Chapter XIV…

Chapter XIV

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do; Not light them for themselves: for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. SHAKSPEARE.

Much against Mrs. Nettley's will, she was despatched on her journey homewards within a few days after. She begged to be allowed to stay yet a week or two, or three; but Elizabeth was unmoveable. "It would make no difference," she said, "or at least I would rather you should go. You ought to be there -- and I may as well learn at once to get used to it."

"But it will be very bad for you, Miss Elizabeth."

"I think it is right, Mrs. Nettley."

So Mrs. Nettley went; and how their young lady passed her days and bore the quietude and the sorrow of them, the rest of the household marvelled together.

"She'd die, if there was dyin' stuff in her," said Clam; "but there ain't."

"What for should she die?" said Karen.

"I'm as near dead as I can be, myself," was Clam's conclusive reply.

"What ails you, girl?"

"I can't catch my breath good among all these mountains," said Clam. "I guess the hills spiles the air hereabouts."

"Your young lady don't think so."

"No," said Clam, -- "she looks at the mountains as if she'd swaller them whole -- them and her Bible; -- only she looks into that as if it would swaller her."

"Poor bird! she's beat down; -- its too lonesome up here for her!" said Karen more tenderly than her wont was.

"That ain't no sign she'll go," said Clam. "She's as notional as the Governor himself, when she takes a notion; only there's some sense in his, and you never know where the sense of hers is till it comes out."

"The house is so still, it's pitiful to hear it," said Karen. "I never minded it when there wa'n't nobody in it -- I knowed the old family was all gone -- but now I hear it, seems to me, the whole day long. You can't hear a foot, when you ain't in there."

"That'll last awhile, maybe," said Clam; "and then you'll have a row. 'Tain't in her to keep still more'n a certain length o' time; and when she comes out, there'll be a firing up, I tell ye."

"The Lord 'll keep his own," said Karen rising from the table. Which sentence Clam made nothing of.

Spite of her anticipations, the days, and the weeks, sped on smoothly and noiselessly. Indeed more quietness, and not less, seemed to be the order of them. Probably too much for Elizabeth's good, if such a state of mere mind-life had been of long lasting. It would not long have been healthy. The stir of passion, at first, was fresh enough to keep her thoughts fresh; but as time went on there were fewer tears and a more settled borne-down look of sorrow. Even her Bible, constantly studied, -- even prayer, constantly made over it, did not hinder this. Her active nature was in an unnatural state; it could not be well so. And it sometimes burst the bounds she had set to it, and indulged in a passionate wrestling with the image of joys lost and longed for. Meanwhile, the hot days of August were passed, the first heats of September were slowly gone; and days and nights began to cool off in earnest towards the frosty weather.

"If there ain't some way found to keep Miss Haye's eyes from cryin', she won't have 'em to do anything else with. And she'll want 'em, some day."

Clam, like Elizabeth of old, having nobody else to speak to, was sometimes driven to speak to the nearest at hand.

"Is she cryin', now?" said Karen.

"I don' know what you'd call it," said Clam. "'Tain't much like other folks' cryin'."

"Well there's a letter Anderese fetched -- you'd better take it to her as soon as it'll do. Maybe it'll do her good."

"Where from?" said Clam seizing it.

"Anderese fetched it from Mountain Spring."

"Now I wish 'twas -- but it ain't! --" said Clam. "I'll take it to her anyhow."

Elizabeth knew that it wasn't, as soon as she took it. The letter was from the gentleman who had been her father's lawyer in the city.

Mannahatta, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear madam,

"Upon arrangement of Mr. Haye's affairs, I regret to say, we find it will take nearly all his effects to meet the standing liabilities and cover the failure of two or three large operations in which Mr. Haye had ventured more upon uncertain contingencies than was his general habit in business matters. So little indeed will be left, at the best issue we can hope for, that Mrs. Haye's interest, whose whole property, I suppose you are aware, was involved, I grieve to say will amount to little or nothing. It were greatly to be wished that some settlement had in time been made for her benefit; but nothing of the kind was done, nor I suppose in the circumstances latterly was possible. The will makes ample provision, but I am deeply pained to say, is, as matters stand, but a nullity. I enclose a copy.

"I have thought it right to advertise you of these painful tidings, and am,

"Dear madam, with great respect,

"Your obedient servant,

"Dustus O. Brick."

Elizabeth had read this letter, and pondered over it by turns half the day, when a startling thought for the first time flashed into her mind. Rose's desolate condition! Less desolate than her own indeed, in so far that Rose had less strength to feel; but more desolate by far, because being as friendless she was much more helpless than herself. "What will she do, without money and friends? -- for she never had any near and dear friends but father and me. Where can she live? -- "

Elizabeth jumped up and ran into the house to get away from the inference. But when she had sat down in her chair the inference stood before her.

"Bring her here! -- I cannot. I cannot. It would ruin my life." Then, clear and fair, stood the words she had been reading -- 'Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you --'

"But there is no bed-room for her but this -- or else there will be no sitting-room for either of us; -- and then we must eat in the kitchen! --"

"She has neither house, nor home, nor friend, nor money. What wouldst thou, in her place? --"

Elizabeth put her face in her hands and almost groaned. She took it up and looked out, but in all bright nature she could find nothing which did not side against her. She got up and walked the room; then she sat down and began to consider what arrangements would be necessary, and what would be possible. Then confessed to herself that it would not be all bad to have somebody to break her solitude, even anybody; then got over another qualm of repugnance, and drew the table near her and opened her desk.

Shahweetah, Sept. 26, 1817.

"Dear Rose,

"I am all alone, like you. Will you come here and let us do the best we can together? I am at a place you don't like, but I shall not stay here all the time, and I think you can bear it with me for a while. I shall have things arranged so as to make you as comfortable as you can be in such straitened quarters, and expect you will come as soon as you can get a good opportunity. Whether you come by boat or not, part of the way, you will have to take the stage-coach from Pimpernel here; and you must stop at the little village of Mountain Spring, opposite Wut-a-qut-o. From there you can get here by wagon or boat. I can't send for you, for I have neither one nor the other.

"Yours truly, dear Rose,

"Elizabeth Haye."

With the letter in her hand, Elizabeth went forth to the kitchen.

"Karen, is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at Mountain Spring?"

"What's that?" said Karen.

"Is there any sort of a cabinet-maker at the village? -- a cabinet-maker, -- somebody that makes tables and bedsteads, and that sort of thing?"

"A furnitur' shop?" said Karen.

"Yes -- something of that kind. Is there such a thing in Mountain Spring?"

Karen shook her head.

"They don't make nothin' at Mountain Spring."

"Where do the people get their tables and chairs? where do they go for them?"

"They go 'most any place," said Karen; -- "sometimes they goes to Pimpernel, -- and maybe to Starlings, or to Deerford; they don't go much nowheres."

"Can I get such things at Pimpernel?"

"If you was there, you could, I s'pose," said Karen.

"Could Anderese get a horse and cart at the village, to go for me?"

"I guess he can find a wagon round somewheres," said Karen. "You couldn't go in a cart handy."

"I! -- no, but I want to send him, to fetch home a load of things."

"How'll he know what to get?"

"I will tell him. Couldn't he do it?"

"If he knowed what was wanted, he could," said Karen. "Me and him 'll go, Miss Lizzie, and we'll do it."

"You, Karen! I don't want to send you."

"Guess I'll do the best," said the old woman. "Anderese mightn't know what to fetch. What you want, Miss Lizzie?"

Elizabeth thought a moment whether she should ask Winthrop to send up the things for her; but she could not bear to do it.

"I want a bedstead, Karen, in the first place."

"What sort'll a one?"

"The best you can find."

"That'll be what'll spend the most money," said Karen musingly.

"I don't care about that, but the nicest sort you can meet with. And a bureau --"

"What's that?" said Karen. "I dun' know what that means."

"To hold clothes -- with drawers -- like that in my room."

"A cupboard?" said Karen; -- "some sort like that?"

"No, no; I'll shew you what I mean, in my room; it is called a bureau. And a washstand -- a large one, if you can find it. And a rocking-chair -- the handsomest one that can be had."

"I know them two," said Karen. "That'll be a load, Miss Lizzie. I don't b'lieve the wagon 'll hold no more."

"The first fine day, Karen, I want you to go."

"The days is all fine, I speck, hereabouts," said Karen. "We'll start as quick as Anderese gets a wagon."

"Who's comin', Miss 'Lizabeth?" said Clam as she met her young lady coming out of the kitchen.

"I don't know -- possibly Mrs. Haye. I wish all things to be in readiness for her."

"Where'll she sleep, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam with opening eyes.

"Here."

"Will she have this for her bedroom? -- And what'll you do, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"If she comes, we will eat in the kitchen." And with the thought the young lady stepped back.

"I forgot -- Karen, do you think the wagon will hold no more? Anderese must get a large one. I want a few neat chairs -- plain ones -- cane-bottomed, or rush-bottomed will do; I want them for this room; for if this lady comes we shall have to take this for our eating-room. I don't want a table; we can make this do; -- or we can take the one I use now; but we want the chairs."

"Well, Miss Lizzie, you'll have to have 'em -- we'll manage to pile 'em on someways."

And Miss Haye withdrew.

"Ain't this a start now?" said Clam after she had rubbed her knives in silence for several minutes. "Didn't I tell you so?"

"Tell what?" said Karen.

"Why! that Miss 'Lizabeth couldn't keep quiet more'n long enough to get her spunk up. What in the name of variety is she at work at now!"

"What's the matter with you?" grumbled Karen.

"Why I tell you," said Clam facing round, "them two love each other like pison!"

"That's a queer way to love," said Karen.

"They hate each other then -- do you understand me? they hate so, one wouldn't thaw a piece of ice off the other's head if it was freezin' her!"

"Maybe 'tain't jus' so," said Karen.

"What do you know about it!" said Clam contemptuously.

"What do you, perhaps?" suggested Karen.

"I know my young lady," said Clam rubbing her knives, "and I know t'other one. There ain't but one person in this world that can make Miss 'Lizabeth keep her fire down -- but she does have an idee of mindin' him."

"Who's that?" said Karen.

"Somebody you don't know, I guess," said Clam.

"If 'twas all true, she wouldn't want her here," said Karen.

"It's all true," said Clam, -- "'cept the last. You don't know nothin', Karen. We'll see what a time there'll be when she comes. Eat in here! --"

"She's eat in here afore now -- and I guess she can again," said old Karen, in a tone of voice which spoke her by no means so discomposed as Clam's words would seem to justify.

Perhaps Elizabeth herself had a thought or two on the close quarters which would be the infallible result of Mrs. Haye's seizure of the old 'keeping-room.'

The twenty-seventh, spite of Karen's understanding of the weather, was a rainy day. The twenty-eighth, Karen and Anderese went to Pimpernel on their furniture hunting, and came back at night with the articles, selected somewhat in accordance with a limited experience of the usual contents of a cabinet-maker's warehouse. The very next day, Elizabeth set Anderese to foisting out and putting together her little old boat, the Merry-go-round. Putting together, literally; she was dropping to pieces from the effects of years and confinement. Anderese was hardly equal to the business; Elizabeth sent for better help from Mountain Spring, and watched rather eagerly the restoring of her favourite to strength and beauty. Watched and pressed the work, as if she was in a hurry. But after tightening and caulking, the boat must be repainted. Elizabeth watched the doing of that; and bargained for a pair of light oars with her friend the workman. He was an old, respectable- looking man, of no particular calling, that appeared.

"Where was this here boat built?" he inquired one day as he was at work and Elizabeth looking on.

"It was built in Mannahatta."

"A good while ago, likely?"

"Yes, it was."

"Did this here belong to old Squire Landholm?"

"No."

"'Twa'n't fetched here lately, I guess, was it?"

"No -- it has lain here a long time."

"Who did it belong to, then?"

"It belonged to me."

"Is it your'n now?" said the man looking up at her.

"No," said Elizabeth colouring, -- "it is not; but it belongs to a friend of mine."

"Was you ever in these parts before?"

"Some time ago."

"Then you knew the old family, likely?"

"Yes, I did."

"There was fine stuff in them Landholms," said the old man, perhaps supplied with the figure by the timber he was nailing, -- "real what I call good stuff -- parents and children. There was a great deal of good in all of 'em; only the boys took notions they wouldn't be nothin' but ministers or lawyers or some sort o' people that wears black coats and don't have to roll up their trowsers for nothin'. They were clever lads, too. I don't mean to say nothin' agin 'em."

"Do you know how they're gettin' on?" he asked after a pause on his part and on Elizabeth's.

"I believe Asahel is with his father, -- gone West."

"Ay, ay; but I mean the others -- them two that went to College. I ha'n't seen Rufus for a great spell -- I went down and fetched up Winthrop when his mother died."

"Will you have paint enough to finish that gunwale?"

"Guess so," said the old man looking into his paint-pot. "There's more oil in the bottle. What be them two doing now? Winthrop's a lawyer, ain't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, he's made a smart one, ha'n't he? -- ain't he about as smart as any one they've got in Mannahatta?"

"I'm not a judge," said Elizabeth, who could not quite keep her countenance. "I dare say he is."

"He was my favourite, always, Winthrop was, -- the Governor, as they called him. Well -- I'd vote for him if he was sot up for that office -- or any other office -- if they'd do it while I'm above ground. Where is he now? -- in Mannahatta?"

"Yes."

"Where's t'other one -- the oldest -- Rufus -- where's he?"

"I don't know where he is. How soon will this do to be put in the water, Mr. Underhill?"

"Well -- I guess it'll want somethin' of a dryin' fust. You can get along without it till next week, can't you?"

