as for saying those dainty things that they are pouring into her ears,
and be hanged to 'em--I can't do it. No wonder she scorns me!"

Tom dealt his unfortunate forehead a blow that made it scarlet for
several moments, and quieted him down somewhat.

"What would you advise me to do, Bessie?" he asked. "You're so sensible
and so good--just give a fellow a hint."

"Dear Tom, there is nothing for it but to wait--"

"That's pretty advice!" he burst in. "You might as well tell a person in
a blaze of fire to wait! No, I shan't wait--I shan't, I say!"

Tom ran his hands through his hair till it stood up, quivering as if he
had received an electric shock.

"Oh, you needn't look so black at me, Bessie; I know just what a humbug
I am as well as you."

"I wasn't looking black at you; I am very, very sorry, Tom."

"Don't pity me; I shall break right down if you do."

"I must go back, Tom," she said; "I can't stay here any longer."

"I know it; of course you can't. I'll just wait a minute and
then----there, go! What a nuisance I am!"

Elizabeth went back into the ball-room, where she saw Elsie whirling
through a waltz, looking as happy and unconscious as if she had not just
crushed a warm, loving human heart under her pretty foot.

Mrs. Mellen stood a moment arrested; no one seemed to heed her.

She saw Mrs. Harrington forcing Mellen to walk through a quadrille, and
felt certain that he was as restless as herself.

"But it is for Elsie," she thought; "he will not mind so long as it is
for her. None of them will miss me."

Tom Fuller stood in the bay window for some time trying to collect his
scattered faculties. Any thing like rational thought was quite out of
the question with him; he felt as if a great humming-top were spinning
about in his ears, and his heart was in a state of palpitation that
utterly defies description.

Finally he passed through the drawing-rooms where people were busy over
their cards or their small-talk, and entered the ball-room from which he
had rushed in such frenzy.

There was a pause in the music, and Elsie was standing surrounded by a
group of gentlemen, not even seeing Tom as he approached. He managed to
edge himself into the circle at last, and stood watching Elsie very much
like a sheep-dog that wanted dreadfully to worry something, but knew
that he would get himself into difficulty if he even ventured on a bark.

But speak with her, he would; Tom had reached that point where his
feelings must find vent or explode, and scatter mischief all around.

Finally a brilliant idea struck him, and he got near enough to whisper--

"Bessie wants to see you a moment."

Elsie turned away impatiently.

"Now, this moment," added Tom, growing very red at his own fib, but
following it up courageously.

He knew very well that the dandies were quizzing him; he saw that Elsie
was provoked; but though he trembled in every joint, and his face had
heat enough in it to have kept a poor family comfortably warm from the
reflection, he resolutely held out his arm, and the young lady took it,
pouting and flinging back smiles to her forsaken admirers.

"My sister wants me," she said, in explanation to her friends.
"Tiresome, isn't it? for there is no guessing when she will let me come
back."

Tom led his captive away, but he was dreadfully frightened at the
success of his own manoeuvre.

"Where is Bessie?" asked Elsie, impatiently, as they walked down the
ball-room.

"This way," faltered Tom; "we shall find her in a moment."

Elsie never deigned him another word; she was very angry, as she could
be with any thing or anybody that marred her selfish enjoyment, and Tom
walked on towards one of the parlors which he knew was empty, feeling
like a man about to charge a battery single handed, but determined to
persevere nevertheless.

CHAPTER XII.

TOM MAKES A DECLARATION.

Tom led his captive into the parlor. Elsie looked about in
surprise--there was not a soul visible.

"Are you crazy, Tom Fuller?" cried she; "Bessie is not here."

"She shall be here in a minute," stammered Tom; "just wait, please."

"Indeed I will do no such thing," returned Elsie, sharply, snatching her
hand from his arm. "Did she send you for me, Tom Fuller?"

"No," cried Tom, with sudden energy, "I told a lie! I couldn't stand it
any longer; I must speak with you; waiting was impossible!"

Elsie turned on him like a little kingbird darting on a hawk.

"What do you mean by this unwarrantable liberty!" she exclaimed. "Have
you no idea of the common usages of society? Don't come near me again
to-night; don't speak to me."

She was darting away, but Tom caught her hand.

"Oh, wait, Elsie, wait!"

"You ridiculous creature!" said Elsie, beginning to laugh in spite of
her vexation. "What on earth do you want?"

"Laugh at me!" groaned Tom; "I deserve it--I expect it--but I can't live
this way any longer! You are driving me crazy. I love you, Elsie! Only
speak one kind word--just say you don't hate me."

He was holding out his two hands, looking so exceedingly energetic in
his wretchedness, that Elsie burst into perfect shrieks of laughter.

"You silly old goose!" she said; "don't you know you mustn't talk in
that way to me! You have no right, and it is very impertinent! There, go
along--I forgive you."

Tom stared at her with his astonished eyes wide open.

"You can laugh at me!" he exclaimed. "Why, all these weeks you have let
me go on loving you, and never hinted that it was so very disagreeable."

"Now, Tom, don't be tiresome!"

Tom groaned aloud.

"Why I never saw such conduct!" cried Elsie, impatiently. "It's too bad
of you to behave so--you are spoiling my whole evening! You are just as
disagreeable as you can be. Oh, I hate you!"

"Elsie! Elsie!"

"Let go my hand; suppose anybody should come in! Oh, you old goose of a
Tom--let me go, I say."

"Just one minute, Elsie--"

"To-morrow--any time! Don't you know civilized beings never behave in
this way at a ball."

"I don't know--I can't think! I only feel I love you, Elsie, and must
speak out. I will speak out."

A few weeks earlier Elsie would only have been amused at all this from
general lack of amusement, but now it vexed and irritated her. Girl-like
she had not the slightest pity on his pain. He was keeping her sorely
against her wishes.

"I am served right for treating you as a friend," she said; "I looked
upon you as a relation, and thought you understood it; now you are
trying to make me unhappy. Bessie will be angry, and tell Grant. Oh, you
ought to be ashamed."

"I won't make you any trouble," shivered Tom; "I won't distress you!
There--I beg your pardon, Elsie, I am sorry! And you don't--you never
can, Elsie, Elsie--"

"No, no, you silly old fellow, of course not! Now be good, and I'll
forget all about this folly. Let me go, Tom, I can't stay here any
longer--let me go."

Tom still held her hand.

"This is earnest!" he said.

"Yes, yes! Tom, if you don't let me go I'll scream! You are absurd--why,
you ought to be put in a straight jacket."

Tom dropped her hand, and stood like a man overpowered by some sudden
blow.

Elsie saw only the comical side of the matter, and began to laugh again.

"Don't laugh," he said, passionately; "for mercy's sake don't laugh!"

There was a depth of suffering in his tone which forced itself to be
realized even by that selfish creature; but it only made her begin to
consider herself exceedingly ill-used, and to blame Tom for spoiling her
pleasure.

"Now you want to blame me," she said, angrily, "and I haven't done a
thing to encourage you."

"No, no; I don't blame you, Elsie," he said; "it's all my own fault--all
mine."

"Yes, to be sure," cried Elsie. "Who could think you would be so
foolish. There, shake hands, Tom, for I'm in a hurry. You are not
angry?"

"Angry--no," said Tom, drearily.

"That's right! Good-by--you'll be wiser to-morrow."

Elsie glided away, and Tom watched her go out of the room, and realized
that she was floating out of his life forever, that the dream of the
past was at an end, and he was left alone in the darkness.

Poor old Tom! It was very hard, but no one could have resisted a smile
at his appearance! When Elsie left him, he dashed out of the room, and
hid himself in the most out of the way corner he could find.

As he crossed the hall, he heard Elizabeth call--

"Tom, Tom!"

He stopped, and she came towards him. One look at his face revealed the
whole truth. She did not speak, but took his hand in hers, with a mute
expression of sympathy which overpowered him.

"Don't! don't!" he said. "Let me go, Bessie! I'm a fool--it's all over
now! There, don't mind me--I'll be better soon! I've got a chance to go
to Europe for awhile, in fact it's to Calcutta. I shall be all right
when I come back."

"Oh, my poor old Tom! Elsie is a wicked girl to have trifled with you
so."

"She didn't!" he exclaimed, indignantly. "Don't blame her. I won't have
it. There's nobody in fault but me. I deserve it all! I'm a blundering,
wrong-headed donkey, and she's lovely as--as--"

Here Tom broke down, and going to a window looked resolutely out.

"But you won't go away, Tom?" said Elizabeth following him.

"Yes, I will. I shan't be gone but a few months. Don't try to keep me.
I'll be all right when we meet again."

"Oh, Tom, Tom!" said Elizabeth.

"Now, be still; that's a good girl; I don't want to be pitied. It's of
no consequence, not the slightest."

He broke abruptly away, and disappeared, leaving Elizabeth full of
sympathy for his distress, and regret at the idea of losing her old
playmate--she had depended on him so much during her husband's absence.

There had been a lull in the music, but it struck up again now, and the
saloons reverberated with a stirring waltz. Elizabeth stood a moment
listening to the crash of sound and the tread of light feet, but her
heart was full and her brow anxious. She went to the window and looked
out. It was a lovely night, but the eternal roll and sweep of the ocean
seemed to depress her with some terrible dread. In all that splendid
tumult she was alone. As she stood by the window her husband came down
the hall smiling upon the lady who hung upon his arm. He had not missed
her, would not miss her. There was no fear of that. She glided away with
this dreary thought in her mind. Mellen almost touched her as she turned
into a little room opening upon the conservatory, but she went on
unnoticed.

Tom Fuller had retreated into the conservatory, and was sitting
disconsolately in an iron garden chair, sheltered by a small tree,
drooping with yellow fringe-like blossoms, when a lady entered from one
of the side doors, and passed out towards the gardens.

Tom started up, and called out, "Bessie! Why, Bessie, is that you? What
on earth--"

The lady made no response, but looked over her shoulder, and sprang
forward like a deer, causing a tumult among the plants as she rushed
through them.

Tom stood motionless, lost in amazement; for over a ball dress which
seemed white--he could discover nothing more,--the lady was shrouded
head and person, in a blanket shawl, which he knew to be Elizabeth's,
from the broad crimson stripes that ran across it.

After his first amazement Tom sat down again, heaving a deep sigh, and
retreated further behind the flowering branches, that no one might look
upon his unmanly sorrow.

"Poor Bessie, poor thing," he muttered, "I suppose she feels just as I
do, like a fish out of water, in all these fine doings. I'd follow her,
and we'd take a melancholy walk together in the moonlight, if it was not
that Elsie might happen to get tired of dancing with those fellows, and
come in here to rest a minute, when I could hide away and look at her
through the plants."

Tom had in reality startled the lady shrouded in that great travelling
shawl, for once out of doors she stood full half a minute listening with
bated breath, and one foot advanced, ready to spring away if any sound
reached her. Then she walked on with less desperate haste, bending her
course through the shrubberies towards a grove of trees that lay between
the open grounds and the shore.

It was a balmy October evening, moonlight, but shadowed by hosts of
white scudding clouds. The wind blew up freshly from the water,
scattered storms of gorgeous leaves around her as she approached the
grove which was still heavy with foliage, perfectly splendid in the
sunlight, but now all shadows and blackness. On the edge of the grove,
just under a vast old oak, whose great limbs scarcely swayed in the
wind, the lady paused and uttered some name in a low, cautious voice.

A spark of fire flashed down to the earth, as if some one had flung away
his cigar in haste, and instantly footsteps rustled in the dead leaves.
The branches of the oak bent low, and behind it was a thicket of young
trees. The lady did not feel safe, even in the darkness, but moved on to
meet the person who advanced in the deeper shadows, where even the edges
of her white dress, which fell below the shawl, were lost to the eye.

As she stood panting in the shelter, a man's voice addressed her, and
his hand was laid upon her shoulder.

"How you tremble!"

The voice sounded, in that balmy October night, sweet and mellow as the
dropping of its over-ripe leaves. The female did indeed tremble
violently.

"Look, look! I am followed," she whispered.

The man stepped a pace forward, peered through the oak branches, and
stole cautiously to her side again.

"It is Mellen!"

She darted away, dragging her shawl from the grasp that man had fastened
upon it,--away under the old oak, and along the outskirts of the grove.
She paused a moment in breathless terror at the narrowest point of the
lawn, then darted across it, huddling the skirt of her ball dress up
with one hand, and sweeping the dead leaves in winrows after her with
the fringes of her shawl. She avoided the conservatory, for Tom was
still visible through its rolling waves of glass--and, turning to the
servants' entrance, ran up a flight of dark stairs into the shaded
lights of a chamber. She flung the heavy shawl breathlessly on a couch,
shook the snowy masses of her dress into decorous folds, and stole to
the window on tip-toe, where she stood, white and panting for breath,
watching the lawn and grove, with wild, eager eyes, as if she feared her
footsteps in the leaves might have been detected even in the darkness.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHO COULD IT HAVE BEEN?

The evening passed drearily enough to Grantley Mellen. He was in no
spirits for society and the gay bustle; the lights, the music, the
constraint he was forced to put upon himself, and the cheerfulness he
was obliged to assume, only wearied him.

A strange and unaccountable dread of his approaching journey possessed
him. It had grown stronger as the days passed on, and that night was
more powerful than ever.

Sometimes he was almost ready to think it a presentiment; perhaps he was
never to return from that voyage; some unseen danger awaited him in that
distant land, and he should die there, far from the sound of every
voice, the touch of every hand that was dear to him.

He was vexed with himself for indulging in this superstitious weakness;
but, in spite of all his efforts, the thought would recur again and
again, oppressing him with a dreary sense of desolation that made the
brilliant scene around absolutely repulsive.

He left the lighted rooms at last, and passed through the hall on to the
piazza which overlooked the sea.

