was holding up the tablecloth between her eyes and the
light, searching for more broken threads. She dropped it suddenly as her
granddaughter spoke, and gazed at her a moment in anxious wonder.

“What is it, Anna? Who has troubled you, dear?”

“That young man in the room below. I haven’t told you of it before,
grandmother, but he is always in my way. I cannot go up or down stairs
that he does not say things to me which seem insulting, situated as we
are.”

“My poor child! poor, dear, little Anna!” said the old lady, going up to
the excited girl and smoothing the rich waves of her hair as if she had
been a child. “Perhaps the young man means no harm. What sort of a
person is he?”

“A dandy; a pitiful——”

Here Anna’s anger flowed out, and she burst into tears.

“There, there! Don’t cry so, child! What did the young man say to you?”

“Say—say? I don’t remember, grandma. Nothing, I think; only he held my
hand so close, and _he_ saw it——Oh! it is too bad—it is too bad!”

“Be tranquil, Anna. I cannot think what has come over you. Why, your
eyes are full of smothered shame; your lips tremble, you are giving way
altogether. Sit down quietly, and tell me what it is all about.”

“I will, grandmother. I know it is a shame to take on so, but that man
is enough to drive one mad. What is he doing in this house? Robert says
that he is a gentleman, and a great friend of young Mr. Gould’s. He can
have no honest business here.”

The old lady sat down in her rocking-chair, and sat thoughtfully gazing
in Anna’s face. She was a timid woman, and poverty had fastened its
depressing influence on all her faculties. But there was moral force
asleep in her nature yet; the color came and went in her old cheek; her
soft, brown eyes grew resolute in their expression.

“There is no one to protect us—no one to say a word in our behalf,” said
Anna, with a fresh outburst of tears. “Robert is too young. Oh! what can
we do—what can we do?”

The old lady arose from her chair, and going up to a tiny looking-glass
which hung on the wall, smoothed the gray hair under her cap with two
little withered hands that shook like aspen-leaves. Then, with a look of
gentle resolution on her face, she softly opened the door and went down
stairs.

Young Ward was lying upon his bed with a segar in his mouth. He lay
prone on his back, and sent up clouds of smoke with a vehemence which
seemed to have filled his moustache and hair with smouldering fire. He
turned lazily as the old lady knocked, and emitting a fresh volume of
smoke, called out,

“Come in! Why the deuce don’t you come in?”

Mrs. Burns came gently through the door, and stood a pace inside the
threshold gazing at him. Ward started up, flung his feet over the side
of the bed, and looked his astonishment at this intrusion.

“How do you do, ma’am? Glad to see you. Take a seat. This seems
neighborly. Excuse my dressing-gown; free-and-easy in my room here. Did
not expect the honor of a lady’s company, but glad to have it. Sit
down.”

Mrs. Burns took a chair near the bed, and, folding both hands in her
lap, turned her eyes full upon the flushed face turned upon her.

“Mr. Ward—I believe that is your name?”

“Certainly. Nothing could be more correct,” answered Ward, thrusting his
foot into an embroidered slipper trodden down at the heel, which had
dropped to the floor; “delighted that you remember it.”

“Mr. Ward, we are two helpless creatures—my grandchild and myself; one
from age, the other because of her youth. A more helpless family, in
fact, does not exist. We have nothing in the wide world but our good
name, and the work of our hands to live on. Unhappily! most unhappily!
my granddaughter, Anna, is so pretty that men turn to look at her in the
street; and even ladies think much of her on that account.”

“They are deuced jealous of her, I can tell you that,” burst forth young
Ward, puffing away at his segar, which was half extinguished. “And no
wonder; she cuts into them all hollow. Of course, men turn to look at
her in the street; they don’t see a figure and face like that often, I
can tell you. Then her instep, one sees it now and then coming up
stairs, you know, when her dress is looped up—and it’s Spanish,
absolutely Spanish, I can tell you. My dear madam, you have got a
treasure of beauty in that girl—you have, indeed; I give you my honor
upon it.”

“I have come,” said the old lady, ignoring this speech, though a flush
of red came across her withered cheek, and the hands moved restlessly in
her lap, “I have come to tell you how unprotected we are, and how hard
it is for us to get a living. I have come to ask a great favor of you.”

“What! want money? All right. I thought it would come to that! How much?
I’ll stand a pretty heavy pull; hang me, if I wont.

Ward flouted his slipper on the floor, and, drawing a porte-monnaie from
one of his pockets, took out a roll of treasury-notes.

This time the color in the old woman’s face burned into scarlet.

“I did not mean that, young man—I did not mean that. The favor I want is
more important to us than all the money you possess.”

Ward put the roll of bills slowly back into his porte-monnaie, and
closed it with a loud snap.

“Not want money? Then in the name of Jupiter! what is it you are after?”

“I wish you to give up this room and leave the house. This is no place
for a rich man like you. It is injuring us cruelly—my granddaughter most
of all.”

Ward fell back upon the bed and laughed aloud.

“This is splendid!” he cried. “Give up my room! Why, you precious old
thing, I like the room—it’s a capital place to hide away in. Besides, I
am one of the fellows who think your granddaughter handsome. No harm in
that, I hope. Like to see her going up and down stairs; steps like a
fairy; lifts her head like a princess. Smoke at ease here; admire beauty
at my leisure. Why should you wish to break up these little innocent
enjoyments? It is inhuman—I would not have thought it of you.”

“Your presence under the same roof with my girl is sure to injure her.
People will not know that we cannot prevent it.”

“But I know it. I, at least, do ample justice to the subject. You can no
more force me to leave this pleasant room than you can change the moon.”

“I do not hope to force your absence, but come in all kindness to say
how much your stay here is injuring us. I come to entreat, implore you
not to force us away from the only shelter we have. Here the woman of
the house is kind to us, and that makes it seem like home. My son died
fighting for his country—perhaps you did not know that. When he was with
us we were very comfortable, and _so_ happy. Now, the children have no
one but me; and I am only a weak old woman; but my child’s good name
must not be lost. We were getting a little comfortable, just now; but if
you will stay, we must go.”

“Go!” exclaimed Ward, in sudden excitement. “You really don’t mean that,
old lady?”

“It is hard. I am an old woman, and age shrinks from change. We had got
used to the rooms; but if we must go, we must! Heaven help us!”

Mrs. Burns arose as she spoke, and stood with one hand on the chair,
looking sadly on the floor. At last she lifted her brown eyes mournfully
to his, and turned away. Poor thing! She did not know how to struggle,
but she was patient to endure.

I think the young man was a little disturbed by the expression of those
eyes, for the fire went out from his segar, and he flung it away half
consumed, muttering something between his teeth that sounded like an
exclamation of self-loathing.

“I’ll go and see Gould,” he said, throwing his dressing-gown across a
chair, and thrusting his arms into a coat. “No, I wont, either! Hang it
all, I’m getting too fond of the girl myself; half tempted to marry her,
and get religion. That sweet old woman, now, would be like a sermon in
one’s house. If one only had a nice little fortune—income sure? How easy
it is for rich men to be good. But we fellows that live by our wits,
find ‘Jordan a hard road to travel.’ I wish that old lady had stayed
away. I can stand the girl’s haughty airs, for anger fires up her beauty
into something wonderful; but that sweet, low voice; those poor little
hands, trembling like birds in the cold; and those eyes, take a fellow’s
spirit out of his bosom. I think they reminded me of my own mother.
Well, I’ll think about going away, poor, old woman; if it was only her,
I’d quit at once—I would, indeed!”

Mrs. Burns heard nothing of this; she had left the room, and was
knocking faintly at her landlady’s door.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Burns obeyed the summons, and entered the room with which our
readers are acquainted. The landlady sat on a low chair, with her foot
on the round of another chair, and the seam of a coarse jacket pinned to
her knee. She looked up, holding her thread half drawn, and pushing the
chair on which her foot rested, asked her tenant to sit down, a little
roughly—for she was not quite satisfied with the aspect of things with
the family up stairs.

Mrs. Burns sat down, and the landlady bent to her work again.

“Any thing stirring?” she inquired, pressing the needle through a thick
double-seam with the side of her steel thimble. “A good deal of going up
and down stairs lately—tramp, tramp! nothing but tramp! Getting to have
lots of genteel company in your story? Silks a rustling, and
patent-leather boots a cracking all the day long. How’s Anna?”

“She is not very well. We are in a little trouble just now, and that’s
what brings me here. I think we shall have to move.”

“Move! Mrs. Burns! Has it come to that? These premises ain’t genteel
enough for you, I dare say. It’s all that girl’s doings, I’ll bet.
Expected it from the minute that young fellow came into the house!
Scamp!”

“That is the reason we must go. We haven’t had a happy minute since he
came here.”

“Then you want to get away from him—is that it?” cried the landlady,
fixing her greenish-gray eyes on the sad face turned so innocently
toward her.

“Yes; that is the only reason we wish to go. People will think something
wrong of it if a man who dresses so well, and spends so much money, is
seen often with a girl like my Anna. And he will insist on walking by
her if she goes out. She came home crying only a few minutes ago,
because he stopped her in the street.”

“Scamp!” exclaimed the landlady, jerking her needle out with snappish
vigor. “Deserves to be kicked into the middle of next week!”

“I have just been to his room.”

The landlady dropped the heavy work down into her lap, overcome with
astonishment.

“You?”

“I asked him to go away; told him how much we had become attached to the
rooms; how hard it would be for us to break up—but it did no good.”

“He wouldn’t go himself, and having received two months’ rent in
advance, I can’t make him. There’s the worst of it, or he’d go out neck
and heels, quicker than you ever saw a fellow go down stairs in all your
born days, Mrs. Burns.”

The landlady thrust her needle in and out so vigorously as she spoke,
that it plunged into her thumb at the termination of this sentence.

“Serves me right!” she said, thrusting her thumb into her mouth. “Serves
me right, for letting the stuck-up creature in. But I’ll make the house
too hot for him; see if I don’t—boil cabbage and fry onions every day of
my life, with the fireboard up and the door open. Just as like as not
his night-key won’t fit some day when he wants to come in. Will have the
lock changed as sure as I live. I’ve offered the fellow his money back,
and he won’t take it. Well, we’ll see. But you’re not going away, Mrs.
Burns; rather than that I’ll go in and out with Anna myself. Owe her
that much for thinking she could like the fellow. I’d like to see him,
or anybody else, speak to her when I’m on hand. Standing down by the
door to look at her feet as she goes up stairs. I’ve seen him do it. If
he wants to look at anybody’s feet, let him look at mine.”

“I am afraid we must move,” said Mrs. Burns, sadly enough. “You have
been so kind to us, it seems almost like a funeral to go away.”

“You shan’t go! That is the long and short of it. Wait a little, and if
the cabbage and onions fail, I’ll think of something else; for go he
shall, and go you shan’t—there!”

Mrs. Burns arose, irresolute. She loved the humble rooms which had
sheltered her deepest affliction; and her heart yearned toward the
semblance of home they gave her.

“Wait a few days,” said the landlady.

“Yes, I will wait. You are very good; but then everybody is so good to
us.”

“Goodness breeds goodness. I don’t believe there is a creature on earth
bad enough to be hard with you, Mrs. Burns. I try to be like you
sometimes, but it isn’t in me.”

“It is in you to be considerate and kind to those who most need
kindness,” said Mrs. Burns, with tears in her eyes.

“Yes, but I’ve got such a way of doing it—rough as a chestnut-burr; but
I don’t mean any harm to a living creature—quite the contrary.”

“You have done nothing but good to us,” said Mrs. Burns, opening the
door in her soft, quiet way; “and God will bless you for it.”

“That’s the kind of woman that people call the salt of the earth,”
muttered the landlady, as her tenant went out; “her very look makes me a
better woman. Yet I was thinking hard of her only a few minutes ago.
Well that was the old native Adam in me. I wonder how she managed to
drive him out. Going to prayer meeting won’t do it. I’ve tried that; but
then she is so different.”




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                       THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT.


Miss Eliza Halstead was not a person at all likely to leave any stone
unturned which lay in the path of her love. She knew something of the
power which beauty has over a young heart, and feared Savage might seek
some explanation that would exculpate Anna Burns from the evil that she
had imputed to her—for so powerful is genuine innocence that even
prejudice feels its influence, let circumstances be ever so much against
it.

Scarcely had Savage left the house, when Miss Eliza put on her lilac
bonnet, with its crush-roses and point-lace. Carefully she smoothed the
strings, and puffed out the bows with her long fingers, leaving pink
shadows all around her face, almost as effective as the bloom of youth.
When she had sufficiently elaborated this portion of her toilet, she
wrapped a costly shawl around her, and stole softly out of the house,
resolved to keep her visit and its object a secret.

Mrs. Savage was at home; and would she walk directly up stairs.

Yes. Miss Eliza swept her trailing silks up the broad staircase,
settling her shawl as she went—for she was forever arranging and
rearranging her dress, in-doors and out. Twice she paused before a
mirror, impanneled in the wall, and examined the flow of her long skirt,
over both shoulders, before she entered the room in which Mrs. Savage
was waiting, with Miss Eliza’s card in her hand.

“What can she mean?” murmured the lady, reading over some writing in
pencil above the name. “Something to communicate of the utmost
importance to the honor of the family—but here she comes. My dear Miss
Halstead, I am delighted! How good of you to come. Sit down here; you
will find it more comfortable.”

No. Miss Eliza preferred to sit with her back to the light. It took her
some minutes to compose her drapery; but at last she settled down in the
crimson easy-chair, like some tropical bird in its nest, and was ready
for the occasion.

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?” observed Mrs. Savage, with her blandest
smile. “What a color the air has given you.”

“Yes,” answered Miss Eliza, tightening her glove. “My complexion is so
exquisitely sensitive, that a breath of air brings the bloom to my
cheeks.”

Mrs. Savage smiled a graceful acquiescence to this self-praise, and
hoped Miss Eliza would never feel, as she did, any lack of youthful
bloom.

“When the time comes,” Miss Eliza said, with a smile of conscious
superiority, “I must submit, like others. But, Mrs. Savage, I came on a
painful and humiliating errand; excuse me, if I am compelled to give you
pain; but, after your great kindness in throwing me into the same
picture with your son, I feel like a traitor till you know all.”

Mrs. Savage bent her stately head, and replied that she was listening
with attention.

“After that evening, which seemed to give a dawning hope of union
between the houses of Savage and Halstead, you will imagine, dear lady,
that my thoughts, hopes, prayers, were all hovering around your son.
Knowing well that our mutual passion had maternal sanction, I allowed
the pent-up feelings of a too ardent nature to gush forth, till I fear
your noble son saw too clearly into the state of my affections. I strove
to conceal the rush of tender emotions that awoke to the sound of his
very footstep; but there are souls so transparent, that a child can read
them. For a time, dear lady, all was hope, all was happiness; true as
the needle to the pole myself, I had profound confidence in your son.
For a time his conduct was all that the most devoted heart could
desire—I was his ideal, his love, his divinity. Though he was too
delicate to say all this, I felt it, madam, in the very core of this
heart.”

Here Miss Eliza pressed a fold of a shawl that covered her bosom, and
went on.

“Then came a frost—a killing frost! Oh! my dear madam—mother, may I not
call you? that girl—that creature—who received your bounty but to betray
it, has broken in upon my pure dream of happiness. Your son has, for
some time, left the refinements which circle around my home, and,
regardless of breaking the heart that has learned to adore him, has
given his time and his attentions to that creature.”

“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Savage, starting up from her elegant apathy, her
face flaming with passion, her plump hand clenched, “my son—my son,
Horace Savage, visiting Anna Burns! Miss Halstead, you are crazy with
jealousy; stung to death in your vanity, to say such things of him. Why,
he is proud as I am, honest as his father. I do not believe this!”

Eliza Halstead was rather pleased with this outbreak. She saw in it a
sure termination of the attachment which, in her belief, certainly
existed. That which she had failed to do, that haughty woman would
accomplish, she felt certain.

“You are severe, unkind, to doubt me so,” was her pathetic rejoinder. “I
have seen them together in the street.”

“That is nothing, of course; he would speak to her or any other person,
poor and dependent. A Savage is too proud for arrogance. If that is all
the proof you have, permit me to say that your absurd jealousy has
outrun all common sense.”

“Madam!” exclaimed Miss Eliza—and the angry red outflamed the permanent
color on her cheek—“Madam, I have seen him enter the low house where she
lives, not once, but half a dozen times. I have seen him walking, block
after block, with her down such streets as you never entered in your
life.”

“But you were there, it seems.”

“A woman’s heart will take her anywhere when she suspects the object of
her love.”

“Miss Halstead—but it is useless arguing with you, utterly useless;
there is no fool like an old fool!”

This very trite adage was muttered under the lady’s breath; but Miss
Eliza had sharp ears, and caught the word fool.

“What did you say, madam?” she demanded, sharply.

“Oh, nothing! only that I was an old fool, to believe any thing alleged
against my son.”

“Believe what you like, think what you like,” answered the spinster, who
was not so easily deceived; “I have done my duty—a painful, sad duty.
All that I ask of you, his mother, is silence—secrecy; profound secrecy
as to my part in the affair. Owing all loyalty to him, I have come here
to betray him to his own mother. It breaks my heart; do not, I pray you,
madam, add one pang to those which rend it now. Remember the relations
which may one day unite us, and be faithful to the trust I have reposed
in you.”

Mrs. Savage was by this time pacing up and down her sumptuous
sitting-room, trampling upon the flowers in its map-like carpet as a
tigress treads upon the grass of its jungle. She was dreadfully annoyed;
all the pride and unbounded affection which she had lavished on her son,
rose in revolt against the tidings Miss Eliza had brought her. Now that
her suspicions were aroused, she remembered many little circumstances
calculated to confirm Miss Eliza’s statement. As this belief grew strong
upon her, the color left her face, and she sat down in her chair, stern
and cold, doubting, unbelieving.

“You are sure of this thing?” she said, speaking in a slow, still voice.
“This is no phantasy of a jealous imagination?”

Miss Eliza drew close to the woman whom she had come deliberately to
wound, and took her hand. She dearly loved to create a sensation of any
kind, and took the pallor and distress in that proud face as a personal
compliment.

“Do not distress yourself, sweet friend, my almost mother; but have
faith, as I do, in the immutable truth of love. He may wander away from
me; he may have one of those fleeting fancies for another which
sometimes disturb the most faithful heart, but in the end he will
return; he will be mine—all mine!”

A smile quivered around Mrs. Savage’s mouth, spite of her distress; but
it passed away, leaving a stern expression there. The evil was too
serious not to sweep away all sense of ridicule in her mind.

“Now tell me quietly, and in as few words as possible, exactly what you
have seen or know about this affair. Excuse me if I have seemed rude;
but you took me by surprise. Now let me know the whole.”

“I have told you all, sweet friend—that is, all as regards your son; but
as for that artful young person, Burns, really, as a young girl, hedged
in from such knowledge by all sorts of refinement, I cannot tell you,
without burning blushes, how unworthy she is.”

Mrs. Savage half started from her chair.

“You surprise, you astonish me,” she said. “If ever innocence was
depicted in a face, I thought it was in hers.”

“She is artful enough to deceive you. She has deceived your son. Even
Georgiana will believe nothing against her.”

“If she is what you say, there is little danger for Horace; there is too
much refinement and discrimination in his character for a deception of
that kind to last long with him,” said the mother.

Miss Eliza instantly took the alarm. She saw that Mrs. Savage had too
much faith in her son’s principles for any fear of a person who could
shock them, and with crafty adroitness sought to undo the impression she
had made.

“Perhaps I have gone too far,” she said, retreating gracefully. “My own
love of truth is so profound, that the least deviation seems to me like
a crime. She professes to be every thing that is meek and good, yet I
cannot believe in it. Without some falsehood, some deception, she could
not have won such influence over a heart that is, in reality, all mine,
as those who saw him kneeling at my feet that night must have felt.”

“Let that pass,” broke in Mrs. Savage, with a gesture of impatience.
“You really know nothing against this girl, except that she is beautiful
and lovely?”

“I never said she was beautiful,” cried Miss Eliza. “Never!”

“But I know that she is, and, to all appearance, a modest, well-bred
girl. Seeing all this, I was an idiot to introduce her as I did.”

“I thought so all the time,” said Miss Eliza, demurely. “Not that I
think of her as beautiful or well-bred—far from it; but those artful
young creatures do fascinate men some way quite unaccountably. I cannot
bear to think of it.”

“You are sure that he visits her house?”

“Sure as I am of my own life.”

“And that he walks with her in the street?”

“I have seen him join her not a block from your own door, and never
leave her till she reached that which leads to her rooms in the garret
of a tenement-house where she now resides.”

“Where is this house?”

Miss Eliza reluctantly gave the street and number where Anna Burns
lived.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Savage; “you have done me a great service. I will
think what steps had best be taken in the matter.”

“And you will keep my visit a secret? Situated as we are, he might think
it indelicate for me to interfere.”

“I will not mention your name in the matter,” answered Mrs. Savage,
wearily.

Miss Eliza arose, shook out the drapery of her dress, kissed Mrs. Savage
with elaborate affection, and left the room, well satisfied with the
work she had done.

Mrs. Savage was a proud, impetuous woman, well calculated for a leader
in social life, and in all respects the mistress of her own house. Such
women are usually ardent in their attachments; willing to die for those
they love; ready to turn the world over in their behalf; but well
disposed to regulate and control the happiness they are so earnest in
securing.

