course, she must have taken the valedictory; but she has acquitted
herself grandly in the French essay, which she composed and translated
herself.”

“She has, indeed. I never heard purer French spoken, even in Paris. Does
she live in the city?”

“I believe so, although I do not know where. She comes and goes very
quietly, and her clothing indicates that her friends, whoever they may
be, are in limited circumstances. She appears to have no intimates, and
yet she is a favorite with all. There must be some sorrowful story
connected with her life, I think, for there is a haunting sadness in her
eyes whenever they meet yours, except when she smiles or becomes
animated in conversation; then she is charming.”

“I should like to know her,” said the first speaker, musingly; but
President Hunter here arose to distribute the diplomas, and she gave her
attention to his remarks, although her glance frequently sought the
lovely face which had so attracted her attention.

The subject of the above conversation, although unconscious of it, was
none the less worthy of it.

After leaving Jacob Rosevelt on the night of her exciting interview with
Mrs. Richards, she sped swiftly back to her room, where she gathered
together a few articles of clothing and packed them into a small valise;
her school-books also, with her portfolio and the small box which had so
aroused Josephine’s curiosity that day when she went to steal Star’s
lovely cameo.

These preparations ended, she retired to rest.

She awoke long before daylight, and dressing herself in a dark street
dress, she sat down by the window to wait for the dawn.

She penned that little note to Mrs. Blunt the last thing before leaving
the house. The woman had been so kind to her that she could not find it
in her heart to go away without a single word of farewell; to the others
she gave not a thought.

As soon as it was light enough, she stole softly down stairs and out at
the front door, as it was nearer, and, besides, some of the servants
might be up if she went out the back way, and turned her back forever
upon the house in which she had only been “tolerated.”

When she reached the lodge, she found Mr. Rosevelt waiting for her on
the vine-covered porch.

He smiled a silent good-morning, motioning her not to speak, with a
gesture which told her that John Mellen’s wife was not far off; and
together they went out from the grounds by a side gate and proceeded
toward the station.

They were in time for the early morning train, and reached New York long
before the household which they had left behind were aware of their
flight.

“We will go to some quiet street and board for a few days,” Mr. Rosevelt
said, as they sat down in the waiting-room of the station to consult
upon what was best to be done. “You must not lose a day of school if you
can help it. I know just the place for us, I think, where there is a
good, motherly soul of a landlady. Perhaps she will know of some rooms
which we can obtain at a reasonable price until you graduate, and then,
perhaps, you may not care to remain in New York.”

Star assented to this plan, and they repaired to the boarding-place
which Mr. Rosevelt had mentioned, and found the “good, motherly soul”
very willing to take them in.

After partaking of a simple but wholesome breakfast, Star went at once
to Brooklyn, and had an interview with Professor Roberts, as we already
know.

She told him just as little as was possible, but said that circumstances
obliged her to make a change, although she had not yet decided where she
should pursue her education.

She was surprised at the recommendation which he gave her, for it was
indeed the very best that he could put into words, and she felt very sad
when he shook her cordially by the hand and expressed his regret at
being obliged to part with her.

On her way back to New York she decided, if she could pass the
examination, she would enter the Normal College, believing that among
the multitude who attended there she would escape observation more
easily than in a smaller school.

She went immediately to the corner of Sixty-ninth street and Fourth
avenue, had an interview with the president, who consented to give her a
private examination; but the curriculum was a little different from that
of Professor Roberts’ seminary, and she was not quite up to the standard
in some of its branches, and being unwilling to go back into another
grade, she was admitted to the senior class, “upon conditions.”

She was not long in showing him, however, that such a stipulation was
wholly unnecessary.

She gave up all thoughts of music for the present, and bent all her
energies to her studies, and soon not one of the forty who were to
graduate gave promise of a more brilliant ending to her career as a
scholar than she who had been admitted “upon conditions.”

Meantime Mr. Rosevelt had found three furnished rooms in a cheap but
respectable locality, where they took up their abode, the woman, who
owned and lived in the house, agreeing to furnish their meals and act as
sort of housekeeper general for a reasonable amount.

Mr. Rosevelt would not hear a word to any other arrangement, although
Star declared she could do a portion of the work herself.

“No; you shall do nothing of the kind. You will have all you can attend
to to keep up with your classes,” he said.

“But it will cost so much, Uncle Jacob,” Star answered, ruefully, for
she found that her poor hundred pounds was melting rapidly away—at
least, it would do so if they paid for having all their work done. Mr.
Rosevelt smiled.

“My dear,” he said, though somewhat sadly, she thought, “you did not
suppose I was going to allow you to assume the burden of my whole
support, did you? I never should have consented to come away with you in
that case. I am not quite penniless, and what I can afford to pay toward
our support will at least relieve you of all necessity of laboring as a
household drudge.”