It was a beautiful evening; the moonlight, escaping from under a bank of
clouds, lay silvery and broad upon the lawn, and broke a path of
diamonds across the rippling waters, lighting them up to wonderful
splendor. The air was balmy and soft as spring, the wind rippled
pleasantly among the trees, but there was no melody in its tones to his
ear; it seemed only a repetition of the mournful warning which had
haunted his thoughts.

He walked on across the lawn, anxious to get beyond the sound of the
music and gayety which followed him from the house, for it jarred upon
his ears with deafening discordance.

He entered a little thicket of bushes and young trees, in the midst of
which rose up a dark, funereal-looking cypress, that always waved its
branches tremulously, however still the air might be, and seemed to be
oppressed with a trouble which it could only utter in faint moaning
whispers.

As he stood there, looking into the gloom, with a sense of relief at
finding some object more in unison with his dark thoughts, he saw a
figure glide away from the foot of the cypress, and disappear in the
shrubbery beyond.

It was a woman wrapped in some dark garment--in movement and form like
his wife--could it be his wife wandering about the grounds at that hour?

"Elizabeth!" he called; but there was no answer.

He hurried forward among the trees, but there was no object visible, no
response to the summons he repeated several times.

It might be some guest who had stolen out there for a few minutes'
quiet; yet that was not probable. Besides, the movements of the slender
form appeared familiar to him. In height and shape Elsie and Elizabeth
resembled each other; it was possibly one of them, but which?

Elsie it could not be, she had a nervous dread of darkness and could not
be persuaded to stir off the piazza after nightfall. It must have been
Elizabeth, then; but what was she doing there!

He started towards the house with some vague thought in his mind, to
which he could have given no expression.

His wife was not in any of the rooms through which he passed, and he
hurried into the ball-room. The music had just struck up anew; he saw
Elsie whirling through a waltz; but Elizabeth was nowhere visible.

He drew near enough to Elsie to whisper--

"Where is Bessie?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I have been dancing all the while, and
have not seen her for some time."

He turned away; but, just then, Mrs. Harrington captured him, and it was
several moments before he could escape from her tiresome loquacity.

The moment he was at liberty Mellen hurried through the parlors and up
the stairs, opened the door of Elizabeth's dressing-room, and entered.
There she was, standing at the window, looking out. She turned quickly,
and in some confusion at his sudden entrance.

"Is it you?" she asked.

"Yes; I have been looking for you everywhere!"

"I came up here for a moment's quiet," she answered. "I am very, very
tired; I wish it was all over, Grantley."

"Have you been out?" he asked.

It seemed to him that she hesitated a little, as she answered--

"Out? No; where--what do you mean?"

"I thought I saw you in the grounds a little while ago."

"I should not be likely to go out in this dress," she replied, glancing
down at the point lace flounces that floated over the snowy satin of her
train. "Come, we must go down stairs; our guests will think us careless
hosts."

Mellen felt and looked dissatisfied, but could not well press the matter
farther.

"Are you coming down?" she asked.

"Yes; of course," he replied, coldly. "Don't wait for me."

She walked away without another word.

"She avoids me," he thought. "I see it more and more."

The ball was over at last. Even Elsie was completely tired out, and glad
to nestle away under the azure curtains of her bed when the guests had
departed.

With the next morning began preparations for Mellen's departure; and
during the bustle of the following week, no one found much time for
thought or reflection.

Tom Fuller came down suddenly, and opened his heart to Elizabeth. He was
going to Europe; he did not ask to see Elsie; lacking the courage to
meet her again for the present--once more, perhaps, before he went away;
but not yet.

Elizabeth did not reproach the girl for her share in the honest fellow's
unhappiness. She merely said--

"Tom is going to Europe on business; he sails next week."

"Oh, the foolish old fellow," replied Elsie; "and he never could learn
to speak a French word correctly--what fun it would be to be with him in
France."

"You will miss him," Mellen said, quietly.

"Oh," replied his wife, with a forced smile, "I must make up my mind to
be lonely. I shall live through the coming dreary months as I best can."

"It's horrid of you to go, Grant!" cried Elsie.

"I know it, dear; but there is no use in fighting the unavoidable."

"Mind you write to me as often as you do to Bessie," she said. "If she
gets one letter the most, I never will forgive either of you."

As she said this, the girl ran up to her brother, and stood leaning
against his shoulder, with a playful caress, while he looked down at her
with such entire love and trust in his face, that Elizabeth crept
quietly away, and left them together.

The few days left to Mellen passed in a tumult of preparation. Sad
doubts were at his heart, vague and so formless that he could not have
expressed them in words, but painful as proven realities.

Elizabeth was greatly disturbed also; her fine color had almost entirely
disappeared. She trembled at the slightest shock, and her very lips
would turn white when she spoke of her husband's departure. She seemed
stricken with a mortal terror of his going, yet made no effort to detain
him. She, too, had presentiments of evil that shocked her whole system,
and made her brightest smile something mournful to look upon.

But the husband and wife had little opportunity to observe or understand
the feelings that tortured them both. Elsie's cries, and tears, and
hysterical spasms, kept the whole household in commotion. She should
never see her brother again--never, never. Elizabeth might not be good
to her. Sisters-in-law and school-friends were different creatures; she
had found that out already. If she could only have died with her mother!

These cries broke out vehemently on the night before Mellen's departure.
The spoiled child would not allow her brother to spend one moment from
her side. So all that night Elizabeth, pale, still, and bowed down by a
terrible heart-ache, watched with her husband by the azure couch which
Elsie preferred to her bed. It was a sad, mournful night to them both.

At daylight, Elsie's egotism was exhausted, and she fell asleep. The
first sunshine came stealing up from its silvery play on the water, and
shimmering through the lace curtains, fell on the young girl as she
slept. There was trouble on that sweet face--genuine trouble; for Elsie
loved her brother dearly, and his departure agitated her more deeply
than he had ever known her moved before.

How lovely she looked with the drops trembling on those long, golden
lashes, and staining the warm flush of her cheeks! One arm, from which
the muslin sleeve had fallen back, lay under her head, half-buried in a
tangle of curls; sobs broke at intervals through her parted lips, ending
in long, troubled sighs.

Mellen was deeply touched. Elizabeth bent her head against the end of
the couch, and wept unheeded drops of anguish. The heart ached in her
bosom.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE HUSBAND'S LAST CHARGE.

Elizabeth Mellen shuddered visibly when the first sunbeam fell through
the curtains. Only a few moments were left to them. Sick and faint, she
lifted her head and turned her imploring eyes on her husband's
face--eyes so full of yearning agony, that his heart must have leaped
through all its doubts to meet hers, had not his glance been fixed upon
Elsie. The long, black lashes drooped over those gray eyes when she
found their appeal disregarded, and the young wife shrunk within
herself, shuddering at her own loneliness.

A servant came to the room, and by a sign announced breakfast. It was
the last meal they might ever take together. This thought struck them
both, and brought their hands in contact with a thrilling clasp. He drew
her arm through his, and led her down stairs. She felt his heart beating
against her arm, looked up, and saw that he was regarding her with
glances of searching tenderness. Her eyes filled; her bosom heaved; and,
but for a wild struggle, she would have burst into a passion of tears
before the servant, who held the door open for them to pass into the
breakfast-room.

How bright and cheerful it all looked--the crusted snow of the linen;
the delicately chased silver, and more delicate china; and this was
their last meal. She sat down and poured out his coffee. Her hand
trembled, but she tried to smile when he took the cup and praised its
aroma. She drank some herself, for the chill at her heart was spreading
to her face and hands.

Little was said during the meal, and less was eaten. Elizabeth looked at
the clock as a convict gazes on the axe that is to slay him. She counted
the moments as they crept away, devouring the brief time yet given to
them, while he glanced at his watch, nervously every few minutes.

Then the husband and wife went up stairs again. Elizabeth turned from
Elsie's door and went into her own dressing-room. With all her
magnanimity she could not give her husband up to his sister during the
last moments of his stay. He followed her into the room, but directly
lifted the curtain and went into Elsie's boudoir, where the young girl
lay profoundly sleeping. Elizabeth would not follow. Her heart was
swelling too painfully. She sat down, clasped both hands in her lap, and
waited like a statue.

He had only crossed the boudoir, bent over Elsie, and pressed a cautious
but most loving kiss on her forehead. She did not move, but smiled
softly in her sleep, and he stole away, blessing her.

Elizabeth's heart gave a sudden leap when he came into her room again
and sat down by her side. He felt how cold her hand was, and kissed it.

"Elizabeth!"

She turned, frightened by the tone of his voice. It was hoarse with
emotion.

"Elizabeth, I have one charge to give before we part."

She bent her head in sorrowful submission.

"Elsie, my sister!"

He did not notice the red flame that shot up to her cheek, or the
shrinking of her whole frame, but went on.

"The child is so precious to me. The dearest human being I have on
earth--" He hesitated a moment, and added, "Except--except you, my
wife."

She was grateful even for this. Was it that she was conscious of
deserving nothing more, or did the hungry yearning of her heart seize on
this sweet aliment with thankfulness after the famine of her recent
life?

He saw the tears spring into her eyes, and drew her closer to his side.

"Be careful of her for my sake, Elizabeth. She was given me in solemn
charge at my mother's death-bed. She has been the sweetest solace of my
barren life. Let no harm come near her--no evil thing taint the mind
which I leave in your hands pure as snow. Guard her, love her, and give
her back to me, gentle, guileless, and good, as she lies now, in the
sweetest and most innocent sleep I ever witnessed."

"I will! I will!" answered Elizabeth, conquering a sharp spasm of pain
with the spirit of a martyr. "If human care, or human sacrifice can
insure her welfare, I will not be found wanting."

Grantley bent down and kissed his wife gratefully.

"Remember, Elizabeth, my happiness and honor are left in your keeping."

Did he mean that honor and happiness both were bound up in Elsie, or had
he really thought of her rightful share in his life?

This question flashed through the young wife's mind, but she would not
accept it in a bitter sense then. The parting hour was close at hand.
She trembled as each moment left them.

"I will be kind to Elsie as you can desire; indeed I will," she said.
"You can trust me."

"If I doubted that, harassing as the voyage is, I would take her with
me."

"Oh, if you only could take us both! It terrifies me to be left alone,
surrounded with--"

"That is out of the question now. But when I come back, we will try and
make this life of ours happier than it has been."

She looked at him--her great, mournful eyes widening with pain.

"Have you been very unhappy, then, Grantley," she faltered.

"Unhappy! I did not say that; but hereafter our bliss must be more
perfect. We shall understand each other better."

"Shall we--shall we ever? Oh, Grantley, without love what perfect
understanding can exist?"

Her fine eyes were flooded with tears; every feature in her face
quivered with emotion.

A clock on the mantel-piece chimed out the hour of his departure. On the
instant Dolf knocked at the door.

Elizabeth started up, trembling like a wounded bird that struggles away
from a second shot.

"So soon! so soon!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I had so much to
ask; everything to say, and now there is no time."

Grantley took her in his arms, and kissed her very hurriedly, for the
servant was standing in sight.

"God bless you, Elizabeth, I must go!"

She flung her arms wildly around him. Her pale face was lifted to his in
mute appeal. Was it for pardon of some unknown offence, or the deep
craving of a true heart for love?

Grantley put her away, and went hurriedly into Elsie's room. He came out
pale and troubled. Elizabeth stood by the door gasping her breath; he
wrung the hand she held forth to stop him, and was gone. She heard his
steps as they went down the walnut-staircase, and they fell upon her
like distinct blows. The great hall-door closed with a sharp noise that
made her start, and with a burst of bitter, bitter anguish, cry out.
Then came the sound of carriage-wheels grinding through gravel, and the
beat of hoofs that seemed trampling down the heart in her bosom. As
these sounds died off, she attempted to reach the window and look out,
but only fell upon the couch which stood near it, and fainted without a
moan.

CHAPTER XV.

MRS. HARRINGTON'S FRIENDS.

A day or two after Mellen's departure, Elizabeth, who was taking her
solitary promenade on the veranda, was surprised by a visit from Mrs.
Harrington, who came fluttering across the lawn between two gentlemen,
with whom she seemed carrying on a right and left flirtation. She came
up the steps with her flounces all in commotion, her face wreathed with
insipid smiles, and her hair done up in a marvellous combination of
puffs, curls and braids under a tiny bonnet, that hovered over them like
a butterfly just ready to take wing.

"I knew that you would be moping yourself to death," she cried, floating
down upon Elizabeth with both hands extended; "so I gave up everything
and came in the first train. Now do acknowledge that I am the kindest
friend in the world."

Elizabeth received her cordially, and with a great effort shook off the
gloomy thoughts that had oppressed her all the morning. Mrs. Harrington
did not heed this, she was always ready to welcome herself, and in haste
to secure her full share of the conversation, and before Elizabeth could
finish her rather halting attempts at a compliment she presented her
companions.

Elizabeth had hardly glanced at the gentlemen till then, but now she
recognized the elder and more stately of the two as the person who had
probably saved her life on the Bloomingdale road.

"I need not ask a welcome for this gentleman, I am sure," said Mrs.
Harrington, clasping both hands over Mr. North's arm, and leaning
coquettishly upon him. "He is our preserver, Mrs. Mellen,--our hero."

North smiled, but rejected these compliments with an impatient lift of
the head.

"Pray allow Mrs. Mellen to forget that this is not our first meeting,"
he said; "so small a service is not worth mentioning."

He looked steadily at Elizabeth as he spoke. She seemed to shrink from
his glance, but answered,

"No, no; it was a service I can never forget--never hope to repay."