There was no being in the world to whom young Savage was so much
attached as his mother. There was something chivalric in his admiration
of her talent, and in the loving pride that he felt in her womanliness.
He saw her by the graceful force of a superior will governing other
women, and charming strong men into her service. He knew that she was
grand in her magnanimity when it was once aroused; but sometimes more
disposed to be generous than just, when the tide of her strong
prejudices set in against the truth. She was, indeed, a woman of whom
any son might well have been proud—full of faults, and rich in
magnificent virtues. For the world he would not have given this woman
pain; for he, above all others, knew what a cruel thing pain was to her.
For this reason he had, perhaps, unconsciously kept his knowledge of
Anna Burns a secret from her until quite assured that this feeling,
which seemed so like love, was an enduring passion; he would not disturb
his mother by confessing it. There was nothing like domestic treason in
this. The young man was not quite sure of himself. Refined, fastidious,
and over-educated as he was, the feelings which sprang up in his heart
regarding this girl were a wonder to his own mind. They were so opposed
to all his relations in life that he could not believe in them; yet they
were there strong as his life.

About the time that he learned of Ward’s residence in the same house
with Anna Burns, he had resolved to open his heart to his mother, and
tell her all. Savage had at this time resolved to make Anna Burns his
wife. The first step he took in that direction was to seek Georgiana
Halstead, and ask her aid in removing the object of his love to a less
revolting home, and in surrounding her with associates kindred to her
character rather than her position. This done, he fully intended to make
that proud mother his next confidant.

A single hour had swept all these honorable projects from his mind. He
had listened with scornful incredulity to the charges made against the
lady of his love by Miss Eliza. But his own eyes were not to be
disbelieved; the evidence of that roughly honest landlady had been
complete. He had been about to sacrifice himself to an artful,
unprincipled girl, who could share love, true and generous as his, with
a creature like that Ward. He had seen them together; he had seen her
hand in his. He knew that they dwelt under the same squalid roof. It was
enough. Never, in this world, would he mention that girl’s name to his
mother. She had wronged him too cruelly.

Savage, stung to the soul with these feelings, sent a note to his mother
that he was going into the country for a few days—and went away, in what
direction he neither knew nor cared. He had been humiliated, wounded in
his love and in his pride beyond bearing; so much as he had been willing
to give up for the sake of that girl’s love—and she knew it. The
infatuation must have been coarse and deep which could have led her from
the prospects his love would have secured, to the evil fortunes of that
gambler.

Mrs. Savage received her son’s note just after Eliza Halstead left the
house. She was glad to know that he had left town. In her present state
of feeling she could not have met him with the equanimity which her
pride demanded. While he was gone, she would see this girl, and sweep
away the temptation that had beset him, if eloquence or money could do
it.

It was honorable to the mother, and most honorable to the son, that Mrs.
Savage never once imputed a dishonorable thought to the visits that had
been described to her—proud, generous women like her are not apt to
think the worst of human nature. She would have felt as much degraded by
an immoral or dishonorable act in her son, as if it had fastened upon
her own person.

“If I do not prevent it, he will marry this girl,” she said; “and I,
fool that I was, have cast her in his way. There is poor Georgiana
wronged and deserted. Not that he ever said much to her; but I had so
set my heart on it, that every word I said to the dear child was a
promise. Heaven bless that vicious old maid for warning me in time! What
a character she is—how silkily she kept down the venom of her tongue. I
wonder Halstead can endure her in the house.”

Thus Mrs. Savage wandered in her thoughts as she closed her son’s note.
She had received a hard blow, but women like her do not spend much time
in recrimination when work is to be done.

“I will go at once,” she thought. “This may be nothing serious, after
all; Horace is so generous, and he knew of their poverty. This may only
be one of his private charities, which the old maid has tortured into a
love romance.”

Mrs. Savage followed out these thoughts by ringing for her maid, and
ordering her shawl and bonnet to be brought down; but the girl had
hardly left the room when a servant came from the hall, and inquired if
Mrs. Savage could spare a minute to the young person who came so often
about the fine sewing?

“Let her come up—let her come up,” answered the lady, in eager haste.
“Mary, you need not get the things; I shall not go out just now.”

Anna Burns came into the room softly as a tear falls. She was pale, and
a sad sweetness made her face touchingly lovely.

“I have brought the work home,” she said, laying a roll of embroidered
muslin on the table, and leaning against the marble for support.
“And—and I have come to say that grandmother does not think it best that
I should take any more.”

Anna’s voice shook, and the woman who listened knew that it trembled
through suppressed tears.

“Why do you give up work?” she inquired, with unconscious sympathy in
her voice.

“I—I——Because grandmother thinks it best. Carrying home the work takes
me a good deal into the street, and she does not think that good for
me.”

“Your grandmother is a prudent woman. But how are you to live without
work?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I can find something to do that wont take me away
from home just at present, at least.”

Mrs. Savage took up the roll of work and began to examine it. Woman of
the world as she was, something gentle and good about that girl
prevented her speaking out as she had proposed do. The sad, wistful look
turned upon her bespoke too much sorrow for ungentle handling.

“Sit down,” she said, gently, as if she had been addressing a naughty
child, “I wish to speak with you.”

Anna sat down with a frightened look, and trembling a little as the lady
could see.

“You know my son, Anna Burns?”

“Yes; yes, madam, a little—that is, I did.”

“He has been to your house?”

“To our rooms you mean, lady? Yes, he has been there.”

“More than once?”

“Oh, yes! more than once. We—we did not think there was any harm in it.”

Anna’s eyes were filling with tears; her lips quivered like those of a
grieved child just before it bursts into a cry.

“Did he help you——”

“Madam!”

“Did he give you money? Was it for that he came?”

“Money? Oh! he would not do that. Grandmother is a lady; and no one ever
offers her money, most of all, Mr. Savage.”

There was no deception here. Those eyes were lifted to the proud woman’s
questioning, clearly and purely as the stars of heaven shine on earth.
Mrs. Savage hesitated and looked down, there was too much of the woman
in her heart not to shrink from the task she had imposed on herself.

At last she took the girl’s hand in her own, and felt that it trembled
there like a frightened bird.

“Anna Burns, has my son ever said that he loved you?”

Anna struggled to free her hand.

“Oh, madam! Oh, lady! this is punishing me too much!”

“Answer me, Anna, I mean nothing unkind; but I must know. Has my son
ever said that he loved you?”

Anna sat upright. Her face had been scarlet a moment before; now it was
white as snow.

“Yes,” she said, with gentle firmness. “He has said that he loved me
more than once.”

“And you believed him?”

“Believed him? Oh, yes!”

“One question more, Anna. Do you love him?”

“Lady, I am a very young girl, and hardly know what love is. But I hope
God will forgive me if it is wrong to think so often and so much of Mr.
Savage!”

“This is very sad,” murmured the lady; and she held the little hand in
hers closer when she spoke again.

“Has he ever said any thing about marrying you, Anna?”

“I think so. It seemed to me that it was what he meant; but that was
before—”

“Before what, Anna?”

“I don’t know. I would rather not talk any more about it, madam, if you
please.”

“Anna, let me talk seriously with you. There is a great distinction
between you and my son.”

“I know it—I know it. Grandmother said exactly those words.”

“He cannot marry you.”

“Oh! madam.”

“You must save him from the ruin such a step would bring upon him.”

“Ruin?”

“Yes, ruin! I, his mother, never would consent. He would lose his high
place in society. He would regret the step within a month after it was
taken.”

Anna grew paler and paler, the quivering of her lips became convulsive.

“That is the reason—that is why he would not speak to me. Oh! madam, my
heart is breaking.”

“Better the pain now than when it is too late, child. Give him up—give
him up, and I will see that neither you nor yours shall ever want.”

“It is too late—too late, lady. He has given me up. I understand it all
now. Let me go home. I am faint—so, so fain——”

The sentence died out in a murmur on those white lips. Anna had fainted
at the proud woman’s feet.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                              A NEW LIGHT.


When Anna Burns awoke from that deathly fainting fit, Mrs. Savage was
leaning over her, with pain and sorrow in her fine features. The unhappy
girl looked so white and broken in her insensibility that it touched her
to the heart.

“Poor child! it is a sad pity,” she murmured, lifting Anna’s head to her
lap. “But these things, happily, do not prove fatal. She should not have
lifted her eyes to my Horace. Dear fellow! no wonder he thinks her
pretty.”

“Let me go home, lady! Let me go home!” said Anna, drearily. “I will do
any thing you say, only let me go home!”

“Wait a little, my child; take a glass of wine, it will make you strong.
I want to say a few words now.”

“I will wait,” said Anna; “but no wine; grandmother will make me some
tea when I get home.”

“I—I wished to say a word more about my son.”

“Well, madam, I will try and listen.”

“I have said that it would be his total ruin if——”

“If he married me. Yes; I know—I know; please do not say it over again,
it kills me.”

“I think, Anna Burns, you love him well enough to save him.”

“I—I love him well enough for—for almost any thing.”

“There is but one thing you can do for him.”

Anna lifted her large, questioning eyes to meet those of Mrs. Savage—and
that look made speech unnecessary.

“Your eyes ask me what it is you can do.”

“Yes.” The words fell faintly from those white lips, as they began to
quiver again.

“Keep out of his way. Leave the place you live in—I will supply the
means. Move to some other city. Go into the country; do any thing but
see him again.”

Again Anna lifted those eyes to the proud woman’s face; and this time
the fine, blue eyes of the lady fell under her glance.

“Is there no other way?”

“None in the world. Listen, child. You are pretty, I admit—lady-like,
refined, surpassingly so; but my son has a position to maintain, a
career of ambition before him. We have no other child, and have founded
high hopes on him. This marriage, if he, indeed, thinks of it, would
destroy them all. His father never would be brought to sanction it; he
never would recognize you. As for me, I should forgive him, perhaps, but
you, never!”

“It will not happen, lady. I shall never need your forgiveness. You did
not know that Mr. Savage had thought better of it already—that he does
not speak to me in the street. That——”

Anna stopped, for a quick rush of tears was choking her.

“Indeed! Is this true?”

“Indeed, indeed it is, lady!”

“And what is the reason?”

“Perhaps he is obeying your command, lady?”

“No, I have never spoken of this—never heard of it till this morning.”

“Then he must have been angry with me about——”

“Well, about what?”

“About Mr. Ward.”

“Mr. Ward—what of him? Is it the Ward I know—the great friend of young
Gould?”

“I—I think so. He has been cruel to me; he would come to live in the
house.”

“Live in the same house with you?”

“Yes, he would do it. We did not know about it at the time. Then he
contrived to meet me on the stairs, and follow me into the street. Mr.
Savage saw him there one day. It was then he did not speak to me. But I
was not to blame. Oh, lady! pity me a little; for since then, I have
been so miserable.”

“It will not last. I give you my experience that it will not last. I
will inquire about young Ward. He has no family or connections to speak
of. There could be no objections to that match, if he really fancies
you, I should suppose. Come, come, cheer up; the other is out of the
question, you know; but if young Ward comes forward, I should not in the
least mind giving you a wedding outfit, and a neat little sum of money.
Take these things into consideration, like a good girl. This fancy for
my son will soon exhaust itself.”

Anna stood up firmly now, and drew the shawl, that had partly fallen
off, about her person with a proud grace that astonished the woman who
had wounded her so.

“Lady, be content; I will not, if possible, see your son again; but to
speak of another, especially that man, is worse than cruel, it is
insulting.”

The red flush of a haughty spirit, ashamed of itself, swept over the
lady’s face.

“I did not mean to wound or insult you,” she said.

“No, lady; you only forgot that a poor girl who works hard for her
living may have a little pride, and some shadow of delicacy.”

“Indeed, I do not forget any thing of the kind; but I am anxious to save
my son from a step that I honestly believe he would repent of, and have
frankly asked you to help me. Another woman would have taken different
and harsher means; I stoop to entreat, implore you to give him up.”

“Lady, I have—I do.”

“This fact about young Ward will, if you manage it wisely, be a great
assistance. My son is proud and peculiarly sensitive. If he supposed
that you encouraged this young man, it would go far to cure him of his
folly.”

“What do you mean, lady?”

“This. He now thinks, doubtless, that you have encouraged young Ward to
come under the same roof with you. He has already seen him with you in
the street. Do not undeceive him—that will be his cure.”

“But what will he, what can he think of me?”

“No matter what he thinks. You will never meet again; and if you should,
all this foolish passion will have been swept away on both sides. Then
you can inform him with safety.”

“Lady, do not ask me to act in this way. I can give up his love, but not
his respect.”

“Not for a time? If it will restore him to himself—to the parents who
love him better than themselves?”

“I could not force myself to do that, madam.”

“But he may return to you.”

Anna’s eyes sparkled through the tears that hung on those curling
lashes. Mrs. Savage saw the look, and her own eyes flashed angrily.

“You wish it. I see you wish it,” she said.

“If I do, it is because even a new pain would be something like a relief
to the dull ache here,” answered the young girl, laying a hand on her
heart. “You have my promise, lady, not to see your son again, if I can
help it. After that, any conditions you may make are of little
importance. You are right; it does not matter what he thinks of me. Do
with me as you will, I cannot be more wretched than I am.”

Anna sat down in a chair, simply because she was too weak for the
upright position she had bravely maintained till then; but her face was
turned upon the proud woman with a look that seemed to be making a last
plead for her life.

“I wish it could be avoided. Do believe me, I am giving myself almost as
much pain as you can feel; but firmness here is mercy. Promise not to
see my son again.”

“I have—I have!”

These words were uttered in a cry of absolute anguish, that drove the
blood from Mrs. Savage’s face; but she was firm as a rock,
notwithstanding this strain on her sympathy.

“Promise, if you should be forced to see him, that no explanations shall
be made. Let him keep his present impression, injurious as it may be,
regarding young Ward.”

Poor Anna Burns! These were hard conditions, harder than she knew of;
for, brought up by that pure and gentle old woman, more carefully than
most city belles ever were, she had no idea that any one could think
worse of her than that she had encouraged the honorable attentions of
this man Ward. But that thought alone was enough to make her young heart
swell with bitter humiliation.

“Lady, he cannot believe it. He never will believe that I could turn
from him to that dreadful man,” she cried, in a passion of resentment.
“There is not a girl on earth who could be so insane.”

“But it seems he does believe it,” answered the lady.

Anna’s uplifted hand fell heavily into her lap.

“True! true!” she repeated, in a heart-broken voice. “He saw us
together; he would not speak to me.”

She got up wearily now, and besought Mrs. Savage to let her depart.

“I have promised every thing,” she said. “There is nothing more that you
can want of me.”

“But I, too, have promised something.”

“What?”

“Help, protection, money, if you need it.”

Anna turned upon her like a hunted doe, her cheeks red with passionate
pride, her eyes on fire.

“Madam, I give you back your son, I do not sell him.”

“Then you reject kindness. You will accept nothing?” faltered Mrs.
Savage.

Anna did not answer, but walked quietly out of the room, with her hand
clenched under the scant shawl, and her lips pressed firmly together.
For the first time in her life she was really in a passion.

Mrs. Savage, shocked by the surprise of this outbreak, stood speechless
till the girl had disappeared. When she did find words, they came in a
burst of admiration.

“Upon my word, she is a splendid young creature! I do not wonder that
Horace is infatuated with her. She absolutely makes me ashamed of
myself. If it were not for Georgiana——No, no! it never can be.”

As Anna was going home, stepping proudly, from the pure force of such
resentment, as few women could feel and retain their dignity, she met
little Joseph, with a bundle of papers under his arm.

“Please, will you buy a paper, Miss? Ledger! Telegraph! Bulletin!” he
said, with a rogueish little laugh. “Only five cents!”

Anna recognized this gentle pleasantry, and turning upon him, tried to
smile, but instead of the smile came a burst of tears that seemed to
freeze little Joseph in his tracks.

“Why, Anna, what is the matter?” he said, laying his papers on the
side-walk, and clinging to her hand, which was grasping the shawl hard
in her anguish. “Why, how it trembles! Poor little hand! Poor, darling
sister! what is it that makes you cry so? Stoop down, Anna, and let me
kiss you. Nobody is in sight. There! There! Doesn’t that make you feel
better?”

“Yes, darling, yes!” faltered Anna, striving to hide the ache at her
heart with a smile that was so mournful that it almost made the gentle
boy cry too.

“There is a man coming round the corner, or I’d give you plenty of ’em!
Indeed, I would!” he said, feeling in his pocket and drawing forth some
crumpled money. “I’ve had pretty good luck to-day, Anna; only see!
Suppose we go out on a bender, and get a plate of icecream between us?”

Anna shook her head, and drew the veil over her face.

“What is that for? Don’t you see it is Mr. Savage.”

Anna snatched her shawl from the boy’s grasp, and hurrying past him,
turned the next corner.

Horace Savage quickened his step as he saw the boy, who had gathered up
his papers, and stood looking after his sister, surprised by her strange
conduct.

“Ah, ha! my little friend, is it you?” said Savage, speaking with great
kindness. “How is trade to-day? Hand me out two or three papers, that’s
a fine fellow.”

Joseph forgot his usual alacrity, but stood looking toward the corner
where his sister had disappeared in sad bewilderment.

“What did she run away for?” he said at last, appealing to the young
man. “Is she afraid of you?”

“Of whom are you speaking, Joseph?”

“Of sister Anna, to-be-sure.”

“I saw a lady going round the corner, but did not observe her much—was
that your sister?”

“Yes it was. Some one has been making her cry. Who is it, I wonder?”

“How should I know?” answered the young man, smiling a little at the
boy’s earnestness. “Was she really crying?”

“Not at first; she was walking along as proud as a queen, with her head
up, and her cheeks as red as two peaches; but when I spoke to her and
asked her to buy some papers—all in fun, you know—she burst right out a
crying. I declare, sir, it was enough to break one’s heart. If I hadn’t
been a fellow in business, with property to take care of, I should have
burst out crying with her. I don’t know what has come over sister Anna,
to go on as she does.”

“Why, how does she go on?” inquired Horace, prompted to the question by
the love which would not be crowded out of his heart. “She ought to be
very happy, I should think.”

“But she isn’t, sir. She doesn’t eat as much as a chipper-bird; and as
for sleep, grandma says she don’t close her eyes sometimes all night.”

“Indeed! What can trouble her so, Joseph?”

“I’ll tell _you_ what I think it is,” answered Joseph, lifting his
innocent young face toward that of the young man, “I believe it’s that
Mr. Ward’s being in the house. He torments sister Anna, and she——Well, I
really do believe she can’t bear him.”

“Can’t bear him, Joseph?” cried Savage, with a sudden glow of the whole
countenance.

“Yes, it’s almost that, wicked as it is. I’m sure of it. Just as likely
as not he has been following her out again, and trying to make her walk
with him. That always makes her come back with red cheeks, and such
angry eyes, that one doesn’t hardly know her.”

“Are you sure that she does not like him, Joseph?”

“Like? Why, she hates him. Only sister Anna can’t hate much, you know—it
isn’t in her.”

“But why does Mr. Ward follow your sister into the street, when he could
so easily visit her at home?”

“No he can’t, though. Anna goes into the bedroom if he only knocks. As
for grandma, why she sits up so straight, and looks at him so steady,
that he makes believe to ask for something, and goes away mad enough.”

“Then he is never welcomed in your room?”

“Welcomed! I should rather think not. Why, Mr. Savage, he isn’t the
least bit of a gentleman. When grandma went down to his room and told
him how inconvenient and unpleasant it was to have him there, and Anna
so young, he almost laughed at her. Grandma’s eyes were as bright as
stars, I can tell you, when she came up stairs again. She’s a real lady,
is grandma, and it isn’t often that any one dares to treat her so.”

“Did your grandmother really ask Mr. Ward to go away?”

“Yes, she did, right to his face.”

“Joseph, I have been keeping you a long time, breaking up business, and
that isn’t fair. There is money enough for your whole stock. I can’t
carry it away, you see; but sell the papers out at half price and go
home.”

Joseph took the offered money, and insisted on forcing some copies of
his stock on Savage, who took them in order to give a business air to
the transaction.

“Don’t say any thing to your sister about what we’ve been talking of,
Joseph,” he said, a little anxiously. “It might annoy her, you know, if
she thought I knew she had been crying in the street.”

“No,” said Joseph, confidentially. “I wouldn’t say any thing to make her
feel bad for the world.”

“But you are quite certain of all you’ve told me, little Joseph?”

“Certain? Of course I am. But, Mr. Savage, if you’d just as lief call me
Joseph without the little, I’d rather. When a boy gets into business for
himself, it’s apt to hurt him in the way of trade to be called ‘little,’
our Robert says. It isn’t me, remember—I don’t mind; but our Robert is a
capital business man, and he’s very particular about it ‘in a commercial
point of view’—these are his very words.”

“Well, Joseph, I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you, sir; I hope you’ll be coming to see us soon. Grandma is
always glad to see you.”

“And no one else, Joseph?”

“Of course, we’re all glad,” answered the boy, instinctively keeping his
sister in the background; “Robert and I, particularly.”

I am not quite certain that Horace Savage felt so grateful for this
delicate reserve as he ought to have been; but one thing is certain, he
did not go out of town that night, and was in better spirits, during the
day than had been usual to him for a week past. His mother was greatly
surprised to see him come home that afternoon as usual; but received his
excuses for what seemed a capricious change of mind with great good
humor.

“Fortunately,” she said to herself, “I saw the girl before he relented.
She will keep her word, poor thing, though he may make it hard for her.”

It was wonderful what confidence this woman of the world placed in the
young creature whose life she was breaking up. Like a wise diplomat, she
let her son take his own way unquestioned.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                          A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.


“Grandmother!”

“Well, my dear.”

Anna did not answer at first, but sat for a time lost in thought. At
last she spoke again, but in a voice so constrained that the old lady
looked at her with sudden anxiety.

“Grandmother, how long would it take us to move?”

“Not long,” answered the old lady; “we have not much to pack up. Two or
three hours would get us ready for the cart, if we all worked.”