"Next week! and this is Tuesday! --"

"Yes -- will you want it afore that? It hadn't ought to be put in the water one day afore Monday -- if you want it to look handsome -- or to wear worth speakin' of."

Miss Haye was silent, and the old man's brush made long sweeps back and forward over the shining gunwale.

"You see," Mr. Underhill went on, "it'll be all of night afore I get the bottom of this here done. -- What's Rufus doin'? is he got to be a minister yet?"

"No."

"Another lawyer?"

"No."

"What is he then?"

"I don't know -- I believe he was an engineer."

"An engineer?" said the old man standing up and looking at her. "Do you mean he's one o' them fellers that sees to the ingines on the boats? -- that ain't much gettin' up in the world. I see one o' them once -- I went to Mannahatta in the boat, just to see what 'twas -- is Rufus one o' them smutty fellers standing over the fires there?"

"Not at all; it's a very different business, and as respectable as that of a clergyman or lawyer."

"There ain't anything more respectable than what his father was," said Mr. Underhill. "But Rufus was too handsome -- he wanted to wear shiny boots always."

Elizabeth walked off.

So it was not till the early part of October that the little boat was painted and dried and in the water; and very nice she looked. Painted in the old colours; Elizabeth had been particular about that. Rose in the meantime had been heard from. She was coming, very soon, only staying for something, it wasn't very clearly made out what, that would however let her go in a few days. Elizabeth threw the letter down, with the mental conclusion that it was "just like Rose;" and resolved that her arms should be in a good state of training before the 'few days' were over.

"Who's goin' in this little concern?" said Mr. Underhill as he pushed it into the water. "Looks kind o' handsome, don't it?"

"Very nice!" said Elizabeth.

"That old black feller ain't up to rowin' you anywhere, is he? I don't believe he is."

"I'll find a way to get about in her, somehow."

"You must come over and see our folks -- over the other side. My old mother's a great notion to see you --" said he, pulling the boat round into place, -- "and I like she should have what she's a fancy for."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth; with about as much heed to his words as if a coney had requested her to take a look into his burrow. But a few minutes after, some thought made her speak again.

"Have you a mother living, sir?"

"Ay," he said with a little laugh, "she ain't a great deal older than I be. She's as spry in her mind, as she was when she was sixteen. Now -- will you get into this?"

"Not now. Whereabouts do you live?"

"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, -- "the only house you can see, under the mountain there -- just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."

He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little 'Merry-go-round.'

"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, -- how gracefully they rose and fell -- how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms -- how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.

"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? --"

"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm -- give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."

"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land," she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.

"And this is only one old woman," went on the other quiet whisper, -- "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. --"

It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" -- and she knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a minute. "I'll go," -- she said to herself.

Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves -- a yellow-headed butternut, partly bare -- a ruddying dogwood or dogwood's family connection, -- a hickory shewing suspicions of tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand; and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of them, could not make her be other than downcast and desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world, with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering. Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor uncheered. -- "But he is very different from me; he has been long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" -- And once Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat, and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.

Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that she was approaching them in a right direction, she was startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled, because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill, nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything. Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? -- No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again? She did not till she must; then her look went first to the rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing above them, seen and not seen -- she guided her boat in carefully -- then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.

The nervousness and the flutter quieted themselves, almost; but probably Elizabeth could not have told then by the impulse of what feeling or feelings it was, that she coolly looked down again and gave her attention so steadily and minutely to the careful bestowment of her skiff, before she would set foot on the rocks and give her hand and eye to the person who had been waiting to claim them. By what impulse also she left it to him entirely to say what he was there for, and gave him no help whatever in her capacity of hostess.

"You are surprised to see me," said Rufus after he had shaken the lady's hand and helped her on shore.

"Rather. I could not imagine at first who it might be."

"I am glad to find you looking so well," said the gentleman gravely. "Very well indeed."

"It is the flush of exercise," said Elizabeth. "I was not looking well, a little while ago; and shall not be, in a little time to come."

"Rowing is good for you," said Rufus.

"It is pleasant," said Elizabeth. "I do it for the pleasantness, not for the goodness."

"Rather severe exercise, isn't it?"

"Not at all!" said Elizabeth a little scornfully. "I am not strong-armed just now -- but it is nothing to move a boat like that."

"Some ladies would not think so."

They had been slowly moving up the path towards the house. As they reached the level of the grassy garden ground, where the path took a turn, Rufus stopped and faced about upon the river. The fair October evening air and light were there, over the water and over the land.

"It is beautiful!" he said somewhat abstractedly.

"You are not so fond of it as your brother, Mr. Landholm," said Elizabeth.

"What makes you think so?"

There was quick annoyance in his tone, but Miss Haye was not careful.

"Am I wrong? Are you as fond of it?"

"I don't know," said Rufus. "His life has been as steadily given to his pursuits as mine has to mine."

"Perhaps more. But what then? I always thought you loved the city."

"Yes," Rufus said thoughtfully, -- "I did; -- but I love this too. It would be a very cold head and heart that did not."

Elizabeth made no reply; and the two enjoyed it in silence for a minute or two longer.

"For what do you suppose I have intruded upon you at this time, Miss Haye?"

"For some particular purpose -- what, I don't know. I have been trying to think."

"I did not venture to presume upon making an ordinary call of civility."

What less are you going to do? -- thought Elizabeth, looking at him with her eyes a little opened.

"I have been -- for a few months past -- constantly engaged in business at the South; and it is but a chance which permitted me to come here lately -- I mean, to Mannahatta -- on a visit to my brother. I am not willing to let slip any such opportunity."

"I should think you would not," said Elizabeth, wondering.

"There I heard of you. -- Shall we walk down again?"

"If you please. I don't care whether up or down."

"I could not go home without turning a little out of my way to pay this visit to you. I hope I shall be forgiven."

"I don't know what I have to forgive, yet," said Elizabeth.

He was silent, and bit his lip nervously.

"Will you permit me to say -- that I look back with great pleasure to former times passed in your society -- in Mannahatta; -- that in those days I once ventured to entertain a thought which I abandoned as hopeless, -- I had no right to hope, -- but that since I have heard of the misfortunes which have befallen you, it has come back to me again with a power I have not had the strength to resist -- along with my sympathy for those misfortunes. Dear Miss Haye, I hope for your forgiveness and noble interpretation, when I say that I have dared to confess this to you from the impulse of the very circumstances which make it seem most daring."

"The misfortunes you allude to, are but one," said Elizabeth.

"One -- yes, -- but not one in the consequences it involved."

"At that rate of reckoning," said Elizabeth, "there would be to such a thing as one misfortune in the world."

"I was not thinking of one," said Rufus quietly. "The actual loss you have suffered is one shared by many -- pardon me, it does not always imply equal deprivation, nor the same need of a strong and helping friendly hand."

Elizabeth answered with as much quietness, --

"It is probably good for me that I have care on my hands -- it would be a weak wish, however natural, to wish that I could throw off on some agent the charge of my affairs."

"The charge I should better like," said Rufus looking at her, -- "the only charge I should care for, -- would be the charge of their mistress."

An involuntary quick movement of Elizabeth put several feet between them; then after half a minute, with a flushed face and somewhat excited breathing, she said, not knowing precisely what she said,

"I would rather give you the charge of my property, sir. The other is, you don't very well know what."

"My brother would be the better person to perform the first duty, probably," Rufus returned, with a little of his old- fashioned haughtiness of style.

Elizabeth's lips parted and her eye flashed, but as she was not looking at him, it only flashed into the water. Both stood proudly silent and still. Elizabeth was the first to speak, and her tone was gentle, whatever the words might be.

"You cannot have your wish in this matter, Mr. Landholm, and it would be no blessing to you if you could. I trust it will be no great grief to you that you cannot."

"My grief is my own," said Rufus with a mixture of expressions. "How should that be no blessing to me, which it is the greatest desire of my life to obtain, Miss Haye?"

"I don't think it is," said Elizabeth. "At least it will not be. You will find that it is not. It is not the desire of mine, Mr. Landholm."

There was silence again, a mortified silence on one part, -- for a little space.

"You will do justice to my motives?" he said. "I have a right to ask that, for I deserve so much of you. If my suit had been an ungenerous one, it might better have been pressed years ago than now."

"Why was it not?" said Elizabeth.

It was the turn of Rufus's eyes to flash, and his lips and teeth saluted each other vexedly.

"It would probably have been as unavailing then as now," he replied. "I bid you good evening, Miss Haye. I ask nothing from you. I beg pardon for my unfortunate and inopportune intrusion just now. I shall annoy you no more."

Elizabeth returned his parting bow, and then stood quite still where he left her while he walked up the path they had just come down. She did not move, except her head, till he had passed out of sight and was quite gone; then she seated herself on one of the rocks near which her boat was moored, and clasping her hands round her knees, looked down into the water. What to find there? -- the grounds of the disturbance in which her whole nature was working? it lay deeper than that. It wrought and wrought, whatever it was -- the colour flushed and the lips moved tremulously, -- her brow knit, -- till at last the hands came to her eyes and her face sunk down, and passionate tears, passionate sobbing, told what Elizabeth could tell in no other way. Tears proud and humble -- rebelling and submitting.

"It is good for me, I suppose," she said as she at last rose to her feet, fearing that her handmaid might come to seek her, -- "my proud heart needed to be brought down in some such way -- needed to be mortified even to this. Even to this last point of humiliation. To have my desire come and mock me so and as it were shake my wish in my face! But how could he think of me? -- he could not -- he is too good -- and I am a poor thing, that may be made good, I suppose --"

Tears flowed again, hot and unbidden; for she was walking up to the house and did not want anybody to see them. And in truth before she was near the house Clam came out and met her half way down the path.

"Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I don' know as you want to see nobody --"

"Who is there for me to see?"

"Well -- there's an arrival -- I s'pect we'll have to have supper in the kitchen to-night."

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Chapter XV

With weary steps I loiter on, Though always under altered skies; The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone. TENNYSON.

Whether or not Elizabeth wanted to see anybody she did not say -- except to herself. She walked into the house, fortified with all the muniments of her spirit for the meeting. It was a quiet one on the whole. Rose cried a good deal, but Elizabeth bore it without any giving way; saving once or twice a slight twinkling of lip and eye, instantly commanded back. Rose had all the demonstration to herself, of whatever kind. Elizabeth sat still, silent and pale; and when she could get free went and ordered supper.

The supper was in Mrs. Landholm's old kitchen; they two alone at the table. Perhaps Elizabeth thought of the old time, perhaps her thoughts had enough to do with the present; she was silent, grave and stern, not wanting in any kind care nevertheless. Rose took tears and bread and butter by turns; and then sat with her face in her handkerchief all the evening. It seemed a very, very long evening to her hostess, whose face bespoke her more tired, weary, and grave, with every succeeding half hour. Why was this companion, whose company of all others she least loved, to be yet her sole and only companion, of all the world? Elizabeth by turns fretted and by turns scolded herself for being ungrateful, since she confessed that even Rose was better for her than to be utterly alone. Yet Rose was a blessing that greatly irritated her composure and peace of mind. So the evening literally wore away. But when at last Rose was kissing her hostess for good night, between sobs she stammered, "I am very glad to be here Lizzie, -- it seems like being at home again."

Elizabeth gave her no answer besides the answering kiss; but her eyes filled full at that, and as soon as she reached her own room the tears came in long and swift flow, but sweeter and gentler and softer than they had flowed lately. And very thankful that she had done right, very soothed and refreshed that her right doing had promised to work good, she laid herself down to sleep.

But her eyes had hardly closed when the click of her door- latch made them open again. Rose's pretty night-cap was presenting itself.

"Lizzie! -- aren't you afraid without a man in the house?"

"There is a man in the house."

"Is there?"

"Yes. Anderese -- Karen's brother."

"But he is old."

"He's a man."

"But aren't you ever afraid?"

"It's no use to be afraid," said Elizabeth. "I am accustomed to it. I don't often think of it."

"I heard such queer noises," said Rose whispering. "I didn't think of anything before, either. May I come in here?"

"It's of no use, Rose," said Elizabeth. "You would be just as much afraid to-morrow night. There is nothing in the world to be afraid of."

Rose slowly took her night-cap away and Elizabeth's head went down on her pillow. But her closing eyes opened again at the click of the latch of the other door.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --"

"Well, Clam? --"

"Karen's all alive, and says she ain't goin' to live no longer."

"What! --"

"Karen."

"What's the matter?"

"Maybe she's goin', as she says she is; but I think maybe she ain't."

"Where is she?" said Elizabeth jumping up.

"In here," said Clam. "She won't die out of the kitchen."

Elizabeth threw on her dressing-gown and hurried out; thinking by the way that she had got into a thorn forest of difficulties, and wishing the daylight would look through. Karen was sitting before the fire, wrapped up in shawls, in the rocking-chair.

"What's the matter, Karen?"

Karen's reply was to break forth into a tremulous scrap of her old song, --

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm going, --'"

"Stop," said Elizabeth. "Don't sing. Tell me what's the matter."

"It's nothin' else, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "I'm goin' -- I think I be."

"Why do you think so? How do you feel?"

"I don't feel no ways, somehow; -- it's a kinder givin' away. I think I'm just goin', ma'am."

"But what ails you, Karen?"

"It's time," said Karen, jerking herself backwards and forwards in her rocking-chair. "I'm seventy years and more old. I hain't got no more work to do. I'm goin'; and I'm ready, praise the Lord! They're most all gone; -- and the rest is comin' after; -- it's time old Karen was there."

"But that's no sign you mayn't live longer," said Elizabeth. "Seventy years is nothing. How do you feel sick?"

"It's all over, Miss Lizzie," said the old woman. "Its givin' away. I'm goin' -- I know I be. The time's come."

"I will send Anderese for a doctor -- where is there one?"