"Now let me beg a welcome for my other friend," interposed Mrs.
Harrington. "Mr. Hawkins. I told him it was quite a charity to come with
me and rouse you up a little, besides, he is dying to see your lovely
sister-in-law."

Mr. Hawkins, a very young Englishman, was leaning against a pillar of
the veranda in an attitude which displayed his very stylish dress to the
best possible advantage. He appeared mildly conscious that he had
performed a solemn duty in making a perambulating tailor's block of
himself, and ready to receive any amount of feminine admiration without
resistance. He came forward half a step and fell back again.

"Such a charming place you have here--quite a paradise," he drawled,
caressing the head of his cane, which was constantly between his lips.
"I trust--aw--the other angel of this retreat is visible?"

Elizabeth replied with a faint smile. She had borne a good many similar
afflictions from Mrs. Harrington's friends, but it was too much that
they should be forced upon her just then.

"Where is Elsie?" cried the widow, with vivacious affection, shaking her
gay plumage like a canary bird in the sun.

"In her own room," replied Elizabeth. "Pray walk in, and I will call
her."

"Oh, never mind, I'll go!" said Mrs. Harrington. "Gentlemen, I leave you
with Mrs. Mellen; but no flirtation, remember that!"

She fluttered, laughed a little, and shook her finger at the very young
man, who said "Aw!" while North seemed absorbed in the scenery. Then
away she flew, kissing her hand to them, and leaving Elizabeth to gather
up her weary thoughts and make an effort at entertaining these unwelcome
guests.

Mrs. Harrington found Elsie yawning over a new novel, and quite prepared
to be enlivened by the prospect of company.

"But I can't go down such a figure," she said; "just wait a minute. One
gets so careless in a house without gentlemen."

"Poor dear! I am sure you are moped."

"Oh, to death. It's dreadful!" sighed Elsie. "I feel things so acutely.
If I only had a little of Bessie's stoicism!"

"Yes, it's all very well; but you are made up of feeling," said the
widow. "Change your dress, dear. Oh, you've made a conquest of a certain
gentleman."

"What, that Hawkins! He's a fearful idiot!" cried Elsie. "But he'll do,
for want of a better."

The sensitive young creature had quite forgotten her low spirits, but
dressed herself in the most becoming morning attire possible, and
floated down to greet the guests and quite bewilder them with her
loveliness.

Hawkins had been mortally afraid of Mrs. Mellen, but with Elsie he could
talk, and Elizabeth sat quite stunned by the flood of frivolous nonsense
and the peals of senseless laughter which went on about her. As for Mr.
North, Elsie scarcely gave him a word after the first general
salutation.

After awhile Elizabeth managed to escape, on the plea that household
duties required her presence, and stole up to her room for a little
quiet. All at once she heard Tom Fuller's voice in the hall; opened her
dressing-room door, and there he stood in his usual disordered state.

"I've come to say good-bye," were his first words.

"Then you are really going, Tom?" she said, sorrowfully, taking his hand
and leading him into the chamber. "Oh, how sorry I am."

"Yes, I'm off to-morrow," he said, resolutely, running both hands
through his hair, and trying to keep his courage up. "A trip to Europe
is a splendid thing, Bess--I'm a lucky fellow to get it."

"I shall be all alone," she said, mournfully; "and I had depended on you
so much."

"Oh," cried Tom, "It's good of you to miss me--nobody else will! But
there, Bessie, don't you set me off! I wanted to bid you
good-bye--I--I--well, I'm a confounded fool, but I thought I'd like to
see her just once more."

"And those tiresome people are here," said Elizabeth.

"Who do you mean?"

"Oh, Mrs. Harrington and two men she has brought to spend the day--one
of them is the person who checked our horses that day."

"I thought I heard the widow's voice as I came through the hall," said
Tom. "Well, well, it's better so! You see I don't want to make a donkey
of myself."

"Tom, you are the best creature in the world," cried Elizabeth.

"Oh, Lord bless you, no," said Tom, rubbing his forehead in a
disconsolate way; "I ain't good; there's nothing like that about me.
'Pon my word, I'm quite shocked lately to see what an envious,
bad-hearted old wretch I'm getting to be."

"We won't go downstairs yet," said Elizabeth; "sit down here and let's
have a comfortable talk, like old times, Tom."

"Well, no, I guess not, thank you--it's very kind of you," returned he,
getting very red. "You see I can't stay but an hour--I must take the
next train, for I've lots of things to do."

"Oh, I thought you would spend the night."

"Now, don't ask me--I can't--it wouldn't be wise if I could," cried Tom,
giving his hair an unmerciful combing with his fingers.

"No," she replied, regarding him with womanly pity; "perhaps not. And
you would like to go down stairs?"

"I'm a fool to wish it," he answered; "those fine people will only laugh
at me, and I know when I see that magnifico and his popinjay friend
about Elsie I shall want to wring their conceited necks. But I'll
go--oh, it's no use telling lies! You understand just what a fool I
am--I came because I feel as if I must see her once more!"

Tom was twisting his hat in both hands, his features worked in the
attempt he made to control his agitation; but Elizabeth loved him too
well for any notice of his odd manner--she was entirely absorbed in
sympathy for his trouble.

"Oh, Tom, Tom!" she said, "I do hope absence--the change--will do you
good."

"Yes," he broke in, with a strangled whistle that began as a groan;
"yes, of course, thank you--oh, no doubt! You see, there's no knowing
what good may come. But Lord bless you, Bess, if the old ship would only
sink and land me safe as many fathoms under salt water as was
convenient, it would be about the best thing that could happen to me."

"Don't talk so, Tom; you can't think how it pains me."

"Well, I won't--there, I'm all right now! Ti-rol-de-rol!" and Tom
actually tried to sing. "I say, Bessie, she never--she don't seem, you
know--?"

"What, Tom?"

"To be sorry I was going, you know?"

"Elsie? She has been so engrossed with her brother's journey----"

"Yes, of course," Tom broke in; "oh, it's not to be expected--nobody
that wasn't a flounder ever would have asked! Ri-tol-de-rol! I'm a
little hoarse this morning, but it's no matter--I only want to show I'm
not put about, you know--that is, not much."

He moved uneasily about the chamber, upset light chairs and committed
disasters generally; but all the while looked resolute as possible, and
kept up his attempt at a song in a mournful quaver.

"Well, I can't stay," he said; "I mustn't lose the train! Now, don't
feel uncomfortable, Bessie; Lord bless you, I shall soon be all
right--sea-sickness is good for my disease, you know," and Tom tried to
laugh, but it was a dismal failure compared with his former
light-heartedness.

Elizabeth saw that he was restless to get once more into Elsie's
presence, painful as the interview must be to him, so she smoothed his
hair, straightened his necktie and accompanied him downstairs.

"Oh, you dear, delightful Tom Fuller!" cried Mrs. Harrington, pleased to
see any man arrive, for Elsie had carried off both her victims into the
window-seat, and was making them dizzy with her smiles and brilliant
nonsense.

"I--I'm delighted to see you," cried Tom, frantically, thrusting his hat
in her face, in a wild delusion that he was offering his hand, for he
was so upset by the sight of Elsie that he felt as if rapidly going up
in an unmanageable balloon.

"I'll just say good-bye at the same time," pursued Tom; "for I'm rather
in a hurry, thank you."

"Why, you're not going away directly!" cried the widow. "Oh, you must
stay and entertain me. Elsie has left me quite desolate."

"Thank you; it's of no importance; I'm not quite on my sea legs yet,"
gasped Tom, growing so dizzy that he was possessed of a mad idea he was
already on shipboard.

"Why, you look quite white and ill," said the widow.

"Yes; oh, not any, thank you," cried Tom, stepping on the widow's dress,
dancing off it and dealing Elizabeth a blow with his hat.

Mrs. Mellen felt herself grow sick at heart; she glanced at Elsie; the
girl was laughing gaily, and chatting away with young Hawkins,
regardless of Tom's presence. North stood by, looking at her with his
deep, earnest eyes, as if searching her character in all its shallow
depths. Elizabeth felt bitterly indignant, and exclaimed--

"Elsie, my cousin has come to wish us good-bye, if you can spare him a
moment."

"So you are really going?" called Elsie. "You oughtn't to run away so.
It's so unkind of you."

Tom lifted his eyes mournfully to her face.

"My lap is so full of flowers," cried Elsie, glancing down at a mass of
roses that glowed in the folds of her morning dress, "I can't possibly
get up; come and shake hands with me."

It was well for Tom that Mrs. Harrington seized his arm, and afforded
him a few instants to regain his composure, while she asked all sorts of
questions about his journey and its object.

"Mary Harrington," said Elsie. "Just let Mr. Fuller come here; you
mustn't assault peaceable men in that way."

"La, dear, what odd things you do say! I was just talking with Mr.
Fuller about his journey."

Elsie glanced at North and whispered to his companion, who laughed in a
very polite way. Tom knew it was at him, and grew more red and awkward.
Elizabeth recognised the silly insult, and darted a look of such
indignation towards the offender that the youth was quite subdued,
although it had no effect whatever on Elsie.

She rose, dropping her flowers over the carpet, put her hand in Mr.
North's arm, left Hawkins to follow, and caress his cane in peace, and
moved towards the group.

"Good-bye, Mr. Fuller," said she, touching his shoulder with the tips of
her fingers. "If you bring me a beautiful lava bracelet perhaps I'll
forgive you for going away,--and some pink coral,--don't forget."

Tom was a sight to behold between confusion, distress, and his
superhuman efforts to be calm.

"I'll bring you twenty," said he, recklessly.

"Oh, that would be overpowering," laughed Elsie. "Good-bye. I'm sure
you'll look touching when you are seasick."

"He! he!" giggled Hawkins, as well as he could for the cane.

Tom turned on him like a tiger.

"You'll ruin your digestion if you laugh so much over that tough meal,"
said he, and for once Tom had the laugh on his side.

"Good-bye, Miss Elsie," he continued, determined to get away while he
could still preserve a decent show of composure; "good-bye."

"Good-bye, Tom Fuller, good-bye!"

She flung some of the flowers she was holding, at him. Tom caught them
and hurried out of the room, pressing the fragrant blossoms against his
waistcoat, and smothering a mortal pang.

Elizabeth followed him into the hall, but their parting was a brief one,
spoken amid bursts of laughter from within, and in a broken voice by the
warm hearted young fellow.

"Good-bye, Bessie--God bless you."

"You'll write to me, Tom? I shall miss you so."

"Oh, don't; it ain't worth while! I'll write of course; good-bye."

Tom dashed down the steps and fled along the avenue in mad haste, and
Elizabeth returned to her guests.

It seemed to her that the day would never come to an end. Mrs.
Harrington and Elsie scarcely heeded her, but fluttered from room to
room with the two guests, doing the honors with great spirit, and urging
them to extend their visit some days. Elizabeth was offended at the
reckless offer of hospitality.

Elsie saw this and whispered, "It wasn't my fault; don't blame me, dear!
Grant is gone, and he told you not to be cross with me."

So Elizabeth controlled herself; perhaps the girl had done all this harm
unconsciously. She would believe so, at least; no cloud must come
between them. These almost strange men were invited, and must remain if
they so decided.

As if she had not enough to bear already, Elizabeth's inflictions were
increased towards the dinner hour by the arrival of a Mr. Rhodes and his
daughter, who lived at an easy distance, and thought it a neighborly and
kind thing for them to drop in to dinner with Mrs. Mellen, and console
her in her loneliness.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE WIDOW'S FLIRTATION.

Mrs. Harrington plunged into her natural element at once; Mr. Rhodes was
a rich widower, vulgar and pompous as could well be imagined; but that
made no difference, the lady spread her flimsy net in that direction and
put on all her fascinations at once, leaving the younger men to their
fate. This was splendid sport to Elsie, for Miss Jemima, the daughter, a
gaunt, peaked-nosed female, had been Miss Jemima a good many more years
than she found agreeable, and when any woman ventured even to look at
her stout parent, she was up in arms at once and ready to do battle
against the threatened danger, resolved that one man at least should own
her undivided dominion, even if that man was her pompous old father. Mr.
Rhodes was at once captivated by the widow's flattery, and Elsie
mischievously increased Jemima's growing irritation by whispers full of
honied malice, that almost drove that single lady distracted.

"Quite a flirtation, I declare," said she; "really, Miss Jemima, widows
are very dangerous, and she is so fascinating."

"It's ridiculous for a woman to go on so," returned the spinster,
shaking her head in vehement agitation; "you may just tell her it's no
use, my pa isn't likely to be caught with chaff like that."

"Oh, but Mrs. Harrington is considered irresistible."

"Well, I can't see it for my part," retorted Jemima; "She's a tolerable
specimen of antique painting; but my pa isn't given to the fine arts."

"Oh! Mrs. Harrington," called Elsie, "I wish you could induce Mr. Rhodes
to give us a picnic in his woods before the weather gets too cold--they
are delightful. I daren't ask him, but you might venture, I'm sure."

Miss Jemima looked as if she had three minds to strangle the pretty
torment on the spot.

"Excuse me, dear," said Mrs. Harrington, "I am sure I could have no
influence."

"Oh, you painted humbug!" muttered Jemima.

"I should be delighted--charmed!" exclaimed Mr. Rhodes. "Madam, it would
be a day never to be forgotten that honored my poor house with your
presence," he broke off, puffing till the brass buttons on his coat
shook like hailstones.

"Oh, you are a dreadful flatterer, I see!" answered the widow, quite
aware of Jemima's rage, and delighted to increase it.

"Madam," said the stout man, "on the honor of a gentleman, I never
flatter. Miss Elsie, defend me."

"Not unless you promise to get up the picnic," said the little witch.
"Miss Jemima is anxious to have it----"

"Me," broke in the acid damsel, unable to endure anything more, "I am
sure I never thought of such a thing, don't speak for me, if you
please."

