think, Mr. Carleton?"

"Disadvantages of what kind, Mrs. Evelyn?"

"Why, for instance--the strange habits of intercourse, on familiar terms,
with rough and uncultivated people,--such intercourse for years--in all
sorts of ways,--in the field and in the house,--mingling with them as one
of them--it seems to me it must leave its traces on the mind and on the
habits of acting and thinking?"

"There is no doubt it does," he answered with an extremely
unconcerned face.

"And then there's the actual want of cultivation," said Mrs. Evelyn,
warming;--"time taken up with other things, you know,--usefully and
properly, but still taken up,--so as to make much intellectual acquirement
and accomplishments impossible; it can't be otherwise, you know,--neither
opportunity nor instructors; and I don't think anything can supply the
want in after life--it isn't the mere things themselves which may be
acquired--the mind should grow up in the atmosphere of them--don't you
think so, Mr. Carleton?"

He bowed.

"Music, for instance, and languages, and converse with society, and a
great many things, are put completely beyond reach;--Edith, my dear, you
are not to touch the coffee,--nor Constance either,--no I will not let
you,--And there could not be even much reading, for want of books if for
nothing else. Perhaps I am wrong, but I confess I don't see how it is
possible in such a case"--

She checked herself suddenly, for Fleda with the slow noiseless step that
weakness imposed had come in again and stood by the centre-table.

"We are discussing a knotty question, Miss Ringgan," said Mr. Carleton
with a smile, as he brought a bergère for her; "I should like to have your
voice on it."

There was no seconding of his motion. He waited till she had seated
herself and then went on.

"What in your opinion is the best preparation for wearing
prosperity well?"

A glance at Mrs. Evelyn's face which was opposite her, and at one or two
others which had undeniably the air of being _arrested_, was enough for
Fleda's quick apprehension. She knew they had been talking of her. Her
eyes stopped short of Mr. Carleton's and she coloured and hesitated. No
one spoke.

"By prosperity you mean--?"

"Rank and fortune," said Florence, without looking up.

"Marrying a rich man, for instance," said Edith, "and having one's
hands full."

This peculiar statement of the case occasioned a laugh all round, but the
silence which followed seemed still to wait upon Fleda's reply.

"Am I expected to give a serious answer to that question?" she said a
little doubtfully.

"Expectations are not stringent things," said her first questioner
smiling. "That waits upon your choice."

"They are horridly stringent, _I_ think," said Constance. "We shall all be
disappointed if you don't, Fleda my dear."

"By wearing it 'well' you mean, making a good use of it?"

"And gracefully," said Mrs. Evelyn.

"I think I should say then," said Fleda after some little hesitation and
speaking with evident difficulty,--"Such an experience as might teach one
both the worth and the worthlessness of money."

Mr. Carleton's smile was a sufficiently satisfied one; but Mrs.
Evelyn retorted,

"The _worth_ and the _worthlessness!_--Fleda my dear, I don't
understand--"

"And what experience teaches one the worth and what the worthlessness of
money?" said Constance;--"Mamma is morbidly persuaded that I do not
understand the first--of the second I have an indefinite idea from never
being able to do more than half that I want with it."

Fleda smiled and hesitated again, in a way that shewed she would willingly
be excused, but the silence left her no choice but to speak.

"I think," she said modestly, "that a person can hardly understand the
true worth of money,--the ends it can best subserve,--that has not been
taught it by his own experience of the want; and--"

"What follows?" said Mr. Carleton.

"I was going to say, sir, that there is danger, especially when people
have not been accustomed to it, that they will greatly overvalue and
misplace the real worth of prosperity; unless the mind has been steadied
by another kind of experience, and has learnt to measure things by a
higher scale."

"And how when they _have_ been accustomed to it?" said Florence.

"The same danger, without the 'especially'," said Fleda, with a look that
disclaimed any assuming.

"One thing is certain," said Constance,--"you hardly ever see _les
nouveaux riches_ make a graceful use of anything.--Fleda my dear, I am
seconding all of your last speech that I understand. Mamma, I perceive, is
at work upon the rest."

"I think we ought all to be at work upon it," said Mrs. Evelyn, "for Miss
Ringgan has made it out that there is hardly anybody here that is
qualified to wear prosperity well."

"I was just thinking so," said Florence.

Fleda said nothing, and perhaps her colour rose a little.

"I will take lessons of her," said Constance, with eyebrows just raised
enough to neutralize the composed gravity of the other features,--"as soon
as I have an amount of prosperity that will make it worth while."

"But I don't think," said Florence, "that a graceful use of things is
consistent with such a careful valuation and considering of the exact
worth of everything--it's not my idea of grace."

"Yet _propriety_ is an essential element of gracefulness, Miss Evelyn."

"Well," said Florence,--"certainly; but what then?"

"Is it attainable, in the use of means, without a nice knowledge of their
true value?"

"But, Mr. Carleton, I am sure I have seen improper things--things improper
in a way--gracefully done?"

"No doubt; but, Miss Evelyn," said he smiling "the impropriety did not in
those cases, I presume, attach itself to the other quality. The graceful
_manner_ was strictly proper to its ends, was it not, however the ends
might be false?"

"I don't know," said Florence;--"you have gone too deep for me. But do
you think that close calculation, and all that sort of thing, is
likely to make people use money, or anything else, gracefully? I never
thought it did."

"Not close calculation alone," said Mr. Carleton.

"But do you think it is _consistent_ with gracefulness?"

"The largest and grandest views of material things that man has ever
taken, Miss Evelyn, stand upon a basis of the closest calculation."

Florence worked at her worsted and looked very dissatisfied.

"O Mr. Carleton," said Constance as he was going,--"don't leave your
vinaigrette--there it is on the table."

He made no motion to take it up.

"Don't you know, Miss Constance, that physicians seldom like to have
anything to do with their own prescriptions?"

"It's very suspicious of them," said Constance;--"but you must take it,
Mr. Carleton, if you please, for I shouldn't like the responsibility of
its being left here; and I am afraid it would be dangerous to our peace of
mind, besides."

"I shall risk that," he said laughing. "Its work is not done."

"And then, Mr. Carleton," said Mrs. Evelyn, and Fleda knew with what a
look,--"you know physicians are accustomed to be paid when their
prescriptions are taken."

But the answer to this was only a bow, so expressive in its air of haughty
coldness that any further efforts of Mrs. Evelyn's wit were chilled for
some minutes after he had gone.

Fleda had not seen this. She had taken up the vinaigrette, and was
thinking with acute pleasure that Mr. Carleton's manner last night and
to-night had returned to all the familiar kindness of old times. Not as it
had been during the rest of her stay in the city. She could be quite
contented now to have him go back to England, with this pleasant
remembrance left her. She sat turning over the vinaigrette, which to her
fancy was covered with hieroglyphics that no one else could read; of her
uncle's affair, of Charlton's danger, of her own distress, and the
kindness which had wrought its relief, more penetrating and pleasant than
even the fine aromatic scent which fairly typified it,--Constance's voice
broke in upon her musings.

"Isn't it awkward?" she said as she saw Fleda handling and looking at the
pretty toy,--"Isn't it awkward? I sha'n't have a bit of rest now for fear
something will happen to that. I hate to have people do such things!"

"Fleda my dear," said Mrs. Evelyn,--"I wouldn't handle it, my love; you
may depend there is some charm in it--some mischievous hidden
influence,--and if you have much to do with it I am afraid you will
find a gradual coldness stealing over you, and a strange forgetfulness
of Queechy, and you will perhaps lose your desire ever to go back there
any more."

The vinaigrette dropped from Fleda's fingers, but beyond a heightened
colour and a little tremulous gravity about the lip, she gave no other
sign of emotion.

"Mamma," said Florence laughing,--"you are too bad!"

"Mamma," said Constance, "I wonder how any tender sentiment for you can
continue to exist in Fleda's breast!--By the way, Fleda, my dear, do you
know that we have heard of two escorts for you? but I only tell you
because I know you'll not be fit to travel this age."

"I should not be able to travel to-morrow," said Fleda.

"They are not going to-morrow," said Mrs. Evelyn quietly.

"Who are they?"

"Excellent ones," said Mrs. Evelyn. "One of them is your old friend
Mr. Olmney,"

"Mr. Olmney!" said Fleda. "What has brought him to New York?"

"Really," said Mrs. Evelyn laughing,--"I do not know. What should keep
him away? I was very glad to see him, for my part. Maybe he has come to
take you home."

"Who is the other?" said Fleda.

"That's another old friend of yours--Mrs. Renney."

"Mrs. Renney?--who is she?" said Fleda.

"Why don't you know? Mrs. Renney--she used to live with your aunt Lucy in
some capacity--years ago,--when she was in New York,--housekeeper, I
think; don't you remember her?"

"Perfectly, now," said Fleda. "Mrs. Renney!--"

"She has been housekeeper for Mrs. Schenck these several years, and she is
going somewhere out West to some relation, her brother, I believe, to take
care of his family; and her road leads her your way."

"When do they go, Mrs. Evelyn?"

"Both the same day, and both the day after to-morrow. Mr. Olmney takes the
morning train, he says, unless you would prefer some other,--I told him
you were very anxious to go,--and Mrs. Renney goes in the afternoon. So
there's a choice for you."

"Mamma," said Constance, "Fleda is not fit to go at all, either time."

"I don't think she is," said Mrs. Evelyn. "But she knows best what she
likes to do."

Thoughts and resolutions came swiftly one after another into Fleda's mind
and were decided upon in as quick succession. First, that she must go the
day after to-morrow, at all events. Second, that it should not be with
Mr. Olmney. Third, that to prevent that, she must not see him in the mean
time, and therefore--yes, no help for it,--must refuse to see any one that
called the next day; there was to be a party in the evening, so then she
would be safe. No doubt Mr. Carleton would come, to give her a more
particular account of what he had done, and she wished unspeakably to hear
it; but it was not possible that she should make an exception in his
favour and admit him alone. That could not be. If friends would only be
simple and straightforward and kind,--one could afford to be
straightforward too;--but as it was she must not do what she longed to do
and they would be sure to misunderstand. There was indeed the morning of
the day following left her if Mr. Olmney did not take it into his head to
stay. And it might issue in her not seeing Mr. Carleton at all, to bid
good-bye and thank him? He would not think her ungrateful, he knew better
than that, but still--Well! so much for kindness!--

"What _are_ you looking so grave about?" said Constance.

"Considering ways and means," Fleda said with a slight smile.

"Ways and means of what?"

"Going."

"You don't mean to go the day after to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"It's too absurd for anything! You sha'n't do it."

"I must indeed."

"Mamma," said Constance, "if you permit such a thing, I shall hope that
memory will be a fingerboard of remorse to you, pointing to Miss Ringgan's
pale cheeks."

"I shall charge it entirely upon Miss Ringgan's own fingerboard," said
Mrs. Evelyn, with her complacently amused face. "Fleda, my dear,--shall I
request Mr. Olmney to delay his journey for a day or two, my love, till
you are stronger?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Evelyn! I shall go then;--if I am not ready in the
morning I will take Mrs. Renney in the afternoon--I would quite as lief go
with her."

"Then I will make Mr. Olmney keep to his first purpose," said Mrs. Evelyn.

Poor Fleda, though with a very sorrowful heart, kept her resolutions, and
for very forlornness and weariness slept away a great part of the next
day. Neither would she appear in the evening, for fear of more people than
one. It was impossible to tell whether Mrs. Evelyn's love of mischief
would not bring Mr. Olmney there, and the Thorns, she knew, were invited.
Mr. Lewis would probably absent himself, but Fleda could not endure even
the chance of seeing his mother. She wanted to know, but dared not ask,
whether Mr. Carleton had been to see her. What if to-morrow morning should
pass without her seeing him? Fleda pondered this uncertainty a little,
and then jumped out of bed and wrote him the heartiest little note of
thanks and remembrance that tears would let her write; sealed it, and
carried it herself to the nearest branch of the despatch post the first
thing next morning.

She took a long look that same morning at the little vinaigrette which
still lay on the centre-table, wishing very much to take it up stairs and
pack it away among her things. It was meant for her she knew, and she
wanted it as a very pleasant relic from the kind hands that had given it;
and besides, he might think it odd if she should slight his intention. But
how odd it would seem to him if he knew that the Evelyns had half
appropriated it. And appropriate it anew, in another direction, she could
not. She could not without their knowledge, and they would put their own
absurd construction on what was a simple matter of kindness; she could not
brave it.

[Illustration: "I told him, 'O you were not gone yet!'"]

The morning, a long one it was, had passed away; Fleda had just finished
packing her trunk, and was sitting with a faint-hearted feeling of body
and mind, trying to rest before being called to her early dinner, when
Florence came to tell her it was ready.

"Mr. Carleton was here awhile ago," she said, "and he asked for you; but
mamma said you were busy; she knew you had enough to tire you without
coming down stairs to see him. He asked when you thought of going."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him, 'O you were not gone yet!'--it's such a plague to be bidding
people good-bye--_I_ always want to get rid of it. Was I right?"

Fleda said nothing, but in her heart she wondered what possible concern it
could be of her friends if Mr. Carleton wanted to see her before she went
away. She felt it was unkind--they did not know how unkind, for they did
not understand that he was a very particular friend and an old
friend--they could not tell what reason there was for her wishing to bid
him good-bye. She thought she should have liked to do it, very much.

Chapter XLVII.

  Methought I was--there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and
  methought I had,--But man is but a patched fool, if he will offer to say
  what methought I had.--Midsummer Night's Dream.