Karen shivered and put her head in her hands, before she spoke.

"There ain't none -- I don't want none -- there was Doctor Kipp to Mountain Spring, but he ain't no' count; and he's gone away."

"Clam, do speak to Anderese and ask him about it, and tell him to go directly, if there is any one he can go for. -- What can I do for you, Karen?"

"I guess nothin', Miss Lizzie. -- If the Governor was here, he'd pray for me; but it ain't no matter -- I've been prayin' all my life -- It's no matter if I can't pray good just right now. The Lord knows all."

Elizabeth stood silent and still.

"Shall I -- would you like to have me read for you?" she asked somewhat timidly.

"No," said Karen -- "not now -- I couldn't hear. Read for yourself, Miss Lizzie. I wish the Governor was here."

What a throbbing wish to the same effect was in Elizabeth's heart! She stood, silent, sorrowful, dismayed, watching Karen, wondering at herself in her changed circumstances and life and occupation; and wondering if she were only going down into the valley of humiliation, or if she had got to the bottom. And, almost thinking Karen to be envied if she were, as she said, 'going.'

"What's the matter?" said Rose and her night-cap at the other door.

"Karen don't feel very well. Don't come here, Rose."

"What are you there for?"

"I want to be here. You go to bed and keep quiet -- I'll tell you another time."

"Is she sick?"

"Yes -- I don't know -- Go in, Rose, and be quiet!"

Which Rose did. Clam came back and reported that there was no doctor to be sent for, short of a great many miles. Elizabeth's heart sunk fearfully. What could she and her companions do with a dying woman? -- if she were really that. Karen crept nearer the fire, and Clam built it up and made it blaze. Then she stood on one side, and her young mistress on the other.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam. "I'll see to her."

But Elizabeth did not move so much as an eyelid.

"I don't want nothin'," said Karen presently. "Miss Lizzie, if you see the Governor -- tell him --"

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him to hold on, -- will you? -- the way his mother went and the way he's a goin'. Tell him to hold on till he gets there. Will you tell him?"

"Certainly! I will tell him anything you please."

Karen was silent for a little space, and then began again.

"Is't your way?"

Elizabeth's lips moved a little, but they closed and she made no answer.

"Mis' Landholm went that way, and Governor's goin', and I'm goin' too.

"'I'm going, -- I'm going, -- I'm --'"

"Do you feel better, Karen?" said Elizabeth interrupting her.

"I'm goin' -- I don' know how soon axactly, Miss Lizzie -- but I feel it. I am all givin' away. It's time. I've seen my life all through, and I'm ready. I'm ready -- praise the Lord. I was ready a great while ago, but it wa'n't the Lord's time and now if he pleases, I'm ready."

"Wouldn't you feel better if you were to go to your own room and lie down?"

Karen made no answer for some time and then only was half understood to say that "this was the best place." Elizabeth did not move. Clam fetched a thick coarse coverlid and wrapping herself in it, lay down at full length on the floor.

"Go to bed, Miss 'Lizabeth, -- I'm settled. I'll see to her. I guess she ain't goin' afore mornin'."

"You will go to sleep, Clam, and then she will have nobody to do anything for her."

"I'll wake up once in a while, Miss 'Lizabeth, to see she don't do nothin' to me."

Elizabeth stood another minute, thinking bitterly how invaluable Winthrop would be, in the very place where she knew herself so valueless. Another sharp contrast of their two selves; and then she drew up a chair to the fire and sat down too; determined at least to do the little she could do, give her eyes and her presence. Clam's entreaties and representations were of no avail. Karen made none.

They watched by her, or at least Elizabeth did, through hour after hour. She watched alone, for Clam slept and snored most comfortably; and Karen's poor head much of the time rested in her hands. Whether conscious or unconscious, she was very quiet; and her watcher trimmed the fire and mused with no interruption. At first with much fear and trembling; for she did not know how soon Karen's prophecy might come true; but as the night wore on and no change was to be seen or felt, this feeling quieted down and changed into a very sober and sad review of all the things of her own life, in the past and in the future. The present was but a point, she did not dwell on it; yet in that point was the sweetest and fairest thing her mind had in possession; her beginning of a new life and her hold of the promise which assured her that strength should not be wanting to live it until the end. She did look over her several present duties and made up her mind to the self- denying and faithful performance of them; but then her longing came back, for a human hand to hold her and help her on the journey's way. And her head bowed to the chair-back; and it was a good while before she recollected again to look at the fire or at her charge in front of it.

Karen's attitude was more easy; and Elizabeth excessively fatigued, with pain as well as weariness, felt inclined to steal off to bed and leave her door open, that she might readily hear if she was wanted. But it occurred to her that Winthrop for his own ease never would have deserted his post. She dismissed the thought of sleep and rest; and disposed herself to wear out the remnant of the night as she had begun it; in attendance on what she was not sure needed her attendance.

A longer night Elizabeth never knew, and with fear in the first part and watching in the last part of' it, the morning found her really haggard and ill. But Karen was no worse; and not knowing what to think about her, but comforting herself with the hope that at least her danger was not imminent, Elizabeth went to bed, coveting sleep inexpressibly, for its forgetfulness as well as its rest. But sleep was not to be had so promptly.

"Miss 'Lizabeth! --" And there stood Clam before her opening eyes, as fresh and as black as ever, with a clean turban in the last state of smartness.

"What is the matter?"

"Where will you have breakfast? Karen ain't goin' at all at present. Where will you have it?"

"Nowhere."

"Will I clear her out of the kitchen?"

"No! -- let her alone. Mrs. Haye's woman may see to breakfast in her mistress's room -- I don't want anything -- but sleep. Let Karen have and do just what she wants."

"Won't Clam do as much!" -- said the toss of the clean turban as its owner went out of the room. And the issue was, a very nice little breakfast brought to Miss Haye's bed-side in the space of half an hour. Elizabeth was waked up and looked dubious.

"You want it," said her handmaid. "The Governor said you was to take it."

"Is he here!" exclaimed Elizabeth, with an amount of fire in eye and action that, as Clam declared afterwards, "had like to have made her upset everything." But she answered demurely,

"He ain't here just yet. I guess he's comin', though."

Elizabeth's eye went down, and an eye as observant if not so brilliant as her own, watched how the pink tinge rose and mounted in the cheeks as she betook herself to the bread and coffee. "Ain't she eatin' her breakfast like a good child!" said Clam to herself. "That put her down."

And with a "Now you'll sleep --" Clam carried off the breakfast tray, and took care her mistress should have no second disturbance from anybody else. Elizabeth only heard once or twice in the course of the day that nothing was wanted from her; so slept her sleep out.

It was slept out at last, and Elizabeth got up and began to dress. Or rather, took her dressing-comb in hand and planted herself in front of the window, and there forgot what she had to do. It was a fine afternoon of October, late in the day. It was very fair outside. The hills touched here and there in their green with a frost-spot -- yellow, or tawny, or red; the river water lying very calm; and a calm sky over-head; the air as pure as though vapours and mists were refined away for ever. The distant trees of the woodland shewed in round distinct masses of foliage, through such an atmosphere; the rocky shore edge cut sharp against the water; the nearer cedars around the home valley seemed to tell their individual leaves. Here and there in some one of them a Virginia creeper's luxuriant wreaths were colouring with suspicious tokens of crimson. Not in their full brilliancy yet, the trees and the vine-leaves were in fair preparation; and fancy could not imagine them more fair than they looked that afternoon.

"So bright without! -- and so dark within!" -- Elizabeth thought. "When will it end -- or is it only beginning? Such a flood of brightness was over me a little while ago, -- and now, there is one burden in one room, and another in another room, and I myself am the greatest burden of all. Because my life has nothing to look forward to -- in this world -- and heaven is not enough; I want something in this world. -- Yes, I do. -- Yet Winthrop Landholm has nothing more than I have, in this world's things, and he don't feel like me. What is the reason? Why is his face always so at rest, -- so bright -- so strong? Ah, it must be that he is so much better than I! -- he has more, not of this world's things; religion is something to him that it is not to me; he must love his Master far better than I do. -- Then religion might be more to me. -- It shall be -- I will try; -- but oh! if I had never seen another Christian in all my life, how well his single example would make me know that religion is a strong reality. What a reward his will be! I wonder how many besides me he will have drawn to heaven -- he does not dream that he has ever done me any good. Yet it is pleasant to owe so much to him -- and it's bitter! --"

"You'll tire yourself with lookin', Miss 'Lizabeth," said Clam behind her. "Mannahatta ain't so far off as that."

Elizabeth started a little from her fixed attitude and began to handle her dressing-comb.

"'Taint so far folks can't get here, I guess."

"Clam!" -- said her mistress facing about.

"Well, Miss Lizzie --"

"Go and take care of Karen. I don't want you."

"She don't want me," said Clam. "And you've had no dinner."

"Do as I tell you. I shall not have any."

With this spur, Elizabeth was soon dressed, and then walked into Mrs. Haye's room. Rose apparently had had leisure for meditation and had made up her mind upon several things; but her brow changed as her cousin came in.

"Lizzie -- Why you've been up all night, Emma says."

"That's nothing. I have been down all day."

"But what's the matter with this old woman?"

"I don't know. She don't know herself."

"But Emma said she thought she was dying?"

"So she did. I don't know whether she is right or not."

"Dying! -- is she!" said Rose with a little scream.

"I don't know. I hope not, so soon as she thinks. She is no worse to-night."

"But what are you going to do?"

"Nothing -- more than I have done."

"But are you going to stay here?"

"Stay here, Rose! --"

"Yes -- I mean -- who's going to take care of her? And isn't she your cook?"

A curious quick gleam of a laugh passed over Elizabeth's face; it settled graver than before.

"Clam can cook all you and I want."

"But who's going to take care of her?"

"I have sent for help, and for a doctor."

"Haven't you sent for a doctor before! Why Lizzie!"

"I sent early this morning. The messenger had to go a number of miles."

"And isn't there anybody about the house but Clam and Emma?"

"Anderese is here. I sent somebody else."

"What use is an old thing like that about a place?"

Elizabeth was silent. The cloud gathered on Rose's face, and as if that it might not cast its shadow on her cousin, she looked out of the window. Then Clam came in.

"Where'll supper be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Is Karen in the kitchen?"

"Oh! -- I won't have tea in there!" said Rose with one of her old little screams.

"Let it be here, Clam."

"What'll it be, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Anything you please."

"There's nothing in the house to be pleased with," said Clam; "and you've had no dinner."

"Bread and butter and tea -- and boil an egg."

"That would be pleasant," said Clam, capacity and fun shining out of every feature; -- "but Karen's hens don't lay no eggs when she ain't round."

"Bread and butter and tea, then."

"Butter's gone," said Clam.

"Bread and cold meat, then."

"Fresh meat was all eat up days ago; and you and Mis' Haye don't make no 'count of ham."

Elizabeth got up and went out to Anderese and despatched him to Mountain Spring after what forage he could find. Then from a sense of duty went back to her cousin. Rose was looking out of the window again when she came in, and kept silence for a little space; but silence was never Rose's forte.

"Lizzie -- what makes you live in such a place?"

"It was the pleasantest place I could find," said her cousin, with a tone of suppressed feeling.

"It's so lonely!" said Rose.

"It suited me."

"But it isn't safe," said Rose. "What if something happened to you, with nobody about, -- what would you do?"

"It has not been a subject of fear with me," said Elizabeth. "I haven't thought about it."

"Who comes to see you here? anybody?"

"No. Who should come?" said Elizabeth sternly. "Whom should I want to see?"

"Don't you want to see anybody, ever? I do. I don't like to be in a desert so."

Elizabeth was silent, with a set of the lips that told of thoughts at work.

"Doesn't Winthrop Landholm come here?"

"No!"

"I'm not used to it," said Rose whimpering, -- "I can't live so. It makes me feel dreadfully."

"Whom do you want to see, Rose?" said Elizabeth, with an expression that ought to have reminded her companion whom she was dealing with.

"I don't care who -- any one. It's dreadful to live so, and see nothing but the leaves shaking and the river rolling and this great empty place."

"Empty!" said Elizabeth, with again a quick glancing laugh. "Well! -- you are yourself yet! But at any rate the leaves don't shake much to-day."

"They did last night," said Rose. "I was so frightened I didn't know what to do, and with no man in the house either, good for anything -- I didn't sleep a wink till after one o'clock."

"Was your sleep ever disturbed by anything of more importance than the wind?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose in tears. "I think you're very unkind! --"

"What would you like me to do, Rose?"

"Let's go away from here."

"Where?"

"I don't care -- to Mannahatta."

"What do you want to do in Mannahatta?"

"Why, nothing, -- what everybody does -- live like other people. I shall die here."

"Is the memory of the best friend you ever had, so little worth, Rose, that you are in a hurry to banish it your company already?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Rose, with one of her old pouts and then bursting into fresh weeping. "I don't know why one should be miserable any more than one can help. I have been miserable enough, I am sure. Oh Lizzie! -- I think you're very unkind! --"

Elizabeth's face was a study; for the fire in her eyes shone through water, and every feature was alive. But her lips only moved to tremble.

"I won't stay here!" said Rose. "I'll go away and do something. I don't care what I do. I dare say there's enough left for me to live upon; and I can do without Emma. I can live somehow, if not quite as well as you do."

"Hush, Rose, and keep a little sense along with you," said Elizabeth.

"There must be enough left for me somehow," Rose went on, sobbing. "Nobody had any right to take my money. It was mine. Nobody else had a right to it. It is mine. I ought to have it."

"Rose! --"

Rose involuntarily looked up at the speaker who was standing before her, fire flashing from eye and lip, like the relations of Queen Gulnare in the fairy story.