"But you will be delighted, you know you will."

"Pa's got to go to Philadelphia," said Jemima, sharply.

"But I could defer the trip, Mimy," said her parent, appealingly.

"Business is business, you always say," retorted the damsel.

Elsie gave a little scream.

"Why, how odd," said she. "Mrs. Harrington goes to Philadelphia next
week you can escort her, Mr. Rhodes, she is a sad coward about
travelling alone."

"I shall be delighted," said the widower, "delighted."

Jemima fairly groaned; she made a strangling effort to turn her agony
into a cough, but it began as a groan; both Elsie and Mrs. Harrington
were convinced of that, and it delighted them beyond measure.

"It would be very, very kind of Mr. Rhodes," said the widow, "but Elsie,
you are inconsiderate, to think of him taking so much trouble only for
us, and I a stranger."

"It would be an honor and delight to me," insisted Rhodes.

Jemima resolutely arose from her chair, and planted herself in a seat
directly in front of her parent--he could not avoid her eye then--the
wrath burning there made him hesitate and stammer.

"Miss Jemima," said Elsie, "come and look at my geraniums; I think they
are finer even than yours."

But nothing short of a torpedo exploding under her chair would have made
the heroic damsel quit her post, not for one instant would she leave her
parent exposed to the wiles of that abominable widow.

"My dear, I am so tired," said she, "you must excuse me."

"Perhaps you'd like to go and lie down," persisted Elsie.

"You look fatigued," said Mrs. Harrington.

"Do I, ma'am; you're kind, I'm sure," snapped the spinster, trying to
smile. "I never lie down in the daytime; I'm very comfortable where I
am, thank you."

She might be very perfectly at ease herself, but she made her father
very uncomfortable, while Elsie and the widow never gave over teasing
for a single instant, till Elizabeth returned to the room.

Luckily dinner was announced, and the asperity of Miss Jemima's feelings
softened a little by that, especially as she reflected that her father
would be obliged to lead Mrs. Mellen into the dining-room. But that
dreadful Elsie destroyed even that forlorn hope.

"Bessie," said she, "we must ask Mr. Rhodes to play host and sit at the
foot of the table, so he shall lead Mrs. Harrington in."

Even Elizabeth could not repress a smile at the little elf's malicious
craft, and there was nothing to be said. The wretched Jemima grew fairly
white with rage, but she was obliged to control herself, and the dinner
passed off in the most social, neighborly fashion.

At a very early hour Miss Jemima insisted upon returning home, but Elsie
had a parting shaft ready for her.

"I have persuaded Mrs. Harrington and these gentlemen to stay over
to-morrow," said she. "May I promise them that we'll all drive to your
house and take luncheon, Miss Jemima, by way of returning your visit."

The spinster was compelled to express her gratification. She could do no
less, after having invited herself and her father to dinner at Piney
Cove, but her face was a perfect study while the pleasant words fell
from her compressed lips, like bullets from a mould.

"We shall be in ecstasy," said Mr. Rhodes.

"You will be in New York," retorted Jemima; "you have to go early in the
morning."

"My dear, the day after will do as well."

"Now, pa, you know you said----"

"Oh, Miss Jemima," broke in Elsie, "I shall think you don't want us to
come!"

"And I," said the widow, "shall be mortally offended if Mr. Rhodes runs
away the very first time I have the pleasure of visiting his house."

"Of course, of course!" said the stout man. "My daughter, Mimy, is a
great business woman--girl, I mean--but on an occasion like this even
business must wait. Ladies, I go home to dream of the honor to-morrow
will bring."

"Well, pa, if we're going at all, I think we'd better start," cried the
spinster; "we are keeping the horses in the cold."

She made her farewells very brief and carried off her parent in triumph,
darting a last defiant look at the widow as she passed.

The moment they were gone Elsie went into convulsions of laughter, and
clapping her pretty white hands like a child, cried out:

"She'll poison you, Mary Harrington, I know she will."

"My dear, I'll eat luncheon before I go."

Even Elizabeth was forced to laugh at the absurd scene. Elsie mimicked
the spinster, and turned the affair in so many ridiculous ways that it
afforded general amusement for the rest of the evening.

The whole party did drive over to Mr. Rhodes's house the next day, and
Miss Jemima was tormented out of her very senses; while Mr. Rhodes was
made to appear ridiculous as only a pompous old widower, with a keen
appetite for flattery, can be made look.

The question of the picnic came up again, but Elizabeth settled that
matter by refusing to have any share in it. She was in no spirits for
such amusement, and had decided to refuse all invitations during Mr.
Mellen's absence.

From that day Miss Jemima always felt a liking for Mrs. Mellen, who had
so quietly come to her rescue, and she was the only one of the party to
whom the claret would not have proved a fatal dose if the spinster's
sharp glances or secret wishes could have had their due effect.

From some caprice Mrs. Harrington prolonged her stay at Piney Cove for
an entire week, and all this time she protested against either of the
gentlemen who had accompanied her there returning without her. Elsie, in
her careless, childish way, seconded the widow, so these two men dropped
into such easy relations with the family that it seemed difficult to
assign any period to their visit. Nothing could be quieter than Mr.
North's mode of life during his sojourn at the house. If he joined in
the light conversation so prevalent at all times, it was with a quiet
grace that modified it without offering rebuke. He seemed to give no
preference to the society of any one of the three ladies, but most
frequently attended Mrs. Harrington in her walks and rides. To Elsie he
was reserved, almost paternal, and in his society the young girl would
become grave, sometimes thoughtful, as if his presence depressed her
childish flow of spirits.

If North ever had more than ordinary intercourse with his hostess no one
witnessed it, yet a close observer might have seen that he watched her
with a quiet vigilance that bespoke some deep interest in her movements.
Those who have seen this very man creep into the mansion house at night
and wander cautiously from room to room, as if to fix a plan of the
dwelling in his mind, will understand that his visit, which seemed so
purely accidental, had its object; but no one could have discovered, by
look or movement, what that object was.

At last the party broke up and returned to the city. Elsie went with
them. At first Mrs. Mellen opposed her going, but the pretty creature
was resolute enough when her own wishes were concerned, and would listen
to no opposition.

"I am not going to live in this stupid place, like a nun in a convent,
just because my brother desires to amuse himself in California," she
said, when Elizabeth would have dissuaded her from leaving home. "I tell
you, Grant would not wish it. I am not married and obliged to shut
myself up and play proper like you. It's downright cruel of you wanting
me to stay here. I'm half dead with grieving already. The house isn't
like home without Grant. At any rate, I'm going; you are not my mother!"

She carried her point; Elizabeth had no absolute authority which could
enforce obedience on a creature at once so stubborn and so volatile. So
she made no further opposition, fearing that anything like violent
measures might prove distasteful to her husband.

CHAPTER XVII.

STARTING FOR THE PIC-NIC.

But one day now remained of Mrs. Harrington's unwelcome visit. The whole
party, except Elizabeth, were to start for New York in the morning,
where Mrs. Harrington had resolved to open a splendid succession of
receptions and parties in Elsie's behalf.

This last day Elsie declared should be the crowning pleasure of Mrs.
Harrington's visit. They would ride down to the sea-side tavern on
horseback, have a chowder party on the precipice behind it, looking out
upon the ocean, and return home at dusk or by moonlight, as caprice
might determine. Mr. Rhodes and Miss Jemima were to be included, and
some of the colored servants were forwarded early in the morning to
superintend the arrangements.

The dew was hanging thick and bright on the lawn when Mr. Rhodes and his
daughter rode up to the Piney Cove mansion. A group of horses were
gathered in front of the veranda, and a little crowd of ladies, in long
sweeping dresses, gauntlet gloves and pretty hats, stood chatting around
the door.

Mr. Rhodes preferred to sit on his handsome bay horse, and wait for the
party to arrange itself, for it was rather inconvenient for him to mount
and dismount the high-stepping beast oftener than was absolutely
necessary. As for Jemima, she rode a long-limbed, slender-bodied horse,
and sat him in grim dignity, as the dames of old occupied their
high-backed chairs. Her beaver hat towered high, and the stiff tuft of
feathers that rose from it in front gave a dash of the military to her
usually defiant aspect, grimly imposing.

She drew her horse up to the front steps, and sat viciously regarding
the city widow, as that lady shook out the folds of her riding-skirt,
pulled the gauntlets to a tighter fit on her shapely hands, and kept her
cornelian-headed riding-whip in a constant state of vibration, for the
benefit of that evidently too admiring widower on the great bay horse.

The party mounted at last, and cantered in a gay cavalcade across the
lawn, leaving the mansion behind them almost in solitude. It was a
lovely day, bright with sunshine, and freshened by a cool breeze from
the ocean. Mrs. Mellen that day seemed among the most joyous of the
party. Whatever care had hitherto possessed her she evidently threw off;
her sweet voice rang out pleasantly, and her face grow beautiful in the
animation of the moment.

For a while the party moved on at random; but when the road branched off
into a long tract of the woodland the equestrians naturally broke up
into pairs, and, either by chance or design, Mr. North joined Elizabeth,
who was riding a little in advance. It was almost the first time that he
had seemed to prefer her society during his whole visit, and this
movement naturally created a little observation. Elsie looked after the
splendid pair as they rode under the overhanging trees, with an
expression of subdued wonder in her blue eyes, which amounted almost to
dismay. Mrs. Harrington laughed with as much meaning as her small share
of intellect could concentrate on one idea, and said in a low voice to
Elsie:

"Did I not tell you they had met before? She has been playing dutiful
like a martyr. See how she breaks out now. Look! look! she is turning
down a cross road; it is a mile farther round."

"We will go on direct," said Elsie. "If my brother's wife chooses to
ride off alone with any man through the woods, let her. It was decided
that we should take the highway, and we will."

Elsie spoke with decision, a cold light came into her blue eyes, and the
expression about her lips was almost stern; for a moment the girl was
transfigured before her friend.

At the cross roads there was a little debate. Miss Jemima turned her
horse in the direction Elizabeth had taken. The generally obedient papa
was following this lead, when Mr. Hawkins was sent forward to arrest
him.

"Straight ahead, that's the programme," he called out, taking the gold
head of his riding-whip from his mouth long enough to speak clearly,
"Miss Elsie told me to call you back."

"And the--the other lady," stammered Rhodes, flushing red, to the
intense scorn of the spinster.

"Oh, she's gone ahead."

"Then I take this way," exclaimed Jemima, with emphasis; "come, pa."

Mr. Rhodes had wheeled his horse half round, and was casting irresolute
looks towards the two ladies riding slowly along the shady road.

"But, daughter, we cannot leave them to ride on alone."

"This--this--person is with them, and they seem to count him as a man,"
answered Jemima, with a gesture of intense scorn.

Mrs. Harrington here was seen to draw up her horse in the shade of a
huge chestnut, and playfully beckon the widower with her whip.

"Jemima, I must. It would be underbred," cried the desperate man, riding
away to the enemy.

Jemima sat upon her horse, petrified with amazement. Her father looked
anxiously back when he reached the widow, with sad forebodings of the
tempest that would follow, but there the spinster sat at the cross roads
like an equestrian statue.

"Come, come," said the widow, touching him playfully with her whip.
"Elsie is getting impatient. Now for a race."

Her spirited horse dashed forward at a run. The ponderous steed of the
widower thundered after, making the forest reverberate with the heavy
fall of his hoofs.

Mr. Hawkins fell into a dainty amble, and away the whole party swept
into the green shadows of the woods.

Jemima looked right and she looked left. Should she ride on and leave
her pa in the hands of that designing creature? Perish the thought,
better anything than that! She touched her horse. It turned sharply, and
swept down the highway like a greyhound. She struck him on the flank,
then the tiny lash of her whip quivered about his ears till he dashed
on, flinging back dust and stones with his hoofs.

The party was riding fast. Mr. Hawkins by Elsie, Mr. Rhodes close to the
widow--so close, that somehow her right hand, whip and all, had got
entangled with his. They were on a curve of the road, around which
Jemima came sweeping like a torrent. With a single bound her horse
rushed in between them, leaving the widow's gauntlet glove in the grasp
of that frightened man, and the cornelian-headed whip deep in the mud of
the highway.

Not a word was spoken. The widower sank abjectly down in his saddle, and
with his apprehensive eyes turned sideways on the spinster,
surreptitiously thrust the stray glove into the depths of his pocket.
The widow, convulsed with mingled laughter and rage, gave no doubt of
genuine color now, for her face was crimson. Thus, like two prisoners
under military guard, they moved on, with Jemima riding in grim
vigilance between them.

The spot chosen for the chowder-party commanded a splendid sea view and
a broad landscape in the background, of which the distant mansion of
Piney Cove was a principal object. It was an abrupt precipice, clothed,
except in the very front, with a rich growth of trees; splendid masses
of white pine and clumps of hemlock darkened with the deep green of
their foliage such forest trees as cast their leaves from autumn till
spring time. The broken precipice in front was tufted here and there
with clumps of barberry bushes and other wild shrubs, which might have
aided a daring adventurer to climb up it, had the temptation been
sufficient.

Between this precipice and the shores of the ocean, stood the little
tavern we have before spoken of, from which the negroes of Piney Point
were now bringing up a huge iron pot wherein to cook the chowder, which
would be nothing if not culminated in the open air, over a fire of
sticks, and eaten beneath the hemlock trees.

A bridle path led to the top of this precipice, winding along the back
slope of the hill, and by this route the highway party rode to the
summit, some fifteen minutes before Elizabeth and Mr. North joined them.
Whatever evil feelings had sprung up on the road, at least a majority of
the company resolved to enjoy themselves now. Jemima entered heart and
soul into the preparations, keeping a sharp eye on her father all the
time. He, poor man, scarcely required her vigilance, for when a chowder
was to be concocted, the stout man forgot all his gallant weaknesses,
and gave his whole being up to the important subject.