“Could we go to-night, grandmother?”

“We could, certainly—but where?”

“I have found a place. When Miss Halstead was here the other day, she
told me of a little house which belonged to her grandmother, who did not
care to rent it just then, and wanted a nice, quiet family to take
charge of it. She had mentioned us to the old lady, and we are just the
kind of people she wants.”

“Have you seen the house, Anna?”

“No, grandmother; but Miss Halstead says it is very comfortable and
pretty.”

“And the rent?”

“I told you, if you remember, that we were to take charge of the house.
It is furnished, and they must have some one. There is no question of
rent about it.”

“That is rather strange. Are you sure, Anna, that Miss Halstead is not
making this a charity in disguise?”

“It may be—I cannot tell; but one thing I do know, if charity could be
sweet from any one, that dear young lady would make it so. She is good
and lovely as an angel!”

“She is, indeed.”

“And you will accept this offer, grandmother?”

“It seems too good to be true, Anna. But if we can take a more
comfortable house on such terms, it would be wrong to refuse it. For
many reasons, dear, I should be glad to get you out of this place.”

“And I shall be so glad to move. It seems as if I could not breathe
here. Put on your shawl, grandmother, and let us go look at the house.
It is not so very far away.”

“How impatient you are, Anna. We will look at the house, and I will get
ready; but as for moving, we must give the landlady notice—she has been
very kind to us.”

“So she has, grandmother, I had forgotten her. Indeed, it seems to me as
if I forget every thing but myself. Of course, the boys must be
consulted.”

“They must, at least, be informed.”

“Oh! how I wish it could be done at once; but if that is impossible, we
can, at least, go and see this new house.”

The old lady put on a neat crape bonnet which Anna had made for her, and
covered the darns in her dress with an old black shawl, good in its
time, but worn thin as muslin in places. She looked neat, and like a
perfect gentlewoman; and would have appeared so in any dress, for with
her, innate refinement was independent of costume.

Anna had been sitting in her bonnet and shawl, for she had taken a long
walk after her interview with Joseph, which ended in that call on Miss
Halstead, during which the business of the house had been settled.
Georgiana had received her with more than kindness. There was something
shy and tender in her manner inexpressibly touching. It seemed as if she
were accepting a favor, rather than conferring one, when a second offer
of the house was made. Old Mrs. Halstead had been called in to the
conference, and seemed delighted at the prospect of securing such
unexceptionable inmates for her house.

“It is a little box of a place in the edge of the town, so small that I
find it difficult to obtain a tenant that suits me. Besides, I may
sometimes wish to live in it myself.”

“You! grandmamma?” exclaimed Georgiana.

“Yes. When my pretty grandchild here gets tired of petting me, or loves
some other person enough to leave me.”

“That I never shall—never!” answered Georgie. “Now it is impossible.”

The old lady laid a hand on her young head with a queenly sort of
tenderness, and said, “Hush, child, hush! I do not like to hear you talk
in this way.”

“What! do you want me to leave you?” answered Georgie, rallying her
sprightliness; “that is very unkind, grandmamma.”

There was something sad and a little out of the common way here, which
Anna did not understand. Was it possible that this beautiful young
creature, living in the very lap of wealth, could have her anxieties and
feel the heartache as she did? The thought made her look on Georgie with
more interest; a growing sympathy was fast springing up between these
two girls, so far apart in the social strata, but so close together in
that refinement of heart and mind which makes high natures kin.

“If you can go to-day,” said Georgie, “I will meet you at the house and
do the honors.”

So it was arranged; and Anna went home, brightened a little by this
change in her existence, to consult her grandmother, and prepare for the
appointment she had made.

Mrs. Burns entered a street-car and sat down by Anna, pleased with an
event that had drawn her from the eternal sameness of her garret-home.
She was a mild, sweet-faced old lady, for whom even the rude jostlers of
a street-car made room reverently. So she enjoyed her ride, and thanked
God in her heart that Anna would soon be under a shelter where no bad,
rude man would dare to force himself upon her. The advent of Mr. Ward
into what had been to them always a safe and peaceful dwelling, had
distressed the old lady more than her grandchildren had dreamed of. She
had seen enough of the world in her lifetime to understand that to be
domesticated with a young man, from any grade in society, would bring
reproach of some kind on her child. The cars stopped, and after walking
a single block, these two women found themselves in front of an opening
or park, encircled by a double crescent of small three-story cottages,
with verandahs of light wood-work running along each story, all woven
and draped with climbing roses, honeysuckles, and Virginia creepers. In
fact, the front of these houses was one lattice-work of flowers; and all
the open ground inclosed in the two crescents was broken up with
guilder-roses, lilacs, spireas, and a world of roses growing in rich
masses, if not always rare, exceedingly beautiful.

A street ran between the two crescents lined with tall trees, which,
here and there, tangled their branches over it. In the grounds, too,
were weeping-willows, the paper-mulberry, and alanthus trees, drooping
under the weight of great clusters of vividly red fruit.

The old lady uttered an exclamation, half delight, half surprise. Was it
possible? Could she again gather her son’s children about her in a place
like that? To Anna it seemed a little paradise. The very breath stopped
on her lips as she paused to gaze upon it. “There must be some mistake,”
she said. “The number was on one of those gates, truly; but it could not
be.” She stood before one of the rustic gates which opened to a house in
the very deepest curve of one of the crescents, bewildered and
uncertain.

“Do not attempt to open it,” said the old lady, restraining her
granddaughter’s hand as she was about to unlatch the gate. “It cannot be
here we are to live.”

Poor old soul! She had lived so long in the close rooms of that
tenement-building, that these houses, very simple and unpretending if
divested of their grounds and flowers, seemed far too magnificent for
her aspirations.

“Let us go on,” she said, “and search out the real house; this place is
as lovely as paradise, but it is not for us. I wish you had not come
this way, Anna, it will make you dissatisfied with the reality.”

“Look, grandmother, look! It is the very house. There is Miss Halstead
in the door; you can scarcely see her for the honeysuckles—but I should
know her face anywhere. She is coming forward, and looks so pleased.
Come, grandmother.”

Through the gate they went, and along the broad path lined with flowers
on either hand. A rustic chair stood in the lower verandah, close by an
open French window, which led into a pretty little parlor connected by
folding doors, always kept open, with one of the cosiest little rooms
you ever saw. This room was just large enough to hold a small couch, an
easy-chair, a stand for flowers, and some books—just what it did
contain. Mrs. Burns sat down in the rustic chair, and drop after drop
trembled up into her dear old eyes. Was this to be her home, even for a
short season? Would her children breathe the odor of these flowers, and
sleep in those neat rooms? She could not realize it. Our readers know
how this sweet, old creature had bent and yielded to what was inevitable
in adversity without a murmur, and without shedding a single tear: but
she was childlike with gratitude now, and the tears began to steal down
her withered cheek in slow drops of happiness.

“My dear,” she said, holding out her hand to Georgiana Halstead, “come
here and let the old woman kiss you, she is getting to be a child again;
but a happy, very happy child. Are we, indeed, to live here?”

“If you will, dear madam, my grandmother wishes it; but she makes one
condition.”

“What is that? I am sure it will not be a hard one.”

“Not very, I hope. While you stay in the house, you and your family must
occupy it entirely. Your own furniture can be brought in, but you will
find the house tolerable without that. She wishes no reserve as to room
or furniture. Take possession when you please—the sooner the better;
that is all the condition my grandmother makes.”

“Your grandmother is a kind woman, and I thank her—that is all we can
do. We are poor in every thing but this gratitude, which is very sweet
to feel.”

“Let us see the house. It was pretty as a bird’s-nest when I was here
months ago. How fortunate it is that grandmamma did not wish to let it.
Come up stairs, you will find a very pretty sitting-room there, one of
the most breezy, cheerful places you ever saw. Your bed-chamber, Mrs.
Burns, opens into that. Anna’s will be on the third story. I have
arranged it all. Come and see.”

Up stairs they went, into a room which Georgie had described well as
cheerful and breezy, for the two sash-windows were open, and the whole
chamber was swept with perfumed air as they entered it. Two good-sized
book-cases were in this room, filled with pleasant reading. The
furniture was all excellent, but unpretending. Two or three engravings
hung on the walls; and one of Wheeler & Wilson’s sewing-machines stood
in a rosewood case in one corner. In the balcony, which seemed like a
little room—it was so festooned with vines—were some rustic chairs, and
a bird-cage, in which birds were chirping.

“This is my little present,” said Georgie, promptly, remarking the old
lady’s look of surprise. “Here is a rocking-chair, which grandmamma sent
from her own room. No one is to sit in that but Mrs. Burns, remember.
Now take a peep in here; comfortable, I think.”

She opened the bedroom door and revealed a low bed, white as snow, but
simple as a bed well could be; an easy-chair, covered with white dimity,
stood near it, and every thing that an old person could require for
comfort or convenience was there. Something more than the common
furniture of a house had certainly been added here. Georgiana accounted
for this frankly enough.

“Grandmamma,” she said, “had more of these things than she knew how to
use, and would send them. She does so like to make every thing
complete.”

Old Mrs. Burns had not been known to smile so frequently as she did that
day for years. There was an absolute glow on her face all the time she
stayed in that cottage. She felt intuitively that some great kindness
was intended, but it gave her no pain—generous persons can receive
favors without annoyance; the very qualities which induce them to give
freely enable them to receive gracefully. Here that good old lady had a
double pleasure, that of occupying a pleasant home, and the intense
gratitude which came out of it, which was exquisite happiness in itself.

“Tell your grandmother that her kindness has made an old woman hopeful
again. For my own sake, and in behalf of my dear children, I thank her.”

They stood by the gate looking back upon the grounds when Mrs. Burns
said this. Anna was a little apart, silent, and with a dreamy sadness in
her eyes. She had said little while examining the house. What could a
change of place do for her? Indeed, I think the old rooms under the roof
of that tenement-house was dearer to her than those open balconies, and
all the flowers that draped them, for there _he_ had held her hand
quietly in his. There he had “looked, though he was seldom talking of
love.” She was glad for her grandmother’s sake, and pleased that the
boys, who worked so hard and were so good, would be for a time, at
least, made more comfortable. As for herself, poor girl, her life was
broken up. But for those dear ones she would have been glad to die, had
God so willed it.

Georgiana Halstead did not understand this. She knew nothing of Anna’s
interview with Mrs. Savage; and deeming her possessed of a love for
which she would have given so much, was both surprised and disappointed
at a coldness which to her seemed want of feeling. In the exaltation of
a most generous nature, she had found relief in carrying out the promise
she had given Horace Savage; but she had expected more enthusiasm, more
demonstrative happiness, from a girl who had darkened her own life in
attaining the love which was so ready to lift her out of all that was
disagreeable in her life.

Georgiana went home with Mrs. Burns. She was not the girl to make half
sacrifices, and thought that, perhaps, her help or counsel might be of
use. She would not be saddened by Anna’s silence, or disheartened in any
way. Horace had asked her to befriend these people, and she would oblige
him whether they wished it or not.

Very much to the surprise of Mrs. Burns and her visitor, Robert had
reached home earlier than usual, and was sitting in the room with young
Mr. Gould, who had just returned from Ward’s room, where a fiery scene
had passed between him and his old friend. That morning Robert had
appealed to the nephew of his employer with frank earnestness, and
besought him to get the young man away from that house. He told Gould
how cruelly his presence annoyed sister Anna, and added that the
grandmother had appealed to him in vain.

Gould was terribly angry when he learned how meanly Ward had seized upon
his reckless hint to persecute a helpless girl. Every generous impulse
of his nature rose up in repudiation of an act so base. Scarcely had
Robert told his story, when Gould seized his hat and stood ready, so far
as lay in his power, to correct the evil his own rash folly had
instigated. His transient fancy for Robert’s sister had vanished long
ago, and he felt responsible for an act which might injure her, and
certainly debased the man he had once considered as his friend.

I have said there was a stormy scene in Ward’s room within ten minutes
after Gould entered the house. We do not care to give the particulars,
as it was enacted at the very time Mrs. Burns was going over her new
house—a much pleasanter subject. But the result was, that an hour after
young Ward gave up his key to the landlady, and hurried out of the house
with a portmanteau in his hand, looking greatly flurried, and as mean as
an exquisite dandy could well look.

Gould went up stairs with Robert, resolved to set the old lady and her
charge at rest for the future; and, if it could be done, offer them such
help as might atone for the trouble he had unwittingly occasioned them.
He had been angry, or at least excited with generous indignation; and
his very handsome face was lighted up into something more striking than
mere color or form. He really was splendid while moving up and down that
little room, his face bright with noble feeling, and his step lithe as
the movements of a panther.

Gould stood in the middle of the room when the young girls came in. I
think at that particular moment it would have been hard to find a more
noble-looking fellow. Anna started and turned crimson. She recognized
him at once as the Bois Guilbert of that Waverly tableau that had
terminated so disastrously. Georgie, too, remembered him, and blushed in
company with her friend.

“My dear madam,” said the young man, addressing Mrs. Burns, “I beg ten
thousand pardons for this intrusion; and as many more that any person I
have ever known should have been its cause. My friend Robert here—a boy
to be proud of, madam—informed me of the distress Ward had thrown you
into, and I came up at once to turn him out. He is gone; I saw him into
the street myself. You need have no further uneasiness on his account.”

“You are very good, very kind,” answered the old lady, thanking him with
her eyes all the time she was speaking. “It would have been a great
service, and is; but we are going to move.”

“What! has the scoundrel really driven you out?”

“No, not altogether that. We have found friends,” said Mrs. Burns,
looking significantly at Georgiana.

“I am heartily glad of that. Miss Halstead, I have already had the
pleasure of an introduction. I could hardly have found it in my heart to
forgive any one else for preceding me. But my uncle and I will settle
our share with my young friend Robert.”

“Robert,” whispered Mrs. Burns, who seemed to be trembling all over,
“who is this young gentleman?”

“Hush, grandmother! it is only young Mr. Gould.”

The old woman dropped into a chair, and, clasping her hands together,
forced herself to sit still.

“I will go now,” said Georgie, seeing that nothing could be done.
“To-morrow I will come again, and we will arrange things. Robert, are
you very tired? It is getting a little dark, I think.”

Robert got up and took his hat from the table; but young Gould took it
gently from his hand and laid it back again. “I am going by Miss
Halstead’s residence. Will she permit me to escort her?”

Georgie smiled, twisted the elastic around her lace parasol, as if it
was of no further use, and prepared to go. That splendid young fellow,
with eyes so soft, and yet so bright, was no mean escort for any
girl—and Georgiana was quite conscious of the fact. Indeed, of the two,
she could not but confess he was taller and finer-looking than Savage.
That was why he had been selected to represent the magnificent Templar.

So Georgie went home, accompanied by Mr. Gould, with her pretty gloved
hand resting on his arm lightly as a bird touches the branch it nests
on, yet sending the pleasantest sort of a sensation through that arm,
and into the impetuous heart close by. If Georgie was conscious of the
mischief she was doing, the pretty rogue gave no sign, unless a little
heavier weight upon the arm might have been deemed such; but upon the
steps of her father’s mansion she paused, after ascending just far
enough to bring her face on a level with his, and such a warm, rosy
smile met him that he longed to kiss her then and there, as an excuse
for going into that house and demanding her on the instant of her
father. Gould had seen that provokingly handsome creature many a time
without any such feelings, and asked himself, with supreme contempt,
what he had been about never to fall in love with her before.

“May you call?” said Georgie, putting the tip of her parasol up to her
mouth, and turning her head on one side, as if she were brooding over
the subject, “Yes, certainly, if you have any business with papa—I think
he does that sort of thing with your house sometimes; or if you have
taken a fancy to know grandmamma. She’s an old lady worth knowing, I can
tell you.”

“If you permit me, I certainly shall have business with your father,”
answered Gould, with a bright smile; “and am so anxious to see this fine
old lady, that to-morrow, at the furthest, I shall claim that
privilege.”

“I dare say she will be glad to see you. If she should be indisposed,
there is Aunt Eliza—you have seen Aunt Eliza?”

“Oh, yes, certainly! I have seen her, and shall be delighted to resume
the acquaintance.”

“Well, that being settled, good-night!”

Gould lifted his hat, and went away. Georgie ran up the steps, smiling
like a June morning. The door was opened, and she glided through singing
in a low, happy voice, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” when a
voice called to her from over the banisters. Miss Eliza spent half her
natural life leaning over those banisters—and she was there, as usual,
keeping guard.

“Who was it? Who was it you were talking to, Georgiana?” she called out.
“I heard a man’s voice. I will take my oath I heard a man’s voice.”

“It was Mr. Gould,” answered Georgie, breaking off her song.

“Mr. Gould? What, the young gentleman who was on his knees to that vile
girl in the tableau? You don’t mean to say it was him?”

“Yes, I do, Aunt Eliza.”

“Where did you meet him, Georgie, dear? Tell me all about it, that’s a
sweet angel!”

“I met him at Mrs. Burns’, Aunt Eliza.”

“What! in that garret? Is he bewitched by that creature, too? I can’t
believe it!”

“I don’t know about his being bewitched, but he certainly was in Mrs.
Burns’ room when we got there.”

“We! Georgiana. Who are you talking about?”

“Old Mrs. Burns, Anna, and myself. We had been up town on a little
business, and——”

“Georgiana Halstead, have you been in the street with those low people?”

“Yes, if you will call them so.”

“Without my permission?”

“I had that of grandmamma.”

“My mother is an old—— My mother does not know what she is about. I must
inform her.”

“She is well informed, Aunt Eliza.”

“I will make sure of that. But Mr. Gould—did he inquire for me?”

“He spoke of you, certainly.”

“What did he say? Come up here this minute, and tell me all about it.”

“He said that he had been introduced to you, and should like to renew
the acquaintance.”

“Yes, yes! I dare say he would! I saw clearly that he was watching my
Horace that night like a lynx, so jealous that he could not conceal it,
because he escorted me to the carriage. So he has manifested himself at
last. Too late! Too late!”

“He spoke of calling to-morrow, Aunt Eliza.”

“Indeed! That is serious. I will receive him courteously, of course, and
with tender dignity. If there is any time when a lady should be
considerate, it is when she is compelled to suppress the love she has
inspired. Do not look at me, niece; I shall find myself equal to the
occasion, depend on that. But, after visiting that creature, he cannot
expect the reception I might otherwise have given him.”

“Where is grandmamma, Aunt Eliza?”

“In her room. Go to her, child, and confess every thing. She is kind,
she is benevolent. Have no fear to approach her; she may not possess my
bland manner—but that is the fault of early education. She is a
trustworthy person, and deserves to be treated well.”

“Afraid to approach my darling old grandmamma, who knows so much more
than all of us put together, and is worth a thousand people, if we count
the heart for any thing. Dear me! what a precious old goose Aunt Eliza
is. Ha! she is leaning over the banister again. I hope she didn’t hear
me.”

“Georgiana!”

“Well, Aunt Eliza.”

“At what hour did Mr. Gould speak of calling?”

“He did not appoint any special time.”

“Well, it does not matter, one can dress early, and the pleasures of
anticipation are so exquisitely sweet, that I shall quite revel in
them,” muttered Miss Eliza to herself. “I only wanted this to bring that
proud man to his knees. Let him fear to lose me once, and we shall have
an interesting crisis; depend on that, Eliza Halstead.”

Once more the banisters were left to their own support, and Miss Eliza
retired into the place she called her boudoir, while Georgie went to her
grandmother, and told her all that had passed. When Georgie spoke of Mr.
Gould, the old lady seemed unusually disturbed, and asked a good many
questions with singular interest, but said nothing against his coming,
and smiled a little, as nice old ladies will when they watch the
workings of a young girl’s heart in her innocent speech. From that night
Mrs. Halstead was less anxious about the heavy eyes and pale cheeks of
her pet. In fact, it was not long before her cheeks wore the flush of
wild roses, and her eyes—— Well, it is of no use describing Georgie’s
eyes when she was happy—they were too lovely for comparison.

It had been a chilly day, which made fires pleasant, when Savage had
that interview in the old maid’s room; but the weather was deliciously
pleasant now, and Miss Eliza came out in white muslin and blue ribbons,
radiant with expectation from breakfast time till noon, and from noon
till evening. Then Mr. Gould came, and, according to her own private
instructions, was taken up to her room, where the Cupid was quivering
over a basket of real flowers, and Miss Eliza sat in position, with her
foot on the ottoman, and some innocent white flowers in her hair.

Gould was not quite so much pre-occupied as Savage had been, so he fell
into the lady’s humor, complimented her till she fluttered like a bird
of paradise on its nest, and began to think seriously of spurning young
Savage from the feet to which he was expected to fall. After awhile
Gould adroitly brought the conversation round to the lady’s mother, and
expressed an ardent wish to know intimately any person connected with a
person he had admired so long. This desire was so promising that Eliza
took Gould into the family sitting-room, where Mrs. Halstead sat with
her beautiful grandchild.

In this fashion Gould introduced himself into the family, where he soon
became intimate as a son.

It was after this bold step that the roses came back to Georgie’s face;
and the young creature began to sing again, like a bird that some great
storm has silenced for a time. The old lady smiled on all this, but at
times she would fix her eyes, with strange anxiety, on the young man’s
face, as if her thoughts were afar off, and troubled with bitter
memories.

As for Miss Eliza, it was very difficult to sweep an illusion from her
brain. Intense vanity like hers is not easily warned.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                         A DECLARATION OF LOVE.