"Rose! -- do not dare speak to me in that way! -- ever again! -- whatever else you do. I will leave you to get back your senses."

With very prompt and decided action, Miss Haye sought her rowing gloves in her own room, put them on, and went down to the rocks where the Merry-go-round lay. She stopped not to look at anything; she loosened the boat and pushed out into the water. And quick and smartly the oars were pulled, till the skiff was half way over the river towards Mr. Underhill's house. Suddenly there they stopped. Elizabeth's eyes were bent on the water about two yards from the stern of the boat; while the paddles hung dripping, dripping more and more slowly, at the sides, and the little skiff floated gently up with the tide. But if Elizabeth's eyes were looking into nature, it was her own; her face grew more settled and grave and then sorrowful every minute; and at last the paddle-handles were thrown across the boat and her arms and her head rested upon them. And the little skiff floated gently up stream.

It had got some distance above Mr. Underhill's, when its mistress lifted her head and looked about, with wet eyelashes, to see where she was. Then the boat's head was turned, and some steady pulling brought her to the gravelly beach in front of Mr. Underhill's house. Its owner was luckily there to help her out.

"Well, I declare that's clever of you," said he, as he grasped the bow of the little vessel to draw it further up. "I didn't much expect you'd come when I asked you. Why you can row, real smart."

"I don't see how I am going to get out, Mr. Underhill."

"Step up on there, can't you -- I'll hold her, -- can you jump?" --

"But Mr. Underhill, that's going to do no good to my boat. --"

"What aint? --"

"That gravel -- grating and grinding on it, as the tide makes."

"'Twon't do nothin' -- it'll just stay still so. Well, you go in and speak to mother, and I'll see to her. I didn't know you could row so smart, -- real handsome!"

"I learnt a good while ago," said Elizabeth. "I'll not be gone long, Mr. Underhill."

Up the neglected green slope she ran, wondering at herself the while. What new steps were these, which Miss Haye was not taking for her own pleasure. What a strange visit was this, which her heart shrank from more and more as she neared the house door.

The house was tenanted by sundry younger fry of the feminine gender, of various ages, who met Elizabeth with wonder equal to her own, and a sort of mixed politeness and curiosity to which her experience had no parallel. By the fireside sat the old grandam, very old, and blind, as Elizabeth now perceived she was. Miss Haye drew near with the most utter want of knowledge what to do or say to such a person, -- how to give the pleasure she had come to give. She hoped the mere fact of her coming and presence would do it, for to anything further she felt herself unequal. The old lady looked up curiously, hearing the noise of entering feet and a stranger's among them.

"Will you tell your grandmother who I am," Elizabeth asked, with a shy ignorance how to address her, and an exceeding reluctance to it.

"Grand'ma," said the eldest girl, "here is Miss Haye, -- the young lady from Shahweetah -- she's here."

The old woman turned her sightless eyes towards her visiter, got up and curtseyed.

"Don't do that," said Elizabeth, taking a seat near her. "Mr. Underhill asked me some time ago to come and see his mother."

"I've heerd of ye," said the old woman. "'Siah was over to your place, makin' of a boat, or mendin', or somethin', he telled me. I'm glad to see ye. How did ye come across?"

"In a boat -- in the boat he mended for me."

"Have you got somebody to row ye over?"

"I rowed myself over."

"Why did ye? -- ain't ye afeard? I wouldn't ha' thought! 'Siah said she was a slim handsome girl, as one would see in the country."

"Well, I can row," said Elizabeth colouring; for she had an instant sense that several pairs of eyes not blind were comparing the report with the reality.

"Be you the owner of Shahweetah now?"

"Yes."

"I heerd it was so. And what's become of the old family?"

"They are scattered. Mr. Landholm is gone West, with one of his sons; the others are in different places."

"And the girl is dead, ain't she?"

"Winnie? -- yes."

Elizabeth knew that!

"The mother was gone first -- to a better place. She had a fine lot o' children. Will was a pictur; -- the farmer, he was a fine man too; -- but there was one -- the second boy -- Winthrop, -- he was the flower of the flock, to my thinkin'. I ha'n't seen him this great while. He's been here since I lost my sight, but I thought I could see him when I heerd him speak."

There was silence. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to break it.

"Do you know him, maybe?" the old woman said presently. Winthrop had made himself pleasant there! --

"Yes."

"Is he lookin' as well as he used to?"

"Quite as well, I believe."

"Is he gettin' along well?"

"Yes -- I believe so -- very well."

"Whatever he does 'll prosper, I believe," said Mrs. Underhill; "for the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous. Is that a way you have any knowledge of, young lady?"

"Not much --" said Elizabeth hesitating.

"'Siah says he 'spects you're rich."

"What makes him think so?"

"He says that's what he 'spects. Does the hull Shahweetah farm belong to you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good farm. Who's goin' to take care of it for you?"

"I don't know, yet."

"I 'spose you'll be gettin' married, one of these days, and then there'll be some one to do it for you. Be you handsome, particular, as 'Siah says?"

Elizabeth coloured exceedingly, and a tittering laugh, somewhat boisterous, ran round the group of spectators and listeners, with a murmured "Oh Grand'ma! --"

"Whisht!" -- said the old woman; -- "I'm not talkin' like you. I'm old and blind. I can't see for myself, and I want to know. She can tell me."

"Father telled ye already," said the eldest girl.

"I can tell better from what she says," said Mrs. Underhill, turning her face towards her visiter. "What does she say? Be you uncommon fair and handsome? -- or not more than the common?"

The red deepened on Elizabeth's cheek and brow, but she answered, not without some hesitation,

"I believe -- more than the common."

A little glimpse of a smile stole over the old woman's face.

"Handsome, and rich. Well -- Be you happy too, young lady, above the common?"

"I have learned, ma'am, that that depends upon right-doing; -- so I am not always happy."

"Have you learned that lesson?" said the old woman. "It's a good one. Let me see your hand?"

Elizabeth drew near and gave it.

"It's a pretty hand," -- said the old woman. "It's soft -- it hain't done much work. It feels rich and handsome. Don't you give it to no one who will help you to forget that the blessing of God is better than silver and gold."

"Thank you. I will not."

"Be you a servant of the Lord, young lady?"

"I hope I am, Mrs. Underhill," Elizabeth answered with some hesitation. "Not a good one."

The old woman dropped her hand and fell back in her chair, only saying, for Elizabeth had risen,

"Come and see me again -- I'll be pleased to see ye."

"If I do! --" thought Elizabeth as she ran down to her boat. The free air seemed doubly free. But then came the instant thought, -- "Winthrop Landholm would not have said that. How far I am -- how far! -- from where he stands!" --

She walked slowly down to the water's edge.

"Mr. Underhill," she said as she prepared to spring into the boat which he held for her, -- "I have forgotten, while I was at the house, what I partly came for to-night. We are out of provisions -- have you any eggs, or anything of any kind, to spare?"

"Eggs?" -- said Mr. Underhill, holding the boat, -- "what else would you like along of eggs?"

"Almost anything, that is not salt meat."

"Chickens? -- we've got some o' them."

"Very glad of them indeed, -- or fresh meat."

"Ha'n't got any of that just to-day," said the old farmer shaking his head. "I'll see. The boat won't stir -- tide's makin' yet. You'll have a pull home, I expect."

He went back to the house, and Elizabeth stood waiting, alone with her boat.

There was refreshment and strength to be had from nature's pure and calm face; so very pure and calm the mountains looked down upon her and the river smiled up. The opposite hill-tops shone in the warm clear light of the October setting sun, the more warm and bright for the occasional red and yellow leaves that chequered their green, and many tawny and half turned trees that mellowed the whole mountain side. Such clear light as shone upon them! such unearthly blue as rose above them! such a soft and fair water face that gave back the blue! What could eyes do but look; what could the mind do but wonder, and be thankful; and wonder again, at the beauty, and grow bright in the sunlight, and grow pure in that shadowless atmosphere. The sharp cedar tops on Shahweetah were so many illuminated points, and further down the river the sunlight caught just the deep bend of the water in the bay; the rest was under shadow of the western hills. All was under a still and hush, -- nothing sounded or moved but here and there a cricket; the tide was near flood and crept up noiselessly; the wind blew somewhere else, but not in October. Softly the sun went down and the shadows stole up.

Elizabeth stood with her hands pressed upon her breast, drinking in all the sights and sounds, and many of their soft whisperings that only the spirit catches; when her ear was caught by very dissimilar and discordant notes behind her, -- the screaming of discomposed chickens and the grating of Mr. Underhill's boots on the gravel.

"Here's chickens for ye," said the farmer, who held the legs of two pair in his single hand, the heads of the same depending and screaming in company, -- "and here's three dozen of fresh eggs -- if you want more you can send for 'em. Will you take these along in the Merry-go-round?"

"If you please -- there is no other way," said Elizabeth. "Wait -- let me get in first, Mr. Underhill -- Are they tied so they can't get loose?"

"La! yes," said the old man putting them into the bow of the boat, -- "they can't do nothin'! I'll engage they won't hurt ye. Do you good, if you eat 'em right. Good bye! -- it's pretty nigh slack water, I guess -- you'll go home easy. Come again! -- and you shall have some more fowls to take home with ye!" --

Elizabeth bowed her acknowledgments, and pulled away towards home, over the bright water, wondering again very much at herself and her chickens. The dark barrier of the western hills rose up now before her, darkening and growing more distant -- as she went all the way over the river home. Elizabeth admired them and admired at herself by turns.

Near the landing, however, the boat paused again, and one oar splashed discontentedly in the water and then lay still, while the face of its owner betrayed a struggle of some sort going on. The displeased brow, and the firm-set lips, said respectively, 'I would not,' and 'I must;' and it was five minutes good before the brow cleared up and the lips unbent to their usual full free outline; and the oars were in play once more, and the Merry-go-round brought in and made fast.

"Well, Miss 'Lizabeth!" said Clam who met her at the door, -- "where have you been! Here's Mis' Haye been cryin' and the tea-kettle singing an hour and a half, if it isn't two hours."

"Has Anderese come home?"

"Yes, and supper's ready, and 'taint bad, for Mis' Landholm learned me how to do fresh mutton and cream; and it's all ready. You look as if you wanted it, Miss 'Lizabeth. My! --"

"There are some eggs and chickens down in the boat, Clam"

"In what boat, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"In mine -- down at the rocks."

"Who fetched 'em?"

"I did, from Mr. Underhill's. You may bring them up to the house."

Leaving her handmaid in an excess of astonishment unusual with her, Elizabeth walked into her guest's room, where the table was laid. Rose sat yet by the window, her head in her handkerchief on the window-sill. Elizabeth went up to her.

"Rose --"

"What?" said Rose without moving.

"Rose -- look up at me --"

The pretty face was lifted at her bidding, but it was sullen, and the response was a sullen "Well --"

"I am very sorry I spoke to you so -- I was very wrong. I am very sorry. Forgive me and forget it -- will you?"

"It was very unkind!" -- said Rose, her head going down again in fresh tears.

"It was very unkind and unhandsome. What can I say more, but that I am sorry? Won't you forget it?"

"Of course," said Rose wiping her eyes, -- "I don't want to remember it if you want to forget it. I dare say I was foolish --"

"Then come to supper," said Elizabeth. "Here's the tea -- I'm very hungry."

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Chapter XVI

And Phant'sie, I tell you, has dreams that have wings, And dreams that have honey, and dreams that have stings, Dreams of the maker, and dreams of the teller, Dreams of the kitchen, and dreams of the cellar. BEN JONSON.

A few days more passed; days of sameness in the house, while Autumn's beautiful work was going on without, and the woods were changing from day to day with added glories. It seemed as if the sun had broken one or two of his beams across the hills, and left fragments of coloured splendour all over. The elm trees reared heads of straw-colour among their forest brethren; the maples shewed yellow and red and flame-colour; the birches were in bright orange. Sad purple ashes stood the moderators of the Assembly; and hickories of gold made sunny slopes down the mountain sides. All softened together in the distance to a mellow, ruddy, glowing hue over the whole wood country.

The two cousins sat by the two windows watching the fading light, in what used once to be the 'keeping-room' -- Mrs. Haye's now. Elizabeth had been long looking out of the window, with a fixed, thoughtful, sorrowful, gaze. Rose's look was never fixed long upon anything and never betrayed her thoughts to be so. It wavered now uneasily between her cousin and the broad and bright hills and river -- which probably Mrs. Haye did not see.

"How long are you going to stay here, Lizzie?"

"I don't know."

"How is that old woman?"

"I don't know. There don't seem to be much difference from one day to another."

"What ails her?"

"I don't know. I suppose it is as the doctor says, -- that there is a general breaking up of nature."

"Is she going to live long?"

"I don't know. He said probably not."

"Well, who's going to take care of her?"

"She is taken care of. There is a woman here from Mountain Spring, to do all that is necessary."

"Why must we stay here, Lizzie? -- it's so dismal."

"We mustn't -- I must."

"Why?"

"I would rather -- and I think it is right."

"To take care of that old woman?"

"No -- I can't do much for her -- but I can see that she is taken care of."

"But how would she have done if you had never come here?"

"I don't know. I don't know what that has to do with it, seeing that I am here."

"You wouldn't stay for her now, if she wasn't somebody's old nurse."

Elizabeth did not answer.

"But how long do you mean to stay here, Lizzie? -- any how?"

"Till I must go -- till it is less pleasant here than somewhere else."

"And when will you think that?"

"Not for a good while."

"But when, Lizzie?"

"I don't know. I suppose when the cold weather comes in earnest."

"I'm sure it has come now!" said Rose shrugging her shoulders. "I'm shivering every morning after the fire goes out. What sort of cold weather do you mean?"

"I mean snow and ice."

