STELLA ROSEVELT.
                               =A Novel.=

                                   BY
                         MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.

                               AUTHOR OF

   “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” “LOST—A PEARLE,” “EARLE
                     WAYNE’S NOBILITY,” ETC., ETC.

[Illustration: logo]

                               NEW YORK:
                  _G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers_.

                        Copyright, 1883 and 1890
                           By STREET & SMITH

                            Stella Rosevelt

                               CONTENTS.

            CHAPTER.                                   PAGE.
                 I.— ON THE ATLANTIC                       9
                II.— SAVED                                19
               III.— THE YOUNG STRANGER                   30
                IV.— MRS. RICHARDS                        38
                 V.— BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT                47
                VI.— STELLA’S APPEAL                      57
               VII.— A CONSULTATION                       68
              VIII.— RETRENCHMENT                         76
                IX.— CHANGE OF FORTUNE                    89
                 X.— THE UNWELCOME GUEST                  97
                XI.— FILTHY LUCRE                        104
               XII.— THE CAMEO RING                      114
              XIII.— A GLAD MEETING                      124
               XIV.— “LET ME DEPICT YOUR FUTURE.”        135
                XV.— A FATAL MISTAKE                     146
               XVI.— A GREAT SHOCK                       154
              XVII.— “WHY HAS HE DONE THIS THING?”       162
             XVIII.— EXPLANATIONS                        175
               XIX.— MALICIOUS FALSEHOODS                188
                XX.— STAR’S DETERMINATION                198
               XXI.— FRUITLESS EFFORTS                   212
              XXII.— THE GOAL REACHED                    222
             XXIII.— AN INTERESTING STORY                234
              XXIV.— WHAT NEXT?                          248
               XXV.— STAR’S DELIGHT                      258
              XXVI.— “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”              265
             XXVII.— DEFEATED                            273
            XXVIII.— RESCUED FROM A HORRIBLE FATE        279
              XXIX.— JOSEPHINE’S INGRATITUDE             288
               XXX.— “I LOVE HIM STILL.”                 294
              XXXI.— A NOBLE RESOLUTION                  301
             XXXII.— “I PROMISE.”                        308
            XXXIII.— “YOU ARE THE TRAITOR.”              316
             XXXIV.— MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS                 325
              XXXV.— MRS. RICHARDS’ GREAT EXPECTATIONS   330
             XXXVI.— JOSEPHINE’S AMBITION                337
            XXXVII.— THE MOCK MARRIAGE                   345
           XXXVIII.— “I HAVE BEEN MAD.”                  353
             XXXIX.— A CRUSHING BLOW                     363
                XL.— STELLA’S MENTAL AGONY               371
               XLI.— REHEARSING THE PAST                 382
              XLII.— THE LAWYER’S REBUKE                 393
             XLIII.— “GOD BLESS OUR STAR.”               403
              XLIV.— FAITH’S TRIUMPH                     414

                            STELLA ROSEVELT.

                               CHAPTER I.
                            ON THE ATLANTIC.

                                       “A star
             Which moves not ’mid the moving heavens alone,
             A smile among dark frowns—a gentle tone
             Among rude voices, a beloved light,
             A solitude, a refuge, a delight.”—SHELLEY.

A noble steamer was laboriously plowing the turbulent waters of the
great Atlantic, heaving, and struggling, and creaking with every
revolution of her gigantic screw, for the waves were rolling
high—“mountain high”—in very truth. The huge dark masses of water would
swell and rise up like a great black wall, reaching, it seemed, almost
to the angry, leaden sky above, then sweeping down with mighty force,
thunder upon the decks of that great vessel, making it shudder to its
very center, sending it down, down into the yawning depths, as if eager,
in venomous spite, to blot it out of existence.

There were very few first cabin passengers on board the —— as she thus
labored on her weary way between Liverpool and New York, for it was late
in the year, and the rush of travel was over for that season.

Fifteen were all they numbered, while there were about twice as many in
the steerage; and well it was that there were no more to share the
horrors of that dreadful voyage.

It had been a very gloomy passage, a severe storm arising the second day
out, which had increased in violence until now—the fifth day—it appeared
as if all the elements had conspired to work destruction upon the stanch
ship which was faithfully battling with the cruel waves and toiling to
bear its precious freight of human souls safely into port.

It was a forlorn little company that sat shivering and trembling in the
close saloon—only five, all out of the fifteen who had not succumbed to
the seasickness—and these five had the appearance, with their pale,
pinched faces, their heavy eyes and disordered attire, of feeling
anything but comfortable or well.

An old man of perhaps sixty years, his hair and beard white as snow, his
face sallow and wrinkled, his eyes anxious and sunken, sat upon the
floor—indeed, it was impossible to sit anywhere else—braced against a
stationary seat, and clinging to one of the iron posts which supported
the roof of the saloon. He was wrapped in a heavy shawl and two elegant
rugs; his soft hat was drawn down over his forehead, and he seemed
entirely oblivious of everything about him.

Two spinsters, companions and sisters, lay upon cushions flat upon the
floor, and, also wrapped in their rugs, looked not unlike two huge bags
of wool rolling from side to side with every motion of the boat.

Another man had crept into a corner, where he tried to keep himself from
pitching about by clinging to a rope which he had fastened to an
immovable table.

The only other occupant of the place was a little fair-haired maiden of
perhaps fifteen or sixteen years.

She was small and delicate, and was sitting, or trying to sit, upon the
floor, not far from the old gentleman before mentioned.

She was wrapped in a thick woolen shawl, and her head was covered with a
crimson hood, so that not much could be seen of her, save the fair, pale
face, with its sad, appealing blue eyes, which looked out from beneath
masses of shining golden ringlets that had strayed from her hood and lay
upon her white forehead. She had a sensitive mouth, a pretty, rounded
chin, a small, straight nose, and altogether, had she possessed
something of color and less of sadness in her face, would have been
considered wondrously fair to look upon.

This little waif, with her child-like countenance, her pathetic eyes,
and her patient, uncomplaining spirit, was traveling alone.

There was not a soul on board that vessel whom she had ever seen before
the day of sailing.

An orphan—her father, and the only relative on whom she could depend,
had died just three months previous—she was going to the United States,
to some distant connections who had consented to take her until she was
of age and teach her to earn her own living.

She had been put in the care of the captain by the people with whom she
had been staying since her father’s death, and he was to deliver her to
the strangers to whom she was going.

Some strange magnetism had attracted her toward the old gentleman with
the white hair and beard of whom we have spoken, and near to whom she
was now sitting.

She had hovered about him ever since the first day of the voyage, not in
an obtrusive way, but as if she liked to be near him—as if there were
something trustworthy and protective about him.

Perhaps one reason for this was that her seat had been next his at
table—while they had been able to sit at the table—and once or twice,
when she could not attract the attention of the steward, he had handed
her what she wanted, and helped her bountifully to fruit when otherwise
she would have been neglected.

When the storm came on with such violence that those not confined to
their berths were obliged to take to the floor of the saloon for safety,
she had crept as near to him as she dared, and though she had sat there
all day long, he had never spoken to her once, or appeared to heed her
presence, but remained, instead, wrapped in his own thoughts.

Suddenly the ship rose upon a mighty wave—up, up she went, until every
trembling passenger held his breath with awe; then she plunged headlong
down into the raging deep, with a sinking, sickening sensation that
chilled the blood and made the flesh creep with fear.

The next moment another terrific wave struck her, with a noise like the
roar of a hundred cannon, and with a force which made her quiver like a
frightened creature from stem to stern; and in the dread pause which
followed, and which was fraught with horrible suspense, the little maid
clasped her small hands and cast an appealing glance at her gray-haired
companion.

He, seeing it, smiled grimly as he asked, in rather a gruff tone:

“Afraid, sis?”

Before she could answer him the vessel gave another tremendous lurch,
and she was rudely precipitated almost into the arms of her questioner.

He caught her just in time to save her from being dashed against the
iron post by which he was sitting, and when she had recovered her breath
a little, he put her gently down beside him, keeping one strong arm
around her to save her from a second fall.

“This is pretty rough weather. Are you afraid?” he asked again, and
looking with something of pity down upon her white face.

“It startles me to have the vessel pitch and tremble so, and those
dreadful waves seem as if they want to swallow us; but I know that
nothing can harm us, unless——”

“Unless what?” the old man queried, as she hesitated and glanced shyly
up at him, a tinge of color coming into her cheeks.

“Unless it is God’s will,” she answered, reverently.

A sneer curled her companion’s lip at this reply; but the sweet eyes
looking up into his seemed to touch some tender memory, for it quickly
died, and he repressed the skeptical words to which he was about to give
utterance.

But she _felt_ it, nevertheless, and, with a grave look and serious
tone, she asked:

“Don’t you believe that God rules the storm, and that He will take care
of us?”

“My experience all through life has been that I have had to take care of
_myself_,” he returned, with some bitterness.

“And I have been taught to trust ‘our Heavenly Father.’ I think one
would hardly have much faith in _one’s self_ at such a time as this,”
the little maiden said, with a look of awe and an involuntary shudder,
as another wave broke over them.

The man by her side felt the gentle rebuke, but he evaded it by saying:

“I think no harm will come to us. I have crossed the Atlantic many
times; I have sailed upon other oceans, and have been in storms equal
to, if not worse, than this. I do not fear the elements much in one of
these well-built boats. There is only one thing at sea that I _really_
feel _afraid_ of.”

“And what is that?”

“Fire.”

He felt the thrill of fear that went vibrating through her whole frame
as he uttered the dread word, and appeared to regret having added to her
apprehension, for he continued, reassuringly:

“But an accident of that kind rarely happens nowadays, and where
everything is so carefully conducted as on these large steamers. There,
sit close beside me,” he went on, as still another thundering mass of
water swept over them; “lean against me—so. I will keep my arm about
you, and you will be safer than sitting by yourself. But how does it
happen that you are traveling alone?”

“My father and mother are dead,” she answered, with the same appealing
look that had touched him before, while her lips quivered over the sad
sentence. “I had no friends in England, and so I am going to live with a
cousin of my mother’s in America.”

“What is your name, little girl?”

The “little girl” flushed rosily at this question—as what maiden of
fifteen or sixteen would not at this slur upon her proudly attained
“teens?”—while she thought he need not have asked if he had taken pains
to look at the passenger list; but she replied:

“Star Rosevelt Gladstone.”

A startled, almost agonized gleam shot into the old man’s eyes, and his
face seemed to shrivel, until he looked ninety instead of sixty, as the
young girl, in her sweet, clear tone, uttered this name.

“Star Rosevelt!” he repeated, with pale lips, while his voice sounded
weak and far away.

“Yes, sir,” she said, not noticing his emotion; “or rather my real name
is Stella, but mamma called me Star always;” and her voice faltered as
she spoke of her dead mother.

Her companion did not answer, and the roar of the elements increasing,
further conversation was out of the question, even had they been so
disposed, which they appeared not to be.

The old man’s head dropped upon his broad chest, and he seemed suddenly
to have forgotten his companion, the angry waters, the rolling vessel,
and everything else in his own sad thoughts.

Darkness began to settle down upon them. The storm raged on; the
spinsters moaned and rolled upon their comfortless couches; the man in
the corner swore and raved as he was rudely jostled about, with no
prospect of rest or sleep; while the gray-haired man and the fair-haired
maid, encircled by his strong arm, sat side by side, silent, yet less
forlorn than their comrades by reason of a feeling of companionship,
until the young girl’s blue eyes closed, her golden head sank
unconsciously upon the broad shoulder, and she slept sweetly and
tranquilly the whole night through, a smile on her red lips, a sense of
comfort and protection in her young heart.

When morning broke and Star Gladstone awoke, she found herself lying
upon a heap of rugs, a pillow underneath her head and a soft robe
covering her.

The sun was shining brightly into the saloon, where, only a few hours
before, all had been so dark and dismal; the sky was beautifully clear
and blue, without a vestige of the angry clouds which had so threatened
ship and life a little while ago, and the good vessel was riding the
gradually subsiding waves with strong and steady pulsations, which
seemed to have almost a sense of victory in their throbbings, while the
terrors of the night seemed only a troubled dream of the past.

She arose from her soft couch with a murmured “How kind!” as she
realized who had made her so comfortable, and went below to her
state-room to make her toilet.

After a refreshing bath she brushed out her long, abundant hair until it
shone like strands of finest gold; then gathering it in her two hands,
she plaited it into one massive braid, leaving the ends loose like a
great golden tassel, and tying them with a broad blue ribbon.

Then she substituted a charming little blue hood edged with white for
the thick crimson one which she had worn all night, wrapped a soft gray
shawl about her shoulders, and went up on deck looking as bright and
sunny as the morn itself.

She was very lovely. Short fluffy locks of her hair fell like a shining
mist over her white forehead; her great azure eyes gleamed like
bluebells after a shower; her cheeks were tinged with a delicate color,
and a smile of joy at the return of fair weather parted her red lips,
showing two rows of small white teeth between.

As she stepped out upon the deck, she espied her companion of the night
standing aft, looking out upon the silver-tipped, dancing waves.

She glided to his side and saluted him with a sweetly spoken
“good-morning,” which fell like music on his ear.

He turned and looked at her, an involuntary smile parting his lips,
which evidently were unaccustomed to such relaxation.

“You are rightly named—you look like a star,” he said, abruptly, while
his keen eyes were fixed intently on her bright face.