Mrs. Evelyn drove down to the boat with Fleda and did not leave her till
she was safely put in charge of Mrs. Renney. Fleda immediately retreated
to the innermost depths of the ladies' cabin, hoping to find some rest for
the body at least if not forgetfulness for the mind.

The latter was not to be. Mrs. Renney was exceeding glad to see her and
bent upon knowing what had become of her since those days when they used
to know each other.

"You're just the same, Miss Fleda, that you used to be--you're very little
altered--I can see that--though you're looking a good deal more thin and
pale--you had very pretty roses in your cheeks in those times.--Yes, I
know, I understood Mrs. Evelyn to say you had not been well; but allowing
for that I can see you are just yourself still--I'm glad of it. Do you
recollect, Miss Fleda, what a little thing you was then?"

"I recollect, very well," said Fleda.

"I'm sure of another thing--you're just as good as you used to be," said
the housekeeper looking at her complacently. "Do you remember how you used
to come into my room to see me make jelly? I see it as well as if it was
yesterday;--and you used to beg me to let you squeeze the lemons; and I
never could refuse you, because you never did anything I didn't want you
to; and do you mind how I used to tie you up in a big towel for fear you
would stain your dress with the acid, and I'd stand and watch to see you
putting all your strength to squeeze 'em clean, and be afraid that Mrs.
Rossitur would be angry with me for letting you spoil your hands, but you
used to look up and smile at me so, I couldn't help myself but let you do
just whatever you had a mind. You don't look quite so light and bright as
you did in those times; but to be sure, you ain't feeling well! See
here--just let me pull some of these things onto this settee, and you put
yourself down there and rest--pillows--let's have another pillow,--there,
how's that?"

Oh if Fleda might have silenced her! She thought it was rather hard that
she should have two talkative companions on this journey of all others.
The housekeeper paused no longer than to arrange her couch and see her
comfortably laid down.

"And then Mr. Hugh would come in to find you and carry you away--he never
could bear to be long from you. How is Mr. Hugh, Miss Fleda? he used to
be always a very delicate looking child. I remember you and him used to
be always together--he was a very sweet boy! I have often said I never
saw such another pair of children. How does Mr. Hugh have his health,
Miss Fleda?"

"Not very well, just now," said Fleda gently, and shutting her eyes that
they might reveal less.

There was need; for the housekeeper went on to ask particularly after
every member of the family, and where they had been living, and as much
as she conveniently could about how they had been living. She was very
kind through it all, or she tried to be; but Fleda felt there was a
difference since the time when her aunt kept house in State street and
Mrs. Renney made jellies for her. When her neighbours' affairs were
exhausted Mrs. Renney fell back upon her own, and gave Fleda a very
circumstantial account of the occurrences that were drawing her westward;
how so many years ago her brother had married and removed thither; how
lately his wife had died; what in general was the character of his wife,
and what, in particular, the story of her decease; how many children were
left without care, and the state of her brother's business which demanded
a great deal; and how finally, she, Mrs. Renney, had received and
accepted an invitation to go on to Belle Rivière and be housekeeper de
son chef. And as Fleda's pale worn face had for some time given her no
sign of attention the housekeeper then hoped she was asleep, and placed
herself so as to screen her and have herself a good view of everything
that was going on in the cabin.

But poor Fleda was not asleep, much as she rejoiced in being thought so.
Mind and body could get no repose, sadly as the condition of both called
for it. Too worn to sleep, perhaps;--too down-hearted to rest. She blamed
herself for it, and told over to herself the causes, the recent causes,
she had of joy and gratitude; but it would not do. Grateful she could be
and was; but tears that were not the distillation of joy came with her
gratitude; came from under the closed eyelid in spite of her; the pillow
was wet with them. She excused herself, or tried to, with thinking that
she was weak and not very well, and that her nerves had gone through so
much for a few days past it was no wonder if a reaction left her without
her usual strength of mind. And she could not help thinking there had been
a want of kindness in the Evelyns to let her come away to-day to make such
a journey, at such a season, under such guardianship. But it was not all
that; she knew it was not. The journey was a small matter; only a little
piece of disagreeableness that was well in keeping with her other
meditations. She was going home and home had lost all its fair-seeming;
its honours were withered. It would be pleasant indeed to be there again
to nurse Hugh; but nurse him for what?--life or death?--she did not like
to think; and beyond that she could fix upon nothing at all that looked
bright in the prospect; she almost thought herself wicked, but she could
not. If she might hope that her uncle would take hold of his farm like a
man, and redeem his character and his family's happiness on the old
place,--that would have been something; but he had declared a different
purpose, and Fleda knew him too well to hope that he would be better than
his word. Then they must leave the old homestead, where at least the
associations of happiness clung, and go to a strange land. It looked
desolate to Fleda, wherever it might be. Leave Queechy!--that she loved
unspeakably beyond any other place in the world; where the very hills had
been the friends of her childhood, and where she had seen the maples grow
green and grow red through as many-coloured changes of her own fortunes;
the woods where the shade of her grandfather walked with her and where the
presence even of her father could be brought back by memory; where the air
was sweeter and the sunlight brighter, by far, than in any other place,
for both had some strange kindred with the sunny days of long ago. Poor
Fleda turned her face from Mrs. Renney, and leaving doubtful prospects and
withering comforts for a while as it were out of sight, she wept the fair
outlines and the red maples of Queechy as if they had been all she had to
regret. They had never disappointed her. Their countenance had comforted
her many a time, under many a sorrow. After all, it was only fancy
choosing at which shrine the whole offering of sorrow should be made. She
knew that many of the tears that fell were due to some other. It was in
vain to tell herself they were selfish; mind and body were in no condition
to struggle with anything.

It had fallen dark some time, and she had wept and sorrowed herself into a
half-dozing state, when a few words spoken near aroused her.

"It is snowing,"--was said by several voices.

"Going very slow, ain't we?" said Fleda's friend in a suppressed voice.

"Yes, 'cause it's so dark, you see; the Captain dursn't let her run."

Some poor witticism followed from a third party about the 'Butterfly's'
having run herself off her legs the first time she ever ran at all; and
then Mrs. Renney went on.

"Is the storm so bad, Hannah?"

"Pretty thick--can't see far ahead--I hope we'll make out to find our way
in--that's all _I_ care for."

"How far are we?"

"Not half way yet--I don't know--depends on what headway we make, you
know;--there ain't much wind yet, that's a good thing."

"There ain't any danger, is there?"

This of course the chambermaid denied, and a whispered colloquy followed
which Fleda did not try to catch. A new feeling came upon her weary
heart,--a feeling of fear. There was a sad twinge of a wish that she were
out of the boat and safe back again with the Evelyns, and a fresh sense of
the unkindness of letting her come away that afternoon so attended. And
then with that sickness of heart the forlorn feeling of being alone, of
wanting some one at hand to depend upon, to look to. It is true that in
case of real danger none such could be a real protection,--and yet not so
neither, for strength and decision can live and make live where a moment's
faltering will kill, and weakness must often falter of necessity. "All
the ways of the Lord are mercy and truth" to his people; she thought of
that, and yet she feared, for his ways are often what we do not like. A
few moments of sick-heartedness and trembling,--and then Fleda mentally
folded her arms about a few other words of the Bible and laid her head
down in quiet again.--"_The Lord is my refuge and my fortress; my God; in
him will I trust_."

And then what comes after,--"_He shall cover thee with his feathers, and
under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and
buckler_."

Fleda lay quiet till she was called to tea.

"Bless me, how pale you are!" said the housekeeper, as Fleda raised
herself up at this summons,--"do you feel very bad, Miss Fleda?"

Fleda said no.

"Are you frighted?" said the housekeeper;--"there's no need of
that--Hannah says there's no need--we'll be in by and by."

"No, Mrs. Renney," said Fleda smiling. "I believe I am not very
strong yet."

The housekeeper and Hannah both looked at her with strangely touched
faces, and again begged her to try the refreshment of tea. But Fleda
would not go down, so they served her up there with great zeal and
tenderness. And then she waited patiently and watched the people in the
cabin, as they sat gossiping in groups or stupefying in solitude; and
thought how miserable a thing is existence where religion and refinement
have not taught the mind to live in somewhat beyond and above its
every-day concern.

Late at night the boat arrived safe at Bridgeport. Mrs. Renney and Fleda
had resolved to stay on board till morning, when the former promised to
take her to the house of a sister she had living in the town; as the cars
would not leave the place till near eleven o'clock. Kest was not to be
hoped for meantime in the boat, on the miserable couch which was the best
the cabin could furnish; but Fleda was so thankful to have finished the
voyage in safety that she took thankfully everything else, even lying
awake. It was a wild night. The wind rose soon after they reached
Bridgeport, and swept furiously over the boat, rattling the tiller chains
and making Fleda so nervously alive to possibilities that she got up two
or three times to see if the boat were fast to her moorings. It was very
dark, and only by a fortunately placed lantern she could see a bit of the
dark wharf and one of the posts belonging to it, from which the lantern
never budged; so at last, quieted or tired out, nature had her rights, and
she slept.

It was not refreshing rest after all, and Fleda was very glad that Mrs.
Renney's impatience for something comfortable made her willing to be astir
as early as there was any chance of finding people up in the town. Few
were abroad when they left the boat, they two. Not a foot had printed the
deep layer of snow that covered the wharf. It had fallen thick during the
night. Just then it was not snowing; the clouds seemed to have taken a
recess, for they hung threatening yet; one uniform leaden canopy was over
the whole horizon.

"The snow ain't done yet," said Mrs. Renney.

"No, but the worst of our journey is over," said Fleda. "I am glad to be
on the land."

"I hope we'll get something to eat here," said Mrs. Renney as they stepped
along over the wharf. "They ought to be ashamed to give people such a
mess, when it's just as easy to have things decent. My! how it has snowed.
I declare, if I'd ha' known I'd ha' waited till somebody had tracked a
path for us. But I guess it's just as well we didn't,--you look as like a
ghost as you can, Miss Fleda. You'll be better when you get some
breakfast. You'd better catch on to my arm--I'll waken up the seven
sleepers but what I'll have something to put life into you directly."

Fleda thanked her but declined the proffered accommodation, and followed
her companion in the narrow beaten path a few travellers had made in the
street, feeling enough like a ghost, if want of flesh and blood reality
were enough. It seemed a dream that she was walking through the grey light
and the empty streets of the little town; everything looked and felt so
wild and strange.

If it was a dream she was soon waked out of it. In the house where they
were presently received and established in sufficient comfort, there was
such a little specimen of masculine humanity as never shewed his face in
dream land yet; a little bit of reality enough to bring any dreamer to his
senses. He seemed to have been brought up on stove heat, for he was ail
glowing yet from a very warm bed he had just tumbled out of somewhere, and
he looked at the pale thin stranger by his mother's fireplace as if she
were an anomaly in the comfortable world. If he could have contented
himself with looking!--but he planted himself firmly on the rug just two
feet from Fleda, and with a laudable and most persistent desire to examine
into the causes of what he could not understand he commenced inquiring,

"Are you cold?--say! Are you cold?--say!"--in a tone most provokingly made
up of wonder and dulness. In vain Fleda answered him, that she was not
very cold and would soon not be cold at all by that good fire;--the
question came again, apparently in all its freshness, from the
interrogator's mind,--"Are you cold?--say!--"

And silence and words, looking grave and laughing, were alike thrown away.
Fleda shut her eyes at length and used the small remnant of her patience
to keep herself quiet till she was called to breakfast. After breakfast
she accepted the offer of her hostess to go up stairs and lie down till
the cars were ready; and there got some real and much needed refreshment
of sleep and rest.

It lasted longer than she bad counted upon. For the cars were not ready
at eleven o'clock; the snow last night had occasioned some perplexing
delays. It was not till near three o'clock that the often-despatched
messenger to the dépôt brought back word that they might go as soon as
they pleased. It pleased Mrs. Renney to be in a great hurry, for her
baggage was in the cars she said, and it would be dreadful if she and it
went different ways; so Fleda and her companion hastened down to the
station house and choose their places some time before anybody else
thought of coming. They had a long, very tiresome waiting to go through,
and room for some uneasy speculations about being belated and a night
journey. But Fleda was stronger now, and bore it all with her usual
patient submission. At length, by degrees the people dropped in and
filled the cars, and they get off.

"How early do you suppose we shall reach Greenfield?" said Fleda.

"Why we ought to get there between nine and ten o'clock, I should think,"
said her companion. "I hope the snow will hold up till we get there,"

Fleda thought it a hope very unlikely to be fulfilled. There were as yet
no snow-flakes to be seen near by, but at a little distance the low
clouds seemed already to enshroud every clump of trees and put a mist
about every hill. They surely would descend more palpably soon.