The night that Gould went home with Miss Halstead, Savage presented
himself in the tenement-house, resolved to come to an explanation with
Anna, and be guided by the result. The boys had gone out on some errand,
and old Mrs. Burns had just stepped down stairs to give their landlady
notice of the removal; so, for once, Anna was alone. She heard the step
on the stairs, and started up like a frightened fawn ready for flight.
But there was no place to flee to, except the little bedroom, and that
was so close to the room that he might hear her breathe—for she was even
then panting with affright. What could she say to him? Had he really
thought that Ward was staying there with her consent? He had reached the
last flight of steps, when she remembered, with a pang, her promise to
Mrs. Savage, “never, if she could help it, to see him again.”

Stung by this thought, she sprang for the bedroom; but the doors of that
house did not move with patent springs; this one dragged against the
floor, and, before she could close it, Savage was in the ante-room. Was
she glad or sorry that the possibility of avoiding him had escaped her?
The tumult in her heart would have forbidden an answer to this question
had her conscience been able to force it upon her.

He was in the room, his eyes caught hers as her hand dropped from the
door, and she stood on the threshold, gazing wildly at him like an
antelope frightened in its lair.

“Anna,” he said, yielding to a sudden rush of tenderness which swelled
in his heart at the very sight of her; “Anna, was it from me you were
striving to escape?”

She stood where he had first seen her, with drooping eyes and a cheek of
ashes.

“Anna, speak to me.”

She looked up with such agony on her face, that the very sight of it
made him recoil a step backward.

“Anna, my poor, dear girl, what is this that has come between us?”

“I don’t know. Ask—ask——No, you must not ask any one. You and I must
never speak to each other again—never! never! never!”

The voice broke off in a faint wail, so full of pain, that it made the
young man shiver.

“But we can and will speak together. Who shall prevent it?”

“I must.”

“You, Anna? This is madness. Some trouble has driven you wild.”

“No, I am not wild, nor wicked enough to break a sacred promise.”

“A sacred promise? Who exacted this promise?”

“One who had a right?”

“One who had a right! Who on earth has any right over you, Anna Burns?
Are you not in every thing but words my betrothed wife?”

“I was—I was!” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands in piteous
distress. “But every thing is changed.”

A flash of the old suspicion came over Savage; he strode across the
room, and seizing Anna by the wrist, drew her with gentle violence
through the door.

“Look me in the face, Anna Burns, and say, if you have the courage, that
this change is in yourself.”

She cast a piteous look into his face, and strove to force her hand from
his grasp.

“Girl! Girl! Has your heart become so false that it dares not look
through your eyes?”

“It is breaking! It is breaking!” she cried, desperately yielding her
feeble strength to his.

“Breaking? For what—for whom?”

“You wound it so. Every one I meet gives it a blow.”

“I wound it? Girl! Girl! Two days ago I would have died to save you an
hour’s pain!”

“But now you hate, you despise me!” moaned the poor young creature,
giving him one look that went to his heart.

“Why should you think so, Anna? If you have done nothing to earn hate or
contempt, how could the idea enter your heart?”

“I—I cannot tell. I can tell you nothing, Mr. Savage, only that I have
made a promise, and must keep it.”

Savage grasped her hand so fiercely that it pained her.

“Girl, answer me. Was that promise made to Mr. Ward?”

“Mr. Ward?”

Her face became instantly crimson with flashing blood.

“Mr. Ward? Who told you? Who—who——‘

She remembered her second promise to Mrs. Savage in time, and grew
coldly white again.

“Those who know him to be under the same roof with you told me, Anna. If
you could only know how I have reproached myself for believing them.”

“But you must believe them,” she said. The words fell from her lips
sharp and cold, like hailstones on frozen snow. She shivered under his
eye, and made another, wild effort to release herself. But he held her
in an iron grasp.

“Anna, do you love that man?”

His voice was low and hoarse; his eyes were full of passionate pleading;
all his pride was forgotten then. He was a man pleading for the very
life of his love.

“Do you love that man?”

“Oh! let me go! I pray of you let me go!”

“Not till you answer me, Anna.”

“What was it you asked me to say?” she faltered, humbly.

“I asked if you loved that man Ward?”

“I could not answer that question. I—I wonder how you can ask it.”

“Another, then—and for mercy’s sake, be frank. Have you ceased to love
me? Anna, is it so?”

Anna would not tell a lie. She could be silent, and so keep her promise;
but to say that she did not love that man, when every thought of her
brain and pulse of her being was drawing her soul into his, was a
blasphemy against love that she recoiled from.

“Oh, Anna! is it all over between us?”

She began to weep; great tears broke through those drooping eyelashes.

“Yes,” she said, mournfully. “It is all over between us.”

“And you will marry that man?”

“No! No! He does not wish it. I—I——”

She broke off, as if a shot had penetrated her heart; for Savage had
dropped her hand with a gesture of sweet anguish, as only a proud man
feels when the woman he loves sinks into degradation. Fortunately for
her secret, she neither understood the gesture, or the thought that made
him turn so deadly white. She had paused suddenly, because the words on
her lips were about to betray her. The next words that Savage addressed
to her made the heart in her bosom thrill and ache as it had never done
before.

“Anna, listen. I am going now, and you may never hear my voice again.”

A sob broke on her white lips. She drooped before him, white and still;
but, oh! how miserable! ready for the last killing words.

“If—if this man should become weary of you——”

“Weary of me?”

There was pride on her lip, and fire in her eyes now; but this only
revolted Savage. It seemed to him like the confidence of a vain woman,
secure in her unhappy position.

“This may happen, Anna.”

“No, Mr. Savage, it never can.”

“But men do change sometimes,” he answered bitterly, “almost as readily
as women. When this time comes, send to me. I shall never, of my own
will, speak to you again; but while I have a dollar you shall never
want.”

Anna was weeping bitterly now. She strove to answer him, but her throat
gave forth nothing but sobs.

“Do you promise, Anna, if any thing connected with you could give me a
gleam of pleasure, it would be a certainty that you would send to me in
your trouble or your need?”

“I will—I will,” she cried out.

“And to no other person?”

“To you, and no other.”

“Now, farewell, Anna.”

She took his hand in hers; she pressed her lips upon it again and again,
covering it with tears and passionate kisses.

“It is forever—it is forever!” she sobbed in despair. “Do not hate me.
Think kindly of me sometimes. Tell your mother——”

“Tell my mother what, Anna? She will be sorry to hear this. She has been
kind to you.”

“Kind! Oh, yes! very kind.” There was bitterness in her heart, and it
broke up through her sobs.

“But what must I tell her?”

“Nothing.”

“I will tell her nothing,” he answered sadly.

He made an effort to take away his hand, but it brought a cry of such
anguish from her that he desisted, and strove to soothe her.

“And after what you have told me, it is only pain to stay near you.”

“I know it,” she said; “terrible pain!”

They were both silent now. She still clung to his hand, but was growing
calmer. The storm of tears was ending in short, dry sobs; and she lifted
her eyes to him with a look of such yearning tenderness, such humble
deprecation, that his own eyes were flooded.

“You will not hate me?” she said.

“No, Anna. Heaven knows that is not in my power!”

“And sometimes, when you are married to some lady——”

“I shall not marry for many a long year, Anna.”

“There is Miss Halstead!”

“Hush! That name on your lips wounds me.”

“You will marry her?”

“Hush!” he said, “I cannot bear that.”

“And when you are happy, sometimes think kindly of the poor girl who is
not so very bad.”

“Anna, I shall always think kindly of you. God forgive you that I cannot
mingle respect with kindness!”

“Then you think I have done very wrong?”

“Yes; very, very wrong.”

“Ah, me! How can I help it? Which way shall I turn? It is hard to be so
young, with only a dear old grandmother to show you the right way.”

“It is hard, poor child!”

“And I have tried to do my best—indeed, I have.”

“Tried and failed. Unhappy girl!”

“Yes, I am an unhappy girl—so unhappy that I sometimes think there never
was a creature so wretched. Then I must not let her see it, or the
boys—they have so little pleasure, you know; but they are affectionate,
and will find me out; but not if I can help it.”

She said all this in a low, dreary voice, that would have touched a
heart of granite. Savage felt his resentment, his pride and his strength
giving away. He would have given the world to take that young creature
in his arms and weep over her. But it could not be. Her hands had fallen
away from his unconsciously. She had covered her face with them. Savage
turned from her and softly left the room; he had no heart to attempt
another farewell.

Anna felt the silence, and, looking up, saw that he was gone. She heard
his footsteps going rapidly down the stairs. Quick as thought she
snatched up her bonnet and shawl. She would not part with him so. If the
whole world dropped from under her feet she would follow him. Down the
stairs she went like a lapwing, wrapping the shawl about her as she ran.
He walked swiftly, as men do when stung to quick motion by pain. She
soon came up with him; but that moment a panic of shame seized her, and
she lagged behind, growing fainter and fainter each moment. An impulse
of self-preservation had sent her into the street. She could not part
with him so. That proud woman had no right to ask it. She would follow
him home. She would demand a release from her promise from that haughty
woman in his presence, and tell him how she loathed that man Ward; that
a thousand thousand worlds would not induce her to marry him. How could
he believe it of her, even though she told it herself?

Wild with these rash thoughts, she would have called out for him to
stop; but she was panting for breath, and no sound came when she made a
wild effort to utter his name.

Then, with the faintness, came other thoughts. His parents never would
consent that he should marry her. It would be ruin, utter ruin to him.
What wild, wicked thing was she about? After resisting her own love, and
his unhappiness so bravely, was she to destroy it all and ruin him
because of that awful heartache? But she was so tired, so completely
worn out. A few moments she would rest on that door-step, and then go
home. It did not matter much what became of her, since he had gone,
believing her a fickle, heartless girl, capable of marrying that
creature. No; it was of very little consequence, for—for—for——

Unhappy girl, she had fallen into insensibility on that door-step, and
there she lay like a lost lamb, pale and still.

Anna had scarcely rested on those cold stones five minutes, when an old
man turned from the street and was about to mount the steps. He saw her
lying there, with the light from a street lamp blazing on her features.
They were so white that he thought at first she must be dead. Stooping
down, he found that she had fainted, and rang the bell violently. A
servant came out, and lifting the insensible girl between them, master
and man bore her into that old-fashioned family mansion, which I have
described in the early part of this story.

They laid her on a broad-seated old sofa in the front room, and then,
for the first time, that strange old man recognized her as the girl he
had seen in that poverty-stricken home picture. He had been a voyage to
Europe since then, but those delicate features were fresh in his memory
yet.

“Bring brandy, wine, every thing that can help her out of this cold
fit,” he said to the servant. “I know the girl, and will take charge of
her myself.”

The wine and brandy were brought. With his old hand shaking the glass
unsteadily, the master poured wine through those white lips. It was a
simple case of exhaustion, and Anna soon felt a glow of life diffusing
itself through her frame.

“Give me another glass—not the brandy, that is too strong; but generous
wine hurts no one. Take another drink, child, and then tell me all about
it. Remember, I am your friend.”

“Yes,” said Anna, “I remember you were very good to grandmother and the
children once. We do not forget such kindness.”

“But how happens it that you are here?” inquired the old man, smoothing
her hair with his hand. “Come out on an errand, I suppose, or something
like that, and wilted down on my door-step. Singular, wasn’t it? Do you
know that your brother is in my employ? Found the place out for himself;
didn’t know it was mine. Mean to make a man of that shaver, I promise
you. True as steel, and good as gold. Now tell me all about yourself.”

“Oh! if I only could,” she said, looking earnestly in his face.

“But you can. Of course, you can.”

“Perhaps you might help me,” she said, rising to her elbow. “Somehow I
feel as if——but you couldn’t.”

“Who knows? I have helped a great many people in my lifetime.”

“But not young girls like me, who have troubles that money cannot cure.”

“Little lady, permit me to doubt that.”

She rose higher on the sofa-pillows, and looked at him with her great,
earnest eyes.

“I will fancy that you are my father, and tell you every thing,” she
said.

“Do,” answered the old man, but his voice shook a little; “do.”

Anna told him every thing, even to her love for Horace Savage, for the
old man helped her forward with low spoken questions, and she could talk
to him with more ease than if it had been her grandmother, with whom she
was just a little shy about some of her feelings. There may be things in
the human heart which we can confide to strangers more easily than we
can explain them to our dearest friends. At any rate, Anna opened her
innocent, young heart to that old man, as if she had been saying her
prayers before God. With him she felt such a sense of protection that
she smiled in his face more than once through her tears.

“Let the whole thing alone, child. Move into the new house as soon as
you like, and wait till I can think every thing over. But, above all
things, get a little sunshine into those eyes; you shall never be sorry
for having trusted the old man. As for that young scamp, Ward, Gould
shall take care of him. But where do you live?”

Anna gave him the name and number of the house. He seemed surprised.

“Why, that house belongs to me; and you have been paying rent in it all
the time to this good-hearted woman? I remember, my agent said that he
had a good tenant there. I wont forget that the woman has been kind to
you and your grandmother.”

“Most of all to her,” said Anna.

“And this grandmother—does she bear her age well?”

“Oh! you must ask some one else—to me grandma is lovely.”

“And she was kind to you?”

“Kind!”

Anna’s fine eyes opened wide at the question.

“I was foolish to ask that, of course—grandmothers are always kind.”

“But she isn’t, like any other grandmother that ever lived. She has
petted us, worked for us, gone without food that we might have enough.
When my father was alive——”

“Hush! hush! we need not speak of him. Robert has told me all about
that.”

The old man was a little excited, and seemed to shrink into himself when
Anna mentioned her father. So she changed the subject, and said she must
go home; they would miss her and be frightened.

“Yes,” the old man said, “perhaps they would. She was looking natural
again and might go; but it would be as well not to say where she had
been. No good in talking too much, even if it was only to an old
grandmother.”

Anna promised not to say any thing about her little adventure. It did
really seem to her as if Providence had taken away her strength at that
door-step for some kind purpose, with which it would be sacrilege for
her to interfere. She had a world of faith in that old man’s power to
help her, and went home, if not happy, greatly comforted.

The very next morning young Gould sought an interview with his uncle,
and told him the whole story about young Ward, and his own great fault
regarding the Burns family. He concealed nothing, either of his former
extravagant entanglements, or the last vile act which this man had
perpetrated under his patronage.

The old man listened in dead silence till Gould had exhausted his
subject. Then he looked him quietly in the face, and spoke in his usual
dry fashion.

“Had you succeeded in really injuring this girl, I should have broken
with you forever,” he said.

“I—I never thought of injuring her. It was only a freak, a sudden fancy
to know who and what she was. I hope you believe me, uncle?”

“If I did not, you would have little chance to convince me, for I would
not endure you in my presence an hour. Let that pass. You were about to
say something more—ask something of me, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Having given these people some annoyance——”

“Driven them from their home, in fact,” broke in the uncle

“Yes, as you say, driven them from their home. I—I should like, in
short, to give them a better one.”

“But that is already secured to them.”

“How did you know that, uncle? Oh! I see, you have been questioning the
boy. But there is something about this new home that I do not like,
uncle. I think young Savage is at the bottom of that movement.”

“Very likely. He seems a generous young fellow enough.”

“But I cannot accept his generosity. No man shall be permitted to pay
the penalty of my fault.”

“No man? What if I choose to take that in, with your other expenses?”

“Ah! that is another thing.”

“Entirely! Well, now do not trouble yourself about young Savage, if you
love the girl.”

“But I don’t. On the contrary, uncle, I am deuced near loving another
girl, if not quite in for it.”

“That is fortunate, because I could not permit you to marry this one.
She’s too good for you, fifty per cent. too good.”

“Well, uncle, we wont quarrel about that. But the new home. Either
Savage or old Mrs. Halstead is providing that, and I wont permit it. We
must take this on ourselves.”

“We?”

“Yes. For what am I without you?”

The old man’s eyes glistened. He took young Gould’s hand in his with a
vigorous pressure.

“True enough—true enough! No man is sufficient to himself. That which
men call independence of our fellow-creatures only brings loneliness.
But about this house, nephew? It belongs to me—I own all that property,
every foot of it, and better paying houses can’t be found. Old Mrs.
Halstead lived in one of ’em before she took up her residence with her
husband’s son, and we’ve kept it on hand, thinking that she might want
to go back.”

“Then you know Mrs. Halstead?”

“A little. She was my tenant. Well, your suspicions were right. Young
Savage did want to make the family more comfortable. He is an honorable
young fellow, Gould, and did not want to risk the girl’s good name by
direct help—so he went to Halstead’s daughter.”

“What, Miss Eliza?”

“No. I think they call her Georgiana.”

“Confound his impudence!” muttered Gould.

“What were you saying, nephew?”

“Nothing, sir. But is Savage so intimate with the Halsteads as that?”

“Decidedly. Mrs. Savage hints that there is an engagement between her
son and the young lady.”

“I—I don’t believe it, sir.”

“Nor I. At any rate, this Georgiana consented to act as his agent; and,
thinking as you do, that old people are worth something in an emergency,
she went at once to her grandmother for help. Her grandmother came to me
about the house, and I took the whole affair off her hands, knowing what
a scamp you have been, and guessing that you would be wild to make
atonement.”

“Uncle!”

“Well, sir.”

“You are too good. I am unworthy of all this kindness.”

“Of course you are!” said the old man, looking at him with eyes that
twinkled as through a mist. “But what about this little Halstead girl?”

“Uncle, since I saw her in that garret with that family, I honestly
believe I am getting in love with that girl!”

“Hem!” muttered the old man, pressing his thin lips to keep them from
smiling too broadly; “the second confession in twenty-four hours. I
wonder if Miss Eliza would lend me her flying cupid?”

“Why, what do you know about the cupid?” inquired Gould, laughing.

“Oh! the young lady sent for me, and I went. She was in full state with
that little winged imp dancing over her.”

“Did she ask you to sit on the ottoman?” asked Gould, going into
convulsions of laughter.

“Yes; but I told her my joints were too rusty.”

“And she answered that ‘hearts never grow old.’ I know all about it. Oh!
uncle, beware! But what on earth did she want of you?”

“She wanted to make some inquiries about my nephew.”

“What?”

“How much he was worth in his own right, and if I knew that his heart
was touched.”

“No!”

“If he would, in the end, be my heir; and if I intended to divide with
him before my death.”

“Oh! ah, this is too much. Had the creature an idea about Georgiana? Was
I goose enough to let her guess that?”

“Georgiana! Nothing of that; Miss Eliza was speaking in her own behalf.”

“Oh, uncle! that’s too bad; with all my faults, I do not deserve that.”

“It is the solemn truth, though.”

Here the old man broke into a low, chuckling laugh; and Gould, well-bred
as he was, broke into a wild ecstasy of fun.

“She asked my consent.”

“What! under the cupid?”

“Said she could not think of encouraging your devotion without that.”

“No! no! no! she didn’t do that!”

“Said that it was but right to confess that her first maiden affections
had, for a moment, wandered to another, who might even then hold her in
honor bound to him; but her love, the pure, deep, holy, irresistible
feeling would forever turn to my nephew, though she might, such was her
fine sense of honor, be compelled to marry another.”

“Oh, uncle, uncle! do break off. I shall die—I shall die with laughing.
Have mercy, uncle.”

“I am an indulgent old fellow, Gould, and I told her that my consent
should not be withheld, when you asked it.”

“You did—and then?”

“Then she kissed my hand, slid down, with one knee on the ottoman, and
asked my blessing.”

“And you gave it?”

“No, Gould; an old man’s blessing is too sacred for such trifling; but
Louis the grand, never lifted a woman from her knees more regally. She
was delighted with me.”

“I wonder she did not put in a reversionary interest in yourself,
uncle.”

“She did, rather. I think she said, if her young heart had not gone out
to my nephew, it would still have rested in the family.”

“Excuse me, uncle, but this is getting too funny; I have got a pain in
my side already. Just let me off awhile till I take breath.”

“But about Georgiana?”

“Don’t uncle. I cannot bear to have that sweet girl mentioned in the
same day with that excruciating old maid.”

“That is right, Gould. We’ll talk of her another time.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                      A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND.


Georgiana Halstead called on Mrs. Savage as she had promised. She knew
nothing of the change that had come over Horace, and went with a heavy
heart to perform a painful task. Mrs. Savage received her with more than
her usual cordiality. She took off her bonnet with her own hands,
smoothed her hair caressingly, and kissed her forehead before she
allowed the girl to find a seat.

“And how is my pet of pets?” she said, smiling down upon that lovely
face. “It is a long time since you have been here, child.”

“Yes,” said Georgie. “I have been so busy, so—that is, I have not felt
like going out.”

“Ah! I understand it all. Miss Eliza has been talking to you; what a
mischievous creature she is. But do not believe a word of it, dear.
Horace cares no more about that Burns girl than I do.”

“But I thought you liked her so much!” said Georgie faithful to her
promise. “Why not, she is a good girl, and _so_ pretty?”

“Why, Georgie, what has come over you? But, perhaps, Eliza has been
discreet for once.”

“No, she hasn’t. Aunt Eliza don’t know what discretion is. She told me a
hundred cruel things about that poor girl; but not one of them is true.”

“And, among the rest, something about my son. Confess, dear, that she
has?”

“Well, yes, I do not deny that. But, so far as relates to him, I think
it is the truth.”

“You think it is the truth, Georgie, and speak so quietly about it? How
can you?”

“She is a dear, sweet girl, Mrs. Savage; and I think Horace loves her.”

“Horace does no such thing, Georgie, and you know it. His real love has
always been for you, my own child.”

“I hope not,” answered Georgie, demurely; “for I can never love him.”

“Georgiana Halstead!”

“It is true, Mrs. Savage. I haven’t had the courage to tell you so
before, because your heart was set on it; but, try as hard as we will,
Horace and I cannot—that is, I cannot marry Horace.”