She flushed, but answered archly:

“Stars belong to the night; they are of no account in this glorious
sunshine;” and she lifted her face up to the sun, as if in gratitude
that its friendly beams were shining on her once more.

“It _is_ a glorious morning,” said the old man, taking a long breath of
the pure, keen air.

“Sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning,” Star
murmured, in a low tone, but with a thrill in her voice which told how
she felt the words.

Again a sneering smile distorted the lips of her companion.

She saw it, and flushed a vivid crimson, and the tears sprang quickly to
her eyes.

“Mamma used to repeat those words so often when she lay sick and dying,”
she said, sadly. “I know that _she_ looked forward to the ‘morning’ when
she should be released from her suffering; but they never sounded so
pleasantly to me as they do now on this beautiful morning after our
night of terror.”

“Anything which was a source of comfort to your mother you doubtless
treasure very tenderly,” kindly replied the gentleman, who _was_ a
gentleman, and felt sorry that his unbelief or skepticism should have
brought a shadow upon that fair young face.

“There is the breakfast-bell,” he added, in a light tone, as it rang out
its keen notes. “Are you hungry?”

“Indeed I am, sir,” Star answered, eagerly, adding, with a clear, sweet
laugh that fell like music on his ear: “Eating has been an impossibility
during the last few days, and I have considerable lost time to make up.
That bell has a welcome sound.”

“Then take my arm, little girl, and we will go down together; the boat
is not quite steady even yet.”

“Little girl!”

She flushed again, and shrugged her graceful shoulders.

Then she glanced up at him with a serio-comic air, and said, with a
pretty pout:

“I am sixteen years old, Mr.——”

She could not finish, because she did not know his name.

He laughed.

“And maidens of sixteen don’t like to be called little girls, eh?” he
said. “Well,” he continued, “I feel as if I am privileged to call you
that, since I am nearly sixty, and _my_ name is Jacob Rosevelt.”

Star stopped short and looked up at him in surprise.

“How strange!” she exclaimed.

“Rather,” Mr. Rosevelt returned; then asked: “How did you come by your
middle name?”

“My grandmother gave it to me.”

“Was her name Rosevelt?”

“No; her maiden name was Stella Winthrop.”

Mr. Rosevelt started, then turned suddenly to look out over the sea, and
to hide the pallor of his face. He asked no more questions, and all
through breakfast he appeared absent-minded and taciturn. He scarcely
spoke to Star during the meal—indeed, hardly noticed her at all—and she
wondered if she could have offended him in any way.

Before she was half through he left the table, and she saw no more of
him until late in the afternoon.

About three o’clock she left the saloon, where she had been trying to
while away the time by reading, and went on deck.

It was very cold, but the sky was cloudless, the sea calm and beautiful,
and, save an occasional call and response from the sailors, the distant
thud of the machinery, and the swash of the water as they plowed the
sea, there was scarcely a sound on board the vessel.

Star found a sheltered spot, and wrapping her shawl close about her, sat
down for a little while to watch the white-capped waves and the speeding
ship.

She had scarcely settled herself, thinking with a feeling of gratitude
how lovely it was after the dreadful storm, when there came the noise of
a dreadful explosion from somewhere forward, followed by a fearful
rocking of the vessel; then the most horrible shrieks and cries rent the
air; a column of smoke, sparks, and cinders went pouring up from the
region of the engine-room, and immediately passengers and sailors began
running about in great confusion, and perfectly frantic from fright.

Star was unhurt, but she sprang to her feet and stood as if paralyzed
with fear, a look of horror on her young face, a feeling like death at
her heart.

“Something dreadful has happened,” she murmured, with white lips. “Have
we escaped the storm only to encounter a worse fate?”

Then, as she saw the sailors getting down the life-boats, a sudden
thought seemed to inspire her. She darted from the deck down into her
state-room, where, opening a tiny trunk, she seized a package of papers,
which she pulled up from beneath her clothing, and thrust it into her
bosom. She then took from a pretty box several articles of jewelry,
which evidently had belonged to her mother, and fastened them about her
clothing, putting some of them into a pocket of a skirt and pinning it
securely together. This done, she darted out and up to the deck again.

                              CHAPTER II.
                                 SAVED.

Here she found the captain, sailors, and passengers—those of them who
were unharmed—hovering around the life-boats, eager to spring into them
the moment they were lowered, and gathered, from what she could hear in
the confusion, that the boiler had burst, and the accident had caused
such serious damage to the vessel that she was fast sinking.

As she went nearer the captain she saw Mr. Rosevelt. He looked gloomy
and anxious, and very pale, while he was eagerly scanning the faces of
the people about him, and holding a life-preserver in his hands. His
face lighted as he turned and saw her, and he heaved a long breath of
relief.

“I was looking for you,” he said, in a hoarse voice, while he
immediately proceeded to fasten the preserver about her person.

He then drew her arm within his, led her to the side of the vessel, and
stood quietly waiting until the boats were lowered and the captain
should bid them enter.

“Have you anything valuable that you wish to save—_if we_ _are saved_?”
he asked, seeming suddenly to remember that she might have something.

“Yes, I have a few important papers and my mother’s jewels. I went down
to get them after the explosion. How did it happen?” she asked.

“No one knows. It was one of those accidents which cannot be accounted
for. The whole fore part of the ship is nearly blown to pieces,” he
returned, gloomily.

Star shuddered, and then turned to watch the men let down the boats.

There were only three of them, the others having been destroyed or blown
overboard. These were quickly filled by the frantic passengers and
emigrants, who scrambled into them in spite of the orders of the captain
to await his commands.

They took everything into their own hands, and as soon as the seats were
taken, began to push off, regardless of the appealing cries of those
remaining on board, the anger of the captain, and the threats of the
sailors.

Mr. Rosevelt and Star were among those left, and the old man pleaded for
a place for the young girl, calling them inhuman brutes to seek their
own safety and leave a delicate girl to perish.

“The boats will hold no more!” the frantic creatures cried. “Every one
must look out for himself in such a time as this.”

“Wretches! have you no feeling? Are there no fathers and mothers among
you? Will you see this child go down before your very eyes? You _must_
take her!” he cried, wildly, authoritatively.

A feeling of shame seemed to come over them; there followed a moment of
consultation, a counting of those in the different boats, then a
reluctant consent was gained to take her into one of them.

“Be quick!” they cried, as a rush of flame in the center of the steamer
warned them that a new and terrible danger threatened; and Mr. Rosevelt
led her toward the rope ladder swinging from the vessel’s side.

Star was very pale, but her great blue eyes had a strange, determined
gleam in them.

“Are you afraid to go down the ladder?” Mr. Rosevelt asked, as he paused
before it.

“Not if _you_ will go _first_ and hold it for me,” she answered.

“But I cannot; they will not take us both,” he said.

She drew back from the edge of the vessel, and looking up into that aged
face, said, tremulously:

“Sir, you have dear friends who are waiting for you, and who would mourn
your death. I have no one who loves me; I was going among strangers, and
I should not be missed. You go; I am not afraid to die.”

He looked at her in mingled awe and admiration, while those brave words,
“I am not afraid to die,” smote him keenly.

“Child,” he said, huskily, “it must not be. You are young and beautiful;
there is a long life of happiness, I trust, before you. _My_ days are
nearly spent, and I could not accept such a sacrifice. Come, they are
clamoring impatiently at the delay. Give me one kiss, such as you would
give to your own father were he living, and then I will help you down;
or, if you are afraid, the sailors shall tie a rope about you and let
you down.”

He bent his head, his face filled with a yearning tenderness, to hers.

“The captain and the sailors—must they remain and perish, too?” she
asked, breathlessly, while she shuddered as a hot wave of smoke came
pouring over them.

“Yes; there is room for no one but you. Come; they will not wait longer.
One kiss, little Star, and—God bless you!”

She looked up at him in surprise; he was asking God to bless her, when
only last night he had sneered at her trust in Him. But she kissed him,
for his lips were almost touching hers as he spoke. Then she leaned over
the vessel’s side, and said, in loud, clear tones:

“I shall not go with you; there are enough in the boat already.”

She turned her back resolutely upon what seemed her only hope of safety,
and, clinging to Mr. Rosevelt, she said:

“I will not leave you, the only one who has spoken kindly to me during
all the voyage. They did not want me, for my extra weight would lessen
their chances, and I will _try_ to be brave when—when the end comes.”

She was ghastly even to her lips, but there was a clear and steady light
in her eye.

Mr. Rosevelt was horror-struck at what she had done.

“Heavens, child! you shall not do this rash thing! Hold, there!” he
yelled to those in the boat; “she _will_ go!” and he lifted her in his
arms and bore her to the spot she had just left, while the captain
roared to the men below to wait.

But even as they were speaking the vessel gave a tremendous lurch and
settled far down into the water. Smoke and flame were vomited up from
below, and, horror of horrors! the boat into which they had just been
urging—almost forcing Star—was swamped in the commotion of waters caused
by that lurch, and its luckless freight were at the mercy of the hungry
waves.

It was a fearful moment.

Cries and shrieks for help came up from the cruel depths, and white,
upturned faces looked piteously toward the sinking hulk, as if imploring
even the brief respite from a horrible death which it could afford.

Boxes, spars, and anything that was at hand, were cast over to them, and
several succeeded in reaching and clinging to them, while others went
down to their watery grave before the eyes of that watching, agonized
group on the burning vessel, who almost forgot their own impending fate
in the sufferings of their comrades. Suddenly a shout rent the air.

The captain hastened forward to see what it meant, and saw one of the
sailors in the water on the other side of the vessel struggling with a
boat.

The noble man had espied it at some distance from the ship, and knew
that it was one which had been blown overboard. It might be injured so
that it would not be safe, but it appeared to ride the waters all right,
and he resolved to swim to it and thus save if possible the captain and
crew.

He had nearly reached the steamer’s side with his trophy, when the other
sailors discovered him and sent that triumphant shout.

“Throw a rope!” shouted the captain, new hope springing in his heart.

It was thrown with a will; the man caught it, and suspending his own
labors, he and the boat were drawn safely to the ship’s side.

Nimbly then the faithful crew sprang to obey their commander’s orders. A
liberal supply of provision and water was put into the boat, with plenty
of rugs and what clothing was at hand; the required number of oars were
brought, and in a few minutes all that remained alive on that ill-fated
ship were safely seated within it.

Then they set to work to save those who were still struggling in the
water. Ten were all that they could rescue, the rest went down; and now
began the battle for life.

They pulled rapidly away from the sinking steamer, lest they should
share the fate of those who had just been swamped, and the wisdom of
this was manifest in lest than half an hour, for, with another mighty
lurch and plunge, which sent forth volumes of smoke and flame, the noble
craft went down and the dark waters swept over it, obliterating it
forever from the view of man; while the captain, with a groan of pain,
covered his eyes and wept.

It was as if he had looked his last upon the face of some dear friend.

The day waned quickly; night shut down upon them cold and cheerless,
hiding from their sight the other boats, and bringing with it such a
sense of loneliness and misery as not one in that frail craft ever
experienced before.

Star, the only woman in that boat, clung to Mr. Rosevelt as if upon him
depended all her hope, and all that long night through he held in his
one small, fair hand, while he pillowed her bright head upon his knees,
and kept her covered with blankets and rugs.

Twice or thrice she awoke and started up, saying:

“I weary you, sir; let me sit by myself.”

But he only drew her more closely to him, as he said, tenderly:

“No, no, little one; it does me good to have you near me. Lie still and
get all the sleep you can, for we do not know what the morrow may bring
to us.”

When the morrow did come it dawned grandly beautiful. The sun came up
from the east like a chariot of fire, turning the sea into waves of
gold, and bringing cheer and courage once more to the hearts of the
lonely little band who were struggling for life on the mighty deep.

Nothing could be seen of the other boats, although they had been eagerly
looking for them ever since the break of day; but they had no reason to
think they were not as safe as themselves, and were therefore not unduly
anxious.

Star awoke much refreshed by her long sleep, and, as her lovely eyes
took in all the beauty of the morning, a feeling of thankfulness for it
and their safety thrilled her heart, and almost unconsciously she began
chanting a hymn of praise.

As she sang the first line, which was exactly like the beginning of the
Lord’s Prayer—“Our Father who art in heaven”—every oar was suspended;
the captain reverently removed his cap, an act which was imitated by the
crew, and all listened with respectful mien as the sweet voice rose upon
the still morning air, thanking God for His care through the dangers of
the night, and invoking His protection during the day.

“Thank you, Miss Gladstone,” the captain said, as her last tone died
away; “it is well for us to begin the day thus. You have a fine voice,”
he added; “will you sing something else and then we’ll pull westward
with a will for awhile?”

Star thought for a moment; then, with a delicate flush rising in her
cheek, an almost holy light glowing in her eyes, and a thrill in her
tones which touched every heart, she sang:

                  “In the harbor safe at home
                  Zion’s stately ship shall come,
                  And her crew shall proudly tell
                  Dangers she has braved so well;
                  Never more to tempt the wave,
                  Never more the storm to brave,
                  Safe from rock and breaker’s crest,
                  Anchored in eternal rest.

                  “Courage, then, ye faithful few!
                  Weary, weather-beaten crew.
                  Let no hardship be compared
                  With th’ exceeding great reward;
                  Soon life’s tempest will be o’er—
                  Lo! we near the promised shore,
                  And o’er troubled waves afar
                  Gleameth Bethlehem’s welcome star.”