"Snow and ice -- And then you will go -- where will you go?" said Rose discontentedly.

"I suppose, to Mannahatta."

"Will you go the first snow?"

"I cannot tell yet, Rose."

There was a pause. Elizabeth had not stirred from her position. Her head rested yet on her hand, her eyes looked steadily out of the window.

"It will seem so lonely there!" said Rose whimpering.

"Yes! -- more lonely than here."

"I meant in the house. But there one can get out and see some one."

"There isn't a soul in Mannahatta I care to see."

"Lizzie! --"

"Not that I know of."

"Lizzie! -- Mr. Landholm?"

"I mean, not one that I am like to see."

"What do you go to Mannahatta for, then?" said Rose unbelievingly.

"One must be somewhere, to do something in the world."

"To do what?"

"I don't know -- I suppose I shall find my work."

"Work? -- what work?" -- said Rose wonderingly.

"I don't know yet, Rose. But everybody has something to do in the world -- so I have, -- and you have."

"I haven't anything. What have we to do, except what we like to do?"

"I hope I shall like my work," said Elizabeth. "I must like it, if I am to do it well."

"What do you mean? -- what are you talking of, Lizzie?"

"Listen to me, Rose. Do you think that you and I have been put in this world with so many means of usefulness, of one sort and another, and that it was never meant we should do anything but trifle away them and life till the end of it came? Do you think God has given us nothing to do for him?"

"I haven't much means of doing anything," said Rose, half pouting, half sobbing. "Have you taken up your friend Winthrop Landholm's notions?"

There was a rush to Elizabeth's heart, that his name and hers, in such a connection, should be named in the same day; but the colour started and the eyes flushed with tears, and she said nothing.

"What sort of 'work' do you suppose you are going to do?"

"I don't know. I shall find out, Rose, I hope, in time."

"I guess he can tell you, -- if you were to ask him," said Rose meaningly.

Elizabeth sat a minute silent, with quickened breath.

"Rose," she said, leaning back into the room that she might see and be seen, -- "look at me and listen to me."

Rose obeyed.

"Don't say that kind of thing to me again."

"One may say what one has a mind to, in a free land," said Rose pouting, -- "and one needn't be commanded like a child or a servant. Don't I know you would never plague yourself with that old woman if she wasn't Winthrop's old nurse?"

Elizabeth rose and came near to her.

"I will not have this thing said to me!" she repeated. "My motives, in any deed of charity, are no man's or woman's to meddle with. Mr. Landholm is most absolutely nothing to me, nor I to him; except in the respect and regard he has from me, which he has more or less, I presume, from everybody that has the happiness of knowing him. Do you understand me, Rose? clearly?"

Another answer was upon Rose's tongue, but she was cowed, and only responded a meek 'yes.' Elizabeth turned and walked off in stately fashion to the door of the kitchen. The latch was raised, and then she let it fall again, came back, and stood again with a very different face and voice before her guest.

"Rose," she said gravely, "I didn't speak just in the best way to you; but I do not always recollect myself quickly enough. You mustn't say that sort of thing to me -- I can't bear it. I am sorry for anything in my manner that was disagreeable to you just now."

And before Rose had in the least made up her mind how to answer her, Elizabeth had quitted the room.

"She ain't goin' never!" said Clam, meeting and passing her mistress as she entered the kitchen. "I don't believe! She's a goin' to stay."

Karen sat in her wonted rocking-chair before the fire, rocking a very little jog on her rockers. Elizabeth came up to the side of the fireplace and stood there, silent and probably meditative. She had at any rate forgotten Karen, when the old woman spoke, in a feebler voice than usual.

"Is the Governor comin'?"

"What, Karen?" said Elizabeth, knowing very well what she had asked, but not knowing so well the drift and intent of it.

"Is the Governor comin'? will he be along directly?"

"No -- I suppose not. Do you want to see him, Karen?"

"I'd like to see him," said the old woman covering her eyes with her withered hand. "I thought he was comin'."

"Perhaps something may bring him, some day. I dare say you will see him by and by -- I don't know how soon."

"I'll see him there," said the old woman. "I can't stay here long."

"Why, you don't seem any worse, Karen, do you? Aren't you going to be well again?"

"Not here," said the old woman. "I'm all goin' to pieces. I'll go to bed to-night, and I won't get up again."

"Don't say that, Karen; because I think you will."

"I'll go to bed," she repeated in a rather plaintive manner. "I thought he'd be here."

It touched Elizabeth acutely; perhaps because she had so near a fellow feeling that answered Karen's, and allowed her to comprehend how exceedingly the desire for his presence might grow strong in one who had a right to wish for it. And she knew that he would reckon old Karen his friend, whatever other people would do.

"What can I do for you, Karen?" she said gently. "Let me be the best substitute I can. What can I do for you, that he could do better?"

"There can't nobody do just the Governor's work," said his old nurse. "I thought he'd ha' been here. This'll be my last night, and I'd like to spend it hearin' good things."

"Would you like me to send for anybody," said Elizabeth.

"Could ye send for him?" said Karen earnestly.

"Not in time. No, Karen, -- there'd be no time to send a message from here to Mannahatta and get him here to-night."

She jogged herself back and forward a little while on her rocking-chair; and then said she would go to bed. Elizabeth helped her into the little room, formerly Asahel's, opening out of the kitchen, which she had insisted Karen should take during her illness; and after she was put to bed, came again and asked her what she should do for her. Karen requested to have the Bible read.

Elizabeth set open the kitchen door, took a low seat by Karen's bedside, and established herself with her book. It was strange work to her, to read the Bible to a person who thought herself dying. She, who so lately had to do with everything else but the Bible, now seated by the bedside of an old black woman, and the Bible the only matter in hand between the two. Karen's manner made it more strange. She was every now and then breaking in upon the reading, or accompanying it, with remarks and interjections. Sometimes it was "Hallelujah!" -- sometimes, "That's true, that's true!" -- sometimes, and very often, "Praise the Lord!" Not loud, nor boisterous; they were most of the time little underbreath words said to herself, words seemingly that she could not help, the good of which she took and meant for nobody else's edification. They were however very disagreeable and troublesome to Elizabeth's ears and thoughts; she had half a mind to ask Karen to stop them; but the next sighing "That's true!" -- checked her; if it was such a comfort to the old woman to hold counsel with herself, and Elizabeth could offer nothing better, the least she could do was to let her alone. And then Elizabeth grew accustomed to it; and at last thoughts wandered a little by turns to take up their new trade of wondering at herself and at the new, unwonted life she seemed beginning to lead. There was a singular pleasantness in what she was doing; she found a grave sweet consciousness of being about the right work; but presently to her roving spirit the question arose whether this, -- this new and certainly very substantial pleasure, -- were perhaps the chief kind she was hereafter to look forward to, or find in this life; -- and Elizabeth's heart confessed to a longing desire for something else. And then her attention suddenly came back to poor Karen at her side saying, softly, "Bless the Lord, O my soul!" -- Elizabeth stopped short; she was choked.

At this juncture Clam noiselessly presented herself.

"He's come, Miss 'Lizabeth."

The start that Miss Haye's inward spirits gave at this, was not to be seen at all on the outside. She looked at Clam, but she gave no sign that her words had been understood. Yet Elizabeth had understood them so well, that she did not even think at first to ask the question, and when she did, it was for form's sake, who had come? Probably Clam knew as much, for she only repeated her words.

"He's come. What'll I do with him, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Where is he?"

"He ain't come yet -- he's comin'."

"Coming when? And what do you mean by saying he is come?"

"I don't mean nothin' bad," said Clam. "He's just a comin' up the walk from the boat -- I see him by the moon."

"See who it is, first, before you do anything with him; and then you can bring me word."

Elizabeth closed her book however, in some little doubt what she should do with herself. She knew, -- it darted into her mind, -- that it would please Winthrop to find her there; that it would meet his approbation; and then with the stern determination that motives of self-praise, if they came into her head should not come into her life, she hurried out and across the kitchen and hid her book in her own room. Then came out into the kitchen and stood waiting for the steps outside and for the opening of the door.

"You are come in good time," she said, as she met and answered Winthrop's offered hand.

"I am glad I am in time," he said.

"Karen has been wishing for you particularly to-night -- but I don't know that that is any sign, except to the superstitious, that she is in particular danger."

"I shall be all the more welcome, at any rate."

"I don't know whether that is possible, in Karen's case. But did you know she wanted you? -- did you know she was ill?"

"Do you suppose nothing but an errand of mercy could bring me?" he answered slightly, though with a little opening of the eyes which Elizabeth afterwards remembered and speculated upon. But for the present she was content with the pleasant implication of his words. Clam was ordered to bring refreshments. These Winthrop declined; he had had all he wanted. Then Elizabeth asked if he would like to see Karen.

She opened the door, which she had taken care to shut, and went in with him.

"Karen -- here is the Governor, that you were wishing for."

The old woman turned her face towards them; then stretched out her hand, and spoke with an accent of satisfied longing that went at least to one heart.

"I thought he'd come," she said. "Governor! --"

Winthrop leaned over to speak to her and take her hand. Elizabeth longed to hear what he would say, but she had no business there; she went out, softly closing the door.

She was alone then; and she stood on the hearth before the fire in a little tumult of pleasure, thinking how she should dispose of her guest and what she might do for him.

"Once more I have a chance," she thought; "and I may never in the world have another -- He will not come here again before I go back to Mannahatta, he cannot stay in my house there, -- and another summer is very far off, and very uncertain. He'll not be very likely to come here -- he may be married -- and I am very sure I shall not want to see his wife here -- I shall not do it. -- Though I might ask her for his sake -- No! I should better break with him at once and have no more to do with him; it would be only misery." "And what is it now?" said something else. And "Not misery" -- was the answer.

"Where will I put him, Miss 'Lizabeth?" said the voice of Clam softly at her elbow. Elizabeth started.

"You must take my room. I will sleep with Mrs. Haye. Clam -- what have we got in the house? and what can you do in the way of cooking?"

"I can do some things -- for some folks," said Clam. "Wa'n't my cream gravy good the other day?"

"Cream gravy! -- with what?"

"Fresh lamb, -- mutton, I would say."

"But you have got no fresh mutton now, have you?"

"Maybe Mr. Underhill has," said Clam with a twinkle of her bright eye.

"Mr. Underhill's fresh mutton is on the other side of the river. What have we got on this side?"

"Pretty much of nothing," said Clam, "this side o' Mountain Spring. Anderese ain't no good but to make the fire -- it takes mor'n him to find somethin' to put over it."

"Then you'll have to go to Mountain Spring before breakfast, Clam."

"Well, m'm. Who'll take care of the house while I'm gone, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Mrs. Cives -- can't she?"

"Mis' Cives is gone off home."

"Gone home! -- what, to Mountain Spring?"

"That's where her home is, she says."

"What for? and without asking?"

"She wanted to spend to-night at home, she said; and she asked no questions and went."

"To night of all nights! when Karen seems so much worse!"

"It's good we've got the Governor," said Clam.

"But he can't sit up all night with her."

"Guess he will," said Clam. "Pretty much like him. You can sleep in your bed, Miss 'Lizabeth."

"You go and get the room ready -- he must not sit up all night -- and we'll see in the morning about Mountain Spring. Somebody must go."

"He'll go if you ask him," said Clam. "He'd do the marketing best, now, of all of us. He knows just where everything is. 'Fact is, we want him in the family pretty much all the time."

"Let him know when his room is ready, and offer him refreshments, -- and call me if I am wanted."

Clam departed; but Elizabeth, instead of doing the same, took a chair on the kitchen hearth and sat down to await any possible demands upon her. She could hear a quiet sound of talking in Karen's room; now and then the old woman's less regulated voice, more low or more shrill, broke in upon the subdued tones of the other. Elizabeth thought she would have given anything to be a hearer of what was said and listened to there; but the door was shut; it was all for Karen and not for her; and she gave up at last in despair and retreated to her cousin's room.

"So he's come?" said Rose.

"Yes! -- he's come. Did you know he was coming?"

"I! -- No, -- I didn't know he was coming. How should I?"

"Did you think he was coming, Rose?"

"I didn't know but he'd come," said Rose a little awkwardly, "I didn't know anything about it."

Elizabeth chose to ask no further question. Somewhat mortified already, she would not give herself any more certain ground of mortification, not at that time. She would talk no more with Rose. She went to bed; and long after her companion was asleep, she listened for Winthrop's coming out or Clam's colloquy with him, and for any possible enquiry after herself. She heard Clam tap at the door -- she heard the undistinguished sound of words, and only gathered that Winthrop probably was declining all proffered comforts and luxuries and choosing to spend the night by Karen's pillow. And weary and sorry and sick of everything in the world, Elizabeth went to sleep.

She waked up in the morning to hear the twittering of the birds around the house. They were singing busily of the coming day, but the day had not come yet; at least it was some time before sunrise. Elizabeth softly got up, softly dressed herself, and went out into the kitchen. That messenger must be despatched for something for breakfast.

She was met by Clam coming in from another door.

"Well, Clam," said her mistress, "where is everybody this morning?"

"I don't know where I am yet," said Clam. "Everybody's abed and asleep, I 'spose. Where be you, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Did Mr. Landholm sit up all night?"

"'Most. He said 'twas near upon two o'clock."

"When?"

"When he had done sittin' up, and went to bed."

"How was Karen?"

"I 'spose she was goin', but she ain't in no hurry -- she ain't gone yet."

"Then she was no worse?"

"She was better. She was slicked up wonderful after seein' the Governor, she telled me. I wonder who ain't."

"He has not come out of his room yet, I suppose?"

"I hope he haint," said Clam, "or I don' know when we'll get breakfast -- 'less he turns to and helps us."