Poor child! how she struggled to shield her pride, and yet speak the
truth. She was trembling all over, and yet smiled into Mrs. Savage’s
astonished face, as if it were the easiest thing in the world that she
was doing.

“Georgiana, I cannot think that you are in earnest.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Savage, you must think so.”

“You are angry about the girl, and will not let me know it.”

“Indeed, I am not. In my whole life I never saw a finer girl—she is
worth a dozen of me.”

“No human being could ever claim half so much, dear little Georgie.
Come, come, tell me the truth; you are very angry with Horace, and no
wonder—he tries even my patience.”

“Mrs. Savage, do believe me; I am not in the least angry with any one.
It is only that neither Horace nor I wish to marry each other. We have
always been good friends; and I would so like to be related to you, but
without mutual love it would be wicked.”

“Then you really do not love my son?”

“Don’t, please, make me repeat it over and over! It seems so harsh; but
you must not expect any thing of the kind.”

Mrs. Savage threw her arms around Georgie where she sat, and laid her
cheek against her hair.

“Oh, Georgie, Georgie! you will not disappoint me so.”

The woman was in earnest; her voice broke, and tears fell upon the
girl’s bright hair. Then Georgie began to tremble, and burst into tears.

“Dear child, you are crying, too. I felt sure that you could not persist
in this cruel resolution. Come, child, kiss me, and forget all that has
been said.”

“No, no, dear friend. I—I am only crying because it is impossible.
Hearts are not to be forced.”

“But he loves you. Believe it, for he does!”

“I am very sorry; but that can make no difference.”

“Do you love any one else, Georgiana Halstead?”

A new thought had struck the proud woman; you could tell that from the
imperious tone in which she spoke.

“You must not ask me any thing more,” answered Georgie. “I have said all
that you will care to hear.”

“I think you have all conspired to drive me frantic’” said Mrs. Savage,
throwing herself back in her chair: “I thought every thing was settled
so nicely. Now you come to disturb me. But I will not give this match
up. It has been in my heart since you were children.”

“We must give it up. But do not love me less for that, dear Mrs. Savage.
If we could love according to our own will, I would gladly be your
daughter. But from this hour we must never think of it again.”

Georgie flung her arms around Mrs. Savage, and kissed her face, which
had an expression upon it half stern, half sorrowful. Then the two women
burst into tears, and clung to each other, sobbing.

“It is because I grieve to disappoint you!” said Georgie, sweeping the
tears from her eyes. “It breaks my heart, for I do love you as if you
were my own mother.”

“Ah! reconsider it, Georgie—I may be that.”

“If I could—if I could!” cried Georgie, hurrying on her things.
“Good-by—good-by. It is all my fault; but I cannot help it.”

Poor Georgie. She had gone through her generous task bravely, but she
shook with agitation all the way home; and, once there, locked herself
into her own little sitting-room, and cried herself into complete
exhaustion, huddled up in the easy-chair, in which she had suffered so
terribly when Savage first made her his confidant.

That evening young Savage came to see her, looking so miserably wretched
that she forgot her own sorrow in pity for him. “What had gone wrong?”
she asked, “he looked so ill.”

“Nothing!” For the world he would not have told her, or any one, of the
broken hopes that had left him so depressed. To have hinted at this
would be a sacrilege to the love that Anna Burns had forfeited. He
looked at Georgie earnestly. Sorrow had rendered him sympathetic. Some
vague idea of the disappointment which had left the violet shadows, so
deep and dark, about her eyes, fell upon him; but he did not guess at
the whole truth, but took a misty idea that she, too, had loved some
one—young Gould, perhaps—and been disenchanted as he was.

“After all, Georgie,” he said, “it would have been better if you and I
could have gotten up a grand passion for each other. It would have
pleased our parents, if nothing more.”

Georgiana smiled sadly enough.

“But it was impossible,” she said, in a faint voice. “That was what she
had told his mother not three hours before.”

“You told her this? Oh! now I remember! It was I who asked you. But it
was selfish. I had no right to wound your delicacy so.”

“But it was best. She had been cherishing a delusion. Very soon you will
tell her all.”

Savage did not answer. He longed to make a confidant of Georgiana, but
his heart was too freshly wounded, he could not expose its misery to
her. Besides, how could he pain that pure heart with the story he had to
relate?

“We have found a house for Mrs. Burns,” said Georgie; “such a pretty
place, you would almost think yourself in the country.”

“Will they go? Does she accept it?”

“Yes, the old lady is delighted. Anna seems less glad, but she accepts
the change, and is grateful for it. But some change has come upon her,
more depressing than poverty—that she bore well.”

“You noticed it, then? You saw how sadly she was altered?” said Savage;
“but did you guess the cause?”

“No; how could I? Perhaps she has heard some of the unkind things Aunt
Eliza is saying of her, though I cannot think how.”

“Did you talk with her? Will she tell you nothing.”

“No; she said very little, but her voice was full of tears. It broke my
heart to see her look of suffering.”

“She does suffer, then, poor girl?”

“I should think so—but why? No doubt she is very anxious. You have a
little of the same look. Better ask your mother at once; with so much
happiness lying beyond her consent, it is a pity to lose a day in
doubt.”

“Not yet. I shall not speak to my mother of this yet.”

“Oh! that is what troubles Anna. But why?”

“Do not ask me, Georgie. The other night I could tell you every thing,
but now I am full of uncertainty myself.”

“But you love her; there is no doubt on that point?” she asked, eagerly.

“No; unhappily. I wish——But what is the use of wishing. Let us talk of
something else—the house, for instance.”

“Oh! it is such a pretty duck of a house, half verandahs, half little
rooms, and the rest honeysuckles and roses. Just the place for them.”

“But you will want money to pay for every thing. Pray hand this to your
grandmother.”

“She will not take it. I asked her and she said no; she had made all the
arrangements about money.”

Savage turned crimson, and held the envelope, which he had extended to
her, irresolutely.

“Georgiana, be honest with me. Has Anna Burns refused to accept this
kindness? Has any other person preceded me here?”

“No, no! I am sure Anna accepted grandmamma’s help gratefully enough;
and the dear old lady would not allow any person to help her if she
refused you; that is, any other young person. She is not rich; grandpapa
had but little when he died; but she can afford to do this.”

Savage put the envelope in his pocket, sighing heavily. “So it seems I
am to be put aside everywhere,” he said.

“Not at all; only grandmamma thinks it best that no young man should
help pay for the home she has selected for Anna Burns.”

“She is right. You tell me that she has met Anna?”

“Oh, yes! and liked her so much!”

“Georgie!”

“What is it, Mr. Savage?”

“You will keep my secret? You will not mention any thing that I said to
you the other day?”

“How can you think I would?”

“True, how could I?”

“Any thing else? You seem so anxious and strange to-night.”

“Yes, one thing more, Georgie. I have got you into this affair——”

“Affair! Why, how you talk!”

“Well, let me express myself better. It was through my mother you were
introduced to Anna Burns. She really knew very little of the family.”

Georgie opened her beautiful eyes wide, and sat upright in her chair,
staring at him.

“Why, Horace Savage, are you turning against that poor girl?”

“No, no! God forbid!”

“Then what is it you are trying to say and cannot?”

“Nothing, only this; I shall never marry Anna Burns.”

“Why, Mr. Savage, why?”

“She does not love me.”

For one instant Georgie’s face was radiant, then it slowly settled back
to its former gentle sadness, and she said, with firmness,

“That is terrible, for she loves you!”

“No!”

“I tell you she does.”

“Still it can never be. All I ask is, Georgie, that you will let this
good grandmother care for this family without—without interference on
your part.”

“That is, you don’t wish me to have much intimacy with Anna Burns.”

“It would pain me to put it in that form.”

“But that is what you mean. Well, Mr. Savage, I cannot consent to it. I
have promised these people to befriend them. They are no common objects
of charity, but refined, and gently bred as I am. You may forsake them,
but I never will.”

Savage gazed on the young girl with more admiration than he had ever
felt for her in his life before. How was he to act? In what way could he
warn the girl, and keep her safe from evil associations, and yet protect
his knowledge of Anna Burns’ unworthiness?

“Poor Anna! Poor, dear girl! I know how to pity her!” murmured Georgie,
with tears in her eyes.

“God bless you, Georgie! What a good heart you have!”

Savage sat down by her, and taking her hand, kissed it.

“Miss Georgiana Halstead, is this the way you answer my messages?” The
door of Georgie’s sitting-room had been softly opened, and Miss Eliza
stood on the threshold in a dress of blue silk, and with natural roses
in her hair.

“I—I did not receive any message,” answered Georgiana, shivering.

“But I sent one, asking Mr. Savage to my room.”

“I will see you presently, Miss Eliza,” said Savage, coming to
Georgiana’s aid. “The servant gave me your message in the hall; Miss
Halstead knew nothing about it. I had a little special business with
her.”

“Indeed! Then I will retire.”

Miss Eliza gave him an imperial courtesy, and gave them both a fine view
of her sweeping train as she passed up the stairs.

“Do go,” said Georgiana, smiling in spite of all her trouble; “she will
give me no peace for a week to come if you keep her waiting. Besides,
she saw you kissing my hand, and it would be an awkward subject at the
breakfast table before papa.”

“Rather!” answered Savage. “But, tell me, Georgiana, what shall I do if
she proposes to me outright? She looked capable of it, on my word she
did.”

“Do?” answered Georgie, brightening under the idea. “Why, marry her; it
will serve you right for asking me to give up Anna Burns. I won’t do it,
make sure of that.”

“What a thing it is to fear no evil. God bless the girl! What if her
answers were wiser than all my worldly wisdom?”

Miss Eliza was kneeling by her cozy chair, half prostrated on the floor,
over which the broad circumference of her crinoline, and waves on waves
of blue silk swept in rustling waves. She was crying, partly from pure
vexation, and partly because tears would be extremely convenient just at
that moment.

A light knock came to the door. She started, turned over one shoulder,
shook out the folds of her dress, and bent to her grief again.

Another knock; a third, somewhat louder, and the door opened.

“Did you tell me to come in?”

Miss Eliza started from her knees, with a splendid sweep of her
draperies, and turning away her head, wiped the tears from her eyes with
ostentatious privacy.

“Oh, Mr. Savage! I—I did not hear you. Pray be seated; in a few moments
I shall be more composed.”

“What has happened to trouble you, Miss Halstead?” inquired Savage,
looking innocent as a lamb.

“Oh! can you ask? That scene! That terrible enlightenment! Horace! dear
Horace——What am I about! Has my sensitive nature lost its pride; all the
lofty feeling which hedges in the love of a woman’s heart like—like——

“Like the bur around a half-ripe chestnut,” suggested Savage. It was
very impudent, truly; but the young fellow could not have helped saying
it to save his life—it came into his mind and out on his lips so
suddenly.

“Do you mock my anguish? Load my desolate heart with ridicule?” cried
the lady, dashing back the skirt of her dress like a tragedy queen in
high agony. “Has it come to this?”

“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Halstead!” said Savage, blushing for
himself; “but you seemed at a loss for some comparison, and that came
into my mind—not a bad one, either, when you reflect how those ten
thousand little thorns keep rude hands from the fruit, guarding it
sacredly till the burs open of themselves, and let the nuts drop out.”

“Mr. Savage,” said Eliza, “I beg your pardon; it was a beautiful idea;
my heart feels all its poetry. The thorns you speak of are piercing it,
oh, how cruelly! The bur has opened, the fruit has dropped out, and you
are treading it under your feet.”

“I—I, Miss Eliza?”

“Yes, you; the betrothed of my soul! But it is all over; never in this
world can we be to each other what we have been.”

“Why, Miss Halstead?”

“There it is; Miss Halstead—cold, cruel, Miss Halstead?”

“But I do not understand.”

“And never, never will!” cried Miss Eliza, spreading one hand over her
bosom. “No common mind can ever comprehend the anguish buried here.”

“But what is this all about? I am quite unconscious of having offended
you.”

“Offended! Does love take offence? Does despair reveal itself in anger?
Oh, Mr. Savage! it was not three days ago that I received the most
touching proposal—money, position, manly beauty, every thing that could
tempt the heart from its allegiance to a beloved object, or kindle the
ambition. But I refused it, gently, kindly—but I refused it.”

“And why, Miss Halstead?”

“Why? Great heavens! He asks me, why?”

She turned her eyes upon him; she clasped her hands, and sunk upon her
knees, burying her face in the cushions of that most convenient chair.

“He asks me, why! He asks me, why!”

Her shoulders began to heave under the thin lace that covered them; her
head swayed to and fro in spasms of grief. She crushed a little web of
fine linen and lace up to her eyes with both hands, and wet it with her
tears.

“I tear you from my heart! I give you up!” she cried. “Cold, hard man!
you see me at your feet without pity! With my own eyes I have witnessed
your faithlessness; but you make no effort at consolation; explain
nothing!”

“What can I explain, madam?”

“Madam!”

She arose slowly to her full height, and, pointing her finger at his
astonished face, said, with solemn emphasis,

“Mr. Savage, did I not see you kissing Georgiana Halstead’s hand?”

Savage laughed, a little nervously, it must be confessed.

“It is possible. Yes, I dare say you did.”

“He owns it! He glories in his unfaithfulness!” she cried out, wringing
her hands. “Was ever treason like this?”

“Really, Miss Halstead, this scene is getting tedious,” said Savage,
losing all patience. “I am not aware of ever having given you a right to
address me in this way.”

“Sir,” answered the lady, “I am aware of my rights, and will maintain
them. To-morrow my brother shall call upon you to decide between his
sister and his child.”

“Miss Halstead, are you insane?”

“If I am, Horace, who drove me to it? Oh! this will break your mother’s
heart.”

“Miss Halstead, sit down, and let me talk with you reasonably. You know
as well as I that this idea of an engagement is an impossibility—that it
never existed.”

She had seated herself, and held that morsel of a handkerchief to her
eyes.

“If you have any thing to say in excuse for this cruel treachery, I will
listen,” she said, with broken-hearted resignation. “Heaven knows my
heart pleads for you.”

“I have nothing to say, madam,” answered Savage, completely out of
patience, “except that this farce is fortunate in having no other
witnesses. The wisest thing that you or I can do, is to forget it as
soon as possible.”

Miss Eliza saw the quiet resolution in his face, and went gradually out
of the little drama that she had acted so well. Her sobs were subdued;
the morsel of a handkerchief fluttered less frequently to her eyes. She
sat down, crest-fallen, with her two hands lying loosely in her lap. Her
grand _coup d’etat_ had signally failed. Savage neither soothed,
promised, or admitted any thing. All that was left to her was the most
graceful retreat she could make.

“Mr. Savage,” she said, holding out her hand, “let us be friends. If
this artful girl has won you from me, let us be friends, eternal
friends. This proud heart shall break in silence, if it must break. But
there may be a future for us yet—something that the angels can look upon
with pleasure.

                 “‘Is there no other tie to bind
                 The constant heart, the willing mind?
                    Is love the only chain?
                 Ah, yes! there is a tie as strong,
                 That hinds as firm, and lasts as long—
                    True friendship is its name.’

Mr. Savage, let us work out this beautiful idea. My soul turns toward it
for consolation. Mr. Savage, are we friends?”

Savage took the hand she held out, bowed over it, and went away.

“Ah!” said Miss Eliza, leaning back in her chair—for high tragedy is
exhausting—“Ah! how fortunate it is that Mr. Gould presented himself in
time. He wishes to renew his acquaintance. With him a sure foundation of
a family compact exist—that interview with the old gentleman was a
masterpiece. If—if the young man should prove treacherous, like the
heart traitor who has just left me, there is still this elderly person,
rich as Vanderbilt, almost, and not so very old. He admired me greatly;
I could see it in the twinkle of his eyes, in the smile that flitted
across his lips. But only as a last resort—only as a last resort.”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                            A HUNGRY HEART.


It was the last day of the Burns family in that tenement-house. The
landlady was breaking her heart over their departure. She felt as if she
had driven them from beneath her roof, with unjust suspicions, and
lamented her fault with noisy grief, that distressed that dear old lady,
and brought the kindest assurance from Anna, who came out of her own
sorrows to comfort her old friend.

“I wouldn’t care about the rent, Mrs. Burns,” protested the good woman.
“You know as well as I do that I could have got more money for the
rooms, and can now; but it was like home having you about me. It was
respectable; and them children, maybe I ain’t made as much on ’em as I
oughter; but it’ll be so lonesome not hearing ’em going up and down
stairs, especially Joseph. I don’t say it to praise myself, but I never
saw a big, red apple in the market that I didn’t buy it for that boy;
and I’d have given you any thing, when the tough times came on you, if
I’d only known how.”

“You were kind to us—very kind; we shall never forget it,” said old Mrs.
Burns. “The children love you dearly.”

“And will be agin, if you’ll let me. If these silk-gown friends of yours
should ever get tired of being kind, I’m on hand here, just as good as
ever. This steel thimble ain’t more faithful to my finger than I will be
to you and yours.”

Here the good woman fairly broke down, and burying her face in the
sailor’s jacket she was making, sobbed violently.

“I wont let the rooms yet, though I am back in the rent. Who knows what
may happen?” she said, at last, wiping the tears from her eyes. “This
ain’t the last time you’ll be under my roof. As for Joseph——Well, I
ain’t got words to express my feelings for him!”

“He will never forget you,” said the old lady, reaching out her hand,
which shook a little—for that hard-faced woman had been a friend to her
when she had no other. “And I shall never think of you without a warmer
feeling at the heart. But it is not far off. We will come and see you
often, and—and——”

Here the old lady found herself clasped in the landlady’s arms, and lost
her breath in that sudden embrace.

“And I’ll come to see you. I hope it’s a palace you’re going to; and
then it wouldn’t be good enough.”

Mrs. Burns left that commonplace-room with tears in her eyes. She did
not know how dear it had been to her. Anna, too, was very sad. She had
heard nothing from old Mr. Gould; and her life was so far removed from
that of Savage that he might have been dead, and she ignorant of it.
Georgiana Halstead was the only human link between her and her lover;
but that young lady never even mentioned his name. She was just as kind
as ever; came to see them, and took a deep interest in every thing about
their little household; but the name which Anna Burns so longed to hear
never passed her lips.

So the last night had come; all their little effects were packed up
ready for moving. The boys had gone over to the new house, which they
had not yet seen. Joseph had walked by the house with a bundle of
newspapers under his arm, and came home that night in wonderful spirits,
leaping up the stairs two steps at a time. When Robert asked him what it
was all about, he answered,

“Balconies, vines, garden, and snow-balls, with something like a house
back of it. Stupendous!”

So Robert had gone with his brother that evening, with a candle, and box
of matches, to see what was behind the snow-balls and vines, leaving
those two females alone in the rooms.

“Grandmother,” said Anna, sitting down by the old lady, “you have been
crying.”

“Yes, child. She was so kind, and so sorry, I could not help it.”

“Grandmother?”

“Well, darling?”

“Do you think we shall ever be happy again? That is, happy as we were
before this prosperity came upon us?”

“Are you so very miserable, my darling?”

“Yes, so miserable, so dreadfully miserable. Oh, grandma, grandma! my
heart is breaking.”

“My child! Anna Burns! There, there, lay your head on my bosom. I
thought it was hard to see you hungry, dear; but this is worse, a
thousand times worse.”

“Oh, grandmother! my heart is hungry, now.”

“I know it; God help us, I know it!”

“Oh! what can I do? What can I do?”

“Have patience, child.”

“I have tried to have patience; but it is killing me.”

“Pray to God, child—pray to God; he alone can feed a hungry heart.”

“I have prayed, but he will not hear me,” cried Anna, giving way to a
passion of grief.

“Yes, Anna, he heard me when I cried out to him in the depths of a
sorrow deep as yours.”

“Deep as mine! Oh, grandmother! tell me what it was. _Have_ you ever
suffered so?”

“I will tell you, Anna; God forbid that I should keep back even my own
sorrow, if the telling will help you to bear that which is upon you. I
was older than you, dear, some two or three years, when I was married to
your grandfather. How dearly I loved him no human being will ever guess,
Anna, dear. It was wicked to love any one as I worshipped your
grandfather; as I worship him yet; for such feelings live through old
age.”

“Do they—do they? When love becomes a pain, does it ache on through the
whole life?” cried Anna, trembling with agitation. “Does nothing even
quiet it?”

“Yes, darling; God can turn pain into resignation.”

“But must I wait to be old for that, grandmother?” cried Anna, bursting
into tears.

“Hush, darling, hush! I did not say that.”

“Go on, grandmother,” said Anna, drawing a deep breath, “I will not
interrupt you again. You were telling about grandfather?”

“Yes, dear. We had a son, your father. We were not rich; but had enough,
and were very, very happy. I know he loved me, then, and I tried to be a
good wife and a kind mother.”

“The best mother that ever lived; my father always said that,” cried
Anna.

Mrs. Burns kissed her cheek and went on.

“But your grandfather was ambitious. He had great business talent, which
was cramped and of little avail in the old country, so he resolved to
come to America and build up a fortune here. My husband was afraid to
make his first venture burdened with a family. None but very
enterprising men left home for this new country in those days; and few
of them ever took their families—it was considered too hazardous.

“I and the boy were left behind. It was a great struggle, for he loved
us dearly. I know he loved us with all his heart—nothing will ever
convince me that he did not. He divided his property, leaving us enough
to live on for some years; the rest he took with him as capital to aid
in any new enterprise that might present itself. I was very lonely after
he went. The parting from my husband took away half my life. But for the
boy, Anna, I think that I should have died.”

Mrs. Burns was interrupted by two trembling lips upon her cheek, and a
broken voice murmured, “Poor, poor grandfather!”

“He wrote me by every vessel during the first year. ‘New York had not
answered his speculations,’ he said, but there was an opening for fur
dealers in the West, and he was thinking of that very seriously.’