It was pleasant to be moving swiftly on again towards the end of their
journey, if Fleda could have rid herself of some qualms about the possible
storm and the certain darkness; they might not reach Greenfield by ten
o'clock; and she disliked travelling in the night at any time. But she
could do nothing, and she resigned herself anew to the comfort and trust
she had built upon last night. She had the seat next the window, and with
a very sober kind of pleasure watched the pretty landscape they were
flitting by--misty as her own prospects,--darkening as they?--no, she
would not allow that thought. "'Surely I know that it shall be well with
them that fear God;' and I can trust him." And she found a strange
sweetness in that naked trust and clinging of faith, that faith never
tried never knows. But the breath of daylight was already gone, though the
universal spread of snow gave the eye a fair range yet, white, white, as
far as the view could reach, with that light misty drapery round
everything in the distance and merging into the soft grey sky; and every
now and then as the wind served, a thick wreath of white vapour came by
from the engine and hid all, eddying past the windows and then skimming
off away over the snowy ground from which it would not lift; a more
palpable veil for a moment of the distant things,--and then broken,
scattered, fragmentary, lovely in its frailty and evanishing. It was a
pretty afternoon, but a sober; and the bare black solitary trees near hand
which the cars flew by, looked to Fleda constantly like finger-posts of
the past; and back at their bidding her thoughts and her spirits went,
back and forward, comparing, in her own mental view, what had once been so
gay and genial with its present bleak and chill condition. And from this,
in sudden contrast, came a strangely fair and bright image of Heaven--its
exchange of peace for all this turmoil,--of rest for all this weary
bearing up of mind and body against the ills that beset both,--of its
quiet home for this unstable strange world where nothing is at a
stand-still--of perfect and pure society for the unsatisfactory and
wearying friendships that the most are here. The thought came to Fleda
like one of those unearthly clear Northwestern skies from which a storm
cloud has rolled away, that seem almost to mock Earth with their distance
from its defilement and agitations. "Truly I know that it shall be well
with them that fear God!"--She could remember Hugh,--she could not think
of the words without him,--and yet say them with the full bounding
assurance. And in that weary and uneasy afternoon her mind rested and
delighted itself with two lines of George Herbert, that only a Christian
can well understand,--

  "Thy power and love,--my love and trust,
  Make one place everywhere."

But the night fell, and Fleda at last could see nothing but the dim rail
fences they were flying by, and the reflection from some stationary
lantern on the engine or one of the forward cars, that always threw a
bright spot of light on the snow. Still she kept her eyes fastened out of
the window; anything but the view _inboard_. They were going slowly now,
and frequently stopping; for they were out of time, and some other trains
were to be looked out for. Nervous work; and whenever they stopped the
voices which at other times were happily drowned in the rolling of the
car-wheels, rose and jarred in discords far less endurable. Fleda shut
her ears to the words, but it was easy enough without words to understand
the indications of coarse and disagreeable natures in whose neighbourhood
she disliked to find herself; of whose neighbourhood she exceedingly
disliked to be reminded. The muttered oath, the more than muttered jest,
the various laughs that tell so much of head or heart emptiness,--the
shadowy but sure tokens of that in human nature which one would not
realize and which one strives to forget;--Fleda shrank within herself and
would gladly have stopped her ears; did sometimes covertly. Oh if home
could be but reached, and she out of this atmosphere! how well she
resolved that never another time, by any motive, of delicacy or
otherwise, she would be tempted to trust herself in the like again
without more than womanly protection. The hours rolled wearily on; they
heard nothing of Greenfield yet.

They came at length to a more obstinate stop than usual. Fleda took her
hands from her ears to ask what was the matter.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Renney. "I hope they won't keep us a great while
waiting here."

The door swung open and the red comforter and tarpaulin hat of one of the
brakemen shewed itself a moment. Presently after "Can't get on"--was
repeated by several voices in the various tones of assertion,
interrogation, and impatience. The women folks, having nobody to ask
questions of, had nothing for it but to be quiet and use their ears.

"Can't get on!" said another man coming in,--"there's nothing but snow out
o' doors--track's all foul."

A number of people instantly rushed out to see.

"Can't get on any further to-night?" asked a quiet old gentleman of the
news-bringer.

"Not another inch, sir;--worse off than old Dobbs was in the
mill-pond,--we've got half way but we can't turn and go back."

"And what are we going to do?" said an unhappy wight not quick in drawing
conclusions.

"I s'pose we'll all be stiff by the morning," answered the other
gravely,--"unless the wood holds out, which ain't likely."

How much there is in even a cheery tone of voice, Fleda was sorry when
this man took his away with him. There was a most uncheering confusion of
tongues for a few minutes among the people he had left, and then the car
was near deserted; everybody went out to bring his own wits to bear upon
the obstacles in the way of their progress. Mrs. Renney observed that she
might as well warm her feet while she could, and went to the stove for
the purpose.

Poor Fleda felt as if she had no heart left. She sat still in her place
and leaned her head upon the back of the deserted chair before her, in
utter inability to keep it up. The night journey was bad enough, but
_this_ was more than she had counted upon. Danger, to be sure, there might
be none in standing still there all night, unless perhaps the danger of
death from the cold;--she had heard of such things;--but to sit there till
morning among all those people and obliged to hear their unloosed
tongues,--Fleda felt almost that she could not bear it,--a most forlorn
feeling, with which came anew a keen reflection upon the Evelyns for
having permitted her to run even the hazard of such trouble. And in the
morning, if well it came, who would take care of them in all the
subsequent annoyance and difficulty of getting out of the snow?--

It must have taken very little time for these thoughts to run through her
head, for half a minute had not flown when the vacant seat beside her was
occupied and a hand softly touched one of hers which lay in her lap.
Fleda started up in terror,--to have the hand taken and her eye met by
Mr. Carleton.

"Mr. Carleton!--O sir, how glad I am to see you!"--was said by eye and
cheek as unmistakably as by word.

"Have you come from the clouds?"

"I might rather ask that question of you," said he smiling.

"You have been invisible ever since the night when I had the honour of
playing the part of your physician."

"I could not help it, sir,--I was sure you would believe it. I wanted
exceedingly to see you and to thank you--as well as I could--but I was
obliged to leave it--"

She could hardly say so much. Her swimming eye gave him more thanks than
he wanted. But she scolded herself vigorously and after a few minutes was
able to look and speak again.

"I hoped you would not think me ungrateful, sir, but in case you might, I
wrote to let you know that you were mistaken."

"You wrote to me!" said he.

"Yes, sir--yesterday morning--at least it was put in the post
yesterday morning."

"It was more unnecessary than you are aware off," he said with a smile and
turning one of his deep looks away from her.

"Are we fast here for all night, Mr. Carleton?" she said presently.

"I am afraid so--I believe so--I have been out to examine and the storm is
very thick."

"You need not look so about it for me," said Fleda;--"I don't care for it
at all now."

And a long-drawn breath half told how much she had cared for it, and what
a burden was gone.

"You look very little like breasting hardships," said Mr. Carleton,
bending on her so exactly the look of affectionate care that she had
often had from him when she was a child, that Fleda was very near
overcome again.

"O you know," she said, speaking by dint of great force upon
herself,--"You know the will is everything, and mine is very good--"

But he looked extremely unconvinced and unsatisfied.

"I am so comforted to see you sitting there, sir," Fleda went on
gratefully,--"that I am sure I can bear patiently all the rest."

His eye turned away and she did not know what to make of his gravity. But
a moment after he looked again and spoke with his usual manner.

"That business you entrusted to me," he said in a lower tone,--"I believe
you will have no more trouble with it."

"So I thought!--so I gathered--the other night,--" said Fleda, her heart
and her face suddenly full of many things.

"The note was given up--I saw it burned."

Fleda's two hands clasped each other mutely.

"And will he be silent?"

"I think he will choose to be so--for his own sake."

The only sake that would avail in that quarter, Fleda knew. How had Mr.
Carleton ever managed it!

"And Charlton?" she said after a few minutes' tearful musing.

"I had the pleasure of Capt. Rossitur's company to breakfast, the next
morning,--and I am happy to report that there is no danger of any trouble
arising there."

"How shall I ever thank you, sir!" said Fleda with trembling lips.

His smile was so peculiar she almost thought he was going to tell her. But
just then Mrs. Renney having accomplished the desirable temperature of her
feet, came back to warm her ears, and placed herself on the next seat;
happily not the one behind but the one before them, where her eyes were
thrown away; and the lines of Mr. Carleton's mouth came back to their
usual quiet expression.

"You were in particular haste to reach home?" he asked.

Fleda said no, not in the abstract; it made no difference whether to-day
or to-morrow.

"You had heard no ill news of your cousin?"

"Not at all, but it is difficult to find an opportunity of making the
journey, and I thought I ought to come yesterday."

He was silent again; and the baffled seekers after ways and means who had
gone out to try arguments upon the storm, began to come pouring back into
the car. And bringing with them not only their loud and coarse voices with
every shade of disagreeableness aggravated by ill-humour, but also an
average amount of snow upon their hats and shoulders, the place was soon
full of a reeking atmosphere of great coats. Fleda was trying to put up
her window, but Mr. Carleton gently stopped her and began bargaining with
a neighbouring fellow-traveller for the opening of his.

"Well, sir, I'll open it if you wish it," said the man civilly, "but
they say we sha'n't have nothing to make fires with more than an hour
or two longer;--so maybe you'll think we can't afford to let any too
much cold in."

The gentleman however persisting in his wish and the wish being moreover
backed with those arguments to which every grade of human reason is
accessible, the window was opened. At first the rush of fresh air was a
great relief; but it was not very long before the raw snowy atmosphere
which made its way in was felt to be more dangerous, if it was more
endurable, than the close pent-up one it displaced. Mr. Carleton ordered
the window closed again; and Fleda's glance of meek grateful patience was
enough to pay any reasonable man for his share of the suffering. _Her_
share of it was another matter. Perhaps Mr. Carleton thought so, for he
immediately bent himself to reward her and to avert the evil, and for that
purpose brought into play every talent of manner and conversation that
could beguile the time and make her forget what she was among. If success
were his reward he had it. He withdrew her attention completely from all
that was around her, and without tasking it; she could not have borne
that. He did not seem to task himself; but without making any exertion he
held her eye and ear and guarded both from communication with things
disagreeable. He knew it. There was not a change in her eye's happy
interest, till in the course of the conversation Fleda happened to mention
Hugh, and he noticed the saddening of the eye immediately afterwards.

"Is he ill?" said Mr. Carleton.

"I don't know," said Fleda faltering a little,--"he was not--very,--but a
few weeks ago--"

Her eye explained the broken sentences which there in the neighbourhood of
other ears she dared not finish.

"He will be better after he has seen you," said Mr. Carleton gently.

"Yes--"

A very sorrowful and uncertain "yes," with an "if" in the speaker's mind
which she did not bring out.

"Can you sing your old song yet,--" said Mr. Carleton softly,--

  "'Yet one thing secures us.
  Whatever betide?'"

But Fleda burst into tears.

"Forgive me," he whispered earnestly,--"for reminding you of that,--you
did not need it, and I have only troubled you."

"No sir, you have not," said Fleda,--"it did not trouble me--and Hugh
knows it better than I do. I cannot bear anything to-night, I believe--"

"So you have remembered that, Mr. Carleton?" she said a minute after.

"Do you remember that?" said he, putting her old little Bible into her
hand.

Fleda seized it, but she could hardly bear the throng of images that
started up around it. The smooth worn cover brought so back the childish
happy days when it had been her constant companion--the shadows of the
Queechy of old, and Cynthia and her grandfather; and the very atmosphere
of those times when she had led a light-hearted strange wild life all
alone with them, reading the Encyclopædia and hunting out the
wood-springs. She opened the book and slowly turned over the leaves where
her father's hand had drawn those lines, of remark and affection, round
many a passage,--the very look of them she knew; but she could not see it
now, for her eyes were dim and tears were dropping fast into her
lap,--she hoped Mr. Carleton did not see them, but she could not help it;
she could only keep the book out of the way of being blotted. And there
were other and later associations she had with it too,--how dear!--how
tender!--how grateful!

Mr. Carleton was quite silent for a good while--till the tears had ceased;
then he bent towards her so as to be heard no further off.

"It has been for many years my best friend and companion," he said in
a low tone.

Fleda could make no answer, even by look.

"At first," he went on softly, "I had a strong association of you with it;
but the time came when I lost that entirely, and itself quite swallowed up
the thought of the giver."

A quick glance and smile told how well Fleda understood, how heartily she
was pleased with that. But she instantly looked away again.

"And now," said Mr. Carleton after a pause,--"for some time past, I have
got the association again; and I do not choose to have it so. I have come
to the resolution to put the book back into your hands and not receive it
again, unless the giver go with the gift."

Fleda looked up, a startled look of wonder, into his face, but the dark
eye left no doubt of the meaning of his words; and in unbounded confusion
she turned her own and her attention, ostensibly, to the book in her hand,
though sight and sense were almost equally out of her power. For a few
minutes poor Fleda felt as if all sensation had retreated to her
finger-ends. She turned the leaves over and over, as if willing to cheat
herself or her companion into the belief that she had something to think
of there, while associations and images of the past were gone with a
vengeance, swallowed up in a tremendous reality of the present; and the
book, which a minute ago was her father's Bible, was now--what was
it?--something of Mr. Carleton's which she must give back to him. But
still she held it and looked at it--conscious of no one distinct idea but
that, and a faint one besides that he might like to be repossessed of his
property in some reasonable time--time like everything else was in a
whirl; the only steady thing in creation seemed to be that perfectly still
and moveless figure by her side--till her trembling fingers admonished her
they would not be able to hold anything much longer; and gently and
slowly, without looking, her hand put the book back towards Mr. Carleton.
That both were detained together she knew but hardly felt;--the thing was
that she had given it!--

There was no other answer; and there was no further need that Mr. Carleton
should make any efforts for diverting her from the scene and the
circumstances where they were. Probably he knew that, for he made none. He
was perfectly silent for a long time, and Fleda was deaf to any other
voice that could be raised, near or far. She could not even think.