"He will want a good one, after last night, and yesterday's journey. Where's Anderese?"

"He took some bread and milk," said Clam.

"Well -- where's Anderese? we must send him to Mountain Spring."

"He's got to go after wood, Miss 'Lizabeth -- there ain't three sticks more 'n 'll set the fire agoing."

"Must he! Then you must go, Clam."

"Very good. Who'll set the table, Miss 'Lizabeth?"

"Emma can. Or you can, after you get back."

"And there's the fire to make, and the floor to sweep, and the knives to clean, and the bread to make --"

"Bread! --" said Miss Haye.

"Or cakes," said Clam. "One or t'other 'll be wanted. I don't care which."

"Don't Emma know how?"

"She don't know a thing, but how to put Mrs. Haye's curls over a stick -- when she ain't doin' her own."

"Then give me a basket -- I'll go to Mountain Spring myself."

"Who'll bring the meat and things home?"

"I will; -- or fish, or eggs, -- something, whatever I can get."

"It 'll tire you, Miss 'Lizabeth -- I guess, before you get back."

"You find me a basket -- while I put on my bonnet," said Clam's mistress. And the one thing was done as soon as the other.

"I 'spect I'll wake up some morning and find myself playing on the pianny-forty," said Clam, as she watched her young mistress walking off with the basket.

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Chapter XVII

When was old Sherwood's head more quaintly curled? Or looked the earth more green upon the world? Or nature's cradle more enchased and purled? When did the air so smile, the wind so chime, As quiristers of season, and the prime? BEN JONSON.

Miss Haye, however, had never sent her fingers over the keys with more energy, than now her feet tripped over the dry leaves and stones in the path to Mountain Spring. She took a very rough way, through the woods. There was another, much plainer, round by the wagon road; but Elizabeth chose the more solitary and prettier way, roundabout and hard to the foot though it was.

For some little distance there was a rude wagon-track, very rough, probably made for the convenience of getting wood. It stood thick with pretty large stones or heads of rock; but it was softly grass-grown between the stones and gave at least a clear way through the woods, upon which the morning light if not the morning sun beamed fairly. A light touch of white frost lay upon the grass and covered the rocks with bloom, the promise of a mild day. After a little, the roadway descended into a bit of smooth meadow, well walled in with trees, and lost itself there. In the tree-tops the morning sun was glittering; it could not get to the bottom yet; but up there among the leaves it gave a bright shimmering prophecy of what it would do; it was a sparkle of heavenly light touching the earth. Elizabeth had never seen it before; she had never in her life been in the woods at so early an hour. She stood still to look. It was impossible to help feeling the light of that glittering promise; its play upon the leaves was too joyous, too pure, too fresh. She felt her heart grow stronger and her breath come freer. What was the speech of those light- touched leaves, she might not have told; something her spirit took knowledge of while her reason did not. Or had not leisure to do; for if she did not get to Mountain Spring in good season she would not be home for breakfast. Yet she had plenty of time, but she did not wish to run short. So she went on her way.

From the valley meadow for half a mile, it was not much more or much better than a cow-path, beaten a little by the feet of the herdsman seeking his cattle or of an occasional foot- traveller to Mountain Spring. It was very rough indeed. Often Elizabeth must make quite a circuit among cat-briars and huckleberry bushes and young underwood, or keep the path at the expense of stepping up and stepping down again over a great stone or rock blocking up the whole way. Sometimes the track was only marked over the grey lichens of an immense head of granite that refused moss and vegetation of every other kind; sometimes it wound among thick alder bushes by the edge of wet ground; and at all times its course was among a wilderness of uncared-for woodland, overgrown with creepers and vines tangled with underbrush, and thickly strewn with larger and smaller fragments and boulders of granite rock. But how beautiful it was! The alders, reddish and soft-tinted, looked when the sun struck through them as if they were exotics out of witch-land; the Cornus family, from beautiful dogwood a dozen feet high stretching over Elizabeth's head, to little humble nameless plants at her feet, had edged and parted their green leaves with most dainty clear hues of madder lake; white birches and hickories glimmered in the sunlight like trees of gold, the first with stems of silver; sear leaves strewed the way; and fresh pines and hemlocks stretched out their arms amidst the changing foliage, with their evergreen promise and performance. The morning air and the morning walk no doubt had something to do with the effect of the whole; but Elizabeth thought, with all the beauty her eyes had ever seen they had never been more bewitched than they were that day.

With such a mood upon her, it was no wonder that on arriving at Mountain Spring she speedily made out her errand. She found whom and what she had come for; she filled her basket with no loss of time or pleasure; and very proud of her success set out again through the wood-path homeward.

Half way back to the bit of tree-enclosed meadow-ground, the path and the north shore of Shahweetah approached each other, where a little bay curve, no other than the AEgean Sea, swept in among the rocks. Through the stems of the trees Elizabeth could see the blue water with the brightness of the hour upon it. Its sparkle tempted her. She had plenty of time, or she resolved that she had, and she wanted to look at the fair broad view she knew the shore edge would give her. She hesitated, and turned, A few bounding and plunging steps amid rocks and huckleberry bushes brought her where she wished to be. She stood on the border, where no trees came in the way of the northern view. The mountains were full before her, and the wide Shatemuc rolled down between them, ruffled with little waves, every one sparkling cool in the sunlight. Elizabeth looked at the water a minute, and turned to the west. Wut-a- qut-o's head had caught more of the frosts than Shahweetah had felt yet; there were broad belts of buff and yellow along the mountain, even changing into sear where its sides felt the north wind. On all that shore the full sunlight lay. The opposite hills, on the east, were in dainty sunshine and shadow, every undulation, every ridge and hollow, softly marked out. With what wonderful sharp outline the mountain edges rose against the bright sky; how wonderful soft the changes of shade and colour adown their sloping sides; what brilliant little ripples of water rolled up to the pebbles at Elizabeth's feet. She stood and looked at it all, at one thing and the other, half dazzled with the beauty; until she recollected herself, and with a deep sighful expression of thoughts and wishes unknown, turned away to find her path again.

But she could not find it. Whereabouts it was, she was sure; but the where was an unfindable thing. And she dared not strike forward without the track; she might get further and further from it, and never get home to breakfast at all! -- There was nothing for it but to grope about seeking for indications; and Miss Haye's eyes were untrained to wood-work. The woodland was a mazy wilderness now indeed. Points of stone, beds of moss, cat-briar vines and huckleberry bushes, in every direction; and between which of them lay that little invisible track of a footpath? The more she looked the more she got perplexed. She could remember no waymarks. The way was all cat-briars, moss, bushes, and rocks; and rocks, bushes, moss and cat-briars were in every variety all around her. She turned her face towards the quarter from which she had come and tried to recognize some tree or waymark she could remember having passed. One part of the wood looked just like another; but for the mountains and the river she could not have told where lay Mountain Spring.

Then a little sound of rustling leaves and crackling twigs reached her ear from behind her.

"There is a cow!" thought Elizabeth; -- "now I can find the path by her. But then! -- cows don't always --"

Her eye had been sweeping round the woody skirts of her position, in search of her expected four-footed guide, when her thoughts were suddenly brought to a point by seeing a two- footed creature approaching, and one whom she instantly knew.

"It is Winthrop Landholm! -- he is going to Mountain Spring to take an early coach, without his breakfast! -- Well, you fool, what is it to you?" was the next thought. "What does it signify whether he goes sooner or later, when it would be better for you not to see him at all, if your heart is going to start in that fashion at every time. --"

Meanwhile she was making her way as well as she could, over rocks and briars, towards the new-comer; and did not look up till she answered his greeting --

"Good morning! --"

It was very cheerfully spoken.

"Good morning," said Elizabeth, entangled in a cat-briar, from which with a desperate effort she broke free before any help could be given her.

"Those are naughty things."

"No," said Elizabeth, "they look beautiful now when they are growing tawny, as a contrast with the other creepers and the deep green cedars. And they are a beautiful green at other times."

"Make the best of them. What were you looking at, a minute ago?"

"Looking for my way. I had lost it."

"You don't know it very well, I guess."

"Yes. -- No, not very well, but I could follow it, and did, till coming home I thought I had time to look at the view; and then I couldn't find it again. I got turned about."

"You were completely turned about when I saw you."

"O I was not going that way -- I knew better than that. I was trying to discover some waymark."

"How did you get out of the way?"

"I went to look at the view -- from the water's edge there."

"Have you a mind to go back to the river edge again? I have not seen that view in a long while. I shall not lose the path."

"Then you cannot be intending to go by an early coach," thought Elizabeth, as she picked her way back over rocks and moss to the water's edge. But Winthrop knew the ground, and brought her a few steps further to a broad standing-place of rock where the look-out was freer. There was again before her the sparkling river, the frost-touched mountain, the sharp outlines, the varying shadows, that she had looked at a few minutes back. Elizabeth looked at them again, thinking now not of them but of something different at every turn.

"The rock is too wet," said Winthrop, "or I should propose your sitting down."

"You certainly must have had your breakfast," thought Elizabeth, "and not know that I haven't had mine."

"I don't want to sit down," she said quietly. A pang of fear again came to her heart, that in another minute or two he would be off to Mountain Spring. But his next movement negatived that. It was to take her basket, which she had till then tried to carry so that it would not be noticed. She was thankful he did not know what was in it.

"Do you often take such early walks as this?"

"No, not often," said Elizabeth guiltily. "I row more."

"So early?"

"No, not generally. Though there is no time more pleasant."

"You are looking well," he said gravely. "Better than I ever saw you look."

"It's very odd," thought Elizabeth, -- "it must be the flush of my walk -- I didn't look so this morning in the glass -- nor last night. --" But she looked up and said boldly, laughing,

"I thought you came here to see the prospect, Mr. Landholm."

"I have been looking at it," he said quietly. "I need not say anything about that -- it never changes."

"Do you mean that I do?" said Elizabeth.

"Everybody ought to change for the better, always," he said with a little smile, -- "so I hope you are capable of that."

Elizabeth thought in her heart, though she was no better, yet that she had truly changed for the better, since former times; she half wanted to tell him so, the friend who had had most to do with changing her. But a consciousness of many things and an honest fear of speaking good of herself, kept her lips shut; though her heart beat with the wish and the doubt. Winthrop's next words in a few minutes decided it.

"What is the fact, Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth hesitated, -- and hesitated. He looked at her.

"I hope I am changed, a little, Mr. Landholm; but there is a great deal more to change!"

Her face was very ingenuous and somewhat sorrowful, as she turned it towards him; but his looked so much brighter than she had ever seen it, that the meeting of the two tides was just more than her spirits could bear. The power of commanding herself, which for the last few minutes had been growing less and less, gave way. Her look shrank from his. Winthrop had come nearer to her, and had clasped the hand that was nearest him and held it in his own. It was a further expression of the pleasure she had seen in his smile. Elizabeth was glad that her own face was hidden by her sunbonnet. She would not have either its pain or its pleasure to be seen. Both were sharp enough just then. But strong necessity made her keep outwardly quiet.

"What does the change date from?"

"As to time, do you mean?" said Elizabeth struggling.

"As to time, and motive."

"The time is but lately," she said with a tremulous voice, -- "though I have thought about it, more or less, for a good while."

"Thought what?"

"Felt that you were right and I was wrong, Mr. Landholm."

"What made you think you were wrong?"

"I felt that I was -- I knew it."

"What makes you think you are changed now?"

"I hardly dare speak of it -- it is so little."

"You may, I hope, -- to me."

"It is hardly I that am changed, so much as my motives and views."

"And they -- how?" he said after waiting a moment.

"It seems to me," she said slowly, "lately, that I am willing to go by a new rule of life from that I used to follow."

"What is the new rule?"

"Well -- Not my own will, Mr. Landholm."

He stood silent a little while. Her hand was still held in his. Elizabeth would have thought he had forgotten it, but that it was held in a free clasp which did not seem to imply forgetfulness. It was enough to forbid it on her part.

"How does the new rule work?" was his next question.

"It works hard, Mr. Landholm!" said Elizabeth, turning her face suddenly upon him for an instant. His look was bright, but she felt that her own eyes were swimming.

"Do you know that I am very glad to hear all this?" he said after another little pause.

"Yes," said Elizabeth under breath, -- "I supposed you would be. -- I knew you would."

"I hope you like being catechized," he said in a lighter tone.

"Yes -- I do -- by anybody that has a right to do it."

"I have taken the right."

"Certainly! -- You have the best in the world."

"I am glad you think so, though I don't exactly see how you make it out."

"Why! -- it's not necessary to explain how I make it out," said Elizabeth.

"No, -- especially as I am going to ask you to give it to me for the future."

"What?" -- said she looking at him.

He became grave.

"Miss Haye, I have a great boon to ask of you."

"Well?" -- said Elizabeth eagerly. "I am very glad you have!"

"Why?"

"Why? -- why, because it's pleasant."

"You don't know what it is, yet."

"No," said Elizabeth, -- "but my words are safe."

"I want you to give me something."

"You preface it as if it were some great thing, and you look as if it was nothing," thought Elizabeth a little in wonderment. But she said only,

"You may have it. What is it?"

"Guess."

"I can't possibly."

"You are incautious. You don't know what you are giving away."

"What is it?" said Elizabeth a little impatiently.

"Yourself."

Elizabeth looked quick away, not to see anything, with the mind's eye or any other, for a blur came over both. She was no fainter; she was strong of mind and body; but the one and the other were shaken; and for that bit of time, and it was several minutes, her senses performed no office at all. And when consciousness of distinct things began to come back, there came among all her other feelings an odd perverse fear of shewing the uppermost one or two, and a sort of mortified unreadiness to strike her colours and yield at once without having made a bit of fight for it. Yet these were not the uppermost feelings, but they were there, among them and struggling with them. She stood quite still, her face hidden by her sunbonnet, and her companion was quite still too, with her hand still in his, held in the same free light clasp; and she had a vexed consciousness of his being far the cooler of the two. While she was thus silent, however, Elizabeth's head, and her very figure, was bowed lower and lower with intensity of feeling.