“He went to that great indefinite place called the West, and then his
letters came less frequently—not month by month, but yearly, and
sometimes not then. Seven years went by, Anna. I had heard nothing of my
husband during thirteen months, when a man came to the town where we
lived, and told me that he had seen my husband in Philadelphia, where he
had established a lucrative business, and was prospering beyond all his
expectations. My husband had told him that he had written to England for
his wife and child, but had received no answer to his letter. Anna, I
had been more than seven years separated from the man I loved better
than my own life when this news came. He was waiting for me, he had
written, and I had never received his letter. In less than two weeks I
had sold out every thing, and was on my way to Liverpool. In two months
I landed in New York, after a wretched voyage, which, it seemed to me,
would last forever. From New York I went to Philadelphia, and found my
husband’s warehouse without trouble. I went in quietly and inquired for
him; they told me that he had gone West, and would not be back for
months. While I stood, sick at heart, wondering what I should do next, a
lady entered the store—one of the handsomest women I ever saw—she was
richly dressed, and swept by me like a queen.

“‘No letters, yet?’ she said, addressing the clerk. ‘He promised to
write from every station.’

“Yes, madam, here is a letter—two, in fact. Those western mails are so
uncertain.”

“She fairly snatched at the letters, tore one open, and then the other.
I saw the handwriting. It was my husband’s.

“‘Madam,’ I said, in a low voice, for my throat was husky, ‘who are
those letters from? I, too, have friends in the West.’”

She lifted her eyes from the letters, for both were in her hand at once,
and turned them on my face.

“‘Poor lady! I was anxious as you are half an hour ago. Who is this
letter from? My own husband. He is safe—he is well. I hope you will have
good news also. But excuse, me, I must go. These letters will not be
half mine till I read them alone. Good-morning!’

“‘Who is that lady?’ I inquired of the clerk, breathless with strange
apprehension.

“‘That? Oh! she is Burns’s wife; lately married; an English lady with
whom he was in love years ago. She followed him over, I believe—that is,
he sent for her. Splendid woman! Don’t you think so?’

“I did not answer. Every thing turned dark around me, and I went out of
the store like a blind woman. What was I to do? How could I act? My
husband! my husband! Oh, Anna! my heart is sore now, when I think of the
anguish which seized upon it then. He was away, or I should have sought
him out and demanded why he had dealt with me so treacherously. What had
I done that his love and his honor should be taken from me? I knew that
both he and that proud lady were in my power. But what was vengeance to
a woman who was seeking for love? ‘No,’ I said, in the depths of my
desolation; ‘though he gave her up and came back to me to-morrow,
through force or fear, it would not be the same man, or the old love. He
may have wronged this lady as he has wronged me. She looked too bright
and loyal for a guilty woman. Then why should I wound her as I have been
wounded? His child she cannot take from me. God help us both!’”

“No wonder you are crying, Anna—I could not cry. But now, now I am
getting old, and the very memory of those days makes a child of me.
Don’t cry, Anna—don’t cry.”

The old lady’s voice died off into sobs, and her tears came down like
rain.

“Oh, grandmother! how sorry I am. But we love you—love you better than
all the world.”

“I know it—I know it. You see how much love can spring out of a desert.
I could not stay in the same city with that woman. I left Philadelphia.
My son was ten years old. He had been delighted with the thoughts of
seeing his father; and we had talked our happiness over so often that he
seemed a part of my own being. I would have kept the truth from him had
that been possible; but it was not—so I told him the truth. His young
spirit was terribly aroused, a feeling of sharp resentment possessed
him. He could not understand all the legal injustice that had been done
us; but he felt for me as no man could have felt. ‘Leave him, mother,’
he said. ‘I am only a little boy, but I will take his place, love you,
work for you, worship you. Indeed, indeed I will.’”

Anna was sobbing as if her heart would break. She remembered her
father’s parting with his mother when he went to the wars to die. The
old lady held her close.

“Hush, darling! He is in heaven!”

“Oh! if we were only with him, all of us—all of us!” Anna cried out.

“In God’s own time, dear. He knows best.”

After a few moments of quiet weeping Mrs. Burns went on.

“We went back to New York. I had a little money, and opened a small
store with the name of Burns on the sign. We would not use his name—he
had taken it from us.”

“Did not the name of Burns belong to you, grandmother?”

“It was my own mother’s maiden name.”

“Then my——This, I mean your husband, has another name?”

“Yes; he has another name.”

“Do not tell it me, grandmother. I do not want to hate him, or know him.
My father did not wish it, or he would have told us.”

“No, your father wished that name buried—and it was. We never mentioned
it, but lived for each other. My business supported us and occupied my
mind. My boy had a good education, you know that; and a better man than
he never breathed. He had the talent of an artist, and, as the most
direct way of earning money, learned wood-engraving. Then he married
your mother. She was an orphan, pretty and good. I loved her dearly; and
when she died, her little children became mine. We all lived together; I
gave up my little store, for your father earned money enough to support
us. We were content. Indeed, we were happy, in a way; living so close
together, loving each other so dearly—how could we help it? Anna, dear,
God always brings contentment to the patient worker.”

“Grandmother, I understand; you mean this for me!”

The old lady’s feeble arms tightened around the girl, and she went on.

“Before your father went to the army, here the living was cheaper; and,
perhaps, he had some other reason. It was his wish, and I made no
opposition. We had a hard life, darling; sometimes we were hungry and
cold, too. It came with cruel force on you children; I tried to save
you—tried to be all that your father was; but a poor old woman has but
little power. Still, still, look back, child, and see how the good Lord
has helped us; so many friends—such bright, bright prospects; the boys
doing so well. Hark! they are coming. Wipe your eyes, dear, they must
not think we have been crying. Here they come, so happy.”

The old woman wiped her tears away and looked toward the door, smiling.
Anna caught the sweet infection, and she too looked bright and hopeful
when the boys came in clamorous with praises of their new home.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                       A MYSTERIOUS APPOINTMENT.


Mrs. Savage was in a state of continual unhappiness. When a really
good-hearted woman swerves from the right path, either from policy or
interest, she is sure to be the greatest sufferer of all the parties in
interest. She saw her son come in and go out with that restless,
dejected air which often follows a great disappointment. He took no
interest in his old pursuits; and all the sweet confidence which had
existed between the mother and son was swept away from their lives. This
sprung mostly out of her own self-consciousness. She knew that her own
ruthless influence had broken up the best hope of his young life; and
remembering that cruel interview with Anna Burns, would not look her son
squarely in the face, or soften his melancholy with sweet caresses, as a
good mother loves to give while comforting her son. Horace felt this,
and it made him feel still more desolate. He congratulated himself that
his mother was ignorant of the humiliating attachment he had formed, and
gathered up all the strength of his manhood to meet the life which lay
before him divested of half its bloom.

Better than he thought Mrs. Savage understood all this. She saw that it
was no capricious liking that her son had to deal with; and, spite of
herself, the sweet face of Anna Burns, in its sad, pleading humility,
which was, after all, more dignified than pride, would present itself to
her memory; and in spite of the intellect which still protested that she
had done right, the heart in her bosom rose up against her, and called
her a household traitor, an unnatural mother, a hard woman, and some
other harsh names, that she would have been glad to forget.

Then there was the certainty that Georgiana Halstead never would be her
son’s wife. Mrs. Savage had loved this bright-faced girl with unusual
tenderness; and this conviction was a bitter disappointment. Altogether,
things were taking an unsatisfactory course with her—and she was a most
unhappy woman.

One day when Horace came in from business, and was going, as usual, to
his own room, Mrs. Savage called to him with a quiver of suffering in
her voice, that made him pause half way up the stairs and turn back.

“Is there any thing the matter, mother?” he said, entering her pretty
sitting-room, stiffly, as if he had been a stranger.

Mrs. Savage remembered the time when he would have come in with a laugh,
thrown himself on the stool at her feet, and with both arms folded on
her lap, told her of any thing that was uppermost in his heart. She
sighed heavily, and a weary look of pain came into her eyes.

“Oh, Horace! why is it that we seem so strange to each other?”

“Strange are we? I had not thought of it, mother.”

He was surprised and touched by her manifest unhappiness. Absorbed in
his own thoughts, he had scarcely noticed that she was not as cheerful
as usual.

“Dear old pet,” he said, making a strained effort at playfulness, “what
has come over you? Is it because her inhuman son has been making a
wretch of himself? Come, give him a kiss, he is sadly in want of it.”

Mrs. Savage kissed him on the forehead with quivering lips; and flinging
herself back in the chair burst into a passion of tears.

The startled son threw his arms around her.

“Why, mother, mother! what is the meaning of this?”

Mrs. Savage, superior woman as she was, answered like the most
commonplace female in the world.

“Oh, Horace! I am sure you hate me!”

“Hate you? Why, mother, what have I have done?”

“Nothing! Nothing in the world! It is I that am to blame!”

“But there is no blame between us. If all this is about Georgiana
Halstead, do understand, once for all, she does not want me, and never
cared for me in the least, only as a playmate and sort of brother. In
fact, she is almost engaged to young Gould.”

“I know it, I know it! She told me. Every thing goes wrong! I am the
most unhappy woman in the world!”

“Who makes you so unhappy, dear mother?”

She looked at him earnestly through her tears, gave a hysterical sob,
and sat upright in her chair, resolute and proud of look as he had seen
her of old.

“Horace, do you love that girl, Anna Burns?”

Savage started up, and his face flushed scarlet.

“Mother!”

“I knew all about it almost from the first, Horace.”

“You? And said nothing. That was kind. Is it this which has troubled you
so much?”

“Yes, it has troubled me—I am so sorry.”

“Do not reproach me, mother. It is the first time I ever went against
what I knew would be your wishes. You are right, there can be no
happiness in going beneath our own grade in life; but she seemed so
refined, so innocent, and good. I think a wiser man than I ever was
would have been interested. I had hoped that this little shame of my
life would never reach you or my father.”

“He does not know it; but I do—I do! Tell me, Horace, for you have not
answered my question yet. Do you love this girl?”

“I did love her dearly—better than my own life!”

“And now?”

“If you know all, mother, why wound me with that question?”

“Because I wish to know—because I must know.”

“She has the power to give me terrible pain, mother; beyond that I will
say nothing.”

“But you did love her?”

“I have said so.”

“And but for her unworthiness would love her yet?”

“We need not speak of what will be. There is misery enough in what is.”

“Sit down, my son, in the old place, at my feet; then turn your eyes
away. I do not like you to look at me so. Now say, if this girl were all
you first thought her to be, would you marry her?”

“What! against your consent, mother?”

“I did not say that. Ask your own heart, Horace; was the love you felt
for this girl such as runs through a man’s whole life; such as leads him
to make all sacrifices in its attainment?”

“Yes; if ever a man loved honestly and devotedly I did. But it is all
over now.”

“But you are very unhappy?”

“Very.”

“Will you never forget her? Oh, Horace! will the old times never come
back to us?”

“I cannot tell, mother. When the heart has been betrayed into giving
itself up entirely, the reaction, if it ever comes, must be slow and
painful.”

“Horace!”

“Mother!”

“I—I wish to see you happy. My heart aches for you. I would do any thing
rather than see you looking so dispirited.”

“But you can do nothing. Yes, yes; I should not say that. Love me, and
bear with me awhile; this cannot last forever.”

“With you, perhaps, not; but with me it will last forever. My son, it is
your mother who has done this. She is the person you ought to hate. Anna
Burns is guiltless as an angel. I, your mother, says this; and you must
believe it.”

“Mother, mother! are you getting insane?”

“No, Horace; I heard of this attachment, and condemned it. My pride was
wounded, my ambition thwarted. I thought Georgiana loved you, and that
this girl had come in her way to cause all sorts of unhappiness. I
appealed to her generosity. I told her that nothing on this earth should
win our consent to your marriage with her. She told me how young Ward
had persecuted her; and I, unwomanly, ungenerous woman that I was, bade
her leave you in doubt, that you might be shocked out of your love. She
pleaded, she wept, she protested, but gave way at last, and pledged her
word to avoid you, and leave the suspicions in your mind to rest there.”

“Oh, mother, mother! this is terrible!”

“I know it, boy; but it is all true. God forgive me!”

Savage was standing before his mother, white as death, but with a glow
of deep thoughtfulness in his eyes.

“And she is innocent?”

“As an angel, I do believe. Innocent even of guessing the evil thoughts
you had of her. The worst she dreamed of was, that you supposed her
capable of marrying that young scapegrace.”

“Thank heaven for that! She will not have felt the insult so deeply! But
I was cruel with her, the innocent darling.”

“No, it was I who was most cruel. I, who forbade her to explain; I, who
left her, broken-hearted, to struggle against her honest affection, and
the shame of which she was unconscious. Can you ever forgive me,
Horace?”

“Forgive you! mother? Is that a question which you should ask of your
son? The question is, will Anna Burns ever forgive me?”

“She will—she must. I will go to her. I will humble myself as is
befitting one who has given way to her pride cruelly as I have. But
first, Horace, say that you will forget this, and love me in the old
way?”

Bright tears were in those fine eyes, the sympathetic mouth worked with
emotion. That look of yearning entreaty went to the son’s heart; he
knelt by her side, kissed her hands, her forehead, and the eyes which
were still heavy with repentant dew.

“Forget it? Oh, mother! how can I forget this nobility of soul which
gives back the bloom to my life. It was love for me that made you, for a
time, less than yourself. That I will forget.”

“And love me dearly, as of old?”

“Indeed, and indeed, I will.”

“This love of Anna Burns must not make you forget me.”

The lady said this with a piteous smile. It was hard to give him up.

“Mother, do you love my father less because of me?”

“No, no! How should I?”

“Love, like mercy, is not strained, mother. The heart that can feel it
at all in its perfection, grows larger and grander with each new object
of affection.”

The mother’s face became luminous with one of those smiles which flood
all the features with sunshine. She fell forward upon her son’s bosom,
sighing away the last remnants of her unhappiness.

“God bless you, my son! I will love Anna Burns dearly for your sake!”

“May I go to her now, mother?”

“Not yet. Wait a little till I have prepared your father. He knows
nothing. When you see her again it must be with full authority.”

“You are right, mother. I am happy and I can wait!”

A servant opened the door, bringing in a card.

“Mr. Gould—what can he want of me, I wonder?” exclaimed the lady,
looking at the card.

“I will leave you to find out,” answered Horace, kissing his mother’s
hand.

Scarcely had the son disappeared from one door, when old Mr. Gould came
in through another. He was grave and quiet, not to say stern, in his
manner toward the lady who came forward to receive him. With that
old-fashioned formality which is so pleasant in a gray-headed man, he
led Mrs. Savage back to the seat she had left, and drew a chair close to
it. Then he began conversing with her in a low, earnest voice. She heard
him at first with a little surprise; then her interest deepened, the hot
color came and went in her face; and more than once she broke out into
exclamations that seemed half pleasure, half disappointment. When the
old gentleman arose she gave him her hand, which he bowed over with a
reverence which was not without grace.

“I rejoice that you come too late,” she said, smiling upon him.

“And so do I. Such things bring back one’s old trust in human nature.”

“I, at least, ought to be thankful that all the atonement in my power
was made in time,” she said, graciously.

“You will all be punctual. I am an old business man, remember, and shall
expect you at the moment.”

“You can depend on us.”

They shook hands at the door with great cordiality, and the old man
smiled as he went down the steps.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                             AN ENGAGEMENT.


The Burns family had moved into that pretty cottage, and were all
assembled in the little dining-room which opened on the flower-garden,
and from which it was festooned in by a drapery of vines, which filled
the balconies with delicious green shadows. There was nothing very
splendid about this new home; but it was, for all that, the prettiest
little place you ever set eyes upon—and the scene within that
dining-room a picture in itself. There sat the old lady, at the head of
the table, with a pretty china tea-set before her, and the whitest of
linen cloths falling from beneath the tray toward her lap. Opposite her
sat Anna Burns, looking pale and sweetly sad, for the heartache never
left her for a moment; but with a smile always ready for little Joseph,
when he told her of some episode in his active young life, or boasted,
in his bright, childish way, of the papers he had sold. Robert listened
to him with a paternal smile on his young lips; and the dear old lady
had a gentle word to say with every cup of tea that her little hand
served out so daintily.

While they were occupied at the tea-table, Georgiana Halstead came up
the garden-walk, treading lightly as an antelope, and smiling to herself
only as the happy can smile. She snatched at some of the flowers as she
passed, and came up to the window forming them into a bouquet, with
which she knocked lightly on the glass.

Anna arose from the table, and went out to meet her friend with a wan
smile on her lips, which seemed but the shadow of that which beamed over
Georgie’s whole face.

“Come this way, Anna, I have something to tell you. Out here, where this
pyramid of white roses can hide us from the window. I would not have
them think there was any thing particular for the world.”

The two girls went down the walk, and sheltered themselves behind the
rose-bushes as they talked together.

“Anna, I have something to tell you. Don’t look frightened; it’s nothing
bad—at least I don’t think it is; but—but things will turn out so. You
know about young Mr. Gould, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! He has been so good to our Robert. I have seen him, too.”

“Don’t you think him very—that is, rather handsome?”

“Indeed, I do—very handsome.”

“I am glad; that is, I thought you would think so.”

Here Georgie began to blush, and pluck at a branch of the rose-bush with
great energy. Anna saw that the secret, whatever it was, struggled in
her throat; and, with that gentle tact which is the very essence of
refinement, went on with the conversation.

“Mr. Gould has been so very considerate about our Robert. It was only
yesterday he doubled his weekly pay,” she said.

“Oh! he’s generous as a prince! Look here, Anna.”

Georgie took off her glove, and extended a little hand which blushed to
the finger-tips as it exhibited a ring, in which was a single diamond
limpid as water, and large as a hazel-nut.

“Why, that is the engagement-finger!” exclaimed Anna, surprised.

“Yes, it is the engagement-finger. He put it on!”

Anna turned white as snow.

“He! Who?—Mr. Savage?”

She spoke with sharp agony, forgetting even that young Gould had been
mentioned.

“Mr. Savage? No, indeed! He never cared a fig for me. This ring—a
beauty, isn’t it?—was put on my finger last night by Mr. Gould.”

“And are you really engaged?”

“That is exactly what I came to tell you. No one else has been told as
yet; but I could not exist without having some one wish me joy—so I came
to you. Papa and dear old grandma will give consent this morning.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Anna, with a sigh.

“Oh, yes; every thing is right there. Asking is only a form.”

“I—I am glad, very glad,” said Anna; but her voice trembled, and she
felt ready to burst into tears.

Georgiana looked at her earnestly. She had a vague idea that something
had gone wrong between her and Savage, but was all in the dark regarding
the particulars.

“But you look so sorrowful, Anna. I thought to give you pleasure.”

“I am not sorrowful—at least not very. About you and Mr. Gould I am glad
as glad can be; indeed, indeed I am! Only you know one gets a sorrowful
look after—after so much trouble.”

“But your troubles are all over now.”

“Are they? Oh, yes! we are very well off. You don’t know the difference.
Sometimes, when I awake in the morning and see such hosts of leaves
trembling about my window, it seems unbelievable. There is a taria that
has climbed up the balconies to the third story, leaving wreaths of
purple blossoms all the way. Sometimes it seems impossible that such
things can be for us.”

“But they are, and better things are coming, I feel sure of it; only get
that sad look off your face, Anna. I cannot bear to be so happy, and see
you going about like a wounded bird. Now kiss me, dear, and then we will
go tell grandma.”

Anna kissed the sweet mouth bent to hers, and the two girls went into
the house. One smiling like a June morning, the other smiling, too, but
with a look of suppressed tears about the eyes. Mrs. Burns had left the
breakfast-table, and was waiting for their visitor in the little parlor,
framed in by the open window like one of those delicious old German
home-pictures, that seem so real that you feel the poetry in them, but
cannot for the life of you, tell where it lies. She came forward to meet
Georgiana, with her hand held out, ready for the good news so eloquent
in that beautiful young face.

“I know it is something pleasant,” she said, smoothing the pretty hand
that lay in hers, warm and fluttering; “tell me, dear.”

“Yes, grandma, I come for that; but—but how to begin.”

She laughed sweetly, blushed, and looked appealingly to Anna. The secret
was harder to tell than she thought for.

“Grandmother, she is going to be married; only it is a secret with us,
remember. It is to young Mr. Gould.”

“Young Mr. Gould!” repeated the old lady. “What, the young gentleman who
came here? No, it was to the other house.”

“Yes, grandma,” said Georgie, smiling afresh amid the crimson of her
blushes, “I—I am sure you like him.”

“Indeed, I do,” answered the old lady. “Why should any one doubt it?”

She spoke seriously, and with a certain intonation which surprised both
the girls.

“And he thinks so much of you,” cried Georgie. “As for Robert, I really
believe no brother ever loved a little fellow better.”

“He is very kind,” answered the old lady, and, for the first time in
their lives, those two girls saw a shade of sarcasm on that dear old
face. It was very faint, but they did not like it.

“I—I am almost afraid that you do not like him,” faltered Georgie.

“It would be unjust if I did not,” answered the old lady, sadly. “He was
not to blame.”

“Not to blame, grandma?” repeated Georgie, amazed.

“Did I say that? Well, of course, he is not to blame for any thing,
especially for loving our own home-angel!”

“There, that is a dear, blessed, darling old grandma again! Why, you
haven’t kissed me yet, or wished me joy, or any thing?”

“But I will—I do. There!”

The soft lips of the old lady were pressed to Georgie’s forehead, those
old arms folded her close.

“God bless you, dear! God forever bless both you and him!”