They were as cozy as they could well be with their simple yet home-like
little parlor, and two bedrooms leading out of it, and with their meals
served to them there, it was very much like a home of their own.

“It is just as nice as can be, and I am happy as a queen,” Star
declared, over and over again; but he often looked troubled when he saw
how thin her cheeks were growing, noticed her oft-repeated but quickly
suppressed sighs, and that “haunting sadness” in her eyes.

They lived in a very quiet way, never going out except for a quiet walk
or to the little church near by on Sunday, and never met or heard
anything of Mr. Richards or his family.

Star had read that advertisement relating to herself, and it had caused
her bitter pain, for it brought all her suffering so freshly to her
mind; but she had not the least faith that Lord Carrol could say
anything which could justify himself in her mind. She felt that he only
desired to cheat her still further with honeyed words, and so paid no
heed to it.

Mr. Rosevelt also saw it, and wondered if she had read it; but she gave
no sign, and he never mentioned that name to her; it was a topic which
they avoided by tacit consent.

Once during the year, when speaking of what she should do as soon as she
graduated, she said that she had decided to apply for a situation as
teacher in the city; she had concluded to remain in America instead of
returning to England, as she had at first planned to do.

He did not ask her why; he understood what she meant—she wished the sea
to roll between her and the man who had so ruined her life; and perhaps,
he thought, with a very tender feeling in his heart, she wanted to stay
with him.

Thus the year sped round, and brought with its revolution another
commencement day for Star.

“Uncle Jacob, you are coming to-day to see me graduate, are you not?”
she asked that morning, as she poured his coffee for him, and looking up
into his face with more eagerness than he had seen her manifest since
her trouble.

“Of course I shall; I would not miss it for anything. Then you have
really passed your final examination, and are going to receive your
diploma?” he said, bending a look of pride on her.

“Indeed I have. You did not suppose I should _fail_, did you, if I
really set about it?” she asked, with a little accent of scorn on the
disagreeable word.

“I did not know, dear. I was confident that you would do your best; but
you told me you were only received upon conditions, and I sometimes
feared the work might be too hard for you.”

“I should not have begged to be allowed to enter the senior class if I
had not felt confident that I could do justice to myself,” Star
answered, quietly, as she buttered her roll. “I considered the matter
thoroughly before I applied. I had already read almost as far in Latin
as the whole course demanded, and my French, thanks to papa’s care, was
nearly equal in pronunciation to monsieur’s own. The review of some of
the studies of the junior class, with which I was not familiar, and the
training for teaching, were all that was very hard for me.”

She spoke lightly, but he well knew that she had labored unremittingly
upon those reviews, and that she had spent many extra hours with one of
the “critic” teachers, who had kindly offered to assist her, in order
that she might be up to the mark in the practice of “model
school-teaching.”

Thus she had persevered and overcome every obstacle until the goal was
reached, and to-day she would receive her diploma.

And so Uncle Jacob had gone to the great chapel with other interested
friends, and watched the dear girl with glistening eyes while she so
creditably performed the part assigned to her, feeling that she was an
honor to her class, and in his eyes, at least, the gem of them all.

That evening there was to be a grand reunion in a commodious hall near
by, where graduates of previous years were to meet the senior class of
to-day, to offer their congratulations on their success and their good
wishes for their future career.

Star had no fine clothes in which to make a show of herself, and was
obliged to go clad in the same simple lace bunting that she had worn
during the day; but she gave herself an air of elegance by substituting
some bright flowers for the knots of blue ribbon, and excitement lending
a rich color to her cheeks and light to her eyes, no one thought of
criticising her garments.

Jacob Rosevelt, too, dressed in a full new suit of handsome broadcloth,
with a satin neck-tie and light kid gloves, did not look much like the
bent, shabby old man who had arrived, dusty and travel-stained, at Mr.
Richards’ mansion a little less than a year ago.

“Where _did_ you get it, Uncle Jacob?” Star exclaimed, as he came forth
from his chamber and asked her if she thought he’d do.

He smiled mysteriously, then said:

“I told you that I was not quite a beggar, dear, when I left my niece
Ellen’s inhospitable roof, and so I’ve been saving up for this occasion,
in order that I might do honor to you.”

“You are just as fine as you can be,” Star said, delightedly, as she
went round and round him to examine the material and fashion of his new
garments, “and I do not believe any one will be more proud of her escort
to-night than I shall be; and yet,” she thought, “Uncle Jacob must have
been _very saving_ indeed to have been able to buy such an expensive
suit.”