There were tears in the eyes of those rough, stern-visaged men when the
song was ended, and more than one weather-bronzed hand was lifted to
dash them aside. There was not a sailor there who would not have fought
dearly for the life of this sweet-voiced girl, who had thus touched a
chord in their hearts which had not vibrated before for many a year.

A little while after the boatswain called aloud:

“A sail! a sail!”

All eyes were instantly turned in the direction toward which he pointed,
and low on the horizon, very far away, there gleamed a white sail.

The captain brought his glass to bear upon it, and reported a schooner.

A signal of distress was hoisted immediately, and changing their course,
they pulled vigorously for the vessel.

But in less than half an hour it had disappeared entirely, and, with
disappointed faces, they again turned their course westward.

The demands of nature now began to assert themselves, and the captain
served out a generous breakfast, treating all alike.

Mr. Rosevelt regarded him anxiously as he did this.

“How long will your stores hold out?” he asked, as the men began to eat
hungrily.

“Two or three days,” he returned; “but we are so nearly in the line of
the steamers that we shall surely fall in with one before our provisions
are gone.”

The old man sighed, and bent a wistful look upon the young girl sitting
beside him.

Star had noted his anxious tone as he questioned the captain; she had
also seen the look he cast upon her.

“He fears that we shall be tossed about on the ocean until we starve,”
she thought, a horrible chill creeping over her; and she quietly slipped
all the bread that had been given her into her pocket, and only ate the
more perishable food and delicacies which the captain had laid in her
lap.

That afternoon Mr. Rosevelt had a violent attack of vertigo, lying
insensible for several hours; and now it was Star’s turn to pillow _his_
head upon _her_ lap and minister to his comfort.

She bathed his face and head almost constantly, and with her shawl
shielded him from the sun, which during the day was very powerful, while
from time to time she fed him with bits of biscuit moistened with port
wine from a bottle which the captain had given her for him, striving in
every way to keep up his strength.

He appeared to revive toward evening, and said he was better; but Star
saw that he was very weak, and that it was only by great effort that he
kept up at all.

Another night passed, another day came, and still there was no sail to
gladden their strained and aching eyes.

The third day the captain said, with a stern brow and pale, compressed
lips:

“Our provisions are nearly gone—they will last only one more day;” and
he shortened every man’s ration, giving Star alone a generous portion.

She cast a pitying glance at the brave men toiling so uncomplainingly at
their oars, and her heart sank as she thought what might be their fate.

Patiently she munched a single biscuit, while she slipped all the rest
out of sight, hoarding it to fight the grim, gaunt monster which she
feared was fast overtaking them.

Mr. Rosevelt had not been so well the day before; he was even worse this
morning, and she was very anxious about him, for he would eat nothing,
waving all food away with an expression of disgust, and only sipping a
little wine occasionally, while he had become so weak that he could not
sit up at all.

“He won’t live two days longer,” she heard one sailor whisper to
another, when, a little later, he had another attack which utterly
prostrated him. “He is failing rapidly, and eats nothing to keep up his
strength.”

“He _shall_ live!” Star said to herself, with an impulse born of
despair; for he seemed her chief dependence, and she had grown to regard
him with very tender feelings.

All night she watched over him, every half hour moistening his lips with
wine, and forcing bits of biscuit soaked in it between them.

Every time she heard him swallow, her heart leaped for joy, for it told
her there was hope even yet.

She had several squares of sea-bread in her pocket, for she had saved
something from every meal, and she was determined, as long as her own
strength held out, that she would faithfully minister to him.

Sometimes she was very faint herself from want of food, but she would
take a little water in her mouth and swallow it gradually, and thus find
a relief for a time.

The fifth day there was no food to give out—and, oh, the hollow eyes,
the blanched cheeks and despairing hearts of that ill-fated party!

Mr. Rosevelt was conscious, to Star’s great joy, but too weak to move
hand or foot.

The sixth day the courage and strength of the crew began to fail
visibly, and two of the passengers fainted from hunger and weakness.

Star felt wretchedly guilty, with food in her pocket and those hungry
eyes looking so piteously into hers; but she knew there was not enough
for a crumb apiece, while the life of her friend depended upon it.

Mr. Rosevelt relapsed into partial unconsciousness quite early in the
morning, and she was as pale and wan as a spirit, but the look of
determination never left her face. She worked over the sick man
constantly, forcing food into his mouth as often as she dared, while all
the day long not a morsel passed her own white lips.

Just at sunset a little white cloud was visible on the eastern horizon,
then it became a line of smoke; a few minutes later sails were
distinguishable, and soon the broadside of a steamer became distinct. A
shout went up from the throats of the faithful crew, and with renewed
courage and strength they bent every nerve to their oars.

It soon became evident that their signal of distress had been seen, for
the steamer changed her course and came proudly plowing the waters
toward the suffering band, and an hour later those starving, almost
helpless ones were tenderly taken from their peril and every want kindly
ministered to.

“What is it—where am I?” Mr. Rosevelt asked, aroused by the sound of
strange voices, a vigorous rubbing, and an extra quantity of wine.

“A steamer homeward bound, and _we are saved_!” Star whispered in his
ear, then bowed her white face upon her hands and wept for joy.

She would not leave him until the ship’s surgeon told her that he would
pull through all right with proper care, and commanded that she go below
and receive the attention she herself needed.

She staggered to her feet, a great burden rolling from her heart; but
her waning strength deserted her entirely, and she fell fainting into
the arms of a young, manly looking fellow, who was standing with pitying
face just beside her.

He carried her below and gave her into the care of a stewardess, and
thought, as he did so, that he had never in his life looked upon a face
so pure and delicately lovely.

The captain and crew of the ill-fated steamer, with the other passengers
who had been saved, were shown every kindness and attention which their
critical condition demanded, and so ended that season of horror, and
they were borne swiftly and safely toward America’s hospitable shore.

                              CHAPTER III.
                          THE YOUNG STRANGER.

Mr. Rosevelt began to mend at once under the skillful treatment of the
ship’s surgeon, and to regain his strength much more readily than the
young girl who had been so faithful to him.

He had been in a very dangerous condition, the physician said, and
doubtless would have died but for the unremitting attention which Star
gave him, in keeping his head cool and wet, and in forcing food upon him
to keep up his strength.

Mr. Rosevelt heard this with evident emotion, and during the remainder
of the voyage evinced the greatest tenderness for her.

They had not made much progress in their frail life-boat,
notwithstanding the unrelaxing energies of the sailors, and found that
they were still five days from New York when they were picked up by the
other steamer; and although somewhat weakened by hunger and suffering
and the intense cold, yet none appeared to be seriously affected by
their experience, and a day or two served to make a great change for the
better in them all.

On the evening of the second day after their rescue, Star consented to
be carried up on deck; the day was keen and cold, but the sun was bright
and inviting.

She was very wan and pale, but possessed a delicate beauty that
attracted every one.

They took her directly to Mr. Rosevelt, and she gave him her thin hand
without a word. He, too, looked so thin and white that the tears sprang
to her eyes, and she could not speak.

“Dear child,” he said, tremulously, and taking it in both of his, “they
tell me that but for your unwearied efforts I should have died. I have
no words adequate to thank you for the gift of my life; but, little
Star, I shall never forget it.”

She could not talk much, she was still too weak, but she was glad to be
near him, and gave him as bright a smile as she could summon to her
lips; and then, chancing to glance another way, she found a pair of
dark, handsome eyes fixed earnestly upon her face.

They belonged to the young man in whose arms she had fainted upon
finding that they were all safe once more.

He lifted his hat respectfully as he caught her glance, and then
advancing, said, courteously:

“I trust the young lady is much better this morning.”

Star bowed a somewhat cold assent, for she had been very carefully
reared by her refined mother, and taught to be rather shy of strangers.

Then, thinking that was but a poor return for his interest in her
welfare, she said, with a rising flush, for there was no mistaking the
look in those fine eyes:

“Thanks; I am very comfortable this morning.”

Mr. Rosevelt smiled. He had noticed Star’s reserve, and it pleased him.

“She is a little lady,” he thought; then he said aloud, with a look at
the young man, though he spoke to her: “I am very fortunate in finding
friends, for since you have been confined to your state-room, this young
gentleman—though I have not yet learned his name—has ministered to me in
a manner most kind.”

Star’s eyes glowed at this, and she vouchsafed the young stranger a
smile that set his heart bounding.

“I am afraid, though, that you are feeling far from well even yet,” she
said, with an anxious glance into Mr. Rosevelt’s face.

“Pretty well—pretty well, little one, for an old codger like myself, who
has seen a good many rough times. I’m a trifle weak yet, but time will
help that. We have had a narrow escape however, and you have proved
yourself a heroine.”

Star colored slightly at this compliment, and shot a shy look at the
young stranger of the dark eyes. Then she leaned wearily back in her
chair, tired with the exertion she had made.

The young man turned abruptly and walked away, but he soon reappeared,
bearing a beautiful reclining steamer-chair, cushioned with crimson
velvet, a couple of elegant rugs, and a silken pillow.

“Your chair is hard and uncomfortable, Miss Gladstone; pray allow me to
substitute this one and wrap you more warmly. The air is cold, even if
the sun is bright and genial,” he said, in a way that could not offend
the greatest stickler for propriety, without even taking into
consideration the license allowed on shipboard.

Star could not refuse this act of courtesy, and the chair and soft, warm
rugs, with the bright, silken pillow, did look inviting.

She let him assist her into it, arrange the rugs about her, and smiled
her thanks for his kindness, while she looked bewitchingly lovely with
her fair cheek resting on the crimson pillow.

“Your shawl is unfastened at the throat,” he said, seeing that it had
fallen away, and fearing she would take cold.

She put up her hands to fasten it, and found that she had lost the pin.

Her young attendant noticed it, and drawing a scarf-pin from his
neck-tie—a pin with a beautiful cameo head—he passed it to her.

“Can you make this do for the present?” he asked.

She took it, noticing the exquisitely carved stone as she did so, and
pinned her shawl closely once more.

When he saw that she was as comfortable as he could make her, he stepped
back a pace or two, and drawing a card from a pocket, wrote something
upon it, and then passed it to Mr. Rosevelt, saying, with a frank smile:

“I presume you think it is high time that I introduced myself; pardon my
neglect upon that point.”

The old gentleman took the card and read the name:

“Archibald Sherbrooke.”

He bent a searching look upon the young man’s face for a moment, but the
frank, honest eyes met his with such a genial expression that he could
not harbor a doubt of him, and he said, cordially:

“Thank you, Mr. Sherbrooke; I am glad to know your name. Mine is
Rosevelt—Jacob Rosevelt—and this young lady allow me to introduce as
Miss Star Gladstone,” he concluded, turning with a smile to Star.

Mr. Sherbrooke bowed to Miss Gladstone and raised his cap in the most
gallant manner; while Star, thinking what a nice-sounding name
Sherbrooke was, and what a nice-looking man its owner was, acknowledged
his salutation with a charming smile and blush.

The trio soon fell into an easy chat, which lasted more than an hour,
while the young girl grew more and more like herself. Several times she
forgot that she was weak or had been ill, in listening to the gay things
to which her new acquaintance gave utterance, and she indulged in a
hearty, joyous laugh, her face dimpling and flashing, her eyes gleaming,
her golden hair fluttering about her white forehead, until young
Sherbrooke thought her the loveliest girl he had ever seen.

He lingered long by her side, looking into her face with earnest,
honest, admiring eyes, listening to her clear, sweet tones, and exerting
himself to make himself agreeable to her; while Mr. Rosevelt sat and
watched them with a sense of pleasure in their enjoyment, and never
dreaming of the mischief brewing under his very eyes.

Star told the young man all about the terrible explosion, their
expectation of death when they found the vessel on fire, their
subsequent sufferings and terror while drifting about in the life-boat;
while her voice grew low and thrilling as she spoke of her feelings when
she began to realize that their provisions were falling short, and she
feared they would starve to death on the trackless ocean.

“If the captain had not been so generous to begin with,” she said, “it
would have been better for all of us. Mr. Rosevelt cautioned him, but he
appeared to think that some vessel would surely overtake us in a day or
two. But after that I saved my sea biscuit; I put away half of what was
given me every time; and if I had not done so, he”—with a shy glance
toward her friend, and dropping her voice—“would never have lived, for
when the captain found he was too ill to eat he gave his share to the
other men. He gave me a bottle of wine, though, for him, and I soaked
the biscuit in it and crowded it into his mouth when he was too
unconscious to feed himself.”

“And did _you_ go without necessary food to do this?” Archibald
Sherbrooke asked, with pitying eyes, and a feeling almost of reverence
for the beautiful, self-denying girl.

“I am young and strong; I knew it would not do me such serious harm to
get weakened by hunger as it would him,” Star said, evasively; “and,
besides——”

“Besides what?”

Star’s lips quivered, but she answered, in a hushed tone:

“I knew it was right to do _all_ that I could to save his life, and it
gave me something to think of besides myself; and I knew, too, if we all
_must_ die, the—suffering would be _shorter_ if I did not eat.”

“But you were dreadfully hungry, were you not?” persisted her
questioner, feeling a sort of horrible fascination in the subject, yet
shuddering over the dreadful story.

“You will not tell _him_?” Star said, with a little motion of her hand
over her shoulder to indicate Mr. Rosevelt.

“No.”