"What is the matter?" Winthrop said; and the tone of those words conquered her. The proud Miss Haye made a very humble answer.

"I am very glad, Mr. Landholm -- but I am not good enough."

"For what?"

But Elizabeth did not answer.

"I will take my risk of that," said he kindly. "Besides, you have confessed the power of changing."

The risk, or something else, seemed to lie upon Elizabeth's mind, from the efforts she was making to overcome emotion. Winthrop observed her for a moment.

"But you have not spoken, yet," said he. "I want a confirmation of my grant."

She knew from his tone that his mood was the very reverse of hers; and it roused the struggle again. "Provoking man!" she thought, "why couldn't he ask me in any other way! -- And why need he smile when I am crying! --" She commanded herself to raise her head, however, though she did not dare look.

"Am I to have it?"

"To have what?"

"An answer."

"I don't know what it's to be, Mr. Landholm," Elizabeth stammered. "What do you want?"

"Will you give me what I asked you for?"

"I thought you knew you had it already," she said, not a little vexed to have the words drawn from her.

"It is mine, then?"

"Yes --"

"Then," said he, coming in full view of her blushing face and taking the other hand, -- "what are you troubled for?"

Elizabeth could not have borne it one instant, to meet his eye, without breaking into a flood of tears she had no hands to cover. As her only way of escape, she sprang to one side freeing one of her hands on the sudden, and jumped down the rock, muttering something very unintelligibly about 'breakfast.' But her other hand was fast still, and so was she at the foot of the rock.

"Stop," said Winthrop, -- "we must take this basket along. -- I don't know if there is anything very precious in it." --

He reached after it as he spoke, and then they went on; and by the help of his hand her backward journey over rocks, stones, and trunks of trees in the path, was easily and lightly made; till they reached the little bit of meadow. Which backward journey Elizabeth accomplished in about two minutes and a quarter. There Winthrop transferred to his arm the hand that had rested in his, and walked more leisurely.

"Are you in such a hurry for your breakfast?" said he. "I have had mine."

"Had it! -- before you came out?"

"No," -- said he smiling, -- "since."

"Are you laughing at me? -- or have you had it?" said Elizabeth looking puzzled.

"Both," said Winthrop. "What are you trembling so for?"

It hushed Elizabeth again, till they got quit of the meadow, and began more slowly still, the ascent of the rough half-made wheel-road.

"Miss Haye --" said Winthrop gently.

She paused in her walk, looking at him.

"What are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of! --"

"Yes. You don't look as happy as I feel."

"I am," -- she said.

"How do you know?"

What a colour spread over Elizabeth's face! But she laughed too, so perhaps his end was gained.

"I was thinking," she said, with the desperate need of saying something, -- "a little while ago, when you were helping me through the woods, -- how a very few minutes before, I had been so quite alone in the world."

"Don't forget there is one arm that never can fail you," he replied gravely. "Mine may."

Elizabeth looked at him rather timidly, and his face changed.

"There was no harm in that," he said, with so bright an expression as she had never before seen given to her. "What will you say, if I tell you that I myself at that same time was thinking over in my mind very much the same thing -- with relation to myself, I mean."

Elizabeth's heart beat and her breath came short. That was what she had never thought of. Like many another woman, what he was to her, she knew well; what she might be to him, it had never entered her head to think. It seemed almost a new and superfluous addition to her joy, yet not superfluous from that time forth for ever. Once known, it was too precious a thought to be again untasted. She hung her head over it; she stepped all unwittingly on rocks and short grass and wet places and dry, wherever she was led. It made her heart beat thick to think she could be so valued. How was it possible! How she wished -- how keenly -- that she could have been of the solid purity of silver or gold, to answer the value put upon her. But instead of that -- what a far-off difference! Winthrop could not know how great, or he would never have said that, or felt it; nor could he. What about her could possibly have attracted it?

She had not much leisure to ponder the question, for her attention was called off to answer present demands. And there was another subject for pondering -- Winthrop did not seem like the same person she had known under the same name, he was so much more free and pleasant and bright to talk than he had ever been to her before, or in her observation, to anybody. He talked to a very silent listener, albeit she lost never a word nor a tone. She wondered at him and at everything, and stepped along wondering, with a heart too full to speak, almost too full to hide its agitation.

They were nearing home, they had got quit of the woodway road, and were in a cleared field, grown with tall cedars, which skirted the river. Half way across it, Elizabeth's foot paused, and came to a full stop. What was the matter?

Elizabeth faced round a little, as if addressing her judge, though she spoke without lifting her eyes.

"Mr. Landholm -- do you know that I am full of faults?"

"Yes."

"And aren't you afraid of them?"

"No, -- not at all," he said, smiling, Elizabeth knew. But she answered very gravely,

"I am."

"Which is the best reason in the world why I should not be. It is written 'Blessed is the man that feareth always.'"

"I am afraid -- you don't know me."

"I don't know," said he smiling. "You haven't told me anything new yet."

"I am afraid you think of me, somehow, better than I deserve."

"What is the remedy for that?"

Elizabeth hesitated, with an instant's vexed consciousness of his provoking coolness; then looking up met his eye for a second, laughed, and went on perfectly contented. But she wondered with a little secret mortification, that Winthrop was as perfectly at home and at his ease in the newly established relations between them as if they had subsisted for six months. "Is it nothing new to him?" she said to herself. "Did he know that it only depended on him to speak? -- or is it his way with all the world?" It was not that she was undervalued, or slightly regarded, but valued and regarded with such unchanged self-possession. Meanwhile they reached the edge of the woodland, from which the house and garden were to be seen close at hand.

"Stay here," said Winthrop; -- "I will carry this basket in and let them know you may be expected to breakfast."

"But if you do that, --" said Elizabeth colouring --

"What then?"

"I don't know what they will think."

"They may think what they have a mind," said he with a little bit of a smile again. "I want to speak to you."

Elizabeth winced a bit. He was gone, and she stood thinking, among other things, that he might have asked what she would like. And how did he know but breakfast was ready then? Or did he know everything? And how quietly and unqualifiedly, to be sure, he had taken her consignment that morning. She did not know whether to like it or not like it, -- till she saw him coming again from the house.

"After all," said he, "I think we had better go in and take breakfast, and talk afterwards. It seems to be in a good state of forwardness."

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Chapter XVIII

From eastern quarters now The sun's up-wandering, His rays on the rock's brow And hill-side squandering; Be glad my soul! and sing amidst thy pleasure, Fly from the house of dust, Up with thy thanks and trust To heaven's azure! THOMAS KINGO.

It was sufficiently proven at that breakfast, to Elizabeth's satisfaction, that it is possible for one to be at the same time both very happy and a little uncomfortable. She had a degree of consciousness upon her that amounted to that, more especially as she had a vexed knowledge that it was shared by at least one person in the room. The line of Clam's white teeth had never glimmered more mischievously. Elizabeth dared not look at her. And she dared not look at Winthrop, and she dared not look at Rose. But Rose, to do her justice, seemed to be troubled with no consciousness beyond what was usual with her, and which generally concerned only herself; and she and Winthrop kept up the spirit of talk with great ease all breakfast time.

"Now how in the world are we going to get away?" thought Elizabeth when breakfast was finishing; -- "without saying flat and bald why we do it. Rose will want to go too, for she likes Winthrop quite well enough for that." --

And with the consciousness that she could not make the slightest manoeuvre, Elizabeth rose from table.

"How soon must you go, Mr. Landholm?" said Rose winningly.

"Presently, ma'am."

"I am sorry you must go so soon! But we haven't a room to ask you to sit down in, if you were to stay."

"I am afraid I shouldn't wait to be asked, if I stayed," said Winthrop. "But as I am not to sit down again -- Miss Haye -- if you will put on your bonnet and give me your company a little part of my way, I will keep my promise."

"What promise?" said Rose.

"I will do better than my promise, for I mean to shew Miss Haye a point of her property which perhaps she has not looked at lately."

"Oh will you shew it to me too?" said Rose.

"I will if there is time enough after I have brought Miss Haye back -- I can't take both at once."

Rose looked mystified, and Elizabeth very glad to put on her bonnet, was the first out of the house; half laughing, and half trembling with the excitement of getting off.

"There is no need to be in such a hurry," said Winthrop as he came up, -- "now that breakfast is over."

Elizabeth was silent, troubled with that consciousness still, though now alone with the subject of it. He turned off from the road, and led her back into the woods a little way, in the same path by which she had once gone hunting for a tree to cut down.

"It isn't as pretty a time of day as when I went out this morning," she said, forcing herself to say something.

But Winthrop seemed in a state of pre-occupation too; till they reached a boulder capped with green ferns.

"Now give me your hand," said he. "Can you climb?"

They turned short by the boulder and began to mount the steep rugged hill-path, down which he had once carried his little sister. Elizabeth could make better footing than poor Winifred; and very soon they stood on the old height from which they could see the fair Shatemuc coming down between the hills and sweeping round their own little woody Shahweetah and off to the South Bend. The sun was bright on all the land now, though the cedars shielded the bit of hill-top well; and Wut- a-qut-o looked down upon them in all his gay Autumn attire. The sun was bright, but the air was clear and soft and free from mist and cloud and obscurity, as no sky is but October's.

"Sit down," said Winthrop, throwing himself on the bank which was carpeted with very short green grass.

"I would just as lieve stand," said Elizabeth.

"I wouldn't as lieve have you. You've been on your feet long enough to-day. Come! --"

She yielded to the gentle pulling of her hand, and sat down on the grass; half amused and half fretted; wondering what he was going to say next. Winthrop was silent for a little space; and Elizabeth sat looking straight before her, or rather with her head a little turned to the right, from her companion, towards Wut-a-qut-o; the deep sides of her sun-bonnet shutting out all but a little framed picture of the gay woody foreground, a bit of the blue river, and the mountain's yellow side.

"How beautiful it was all down there, three or four hours ago," said Elizabeth.

"I didn't know you had so much romance in your disposition -- to go there this morning to meet me."

"I didn't go there to meet you."

"Yes you did."

"I didn't!" said Elizabeth. "I never thought of such a thing as meeting you."

"Nevertheless, in the regular chain and sequence of events, you went there to meet me -- if you hadn't gone you wouldn't have met me."

"O, if you put it in that way," said Elizabeth, -- "there's no harm in that."

"There is no harm in it at all. Quite the contrary."

"I think it was the prettiest walk I ever took in my life," said Elizabeth, -- "before that, I mean," she added blushing.

"My experience would say, after it," said Winthrop, in an amused tone.

"It was rather a confused walk after that," said Elizabeth. "I never was quite so much surprised."

"You see I had not that disadvantage. I was only -- gratified."

"Why," said Elizabeth, her jealous fear instantly starting again, "you didn't know what my answer would be before you asked me?"

She waited for Winthrop's answer, but none came. Elizabeth could not bear it.

"Did you?" she said, looking round in her eagerness.

He hesitated an instant, and then answered,

"Did you?"

Elizabeth had no words. Her face sought the shelter of her sunbonnet again, and she almost felt as if she would have liked to seek the shelter of the earth bodily, by diving down into it. Her brain was swimming. There was a rush of thoughts and ideas, a train of scattered causes and consequences, which then she had no power to set in order; but the rush almost overwhelmed her, and what was wanting, shame added. She was vexed with herself for her jealousy in divining and her impatience in asking foolish questions; and in her vexation was ready to be vexed with Winthrop, -- if she only knew how. She longed to lay her head down in her hands, but pride kept it up. She rested her chin on one hand and wondered when Winthrop would speak again, -- she could not, -- and what he would say; gazing at the blue bit of water and gay mountain- side, and thinking that she was not giving him a particularly favourable specimen of herself that morning, and vexed out of measure to think it.

Then upon this, a very quietly spoken "Elizabeth!" -- came to her ear. It was the first time Winthrop had called her so; but that was not all. Quietly spoken as it was, there was not only a little inquiry, there was a little amusement and a little admonition, in the tone. It stirred Elizabeth to her spirit's depths, but with several feelings; and for the life of her she could not have spoken.

"What is the reason you should hide your face so carefully from me?" he went on presently, much in the same tone. "Mine is open to you -- it isn't fair play."

Elizabeth could have laughed if she had not been afraid of crying. She kept herself hid in her sunbonnet and made no reply.

"Suppose you take that thing off, and let me look at you."

"It shades my face from the sun."

"The cedar trees will do that for you."

"No -- they wouldn't."

And she kept her face steadily fixed upon the opposite shore, only brought straight before her now; thinking to herself that she would carry this point at any rate. But in another minute she was somewhat astounded to find Winthrop's left hand, he was supporting himself carelessly on his right, quietly, very quietly, untying her sunbonnet strings; and then rousing himself, with the other hand he lifted the bonnet from her head. It gave a full view then of hair in very nice order and a face not quite so; for the colour had now flushed to her very temples with more feelings than one, and her eye was downcast, not caring to shew its revelations. She knew that Winthrop took an observation of all, to his heart's content; but she could not look at him for an instant. Then without saying anything, he got up and went off to a little distance where he made himself busy among some of the bushes and vines which were gay with the fall colouring Elizabeth sat drooping her head on her knees, for she could not absolutely hold it up. She looked at her sunbonnet lying on the bank beside her; but it is not an improper use of language to say that she dared not put it on.

"I have met my master now," she thought, and her eyes sparkled, -- "once for all -- if I never did before. -- What a fool I am!"