His eyes glowed with pleasure at her words; but when they entered the
brilliantly lighted hall, and he saw the elegant toilets of some of the
young ladies, he could not help regarding her with something of regret,
although very many admiring eyes were fixed upon the arm of the stately,
gray-haired gentleman, as they went forward to pay their respects to
President Hunter and his corps of assistants.

“Miss Gladstone, I have a friend who desires to be presented to you,”
said one of Star’s teachers, seeking her out later in the evening.

She led her toward a lady who was standing a little apart from them, and
who appeared to be three or four years Star’s senior, and introduced her
as Miss Meredith.

It was the visitor who had inquired so particularly regarding our
heroine during the graduating exercises.

She was drawn toward her at once, and they were soon chatting as
sociably as if they had been acquaintances of long standing.

While thus engaged, a gentleman approached them, greeting both young
ladies in the most cordial manner.

“I was hoping that you two would meet to-night,” he said, bestowing a
smiling face upon them both. “Miss Meredith is a graduate of two years
ago, Miss Gladstone, and I am sure you will find her a congenial
spirit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Appleton,” Miss Meredith responded, brightly; “but you
should have put it the other way, for I have been very impatient to meet
Miss Gladstone. I singled her out from her class to-day, and felt sure
that we should be _en rapport_, as the spiritualists say, if we could
only become acquainted.”

“Well, I think it does not matter much which way you put it, now that
you know each other,” the gentleman returned, smiling; then turning to
Star, he added:

“So, my young friend, you have really ‘run the race, and finished the
course;’ and now do you remember the promise which you made me several
months ago?”

Star flushed vividly at this question.

“Did I make you a promise, Mr. Appleton?” she asked, evasively, adding,
with an arch glance: “I thought it was _you_ who made _me_ a promise.”

He laughed and shook his finger at her.

“You said that on your eighteenth birthday I might reveal a secret.”

“And you _promised_ you would _not_ reveal it until I was eighteen,” she
retorted, brightly, although the color deepened in her cheeks as she
continued: “I am not eighteen yet, Mr. Appleton.”

“No, but you will be to-morrow. You see I have not forgotten the date.
Now, let me take time by the forelock a little, and whisper to Miss
Meredith _who_ the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride’ is. She has been on
the _qui vive_ to know ever since the book was published,” Mr. Appleton
said, bending a roguish look upon Star, who now stood with drooping eyes
and appearing somewhat confused.

“Oh, do you know? Is it some friend of yours, Miss Gladstone?” Miss
Meredith said, eagerly, to her. “I think it is so tantalizing not to
know the name of the author of a book,” she went on, “particularly if it
is one you happen to like very much; and here this provoking man who
published this one only put a great star where he should have printed
the author’s name. Do tell me, please, Miss Gladstone; I am, indeed, all
curiosity.”

Then remarking Star’s embarrassment, she looked from her to Mr.
Appleton, questioningly.

“Is it?” she went on, excitedly, as he smiled and glanced at the fair
girl. “Can it be possible that it is Miss Gladstone herself? I believe
it is,” she said, with sparkling eyes, as she seized Star’s hands; “and
oh! what can I say to you? It is a charming little book, and I have
enjoyed it more than I can tell you. There! let me shake the hand that
wrote it, and if I had a laurel wreath here I would put it on this
golden head and make you wear it the remainder of the evening.”

And she squeezed and shook that small, white, gloved hand until Star
laughingly begged for mercy.

“See what you have subjected me to,” she said, with a half-reproachful
look at Mr. Appleton.

“You might just as well make the best of it, my modest little friend,”
that gentleman replied, laughing. “I have kept silence for a year under
the most trying circumstances, for I have been unmercifully besieged to
tell who the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride’ is, and I could not stand
the fire any longer. My time is too valuable to be spent in any such
way; and I came here to-night not only to congratulate you upon your
graduation, but also to introduce my fair young author to my friends.
Yes, Miss Meredith, Miss Stella Gladstone is the author of ‘Chatsworth’s
Pride.’”

“Miss _Stella_ Gladstone?” Miss Meredith repeated.

“Yes; and, you perceive, I was not far from giving the name after all. I
was obliged to ‘make her mark,’ since I could not write her name,”
returned Mr. Appleton, jocosely.

“Ah, yes, I see. Stella means a star; and certainly,” Miss Meredith
said, turning to her new acquaintance again, “you bid fair to shine like
one.”

                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                         AN INTERESTING STORY.

Jacob Rosevelt stood not far away during the conversation between Mr.
Appleton, Miss Meredith, and Star, and a proud light beamed in his eyes
as he listened to their praises of the girl whom he had learned to love
so well.

But it was nothing new to him that Star was an authoress; he had known
it for nearly a year.