Mrs. Harrington had no great talent for cookery, and feeling beaten and
awed by Jemima's dashing generalship, hovered around the outskirts of
the preparations, and flirting a little with Hawkins, from languid
habit, rather than any special regard for the young gentleman.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FACE TO FACE.

During the bustle of these preparations, Elizabeth, Mr. North and Elsie
had dropped out of the party and wandered off, no doubt, into the shady
places of the woods; no one had observed how or where they went. Hawkins
had been with Elsie at first, but she had sent him down a ravine for
some tinted ash leaves, and when he came back to the stone on which she
had been sitting, it was vacant. Probably she had become tired of
waiting, and had gone in search of the forest leaves herself; as for
Mrs. Mellen and North, of course they were all right somewhere, and
would be on hand safe enough when the chowder was ready.

While Mrs. Harrington and Hawkins were talking in this idle fashion,
they sat on a large ledge of rock that crowned the very brink of the
precipice; and chancing to look down, saw two persons near the foot
moving towards the tavern. One they recognised, even from that distance,
to be Mr. North, for his tall, grand figure was not to be mistaken. The
other was a lady; the dark riding-dress and floating plumes might belong
to any female of the party, there was no individuality in a dress like
that. The couple had evidently found some passage down the brow of the
precipice, for it would have been impossible to reach the spot where
they stood by any other route.

"Well," said Mrs. Harrington, "if that isn't a sly proceeding; what on
earth does it mean? How Mrs. Mellen can drag her long skirts down that
hill, just to look at a common tavern, which she's seen a hundred times,
I cannot imagine."

"Perhaps they are going down to the beach," said Hawkins, who had no
more malice in his composition than a swallow.

"No, no! they are turning toward the house," said the widow,
considerably excited. "What can they want there?"

"Oh, very likely they have gone in to rest. You know North lives there
when he comes on the island to fish or shoot."

"What! Mr. North, he live there and never tell me! I thought he was a
perfect stranger on the island."

"As to that," answered Hawkins, a little startled by her earnestness,
"he only comes down for a day now and then. It's nothing permanent, I
assure you."

"There! there! they have gone in!" exclaimed the lady. "I wonder where
Elsie is; I must tell Elsie."

"Why, what nonsense!" answered Hawkins, with some spirit; "can't Mrs.
Mellen step into a house to rest herself a moment without troubling her
friends so terribly?"

"Just be quiet, Hawkins, you don't know what you are talking about,"
answered the lady, keeping her gaze fastened on the tavern. "Turn an eye
on the house while I look at the time. It must be five minutes since
they went in. Dear, dear, what a world we live in!"

Mrs. Harrington kept the little enamelled watch, sparkling with
diamonds, in her ungloved hand full ten minutes, only glancing from it
to the door of the tavern in her vigilance. At the end of that time Mr.
North and his companion came out of the house and disappeared in the
undergrowth which lay between that and the precipice.

Mrs. Harrington watched some time for them to appear again, but her
curiosity was baffled, and her attention soon directed to other objects.
At last she was aroused by Elsie coming suddenly upon the ledge,
flushed, panting for breath and glowing with anger. She turned upon
Hawkins like a spiteful mockingbird.

"A pretty escort you are, Mr. Hawkins, to leave a lady all alone in the
woods. I declare, Mrs. Harrington, he lost me in one of those dreadful
ravines, and I scrambled up the wrong bank and have been wandering
everywhere, climbing rocks and tiring myself to death. Only think of
dragging this long skirt over my arm and tearing my way through the
bushes. I heard the servants laugh and that guided me, or I might have
been roaming the woods now."

"My poor dear," said the widow, full of compassion, "how heated and
wearied you look! Hawkins, can't you find something to fan her with?"

Hawkins broke off a branch full of leaves and offered to fan her with
it. But she snatched it out of his hand and flung it over the precipice.

"Where is Elizabeth? Go tell Elizabeth I wish to speak with her, if you
want to make up with me."

"We have not seen Mrs. Mellen since you went away; nor Mr. North either.
They have finished that ride by strolling off together," said Mrs.
Harrington.

Elsie started, and the warm color faded from her face.

"What! Elizabeth; has she been roaming about? and--and----"

"With Mr. North, Elsie."

The tone in which this was conveyed said more than the words. At first
Elsie looked bewildered; then, as if her gentle spirit had received the
shock of a painful idea, she fell into troubled thought.

"And you saw her go away," she said, in a low voice. "In what
direction?"

"We did not know how or when she went, but certainly did see her and Mr.
North together."

"Where?"

"Down yonder, going into that low tavern."

Elsie gazed into her friend's face, startled and astonished.

"She would not go there. You must be mistaken, Mrs. Harrington. No
person could be recognised from this distance--it's all nonsense."

"Ask her," said Mrs. Harrington, "for here she comes."

Elizabeth came up from a hollow in the woods and joined the party. She
seemed completely worn out, and sat down on a fragment of rock, panting
for breath. She was very pale, as if some great exertion had left the
weariness of reaction upon her. She had evidently rested somewhere
before joining them.

"Elizabeth, where have you been?" said Elsie, looking anxiously at her
sister-in-law.

"Down in the woods."

Elizabeth pointed to the forest that sloped back from the precipice.

Before Elsie could resume her questions Mrs. Harrington broke in with a
faint sneer on her lips.

"And where did you leave Mr. North?" she said, fixing a cunning,
sidelong glance on Elizabeth.

"I have not seen Mr. North," answered Mrs. Mellen, with apparent
indifference, though the hot color mounted to her face, brought there
either by some inward consciousness or the perceptible sneer leveled at
her in the form of a question.

"Not seen Mr. North," exclaimed the widow, "dear me what things optical
delusions are!"

Elizabeth did not hear or heed this, for that instant Mr. North came up
to them very quietly and sat down near the widow.

"Have you had a pleasant ramble?" he said, addressing Elsie. "I saw you
and Hawkins in the woods and had half a mind to join you."

"But changed your mind, and went--may I ask where?" said Elsie, with a
shade of pallor on her face; for it seemed as if the man had surprised
her with bitter thoughts of his deception in her mind, and she could not
refrain from revealing something of distrust.

"Oh, I took a ramble around the brow of the precipice," he answered,
carelessly, "and went into the tavern for a glass of water."

"And the lady," said Elsie, looking steadily in his face. "What lady was
it in a riding-dress who bore you company? Mrs. Harrington saw one from
her perch here on the ledge."

North cast a quick glance on Elizabeth, who did not speak, but sat
looking from him to her sister-in-law, as if stricken by some sudden
terror.

"It was a mistake. No lady shared my rambles," said North.

"But there was a lady," cried Mrs. Harrington, a good deal excited. "I
saw her with my own eyes. Mr. Hawkins remarked her too."

North smiled and shook his head.

"She had on a riding-habit and an upright plume like----"

"Well, well," said North, gently, "it is useless going on with the
subject. I assure you that I went down the precipice alone and came up
alone."

Mrs. Harrington looked at Elsie and smiled.

"Of course he is in honor bound to say that," she whispered.

Elsie seemed disturbed and answered quickly, "I, for one, believe that
he speaks the truth. It is folly to say that you saw any one in that
dress; besides, it was just as likely to be me as Elizabeth--our habits
are alike."

"Poor generous dove!" whispered the widow, "you know better; but if you
are satisfied it's no business of mine, only if Mellen asks me about it
I must tell the truth."

"Mary Harrington, you must have better proof than this before you dare
to make mischief between my brother and his wife," said Elsie, with a
force of expression that made the widow open her eyes wide. "Don't be
slanderous and wicked, for I won't bear that, especially against
Elizabeth."

"Dear me, what a storm I have raised. Well, well, I did not see a lady,
that's enough. And there comes that wonderful colored person of yours,
to say that the feast is spread and the chowder perfect. Come, come, one
and all."

The whole party had assembled on the ledge by this time. At Mrs.
Harrington's invitation, it moved off, and went laughing and chatting
towards a large flat rock, that gleamed out from among the surrounding
grass and mosses, like a crusted snow bank, so white and crisp was the
linen spread over it. Here a dainty repast presented itself, for the
smoking dish of chowder that stood in the centre gave its name to what
was, in fact, a sumptuous feast. Directly the noise of flying corks and
the gurgle of amber-hued wines, with bursts of laughter and flashes of
wit, frightened the birds from their haunt in the great maple-tree
overhead, and made its rich yellow leaves tremble again in the sunshine
that came quivering over the forest, and rippled up the broad ocean with
silvery outbursts.

Whatever had gone before, all was hilarity and cordial good-humor now.
North, for one, came out resplendently; such graceful compliments, such
bright flashes of wit no one had ever heard from his lips till then. It
aroused the best talent of every one present. When the party broke up
and its members went to the covert where their horses had been fed, it
was joyously, like birds flying home to their nests.

A ride through the golden coolness of a lovely sunset brought the party
back to Piney Cove, and all that had gone wrong during the day seemed
forgotten.

The visitors were to start for New York early in the morning, and, as
all were somewhat fatigued, the house was closed somewhat earlier than
usual.

Elsie had retired earlier than the rest, having some preparations to
make for her little journey. She busied herself awhile about her boudoir
and bed-room, selecting a few articles of jewelry and so on to be
packed, then sat down and read awhile; tired of that, she turned down
the lights in the alabaster lily cups, which one of the statues held,
sat down in the faint moonshine, with which she had thus flooded the
room, and fell into a train of restless thought; a pale gleam darted up
now and then from the lilies, and trembled through the floss-like curls
under which she had thrust her hand, revealing a face more earnest and
thoughtful than was usual to the gay young creature. Whether it was that
she had become anxious from the dart of suspicion that had been that day
cast at her brother's wife, or was disturbed by some other cause I
cannot say, but her eyes shone bright and clear in the pale radiance
that surrounded her; now and then she would start up and listen at
Elizabeth's door, as if about to enter and question her of the things
that evidently troubled her mind. At last she fell into quiet, and lying
on the couch, scarcely seemed to breathe. It was almost midnight then.
The house was still, and she could hear the distant waves beating
against the shore. She closed her eyes and listened dreamily, reluctant
to seek any other place of rest, yet changing the azure cushions of her
couch impatiently from time to time.

At last, as she half rose for this purpose, a noise from the outer room,
which was a square passage or hall, in which were placed some bronze
statues and antique shields, arrested her attention. Resting on her
elbow, she held her breath and listened.

The noise came again more distinctly. It seemed as if a door had been
opened with caution. Elsie arose, stole softly across the carpet, turned
the lock of her dressing-room door and entered the passage, carrying a
little night-lamp in her hand, which she had kindled among the alabaster
lilies. She had half crossed the hall, casting frightened looks around,
when a cry of dismay broke from her lips, for close by the door which
led to her sister-in-law's apartments she saw Elizabeth standing, pale
as death, but with her eyes burning like fire, turned upon a man who
stood leaning against one of the statues. It was Mr. North.

The two women stood face to face, regarding each other in dead silence,
while North smiled upon them both. The lamp trembled in Elsie's hand,
her face became white as snow. Without uttering a word she turned,
entered her room and locked the door.

The next day she left Piney Point with Mrs. Harrington. Mr. North left
also, but he went alone.

CHAPTER XIX.

LETTERS.

Months had passed since Grantley Mellen's departure for California; the
winter had gone, the summer faded, and though his absence had been
prolonged almost two years, there was little hope of his speedy return.

The business upon which he had gone out was not yet settled, and however
great his anxiety to meet his family, he would not endanger his worldly
interests so vitally as he would have done by any neglect or reckless
inattention in that affair.

Since the night of that unpleasant scene in the hall at Piney Cove,
Elsie Mellen had been at home so irregularly that all intimate relations
had died out between her and her sister-in-law. Some dark thought seemed
to possess the young girl, since the night of that strange adventure;
and, though the subject was never mentioned between her and Elizabeth,
Elsie's demeanor towards her brother's wife was one of cold, almost
hateful distrust, while Elizabeth grew more pensively sad each day, and
seemed to shrink from any explanation with painful sensitiveness.

At last Elsie almost entirely absented herself from the house. The very
premises seemed to have become hateful to her. Without deigning to
consult Elizabeth, she had been visiting about among her former
schoolmates, making Mrs. Harrington's house her headquarters. This was
all the announcement of her movements that she chose to make to the
woman who had been left her guardian.

How this fair, thoughtless girl lost all respect for her brother's wife
so completely that she refused to remain accountable to her for
anything, no one could tell, for she never mentioned the affair of that
night to her nearest friend. It evidently worked in her heart, but never
found utterance.

So the winter wore away drearily enough at Piney Cove; for with all her
waywardness, Elsie had been like a sunbeam in the house; and Elizabeth
pined in her absence till the dark circles widened under her eyes, and
her voice always had a sound of pain in it. But with the most sorrowful,
time moves on, and even grief cannot retain one phase of mournfulness
for ever.

The second spring began to scatter a little brightness about the old
house, and in this fresh outbloom of nature Elizabeth found some sources
of enjoyment. Since her virtual separation from Elsie she had received
no company, but lived in utter seclusion. Letters from her husband came
regularly, but her replies were studied, and written with restraint. She
never folded one of these missives without tears in her eyes, and when
his letters spoke of coming home, she would ponder over the writing with
a look of strange dread in her face.

One lovely spring morning Elizabeth Mellen was alone in that quiet old
mansion. Elsie had not been home for months, and only brief notes
announcing some change of place, or anticipated movements, had warned
Elizabeth of her mode of existence. These notes were cold as ice, and
the young wife always shivered with dread when she opened them.