For she knew, she acknowledged to herself at the same moment, that she did not like him the less for it -- she liked him exceedingly the more; in spite of a twinge of deep mortification about it, and though there was bitter shame that he should know or guess any of her feeling. If her eyes sparkled, they sparkled through tears.

The tears were got rid of, for Winthrop came back and threw himself down again. Then with that he began to put wreaths of the orange and red winterberries and sprays of wych hazel and bits of exquisite ivy, one after the other, into her hands. Her hands took them mechanically, one after the other. Her eyes buried themselves in them. She wished for her sunbonnet shield again.

"What do you bring these to me for?" she said rather abruptly.

"Don't you like to have them?" said he, putting into her fingers another magnificent piece of Virginia creeper.

"Yes indeed -- very much -- but --"

"It will be some time before I see you again," said he as he added the last piece of his bunch. "These will be all gone."

"Some time!" said Elizabeth.

"Yes. There is work on my hands down yonder that admits of no delay. I could but just snatch time enough to come up here."

"I am very much obliged to you for these!" said Elizabeth, returning to her bunch of brilliant vine branches.

"You can pay me for them in any way you please."

The colour started again, but it was a very gentle, humble, and frank look which she turned round upon him. His was bright enough.

"How soon do you think of coming to Mannahatta?"

"I don't know, --" said Elizabeth, not choosing to say exactly the words that came to her tongue.

"If I could be here too, I should say this is the best place."

"Can't you come often enough?"

"How often would be often enough?" said he with an amused look.

"Leave definitions on one side, and please answer me."

"Willingly. I leave the definition on your side. I don't like to speak in the dark."

"Well, can't you come tolerably often?" said Elizabeth colouring.

He smiled.

"Not for some time. My hands are very full just now."

"You contrive to have them so always, don't you?"

"I like to have them so. It is not always my contrivance."

"What has become of that suit -- I don't know the names now -- in which you were engaged two or three years ago -- in which you took so many objections, and the Chancellor allowed them all, against Mr. Brick?"

"Ryle?"

"Yes! -- I believe that's the name."

"For a man called Jean Lessing?"

"I don't know anything about Lessing -- I think Ryle was the other name --You were against Ryle."

"Lessing was Mr. Herder's brother-in-law."

"I don't remember Mr. Herder's brother-in-law -- though I believe Mr. Herder did have something to do with the case, or some interest in it."

"How did you know anything about it?"

"You haven't answered me," said Elizabeth, laughing and colouring brightly.

"One question is as good as another," said Winthrop smiling.

"But one answer is much better than another," said Elizabeth in a little confusion.

"The suit against Ryle was very successful. I recovered for him some ninety thousand dollars."

"Ninety thousand dollars!" -- Her thoughts took somewhat of a wide circle and came back.

"The amount recovered is hardly a fair criterion of the skill employed, in every instance. I must correct your judgment."

"I know more about it than that," said Elizabeth. "How far your education has gone! -- and mine is only just beginning."

"I should be sorry to think mine was much more than beginning. Now do you know we must go down? -- for I must be at Mountain Spring to meet the stage-coach."

"How soon?" said Elizabeth springing up.

"There is time enough, but I want not to hurry you down the hill."

He had put her sunbonnet on her head again and was retying it.

"Mr. Landholm --"

"You must not call me that," he said.

"Let me, till I can get courage to call you something else."

"How much courage does it want?"

"If you don't stop," said Elizabeth, her eyes filling with tears, "I shall not be able to say one word of what I want to say."

He stood still, holding the strings of her sunbonnet in either hand. Elizabeth gathered breath, or courage, and went on.

"A little while ago I was grieving myself to think that you did not know me -- now, I am very much ashamed to think that you do." --

He did not move, nor she.

"I know I am not worthy to have you look at me. My only hope is, that you will make me better."

The bonnet did not hide her face this time. He looked at it a little, at the simplicity of ingenuous trouble which was working in it, -- and then pushing the bonnet a little back, kissed first one cheek and then the lips, which by that time were bent down almost out of reach. But he reached them; and Elizabeth was obliged to take her answer, in which there was as much of gentle forgiveness and promise as of affection.

"You see what you have to expect, if you talk to me in this strain," said he lightly. "I think I shall not be troubled with much more of it. I don't like to leave you in this frame of mind. I would take you to Mountain Spring in the boat -- if I could bring you back again."

"I could bring myself back," said Elizabeth. They were going down the hill; in the course of which, it may be remarked, Winthrop had no reason to suppose that she once saw anything but the ground.

"I am afraid you are too tired."

"No indeed I am not. I should like it -- if there is time."

"Go in less time that way than the other."

So they presently reached the lower ground.

"Do you want anything from the house?" said Winthrop as they came near it.

"Only the oars -- If you will get those, I will untie the boat."

"Then I'll not get the oars. I'll get them on condition that you stand still here."

So they went down together to the rocks, and Elizabeth put herself in the stern of the little boat and they pushed off.

To any people who could think of anything but each other, October offered enough to fill eyes, ears, and understanding; that is, if ears can be filled with silence, which perhaps is predicable. Absolute silence on this occasion was wanting, as there was a good deal of talking; but for eyes and understanding, perhaps it may safely be said that those of the two people in the Merry-go-round took the benefit of everything they passed on their way; with a reduplication of pleasure which arose from the throwing and catching of that ball of conversation, in which, like the herb-stuffed ball of the Arabian physician of old, -- lay perdu certain hidden virtues, of sympathy. But Shahweetah's low rocky shore never offered more beauty to any eyes, than to theirs that day, as they coasted slowly round it. Colours, colours! If October had been a dyer, he could not have shewn a greater variety of samples.

There were some locust trees in the open cedar-grown field by the river; trees that Mr. Landholm had planted long ago. They were slow to turn, yet they were changing. One soft feathery head was in yellowish green, another of more neutral colour; and blending with them were the tints of a few reddish soft- tinted alders below. That group was not gay. Further on were a thicket of dull coloured alders at the edge of some flags, and above them blazed a giant huckleberry bush in bright flame colour; close by that were the purple red tufts of some common sumachs -- the one beautifully rich, the other beautifully striking. A little way from them stood a tulip tree, its green changing with yellow. Beyond came cedars, in groups, wreathed with bright tawny grape vines and splendid Virginia creepers, now in full glory. Above their tops, on the higher ground, was a rich green belt of pines -- above them, the changing trees of the forest again.

Here shewed an elm its straw-coloured head -- there stood an ash in beautiful grey-purple; very stately. The cornus family in rich crimson -- others crimson purple; maples shewing yellow and flame-colour and red all at once; one beauty still in green was orange-tipped with rich orange. The birches were a darker hue of the same colour; hickories bright as gold.

Then came the rocks, and rocky precipitous point of Shahweetah; and the echo of the row-locks from the wall. Then the point was turned, and the little boat sought the bottom of the bay, nearing Mountain Spring all the while. The water was glassy smooth; the boat went -- too fast.

Down in the bay the character of the woodland was a little different. It was of fuller growth, and with many fewer evergreens, and some addition to the variety of the changing deciduous leaves. When they got quite to the bottom of the bay and were coasting along close under the shore, there was perhaps a more striking display of Autumn's glories at their side, than the rocks of Shahweetah could shew them. They coasted slowly along, looking and talking. The combinations were beautiful.

There was the dark fine bright red of some pepperidges shewing behind the green of an unchanged maple; near by stood another maple the leaves of which were all seemingly withered, a plain reddish light wood-colour; while below its withered foliage a thrifty poison sumach wreathing round its trunk and lower branches, was in a beautiful confusion of fresh green and the orange and red changes, yet but just begun. Then another slight maple with the same dead wood-coloured leaves, into which to the very top a Virginia creeper had twined itself, and that was now brilliantly scarlet, magnificent in the last degree. Another like it a few trees off -- both reflected gorgeously in the still water. Rock oaks were part green and part sear; at the edge of the shore below them a quantity of reddish low shrubbery; the cornus, dark crimson and red brown, with its white berries shewing underneath, and more pepperidges in very bright red. One maple stood with its leaves parti-coloured reddish and green -- another with beautiful orange-coloured foliage. Ashes in superb very dark purple; they were all changed. Then alders, oaks, and chestnuts still green. A kaleidoscope view, on water and land, as the little boat glided along sending rainbow ripples in towards the shore.

In the bottom of the bay Winthrop brought the boat to land, under a great red oak which stood in its fair dark green beauty yet at the very edge of the water. Mountain Spring was a little way off, hidden by an outsetting point of woods. As the boat touched the tree-roots, Winthrop laid in the oars and came and took a seat by the boat's mistress.

"Are you going to walk to Mountain Spring the rest of the way?" she said.

"No."

"Will the stage-coach take you up here?"

"If it comes, it will. What are you going to do with yourself now, till I see you again?"

"There's enough to do," said Elizabeth sighing. "I am going to try to behave myself. How soon will the coach be here now?"

"I think, not until I have seen you about half way over the bay on your way home."

"O you will not see me," said Elizabeth. "I am not going before the coach does."

"Yes you are."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because it will not come till I have seen you at least, I should judge, half across the bay."

"But I don't want to go."

"You are so unaccustomed to doing things you don't want to do, that it is good discipline for you."

"Do you mean that seriously?" said Elizabeth, looking a little disturbed.

"I mean it half seriously," said he laughing, getting up to push the boat to shore, which had swung a little off.

"But nobody likes, or wants, self-imposed discipline," said Elizabeth.

"This isn't self-imposed -- I impose it," said he throwing the rope round a branch of the tree. "I don't mean anything that need make you look so," he added as he came back to his place.

Elizabeth looked up and her brow cleared.

"I dare say you are right," she said. "I will do just as you please."

"Stop a minute," said he gently taking her hand -- "What do you 'dare say' I am right about?"

"This -- or anything," Elizabeth said, her eye wavering between the water and the shore.

"I don't want you to think that."

"But how am I going to help it?"

He smiled a little and looked grave too.

"I am going to give you a lesson to study."

"Well? --" said Elizabeth with quick pleasure; and she watched, very like a child, while Winthrop sought in his pocket and brought out an old letter, tore off a piece of the back and wrote on his knee with a pencil.

Then he gave it to her.

But it was the precept, --

'Little children, keep yourselves from idols.'

Elizabeth's face changed, and her eyes lifted themselves not up again. The colour rose, and spread, and deepened, and her head only bent lower down over the paper. That thrust was with a barbed weapon. And there was a profound hush, and a bended head and a pained brow, till a hand came gently between her eyes and the paper and occupied the fingers that held it. It was the same hand that her fancy had once seen full of character -- she saw it again now; her thoughts made a spring hack to that time and then to this. She looked up.

It was a look to see. There was a witching mingling of the frank, the childlike, and the womanly, in her troubled face; frankness that would not deny the truth that her monitor seemed to have read, a childlike simplicity of shame that he should have divined it, and a womanly self-respect that owned it had nothing to be ashamed of. These were not all the feelings that were at work, nor that shewed their working; and it was a face of brilliant expression that Elizabeth lifted to her companion. In the cheeks the blood spoke brightly; in the eyes, fire; there was more than one tear there, too; and the curve of the lips was unbent with a little tremulous play. Winthrop must have been a man of self-command to have stood it; but he looked apparently no more concerned than if old Karen had lifted up her face at him.

"Do you know," she said, and the moved line of the lips might plainly be seen, -- "you are making it the more hard for me to learn your lesson, even in the very giving it me?"

"What shall I do?"

Elizabeth hesitated, and conquered herself.

"I guess you needn't do anything," she said half laughing. "I'll try and do my part."

There was a little answer of the face then, that sent Elizabeth's eyes to the ground.

"What do you mean by these words?" she said looking at them again.

"I don't mean anything. I simply give them to you."

"Yes, and I might see an old musket standing round the house; but if you take it up and present it at me, it is fair to ask, what you mean?"

"It is not an old musket, to begin with," said Winthrop laughing; "and if it goes off, it will shoot you through the heart."

"You have the advantage of me entirely, this morning!" said Elizabeth. "I give up. I hope the next time you have the pleasure of seeing me, I shall be myself."

"I hope so. I intend to keep my identity. Now as that stage- coach will not come till you get half over the bay --"

And a few minutes thereafter, the little boat was skimming back for the point of Shahweetah, though not quite so swiftly as it had come. But Elizabeth was not a mean oarsman; and in good time she got home, and moored the Merry-go-round in its place.

She was walking up to the house then, in very happy mood, one hand depending musingly at either string of her sunbonnet, when she was met by her cousin.

"Well," said Rose, -- "have you been out in the woods all this while?"

"No."

"I suppose it's all settled between you and Mr. Landholm?"

Elizabeth stood an instant, with hands depending as aforesaid, and then with a little inclination of her person, somewhat stately and more graceful, gave Rose to understand, that she had no contradiction to make to this insinuation.

"Is it!" said Rose. "Did he come up for that?"

"I suppose you know what he came for better than I do."

"Did you know I wrote a letter to him?"

"I guessed it afterwards. Rose!" -- said Elizabeth suddenly, "there was nothing but about Karen in it?"

"Nothing in the world!" said Rose quickly. "What should there be?"

"What did you write for?"

"I was frightened to death, and I wanted to see somebody; and I knew you wouldn't send for him. Wasn't it good I did! --"

Rose clapped her hands. The colour in Elizabeth's face was gradually getting brilliant. She passed on.

"And now you' ll live in Mannahatta?"

Elizabeth did not answer.

"And will you send for old Mr. Landholm to come back and take care of this place again?"

"Hush, Rose! -- Mr. Landholm will do what he pleases."

"You don't please about it, I suppose?"

"Yes I do, Rose, -- not to talk at all on the subject!"

THE END.

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