“Yes, I _was_ fearfully hungry,” she went on, with a shiver at the
remembrance, and she grew very white. “Ever so many times, when I was
soaking the biscuit for him, it smelled so good that I would raise it to
my lips before I was aware of what I was doing; but the thought always
came to me in time—‘he will die if I eat it.’ There was only a _very
little_ left that last day, and I knew if he died I should always feel
as if my selfishness killed him if I deprived him of it, and I was
saved.”

“I think you are the noblest girl that I ever heard of, Miss Star,”
young Sherbrooke exclaimed, with reverent enthusiasm.

“Amen!” said Mr. Rosevelt’s tremulous voice, close beside them.

“Oh!” cried Star, starting and flushing, while the tears sprang into her
eyes. “I did not mean that you should ever know——”

“You didn’t, eh?” the old man interrupted. “I thought so; and when I saw
you two talking so earnestly together, I imagined that you were giving
our young friend a few facts which I wished to know myself, so I got up
from my chair and came to listen. They told me,” he went on, with
emotion, after a moment, “that you saved my life; but, oh! child, you
should not have tried to do it by sacrificing your own; and you would
have done it on the steamer also. I shall never forget it of you, little
one, you may be sure.”

He laid his hand gently on her head a moment, then turned and left them,
to hide the tears that were welling to his own eyes.

“He has friends who doubtless are waiting for him,” Star said, jumping
to conclusions, and as if to excuse herself for sacrificing so much,
“while _I_ have nobody since papa and mamma died.”

“But you are so young and”—so beautiful, he came near adding, but
something in her earnest, uplifted eyes restrained him from speaking so
familiarly, and he added, solemnly—“and it must be so hard to die with
all the world before you.”

“Yes, if you have dear ones who love you,” Star returned, with a
deep-drawn sigh.

A wistful look shot into the young man’s eyes at this.

“You have no parents, then?” he inquired, in tones of sympathy.

“No. Mamma died more than a year ago, and papa has been gone three
months. I have no brothers or sisters, no home, only some distant
relatives in America whom I have never seen. They promised papa to give
me a home until my education is completed, when I intend to teach.”

“Was your home in England?”

“Yes, in Derbyshire. Papa was a clergyman in Chesterfield.”

“Was your home in Derbyshire?” Archibald Sherbrooke asked, with a slight
start, while his face lighted.

“Yes; were you ever there?”

“Often.”

“Isn’t it a lovely country?” Star asked, eagerly, so glad to meet one
who knew where her home had been. “Can you imagine anything more
delightful than a drive or a canter across the Derbyshire moors?”

“No, indeed. I have often galloped over them,” he said, and then they
fell to talking of other places that they knew; and when at last the
dinner-bell rang, Star said, with sparkling eyes and cheeks in which the
color was beginning to return:

“I am hungry—really, naturally hungry, and I feel ever so much better.”

Every day after that, during the remainder of the voyage, Archibald
Sherbrooke sought the companionship of Mr. Rosevelt and his lovely young
charge—for as such he regarded her.

They became the best of friends, and the brilliant young Englishman
seemed to arouse all that was brightest and liveliest in Star’s
composition, so that as her sweet, clear laugh rang out, and she replied
to his jests with merry wit and repartee equal to his own, many of the
passengers paused in their conversation or lifted up their eyes from
their books to smile at the cheerful sight and sound.

The last day of the voyage came, and during the afternoon the two young
people were pacing the upper deck, arm in arm, when Archibald Sherbrooke
suddenly stopped, and pointing toward a distant city of spires and
domes, said:

“Ah! we are nearing New York. A few hours more and we shall be there. Do
you know, Miss Star, I shall be sorry to bid you ‘good-by?’”

The young girl’s bright face clouded at these words. A hot flush mounted
for an instant to her brow, and her white lids drooped over her
beautiful eyes.

“You, of course, expect friends to meet you on your arrival,” her
companion continued, after a moment of silence.

“I do not know,” she answered, with a troubled look. “I did expect that
some one would meet me upon the arrival of the other vessel, but now
that we have had such trouble, I am afraid there will no one come for
me, and I shall be obliged to go to Brooklyn alone.”

“That will not be at all difficult, since Brooklyn is only just across
the river from New York. If you know the street and number where your
friends live, you can easily find them,” returned the young man,
encouragingly.

Star started and looked blank at his words.

“The street and number were written in my diary. That was lost on the
vessel. I did not think, in my haste, to get it,” she said, in dismay.

“Whew! that makes matters rather complicated for you, then; but never
mind, the captain will know what to do about it, and I feel sure that
you will have no trouble. It is probable that the pilot-boat, when it
returned, after leaving the pilot with us, took back the news that some
of the passengers from the wrecked steamer were with us, and your
friends may hope that you are among them, and come to ascertain.”

Star was greatly cheered by this view of the matter, and made up her
mind to wait patiently for whatever was to come.

                              CHAPTER IV.
                             MRS. RICHARDS.

It was very late when the stately ship rolled slowly up to her pier, too
late for the customs officers to visit her that night, and the impatient
passengers were forced to wait until morning to appear before them and
undergo that much dreaded ordeal of taking oath upon their possessions,
dutiable or otherwise.

But early the next morning the hurry and bustle began, and there was the
usual rush to claim baggage and get away as soon as possible from the
place where they had spent so many monotonous days.

Star had no baggage to claim, and, not knowing what else to do, she sat
still in the saloon and waited, watching the departing people with
mingled feelings of curiosity and sadness.

Mr. Rosevelt had told her not to be anxious about her own fate, for he
should see that she was kindly cared for, and if her friends did not
come for her, he would provide for her until they could advertise her
arrival in the papers. It was unfortunate, he said, that she lost their
address, since it would be liable to cause something of a delay in
reaching her destination. So, while he went to arrange some little
matter with the captain, she sat and watched the hurrying crowd.

Archibald Sherbrooke came to seek her there, and found her alone.

“I’m off!” he said, with animation. “I’ve got through with the customs,
and have come to wish you good-by. Mr. Rosevelt says he is going to take
care of you. I hope everything will come out right for you, Miss Star,
and that you’ll find a pleasant home with your friends. I’m very sorry
that you’ve lost their address, for I’d call and see you before I go
back to England if I knew where to find you. I trust, however, that we
shall meet again, sometime; and—will you please always consider me your
friend?”

He placed a card in her hand as he spoke, and she saw that his address
was written upon it.

“Thank you,” she said, with a rising flush. “I shall never forget you,
for you have been very kind to me. But wait—I nearly forgot to give you
your pin,” she concluded, suddenly remembering that she still had it,
and she took the beautiful cameo head from her shawl and held it out to
him.

“Please keep it as a souvenir,” he said, gently, adding: “And I wish you
had something to give me in exchange.”

“I’ve lost everything, you know. I could give you naught but a ‘tress of
my yellow hair,’” Star said, with a light laugh, and lifting the heavy
braid which lay over her shoulder with a look of mock dismay.

“Oh, _would_ you?” he asked, eagerly, and taking her literally at her
word.

“It would be but a poor return for this lovely cameo,” she answered,
flushing beneath his eager glance.

“No, indeed, it would not,” he returned, earnestly. “May I have just a
lock of its shining gold, please, Miss Star?” and his fingers touched
the massive braid almost tenderly.

“I have nothing with which to cut it off, and—I’m afraid it would be
very foolish,” she said, with drooping eyes, but a quickly beating
heart.

For answer, he drew a tiny pair of scissors from one of the pockets of
his vest, and held them out to her with a smile.

She took them hesitatingly, her delicate face crimsoning even to the
light locks which lay upon her forehead; then, with a hand that was not
quite steady, she clipped a silken tress from among the curling ends
below the blue ribbon with which the braid was tied, and laid it, with
the scissors, in his extended hand.

“Thank you; I shall always keep it,” he said, with glowing eyes, as he
put it carefully between the leaves of a small notebook which he took
from another pocket.

Then he took her hand in a warm, strong clasp, and, with a reluctantly
spoken farewell, a lingering, wistful look into her lovely blue eyes, he
went away.

As he disappeared through one door-way of the saloon, the figure of a
woman, clad in plain dark robes, entered by the other, and threw a
quick, searching glance around the place.

“I’m in search of a girl named Stella Gladstone,” she said, in sharp,
incisive tones, as her eyes fell upon our lone Star.

The young girl took a step forward, her earnest glance fastened upon
that plain yet not unkind face.

“I am Stella Gladstone,” she said, simply.

The woman looked at her keenly for a moment, and her homely countenance
softened into something like pity as she noticed her delicate beauty.
Then she said, bluntly:

“Well, miss, if I was ever thankful to set eyes on anybody, I am on you,
or I’m much mistaken. I’ve lain awake o’ nights thinking of you, ever
since we heard that the vessel in which you sailed was lost at sea. If I
got asleep at all, I’d wake with a start from horrid dreams, where I
seemed to see you drowning and heard your dreadful cries. Two days ago
another vessel came in, bringing in some of those who had been wrecked.
We got the news in the paper the night before they landed, and
madam—Mrs. Richards, my mistress—sent me down posthaste next morning to
see if you was among them. Of course you wasn’t, so I went home and
dreamed all night again. Last night news came that more had been
rescued, and would land at this pier this morning, so I was posted off
again to find you if possible. Well,” she continued, heaving a deep sigh
of relief, “I’ve got you at last, and I hope I sha’n’t dream about you
to-night. Of course you ain’t overstocked with baggage?” she concluded,
with a grim smile.

“No, I have nothing; everything was lost,” Star replied, while her
large, earnest eyes studied her companion’s face, and she wondered what
relation she bore to her, and who “Mrs. Richards,” “madam,” and “my
mistress” were.

“More’s the pity for _you_, then, or I’m much mistaken,” the woman said,
with a peculiar compression of her thin lips.

Then she added, with more of animation than she had yet displayed:

“But, bless me! I suppose you’d like to know who I am, and won’t be much
surprised when I tell you my name is Blunt; my name is like my nature,
and I’m madam’s—Mrs. Richards’ housekeeper. A pretty time of it I have,
too, or I’m much mistaken; though one can put up with considerable where
their bread and butter and ‘fixin’s’ are concerned. But come, it’s time
we were off. Have you had your breakfast?” she concluded, seeing that
Star had grown rather pale, and thinking she might be faint and hungry.

“Yes’m,” she answered, while a wistful expression stole into her eyes,
and she stepped back and looked over the railing into the dining-room
below, hoping to see Mr. Rosevelt. She felt as if she _could not_ go
away without saying farewell to her kind fellow-traveler.

But he was nowhere to be seen, and she saw that Mrs. Blunt was
impatient.

“If you please,” she said, timidly, “might I just wait a few minutes to
say good-by to a gentleman who has been very kind to me?”

“Lor’, child! it’ll be no use; you’ll never find him, and almost
everybody has gone already. Probably he’s in the hands of the customs,
having his trunks overhauled, and won’t want to be bothered,” Mrs. Blunt
returned, good-naturedly, but really very anxious to get back to her
interrupted duties.

“But he has no trunks; he was on the wreck with me, and he told me to
wait here for him,” Star persisted, almost ready to weep at the thought
of going without seeing him.

“I’m sorry, miss, but madam will be having one of her tantrums if I am
not back shortly, as there’s company to dinner to-day, and it’s nearly
ten o’clock now,” Mrs. Blunt, returned, a trifle indifferently.

She turned as she spoke and led the way from the place, and Star was
forced to follow her, striving hard to repress the sobs that were
struggling in her bosom over her disappointment; and when, half an hour
later, Mr. Rosevelt came to seek her, he was as much disturbed to find
her gone as she had been to go.

He made inquiries regarding her, and was told that some one had come for
her and taken her away, but no one knew whither she had gone.

This relieved his mind somewhat as to her safety, but did not lessen his
disappointment at thus losing sight of her and not knowing where to seek
for her; but he was forced to go his way and bear it as he could.

Mrs. Blunt and her sad-hearted charge walked quickly from the steamer,
and having no baggage, she immediately called a carriage, and hurrying
Star into it, gave her order to be driven to a Brooklyn ferry.

Crossing the river, they took another carriage, and a half hour’s drive
brought them to a stately dwelling in a fashionable portion of the city.

“There, child!” Mrs. Blunt ejaculated, as the carriage stopped; “we’re
home, and I’m glad of it, for you’ve caused me a heap of anxiety first
and last, or I’m much mistaken; but you’re safe and sound, thank Heaven,
though you’re rather delicate-looking for what I imagine is before you;”
this “much mistaken” individual prepared to alight, casting a look of
honest pity into the face of the fair girl as she did so.

Star looked surprised at this somewhat ambiguous speech, and would have
liked to ask what it meant, but the woman gave her no opportunity,
paying for and dismissing the carriage in her quick, energetic way, and
then led her around to a side door and entered the mansion.

Beckoning Star to follow her, she passed through a lofty hall and up a
wide, thickly carpeted staircase, where on every hand there were
evidences of wealth and luxury.

Rapping upon a door at the front end of the upper hall, a voice bade her
enter, and the woman opened it and passed in, and Star following, saw a
handsome woman of perhaps forty years, dressed with great elegance and
taste, sitting in a low rocker by a window.

She turned an inquiring glance upon Mrs. Blunt as she advanced. She
could not see Star, as she was directly behind her and hidden by her
tall figure.

“Well, madam, I’ve found her at last, and here she is,” she said, in a
satisfied tone, and stepped one side to present the young girl.