It might have been a package of these letters that she had been
reviewing. She was alone in the library; quite alone, of course, but the
repose and silence about her brought no rest to her soul. Her whole
appearance was in strange contrast to the quiet of the scene; her face
so changed by the thoughts which kept her company, and forced themselves
upon her solitude, that it hardly seemed the same.

She walked up and down the room in nervous haste, her head bent, her
eyes looking straight before her, full of wild bewilderment which
follows an effort at reflection when the mind is in a fever of unrest.
Sometimes she stopped before the table, on which lay a package of open
letters; she would glance at them with a shudder of horror, wringing her
hands passionately together at the time, and uttering low moans which
sounded scarcely human in their smothered intensity.

Then she would glance towards the mantel, upon which lay a letter with
the seal still unbroken, though it had reached her early that morning.
It was from her husband, and she had not yet dared to read its contents!

She had been thus for hours, walking to and fro, sometimes sweeping the
package on the table away, as if unable longer to endure it before her
eyes, only an instant after to recover it as if there were danger in
allowing it out of her sight. Then she would take up her husband's
letter and attempt to open it, but each time her courage failed, and she
would lay it down, while that sickening trouble at her heart sent a new
pallor across her face, and left her trembling and weak, like a person
just risen from a sick bed.

It was growing late in the afternoon; the sunlight played in at the
windows, and cast a pleasant glow through the room; but the glad beams
only made her shiver, as if they had been human witnesses that might
betray her fear and misery.

At last she took up the package, resolved to put it resolutely away
where she could no longer look at it; as she raised it a miniature fell
from among the papers, and struck the floor with a ringing sound. She
snatched it up quickly, crushed the whole into a drawer, locked it and
put the key in her bosom.

Then, with a sudden struggle she started forward to the mantel, caught
up her husband's letter, and began to read. A sharp cry broke from her
lips; she dropped slowly to her knees, and went on reading in that
attitude, as if it were the only one in which she could venture to
glance at those kindly words:

"Not coming quite yet," she gasped at length; "thank God, not yet--not
yet."

She allowed the letter to drop from her hand, and for a few moments gave
herself completely up to the horrible agitation which consumed her.

It would have been a piteous sight to the coldest or most injured heart
to have seen that beautiful woman crouched on the floor, in the
extremity of her anguish, writhing to and fro, and moaning in mortal
agony, which could find no relief in tears.

She remained thus for a long time; at last some sudden thought appeared
to strike her, which brought with it an absolute necessity for
self-control and immediate action.

She rose to her feet, muttering:

"He will be here again soon; he must not find me like this!"

She walked to the mirror, arranged her disordered dress and hair, and
stood gazing at her own features in a sort of wondering pity; they were
so death-like and contracted, with suffering that she felt almost as if
looking into the face of a stranger.

At length she caught up a cloak which lay on the sofa, wrapped herself
in it and went out of the house.

She took her way through the woods, walking rapidly, quite regardless
that the moisture from the damp earth was penetrating her thin shoes,
not feeling the keenness of the wind, which was growing chill with the
approach of evening.

The expression of her face changed; she was deadly pale still, but a
look of resolution had settled over her features, and a naturally strong
will had begun to assert itself.

Beyond the shrubbery that thick grove of evergreens extended to the very
shore, and into their shadow Elizabeth walked with a determined step.

Evidently waiting for some one she paced up and down among the trees,
the dry leaves rustling under her tread and making her start, as if she
feared being surprised in that solitary spot by some curious wanderer.

It was growing almost twilight, but still she kept up that dreary
promenade, struggling bravely with herself, and trying to restrain the
agonizing thoughts which threatened to overwhelm her forced composure.

"He will not come," she muttered; "I must wait--wait--he will not come
to-day."

She shuddered at the very sound of her own voice, but it seemed to have
disturbed some one else; for a step sounded on the grass, and a man came
out from the deeper recesses of the grove, and paused for a moment,
glancing on either side as if uncertain which path to pursue.

It was Mr. North.

CHAPTER XX.

AN INTERVIEW IN THE WOODS.

Elizabeth saw the man and yet neither moved or spoke, but remained
standing there in dumb silence, gazing at him with an expression in
which so many diverse emotions struggled, that it would have been
difficult to decide which feeling was paramount.

The flutter of her cloak caught his attention, and he came hurriedly
forward with a smile on his lips, holding out his hand in an easy,
reckless fashion.

"Ten thousand pardons," he exclaimed, "I fear that I have kept you
waiting--I shall never forgive myself."

She put up her hand as if to check him, feeling, perhaps, some mockery
in these words which was not apparent in his voice.

"We need not make excuses to each other," she said, in a cold, hard
tone, "neither you nor I came here for that."

"Scarcely, I believe," and he laughed in a reckless way, which appeared
natural to him.

Elizabeth Mellen shuddered in every limb at that repulsive sound; an
absolute spasm of pain contracted her features, she gave no other sign
of emotion, but clenched her hands hard together, forcing herself to be
calm.

"I only received your letter this morning," he continued, watching her
every movement carefully, while standing there with his back against a
tree with apparent unconcern; "I should have been earlier, had it been
possible."

She made an impatient gesture.

"No more of that," she exclaimed, "enough!"

He looked at her with the same careless smile that lighted up his
somewhat worn face into an expression of absolute youthfulness. He was
still a splendidly handsome man; a type of rare beauty which could not
have failed to attract general observation wherever he appeared.

He was tall; the shoulders and limbs might have served as a model for a
sculptor; the neck was white almost as a woman's; the magnificent head
set with perfect grace upon it, and was carried with a haughty air that
was absolutely noble. He might have been thirty-eight, perhaps even
older than that, but he was one of those men concerning whose age even a
physiognomist would be puzzled to decide.

The face was almost faultless in its contour; the mouth, shaded by a
long silken moustache, which relieved his paleness admirably, and lent
new splendor to his eyes, which possessed a strange magnetic power that
had worked ill in more than one unfortunate destiny.

It was a face trained to concealment, and yet so carefully tutored that
at the first glance one only thought what an open, pleasant expression
it had. Even after long intercourse and a thorough knowledge of the
man's character, that face would have puzzled the most skillful
observer.

Elizabeth Mellen was looking at him in a strange silence; whatever might
have been in the past there was no spell now in those glorious eyes
which could dazzle her soul into forgetfulness; shade after shade of
repressed emotion passed over her features as she gazed, leaving them at
last white and fixed as marble.

"You are pale," he said, "so changed."

She started as if he had struck her.

"I did not come here to talk of my appearance," she said.

"True," he replied, "very true; but I cannot help wondering. I think of
that day when I saved your life----"

"If you had only let me die then!" she broke in passionately. "If God
had only mercifully deprived you of all strength!"

"You were blooming and gay," he went on as if he had not heard her
words. "Yes, you are changed since then."

"I will not hear these things," she cried; "I will not be made to look
back upon what we all were then."

She closed her eyes in blind anguish; his words brought back with such
terrible force the time of that meeting--the day but one before her
marriage, when he had started up so fatally in her path, and never left
it till this terrible moment.

"Then to change the subject," he said. "In our brief conversation the
other day we arrived at no conclusion whatever, nor was your letter any
more satisfactory; will you tell me exactly what you have decided upon?"

A sudden flash of anger leaped into her eyes above all the suffering
that dilated them.

"Now you are talking naturally," she said, "now you are your real self!"

He bowed in graceful, almost insulting mockery.

"It is your turn to pay compliments," he answered; "but I shall not
receive them so ungraciously as you did mine."

She passed her hand across her throat as if something were choking her,
then she said in a hard, measured tone:

"Have you considered the proposition I made you--will you go away from
this country, and remain away for ever?"

He stood playing with his watchchain in an easy, careless way, as he
replied:

"It is cruel to banish me--very cruel!"

"Listen!" she exclaimed passionately; "I know more than you think--your
residence here is not safe!"

He only bowed again.

"It may be so, but I leave few traces in my path. If you do indeed know
anything which could affect me, I am very certain that in you I have a
friend who will be silent."

He opened his vest slightly and drew forth from an inner pocket a small
paper, at the sight of which Elizabeth grew whiter than before. She made
a gesture as if she would have snatched it from him, but he thrust it
back in its hiding-place with a sarcastic smile.

"Secret for secret," said he; "but never mind that. After all, you treat
me very badly. I wonder I am in the least inclined to be friends with
you."

"Don't mock me!" she exclaimed. "Friends! There is no creature living
that I loathe as I do you! No matter what the danger may be, I will
speak the truth; tell you how utterly abhorrent you are to me, and brave
the result."

"Yet once----"

She interrupted him with an insane gesture; perhaps he knew her too well
for any attempt at trifling further with her just then, for his manner
changed, and he said:

"You will take cold here; it is growing dark and the wind is very
chill."

"It doesn't matter," she replied, recklessly. "Let us finish what there
is to say, then I will go."

The wretched woman could stand upon her feet no longer, she was shaking
so with agitation and exhaustion that she was forced to sit down on a
fallen log. He seated himself by her side, regardless of her recoiling
gesture, and began to talk earnestly.

For a full hour that strange interview went on, their voices rising at
times in sudden passion, then sinking to a low tone, as if the speakers
remembered that they spoke words which must not be overheard.

At last Elizabeth arose from her seat, folded her cloak about her, and
said, quickly:

"Be here to-morrow at the same hour."

Without giving him time to answer, or making the least sign of farewell,
she darted rapidly through the darkening woods and disappeared in the
direction of the house.

North rose, began whistling a careless air, and walked slowly back along
the path by which he had entered the grove.

When Elizabeth came in sight of the house she saw a light in the library
window.

"Elsie is back at last. God help us all!" she muttered.

She moved near the low casement, looked in and saw the girl standing on
the hearth, and hurried towards the entrance.

Elsie had returned home a full hour before, and had searched for
Elizabeth vainly about the house. She entered the library, and was
walking restlessly about the spacious room, slowly and sadly, as if
oppressed by this cold welcome home.

Suddenly her eye caught sight of a paper lying under the table; it was
one of the letters which had fallen unnoticed by Elizabeth when she put
away the package.

Elsie caught it up, glanced her eyes over it, uttered a faint cry, then
read it in a sort of horrified stupor.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" broke from her lips.

The discovery which she had made froze the very blood in her veins, and
left her incapable of thought or action. She sat shivering, as if struck
with a mortal chill, and at last crept close to the fire, clutching the
letter in her hands, but holding them out for warmth. Sometimes her
sister's name broke from her lips in a horrified whisper, and low words
died in her throat, the very sound of which made her shudder.

At length the darkness and the solitude seemed to become insupportable
to her; she started forward and opened the door, with the intention of
fleeing from the room. It had suddenly become odious to her. She took
one step into the hall and met Elizabeth face to face. The woman saw the
letter which Elsie held in her hand, caught the recoiling gesture which
she instinctively made, then for an instant they both stood still,
staring at each other.

Suddenly Elizabeth caught Elsie's hand, drew her back into the library,
and, once there, closed and locked the door.

For more than an hour the pair were alone in that darkened apartment.
When at last they emerged from it they were both deadly white, and
exhausted as if by passionate weeping. Not a word was spoken between
them, but they turned away from each other like ghosts that had no
resting-place on earth.

CHAPTER XXI.

FIRE AND WATER.

When North left Mrs. Mellen in the woods he took a moment for
consideration, and then walked quickly towards the shore tavern. As he
turned a point which led from Piney Point to the bluff which overhung
it, his servant, the young mulatto, who had spent most of the season at
this retreat, came to meet him with a letter in his hand.

"It had a foreign postmark," said the man; "so I started to meet you the
moment it came in, according to orders."

"Right, boy, you are very right," cried North, tearing at the envelope
as a hawk rends its prey; "never let a scrap of writing from abroad rest
a moment out of my hands."

The man read the letter--only a few lines--and his hands shook till the
paper rattled again.

"Boy--boy, what day of the month is this?" he questioned, trying to fold
the letter, which he crushed instead.

"The tenth, sir."

North went into a mental calculation, then the cloud on his face broke
away and he almost shouted:

"It is in time--it is in time! Any other letters?"

"One for the Cove. Shall I slip it into the old man's parcel or would
you rather----"

"Give it to me," said North, cutting the servant short, and snatching at
the letter, which was in Mr. Mellen's handwriting and bore the
California postmark.

He was too eager for caution, and broke the seal recklessly.

"He, too--he coming, too! By Jove, this is glorious sport! Made his will
before sailing, ha!--provident man!--one half to his dear wife, the
other to his darling sister, Elsie Mellen. A safe precaution, for ships
will get lost at sea."

North crushed the two letters into his pocket, and walked with rapid
steps towards the tavern. But he only remained long enough to get a
telescope, with which he reappeared, and turned into a path leading to
the bluff. Once upon the ledge, high above the house, he levelled his
glass and took a hasty sweep of the ocean with it. Nothing was in sight
that seemed to interest him, so he turned the glass a little landward
and levelled it on the Piney Cove mansion, which made an imposing
feature in the landscape. From the eminence on which the mansion stood
the grounds sloped down to the water's edge in a closely-shaven lawn,
pleasantly broken up by flower-beds, and knots of old trees that looked
aged and mysterious enough to have watched that distant sweep of sea for
whole centuries.

North seemed to be counting every clump of trees, and calculating the
value of each broad field that stretched back from the crescent-like
Cove.

"It is a glorious old place, and we might live there like monarchs. If I
could only command the winds and waves for one week, now, we might defy
the rest. Half his property! Why, it is splendid; and the will safe."

With these words he turned his glass again. On a clear morning there was
a glorious view from the bluff, showing the full extent of the curving
bay, with its long line of steep woodlands stretching along the coast
and the bright rush of waters beyond, till the eye was lost in the white
line of the distant ocean.