Mrs. Renney was happily snoring, and most of the other people had
descended into their coat collars, or figuratively speaking had lowered
their blinds, by tilting over their hats in some uncomfortable position
that signified sleep; and comparative quiet had blessed the place for some
time; as little noticed indeed by Fleda as noise would have been. The sole
thing that she clearly recognized in connection with the exterior world
was that clasp in which one of her hands lay. She did not know that the
car had grown quiet, and that only an occasional grunt of ill-humour, or
waking-up colloquy, testified that it was the unwonted domicile of a
number of human beings who were harbouring there in a disturbed state of
mind. But this state of things could not last. The time came that had been
threatened, when their last supply of extrinsic warmth was at an end.
Despite shut windows, the darkening of the stove was presently followed by
a very sensible and fast-increasing change of temperature; and this
addition to their causes of discomfort roused every one of the company
from his temporary lethargy. The growl of dissatisfied voices awoke again,
more gruff than before; the spirit of jesting had long languished and now
died outright, and in its stead came some low and deep and bitter-spoken
curses. Poor Mrs. Renney shook off her somnolency and shook her shoulders,
a little business shake, admonitory to herself to keep cool; and Fleda
came to the consciousness that some very disagreeable chills were making
their way over her.

"Are you warm enough?" said Mr. Carleton suddenly, turning to her.

"Not quite," said Fleda hesitating,--"I feel the cold a little. Please
don't, Mr. Carleton!--" she added earnestly as she saw him preparing to
throw off his cloak, the identical black fox which Constance had described
with so much vivacity;--"pray do not! I am not very cold--I can bear a
little--I am not so tender as you think me; I do not need it, and you
would feel the want very much after wearing it.--I won't put it on."

But he smilingly bade her "stand up," stooping down and taking one of her
hands to enforce his words, and giving her at the same time the benefit of
one of those looks of good humoured wilfulness to which his mother always
yielded, and to which Fleda yielded instantly, though with a colour
considerably heightened at the slight touch of peremptoriness in his tone.

"You are not offended with me, Elfie?" he said in another manner, when she
had sat down again and he was arranging the heavy folds of the cloak.

Offended!--A glance answered.

"You shall have everything your own way," he whispered gently, as he
stooped down to bring the cloak under her feet,--"_except yourself_."

What good care should be taken of that exception was said in the dark
eye at which Fleda hardly ventured half a glance. She had much ado to
command herself.

She was shielded again from all the sights and sounds within reach. She
was in a maze. The comfort of the fur cloak was curiously mixed with the
feeling of something else, of which that was an emblem,--a surrounding of
care and strength which would effectually be exerted for her
protection,--somewhat that Fleda had not known for many a long day,--the
making up of the old want. Fleda had it in her heart to cry like a baby.
Such a dash of sunlight had fallen at her feet that she hardly dared look
at it for fear of being dazzled; but she could not look anywhere that she
did not see the reflection.

In the mean time the earful of people settled again into sullen quietude.
The cold was not found propitious to quarrelling. Those who could subsided
anew into lethargy, those who could not gathered in their outposts to make
the best defence they might of the citadel. Most happily it was not an
extreme night; cold enough to be very disagreeable and even (without a fur
cloak) dangerous; but not enough to put even noses and ears in immediate
jeopardy. Mr. Carleton had contrived to procure a comfortable wrapper for
Mrs. Renney from a Yankee who for the sake of being "a warm man" as to his
pockets was willing to be cold otherwise for a time. The rest of the great
coats and cloaks which were so alert and erect a little while ago were
doubled up on every side in all sorts of despondent attitudes. A dull
quiet brooded over the assembly; and Mr. Carleton walked up and down the
vacant space. Once he caught an anxious glance from Fleda, and came
immediately to her side.

"You need not be troubled about me," he said with a most genial smile;--"I
am not suffering--never was further from it in my life."

Fleda could neither answer nor look.

"There are not many hours of the night to wear out," he said. "Can't you
follow your neighbour's example?"

She shook her head.

"This watching is too hard for you. You will have another headache
to-morrow."

"No--perhaps not," she said with a grateful look up.

"You do not feel the cold now, Elfie?"

"Not at all--not in the least--I am perfectly comfortable--I am doing
very well--"

He stood still, and the changing lights and shades on Fleda's cheek
grew deeper.

"Do you know where we are, Mr. Carleton?"

"Somewhere between a town the name of which I have forgotten and a place
called Quarrenton, I think; and Quarrenton, they tell me, is but a few
miles from Greenfield. Our difficulties will vanish, I hope, with the
darkness."

He walked again, and Fleda mused, and wondered at herself in the black
fox. She did not venture another look, though her eye took in nothing very
distinctly but the outlines of that figure passing up and down through the
car. He walked perseveringly; and weariness at last prevailed over
everything else with Fleda; she lost herself with her head leaning against
the bit of wood between the windows.

The rousing of the great coats, and the growing gray light, roused her
before her uneasy sleep had lasted an hour. The lamps were out, the car
was again spotted with two long rows of window-panes, through which the
light as yet came but dimly. The morning had dawned at last, and seemed to
have brought with it a fresh accession of cold, for everybody was on the
stir. Fleda put up her window to get a breath of fresh air and see how the
day looked.

A change of weather had come with the dawn. It was not fine yet. The
snowing had ceased, but the clouds hung overhead still, though not with
the leaden uniformity of yesterday; they were higher and broken into many
a soft grey fold, that promised to roll away from the sky by and by. The
snow was deep on the ground; every visible thing lapped in a thick white
covering; a still, very grave, very pretty winter landscape, but somewhat
dreary in its aspect to a trainful of people fixed in the midst of it out
of sight of human habitation. Fleda felt that, but only in the abstract;
to her it did not seem dreary; she enjoyed the wild solitary beauty of the
scene very much, with many a grateful thought of what might have been. As
it was, she left difficulties entirely to others.

As soon as it was light the various inmates of the strange dormitory
gathered themselves up and set out on foot for Quarrenton. By one of them
Mr. Carleton sent an order for a sleigh, which in as short a time as
possible arrived, and transported him and Fleda and Mrs. Renney, and one
other ill-bestead woman, safely to the little town of Quarrenton.

Chapter XLVIII.

  Welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again,
  and till then, Sit thee down, sorrow!--Love's Labour Lost.

It had been a wild night, and the morning looked scared. Perhaps it was
only the particular locality, for if ever a place shewed bleak and winter
stricken the little town of Quarrenton was in that condition that morning.
The snow overlaid and enveloped everything, except where the wind had been
at work; and the wind and the grey clouds seemed the only agencies abroad.
Nor a ray of sunlight to relieve the uniform sober tints, the universal
grey and white, only varied where a black house-roof, partially cleared,
or a blacker bare-branched tree, gave it a sharp interruption. There was
not a solitary thing that bore an indication of comfortable life, unless
the curls of smoke that went up from the chimneys; and Fleda was in no
condition to study their physiognomy.

A little square hotel, perched alone on a rising ground, looked the
especial bleak and unpromising spot of the place. It bore however the
imposing title of the Pocahontas; and there the sleigh set them down.

They were ushered up-stairs into a little parlour furnished in the usual
style, with one or two articles a great deal too showy for the place and a
general dearth as to the rest. A lumbering mahogany sofa, that shewed as
much wood and as little promise as possible; a marble-topped centre-table;
chairs in the minority and curtains minus; and the hearth-rug providently
turned bottom upwards. On the centre-table lay a pile of Penny Magazines,
a volume of selections of poetry from various good authors, and a
sufficient complement of newspapers. The room was rather cold, but of that
the waiter gave a reasonable explanation in the fact that the fire had not
been burning long.

Furs however might be dispensed with, or Fleda thought so; and taking off
her bonnet she endeavoured to rest her weary head against the sharp-cut
top of the sofa-back, which seemed contrived expressly to punish and
forbid all attempts at ease-seeking. The mere change of position was still
comparative ease. But the black fox had not done duty yet. Its ample folds
were laid over the sofa, cushion-back and all, so as at once to serve for
pillow and mattress, and Fleda being gently placed upon it laid her face
down again upon the soft fur, which gave a very kindly welcome not more to
the body than to the mind. Fleda almost smiled as she felt that. The furs
were something more than a pillow for her cheek--they were the soft image
of somewhat for her mind to rest on. But entirely exhausted, too much for
smiles or tears, though both were near, she resigned herself as helplessly
as an infant to the feeling of rest; and in five minutes was in a state of
dreamy unconsciousness.

Mrs. Renney, who had slept a great part of the night, courted sleep anew
in the rocking-chair, till breakfast should be ready; the other woman had
found quarters in the lower part of the house; and Mr. Carleton stood
still with folded arms to read at his leisure the fair face that rested so
confidingly upon the black fur of his cloak, looking so very fair in the
contrast. It was the same face he had known in time past,--the same, with
only an alteration that had added new graces but had taken away none of
the old. Not one of the soft outlines had grown hard under Time's
discipline; not a curve had lost its grace or its sweet mobility; and yet
the hand of Time had been there; for on brow and lip and cheek and eyelid
there was that nameless grave composure which said touchingly that hope
had long ago clasped hands with submission. And perhaps, that if hope's
anchor had not been well placed, ay, even where it could not be moved, the
storms of life might have beaten even hope from her ground and made a
clean sweep of desolation over all she had left. Not the storms of the
last few weeks. Mr. Carleton saw and understood their work in the
perfectly colourless and thin cheek. But these other finer drawn
characters had taken longer to write. He did not know the instrument, but
he read the hand-writing, and came to his own resolutions therefrom.

Yet if not untroubled she had remained unspotted by the world; that was as
clear as the other. The slight eyebrow sat with its wonted calm purity of
outline just where it used; the eyelid fell as quietly; the forehead above
it was as unruffled; and if the mouth had a subdued gravity that it had
taken years to teach, it had neither lost any of the sweetness nor any of
the simplicity of childhood. It was a strange picture that Mr. Carleton
was looking at,--strange for its rareness. In this very matter of
simplicity, that the world will never leave those who belong to it. Half
sitting and half reclining, she had given herself to rest with the
abandonment and self-forgetfulness of a child; her attitude had the very
grace of a child's unconsciousness; and her face shewed that even in
placing herself there she had lost all thought of any other presence or
any other eyes than her own; even of what her hand and cheek lay upon,
and what it betokened. It meant something to Mr. Carleton too; and if
Fleda could have opened her eyes she would have seen in those that were
fixed upon her a happy promise for her future life. She was beyond making
any such observations; and Mrs. Renney gave no interruption to his till
the breakfast bell rang.

Mr. Carleton had desired the meal to be served in a private room. But he
was met with a speech in which such a confusion of arguments endeavoured
to persuade him to be of another mind, that he had at last given way. It
was asserted that the ladies would have their breakfast a great deal
quicker and a great deal hotter with the rest of the company; and in the
same breath that it would be a very great favour to the house if the
gentleman would not put them to the inconvenience of setting a separate
table; the reasons of which inconvenience were set forth in detail, or
would have been if the gentleman would have heard them; and desirous
especially of haste, on Fleda's account, Mr. Carleton signified his
willingness to let the house accommodate itself. Following the bell a
waiter now came to announce and conduct them to their breakfast.

Down the stairs, through sundry narrow turning passages, they went to a
long low room at one corner of the house; where a table was spread for a
very nondescript company, as it soon proved, many of their last night's
companions having found their way thither. The two _ladies_, however, were
given the chief posts at the head, as near as possible to a fiery hot
stove, and served with tea and coffee from a neighbouring table by a young
lady in long ringlets who was there probably for their express honour. But
alas for the breakfast! They might as good have had the comfort of a
private room, for there was none other to be had. Of the tea and coffee it
might be said as once it was said of two bad roads--"whichever one you
take you will wish you had taken the other;" the beefsteak was a problem
of impracticability; and the chickens--Fleda could not help thinking that
a well-to-do rooster which she saw flapping his wings in the yard, must in
all probability be at that very moment endeavouring to account for a
sudden breach in his social circle; and if the oysters had been some very
fine ladies they could hardly have retained less recollection of their
original circumstances. It was in vain to try to eat or to drink; and
Fleda returned to her sofa with even an increased appetite for rest, the
more that her head began to take its revenge for the trials to which it
had been put the past day and night.

She had closed her eyes again in her old position. Mrs. Renney was tying
her bonnet-strings. Mr. Carleton was pacing up and down.

"Aren't you going to get ready, Miss Ringgan?" said the former.

"How soon will the cars be here?" exclaimed Fleda starting up.

"Presently," said Mr. Carleton; "but," said he, coming up to her
and taking her hands,--"I am going to prescribe for you again--will
you let me?"

Fleda's face gave small promise of opposition.

"You are not fit to travel now. You need some hours of quiet rest before
we go any further."

"But when shall we get home?" said Fleda.

"In good time--not by the railroad--there is a nearer way that will take
us to Queechy without going through Greenfield. I have ordered a room to
be made ready for you--will you try if it be habitable?"

Fleda submitted; and indeed there was in his manner a sort of gentle
determination to which few women would have opposed themselves; besides
that her head threatened to make a journey a miserable business.

"You are ill now," said Mr. Carleton. "Cannot you induce your companion to
stay and attend you?"

"I don't want her," said Fleda.

Mr. Carleton however mooted the question himself with Mrs. Renney, but she
represented to him, though with much deference, that the care of her
property must oblige her to go where and when it went. He rang and ordered
the housekeeper to be sent.

Presently after a young lady in ringlets entered the room, and first
taking a somewhat leisurely survey of the company, walked to the window
and stood there looking out. A dim recollection of her figure and air made
Fleda query whether she were not the person sent for; but it was several
minutes before it came into Mr. Carleton's head to ask if she belonged to
the house.

"I do, sir," was the dignified answer.

"Will you shew this lady the room prepared for her? And take care that she
wants nothing."

The owner of the ringlets answered not, but turning the front view of them
full upon Fleda seemed to intimate that she was ready to act as her guide.
She hinted however that the rooms were very _airy_ in winter and that
Fleda would stand a better chance of comfort where she was. But this Fleda
would not listen to, and followed her adviser to the half warmed and
certainly very airy apartment which had been got ready for her. It was
probably more owing to something in her own appearance than to Mr.
Carleton's word of admonition on the subject that her attendant was really
assiduous and kind.