Madam heaved a sigh—it might have been of relief, it might have been the
reverse; no one could have told which from the expression of her face—as
she bent a critical glance upon the young stranger who had come to find
a home in her house.

She arose, came forward, and studied the fair, downcast face; for Star,
after the first glance, knew she would receive no tender welcome from
that cold, proud woman, and her heart sank like a dead weight in her
bosom.

Something like a frown gathered on the woman’s brow as she marked her
exceeding loveliness.

“Well, Stella, you have had a hard voyage,” she began, in smooth, cool
tones, which made Star shrink from her and shiver slightly, they were so
distant and devoid of feeling. “I am glad, however,” she went on, “that
you are safe, and I hope, now that you are here and I am to give you a
home, you will do your best to please me. You look very much like your
mother as I remember her, although I trust your face will not prove as
great a misfortune to you as hers did to her.”

This last statement was made with some severity. Evidently Mrs. Richards
was not pleased to find the new arrival so beautiful in face and figure.

“Mamma unfortunate! How?” Star asked, surprise loosening her tongue.

“Is it possible that you do not know how she disgraced herself and
family?” madam demanded, sternly, as if in some way Star was to blame
for said disgrace. “Have you never been told how a poor clergyman once
preached in the church where your mother attended worship, fell in love
with her pretty face, and finally persuaded her to marry him, to the
utter disregard of her whole family, who were highly respectable
people.”

Star’s cheeks glowed hotly beneath this tirade, and her blue eyes flamed
at this slur upon her idolized parents.

“I do not consider mamma’s marriage anything of a ‘misfortune’ or a
‘disgrace,’” she answered, with something of hauteur, and speaking very
distinctly. “She was very happy all her life, and papa was a splendid
man—a superior man.”

Mrs. Richards smiled in a lofty kind of way, as she returned: “It is
very natural, I suppose, that you should be your father’s champion;
nevertheless he was not, socially, your mother’s equal, and she degraded
herself in the eyes of all her family by marrying a penniless preacher,
and a dissenter, too.”

Star’s lips parted again, as if about to utter an indignant protest to
this statement; but, with a wave of her white hand, Mrs. Richards coolly
dismissed the subject and turned again to Mrs. Blunt.

“I suppose everything belonging to her was lost,” she said.

“Yes, madam; the poor child has nothing in the world save what she has
on,” that woman answered, with a compassionate glance at Star.

“That is awkward; but you can take her to the sewing-room and tell Miss
Baker to measure her for a couple of dresses; tell her to make them from
that piece of print that I purchased yesterday. Can you sew, Stella?”
she asked, turning again to the young girl, whom she had not even
invited to be seated.

“Yes’m; mamma taught me to sew when I was quite young, and I have
attended to my own wardrobe, with the aid of a seamstress, ever since
she died.”

“That is well. You can then assist Miss Baker about your dresses, and
when they are completed I will arrange about your other duties. You can
go now. Mrs. Blunt will show you the way to your room, where you can lay
aside your shawl and hat and then go to the sewing-room.”

Star gave the woman a stare of blank astonishment.

She had been most delicately and tenderly reared; her education had been
carefully superintended by her father, and the constant companionship of
her refined and intellectual mother had made her a little lady in every
sense of the word. She had been taught to be kind and courteous to every
one; to sympathize with people in trouble; to rejoice with them in
prosperity; and now this woman—this cousin to her mother—this human
being, whom she knew her mother once saved from a dreadful death—had
received her, after her long and perilous voyage, her suffering and
hardships, in this unfeeling, indifferent way.

She had not even taken her hand at greeting; she had looked her over and
inspected her with a critical stare, as if she were some beast of burden
that she was buying to toil for her. She had not offered her the
commonest hospitalities of her house, or given her one kind word or
look.

She had instead simply, and in the coolest manner possible, commented on
her marvelous escape from death, and then _insulted_ her by speaking
disparagingly of her parents; and now she had dismissed her from her
presence as if she had been a menial, ordered _two print dresses_ made
for her, without a thought apparently of other clothing so necessary to
her after being so long without a change of any kind.

She took a step forward, her slight form drawn proudly erect, the hot,
indignant blood surging over neck, face, and brow, and was about to
demand the meaning of this strange treatment, when Mrs. Richards, seeing
her intentions, said, haughtily, and in a tone not to be mistaken:

“I told you that you could go, Stella. Did you understand me?”

With a heaving bosom and flashing eyes, Star bowed with a sort of
stately grace, turned and followed Mrs. Blunt from the room with the
step of a queen; but when the door was shut behind them, she stopped and
confronted that good though eccentric woman with an aspect which, to say
the least, astonished her.

                               CHAPTER V.
                         BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT.

“What does this mean?” she demanded, passionately. “Why am I received in
this strange, this heartless manner, by my mother’s cousin? Why does she
presume to cast aspersions upon my father and mother, and talk about
print dresses, and assigning me duties as if I were a mere servant?”

Mrs. Blunt’s breath was fairly taken away by these swift, indignant
sentences and questions, and she could only gaze at the young girl in
speechless surprise for a few moments.

Star was wondrously beautiful then, in spite of her soiled and
disordered attire, with her flashing eyes, her blazing cheeks, her
delicate, dilating nostrils, her scornful, curling lips, and proudly
poised head.

“What does it mean, I say?” repeated Star, impatient at the woman’s
silence.

Mrs. Blunt found her tongue at last.

“Mercy on us, child!” she ejaculated, her astonishment extending to her
tones. “You’ve a temper of your own, or I’m much mistaken; and you’ll
need it, too, if you’re going to live in this house.”

Then she added, more thoughtfully:

“I’m afraid, miss, you’ve come over here with a wrong impression—I
really _am_.”

“What do you mean?” Star asked. “How have I come with a wrong
impression?”

“What did you expect when you started to come to America to live with
Mrs. Richards?” the housekeeper asked, evading her questions by putting
another.

“I expected that my mother’s cousin, who papa said, was very wealthy,
and able to take care of me, and had promised him to do so, would give
me a place in her home as a member of her family, and give me an
opportunity to perfect my education, so that I might be able, by and by,
to take care of myself. This was what my father understood her promise
to me to mean—this was what I expected. But from the reception she has
given me—cold and heartless—and as I would not have received the meanest
beggar who came to my door—from disrespectful and insulting remarks
about my parents, and what she said about my ‘duties’, I am afraid that
my position here will not be a pleasant one.”

Mrs. Blunt’s homely face was full of pity as she listened to what Star
said.

“Poor child,” she began, “you have expected entirely too much, and
perhaps it would be a mercy to tell you at once how mistaken you are if
you think you are going to find a pleasant home and a chance to get much
of an education _here_. When madam got your father’s letter and knew
that you were soon to be an orphan, she said at once that it was ‘just
the thing,’ and you would do nicely to supply the place of Maggie Flynn,
the chamber and errand girl, and who was not exactly trustworthy. She
said the ‘English peasants always made good servants,’ and as you were
young and would be wholly dependent on her, she could train you
according to her own notions. And, to make a long story short, you are
to make beds and do chamber-work generally, wait upon madam and run of
errands.”

And the housekeeper heaved a sigh of relief that the difficult
explanation was over. And difficult it was, with those glittering
sapphire eyes fixed so intently upon her, and that beautiful face
gleaming with scorn and indignation.

“In other words, she intends to make a servant—a slave of me,” she said,
with quiet sarcasm, but uplifted head.

“Ye-es—if you must put it so, miss,” Mrs. Blunt admitted, reluctantly.

“What wages am I to expect?” and the clear young voice rang with intense
scorn.

“Wages?”

“Yes, _wages_. What did she pay Maggie Flynn?” Star demanded, with a
bitter smile.

“Six dollars a month; but—but I don’t think madam has thought about
wages for _you_. She is to give you a home for what you can do; and
besides what I have told you, you are to wait upon Miss Josephine, who
is not sparing of her commands, either.”

“Who is Miss Josephine, pray?”

“The young lady of the house—Mrs. Richards’ daughter.”

“How old is she?”

“Just turned eighteen.”

“Two years my senior,” murmured Star, reflectively. “Well, Mrs. Blunt,”
she added, after a moment or two, and looking up with a clearer face,
“show me to my room, please, and let me have a good bath, for I need
refreshing sadly. If only I might have some clean underclothing to put
on,” she added, wistfully.

“You shall,” the woman quickly returned. “I suppose madam never thought
of it, and it is a shame. There, wait here,” she added, as she threw
open the door of a small room on the front of the house in the third
story, “and I will bring you a change of Miss Josephine’s. They will be
a trifle too large, but never mind so that you’re comfortable.”

She sped away, and as Star removed her hat and shawl she looked about
her.

The room was very scantily furnished, but it was clean, and as there was
only a single bed in it, she knew she was to have it to herself—a point
which she congratulated herself upon, as it would have been very
obnoxious to her to room with one of the servants.

Mrs. Blunt soon returned, bringing clean, fresh garments, and Star felt
that she had never realized before how great a luxury cleanliness was.

“You can go to the bath-room at the end of the hall,” she said, laying
them over Star’s arm. “I have fixed the tub for you, lining it with a
clean sheet, so that you need not feel shy about using it. I know you’ll
feel a great deal better after it; then I’ll come to you again in a half
or three-quarters of an hour, and take you to Miss Baker; and—I
forgot—here’s a comb I’ve never used.”

Star felt very grateful to the kind-hearted creature, and made the most
of her opportunity.

She had a refreshing bath, then combed out her luxuriant hair,
re-arranging it as nicely and carefully as she had been taught to do in
her own home, and when all was done she looked as bright and felt as
fresh as a new creature.

When Mrs. Blunt returned at the end of an hour, her plain face relaxed
into a smile, though Star had thought that smiles were at a discount
with her as a general thing.

“Well, you _do_ look nice, or I’m much mistaken; and those
hands!—they’re much too fine and nice, in my opinion, for drudgery;” and
the woman glanced admiringly at those small members, of which, to be
truthful, Star _was_ a little proud.

“Well, I am ready to go to Miss Baker,” she said, with a little sigh.
“It is evident that I shall not be in a condition to do any kind of
work, or drudgery, as you call it, until I am properly clad.”

“She’s true blue, and it’s an abomination to make a servant of her,”
muttered the housekeeper, as she led the way to the sewing-room.

Miss Baker was in the midst of fitting a party-dress for Miss
Josephine—a rather fine-looking girl, with black eyes and hair, a
brilliant color, and a full, graceful figure.

Mrs. Blunt introduced Star, and then gave Mrs. Richards’ orders about
the “two print dresses.”

“Goodness gracious! are you Stella Gladstone?” ejaculated the pet and
pride of the Richards mansion, with a stare of surprise.

Star bowed a cold assent to this rude salutation, and then walked
quietly across the room and seated herself by a window.

Miss Baker, however, had nodded and smiled kindly at her, and she felt
sure that she should like the weary-looking seamstress.

“Well, I guess mamma will be glad you have come,” Josephine pursued;
“she has been nearly plagued to death with that Maggie Flynn—you’re to
take her place, you know, as chambermaid and errand girl.”

Star did not reply, and Miss Baker shot an indignant glance at the rude
girl.

The young stranger’s heart was swelling within her until it was nearly
ready to burst with insulted pride and bitter disappointment. She had
longed, when she had found herself alone in her room, to relieve herself
with a burst of passionate weeping, but she dare not give way to it lest
it should unfit her for everything during the day; but now it seemed as
if she could not endure much more.

She had never dreamed that such a reception as this awaited her.

She had pictured to herself, many times, being drawn into the arms of a
pleasant, gentle-voiced woman, who had loved her mother, and who would
love her for that mother’s sake, if not for her own. She had thought to
twine her arms about her neck, and, laying her head upon a sympathizing
bosom, tell her of her dear parents, what their hopes and plans had been
for her, and what her own desires for the future were, and expected to
receive only kind and encouraging words in return.

How different it all was, and how cruel that all her hopes must be
crushed in this unfeeling way!

She had been ambitious to become a cultivated woman and scholar, and to
follow out her father’s plans for her education, and come up to his
standard, which was a high one.

But instead she found she was to be degraded to the level of a common
servant, all her prospects destroyed, all her hopes crushed, and she
felt as if she could not bear it.

“I _will_ not submit to it. I _will_ not give up my hopes. _I will not
be a servant_,” she kept saying over and over to herself, while she sat
there and waited for Miss Baker to attend to her needs, and felt rather
than saw Josephine’s impertinent inspection of her personal appearance.

“You’ve got a wonderful head of hair,” that young lady at length
observed, as she approached her after being released from the
seamstress’ hands. “I think I never saw such a heavy braid before; and I
believe it will just match Nellie Colton’s; she is papa’s niece. I’ll
tell mamma to have a barber come and cut it off. Of course you can’t
afford the time now to take care of it, and it would make such a
splendid band for Nell.”

Star regarded her in blank astonishment. The effrontery of this young
lady was simply overpowering.

“Indeed!” she at last quietly replied. “If Miss Colton is in need of a
band of hair, she will doubtless find it at almost any hair store in the
city. I intend to keep mine.”

Miss Richards colored angrily, for Star’s great blue eyes met hers
fearlessly, and her tone betrayed an independence which did not promise
well for any tyranny which she might expect to exercise over her in the
future.

“You will do exactly as mamma desires, miss,” she cried and then turned
and left the room.

Star’s face was also very red, and she swallowed an angry sob as she
turned to Miss Baker.

“I am ready to sew,” was all that she could say.