Other mansions peeped out from among the trees, or stood boldly down on
the shore, and on the right hand a small village nestled in at the
furthermost extremity of the bay, forming a pleasant life picture. The
man cared nothing for these things, but turned his glass directly
oceanward, and searched the horizon with keen interest.

A ship hove in sight, like a great white bird, beating up from its nest
in mid-ocean. The heart in that bad man's bosom made a great bound, and
the blasphemy of a thanksgiving sprang to his lips; but the joy was only
for a moment. Dropping his glass, he muttered:

"Madman! to suppose, of all the ships on the ocean, it must be this one.
But if it should--if it should!"

He sat down on a fragment of rock, rested his glass on the drooping
branch of a tree, and watched the ship as it swept through a bank of
luminous fog and took a more definite form. Hitherto it had seemed
floating between a curve of the sky and the blue line of water, but now
it came out clearly, and as North looked he saw a dark pile of
storm-clouds muster up behind it with slow, threatening danger.

Hour after hour the man sat and watched that one object. The glass was a
powerful one, and seconded his keen vigilance. At length he was
rewarded, a burst of sunshine fell upon the vessel, the last that
illuminated the horizon that day, and he saw her name on the stern. The
telescope dropped from his hand, his face turned pale; the cry that
leaped to his lips perished there. The man was frightened by the
completion of his own wishes. Had some evil spirit performed a miracle
for him?

All the time this man had been watching, a tempest blackly followed the
homeward-bound ship. The ocean began to dash and torment itself into a
fury of wrath. A high wind came roaring up from the bosom of the waters,
and over all gathered a world of lurid gloom, kindled fiercely red by
the sun when it went down, and slowly engulfed the ship, which was last
seen struggling fearfully in the wild upheaving of the elements.

North seemed possessed of a demon that night. He left his telescope on
the earth, and went desperately to work, gathering up dry wood and
brush, which he stacked on the overhanging ledge, never pausing till a
great mound was created sufficiently large to keep a fire blazing all
night. By the time this was done the darkness became profound. Now arid
then he could see drifts of foam tossed upwards, like the fluttering
garments of a ghost fleeing from the storm. The little tavern at the
foot of the rock was lost in the overwhelming darkness. The lights from
the village seemed put out, and there was no vestige of Piney Cove
visible. No rain, as yet had fallen; and at this North rejoiced, for his
stock of wood was like tinder in its dryness, and the wind came fiercely
from the ocean, so fiercely that it threatened the death of any vessel
approaching the shore.

With all these elements of terror surrounding him, North worked till the
perspiration dropped from his forehead like rain. That cliff had been
blackened before with wreckers' fires, but never had a man heaped wood
upon wood with so vivid a conviction of the crime he meditated, with
such earnest desire for death to follow his toil.

When the evening had reached its darkest gloom, this man struck a match,
which he took from his pocket in a little case of enamelled gold--for
even in his crimes he was dainty--and thrust it among the yellow pine
splinters with which he had laid the foundation of his deathfire. The
blue light of the match flashed close to his face, revealing it white as
death, but smiling.

Directly a column of flame shot upward, first in fine quivering flashes,
then in long, curling wreaths of fire, that the wind seized upon and
tore into hot, red tatters, laughing and wrangling among them with
fearful grotesqueness.

North retreated from the blaze, and ran back into the woods, hiding
himself, for he feared to be seen from the tavern below. Now and then he
would start forth, toss a handful of fuel on the flames, and plunge back
into the darkness, where he listened greedily for some token to come out
of the storm and prove that his evil work was well done.

It came at last--a gun boomed out from the tempest. The man started and
began to tremble. Still he listened. Another gun, with loud cries
cutting sharply through the storm, then dead silence, followed by a
tumult upon the shore, as if men were gathering in haste.

North was not surprised at this. When a vessel struck in these days on
the Long Island shore, wreckers appeared in dozens, not eager for death,
for they would rather have avoided that, but keen for plunder. Now the
cries of these men made the storm terrible. Blue lights from the
stricken ship revealed her struggling fiercely among the breakers, which
were rending her like wild beasts.

Then North trampled out his death fire and went down to the beach among
the crowd of wreckers that stood waiting, with horrid patience, for the
ship to go to pieces and give its treasures into their greedy keeping.

"No boat could live among the breakers three minutes, I tell you," said
old Benson with gruff decision, when North, horrified by the terrible
shrieks that rang up from the sinking ship, was seized with an awful fit
of remorse, and cried out fiercely for help which no man could give. He
would have undone his work then had it been possible, for the last faint
light that went up from the wreck revealed a woman, with outstretched
arms and hair streaming back on the storm, pleading so wildly for help
that a fiend would have pitied her. It was this woman's life he had
sought, but with the sight of her his heart failed utterly.

But an evil deed once written in the eternal book of God cannot be
recalled. While this man stood in dumb helplessness on the beach, the
ship sunk. Out of the whirlpool which it made, the wretched woman was
tossed back among the breakers, that seized upon her, fiercely hurled
her to and fro against the rocks, then gave her over to a great
inheaving wave, which left her shrouded in a drift of seaweed almost at
her murderer's feet.

Daylight had broken on the wreck before it went down. Leaden and cold it
fell over the corpse of that poor woman as it was borne up to the
tavern, with the seaweed trailing from it and the wet garments clinging
to the limbs like cerements. Two rude seamen carried her away, for North
fled from the first sight of his work and plunged madly into the water,
where many a poor wretch was buffeting with the waves. He called on the
wreckers to help him, and dragged two or three exhausted creatures to
the beach, for he was ready to brave death in any shape rather than look
upon that cold form again.

They carried the lifeless woman up to the tavern, and, careless of
ceremony, laid her on the bed in North's room. Here they left her, with
the salt sea-water dripping in a heavy rain from her garments, soaking
the bed and forming dreary rivulets along the uncarpeted floor.

Deep in the morning North came up from the beach pale and staggering
from exhaustion. He went into his chamber and was about to cast himself
on the bed, when, lo! that face on the pillow met his gaze, ghastly and
cold. The heavy dropping of the water struck upon his ear like the fall
of leaden bullets. He stood paralyzed yet fascinated. A shudder colder
than spray from his garments shook his form from head to foot; and,
turning, he fled down the stairs again out upon the beach, and helped
the wreckers to haul in their plunder, till he fell utterly exhausted on
the sands.

CHAPTER XXII.

AMONG THE BREAKERS.

The storm had abated, but still the sea rose tempestuously, and broken
clouds filled the sky as with great whirlpools and drifts of smoke. A
good deal of rain had fallen, and this calmed the waters somewhat; but
the disturbed elements of the tempest made the most experienced seaman
look anxious when his face was turned oceanwards. An assistant pilot,
whose duty lay in that range of the shore, had been injured in helping
to save the crew of that ill-fated vessel. His comrades had carried him
up to the tavern, and laid him on a settee in the bar-room, where he
grew worse and worse, till it became dangerous to remove him to more
comfortable quarters.

In this state North found the man on the second day after the wreck,
when he came up from the village, where he had sought accommodations
till the coroner's inquest should be over, and his room cleared of its
mournful incumbrance.

Independent of his personal hurt, the boatman was suffering from intense
anxiety regarding the duties of his occupation. It had been his
employer's pride to be always first in the incoming course of the
California steamers, and now his little craft lay with its sails furled
in a cove below the house, waiting for a signal to put to sea. The man
had been very anxious to intercept the steamers of that month, because
it was thought that Mr. Mellen might possibly be on board, and he was
sure of a good round sum, in that case, for bringing this gentleman on
shore, while his superior, the pilot, took the steamer into port.

North heard all these muttered regrets as he sat gloomily in the
bar-room, and they seemed to affect him more than so unimportant a
subject should have done. It was now drawing towards night, and the man
became terribly restless, for the pilot was expected every moment, and
from vague conjecture the poor fellow worked his mind up into a
certainty that Mellen would come, and the reward for bringing him on
shore be lost.

"If there was only a man about that could take care of the craft," he
said, "I'd divide with him a fair half to take my place, but there
isn't, and ten chances to one the boss loses his chance with the
steamer, all because of this confounded foot of mine. I wish we'd let
the passengers drown; well, not quite so bad as that, but it's plaguey
hard on a fellow to give up his luck in this way."

The bar-room happened to be empty just then, with the exception of North
and the injured man. North aroused himself and looked around. Seeing no
listeners near, he went up to the grumbler, and began to condole with
him.

"Is there no one who can take your place?" he questioned.

"Not a man. These fellows do well enough in fishing boats that can hug
the shore, but sometimes the boss runs his craft clear out to sea.
Besides, this weather is enough to frighten a fresh hand," was the
impatient answer.

"What if I should make an offer to go."

"You!"

The man laughed in spite of his pain and annoyance.

"You. I like that."

"But I can handle a boat in pretty rough waters, let me tell you, my
man."

"But you look too much of a gentleman. The boss would never trust you."

"Oh, a suit of your clothes, which I see they have had sense enough to
dry, and a few things I have on hand will make that all right."

"But, how much? how much?" inquired the man, anxiously.

"Why, nothing; I shall go for the fun of it, or not at all."

"That's the idea," answered the seaman, rubbing his hands--which still
trembled with weakness--in sudden delight, "a real gentleman and no
mistake, but bear a hand at once. It won't do for the commodore to find
you in this rig."

"Aye, aye," answered North, sailor fashion, and in a voice that seemed
hoarse from years of sea service.

The man started up on the settee, aroused to dangerous enthusiasm by
astonishment.

"That's the time o' day," he cried in high glee.

North snatched up the seaman's clothes, and retired with them into a
little room back of the bar. He had got over the first shock of
nervousness regarding the dead body lying upstairs, but still shrunk
from looking on it again with shuddering terror. The remembrance of his
crime did not prevent the contemplation of another equally atrocious,
but he did not care to look on that sight again. After a little he came
out from the room, so completely changed that the sick man stared wildly
at him, and called out,

"Where away, messmate; are you one of the fellows we saved from the
wreck?"

North laughed, settled himself in his loose clothes sailor fashion, and
walked with wide steps across the floor, as if it had been a
quarter-deck. A dawning conviction of the truth seized upon the man. He
fell back upon the settee, uttering broken ejaculations of delight
intermingled with groans.

"That'll do. It's all right. He'll take you for one of the chaps we
saved from the wreck, and ask no questions," he panted out.

"It's going to be a roughish night," said North. "I hope your Mr. Mellen
can swim, if we happen to get into any trouble."

"No, no, don't depend on that, but he knows the coast, and is as brave
as a lion; still I shouldn't like him to be brought into danger,
remember that."

"It's not at all likely that he'll be on board," answered North,
carelessly.

"Hush up," cried the seaman, "don't you hear the commodore coming?
They've just told him about this confounded foot. Hear him swear."

The pilot came in while his assistant was speaking.

"What the thunder is all this about? just when I wanted you most, too,
and a rough night. They'll get ahead of us, and all through this
confounded wrecking business. Couldn't you keep out of it for once, you
rascal?"

"Keep a stiff upper lip, commodore. It's all right," cried the man,
pointing to North; "here's a chap I have done a service to, who is
willing to take my night's work on himself, just out of gratitude. He's
a safe hand."

"Let him bear away, then," cried the pilot, casting a glance at North,
which seemed to prove satisfactory; "come on, my man, we have no time to
lose."

North followed the pilot in silence, only stopping by the sick man long
enough to whisper, "Don't mention this to a living soul!"

The man promised, and kept his word.

The pilot boat was soon unmoored and flying out to sea like a stormy
petrel. North performed his duty well, and received a word or two of
commendation from the superior, which proved the efficacy of his
disguise, for he had seen this person more than once at the shore
tavern.

At last they came in sight of a large steamer laboring heavily with a
roughish sea and uncertain wind. She hailed them, and the little boat
bore down upon her. The steamer lay to, and the pilot mounted her side,
after giving some directions to his man. A crowd of persons met him as
he leaped over the bulwarks, and among them North searched with burning
eagerness for that one face. It appeared at last, looking down upon the
boat from over the bulwarks. The bad man's heart rose to his mouth; he
watched every movement on deck with keen interest.

The pilot came to Mellen's side, and made a signal for the boat to wait.
Then some luggage was lowered and Grantley Mellen came down the side of
the steamer, and took his seat in the little craft, which flew away with
him towards the clouded shore. The wind increased as they sped along,
and though not so terrible as it had been when that other vessel was
wrecked, it gradually rose to a degree of violence that threatened the
little pilot boat with destruction. But the gale blew shoreward, and
urged the boat on till it fairly leaped over the hissing waves.

A dismal twilight came on, and the storm was rapidly increasing to its
full power as they drew near the shore. The wind roared among the hills,
and lashed the waters into foam, the rain beat heavily and chill as
sleet, but Mr. Mellen sat cold and firm on his luggage, neither heeding
the disguised boatman's ejaculations or offering to aid him in his
difficult task.

It was a position to test the courage of the strongest man, and many a
time it seemed that the wind and waves must conquer and swamp the light
craft completely; but no matter how rude or sudden the shock, Mr. Mellen
neither betrayed any anxiety, nor gave any more sympathy to the toiling
boatman, than if he had been a wooden machine.

The disguised seaman now and then cast a furtive look at his passenger,
who seemed almost unconscious of the increasing gale. A heavy gust
sometimes seized his cloak and sent it sweeping out like the wings of a
great bird, but he only pulled it impatiently about him and sat quiet
again, looking out through the stern night.

This perilous voyage was a long one, and its difficulties grew fearfully
as they neared the end. The wind seemed to come from every point at
once, and tossed the boat about till it fairly leaped in the water, as
if trying to escape from its combined enemies.