"Be you of this country?" she said abruptly, after her good offices as
Fleda thought were ended, and she had just closed her eyes.

She opened them again and said "yes."

"Well, that ain't in the parlour, is he?"

"What?" said Fleda.

"One of our folks?"

"An American, you mean?--No."

"I thought he wa'n't--What is he?"

"He is English."

"Is he your brother?"

"No."

The young lady gave her a good look out of her large dark eyes, and
remarking that "she thought they didn't look much like," left the room.

The day was spent by poor Fleda between pain and stupor, each of which
acted in some measure to check the other; too much exhausted for nervous
pain to reach the height it sometimes did, while yet that was sufficient
to prevent stupor from sinking into sleep. Beyond any power of thought or
even fancy, with only a dreamy succession of images flitting across her
mind, the hours passed she knew not how; that they did pass she knew from
her handmaid in the long curls who was every now and then coming in to
look at her and give her fresh water; it needed no ice. Her handmaid told
her that the cars were gone by--that it was near noon--then that it was
past noon. There was no help for it; she could only lie still and wait; it
was long past noon before she was able to move; and she was looking ill
enough yet when she at last opened the door of the parlour and slowly
presented herself.

Mr. Carleton was there alone, Mrs. Renney having long since accompanied
her baggage. He came forward instantly and led Fleda to the sofa, with
such gentle grave kindness that she could hardly bear it; her nerves had
been in an unsteady state all day. A table was set and partially spread
with evidently much more care than the one of the morning; and Fleda sat
looking at it afraid to trust herself to look anywhere else. For years she
had been taking care of others; and now there was something so strange in
this feeling of being cared for, that her heart was full. Whatever Mr.
Carleton saw or suspected of this, it did not appear. On the contrary his
manner and his talk on different matters was as cool, as quiet, as
graceful, as if neither he nor Fleda had anything particular to think of;
avoiding even an allusion to whatever might in the least distress her.
Fleda thought she had a great many reasons to be grateful to him, but she
never thanked him for anything more than at that moment she thanked him
for the delicacy which so regarded her delicacy and put her in a few
minutes completely at her ease as she could be.

The refreshments were presently brought, and Fleda was served with them
in a way that went as far as possible towards making them satisfactory;
but though a great improvement upon the morning they furnished still but
the substitute for a meal. There was a little pause then after the horses
were ordered.

"I am afraid you have wanted my former prescription to-day," said Mr.
Carleton, after considering the little-improved colour of Fleda's face.

"I have indeed."

"Where is it?"

Fleda hesitated, and then in a little confusion said she supposed it was
lying on Mrs. Evelyn's centre-table.

"How happens that?" said he smiling.

"Because--I could not help it, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda with no little
difficulty;--"I was foolish--I could not bring it away."

He understood and was silent.

"Are you fit to bear a long ride in the cold?" he said compassionately a
few minutes after.

"Oh yes!--It will do me good."

"You have had a miserable day, have you not?"

"My head has been pretty bad,--" said Fleda a little evasively.

"Well, what would you have?" said he lightly;--"doesn't that make a
miserable day of it?"

Fleda hesitated and coloured,--and then conscious that her cheeks were
answering for her, coloured so exceedingly that she was fain to put both
her hands up to hide what they only served the more plainly to shew. No
advantage was taken. Mr. Carleton said nothing; she could not see what
answer might be in his face. It was only by a peculiar quietness in his
tone whenever he spoke to her afterwards that Fleda knew she had been
thoroughly understood. She dared not lift her eyes.

They had soon employment enough around her. A sleigh and horses better
than anything else Quarrenton had been known to furnish, were carrying
her rapidly towards home; the weather had perfectly cleared off, and in
full brightness and fairness the sun was shining upon a brilliant world.
It was cold indeed, though the only wind was that made by their progress;
but Fleda had been again unresistingly wrapped in the furs and was for
the time beyond the reach of that or any other annoyance. She eat
silently and quietly enjoying; so quietly that a stranger might have
questioned there being any enjoyment in the case. It was a very
picturesque broken country, fresh-covered with snow; and at that hour,
late in the day, the lights and shadows were a constantly varying charm
to the eye. Clumps of evergreens stood out in full disclosure against the
white ground; the bare branches of neighbouring trees, in all their
barrenness, had a wild prospective or retrospective beauty peculiar to
themselves. On the wavy white surface of the meadow-land, or the steep
hill-sides, lay every variety of shadow in blue and neutral tint; where
they lay not the snow was too brilliant to be borne. And afar off,
through a heaven bright and cold enough to hold the canopy over Winter's
head, the ruler of the day was gently preparing to say good-bye to the
world. Fleda's eye seemed to be new set for all forms of beauty, and
roved from one to the other, as grave and bright as nature itself.

For a little way Mr. Carleton left her to her musings and was as silent as
she. But then he gently drew her into a conversation that broke up the
settled gravity of her face and obliged her to divide her attention
between nature and him, and his part of it he knew how to manage. But
though eye and smile constantly answered him he could win neither to a
straightforward bearing.

They were about a mile from Queechy when Pleda suddenly exclaimed,

"O Mr. Carleton, please stop the sleigh I--"

The horses were stopped.

"It is only Earl Douglass--our farmer," Fleda said in explanation,--"I
want to ask how they are at home."

In answer to her nod of recognition Mr. Douglass came to the side of the
vehicle; but till he was there, close, gave her no other answer by word or
sign; when there, broke forth his accustomed guttural,

"How d'ye do!"

"How d'ye do, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda. "How are they all at home?"

"Well, there ain't nothin' new among 'em, as I've heerd on," said Earl,
diligently though stealthily at the same time qualifying himself to make a
report of Mr. Carleton,--"I guess they'll be glad to see you. _I_ be."

"Thank you, Mr. Douglass. How is Hugh?"

"He ain't nothin' different from what he's been for a spell back--at least
I ain't heerd that he was.--Maybe he is, but if he is I han't heerd speak
of it, and if he was, I think I should ha' heerd speak of it. He _was_
pretty bad a spell ago--about when you went away--but he's been better
sen. So they say. I ha'n't seen him.--Well Flidda," he added with somewhat
of a sly gleam in his eye,--"do you think you're going to make up your
mind to stay to hum this time?"

"I have no immediate intention of running away, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda,
her pale cheeks turning rose as she saw him looking curiously up and down
the edges of the black fox. His eye came back to hers with a good-humoured
intelligence that she could hardly stand.

"It's time you was back," said he. "Your uncle's to hum,--but he don't do
me much good, whatever he does to other folks--nor himself nother, as far
as the farm goes; there's that corn"--

"Very well, Mr. Douglass," said Fleda,--"I shall be at home now and I'll
see about it."

"_Very_ good!" said Earl as he stepped back,--"Queechy can't get along
without you, that's no mistake."

They drove on a few minutes in silence.

"Aren't you thinking, Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, "that my countrymen are a
strange mixture?"

"I was not thinking of them at all at this moment. I believe such a notion
has crossed my mind."

"It has crossed mine very often," said Fleda.

"How do you read them? what is the basis of it?"

[Illustration: "How are they all at home?"]

"I think,--the strong self-respect which springs from the security and
importance that republican institutions give every man. But," she added
colouring, "I have seen very little of the world and ought not to judge."

"I have no doubt you are quite right," said Mr. Carleton smiling. "But
don't you think an equal degree of self-respect may consist with giving
honour where honour is due?"

"Yes--" said Fleda a little doubtfully,--"where religion and not
republicanism is the spring of it."

"Humility and not pride," said he. "Yes--you are right."

"My countrymen do yield honour where they think it is due," said Fleda;
"especially where it is not claimed. They must give it to reality, not to
pretension. And I confess I would rather see them a little rude in their
independence than cringing before mere advantages of external
position;--even for my own personal pleasure."

"I agree with you, Elfie,--putting perhaps the last clause out of the
question."

"Now that man," said Fleda, smiling at his look,--"I suppose his address
must have struck you as very strange; and yet there was no want of respect
under it. I am sure he has a true thorough respect and even regard for me,
and would prove it on any occasion."

"I have no doubt of that."

"But it does not satisfy you?"

"Not quite. I confess I should require more from any one under my
control."

"Oh nobody is under control here," said Fleda. "That is, I mean,
individual control. Unless so far as self-interest comes in. I suppose
that is all-powerful here as elsewhere."

"And the reason it gives less power to individuals is that the greater
freedom of resources makes no man's interest depend so absolutely on one
other man. That is a reason you cannot regret. No--your countrymen have
the best of it, Elfie. But do you suppose that this is a fair sample of
the whole country?"

"I dare not say that," said Fleda. "I am afraid there is not so much
intelligence and cultivation everywhere. But I am sure there are many
parts of the land that will bear a fair comparison with it."

"It is more than I would dare say for my own land."

"I should think--" Fleda suddenly stopped.

"What?--" said Mr. Carleton gently.

"I beg your pardon, sir,--I was going to say something very presumptuous."

"You cannot," he said in the same tone.

"I was going to say," said Fleda blushing, "that I should think there
might be a great deal of pleasure in raising the tone of mind and
character among the people,--as one could who had influence over a large
neighbourhood."

His smile was very bright in answer.

"I have been trying that, Elfie, for the last eight years."

Fleda's eye looked now eagerly in pleasure and in curiosity for more. But
he was silent.

"I was thinking a little while ago," he said, "of the time once before
when I rode here with you--when you were beginning to lead me to the
problem I have been trying to work out ever since.--When I left you in
Paris I went to resolve with myself the question, What I had to do in the
world?--Your little Bible was my invaluable help. I had read very little
of it when I threw aside all other books; and my problem was soon solved.
I saw that the life has no honour nor value which is not spent to the
glory of God. I saw the end I was made for--the happiness I was fitted
for--the dignity to which even a fallen creature may rise, through his
dear Redeemer and surety."

Fleda's eyes were down now. Mr. Carleton was silent a moment, watching one
or two bright witnesses that fell from them.

"The next conclusion was easy,--that my work was at home.--I have wanted
my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on smiling. "But I hope she will be
contented to carry the standard of Christianity, without that of
republicanism."

"But Christianity tends directly to republicanism, Mr. Carleton," said
Fleda, trying to laugh.

"I know that," said he smiling, "and I am willing to know it. But the
leaven of truth is one thing, and the powder train of the innovator
is another."

Fleda sat thinking that she had very little in common with the layers of
powder trains. She did not know the sleigh was passing Deepwater Lake,
till Mr. Carleton said,--

"I am glad, my dear Elfie, for your sake, that we are almost at the end of
your journey."

"I should think you might be glad for your own sake, Mr. Carleton."

"No--my journey is not ended--"

"Not?"

"No--it will not be ended till I get back to New York, or rather till I
find myself here again--I shall make very little delay there--"

"But you will not go any further to-night?" said Fleda, her eye this time
meeting his fully.

"Yes--I must take the first train to New York. I have some reason to
expect my mother by this steamer."

"Back to New York!" said Fleda. "Then taking care of me has just hindered
you in your business."

But even as she spoke she read the truth in his eye and her own fell in
confusion.

"My business?" said he smiling;--"you know it now, Elfie. I arrived at
Mrs. Evelyn's just after you had quitted it, intending to ask you to take
the long talked of drive; and learned to my astonishment that you had left
the city, and as Edith kindly informed me, under no better guardianship
than that in which I found you. I was just in time to reach the boat."

"And you were in the boat night before last?"

"Certainly."

"I should have felt a great deal easier if I had known that," said Fleda.

"So should I," said he, "but you were invisible, till I discerned you in
the midst of a crowd of people before me in the car."

Fleda was silent till the sleigh stopped and Mr. Carleton had
handed her out.

"What's going to be done

"I will send somebody down to help you with it," said Fleda. "It is too
heavy for one alone."

"Well I reckon it is," said he. "I guess you didn't know I was a
cousin, did you?"

"No," said Fleda.

"I believe I be."

"Who are you?"

"I am Pierson Barnes. I live to Quarrenton for a year back. Squire Joshua
Springer's your uncle, ain't he?"

"Yes, my father's uncle."

"Well he's mine too. His sister's my mother."

"I'll send somebody to help you, Mr. Barnes."

She took Mr. Carleton's arm and walked half the way up to the house
without daring to look at him.

"Another specimen of your countrymen," he said smiling.

There was nothing but quiet amusement in the tone, and there was not the
shadow of anything else in his face. Fleda looked, and thanked him
mentally, and drew breath easier. At the house door he made a pause.

"You are coming in, Mr. Carleton?"

"Not now."

"It is a long drive to Greenfield, Mr. Carleton;--you must not turn away
from a country house till we have shewn ourselves unworthy to live in it.
You will come in and let us give you something more substantial than those
Quarrenton oysters. Do not say no," she said earnestly as she saw a
refusal in his eye,--"I know what you are thinking of, but they do not
know that you have been told anything--it makes no difference."

She laid her gentle detaining hand, as irresistible in its way as most
things, upon his arm, and he followed her in.

Only Hugh was in the sitting-room, and he was in a great easy-chair by the
fire. It struck to Fleda's heart; but there was no time but for a flash of
thought. He had turned his face and saw her. Fleda meant to have
controlled herself and presented Mr. Carleton properly, but Hugh started
up, he saw nothing but herself, and one view of the ethereal delicacy of
his face made Fleda for a moment forget everything but him. They were in
each other's arms, and then still as death. Hugh was unconscious that a
stranger was there, and though Fleda was very conscious that one was there
who was no stranger,--there was so much in both hearts, so much of sorrow
and joy, and gratitude and tenderness, on the one part and on the other,
so much that even if they had been alone lips could only have said
silently,--that for a little while they kissed each other and wept in a
passionate attempt to speak what their hearts were too full of.