She longed to get some work into her hands, hoping thus to distract her
thoughts from self and her bitter disappointment.

The seamstress cut off the breadths of a skirt and gave them to her,
pitying the pretty, yet despised, stranger from the bottom of her heart.

“May I use the machine?” the young girl asked, glancing at that
labor-saving instrument.

“Do you know how?”

“Yes’m.”

“Very well. This is a Florence, and I will show you how to thread it.”

“I know how, thank you. Mamma had a Florence, and I have often used it.”

She arose, and going to it Miss Baker saw at once that she was fully
capable of using it.

All day long she stitched and sewed, working quietly, yet rapidly, and
by night one dress was nearly completed.

“You sew very nicely,” Miss Baker said, as she examined her work late in
the afternoon, “and this print will make you a very neat dress. I wish
Mrs. Richards would allow me to trim it, but she told me to make it
plain. She is in a hurry about the other work.”

Star said nothing to this, but after the seamstress had gone home, she
cut and pieced together some dainty ruffles from some scraps that had
been thrown aside; and all the long evening, while the family were down
stairs entertaining visitors and making merry, she was sewing and
finishing off the print dress, that she might have something fresh and
clean for the morning.

But she was, oh! so sad and lonely, and she could not help thinking of
the previous night, when she had sat in the gay saloon of the steamer
and chatted so sociably with Archibald Sherbrooke, and felt a strange
thrill of happiness in sitting beside him.

She had not been allowed to eat with the family during the day. She had
not seen Mrs. Richards, and did not even know of how many members the
household consisted. It was evident that she was to be ignored, except
as her services were required, that she was to be made a drudge, and her
proud young spirit resented it with all the strength of her nature.

“I will never live so; I am above it. I am capable of better things, and
I _will not_ consent to become a nonentity,” her heart kept saying, over
and over again.

But she was wholly dependent upon these people; her father had consigned
her to their care. She had no money, save a letter of credit for a
hundred pounds, the sum total realized from the sale of all the dear
objects which she had been accustomed to see in her home since her
infancy, and this she had been advised, by the lawyer whom Mr. Gladstone
had chosen to settle his affairs, to consign to the care of Mr.
Richards. But she had concluded since morning to say nothing about it to
any one.

She had no other friends; if she had possessed them she would have flown
to them at once. She was a forlorn stranger among strangers, and she
could see no way at present out of the difficulties surrounding her.

She had eaten with Mrs. Blunt, who was very kind to her, and tried to
tempt her appetite with all the daintiest bits upon the table; but the
poor child was so sick at heart that she could scarcely swallow a
mouthful.

When Miss Baker came the next morning, she looked the surprise she felt,
as she opened the sewing-room door and saw Star seated within, busily
sewing upon the dress she had been making for Josephine the day before.

And truly the young girl was a goodly sight to behold.

Her beautiful hair had been brushed until it shone like satin, and then
gathered into a simple knot at the back of her head—she did not intend
to have it cut off, and she had dressed it in this way so as not to
attract attention to it—while the clustering locks which fell over her
forehead, almost touching her eyebrows, gave a piquant expression to her
face. Her eyes were bright, in spite of her “night of tears” and longing
for the dear old home and familiar faces over the sea; her cheeks
delicately flushed, and the fresh print dress, which fitted her slight,
graceful figure perfectly, and which she had so tastefully trimmed,
could not have been more becoming if it had been made of the richest
materials.

“Why, Miss Gladstone, however did you manage to finish your dress, and
put so much extra work into it, after I left last night?” the dressmaker
asked, with some misgivings about madam’s approval when she should see
it.

“I managed it because I needed it,” Star answered. “I did not like to
put on the dress I wore on the steamer again, it was so soiled and
disfigured; and I ruffled it because I like pretty things and have been
accustomed to them.”

“I am afraid Mrs. Richards will object to so much trimming, for she was
particular to mention that it should be ‘plain,’” said Miss Baker,
glancing dubiously at the ruffles up and down the front, and at the neck
and wrists.

Star made no reply to this, but her red lips settled themselves a trifle
more firmly, and her small head was lifted with a quick, proud movement,
which told that she intended to exercise her own taste as far as she was
able in the matter of her own wardrobe.

The second morning after her advent at the Richards’ mansion, as she was
descending to her breakfast, she suddenly encountered a portly but
good-natured looking gentleman on the stairs.

She glanced up at him, and was about to pass on with a slight though
graceful salutation, when he stopped short and regarded her with
surprise.

“Halloa! who are you?” he asked, brusquely, yet not unkindly.

Star colored a lovely pink, as she replied, modestly:

“I am Star—or, I should say, Stella Gladstone.”

“Stella—_Star_ Gladstone!” he exclaimed, in surprise. Then he added,
with an appreciative glance at her golden head with its dainty
forelocks, her great, star-like eyes, and red lips:

“That sounds well—very appropriate, too, I should say. When did you
arrive? We have been very anxious on your account.”

Star’s scarlet lips curled slightly.

It appeared that he had not been notified of her arrival—Mrs. Richards
had not considered it necessary to speak of the welfare of one whom she
intended to make her servant.

They had been anxious on her account!

_He_ might have experienced some uneasiness concerning her; his kind
eyes and pleasant face seemed to indicate a good heart; but the other
members of his family, she judged, would not have grieved so very much
if she had really gone to the bottom of the ocean, as they feared she
had.

“I arrived the day before yesterday—Tuesday,” she said, somewhat coldly,
in reply to his question.

“Ah! I was in Chicago that day—reached home last night. You’ve had a
pretty hard time, little girl, haven’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Star returned, wondering if he had any idea _how_ hard,
while the tears rushed unbidden to her eyes at his kind tone. “I never
expected to see land again,” she added, trying hard to suppress a sob,
as she thought she would almost rather have died than come among such
cold-hearted people as her mother’s cousin’s family appeared to be.

“Well, well, you are safe now, thank Heaven, and you must try to be as
happy as possible with us,” Mr. Richards said, still more kindly as he
remarked her agitation.

Star lifted her great eyes to his with a look of surprise. Could it be
possible that he did not know the position she was destined to occupy in
his household?

It certainly appeared so, for he was looking down upon her with
admiration and even something of affection.

“Thank you, sir; you are very kind,” she said, with a sigh, as she
turned sadly away and left him.

                              CHAPTER VI.
                            STELLA’S APPEAL.

Star went down to the housekeeper’s room after her encounter with Mr.
Richards, and ate her breakfast in a very thoughtful mood.

Mrs. Blunt watched her curiously, and with a troubled expression on her
honest face.

“Child, if you don’t eat more you’ll die, or I’m much mistaken,” and she
deftly slipped a dainty slice of buttered toast on her plate as she
spoke.

“Thank you, Mrs. Blunt, but I believe I am not very hungry this
morning,” she returned, with a smile.

“I should think not, indeed, nor at any other time. You haven’t eaten a
‘square meal’ since you came into this house,” the good woman said, with
an injured air.

Star was too deeply occupied to heed it, and finishing her coffee in
silence, arose and proceeded slowly up stairs to the sewing-room,
intending to finish her other dress that morning.

There was a look of resolution on her young face; her eyes gleamed with
a new purpose.

“I will do it,” she murmured, as she stood thoughtfully outside the door
a moment, one small hand resting upon the knob. “I may as well make a
bold stroke for myself at once, or I shall sink into nothingness. I
_must_ have an education; I cannot—I _will_ not grow up ignorant, and
have poor papa’s kind care in the past all go for nothing.”

She turned the handle of the door and passed into the room.

She found Mrs. Richards standing in the middle of the floor, holding up
the unfinished dress in both hands, and inspecting it with no pleasant
expression of countenance.

She glanced at the young girl as she entered, and as her keen eyes ran
over her dainty figure in its new and tasteful garment, her face grew
dark.

Star bade her a courteous “good-morning,” but she did not even deign to
notice the salutation.

“Who trimmed these dresses?” she demanded, sharply.

“I did,” Star answered.

“Who told you to do it?”

“No one, marm; but I like things made pretty, and as there were plenty
of pieces which could not be used in any other way, I made them up into
ruffles.”

Star spoke very quietly, but a bright red spot burned on either cheek.

“You like ‘things pretty,’ do you? And that is the way you calculate to
spend your time in this house, I suppose?” Mrs. Richards retorted,
sarcastically.

She received no reply, and continued:

“The pieces you have cut up into senseless ruffles I intended you should
make into patch-work for the servants’ beds during your odd minutes.”

Star glanced at the numerous “senseless ruffles” which encircled the
indignant matron’s ample figure, and thought there might be such a thing
as a distinction without a difference.

“I’ve half a mind to make you sit right down and rip off every one,”
Mrs. Richards proceeded, still chafing over the matter, and flushing as
she noticed Star’s glance and half read her thought. “The idea of a
chambermaid with ruffles and furbelows! And I do believe that seamstress
has made your dress so tight that you cannot breathe,” she concluded,
pouncing upon the poor girl to make an examination of the offensive
robe, for the slight, graceful figure before her was not at all pleasing
to her.

“No, marm, my dress is not tight; it only fits me nicely;” and Star’s
slender fingers laid over quite a plait, thus showing that there was
plenty of room for inflating her lungs to their utmost capacity.

“Then you are laced,” persisted madam.

“Laced?” repeated Star, who did not quite understand the obnoxious term.

“Yes; your corsets are too tight.”

“Oh! I never wear corsets; mamma did not approve of them.”

Mrs. Richards bit her lips and colored with vexation. She was not
showing to advantage in this controversy. It was clear that Star’s
perfect form was the work of nature’s own hand, and she would be obliged
to put up with it, unless she tied her up in a sack to hide its comely
outlines.

“Well,” she said, throwing aside the dress she had been examining, “I
want you to come with me now; I am going to assign you your regular
work. For one thing, you are to make all the beds in the house, except
those in the servants’ rooms; then you are to keep Josephine’s and mine
in order, wait upon us generally, and sew when there is nothing else to
be done.”

Star stood looking down at the carpet in a thoughtful way while her
would-be task mistress reeled off these instructions; then she raised
her eyes, which looked almost black instead of their usual beautiful
blue, and fixed them full upon the woman’s face.

“Did you understand,” she began, “when papa wrote to you, asking you to
assume the guardianship of his only child and superintend her future
education, that he had any idea that I should come into your family as a
servant? I am sixteen years old, and although I have been taught to do
many things in my home, and to do them well, I have never done any
_hard_ work. I have spent most of my time in study, and papa left
written instructions with me regarding my future course in that
direction. I am very fond of music; I can paint and draw quite well, I
am told, for one of my age, and papa wished me to keep on with these
accomplishments, so far as I was able to and attend faithfully to the
other branches of my education. I tell you this that you may understand
something of the disappointment I have experienced, since my arrival in
this country, to find that I was expected to fill the place of a common
servant. Do you think my father intended you to make me such?”

Mrs. Richards regarded the girl in astonishment, while her face grew
crimson with shame and anger. She knew very well that Albert Gladstone
had never dreamed that she would degrade his child in any such way. But
Albert Gladstone was dead, and could not interpose to prevent it. She
was obliged to curtail just now in some way, and when she found she must
have this girl in her family, she had decided to dispense with the
expense of one servant and impose the duties on Star.

But she had not once imagined that she would dare question her right to
do with her whatever she saw fit, and she was amazed as well as angry at
the quiet dignity and independence with which she made these statements,
and called her to an account of her duty to her.

“I don’t know _what_ your father _intended_, or what _you expect_,” she
returned, in cold, precise tones. “I know that he wrote me you would
soon be an orphan; that you had hardly a friend in the world, and he
would leave you almost a pauper. He asked me to superintend your
education, so that you would be able to earn your own living by and by.
I intend to do so; and as you have nothing save your own hands to depend
upon in the future, I am going to begin by making you useful at once.
Did you suppose you were going to drop into the lap of luxury, and be
reared in idleness?” she concluded, with biting sarcasm.

“No, marm,” Star returned, respectfully, yet not one whit abashed by the
way Mrs. Richards had perverted the letter which her father had written.
“I am willing to be useful—I _wish_ to be useful—I should be unhappy to
be idle; but I am _very unwilling_ to be made a common drudge, with no
time nor opportunity to pursue my education. You say I have nothing save
my hands with which to earn my living. You are mistaken; I have
_brains_, and I intend they shall serve that purpose.”

“It seems to me that you are making a saucy tongue serve its purpose
pretty early in the day,” retorted Mrs. Richards, an angry red leaping
into her face.

“I do not mean the least disrespect in what I have said, Mrs. Richards;
but I cannot give up all the hopes and aspirations which my father has
fostered all my life without making an effort to accomplish them. I am
frank to confess,” Star continued, coloring, while her lips quivered
slightly, “that from your reply to my father’s letter, I inferred that I
should be received into your family as an equal, and that you would give
me a mother’s care and counsel during the next three or four years of my
life. Papa, I know, also understood it so, and died content, feeling
that I should be well and kindly provided for.”

Mrs. Richards felt very uncomfortable, for she knew that every word Star
uttered was truth. She knew, too, that she was doing a mean and cowardly
thing in making the bright and talented girl a servant; but she _must_
have a house-maid. If she must curtail, she must do it in this way
rather than in her own or Josephine’s wardrobe.