“Thank you, grandma—thank you a thousand times; that was just what I
wanted to make my joy complete. Ah! here comes Robert, with his face all
in a glow. What! are those flowers for me?”

“I should like to make them prettier; but time is up, and I must be off.
Here is some of grandma’s rose-geraniums, and all the blossoms from my
own heliotrope. Good-by, Miss Georgie. Young Mr. Gould raised my salary
last week. Isn’t he splendid.”

Georgiana caught his face between her two hands and kissed him on the
spot. It would be difficult to decide which of those two young faces was
the rosiest when those hands were withdrawn. The truth was, if Robert
had an earthly divinity it was the young lady who had just kissed him.
So he went away with a glow upon his face, and a warmer one in his
heart, wondering if there was another boy in all Philadelphia who could
have been so honored, and wishing the whole earth were covered with
rose-geraniums, heliotrope, cape jasmines, and blush-roses, that he
might scatter them under her feet and catch the perfume as she walked
over them.

Georgie, rather ashamed of herself, went home, wondering what it was
which gave that sad, wistful look to Anna Burns’s eyes; and coming
generously out of her own happiness, far enough to wish that every thing
had gone right with young Savage, that Anna might have been married on
the same day with herself. She wondered if nothing could be done to
bring this about. Why was it that Savage had said nothing to her of
late? It saddened her to think that Anna was given up to such depression
of spirits when she was so happy.

“But it will not last,” she said to herself. “Only think how miserable I
was only a little while ago. Why, it was like wrenching at my own heart
when young Savage came with his confidence, and wanted me to help him.
But there was a difference. He did not love me, and he did love her. I
wasn’t to go on adoring him after that, it would have been wrong; and,
after all, I wasn’t exactly the girl to degrade myself in that way. Now
I really do wonder how it happened that I cared for him so much.
Certainly he’s handsome and gentlemanly; but Mr. Gould—— Dear me! it’s
fortunate that I’m alone, or people might read what I think of him in my
face; but, as Robert says, he is splendid.”

Georgiana went home with such thoughts as these fluttering through her
head, like humming-birds among roses. In the hall she met Miss Eliza,
who seemed in a great flutter of excitement.

“Come in here,” said the spinster, leading the way into a half-darkened
drawing-room. “What do you think has happened? Old Mr. Gould is here
closeted with mother. What _could_ it be about? Have you any idea,
Georgie? Just feel my hands how they tremble. Isn’t it thrilling when a
young girl like me feels that two people are settling a destiny of love
for her in a close room? Tell me, dear, which is it do you think? Has
the elder gentleman struggled against the passion in his bosom, and
resigned me, with the wrench of the heart which will be felt through his
whole life, to the intense adoration of his nephew—or has he come to
plead for himself? Heavens, how the doubt agitates me!”

“Is old Mr. Gould with grandmamma now?” inquired Georgie, glad that the
half light concealed the expression of her face.

“Yes, yes! Hark! he opens the door; his tread is in the upper hall—on
the stairs. It comes nearer. Support me, Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza curved downward, and hid her face on Georgie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Georgie! do not let him come in. This emotion—this wild, young
heart will betray itself; and he must not know how I adore him.”

“Which?” questioned Georgie.

“Which—which? Why, the one that has proposed. How can you ask such
questions? Thank heaven! this heart has strength and breadth, and—and
capacities; but what is the use of talking to a child to whom love is,
as yet, a mystery folded in the bud—while with me it is a full-blown
flower? Ah, Georgie! congratulate me.”

Again Miss Eliza threw herself slantwise on to Georgie’s neck, and
heaved a billowy sigh.

“Oh, Aunt Eliza, please! you are so heavy,” pleaded the poor girl.

“Heavy! When my whole being is one bright wave of bliss; when this great
love rises, full-fledged, from my heart, like a bird of paradise, with
all its golden plumage full of sunlight. Go, child, go! this full soul
must seek sympathy elsewhere. I will seek my mother, kneel at her feet,
and seek the maternal blessing, while she tells me which it is.”

Away Miss Eliza sailed into her mother’s room, which she entered with
clasped hands.

“Oh, mother! have you no news for me?” she cried, falling on her knees
before the old lady, who would have been surprised, if any thing about
Miss Eliza could surprise her—“spare these blushes, and tell me at
once.”

“Well, Eliza, it can make no difference; though, perhaps, it would have
been best to have consulted with your brother first.”

“Then it is positively true; he is to be consulted; that point is
settled. Oh, my heart! my heart! Forgive me, mother. You said that he
was to be consulted; just have pity on a poor young creature, who sees
her fondest hopes vibrating in the balance, and tell me all. Come now.”

“There is not much to tell, Eliza; nothing, indeed, which you must not
have expected.”

“I did—I did.”

“Mr. Gould came to ask my consent.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“How impatient you are, Eliza! He came to ask my consent to the marriage
of his nephew with Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza fell forward, with her face in the old lady’s lap. She shook
her head violently, her shoulders heaved, and smothered sobs broke out
of all this commotion, like gusts of wind in a storm. All at once she
started up and pushed the hair back from her face.

“I see—I see,” she cried, “he has done this to clear the path—to get rid
of a dangerous rival. Noble man! Splendid diplomacy! How could I have
doubted him? Dear mother, do not look so astonished. I understand all
this better than you can. Wait a little—wait a little, and you will know
all.”

She arose, after delivering this mysterious speech, and went into her
own room, where the pendant cupid was vibrating with sudden spasms of
motion, as a current of wind swept over it from an open window.

Down Miss Eliza sat in her cozy chair, and, clasping her hands, looked
upward, murmuring—

“Yes, yes; I understand it all. He saw the devotion of this young man,
and sought to evade rather than oppose the result. He knew that such
feelings as absorbed that young heart would endanger his own domestic
peace when we were once married; for how could this young man look on
me, the happy and fondly cherished bride of another, and not allow his
feelings of disappointment and regret to break forth? Besides, there
must have been great dread of his success—not that Mr. Gould, the elder,
need have feared. My soul always lifted itself above mere youth and good
looks; but he was wise to sweep this young man from his path. Poor
Georgiana! compelled to take up with the rejected suitor of another! Of
course, it will be a marriage of convenience—the bridegroom will always
have his memories; but I will keep out of the way; far be it from me to
render him unhappy by forcing the contrast between what he has lost and
what he has married upon him. As his uncle’s wife I will be forbearing,
generous, and dignified. If he should ever attempt to allude to the
hopes that his uncle has just quenched by this masterly stroke of
policy, I will assert all the womanly grandeur of my nature, and wither
him with a look half of pity, half of indignation.”

Here Miss Eliza leaned back in her chair, folded both hands over her
bosom, and, closing her eyes, fell into one of those soft, sweet
reveries, which poets have called “Love’s Young Dream;” her feet rested
on the ottoman cushion which usually performed a prominent part in these
solitary tableaux. The cupid sailed to and fro over her head; the
crimson cushions of her chair would have reflected the color on her
cheeks but for a counter tint, a little less vivid, but quite as
permanent, which baffled what might have been an artistic effect. In
this position we leave Miss Eliza rich in expectations, which no
disappointment could extinguish.

Meantime, Georgie ran up to her grandmother’s room, threw herself into
those outstretched arms and began to cry, one would think just to be
hushed and comforted with those soft words, and soft kisses, which came
from the old lady’s lips like dew upon a flower.

“What did he say, grandmamma?”

“Every thing that was sweet and kind, darling!”

“And you told him——”

“That I would ask my grandchild if she loved this young man dearly with
all her heart and soul.”

“With all her heart, and her soul of souls, tell him she said that,
grandmamma.”

“And that she loves no one else?”

“No one, grandmamma, in this wide, wide world.”

“Shall I say that she has never loved any one else, dear?”

Georgie’s face was crimson when she lifted her head and looked clearly
into that rather anxious face.

“He will not ask that, because I told him all about it myself.”

The old lady kissed that beautiful, honest face.

“That is right, my dear.”

“And he did not care in the least; said the first love of a girl was
usually half fancy and half nonsense; that a heart was sometimes like
fruit, which is never really ripe till the frost gives it a bloom; and a
good deal more which I cannot repeat, but love to remember.”

“Then I have nothing to do but ask God to bless you both!”

“But you have told me nothing. Is the old gentleman pleased?”

“Yes, delighted. I never saw him so well satisfied in my life.”

“You! Why, grandmamma, did you ever see him before?”

The old lady smiled, but answered nothing to the purpose. She only said,
“Yes, indeed, he is greatly pleased; and says that there is not a girl
in Philadelphia that he would have preferred to my little
granddaughter.”

“Did he say that? How very kind of him! But, grandmamma, what do you
think Aunt Eliza——”

“Ah, yes! I know, my dear. She is so apt to make these mistakes; but I
have told her.”

“Oh, I am glad of that! Did she want to kill me?”

“Far from that, Georgie; but we will not talk of her. It makes me sad.”

“But you will not think of any thing which can do that; for I want you
to be splendid when, when——”

“When you are married?”

“Yes, grandmamma.”

After the blushes had left Georgie’s face, a shade of sadness stole over
it, which the old lady observed.

“What is the matter, darling?”

“Nothing, grandmamma. Only I am so sorry for Anna Burns.”

“Indeed! What about her?”

“She seems so unhappy!”

“Why?”

“Ah! I had forgotten. It is not my place to talk about Anna Burns;
perhaps she is not so very unhappy, after all. Only—only I do wish
somebody who knows how would comfort her; that is, advise with her.”

“What if I call upon them in their new house, Georgie? How would that
do?”

“Splendid! I am sure she would tell you every thing. When will you go?”

“Well, suppose we say to-morrow evening?”

“That is capital! I will go with you and talk with Mrs. Burns, while you
take up Anna.”

“That will do, perhaps. I shall invite a few friends to visit them in
their new house. What if we give them a surprise party?”

“Oh, how delightful!”

“Invite all their friends, and give them a little feast!”

“Oh, grandmamma! they haven’t but one friend in the world beside us and
the Savage family; and I’m afraid it would be unpleasant for them to
meet.”

“Still we must invite them. I will send a note to Mrs. Savage, and ask
her to bring Horace.”

“It might do; but I should not dare myself.”

“Very likely. So leave that to me. Mistakes in an old woman are soon
forgiven!”

“Yes, I will leave it to you. Nobody ever did things so nicely.”

“Now about this other woman, for I suppose it is a woman whom you speak
of as their friend?”

“Yes, of course, it is a woman. Such a strange creature, too, I’m sure
you would be surprised to see her, knowing how good she is. When Anna
and her grandmother were so very poor, she let the rent run on, month
after month, never asking for it, but growing kinder and kinder every
day. More than that, she seemed to find out by magic when they had
nothing to eat in the house, and sent up money and a wholesome meal when
they were almost crying with hunger.”

“Georgiana,” said Mrs. Halstead, “that was a good woman. Invite her.”

“But she is rough as a chestnut-bur.”

“No matter.”

“And used to scold them sometimes.”

“No matter.”

“She takes in slop-work.”

“All the better.”

“And fries her own dinner on the little stove in her room. I have heard
it simmering twenty times.”

“But when these good people needed it, she divided her dinner with
them.”

“Indeed, she did; though the agent was tormenting her about the rent all
the time; and she is heavily in debt to him now.”

“Georgiana, invite that woman—I admire her. I respect her, coarse or
not, ugly or handsome, I respect her.”

“And so do I, grandmamma. Only I thought it best to tell you. Besides,
she dresses so, and has such coarse hair, that anybody but you might not
see the good through it all—Mrs. Savage particularly.”

“She would. Mrs. Savage is a noble woman.”

“I am glad to hear you say that for Anna’s sake.”

“And this person you speak of is a noble woman; such people always get
together somehow.”

“I hope so. Of course, if you say it.”

“There now, dear, go to this woman and give our invitation. Here is
money for the entertainment. Let it be perfect. She will help you, I
dare say. If any thing is left, she must keep it, understand. Now
good-morning. Go at once.”

Georgie ran up stairs for her bonnet, and was soon in the old
tenement-house talking with the landlady, whom she found hard at work,
with a clothes-basket half full of unfinished work by her side, and a
heap of sailor’s jackets piled up on the table close at hand. She had a
well-worn press-board lying across her lap, and was pressing a stubborn
seam upon it with a heavy flat-iron, upon which she leaned resolutely
with one elbow, while she held the seam open with two fingers of her
other hand. This was hot work, and the perspiration was pouring off her
face as she worked.

“Yes,” she said, with curt good humor, “hard at work as ever; hot
though, and dragging on the strength; especially when one sets at it
steady from daylight till eleven o’clock at night.”

“But why do you work so hard, there is only yourself to support?”

“That’s what every lady says; but, law, what do they know about it? Debt
cries louder than children; they do give up sometimes, but agents never
do, especially them as let tenement-houses for men who are too refined
to crush out the poor with their own hands, but take the money without
asking how it has been wrung out of our hard earnings, piling the extra
per centage—which pays the agent for oppressing his tenants—on us. Then
they talk about heavy taxes, as if we did not pay them and all the rest
with our hard work. When the Common Council, and the State, or Congress,
put taxes on them, they sit still in their comfortable parlors, and meet
it all by raising the rents, which we pay like this.”

The woman swept the perspiration from her forehead with one hand, which
she held out, all moist and trembling from the pressure it had given to
the iron. The front finger was honey-combed by the point of her coarse
needle; the palm was coarse and hard from constant toil.

“These are tax-marks,” she said, bitterly; “some of our people don’t
understand it—but I do; for, poor or not, I will take the newspaper.
It’s oppression—that’s what it is. If the agent would have been a little
easy with me, I might have done a world of good in this identical house;
but it wasn’t in me to turn a family out of doors when they couldn’t pay
up to the minute; and so, in trying to save them, I got in debt. If he
turns me out—and he threatened that this very morning—who will stand
between him and the poor families in my rooms? I tell you what, Miss, it
wasn’t to make money I took the house, but to keep it respectable and
help my poor fellow-creturs along. There never was any profit in it; and
now I’m likely to be turned out myself. It’s hard, miss—it is hard!”

“Indeed, it does seem very cruel; but I suppose the man who has money
can be a tyrant if he likes, in spite of the law. I’ll talk with
grandmamma about this; perhaps she can help you. Just now I come to ask,
that is, to invite you, to join us in a little party we are going to
give the Burns family.”

“What! they give a party?”

“No—we; that is, grandmamma and a friend or two are going to surprise
them.”

“Big-bugs—that is, gentlemen and ladies?”

“Yes, I—I believe so,” said Georgie, with great humility.

“Then I can’t go—I shouldn’t feel at home.”

“But I want your help in getting things ready. Grandmamma has left every
thing for you and I to arrange. Here is plenty of money, but I have no
idea how to go about spending it.”

“Oh! if that’s what you want of me, I’m on hand. Haven’t had a play
spell these ten years. It’ll do me good.”

“I own it will—can you spare the time now?”

“I’ll put on my things right off,” cried the landlady, standing her
press-board in a corner, and planting the hot iron in a safe place.
“Just wait a minute while I comb out my hair and put on another dress.”

With this, the good woman let down a hank of coarse hair, and hatcheled
it vigorously with a coarse horn-comb; then she gathered it up in a hard
twist, and proceeded to change her dress, for which she substituted a
gorgeous delaine, and a blanket-shawl warmed up with stripes of scarlet.

“Now,” she said, tying the strings of an immense straw bonnet, that
stood up from her face like a horse-shoe, “I’m ready for any thing you
want of me.”

Georgie arose, took up her parasol of silk point-lace and carved ivory,
of which she felt a little ashamed, and followed the landlady out.

“There is one thing,” she said, when they reached the side-walk, “which
you must help me arrange; while we are making preparations in the house,
they must be got away.”

“Oh! I’ll mange that easy enough,” answered the woman. “I’ll tell them
that I am obliged to go out, and can’t spare the time from my work.
They’ll both offer to come round and help me through. It wont be the
first time—just leave that to me. I think they’ll like to sit in the old
room; some of their things are there yet.”

This being decided on, Georgie and her companion entered upon the
business in hand with great energy; and the young girl went home at dusk
perfectly satisfied with the progress of things, as regarded the
surprise party.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                              CONCLUSION.


The next day old Mrs. Burns sat in the little family-room up stairs,
quite alone, for Anna had gone round to their old home to see their kind
friend, and the boys proceeded to their work, as usual, immediately
after breakfast. She was reading; for the necessity of constant toil had
been taken from her, and with this pleasant home, many of her old
lady-like wants had come back, asking for a place in her life.

So the old lady sat reading near the window, looking neat and tranquil,
as if care had never visited her. Quantities of soft, fine muslin were
folded over her bosom, and softer lace fell over her calm, old forehead,
from which the hair was parted in all its snowy whiteness. Her dress of
black alpaca, bright as silk, and of voluminous fulness, swept down from
the crimson cushions of the easy-chair, and covered the stool on which
her foot rested. She formed a lovely picture of old age, sitting in that
cool light, with the leaves twinkling their shadows around her, and
softening the whole picture into perfect quiet.

As she sat thus absorbed in her book, the gate opened, and an old man
came up the garden-walk. She lifted her head and looked out, but her
glasses were on, and she could only see some figure moving through the
flowers with dreamy indistinctness. Then she heard the door open, and a
step in the hall—a step that made her heart leap till the muslin stirred
like snow on her bosom.

Who could it be? Not one of the boys, the step was too heavy for that;
perhaps, that is, possibly, it might be young Savage, coming to explain
conduct that she much feared was breaking poor Anna’s heart. The
possibility that it might be him kept her still. After neglecting them
so long, she would not compromise Anna’s pride, by appearing eager to
meet him; so she sat, with book in hand, gazing wistfully at the door
through her spectacles.

The door opened slowly, and old Mr. Gould stood on the threshold, where
he paused a moment gazing on her.

The old woman answered the gaze with a half-frightened look through her
spectacles, then drew them slowly off, as if that could help her vision,
and stood up.

“Mary!” said the old man, coming toward her. “Mary!”

The old woman sat down again, helpless and trembling.

“Mary, will you not speak to me?”

“Yes, James, yes. I—I wish to speak, but—but I cannot.”

“And why, Mary? What have I done? What did I ever do that should make
you hate and avoid me so?”

“Hate! I never hated you, James. At the worst, I never hated you!”

“But you left me—hid yourself; kept my son from me all his life. How
could you find the heart to do that?”

The old lady sat upright in her chair; a faint red came into her
face—she trembled from head to foot.

“You speak as if I had done wrong, James; as if you were an innocent
man.”

“I speak as I feel, Mary—as I am. What fault had I committed which
warranted the separation of a lifetime?”

He questioned her almost sternly; but there was a quiver of wounded
tenderness in his voice which made that gentle old bosom swell with
gathering tears.

“Was it nothing,” she said, faltering, in spite of herself, “that you
left me and married another woman?”

“Mary Gould, are you a sane woman?”

“I saw her with my own eyes; heard her speak; watched her when she read
your letters. Nothing short of that would have driven me from you.”

“You saw all this? When—how?”

“At your warehouse in H——. She kissed your letter; she told me that you
were her husband—all the time I held our boy by the hand; he heard it.
What could I do? Arraign my husband before the courts—disgrace him? Kill
an innocent woman, perhaps? I loved you too well for that; so went away
with my child. I wished myself dead, but even wretched women cannot die
when they wish. I was young and healthy; grief tortured me, but it could
not quite kill the strong life in my bosom. I had the boy, and struggled
for his sake. We went away into another State, and in the heart of a
great city buried ourselves. I gave you up. I gave up your name and
worked on through life alone. But God kept my son, and gave me
grandchildren; the wound in my life was almost healed. Why come at this
late day to shake the last sands of a hard life with old memories? I
have forgiven you long ago, James—long ago.”

The old man listened to her patiently. Once or twice he started and
checked some eager words as they sprang to his lips; but he restrained
himself and heard her through. Then he reached forth a trembling hand
and drew a chair close to her side, bending toward her as he seated
himself.

“Mary, did you believe this base thing of me?”

“Believe it? God help me, I knew it!”

“Mary Gould, it is false, every word of it. I have never loved any woman
but you. I never had, and never will have another wife.”

The little old woman held out her two hands in pitiful appeal.

“Oh, James, don’t! I am an old woman and cannot bear it. Only ask me to
forgive you, and I will. Indeed, I will.”

“Mary, my poor deceived wife, there is nothing between us to forgive. I
do not know how this terrible idea has been fastened on your mind; but,
as God is my judge, no husband was ever more faithful to a wife than I
have been to you.”

He held her two hands firmly. She lifted her eyes to his and found them
full of tears.

“James, James, is it I that have done wrong?” The old woman fell down
upon her knees before him, and pressed her two withered hands on his
bosom. “Have I done wrong—and is it you who must forgive me? Oh, my
husband! I am so thankful that it is me!”

He lifted her back to the easy-chair, and drew that sweet, old face,
with its crown of snowy hair, to his bosom; his tears fell over her; his
hands shook like withered leaves as they tenderly folded her to his
heart.

She believed in his truth; and that sweet, solemn love, which is so
beautiful in old age, filled her heart with a joy that no young bride
may even hope to know.

“We are old and close to the end of our lives, Mary; but God has given
us to each other again, and the best part of our existence will be spent
together.”

“But I have cast away our youth, trampled down your mid-age; hid our son
away from you, and now he is dead—he is dead!” she cried, with anguish,
the more piteous because her utterance was choked by the tremor of old
age.

“But you have suffered more than I have, for, during all this time till
the war commenced, I thought both you and my son dead; while you,
knowing me alive, thought me a guilty man. Poor Mary! your unhappiness
has been greater than mine.”

“Thank God for that!” she said, meekly.