Fleda at last whispered to Hugh that somebody else was there and turned
to make as well as she might the introduction. But Mr. Carleton did not
need it, and made his own with that singular talent which in all
circumstances, wherever he chose to exert it, had absolute power. Fleda
saw Hugh's countenance change, with a kind of pleased surprise, and
herself stood still under the charm for a minute; then she recollected she
might be dispensed with. She took up her little spaniel who was in an
agony of gratulation at her feet, and went out into the kitchen.

"Well do you mean to say you are here at last?" said Barby, her grey eyes
flashing pleasure as she came forward to take the half hand which, owing
to King's monopoly, was all Fleda had to give her. "Have you come home to
stay, Fleda?"

"I am tired enough to be quiet," said Fleda. "But dear Barby, what have
you got in the house?--I want supper as quickly as it can be had."

"Well you do look dreadful bad," said Barby eying her. "Why there ain't
much particular, Fleda; nobody's had any heart to eat lately; I thought I
might a'most as well save myself the fuss of getting victuals. Hugh lives
like a bird, and Mis' Rossitur ain't much better, and I think all of 'em
have been keeping their appetites till you came back; 'cept Philetus and
me; we keep it up pretty well. Why you're come home hungry, ain't you?"

"No, not I," said Fleda, "but there's a gentleman here that came with me
that must have something before he goes away again. What have you Barby?"

"Who is he?" said Barby.

"A friend that took care of me on the way--I'll tell you about it,--but in
the mean time, supper, Barby."

"Is he a New Yorker, that one must be curious for?"

"As curious as you like," said Fleda, "but he is not a New Yorker."

"Where _is_ he from, then?" said Barby, who was busily putting on the
tea-kettle.

"England."

"England!" said Barby facing about. "Oh if he's an Englishman I don't care
for him, Fleda."

"But you care for me," said Fleda laughing; "and for my sake don't let our
hospitality fail to somebody who has been very kind to me, if he is an
Englishman; and he is in haste to be off."

"Well I don't know what we're a going to give him," said Barby looking at
her. "There ain't much in the pantry besides cold pork and beans that
Philetus and me made our dinner on--they wouldn't have it in there, and
eat nothing but some pickerel the doctor sent down--and cold fish ain't
good for much."

"None of them left uncooked?"

"Yes, there's a couple--he sent a great lot--I guess he thought there
was more in the family--but two ain't enough to go round; they're
little ones."

"No, but put them down and I'll make an omelette. Just get the things
ready for me, Barby, will you, while I run up to see aunt Lucy. The hens
have begun to lay?"

"La yes--Philetus fetches in lots of eggs--he loves 'em, I reckon--but you
ain't fit this minute to do a thing but rest, Fleda."

"I'll rest afterwards. Just get the things ready for me, Barby, and an
apron; and the table--I'll be down in a minute. And Barby, grind some
coffee, will you?"

But as she turned to run up stairs, her uncle stood in her way, and the
supper vanished from Fleda's head. His arms were open and she was silently
clasped in them, with so much feeling on both sides that thought and well
nigh strength for anything else on her part was gone. His smothered words
of deep blessing overcame her. Fleda could do nothing but sob, in
distress, till she recollected Barby. Putting her arms round his neck then
she whispered to him that Mr. Carleton was in the other room and shortly
explained how he came to be there, and begged her uncle would go in and
see him till supper should be ready. Enforcing this request with a parting
kiss on his cheek, she ran off up stairs. Mr. Rossitur looked extremely
moody and cloudy for a few minutes, and then went in and joined his guest.
Mrs. Rossitur and her daughter could not be induced to shew themselves.

Little Rolf, however, had no scruples of any kind. He presently edged
himself into the room to see the stranger whom he no sooner saw than with
a joyous exclamation he bounded forward to claim an old friend.

"Why, Mr. Carleton," exclaimed Mr. Rossitur in surprise, "I was not aware
that this young gentleman had the honour of your acquaintance."

"But I have!" said Rolf.

"In London, sir, I had that pleasure," said Mr. Carleton.

"I think it was _I_ had the pleasure," said Rolf, pounding one hand upon
Mr. Carleton's knee.

"Where is your mother?"

"She wouldn't come down," said Rolf,--"but I guess she will when she knows
who is here--"

And he was darting away to tell her, when Mr. Carleton, within whose arms
he stood, quietly restrained him, and told him he was going away
presently, but would come again and see his mother another time.

"Are you going back to England, sir?"

"By and by."

"But you will come here again first?"

"Yes--if Mr. Rossitur will let me."

"Mr. Carleton knows he commands his own welcome," said that gentleman
somewhat stately. "Go and tell your aunt Fleda that tea is ready, Rolf."

"She knows," said Rolf. "She was making an omelette--I guess it was for
this gentleman!"

Whose name he was not clear of yet. Mr. Rossitur looked vexed, but Hugh
laughed and asked if his aunt gave him leave to tell that. Rolf entered
forthwith into discussion on this subject, while Mr. Carleton who had not
seemed to hear it engaged Mr. Rossitur busily in another; till the
omelette and Fleda came in. Rolf's mind however was ill at ease.

"Aunt Fleda," said he, as soon as she had fairly taken her place at the
head of the table, "would you mind my telling that you made the omelette
for this gentleman?"

Fleda cast a confused glance first at the person in question and then
round the table, but Mr. Carleton without looking at her answered
instantly,

"Don't you understand, Rolf, that the same kindness which will do a favour
for a friend will keep him in ignorance of it?"

Rolf pondered a moment and then burst forth,

"Why, sir, wouldn't you like it as well for knowing she made it?"

It was hardly in human gravity to stand this. Fleda herself laughed, but
Mr. Carleton as unmoved as possible answered him, "Certainly not!"--and
Rolf was nonplussed.

The supper was over. Hugh had left the room, and Mr. Rossitur had before
that gone out to give directions about Mr. Carleton's horses. He and Fleda
were left alone.

"I have something against you, fairy," said he lightly, taking her hand
and putting it to his lips. "You shall not again do me such honour as you
have done me to-day--I did not deserve it, Elfie."

The last words were spoken half reproachfully. Fleda stood a moment
motionless, and then by some curious revulsion of feeling put both her
hands to her face and burst into tears.

She struggled against them, and spoke almost immediately,

"You will think me very foolish, Mr. Carleton,--I am ashamed of
myself--but I have lived here so long in this way,--my spirits have grown
so quieted by different things,--that it seems sometimes as if I could not
bear anything.--I am afraid--"

"Of what, my dear Elfie?"

But she did not answer, and her tears came again.

"You are weary and spent," he said gently, repossessing himself of one of
her hands. "I will ask you another time what you are afraid of, and rebuke
all your fears."

"I deserve nothing but rebuke now," said Fleda.

But her hand knew, by the gentle and quiet clasp in which it lay, that
there was no disposition to give it.

"Do not speak to me for a minute," she said hastily as she heard some
one coming.

She went to the window and stood there looking out till Mr. Carleton came
to bid her good-bye.

"Will you permit me to say to Mrs. Evelyn," he said in a low tone, "that
you left a piece of your property in her house and have commissioned me to
bring it you?"

"Yes--" said Fleda, hesitating and looking a little confused,--"but--will
you let me write a note instead, Mr. Carleton?"

"Certainly!--but what are you thinking of, Elfie? what grave doubt is
lying under your brow?"

All Fleda's shadows rolled away before that clear bright eye.

"I have found by experience," she said, smiling a little but looking
down,--"that whenever I tell my secret thoughts to anybody I have some
reason afterwards to be sorry for it."

"You shall make me an exception to your rule, however, Elfie."

Fleda looked up, one of her looks half questioning, half fearing, and then
answered, a little hesitating,

"I was afraid, sir, that if you went to Mrs. Evelyn's on that errand--I
was afraid you would shew them you were displeased."

"And what then?" said he quietly.

"Only--that I wanted to spare them what always gives me a cold chill."

"Gives you!" said Mr. Carleton.

"No sir--only by sympathy--I thought my agency would be the gentlest."

"I see I was right," she said, looking up as he did not answer,--"they
don't deserve it,--not half so much as you think. They talk--they don't
know what. I am sure they never meant half they said--never meant to annoy
me with it, I mean,--and I am sure they have a true love for me; they have
shewn it in a great many ways. Constance especially never shewed me
anything else. They have been very kind to me; and as to letting me come
away as they did, I suppose they thought I was in a greater hurry to get
home than I really was--and they would very likely not have minded
travelling so themselves; I am so different from them that they might in
many things judge me by themselves and yet judge far wrong."

Fleda was going on, but she suddenly became aware that the eye to which
she was speaking had ceased to look at the Evelyns, even in imagination,
and she stopped short.

"Will you trust me, after this, to see Mrs. Evelyn without the note?" said
he smiling.

But Fleda gave him her hand very demurely without raising her eyes again,
and he went.

Barby who had come in to clear away the table took her stand at the
window to watch Mr. Carleton drive off. Fleda had retreated to the fire.
Barby looked in silence till the sleigh was out of sight.

"Is he going back to England now?" she said coming back to the table.

"No."

Barby gathered a pile of plates together and then enquired,

"Is he going to settle in America?"

"Why no, Barby! What makes you ask such a thing?"

"I thought he looked as if he had dressed himself for a cold climate,"
said Barby dryly.

Fleda sat down by Hugh's easy-chair and laid her head on his breast.

"I like your Mr. Carleton very much," Hugh whispered after awhile.

"Do you?" said Fleda, a little wondering at Hugh's choice of that
particular pronominal adjective.

"Very much indeed. But he has changed, Fleda?"

"Yes--in some things--some great things."

"He says he is coming again," said Hugh.

Fleda's heart beat. She was silent.

"I am very glad," repeated Hugh, "I like him very much. But you won't
leave me, Fleda,--will you?"

"Leave you?" said Fleda looking at him.

"Yes," said Hugh smiling, and drawing her head down again;--I always
thought what he came over here for. But you will stay with me while I want
you, Fleda?"

"While you want me!" said Fleda again.

"Yes.--It won't be long."

"What won't be long?"

"I," said Hugh quietly. "Not long. I am very glad I shall not leave you
alone, dear Fleda--very glad!--promise me you will not leave me any more."

"Don't talk so, dear Hugh!"

"But it is true, Fleda," said Hugh gently. "I know it. I sha'n't be here
but a little while. I am so glad you are come home, dear Fleda!--You will
not let anybody take you away till I am gone first?"

Fleda drew her arm close around Hugh's neck and was still,--still even to
his ear,--for a good while. A hard battle must be fought, and she must not
be weak, for his sake and for everybody's sake. Others of the family had
come or were coming into the room. Hugh waited till a short breath, but
freer drawn, told him he might speak.

"Fleda--" he whispered.

"What?"

"I am very happy.--I only want your promise about that."

"I can't talk to you, Hugh."

"No, but promise me."

"What?"

"That you will not let anybody take you away while I want you."

"I am sure he would not ask it," said Fleda, hiding her cheeks and eyes at
once in his breast.

Chapter XLIX.

  Do you think I shall not love a sad Pamela as well as a joyful?

  Sidney.

Mr. Carleton came back without his mother; she had chosen to put off her
voyage till spring. He took up his quarters at Montepoole, which, far
though it was, was yet the nearest point where his notions of ease could
have freedom enough.

One would have thought that saw him,--those most nearly concerned almost
did think,--that in his daily coming to Queechy Mr. Carleton sought
everybody's pleasure rather than his own. He was Fleda's most gentle and
kind assistant in taking care of Hugh, soon dearly valued by the sick one,
who watched for and welcomed his coming as a bright spot in the day; and
loved particularly to have Mr. Carleton's hand do anything for him. Rather
than almost any other. His mother's was too feeling; Fleda's Hugh often
feared was weary; and his father's, though gentle to him as to an infant,
yet lacked the mind's training. And though Marion was his sister in blood,
Guy was his brother in better bonds. The deep blue eye that little Fleda
had admired Hugh learned to love and rest on singularly.

To the rest of the family Mr. Carleton's influence was more soothing and
cheering than any cause beside. To all but the head of it. Even Mrs.
Rossitur, after she had once made up her mind to see him, could not bear
to be absent when he was in the house. The dreaded contrast with old times
gave no pain, either to her or Marion. Mr. Carleton forgot so completely
that there was any difference that they were charmed into forgetting it
too. But Mr. Rossitur's pride lay deeper, or had been less humbled by
sorrow; the recollections that his family let slip never failed to gall
him when Mr. Carleton was present; and if now and then for a moment these
were banished by his guest's graces of mind and manner, the next breath
was a sigh for the circles and the pleasures they served to recall, now
seeming for ever lost to him. Mr. Carleton perceived that his company
gave pain and not pleasure to his host and for that reason was the less in
the house, and made his visits to Hugh at times when Mr. Rossitur was not
in the way. Fleda he took out of the house and away with him, for her good
and his own.