Suddenly the rain almost ceased, the clouds parted, and the moon cast a
frightened glare over the scene. In the distance Mr. Mellen could see
his own dwelling, with the broad sweep of woods and waters in front;
then a sharp exclamation from his companion aroused him to the new
dangers that threatened him.

The boat had been swept in near the shore, where a ring of sunken rocks
girdled the beach, breaking the waves into whirlpools, and sending the
white foam out into the storm. In this spot that good ship had gone
down, yet the boatman made no effort to veer his little craft from the
awful danger, but with a furious light in his eyes and a horrid smile on
his lips, bore down upon the breakers. True, it required almost
superhuman strength to turn the course of that light craft, for the
blast was dashing it forward like a battalion of fiends.

They were close upon the breakers, when Mellen sprang up, pushed the
boatman back with a violence that sent him headlong into the bottom of
the boat, and seized the helm himself. Mr. Mellen struggled with all the
power desperation gives a man, but his efforts were futile as those of a
child. The boat spun round and round till they were fairly dizzy;
another fierce blast and they were blown directly into the breakers.

Mellen's agonized cry was answered by a hoarse murmur from his
companion, which sounded like a malediction. Before either could think
or act, a more violent blast raging up from the sea, struck the skiff
and whirled it in among the rocks.

Now Mellen's eyes kindled, and all the reserved force of his character
came out. He knew every inch of the coast for miles each way. Through
these boiling white breakers was a channel wide enough to carry them
over, and towards that he forced the little craft, which seemed
absolutely to leap through the breakers into the leaden current, where
she rested one moment, trembling from stem to stern like a great
crippled bird hunted to death by the elements.

North saw that they were in possible safety. He had not anticipated a
storm so terrible as that, but had intended to swamp his boat in the
breakers and swim ashore, leaving Mellen, who could not swim, as he
supposed, to his fate. But now everything else was forgotten in a
cowardly thirst for life. No man could exist for a moment in that awful
riot of waters. He watched Mellen as he kept the boat steadily in the
current, with the keen anxiety of a man to whom death is the terror of
terrors.

The little craft swept on, reeling and recoiling along the narrow path
into comparatively smooth waters. Mellen, still with one hand bearing
down the helm, seized the cable and flung it towards the disguised
boatman, who lifted his wild face for the orders he had not the power to
ask.

"Be ready," cried Mellen, with the quick resolution which marked his
character, "jump out as she nears that rock--we are safe then."

They both stood upright in the boat, swaying to and fro, but managing to
retain a firm position.

Again the hope of safety seemed a delusive one; the skiff swooped away
from the rock, spun more giddily about, and threw both men upon their
knees. Another instant that seemed endless,--an instant which decided
the fate of both, as far as this world was concerned,--these men
trembled on the brink of eternity. If the skiff obeyed the counter blast
that was upon them and swept towards the breakers, they were lost; still
there was a hope, if it veered upon the rock which loomed out from the
shore.

The moon gave light enough to enable them to watch the scene and see
their danger. Again the conflicting blasts struck them; the boat reeled,
righted itself and was dashing by the rock, upon which the two men
sprang by a simultaneous movement. A few more vigorous leaps and they
reached the shore, standing there for a moment in breathless awe. Then
they commenced hauling in the crippled boat, which the blast had seized
upon and was tearing out to sea.

"Safe!" cried Mellen, in a tone of hearty thanksgiving. "I did think
that the brave little craft would go down, but thank God, we are on dry
land."

"Safe and defeated!" muttered North, turning his face from the wind.
"The storm that helped me two days ago proves treacherous now."

"Come!" shouted Mellen, lashing the cable to a stunted pine that grew in
a cleft of the rock, "come up to the house, we shall find a fire there
and a glass of brandy. The old man will send some of his people for the
luggage."

North made no answer, but moved off towards the house, which he passed,
walking moodily towards the village. Mellen went up to the tavern.

CHAPTER XXIII.

DEAD AND GONE.

Lights shone cheerfully through the uncurtained windows of the Sailor's
Safe Anchor, and the stranger could see the inmates of the dwelling
gathered about the tea-table, looking comfortable enough to make a
strong contrast to the chill and darkness without.

"There is not the least change," he muttered, drawing his cloak more
closely about him; "I could almost think I had been gone only since
morning, instead of two years."

He hurried on to the house, and hardly waiting for his imperative knock
to be answered, pushed open the door and entered the kitchen. The old
fisherman looked tranquilly up at the intruder, keeping his knife poised
in one hand, not easily ruffled in his serenity, while the younger
members of the family stared with all their might at the tall man, whose
garments were dripping wet, driven by the storm into their dwelling.

"Good evenin', sir," said the old man; "it's a dark, wet night--wont you
sit down?"

"I want a horse and a man," said Mellen, betraying by the haste in which
he spoke, and his impatient movements, that he was too hurried for much
attention to the old man's attempt at civility. "I want to go to the
other end of the bay--can you let me have a horse and some one to look
after my luggage?"

"What, to-night?" demanded the old man. "Why you can't want to go round
the bay to-night."

"I should not have come for a horse if I had not wished to get home,"
said Mellen, impatiently. "Get one out at once, Benson; I am in great
haste."

"'Taint a decent night to put a dog out o' doors," returned the
fisherman; "it's a good deal mor'n likely you'd get swamped in the
marsh, if I let the hoss go."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mellen. "I know this part of the country too well
for that. There is no more risk than in this room."

The old man's obstinacy was roused, and he had a full share of that
unpleasant quality when he chose to call it into action.

"Mebby you know more about it than I do," he grumbled; "but I've lived
here a goin' on thirty years, and ort to be acquainted with this coast,
and I say I ain't a going to risk my critters sich a night. If there
ain't no danger 'taint fit to send any horse out in a storm like this
anyhow."

"I can't stand arguing here," Mellen began, but the old man
unceremoniously interrupted him.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"Over to Piney Cove."

"Mr. Mellen's place! Why it's good three miles, and he ain't to hum, nor
hasn't been, nigh on to two years."

"Don't you know me, old friend?" exclaimed Mellen throwing back his
cloak.

The old fisherman rose in astonishment, while his married daughter, who
kept his house and owned the flock of children, called out:

"Why, pa, if it ain't Mr. Mellen!"

"I thought I knowed your voice, but couldn't make out who it belonged
to; but Californy ain't so nigh as some other places," said the
fisherman. "So you've got back! Wal, wal! You've been gone a good
while."

"So you can't wonder at my impatience when I find myself so near home,"
said Mellen.

"In course, in course," replied the old man. "But, dear me, you'll have
to wait till Jake comes in, and I expect he'll grumble awful at having
to start out agin."

"I will pay him his own price----"

"Oh, you allays was freehanded enough, I'll say that, Mr. Mellen. But
sit down by the stove; Jake'll come in a few minutes. Mebby you'd try a
cup of tea?"

But Mr. Mellen refused the proffered hospitality, and though he walked
up to the fire, neither sat down or paid much attention to the questions
the old man hazarded.

As Mellen stood there, though his restless movements betrayed great
impatience, there was little trace of it visible in his face, whose cold
pride seldom revealed the emotions which might be stirring at his heart.
He was dressed in his sea clothes, which hung about him in wet masses.
His face was bronzed by the exposure of a long sea voyage, but he was
still a man of imposing presence, and retained his old, proud manner so
thoroughly, that even the old man in his fever of curiosity, felt the
same hesitation at questioning him too far which had always awed the
villagers when Mr. Mellen formerly dwelt among them.

"I s'pose you've seen a sight sence you went away," said the old man, as
he pushed his chair towards the fire. "All them gold mines; though I
don't s'pose you went to work at them. People will talk you know, and
they wondered at your going off in such a hurry----"

"Do you think that man will be here soon?" interrupted Mr. Mellen.

The fisherman felt ruffled and injured at having his gossiping
propensities cut short in that manner, but that instant a step sounded
on the stone porch without, and he said, grumblingly:

"There he is. I 'spect there'll be a touse about getting him to go."

But Mr. Mellon took the matter in his own hands when the man entered,
and the liberal offer he made speedily put Jake in excellent spirits for
the expedition.

"My baggage must be disposed of first," said Mr. Mellen. "Some one must
get it from the pilot-boat."

"Jake and I'll fetch it in here," returned the old man.

"I will send for it in the morning," observed Mr. Mellen.

While they went down to the shore and were bringing in the trunks Mr.
Mellen stood by the fire, quite regardless of the curiosity with which
the children regarded him, and unconscious of several modest attempts at
conversation made by the old man's daughter:

"Your clothes are wringing wet; hadn't you better get some things of
father's and start dry?"

"No," answered Mellen, glancing at the water-proof carpet-bag which he
had seized on leaving the boat, remembering that it contained important
papers. "I have some things in here, and they will find my macintosh in
the boat."

He left the room while speaking, and, knowing the house well, went
upstairs, in order to change his wet garments. The young woman uttered a
little cry of dismay and ran a step or two after him, but turned back,
seized with terror of the dead body, about which she would gladly have
given warning.

Mellen had taken a candle from the table when he left the kitchen, and
entered the little room upstairs with it flaring in his hand. It did not
illuminate the whole chamber, but a cold feeling of awe crept over the
man as he stepped over the threshold, and a shudder, which sprang from
neither cold nor wet, passed to his heart.

With a trembling hand he set the light on a little pine table and looked
around. A bed stood in the further corner of the room, a great and
coldly white bed, on which a human form was lying in such awful
stillness as death alone knows.

Breathless and obeying a terrible fascination, he went up to the bed and
drew down the coarse linen sheet. A beautiful face, chiselled from the
marble of death, lay before him, with a cold smile on the lips, and the
blue of the eyes, that had been like violets, tinging the white lids
that covered them. Masses of rich chestnut hair were gathered back from
the face; and over the bosom, struck cold in the bloom of life, two
white hands were folded in an attitude of solemn prayerfulness.

As Mellen gazed on this cold vision his lips grew white with terrible
emotions, for he knew that face, notwithstanding all the changes that
years and an awful death had left upon it. Moment after moment crept by
and he did not move. At last, reaching forth his hand, he touched the
woman's hair, then a convulsion of grief swept over him, his eyes
filled, his lips quivered and he fell upon his knees crying out:

"Oh, woman, woman, has he driven you to this?"

The stillness, which was his only answer, crept to his heart. He arose,
covered the face of his false love, and quitted the room, leaving the
candle behind. He could not bear to think of her lying alone in that
grim darkness.

"Oh, sir, I am so sorry. It was dreadful to let you go upstairs to dress
and find _that_," cried the woman, in a tumult of self-reproach.

"When did it happen?" he questioned, in a hoarse voice. "When and how?"

"Day before yesterday. It was washed ashore from the wreck."

Mellen turned away and asked no more questions. Enough for him that the
woman he had once loved to idolatry, had passed out of his life forever
and ever.

CHAPTER XXIV.

HOME IN A STORM.

The storm was still raging upon the ocean and sweeping its cold way
across the island; but Mellen was not a man to rest within sight of his
own dwelling, after a long absence, without an effort to reach it in
defiance of wind or weather. So, heedless of all protestations, he
mounted his horse and rode forward, with the wind howling around him and
the rain beating in his face. His temporary attendant grumbled a little
at the violence of the storm, while the darkness was so intense that
both the horses went stumbling on their way like blind creatures on an
unknown path. But Mellen scarcely heeded the danger or discomfort. His
eyes were fixed on the lights of his own home, which twinkled now and
then through the fog and rain, like stars striving to break through a
cloud.

Their road ran along the coast, and they had the rushing winds and roar
of the ocean all the way. Before they reached the Piney Cove grounds the
blackness of the tempest began to break away overhead; the wind had
lulled a little, but the rain still beat, and at intervals the moon
would burst through the clouds and add to the ghostly effect of boiling
foam in the distance.

They passed through the strip of woodland which extended down to the
water's edge, and at last reached the grounds connected with the
dwelling upon that side, and came out upon the broad lawn.

"Home at last!" cried Mellen, as a warm glow of lights shone out from
his dwelling. "Ride on, my man; you shall sleep here to-night, and
return in the morning."

In his exultation Mellen dashed forward, urging his horse across the
open space till he was considerably in advance of his attendant. The
moon shivered out again for an instant, and Mr. Mellen saw a woman
shrouded in a long cloak rushing towards the house. Some instinct,
rather than any real recognition of her person, made him cry out, as he
leaped from the horse and left him free:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The figure paused. There was a faint cry; at the same instant Mellen
heard a violent rustle in the shrubbery, with a sudden downpour of
raindrops, scarcely noticed, as he hurried towards the lady, but well
remembered afterwards. She was standing upright and still, as if that
unexpected voice had changed her to stone; her hair had broken loose and
was streaming wildly over her shoulders; one hand was lifted above her
eyes, as she strained her sight through the gloom.

"Elizabeth!" he called again.

"Who is it?" she cried, in a suppressed voice, that had all the
sharpness of an agonised shriek. "Who calls to me?"

He reached her side as she spoke.

"Don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "My wife! my wife! I have come back
at last!"

There was one wild look--one heavy breath--he heard a low exclamation:

"My God! oh, my God!"

Before he could discover whether this was a cry of thanksgiving or not,
she fell forward and lay motionless at his feet.

After that first second of stupefaction, Mr. Mellen checked the
wonderment of the man--who by this time had come up--and between them
they carried the senseless woman to the house.

The servant who met them in the hall gave a cry of dismay at the sight
of her master thus suddenly entering the house with his wife lying like
a dead woman in his arms, and was ready to believe that the whole sight
was a ghostly illusion.

"Bring some wine," called Mellen; "is there a fire? Are you deaf and
blind, girl?"

"It is the masther!" exclaimed the frightened creature. "It's the