“And now it must be my pleasure to lead you down the path which is lost
in the valley and shadow. You need me now more than ever, and I need
you, Mary, as we grow weaker and older; such companionship as you and I
can give each other becomes the sweetest and most precious thing in
life. Do not cry, Mary; but rather let me see if the old smile lives for
me yet.”

She looked up, and the wrinkles about her mouth softened into the
sweetest expression you ever saw on a human face.

“God has been very good to us,” she said; “but for our son’s death I
could, indeed, smile. Now I feel as if I had robbed you of him.”

“Never think that again. But remember that it is a good thing to have
loved ones waiting for us on the other side. I shall see our son; of
that be certain.”

“Yes, yes, we shall both see him; and his children—have you seen them?”

“Yes; the lad Robert is with me—a fine little fellow.”

“Anna, too?”

“Pretty as you were long ago, and I think as good.”

“But Joseph, dear little Joseph, you must love him above all; he is the
very image of his father.”

“I have seen him, too. I saw you all sitting in a picture together.”

“And recognized us?”

“At the first glance; for then I knew that my wife was alive. More—after
our son went to the war, he wrote to me, told me that his mother was
living, and besought me to find her, should he fall, and save his family
from want. He gave no name but his own—no address; but referred me to a
gentleman in New York, who would tell me where to find you. This letter
was sent from the army, and met with the usual delays before it reached
me. Only two days before I saw you in that picture did I know of your
existence. I telegraphed to the person who held your address, and was
answered that he was away from home. Then I saw you for that one moment,
and you were lost to me again. I searched for you for days to no avail.
Then I went to New York; the man I sought had gone to Europe. I followed
him, learned the name you have borne, and where you could be
found—learned that our grandchild was already under my care. But I am an
old man, Mary, and have learned how to wait. Did you know that this
house is mine—that I sent you here; that Anna is my friend; and that
little Joseph has made a small fortune in selling me papers?”

“I know that I am this moment the happiest old woman that ever lived.”

“I am glad of that. If I can help it, Mary, you shall never be unhappy
again. We will enter on our second childhood with tranquil hearts;
knowing so well what loneliness is, we shall feel the value of loving
companionship as few old people ever did. Now tell me how it was that
the terrible mistake which separated us arose.”

She told him all, exactly as she had related the facts to Anna only a
short time before.

“I can understand now,” he said, thoughtfully. “This lady was my
brother’s wife; he had just come over from England, and took the western
trip with me. The poor young man never came back, but died in the
wilderness. It was his wife you saw; his letters she was reading.”

“Oh, foolish, wicked woman that I was, so readily to believe ill of
you!” cried the old lady.

“Do not blame yourself. The evidence, false as it was, might have
deceived any one. You did not know that my brother was in the country,
for he came on me unannounced. It was a natural mistake, and you acted
nobly. It has cost us dear, but we will not spend the precious time left
to us in regretting it.”

“Thank heaven! I had no bitterness; it was for your sake I hid myself.”

“Bitterness! No, no! It was for me—and when you thought me unworthy. I
shall never forget that. Now let us put all these things aside and think
only of the present.”

“Oh! that is so beautiful!” she said, looking around, but turning her
eyes on him at last. “After all, James, you do not look so very old.”

He laughed gayly, and would have smoothed her hair in the old fashion,
but feeling the lace of her cap, desisted, ending off his laugh with a
little sigh, which she heard with a sad sort of feeling, as if the ghost
of her youth were passing by.

“This is a pleasant place,” said the old man, looking out into the
balcony, where gleams of sunshine were at play with the leaves. “Do you
know, Mary, I have never seen a place that seemed so like home since we
parted in England.”

She smiled pleasantly, and holding out her withered little hand, and
blushing like a girl, said,

“Then stay here with us. It is so pleasant here.”

“And my old castle is so gloomy. Yes, Mary, I am coming home to help
take care of the grandchildren. But I must go now, or they will catch me
here earlier than I wish. Yes, yes; it is a pleasant little home.”

He went out suddenly, the old lady thought with tears in his eyes, and
she stole into the balcony to watch him as a girl of twenty might. She
saw him pick a rosebud and put it into his buttonhole, smiling to
himself all the while. Then she stole away and went into her bedroom;
and there Anna found her, when she came home, upon her knees, and with
such benign joy on her face that the young girl closed the door, and
went off on tiptoe, as if she had disturbed an angel.

After awhile the old lady came out; but judging of her husband’s wishes
by that intuition which needs no instruction, she said nothing of his
visit, but waited for him to explain, as best pleased him.

“Grandmother,” said Anna, “you and I are wanted at the old house. Our
friend is driven beyond any thing with her work, but must go out
especially this afternoon. Will you go with me and help her sewing
forward. I have set out the boy’s supper.”

The old lady consented at once, and put on that soft woollen shawl with
a smile, knowing who it was that had given it to her. It was rather warm
for the season, but she would not have gone without it for the world.

That night there was a great commotion in the cottage, in which the boys
joined, in high excitement, without understanding any thing about it,
except that a surprise was intended for grandmamma and Anna. A long
table was spread in the dining-room; china, glass, and silver, unknown
to the house before, glittered and sparkled upon it; flowers glowed up
from the sparkling glass, and flung their rich shadows across the
snow-white tablecloth; fruit lay bedded in the flowers, filling the
vases with a rich variety, which Robert and Joseph kept rearranging
every instant. Then came plates full of plump little birds, partridges,
and so many dainties, that the boys got tired of naming them. But when
the table was entirely spread, the effect was so magnificent that they
danced around it, clapping their hands in an ecstasy of delight. Up
stairs the rooms were radiant with flowers, and a rich perfume came up
from the gardens, scenting every thing as with the breath of paradise.

Scarcely were the rooms ready when the company came in. First, Georgie
greeted her stately grandmother, Miss Eliza, and a fine-looking
gentleman, whom she introduced as her father. Then came another
stately-looking person, who walked in with Mrs. Savage on his arm; and
after them appeared Horace Savage, natural and pleasant as ever,
chatting merrily with young Gould, with whom he walked up the garden
arm-in-arm, while Georgie was peeping at them from one of the balconies.
When these persons were all assembled, our landlady of the
tenement-house proclaimed her determination of going home at once and
bringing Mrs. Burns and Anna up to their surprise. Just twenty minutes
from the time she left the door they were to turn every light in the
house down, except that in the hall. Robert and Joseph were to take
their posts in the parlors and take charge of the chandeliers. In short,
every thing was ready, and the little parlors took a festive aspect
exhilarating to behold.

Just as Mrs. Burns and Anna came in sight of the house, following the
landlady, who insisted on seeing them home, old Mr. Gould joined them,
and quietly gave his arm to the old lady. Anna was a little surprised,
but they were close by the gate, and she had not much time to notice it.

“The boys have got tired of waiting and have gone out,” she said,
regretfully. “I wish we had come home before dark.”

They were in the hall now, the house was still as death. There seemed
something strange about this, which made Anna look anxious as she took
off her things.

“Walk in,” she said, opening the parlor door, through which Mr. Gould
led the old lady. That instant a blaze of light broke over the room,
revealing bewildering masses of flowers, and a group of smiling faces
all turned upon the new-comers.

Robert and Joseph jumped down, after turning on the light, and softly
clapped their hands, unable to restrain the exuberance of their spirits.
But Anna saw nothing of this. A voice was whispering in her ear; a hand
clasped hers with a force that sent the blood up from her heart in rosy
waves.

“My mother has told me all; they have consented,” he whispered.

She did not answer; for Mr. Gould had led her grandmother into the midst
of the room, and was welcoming all these people as if the house had been
his own.

“This lady,” he said, gently touching the little hand on his arm, “is a
little agitated just now, and leaves me to welcome you; but first let me
present her. She is my wife, and has been rather more than forty years
These boys and that girl yonder are my grandchildren. Their father, my
only son, was killed in battle. For many years, by no fault on either
side, I have been separated from my family. Thank God! we are united
now. Gould, come and kiss your aunt. Anna, have I performed my promise?”

Anna sprang toward him, and threw both arms around his neck.

“My own, own grandfather!” she cried, lavishing such kisses on him as
fatherly old men love to receive from rosy lips.

He returned her kisses, patting her on the head as he gently put her
away.

“James, James, I have seen that face before. Who is this lady?” said
Mrs. Burns, clinging to his arm, as old Mrs. Halstead came up with her
congratulations.

“Yes, Mary, this lady was my brother’s wife—not the mother of this young
fellow. His father came over later; but she is the lady whom you once
saw.”

“And one who hopes to see her many a time after this; especially as she
has been the means of reconciling me with this unreasonable man, who
never would have forgiven me for marrying again, but for the interest I
took in this family. For years and years, dear lady, we had been
strangers to each other. This is, in all respects, a family reunion.”

With this little speech, the handsome old lady held out her hand; but
Mrs. Gould, remembering all she had done for her, instead of shaking the
hand reached forth her arms, and the two old women embraced with tender
dignity, which filled more than one pair of bright eyes with mist.

The old man stood by well pleased and smiling. He saw that young Gould
had retreated toward Georgiana; and that Savage was bending over the
chair to which Anna had gone.

“There is no objection in that quarter, I fancy!” he said, looking at
Mrs. Halstead, and nodding toward the young couple.

“He already has our consent,” answered Mrs. Halstead, smiling.

“As for these young people,” said the old man, approaching Anna, “it is
but just to say that Horace Savage had his parents’ sanction to his
marriage with my granddaughter, before they knew that she would inherit
one fourth of my fortune; the other portion going in equal parts, to my
nephew and grandsons. Where have the little fellows hid themselves?”

“I am here, grandfather,” said little Joseph, lifting his beautiful eyes
to the old man’s face, and stealing a hold on his grandmother’s hand as
he spoke; “and so is Robert, only he’s so surprised.”

“I’m so glad, you mean,” said Robert, coming into the light; “for now
Josey can go to school; and Anna—hurra for sister Anna!”

When the bustle, which followed this speech, died away, it was followed
by a hysterical sob, piteous to hear, which came from a sofa in the
little parlor, on which Miss Eliza had thrown herself.

“What is the matter?” cried half a dozen voices—and the sofa was
instantly surrounded. “What is the cause of this?”

“Oh! leave me alone! leave me alone to my desolation!” she cried; “the
last link is broken; there is no truth—no honor—no chivalry in the
world!”

Old Mr. Gould, as master of the house, felt himself called upon to offer
some consolation for the disappointment, which he supposed had sprung
out of her unreasonable hopes regarding his nephew; but as he came close
to her, she sprang up and pushed him violently backward.

“Touch me not, ingrate! household fiend! traitor! You have broken my
heart, trifled with the affections of an innocent, loving, confiding,
transparent nature. Do not dare to touch me. Turn those craven eyes on
the antiquated being that you have preferred to my youth and confiding
innocence.”

She sat down, panting for breath, still pointing her finger at the
astonished old man; while her brother stood appalled, and old Mrs.
Halstead sat down in pale consternation.

“I do not understand this,” said old Mr. Gould, looking dreadfully
perplexed.

“I do,” whispered the nephew, laughing. “It wasn’t me, but another chap
she was after.”

Just then a sharp ring came to the door. Robert opened it, and there
stood his early friend, the newsboy, with a torn hat in his hand.

“Excuse me for coming when you’ve got company, old fellow; but I’m
awfully stuck—had my pockets picked. Look a-there! lost every cent I’ve
got in the theatre jest as that new tragedy chap was a-dying
beautifully! Broke up, if you can’t lend me something to start on in the
morning.”

The boy hauled out a very dirty pocket, and shook its emptiness in proof
of the reality.

“I haven’t got a dollar myself.”

“Jest so. Can’t be helped. I’m up a stump this time and no mistake.
Good-night, old fellow.”

“Stop, stop a minute; I’ll ask my grandfather. Come back, I say.”

The boy came back, and stood with one hand in the rifled pocket,
waiting.

“Grandfather! grandfather!” said Robert, breathless and eager, “I want
some of those funds of my quarter in advance. I’ve got a friend out
there in distress.”

The old man laughed, everybody laughed except Miss Eliza, who stopped
sobbing to listen, and Joseph, who said, “Oh, Robert! how can you! He
hasn’t been our grandfather more than an hour!”

Robert heeded nothing of this, but drew his grandfather to the door, and
pointed out his friend.

“He was good to me once, sir—good as gold. It was he who took me to your
counting-room, and recommended me.”

The old man was feeling in his pocket. He recognized the boy.

“How much will do, my boy?” he said, in high good humor.

“Say five—that’ll set me up tip-top.”

The old man handed him a bank-note.

“Twenty dollars, by golly!” cried the boy, putting his hat on with a
swing of the arm. “Old gentleman, you’re a trump, and he’s a right
bower! Good evening! I’m set up for life, I am!”

As Mr. Gould was turning to go in again, the mistress of the
tenement-house passed him.

“Every thing is right,” she said. “You wont want me.”

“But I want you,” said Mr. Gould. “No woman who has been the friend to
my wife that you have, must pass me without thanks. Tell me, what can I
do for you?”

“Nothing, sir; that is, nothing in particular; only if you would just
tell that agent of yourn not to be quite so hard about the rent of that
house. I shall have to give it up if he is.”

“What! do you live in a house of mine?”

“Yes, sir; and have these six years.”

“Where is it?”

She told him.

“What! that old tenement? Come to my office in the morning, and I’ll
give you a deed for it. Don’t forget.”

“Oh, sir!”

“Don’t forget. You know the place.”

“Never fear, sir; I wont let her forget,” said Robert, rejoicing in his
heart.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” said the old man, entering the parlor, “let
us see what the fairies have brought us for supper. Mr. Halstead, will
you take Mrs. Gould? Your mother and I are good friends now—I will take
her.”

“Miss Eliza, shall I have the honor?”

It was young Gould, prompted by Georgiana.

“No, no! I am faint—I am ill; pray leave me!”

“Oh, do come!” said Robert, who was everywhere that night. “Such birds!
Such partridges! Such chicken-salad!”

“Mr. Gould, to oblige you, I will make an effort,” said Miss Eliza.
“Sometimes a mouthful of chicken-salad brings me to when nothing else
will. Forgive me if I lean heavily.”

She did lean heavily; and beside that one mouthful of chicken-salad,
there was considerable devastation among the birds in her neighborhood,
to say nothing of the breast of a partridge that disappeared altogether.
Then came champagne in large glasses, which gave light to Miss Eliza’s
tearful eyes, color to cheeks that did not need it, and warmth to that
poor heart, just broken for the twentieth time. That is all I have to
say on the subject.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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 Oliver Twist,                                                        75
 Little Dorrit,                                                       75
 Tale of Two Cities,                                                  75
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 The Matchmaker,                                                    1 50
 Love and Money,                                                    1 50

      The above are in paper cover, or in cloth, price $2.00 each.

The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray. In one duodecimo volume, full
gilt back. Price $1.00 in paper, or $1.50 in cloth.


                      MADAME GEORGE SAND’S WORKS.

 Consuelo,                                                            75
 Countess of Rudolstadt,                                              75
 First and True Love,                                                 75
 The Corsair,                                                         50
 Jealousy, paper,                                                   1 50
 Do.    cloth,                                                      2 00
 Fanchon, the Cricket, paper,                                       1 00
 Do.       do.      cloth,                                          1 50
 Indiana, a Love Story, paper,                                      1 50
 Do.           cloth,                                               2 00
 Consuelo and Rudolstadt, both in one volume, cloth,                2 00


                      WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS.

 The Crossed Path, or Basil,                                        1 50
 The Dead Secret. 12mo.                                             1 50
  The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.
 Hide and Seek,                                                       75
 After Dark,                                                          75
 The Dead Secret. 8vo                                                 75
                      Above in cloth at $1.00 each.
 The Queen’s Revenge,                                                 75
 Sight’s a-Foot; or, Travels Beyond Railways,                         50
 Mad Monkton, and other Stories,                                      50
 The Stolen Mask,                                                     25
 The Yellow Mask,                                                     25
 Sister Rose,                                                         25


                          MISS PARDOE’S WORKS.

 The Jealous Wife,                                                    50
 Confessions of a Pretty Woman,                                       75
 The Wife’s Trials,                                                   75
 Rival Beauties,                                                      75
 Romance of the Harem,                                                75
  The five above books are also bound in one volume, cloth, for $4.00.

The Adopted Heir. One volume, paper, $1.50, or cloth, $2.00.

The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe, one vol., paper $1.50, or cloth,
$2.00.


                      G. P. R. JAMES’S BEST BOOKS.

 Lord Montague’s Page,                                              1 50
 The Cavalier,                                                      1 50

The above are in paper cover, or each one in cloth, price $2.00 each.

 The Man in Black,                                                    75
 Mary of Burgundy,                                                    75
 Arrah Neil,                                                          75
 Eva St. Clair,                                                       50


                       BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.

 Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be,                         2 00
 Petersons’ New Cook Book,                                          2 00
 Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book,                                    2 00
 Widdifield’s New Cook Book,                                        2 00
 Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million,                              2 00
 Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking,                            2 00
 Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book,                                         2 00
 Francatelli’s Celebrated Cook Book. The Modern Cook. With
   Sixty-two illustrations, 600 large octavo pages,                 5 00


                      CHARLES LEVER’S BEST WORKS.

 Charles O’Malley,                                                    75
 Harry Lorrequer,                                                     75
 Jack Hinton,                                                         75
 Tom Burke of Ours,                                                   75
 Knight of Gwynne,                                                    75
 Arthur O’Leary,                                                      75
 Con Cregan,                                                          75
 Davenport Dunn,                                                      75

         Above are in paper, or in cloth, price $2.00 a volume.

 Horace Templeton,                                                    75
 Kate O’Donoghue,                                                     75


  ☞ Books sent, postage paid, on receipt of the Retail Price, by T. B.
                 Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.




                      GET UP YOUR CLUBS FOR 1867!

                  THE BEST AND CHEAPEST IN THE WORLD!

                          PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

This popular Monthly contains more for the money than any Magazine in
the world. In 1867, it will have nearly 1000 pages, 14 steel plates, 12
double-sized mammoth colored steel fashion plates, and 900 wood
engravings—and all this for only TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, or a dollar less
than magazines of its class. Every lady ought to take “Peterson.” In the
general advance of prices, it is THE ONLY MAGAZINE THAT HAS NOT RAISED
ITS PRICE. It is, therefore, emphatically,


                      THE MAGAZINE FOR THE TIMES.

In addition to the usual number of shorter stories, there will be given
in 1867, FOUR ORIGINAL COPY-RIGHTED NOVELETS, viz:

   RUBY GRAY’S REVENGE, by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
                   A LONG JOURNEY, by the Author of “Margaret Howth.”
   CARRY’S COMING OUT, by Frank Lee Benedict.
                   A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND, by Ella Rodman.

In its Illustrations also, “Peterson” is unrivalled. The Publisher
challenges a comparison between its

                SUPERB MEZZOTINTS & other STEEL ENGRAVINGS

 And those in other Magazines, and one at least is given in each number.


                    DOUBLE-SIZE COLORED FASHION PLATES

Each number will contain a double-size Fashion plate, engraved on steel
and handsomely colored. These plates contain from four to six figures
each, and excel anything of the kind. In addition, wood-cuts of the
newest bonnets, hats, caps, head dresses, cloaks, jackets, ball dresses,
walking dresses, house dresses, &c., &c., will appear in each number.
Also, the greatest variety of children’s dresses. Also diagrams, by aid
of which a cloak, dress, or child’s costume can be cut out, without the
aid of a mantua-maker, so that each diagram in this way alone, _will
save a year’s subscription_. The Paris, London, Philadelphia and New
York fashions described, in full, each month.

             _COLORED PATTERNS IN EMBROIDERY, CROCHET, &c._

The Work-Table Department of this Magazine IS WHOLLY UNRIVALED. Every
number contains a dozen or more patterns in every variety of Fancy work;
Crochet, Embroidery, Knitting, Bead-work, Shell-work, Hair-work, &c.,
&c., &c. SUPERB COLORED PATTERNS FOR SLIPPERS, PURSES, CHAIR SEATS, &c.,
given—each of which at a retail store would cost Fifty cents.

                          “OUR NEW COOK-BOOK.”

The Original Household Receipts of “Peterson” are quite famous. For 1867
our “COOK-BOOK” will be continued: EVERY ONE OF THESE RECEIPTS HAS BEEN
TESTED. This alone will be worth the price of “Peterson.” Other Receipts
for the Toilette, Sick-room, &c., &c., will be given.

NEW AND FASHIONABLE MUSIC in every number. Also, Hints on Horticulture,
Equestrianism, and all matters interesting to ladies.

                        TERMS—ALWAYS IN ADVANCE.

               1 Copy, for one year.                $2.00
               3 Copies, for one year.               4.50
               4 Copies, for one year.               6.00
               5 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.)  8.00
               8 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) 12.00
              14 Copies, (and 1 to getter up Club.) 20.00

=A CHOICE OF PREMIUMS.= Where a person is entitled to an extra copy for
getting up a club, there will be sent, if preferred, instead of the
extra copy, a superb premium mezzotint for framing, (size 27 inches by
20,) “WASHINGTON PARTING FROM HIS GENERALS,” or a LADY’S ILLUSTRATED
ALBUM, handsomely bound and gilt, or either of the famous “BUNYAN
MEZZOTINTS,” the same size as the “WASHINGTON.” _Always state whether an
extra copy or one of these other premiums is preferred_: and notice that
for Clubs of three or four, no premiums are given. IN REMITTING, get a
post-office order, or a draft on Philadelphia or New York: if neither of
these can be had, send greenbacks or bank notes.

                         _Address, post-paid_,
                          CHARLES J. PETERSON,
               No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

☞ Specimens sent to those wishing to get up clubs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 ● Enclosed bold or blackletter font in =equals=.





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