“You are very impertinent, miss, and have been reared with altogether
too high notions for one in your position,” she said, angrily. “You
ought to be thankful for a roof to cover your head, and anything to
cover your nakedness, coming here, as you did, destitute of everything.
An equal in my family, indeed! Music, painting, and drawing! What will
Josephine say to that, I wonder? And who did you suppose was going to
foot the bills? It won’t do you any harm to have some of this
independence taken out of you, and I’ll have you understand, once for
all, that you will fill Maggie Flynn’s position in this house, or none.”

Star bowed her proud head coldly. She saw that she was helpless for the
present, and must yield to the inevitable.

“Very well,” she said, calmly. “I understand from Mrs. Blunt that Maggie
Flynn was about my age; that she had six dollars a month besides her
board, and two evenings out a week. I will consent to fill her place,
_for the present_, upon the same conditions.”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed Mrs. Richards, in a towering passion at this
unexpected proposition. “I never heard anything like it in my life! You
forget that you are indebted to me for the very clothes you have on at
this moment.”

Star could hardly repress a smile at this calculating outbreak.

“You have given me the print for two dresses,” she answered, with ready
tact, “the cost of which, with us in England, would be four pence a
yard. I have nearly made them myself, but you can deduct whatever you
see fit, and I will attend to my own wardrobe in the future. If I do
Maggie Flynn’s work, I must have Maggie Flynn’s pay and privileges,” she
concluded, decidedly.

“You will have nothing of the kind”—Mrs. Richards was fairly hoarse with
anger. “You forget that your father has consigned you to my guardianship
for the next few years, and you will do exactly as I direct you. But we
have wasted time enough in this kind of talk. You are to come with me
now; I will set you to work, and see if we cannot take down some of this
English impudence.”

Star followed the woman as she was bidden, without a word, thinking it
best to discuss the question no further just then; but there was,
nevertheless, a determined gleam in her glorious eyes; her form was as
erect and proud, her step as firm as if she felt herself in every
respect the equal of the woman who appeared bound to oppress her.

All day long she was kept steadily at work; not a moment was she allowed
to rest, except while she was eating. She made beds, swept and dusted
rooms, and ran upon errands, until every bone in her slight body ached
with weariness and her small feet were nearly blistered.

Her delicate hands had never performed such menial duties before, nor
had her gentle heart ever throbbed with such revengeful, rebellious
feelings.

It was eight o’clock before her hard mistress released her from her
labors, and told her to go directly to bed, so as to be up early in the
morning and sweep off the front steps before people should begin to
pass.

She went to her room as directed, but instead of retiring, she took from
a drawer of her bureau one of the packages of papers which she had
rescued from her state-room on that burning vessel, and, weary as she
was, she again descended two flights of stairs, and approaching the
library door, tapped gently upon it.

A deep, manly voice bade her come in, and she entered with a firm and
decided tread.

Mr. Richards was sitting at his desk, engaged in answering some business
letters.

Star had timed her visit to him, for she had watched and seen him go
into the library after tea was over.

He looked up as she closed the door behind her, and his face relaxed
into a kind smile as he saw who it was.

The girl had interested him in the morning by her beauty, grace, and
intelligence, but he had been so busy during the day that he had
scarcely thought of her since.

He did inquire for her at dinner, but there was company present, and his
wife made some evasive reply. If the truth could have been known, she
was rather reluctant to inform him what her intentions were regarding
the young stranger.

“Do I interrupt you, sir?” Star asked, modestly, but without advancing
beyond the threshold.

“Not at all, Miss Star. Come here and sit down; I am just through,” he
answered, heartily.

She went and stood before him. She did not wish to sit down; she could
say what she intended to tell him better standing, she thought.

“You spoke so kindly to me this morning,” she began, “that I have
ventured to come to you for a little advice this evening.”

“Spoke kindly to you! Why on earth shouldn’t I speak kindly to you?” he
asked, in surprise.

Then noticing her pale, weary face, he continued:

“What under the sun have you been doing to-day? You look tired to
death.”

Star tried to smile, but she felt more like dropping her face upon her
hands and sobbing aloud.

She controlled herself with an effort, however, and putting some of her
papers upon the table beside him, said:

“I have brought you some papers which papa gave me just before—just
before he died”—a sob would come in spite of her then. “One is a copy of
a letter which he wrote to Mrs. Richards,” she went on, “and there is
also her reply. Will you kindly read them, and tell me just what you
understand by them?”

“Certainly, if you wish,” he replied, looking a trifle surprised at her
request.

He motioned her again to a seat, then opened the letters and read them
both through.

“I understand,” he said, when he had finished them, “from your father’s
letter that, believing he was soon to die, he wished to provide a home
for you. He states that he has no friends or relatives in England with
whom he would be willing to trust you; that he has next to nothing to
leave you, and begs my wife, as the nearest of kin, to assume the care
of you and your education until you are able to do something for
yourself, trusting to Providence to reward her for her kindness to the
orphan. He mentions that he feels assured she will do this, since she
once entertained such tender feelings for his wife for the signal
service which she once rendered her.”

“Do you know what that service was?” Star asked, in a low tone.

“No; I asked Ellen when I read the letter which she received, but she
seemed to have forgotten to what he referred. Perhaps _you_ know,
though?” Mr. Richards concluded, inquiringly.

Star colored vividly.

“Yes, sir,” she returned, with compressed lips.

“Well, what was it? I should like to know.”

“My mother was a Miss Chudleigh before her marriage, as you doubtless
know, and she lived near Halowell Park, in Devonshire, where Mrs.
Richards was once visiting, and it was during that visit that she saved
her from drowning.”

“Whew! Your mother saved my wife from drowning, eh?” cried Mr. Richards,
in astonishment, and coloring as he remembered his wife’s indifference
upon the topic when he had questioned her about it.

“Yes, sir. Now will you please read Mrs. Richards’ reply to my father’s
letter, and tell me how you interpret it?”

Star did not care to dwell upon the subject of her obligation, since
Mrs. Richards had seen fit to pass it by so lightly.

“I interpret it just as it reads,” he said, after glancing over it;
“that she would be very happy to grant your father’s request, do her
utmost to make a good and useful woman of you, and follow out his wishes
regarding your future education as nearly as she could.”

“Yes, sir, that is the way papa understood it; that is the way I
understand it,” Star said, rising and standing erect before him with a
gravity that made him wonder what was coming next.

“My father,” she continued, “as you know, was a clergyman with a very
limited income, and he conducted my education himself until he became
too weak to do so, therefore I am pretty well advanced for one of my
years. I have read seven books in Virgil, have read two years in French,
and am nearly through trigonometry, and have read a good deal in
history. I was studying harmony in music when papa died, besides doing a
little in painting and drawing. I do not tell you this,” Star
interposed, with a sad smile, “to boast of what I have done, but that
you may understand what my feelings are when I tell you why I came here
to-night. Papa wished me to keep on with my Latin, reading Horace and
Tacitus, with French, music, and history—in fact, he left a written
programme for me to follow out as nearly as I was able. I am ambitious
myself—I am _hungry_ for knowledge. I want a _thorough education_, and
as I must in the future earn my own living, I know of no way so
congenial to my feelings as through literary pursuits. Perhaps I made a
mistake in appealing to you just now, but I could think of no other way
out of my difficulties, for of course I am wholly ignorant of the
manners and customs of this country. I mentioned these things to Mrs.
Richards this morning——”

And now Star’s voice trembled, and the beating of her heart nearly
choked her, for she did not know how this man would receive her appeal
to him against his own wife.

“Well, and what did she say?” he asked, feeling somewhat perplexed over
the matter.

“She told me that I could not go on with my education as papa wished;
that—I was to take the place of a girl named Maggie Flynn in your
family.”

“What!” exclaimed the gentleman, in tones of the most emphatic
astonishment.

“Maggie Flynn, I understand,” Star went on, gathering courage as she
noted his surprise, “was a sort of chamber and waiting-maid, and Mrs.
Richards says that I am henceforth to perform her duties. I cannot tell
you,” she continued, earnestly, “how repulsive such a life would be to
me—to give up all my hopes, to forget, in the ceaseless routine of such
an existence, all that I have already acquired; and I have come to
appeal to you—to ask you if you will not try and persuade your wife to
allow me to continue my studies? I am willing to work, and work hard,
but I _must_ have some time to improve and develop my mind. There are
plenty of girls who can be employed in my place”—Star did not know of
the curtailing business—“and who do not care for an education. Papa
authorized a friend of his to dispose of his library and our household
goods, and give the proceeds to me, after paying all bills. I have a
letter of credit to the amount of a hundred pounds. I do not know the
expense of schooling in this country, but could I not be sent to some
institution for a year or two, and take this money to pay for it? I
should be fitted by the end of that time, I think, to teach, and could
relieve Mrs. Richards of all responsibility regarding my support.”

Mr. Richards’ face was very stern when the young girl concluded, and
Star, looking into it, felt almost frightened at what she had done.

But she reasoned that her situation could not be much worse than it
already was, and it demanded desperate measures.

                              CHAPTER VII.
                            A CONSULTATION.

“What have you been doing to-day?” Mr. Richards asked, in cold, stern
tones, after what seemed an interminable pause.

Stella began to feel almost faint. That hard face, in which displeasure
was the chief expression, did not look very promising for her cause; but
she replied:

“I have done all the chamber-work, swept and dusted five rooms, and
waited upon Mrs. Richards.”

“You are not accustomed to such work,” he said, glancing at her delicate
hands.

“Not to any such extent, sir. Mamma used to require me to take care of
the music-room, besides my own, at home, for we could keep only one
servant, and I _know how_ to sweep, and dust, and make beds,” Star
concluded, with a slight smile.

“I should say that you know a good many things for so young a lady,” Mr.
Richards said, kindly, for he saw that she was nervous over what she had
been telling him. Then he added, more gravely: “I will consult with Mrs.
Richards, and I think that we can arrange for you to pursue your
education as you desire.”

Star flushed.

She knew well enough that a mere consultation with Mrs. Richards would
not secure much for her, and that she would be very angry with her for
having appealed to her husband, and she made up her mind on the spot to
make a bold stroke for her freedom.

So meeting his eyes in a frank, fearless way, yet speaking with the
utmost respect, she said:

“I feel confident from the conversation which I had with Mrs. Richards
this morning, that she will be very unwilling to make any change in her
arrangements, so I will be perfectly frank and say to you, that much as
I should dislike to take any radical steps in opposition to her, or my
father’s desire that I should remain with her, yet I _cannot_ consent to
remain here as a common servant, with no privileges or time to myself. I
presume Mrs. Richards will say that, as she has been appointed my
guardian, I shall have to do just as she desires. But I have read
somewhere that when an orphan in this country reaches a certain age, he
has the privilege of choosing a guardian for himself. Rather than be
subjected to the fate of becoming a second Maggie Flynn,” Star
continued, her voice gathering firmness, “I shall exercise that
privilege. Thank you for listening so kindly to my troubles, and I trust
I have not wearied you. Good-night.”

Without waiting for him to reply, she inclined her head in a graceful
bow, and quietly glided from the room.

“By George!” exploded Mr. Richards, staring blankly after her retreating
form, “that is what I call spirit. Make a common servant of such a girl
as that, indeed! My lady and I will talk this matter over, and
see—_what_ we shall see.”

Half an hour later he sought an interview with his wife, and there
followed “a consultation” in earnest.

Mrs. Richards was dumfounded upon being informed of the decided stand
which her spirited little ward had taken, and her indignation in
consequence knew no bounds.

“The impudent little beggar!” she ejaculated, crimson with rage. “Does
she expect to rule me, or balk me like this? She will find herself
greatly mistaken. I will give her a dose in the morning—‘_such_ a dose,’
as Mr. Flintwinch was wont to remark to his beloved Affery.”

“Ellen, you will do no such thing,” her husband returned, firmly. “Have
you forgotten Mr. Gladstone’s letter to you and your reply to him? When
you wrote accepting the guardianship of his daughter, you did so in a
way to lead him to believe that you would do your best for her.”

“And so I am doing my best for her,” interrupted his wife. “You have
talked of nothing but retrenchment for the last six months, and I have
_tried_ to retrench. I knew the coming of this girl would make an extra
mouth to feed, so I made up my mind to make her useful, and save
something if I could.”

“Well, the child says she is willing to be useful, but you are not
fulfilling your agreement by making a drudge of her. Mr. Gladstone
understood that you would give careful attention to her education, which
he evidently has conducted upon the most thorough principles, and he
expected that you would fill as far as possible his place toward her.”

“How do you know what I wrote to him? You did not see my letter,”
demanded Mrs. Richards, angrily.

“I have seen it to-night. The girl has it, and showed it to me; and now
I want you to live up to your promises,” replied her husband, gravely.

“She ought to be thankful that she has a roof to shelter her. Do you
suppose I am going to allow her to interfere with Josephine’s rights?”

“Certainly not; but this girl is exceedingly bright and pretty; let them
become mates and share alike, and I’ll wager that Star will never abuse
your indulgence,” Mr. Richards said, generously.

“And who may ‘Star’ be?” demanded his wife, scornfully.

“Why, Stella, of course—Star was the name, I suppose, by which she was
known at home. Now, I insist,” he continued, with decision, “that this
child be given a fair chance.”

“How about retrenchment if you have _two_ fine young ladies to support
instead of one?” sneered Mrs. Richards.

“Oh, bother! we’ll make it up in some other way. I’ll sell one of my
horses; you can give up a new gown once in awhile.”

“Not if I know myself, Mr. Richards. I do not intend that this girl
shall interfere with my comfort in the least degree,” interrupted the
lady, with a frown.