To Fleda the old childish feeling came back, that she was in somebody's
hands who had a marvellous happy way of managing things about her and even
of managing herself. A kind of genial atmosphere, that was always doing
her good, yet so quietly and so skilfully that she could only now and then
get a chance even to look her thanks. Quietly and efficiently he was
exerting himself to raise the tone of her mind, to brighten her spirits,
to reach those sober lines that years of patience had drawn round her eye
and mouth, and charm them away. So gently, so indirectly, by efforts so
wisely and gracefully aimed, he set about it, that Fleda did not know what
he was doing; but _he_ knew. He knew when he saw her brow unbend and her
eye catch its old light sparkle, that his conversation and the thoughts
and interests with which he was rousing her mind or fancy, were working,
and would work all he pleased. And though the next day he might find the
old look of patient gravity again, he hardly wished it not there, for the
pleasure of doing it away. Hugh's anxious question to Fleda had been very
uncalled for, and Fleda's assurance was well-grounded; that subject was
never touched upon.

Fleda's manner with Mr. Carleton was peculiar and characteristic. In the
house, before others, she was as demure and reserved as though he had been
a stranger; she never placed herself near him, nor entered into
conversation with him, unless when he obliged her; but when they were
alone there was a frank confidence and simplicity in her manner that most
happily answered the high-bred delicacy that had called it out.

One afternoon of a pleasant day in March Fleda and Hugh were sitting alone
together in the sick room. Hugh was weaker than usual, but not confined to
his bed; he was in his great easy-chair which had been moved up-stairs for
him again. Fleda had been repeating hymns.

"You are tired," Hugh said.

"No--"

"There's something about you that isn't strong," said Hugh fondly. "I
wonder where is Mr. Carleton to-day. It is very pleasant, isn't it?"

"Very pleasant, and warm; it is like April; the snow all went off
yesterday, and the ground is dry except in spots."

"I wish he would come and give you a good walk. I have noticed how you
always come back looking so much brighter after one of your walks or rides
with him."

"What makes you think so, dear Hugh?" said Fleda a little troubled.

"Only my eyes," said Hugh smiling. "It does me as much good as you,
Fleda."

"I _never_ want to go and leave you, Hugh."

"I am very glad there is somebody to take you. I wish he would come. You
want it this minute."

"I don't think I shall let him take me if he comes."

"Whither? and whom?" said another voice.

"I didn't know you were there, sir," said Fleda suddenly rising.

"I am but just here--Rolf admitted me as he passed out."

Coming in between them and still holding the hand of one Mr. Carleton bent
down towards the other.

"How is Hugh, to-day?"

It was pleasant to see, that meeting of eyes,--the grave kindliness on the
one side, the confident affection on the other. But the wasted features
said as plainly as the tone of Hugh's gentle reply, that he was passing
away,--fast.

"What shall I do for you?"

"Take Fleda out and give her a good walk. She wants it."

"I will, presently. You are weary--what shall I do to rest you?"

"Nothing--" said Hugh, closing his eyes with a very placid look;--"unless
you will put me in mind of something about heaven, Mr. Carleton."

"Shall I read to you?--Baxter,--or something else?"

"No--just give me something to think of while you're gone,--as you have
done before, Mr. Carleton."

"I will give you two or three of the Bible bits on that subject; they are
but hints and indications you know--rather rays of light that stream out
from the place than any description of it; but you have only to follow one
of these indications and see whither it will lead you. The first I
recollect is that one spoken to Abraham, 'Fear not--I am thy shield, and
thy exceeding great reward.'"

"Don't go any further, Mr. Carleton," said Hugh with a smile. "Fleda--do
you remember?"

They sat all silent, quite silent, all three, for nobody knew how long.

"You were going to walk," said Hugh without looking at them.

Fleda however did not move till a word or two from Mr. Carleton had backed
Hugh's request; then she went.

"Is she gone?" said Hugh. "Mr. Carleton, will you hand me that
little desk."

It was his own. Mr. Carleton brought it. Hugh opened it and took out a
folded paper which he gave to Mr. Carleton, saying that he thought he
ought to have it.

"Do you know the handwriting, sir?"

"No."

"Ah she has scratched it so. It is Fleda's."

Hugh shut his eyes again and Mr. Carleton seeing that he had settled
himself to sleep went to the window with the paper. It hardly told him
anything he did not know before, though set in a fresh light.

  "Cold blew the east wind
  And thick fell the rain,
  I looked for the tops
  Of the mountains in vain;
  Twilight was gathering
  And dark grew the west,
  And the woodfire's crackling
  Toned well with the rest.

  "Speak fire and tell me--
  Thy flickering flame
  Fell on me in years past--
  Say, am I the same?
  Has my face the same brightness
  In those days it wore?--
  My foot the same lightness
  As it crosses the floor?

  "Methinks there are changes--
  Am weary to-night,--
  I once was as tireless
  As the bird on her flight;
  My bark in full measure
  Threw foam from the prow;--
  Not even for pleasure
  Would I care to move now.

  "Tis not the foot only
  That lieth thus still,--
  I am weary in spirit,
  I am listless in will.
  My eye vainly peereth
  Through the darkness, to find
  Some object that cheereth--
  Some light for the mind.

  "What shadows come o'er me--
  What things of the past,--
  Bright things of my childhood
  That fled all too fast,
  The scenes where light roaming
  My foot wandered free,
  Come back through the gloamin'--
  Come all back to me.

  "The cool autumn evening,
  The fair summer morn,--
  The dress and the aspect
  Some dear ones have worn,--
  The sunshiny places--
  The shady hill-side--
  The words and the faces
  That might not abide.--

  "Die out little fire--
  Ay, blacken and pine!--
  So have paled many lights
  That were brighter than thine.
  I can quicken thy embers
  Again with a breath,
  But the others lie cold
  In the ashes of death."

Mr. Carleton had read near through the paper before Fleda came in.

"I have kept you a long time, Mr. Carleton," she said coming up to the
window; "I found aunt Lucy wanted me."

But she saw with a little surprise the deepening eye which met her, and
which shewed, she knew, the working of strong feeling. Her own eye went to
the paper in search of explanation.

"What have you there?--Oh, Mr. Carleton," she said, putting her hand over
it,--"Please to give it to me!"

Fleda's face was very much in earnest. He took the hand but did not give
her the paper, and looked his refusal.

"I am ashamed you should see that!--who gave it to you?"

"You shall wreak your displeasure on no one but me," he said smiling.

"But have you read it?"

"Yes."

"I am very sorry!"

"I am very glad, my dear Elfie."

"You will think--you will think what wasn't true,--it was just a mood I
used to get into once in a while--I used to be angry with myself for it,
but I could not help it--one of those listless fits would take me now
and then--"

"I understand it, Elfie."

"I am very sorry you should know I ever felt or wrote so."

"Why?"

"It was very foolish and wrong--"

"Is that a reason for my not knowing it?"

"No--not a good one--But you have read it now,--won't you let me have it?"

"No--I shall ask for all the rest of the portfolio, Elfie," he said as he
put it in a place of security.

"Pray do not!" said Fleda most unaffectedly.

"Why?"

"Because I remember Mrs. Carleton says you always have what you ask for."

"Give me permission to put on your bonnet, then," said he laughingly,
taking it from her hand.

The air was very sweet, the footing pleasant. The first few steps of the
walk were made by Fleda in silence, with eager breath and a foot that grew
lighter as it trod.

"I don't think it was a right mood of mind I had when I wrote that," she
said. "It was morbid. But I couldn't help it.--Yet if one could keep
possession of those words you quoted just now, I suppose one never would
have morbid feelings, Mr. Carleton?"

"Perhaps not; but human nature has a weak hold of anything, and many
things may make it weaker."

"Mine is weak," said Fleda. "But it is possible to keep firm hold of those
words, Mr. Carleton?"

"Yes--by strength that is not human nature's--And after all the firm hold
is rather that in which we are held, or ours would soon fail. The very
hand that makes the promise its own must be nerved to grasp it. And so it
is best, for it keeps us looking off always to the Author and Finisher of
our faith."

"I love those words," said Fleda. "But Mr. Carleton, how shall one be
_sure_ that one has a right to those other words--those I mean that you
told to Hugh? One cannot take the comfort of them unless one is _sure_."

Her voice trembled.

"My dear Elfie, the promises have many of them their _double_--stamped
with the very same signet--and if that sealed counterpart is your own, it
is the sure earnest and title to the whole value of the promise."

"Well--in this case?" said Fleda eagerly.

"In this case,--God says, 'I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great
reward.' Now see if your own heart can give the countersign,--'_Thou art
my portion, O Lord_!'"

Fleda's head sank instantly and almost lay upon his arm.

"If you have the one, my dear Elfie, the other is yours--it is the note of
hand of the maker of the promise--sure to be honoured. And if you want
proof here it is,--and a threefold cord is not soon broken.--'Because he
hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on
high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will
answer him; I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour
him. With long life will I satisfy him, and shew him my salvation.'"

There was a pause of some length. Fleda had lifted up her head, but walked
along very quietly, not seeming to care to speak.

"Have you the countersign, Elfie?"

Fleda flashed a look at him, and only restrained herself from
weeping again.

"Yes.--But so I had then, Mr. Carleton--only sometimes I got those fits
of feeling--I forgot it, I suppose."

"When were these verses written?"

"Last fall;--uncle Rolf was away, and aunt Lucy unhappy,--and I believe I
was tired--I suppose it was that."

For a matter of several rods each was busy with his own musings. But Mr.
Carleton bethought himself.

"Where are you, Elfie?"

"Where am I?"

"Yes--Not at Queechy?"

"No indeed," said Fleda laughing. "Far enough away."

"Where?"

"At Paris--at the Marché des Innocens."

"How did you get to Paris?"

"I don't know--by a bridge of associations, I suppose, resting one end on
last year, and the other on the time when I was eleven years old."

"Very intelligible," said Mr. Carleton smiling.

"Do you remember that morning, Mr. Carleton?--when you took Hugh and me to
the Marché des Innocens?"

"Perfectly."

"I have thanked you a great many times since for getting up so early
that morning."

"I think I was well paid at the time. I remember I thought I had seen one
of the prettiest sights I had even seen in Paris."

"So I thought!" said Fleda. "It has been a pleasant picture in my
imagination ever since."

There was a curious curl in the corners of Mr. Carleton's mouth which
made Fleda look an inquiry--a look so innocently wistful that his
gravity gave way.

"My dear Elfie!" said he, "you are the very child you were then."

"Am I?" said Fleda. "I dare say I am, for I feel so. I have the very same
feeling I used to have then, that I am a child, and you taking the care of
me into your own hands."

"One half of that is true, and the other half nearly so."

"How good you always were to me!" Fleda said with a sigh.

"Not necessary to balance the debtor and creditor items on both sides," he
said with a smile, "as the account bids fair to run a good while."

A silence again, during which Fleda is clearly _not_ enjoying the
landscape nor the fine weather.

"Elfie,--what are you meditating?"

She came back from her meditations with a very frank look.

"I was thinking,--Mr. Carleton,--of your notions about female education."

"Well?--"

They had paused upon a rising ground. Fleda hesitated, and then looked up
in his face.

"I am afraid you will find me wanting, and when you do, will you put me in
the way of being all you wish me to be?"

Her look was ingenuous and tender, equally. He gave her no answer, except
by the eye of grave intentness that fixed hers till she could meet it no
longer and her own fell. Mr. Carleton recollected himself.

"My dear Elfie," said he, and whatever the look had meant Elfie was at no
loss for the tone now,--"what do you consider yourself deficient in?"

Fleda spoke with a little difficulty.

"I am afraid in a good many things--in general reading,--and in what are
called accomplishments--"

"You shall read as much as you please by and by," said he, "provided you
will let me read with you; and as for the other want, Elfie, it is rather
a source of gratification to me."

Elfie very naturally asked why?

"Because as soon as I have the power I shall immediately constitute myself
your master in the arts of riding and drawing, and in any other art or
acquisition you may take a fancy to, and give you lessons diligently."

"And will there be gratification in that?" said Fleda.

His answer was by a smile. But he somewhat mischievously asked her, "Will
there not?"--and Fleda was quiet.

Chapter L.

  Friends, I sorrow not to leave ye;
  If this life an exile be,
  We who leave it do but journey
  Homeward to our family.

  Spanish Ballad.

The first of April came.

Mr. Rossitur had made up his mind not to abide at Queechy, which only held
him now by the frail thread of Hugh's life. Mr. Carleton knew this, and
had even taken some steps towards securing for him a situation in the West
Indies. But it was unknown to Fleda; she had not heard her uncle say
anything on the subject since she came home; and though aware that their
stay was a doubtful matter, she still thought it might be as well to have
the garden in order. Philetus could not be trusted to do everything wisely
of his own head, and even some delicate jobs of hand could not be safely
left to his skill; if the garden was to make any headway Fleda's head and
hand must both be there, she knew. So as the spring opened she used to
steal away from the house every morning for an hour or two, hardly letting
her friends know what she was about, to make sure that peas and potatoes
and radishes and lettuce were in the right places at the right times, and
to see that the later and more delicate vegetables were preparing for. She
took care to have this business well over before the time that Mr.
Carleton ever arrived from the Pool.

One morning she was busy in dressing the strawberry beds, forking up the
ground between the plants and filling the vacancies that the severe winter
or some irregularities of fall dressing had made. Mr. Skillcorn was
rendering a somewhat inefficient help, or perhaps amusing himself with
seeing how she worked. The little old silver-grey hood was bending down
over the strawberries, and the fork was going at a very energetic rate.

"Philetus--"

"Marm!"

"Will you bring me that bunch of strawberry plants that lies at the corner
of the beds, in the walk?--and my trowel?"

"I will!--" said Mr. Skillcorn.

It was another hand however that brought them and laid them beside her;
but Fleda very intent upon her work and hidden under her close hood did
not find it out. She went on busily putting in the plants as she found
room for them, and just conscious, as she thought, that Philetus was still
standing at her side she called upon him from time to time, or merely
stretched out her hand, for a fresh plant as she had occasion for it.