“Well, we will manage in some way; but,” he added, beginning to get out
of patience with her selfishness and heartlessness, “I swear, if you
won’t promise to treat her considerately, and she repudiates you as her
guardian, I will get her to choose me in your place, and I’ll treat her
like a young princess—send her to Vassar, or any other first-class
school she may choose, regardless of the cost.”

“George Richards,” cried his wife, with flashing eyes, “if you take up
weapons against me in this way, I never will forgive you.”

“Can’t help it,” he retorted, coolly. “I’ll not have that girl made a
common drudge of in this house while I am master here. How you could
meditate such a thing for a moment is more than I can understand. Where
is the gratitude for the life which her mother saved for you so many
years ago?”

Mrs. Richards started slightly. She had not intended that her husband
should ever know of the debt which she owed Star’s mother.

“I suppose she had to twit you of that in order to gain her point and
make you her champion,” she said, sarcastically.

“No, indeed. I asked her what her father meant by his allusion to the
service rendered you, and to which he referred in his letter, and she
told me of course, though in a very modest way, that her mother once
saved you from drowning. Now, I want you to change your tactics. I want
you to allow her to be one of the family.”

“I _never_ will do that, Mr. Richards, and it is useless for you to
suggest it,” Mrs. Richards interrupted, hotly. “I could never endure the
sight of the girl at my table after this, and Josephine, I know, would
not consent to it. Any one can see by the course she has pursued
to-night with you that she is full of art and intrigue, and would not
hesitate to interfere with Josie’s plans and prospects.”

“Oh, ho! you’re afraid she will outshine Jo, are you?” laughed her
husband, good-naturedly. “I should think one would set the other off,
Star being so light and Jo so dark, and I should really enjoy seeing two
pretty girls flitting about the house.”

“I will never put Stella Gladstone on an equal footing with my daughter,
so you can cease arguing upon that point,” reiterated Mrs. Richards,
with a positiveness that was not to be mistaken.

“If you insist,” she continued, after a minute’s thought, “upon her
being allowed to pursue her education, since she makes such a parade of
being a bookworm, let her; I will not interfere. But _I_ insist, on the
other hand, that she make herself useful. She must work about the house
before and after school, and do something in return for her support—more
than this I will not concede;” and Mr. Richards, having gained this
point, considered that he had won quite a victory for his wife’s pretty
ward.

“Very well,” he said; “I presume she will be satisfied with this
arrangement. She said she was willing to work if she might only be
allowed to study.”

“Satisfied or not, it is all the concession that I shall make; and mark
my words, George, I shall not _love_ her any better for this
interference on your part,” his wife said, hotly.

“Fie, Ellen! I thought you had a warmer heart; and it would not sound
well outside if it should become known that you were making a servant of
a relative. It would make quite a stir, let me tell you, if she should
appeal to the courts to have a new guardian appointed,” Mr. Richards
returned, in a conciliatory tone.

Thus the matter was settled, to Star’s great joy. Mr. Richards made
arrangements at once for her to enter a select school for young ladies,
which was located quite near their residence, and she began her
attendance there the following Monday, having passed a most “creditable
examination,” the principal informed her.

When she was advised of this pleasant change in her life, she thanked
Mrs. Richards in a few well-chosen words for consenting to it; but the
irate woman shut her up instantly by saying:

“You owe me nothing, and I wish the subject never mentioned again in my
presence. You will assist about the chamber-work in the morning before
it is time for you to go to school, and help Mrs. Blunt with the mending
on your return in the afternoon. Miss Baker will attend to the provision
of suitable clothing for you, and you will work with her Saturdays. Now
we will consider this matter disposed of until such time as you may deem
your education finished;” and with this heartless speech, Star was
summarily dismissed from the august matron’s presence.

She was greatly rejoiced with even this ungracious permission to pursue
her studies, and the hours spent in the school-room were a source of
great delight to her; but her position at home was anything but
agreeable.

Mr. Richards treated her kindly whenever he chanced to meet her, but his
wife and daughter ignored her presence when they could do so; when they
could not, they took pains to make her feel her obligations and
dependence in the most uncomfortable manner.

With Mrs. Blunt she was comparatively happy, for the woman, though
brusque and peculiar, was very kind-hearted, seeming to have conceived a
great liking for the lonely orphan; and often she would sit up late at
night to get the piles of mending out of the way, in order that Star—who
was studying very hard to make up for having entered school in the
middle of a term—might have more time to herself.

Miss Baker, the seamstress, too, was very kind to her, and her Saturdays
were often passed very pleasantly in sewing and chatting in the cozy
sewing-room.

She left home at a quarter to nine in the morning, and did not return
until half-past four in the afternoon, taking a luncheon and spending
the nooning in the school-room.

This was not done on account of the distance, but because the dinner
hour at the Richards’ mansion conflicted with the school hours.

By staying at noon thus Star gained an hour’s practice on one of the
pianos, with no one to interrupt her, and this was a season of unalloyed
delight to her. Nothing had been said to her about continuing her
music—Mrs. Richards had vetoed all accomplishments on account of the
extra expense—but she could not give it up, so pursued a course of
faithful practice by herself.

Not a moment was wasted. She arose with the dawn, and every morning for
an hour she might have been seen bending over her small table, busily
engaged in writing or study.

All her duties were faithfully performed; beds had never been so well
made before, rooms were never so carefully swept and dusted, or so
tastefully arranged; and yet one would scarcely have mistrusted her
presence in the house, everything was done so quietly and unobtrusively.

This general exercise, together with her brisk walk before and after her
school, was very beneficial to her health. She grew tall, and round, and
rosy, and in beauty every day.

Saturdays Miss Baker’s weary face would brighten as Star sat and chatted
in a merry, entertaining way, whiling away the long hours, her busy
fingers often lightening her labors when there was no sewing to be done
for herself, until she began to love the sweet young girl with a deep,
warm affection, and to look forward to those weekly diversions almost as
if they had been angels’ visits.

Star was very tasteful also, and often suggested changes in trimming and
the arrangement of drapery, thus making great improvements in her work,
while, in spite of Mrs. Richards’ commands that “everything for Miss
Gladstone be as plain as respectability would allow,” she took pains to
fit the young girl’s figure with great nicety, and added many graceful
touches to her otherwise simple dresses.

All winter long Star pursued this busy life, improving every moment to
the best advantage, making every hour count; and one morning, getting
through her work earlier than usual, she might have been seen stealing
forth from that elegant mansion a half hour before the regular time, her
cheeks flushed with some inward excitement, her eyes gleaming, yet
somewhat anxious, and carrying in her hands a goodly sized package
neatly wrapped in brown paper.

She took an opposite direction from the usual route to school, and
walked hurriedly toward the business portion of the city.

At the end of twenty minutes she stopped before the door of a large and
handsome store, where for a moment she seemed to hesitate as if
uncertain what to do next.

At last, with fluctuating color and trembling hand, she turned the
handle and entered.

A little while passed, and then she came forth again, while now she
appeared pale and agitated.

As the door closed after her, she stood still for a moment upon the
sidewalk, seeming lost in troubled thought; then a tremulous sigh, which
was almost a sob, broke from her lips, and she turned and walked toward
her school.

                             CHAPTER VIII.
                             RETRENCHMENT.

Winter passed, spring came and went, and the commencement exercises of
the seminary where Star was attending drew nigh.

The faculty, as was their custom, sent forth cards of invitation to its
patrons, requesting them to be present and see for themselves what their
children had accomplished during the year.

It chanced this time to fall upon Star’s birthday, although no one was
aware of that fact save herself; but to her it was destined to prove an
eventful occasion, and one long to be remembered.

Mr. Richards received and opened his invitation with his other letters
on that very morning, and after glancing over it, passed it to his wife.

She merely looked at it, yawned, and then laid it indifferently one
side.

Mr. Richards compressed his lips at this. It did not please him that all
the young girl’s interests should be thus slightingly ignored; but he
said nothing, although his thoughts were busy during the remainder of
the meal, and as soon as it was completed he repaired to his library and
rang his bell.

“Send Miss Gladstone to me,” he said to the servant who answered his
summons.

Star received the command, wondering what it meant, and went down, with
some trepidation, to obey it.

She was almost like an alien in that house, living so apart from the
family, and so rarely encountering any of them; but she possessed a
sunny, even disposition, and although she often grieved over the neglect
she experienced, and yearned for love and sympathy, yet she would not
allow herself to brood over it; thus she was always sweet and genial in
her temperament.

As she entered the library this morning, Mr. Richards looked up and
smiled with pleasure.

She was so fresh, and bright, and lovely that it was a delight to look
upon her.

“I have received a card for the closing exercises of your school
to-day,” he said, pleasantly. “I think I should like to attend, if I can
make it convenient. How have you been progressing?”

“Professor Roberts has been kind enough to say that I have done very
well. You know I did not enter until nearly the middle of the second
term,” Star modestly replied, while her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone
with pleasure that he should manifest this interest in her welfare.

“Do you have any particular part in the exercises to-day?” he
questioned.

“Yes, sir. I have a programme here in my pocket; perhaps you would like
to see it?” and she drew it forth, laying it upon the table before him.

He glanced over it, and, third upon the list, he saw:

“Music, instrumental, by Miss Stella Gladstone.”

Further down he read:

“Essay, by Miss Stella Gladstone. Subject: ‘Walls Must Get the
Weather-stain Before They Grow the Ivy.’”

He looked up at her with some surprise.

“Did you choose the subject of your essay?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did you take such a topic?”

“I do not know, sir,” Star answered, thoughtfully. “I read the line
somewhere one day; it haunted me continually, until I wrote out some
thoughts upon it, as I often do upon different subjects. Professor
Roberts found them between the leaves of my Horace one day, and liked
them so well that he asked me to elaborate and extend them, and read it
as an essay to-day. He always has two or three essays from members of
the junior class read upon commencement day.”

Mr. Richards had been looking her over critically while she was
speaking.

She was clad in a gown of some light gray material, made very plainly,
but fitting her graceful figure to perfection. Simple bands of linen
were just visible at her throat and wrists, while a knot of pale blue
ribbon fastened her collar.

She looked lovely. She would have been so in anything; but he saw that
her toilet was hardly befitting the ward of his wife.

“Girls for commencement always have a new dress, don’t they?” he asked.
“Have you made any arrangements of the kind?”

“No, sir; I shall go just as I am. This is the best that I have,” she
returned, glancing down at her dress and flushing slightly.

“How much time have you before the exercises begin?” he inquired.

“An hour or more,” she said, looking up at the clock on the mantel. “I
am ready very early,” she added, smiling, “for I wished to look over my
essay before reading it.”

Mr. Richards looked grave. He remembered how Josephine had been all
“fuss and feathers” at every commencement, and here this lovely girl was
going to appear before a crowded hall in a dress which his daughter
would not have worn in her own private room.

“If you will step around to Hunt & Co.’s with me, you shall have one of
those pretty summer silks that they are advertising so extensively. I
should be gratified to have you as well dressed as your classmates, and
I fear that your needs have been neglected in this respect,” he
remarked, with a slight frown.

Star flushed scarlet now.

She had wished—oh, _so_ earnestly!—that morning that she could have
something dainty to wear, and she had sighed regretfully as she thought
of all her pretty clothes lying at the bottom of the ocean, for they had
been prettily made, although they were of inexpensive material; and she
had heard the girls talking of the new dresses which were being made for
them. But when her toilet was completed and she looked in the glass, she
felt that, notwithstanding the disadvantage of her apparel, there was at
least a distinguished air about her which bespoke the true lady, and she
was comforted.

“Thank you,” she answered, quietly, while the color slowly receded from
her brow and cheeks; “you are very kind to suggest it, but, if you
please, I prefer to go as I am. I shall be gratified,” she added,
dropping the proud ring out of her voice, “if you feel sufficiently
interested to attend the exercises to-day, and I will endeavor to show
you that I have tried to improve the advantages that you have given me.”

“I should be willing to take your word for it,” Mr. Richards said,
heartily, “but I will come and see for myself.”

Star looked pleased at this assurance, and then, giving him a friendly
little bow and smile, went away with a light heart.

“By George! she’ll make a woman to be proud of, or—or ‘I’m much
mistaken,’ as Mrs. Blunt would remark. She has spirit, too, and is bound
to stand on her own merits. There are not many girls who would have
refused the offer of a pretty new dress for such an occasion. I’ll go
over to the seminary and see what she has been doing.”

When Mr. Richards entered the hall of the seminary, he found it crowded
to overflowing with spectators, anxious friends, and fond parents.

He gradually worked his way forward toward the platform, for he was
determined to hear Star’s essay, if possible, and finally took his stand
beside a piece of statuary and near an open window, where he could have
air and yet command a good view of all the exercises.

Almost at the same moment a slight, willowy figure, clad in light gray,
with a fair, delicate face, deep blue eyes, scarlet lips, and a wealth
of golden hair, glided noiselessly to the piano on the platform, sat
down, and after running her fingers nimbly over the keys for a moment or
two, dashed off into a brilliant and difficult sonata.

It was executed apparently without a mistake from beginning to end, and
without notes, and when it was finished the fair performer retired from
the instrument amid enthusiastic applause.

Mr. Richards was astounded.

He had expected some simple melody, passably performed. She had told
him, in her modest way, that she had given some attention to music, but
he had not imagined that she was as proficient as this, and he could not
understand how she had kept up her practice, with no instruction, and no