"Philetus," she said at length, raising her voice a little that it might
win to him round the edge of her hood without turning her face,--"I wish
you would get the ground ready for that other planting of potatoes--you
needn't stay to help me any longer."

"'Tain't me, I guess," said the voice of Philetus on the other side of
her.

Fleda looked in astonishment to make sure that it really was Mr. Skillcorn
proceeding along the garden path in that quarter, and turning jumped up
and dropped her trowel and fork, to have her hands otherwise occupied. Mr.
Skillcorn walked off leisurely towards the potato ground, singing to
himself in a kind of consolatory aside,--

  "I cocked up my beaver, and who but I!--
  The lace in my hat was so gallant and so gay,
  That I flourished like a king in his own coun_tray_."

"There is one of your countrymen that is an odd variety, certainly," said
Mr. Carleton, looking after him with a very comic expression of eye.

"Is he not!" said Fleda. "And hardly a common one. There never was a line
more mathematically straight than the course of Philetus's ideas; they
never diverge, I think, to the right hand or the left, a jot from his own
self-interest."

"You will be an invaluable help to me, Elfie, if you can read my English
friends as closely."

"I am afraid you will not let me come as close to them," said Fleda
laughing.

"Perhaps not. I shouldn't like to pay too high a premium for the
knowledge. How is Hugh, to-day?"

Fleda answered with a quick change of look and voice that he was
much as usual.

"My mother has written me that she will be here by the Europa, which is
due to-morrow--I must set off for New York this afternoon; therefore I
came so early to Queechy."

Fleda was instinctively pulling off her gardening gloves, as they walked
towards the house.

"Aunt Miriam wants to see you, Mr. Carleton--she begged I would ask you to
come there some time--"

"With great pleasure--shall we go there now, Elfie?"

"I will be ready in five minutes."

Mrs. Rossitur was alone in the breakfast-room when they went in. Hugh she
reported was asleep, and would be just ready to see Mr. Carleton by the
time they got back. They stood a few minutes talking, and then Fleda went
to get ready.

Both pair of eyes followed her as she left the room and then met with
perfect understanding.

"Will you give your child to me, Mrs. Rossitur?" said the gentleman.

"With all my heart!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossitur bursting into tears,--"even
if I were left alone entirely--"

Her agitation was uncontrolled for a minute, and then she said, with
feeling seemingly too strong to be kept in,

"If I were only sure of meeting her in heaven, I could be content to be
without her till then!--"

"What is in the way, my dear madam?" said Mr. Carleton, with a gentle
sympathy that touched the very spring he meant it should. Mrs. Rossitur
waited a minute, but it was only till tears would let her speak, and then
said like a child,--

"Oh, it is all darkness!--"

"Except this," said he, gently and clearly, "that Jesus Christ is a
sun and a shield; and those that put themselves at his feet are safe
from all fear, and they who go to him for light shall complain of
darkness no more."

"But I do not know how--"

"Ask him and he will tell you."

"But I am unworthy even to look up towards him," said Mrs. Rossitur,
struggling, it seemed, between doubts and wishes.

"He knows that, and yet he has bid you come to him. He knows that,--and
knowing it, he has taken your responsibility and paid your debt, and
offers you now a clean discharge, if you will take it at his hand;--and
for the other part of this unworthiness, that blood cannot do away, blood
has brought the remedy--'Shall we who are evil give good things to our
children, and shall not our Father which is in heaven give his Holy Spirit
to them that ask him?'"

"But must I do nothing?" said Mrs. Rossitur, when she had remained quiet
with her face in her hands for a minute or two after he had done speaking.

"Nothing but be willing--be willing to have Christ in all his offices, as
your Teacher, your King, and your Redeemer--give yourself to him, dear
Mrs. Rossitur, and he will take care of the rest."

"I am willing!" she exclaimed. Fresh tears came, and came freely. Mr.
Carleton said no more, till hearing some noise of opening and shutting
doors above stairs Mrs. Rossitur hurriedly left the room, and Fleda came
in by the other entrance.

"May I take you a little out of the way, Mr. Carleton?" she said when they
had passed through the Deepwater settlement.--"I have a message to carry
to Mrs. Elster--a poor woman out here beyond the lake. It is not a
disagreeable place."

"And what if it were?"

"I should not perhaps have asked you to go with me," said Fleda a little
doubtfully.

"You may take me where you will, Elfie," he said gently. "I hope to do as
much by you some day."

Fleda looked up at the piece of elegance beside her, and thought what a
change must have come over him if _he_ would visit poor places. He was
silent and grave however, and so was she, till they arrived at the house
they were going to.

Certainly it was not a disagreeable place. Barby's much less strong minded
sister had at least a good share of her practical nicety. The little board
path to the door was clean and white still, with possibly a trifle less
brilliant effect. The room and its old inhabitants were very comfortable
and tidy; the patchwork counterpane as gay as ever. Mrs. Elster was alone,
keeping company with a snug little wood fire, which was near as much
needed in that early spring weather as it had been during the winter.

Mr. Carleton had come back from his abstraction, and stood taking half
unconscious note of these things, while Fleda was delivering her message
to the old woman. Mrs. Elster listened to her implicitly with every now
and then an acquiescing nod or ejaculation, but so soon as Fleda had said
her say she burst out, with a voice that had never known the mufflings of
delicacy and was now pitched entirely beyond its owner's ken. Looking hard
at Mr. Carleton,

"Fleda!--Is _this_ the gentleman that's to be your--_husband?_"

The last word elevated and brought out with emphatic distinctness of
utterance.

If the demand had been whether the gentleman in question was a follower of
Mahomet, it would hardly have been more impossible for Fleda to give an
affirmative answer; but Mr. Carleton laughed and bringing his face a
little nearer the old crone, answered,

"So she has promised, ma'am."

[Illustration: "Is this the gentleman that's to be your husband?"]

It was curious to see the lines of the old woman's face relax as she
looked at him.

"He's--worthy of you!--as far as looks goes," she said in the same key as
before, apostrophizing Fleda who had drawn back, but not stirring her eyes
from Mr. Carleton all the time. And then she added to him with a little
satisfied nod, and in a very decided tone of information,

"She will make you a good wife!"

"Because she has made a good friend?" said Mr. Carleton quietly. "Will you
let me be a friend too?"

He had turned the old lady's thoughts into a golden channel, whence, as
she was an American, they had no immediate issue in words; and Fleda and
Mr. Carleton left the house without anything more.

Fleda felt nervous. But Mr. Carleton's first words were as coolly and as
gravely spoken as if they had just come out from a philosophical lecture;
and with an immediate spring of relief she enjoyed every step of the way
and every word of the conversation which was kept up with great life, till
they reached Mrs. Plumfield's door.

No one was in the sitting-room. Fleda left Mr. Carleton there and passed
gently into the inner apartment, the door of which was standing ajar.

But her heart absolutely leaped into her mouth, for Dr. Quackenboss and
Mr. Olmney were there on either side of her aunt's bed. Fleda came forward
and shook hands.

"This is quite a meeting of friends," said the doctor blandly, yet with a
perceptible shading of the whilome broad sunshine of his
face.--"Your--a--aunt, my dear Miss Ringgan,--is in a most extraordinary
state of mind!"

Fleda was glad to hide her face against her aunt's and asked her
how she did.

"Dr. Quackenboss thinks it extraordinary, Fleda," said the old lady with
her usual cheerful sedateness,--"that one who has trusted God and had
constant experience of his goodness and faithfulness for forty years
should not doubt him at the end of it."

"You have no doubt--of any kind, Mrs. Plumfield?" said the clergyman.

"Not the shadow of a doubt!" was the hearty, steady reply.

"You mistake, my dear madam," said Dr. Quackenboss,--"pardon me--it is not
that--I would be understood to say, merely, that I do not comprehend how
such--a--such security--can be attained respecting what seems
so--a--elevated--and difficult to know."

"Only by believing," said Mrs. Plumfield with a very calm smile. "'He that
believeth on him shall not be ashamed;'--'shall _not_ be ashamed!'" she
repeated slowly.

Dr. Quackenboss looked at Fleda, who kept her eyes fixed upon her aunt.

"But it seems to me--I beg pardon--perhaps I am arrogant--" he said with a
little bow,--"but it appears to me almost--in a manner--almost
presumptuous, not to be a little doubtful in such a matter until the time
comes. Am I--do you disapprove of me, Mr. Olmney?"

Mr. Olmney silently referred him for his answer to the person he had first
addressed, who had closed her eyes while he was speaking.

"Sir," she said, opening them,--"it can't be presumption to obey God, and
he tells me to rejoice. And I do--I do!--'Let all those that love thee
rejoice in thee and be glad in thee!'--But mind!" she added energetically,
fixing her strong grey eye upon him--"he does not tell _you_ to
rejoice--do not think it--not while you stand aloof from his terms of
peace. Take God at his word, and be happy;--but if not, you have nothing
to do with the song that I sing!"

The doctor stared at her till she had done speaking, and then slunk out
of her range of vision behind the curtains of the bed-post. Not
silenced however.

"But--a--Mr. Olmney," said he hesitating--"don't you think that there is
in general--a--a becoming modesty, in--a--in people that have done
wrong, as we all have,--putting off being sure until they are so? It
seems so to me!"

"Come here, Dr. Quackenboss," said aunt Miriam.

She waited till he came to her side, and then taking his hand and looking
at him very kindly, she said,

"Sir, forty years ago I found in the Bible, as you say, that I was a
sinner, and that drove me to look for something else. I found then God's
promise that if I would give my dependence entirely to the substitute he
had provided for me and yield my heart to his service, he would for
Christ's sake hold me quit of all my debts and be my father, and make me
his child. And, sir, I did it. I abhor every other dependence--the things
you count good in me I reckon but filthy rags. At the same time, I know
that ever since that day, forty years ago, I have lived in his service and
tried to live to his glory. And now, sir, shall I disbelieve his promise?
do you think he would be pleased if I did?"

The doctor's mouth was stopped, for once. He drew back as soon as he could
and said not another word.

Before anybody had broken the silence Seth came in; and after shaking
hands with Fleda, startled her by asking whether that was not Mr. Carleton
in the other room.

"Yes," Fleda said,--"he came to see aunt Miriam."

"Ain't you well enough to see him, mother?"

"Quite--and very happy," said she.

Seth immediately went back and invited him in. Fleda dared not look up
while the introductions were passing,--of "the Rev. Mr. Olmney," and of
"Dr. Quackenboss,"--the former of whom Mr. Carleton took cordially by the
hand, while Dr. Quackenboss conceiving that his hand must be as
acceptable, made his salutation with an indescribable air at once of
attempted gracefulness and ingratiation. Fleda saw the whole in the
advancing line of the doctor's person, a vision of which crossed her
downcast eye. She drew back then, for Mr. Carleton came where she was
standing to take her aunt's hand; Seth had absolutely stayed his way
before to make the said introductions.

Mrs. Plumfield was little changed by years or disease since he had seen
her. There was somewhat more of a look of bodily weakness than there used
to be; but the dignified, strong-minded expression of the face was even
heightened; eye and brow were more pure and unclouded in their
steadfastness. She looked very earnestly at her visiter and then with
evident pleasure from the manner of his look and greeting. Fleda watched
her eye softening with a gratified expression and fixed upon him as he was
gently talking to her.

Mr. Olmney presently came round to take leave, promising to see her
another time, and passing Fleda with a frank grave pressure of the hand
which gave her some pain. He and Seth left the room. Fleda was hardly
conscious that Dr. Quackenboss was still standing at the foot of the bed
making the utmost use of his powers of observation. He could use little
else, for Mr. Carleton and Mrs. Plumfield after a few words on each side,
had as it were by common consent come to a pause. The doctor, when a
sufficient time had made him fully sensible of this, walked up to Fleda,
who wished heartily at the moment that she could have presented the
reverse end of the magnet to him. Perhaps however it was that very thing
which by a perverse sort of attraction drew him towards her.

"I suppose--a--we may conclude," said he with a somewhat saturnine
expression of mischief,--that Miss Ringgan contemplates forsaking the
agricultural line before a great while."

"I have not given up my old habits, sir," said Fleda, a good deal vexed.

"No--I suppose not--but Queechy air is not so well suited for them--other
skies will prove more genial," he said; she could not help thinking,
pleased at her displeasure.

"What is the fault of Queechy air, sir?" said Mr. Carleton,
approaching them.

"Sir!" said the doctor, exceedingly taken aback, though the words had
been spoken in the quietest manner possible,--'it--a--it has no fault,
sir,--that I am particularly aware of--it is perfectly salubrious.
Mrs. Plumfield, I will bid you good-day;--I--a--I _hope_ you will get
well again!"

"I hope not, sir!" said aunt Miriam, in the same clear hearty tones which
had answered him before.

The doctor took his departure and made capital of his interview with Mr.
Carleton; who he affirmed he could tell by what he had seen of him was a
very deciduous character, and not always conciliating in his manners.

Fleda waited with a little anxiety for what was to follow the doctor's
leave-taking.

It was with a very softened eye that aunt Miriam looked at the two who
were left, clasping Fleda's hand again; and it was with a very softened
voice that she next spoke.

"Do you remember our last meeting, sir?"

"I remember it well," he said.

"Fleda tells me you are a changed man since that time?"

He answered only by a slight and grave bow.

"Mr. Carleton," said the old lady,--"I am a dying woman--and this child is
the dearest thing in the world to me after my own,--and hardly after
him.--Will you pardon me--will you bear with me, if that I may die in
peace, I say, sir, what else it would not become me to say?--and it is for
her sake."