That was the secret that she had whispered in his ear when, after Mrs.
Richards’ terrible accusations, they had been left alone and she had
begged him to go away with her to make a little home of their own,
telling him that what she should receive for her book, together with her
hundred pounds, would be ample for their support until she could
graduate and obtain a position as a teacher.

She had written it that first winter; for after Mr. Richards had vetoed
his wife’s plan of making her a servant, and insisted that she should be
sent to school, there had been many lonely hours which would have been
very irksome to her if she had not spent them in this way.

Her studies that winter were not hard; she had no associates to help her
pass the time pleasantly, and so her heart had overflowed in this way,
and she had penned the charming little romance which had at once set
everybody to wondering who the author might be.

This was the package with which she had stolen forth so early one
morning, taking it with fear and trembling, yet with something of hope,
to the great publisher.

When she was shown into his office and made known her errand there, he
looked at her in wonder, astonished at the temerity of one so young and
simple as she appeared to be in bringing her manuscript to him and
asking him to publish it.

But the deferential yet winning way in which she made her appeal, and
the influence of her loveliness, won a reluctant promise on his part “to
look it over.”

He did so, opening the neatly folded package with an amused smile, and
expecting after a casual glance at its contents to be nauseated with
some sickly sentimental love-story.

But he became strangely interested in it at once, and read on and on,
now with smiles, then melting into tears, until it was finished, and
pronounced a “little gem;” while he was convinced that a sensitive,
refined, and talented girl had thrown her heart, and perhaps something
of her own life, into those touching pages.

He sent a note to her at once, asking her to come and see him again, and
when she obeyed the summons, he questioned her about herself, how she
had come to write her book, and what incidents had suggested it.

She told him that the scene of her little romance was laid in
Derbyshire, England, and that many of the incidents were connected with
her childhood; and the tears sprang to his eyes as she related to him
something of the misfortune which overtook her in the death of her
mother, the subsequent loss of her father, and how she was obliged to
come, a stranger, to this country; of the tempestuous voyage across the
ocean, with its thrilling events, and that as soon as she could complete
her education she intended to become a teacher.

He was greatly interested in her, and told her that he should publish
her book, and if the first edition sold well, she should have a thousand
dollars, and a certain per cent. on all other editions.

It seemed like a fortune to Star, who had not thought of receiving
anything like such a sum, and she went back to her duties with a joyful
heart to await the issue of her book.

Mr. Appleton was so pleased with her that he saw her often after that,
and having received a card from her for the commencement exercises of
Professor Roberts’ seminary, he decided he would go; and the little
package which he had given her in the presence of Mr. Richards was a
copy of her book, which had just come to him from the hands of the
binders; and it was he, too, who, admiring her fine essay, begged it of
her and sent it, with those few flattering remarks which had so annoyed
Josephine, to the next morning’s papers.

Star had put no name to her work, telling Mr. Appleton that she did not
care to be known as its author; and he, too, thought it best, since it
was her first experience in literary matters; so, when she had told him
that her name was Stella, he had put a simple Star in place of it.

But the book had sold beyond even the publisher’s most sanguine
expectations, and when it became evident very soon that a second edition
must be published, he asked her to allow him to put her name to it, as
everybody was besieging him to know who wrote it.

But she was firm, and insisted upon having his promise that he would not
betray her until after her graduation and her eighteenth birthday.

When he wrote her a check for the promised thousand dollars, she had
taken it directly to Mr. Rosevelt.

“Now we need have no fears for the future,” she said, with a proud
smile, as she put it into his hand. “You must have every comfort, Uncle
Jacob—fruits, and wines, and everything nice, to make you strong and
well. There will be more coming, you know, as the other editions are
sold, and when I begin to teach I shall have my salary besides.”

The old gentleman was deeply touched by her thoughtfulness for him; he
could not speak for the choking sensation in his throat, but drew her
gently to him and kissed her fair forehead, feeling that she was the
only gleam of sunshine which his life contained.

Now, as he stood by and heard her praises sung, and knew that she would
have the fame that belonged to her, he exulted over it; and when, a
little later, she came to him and slipped an envelope into his hand,
saying: “It is another check, Uncle Jacob, which Mr. Appleton has just
given to me. Please take care of it, for you are my banker, you know;
and,” a tear starting to her glorious eyes, “I believe I never expected
to be so happy again as I am to-night,” he thought his own cup of joy
was nearly as full as hers.

She was, indeed, a star after that all through the evening, and held a
right royal little court, receiving and making the acquaintance of the
admirers of “Chatsworth’s Pride,” until she became so weary that she
longed to get home to quiet and rest.

As soon as she could find an opportunity to do so, she drew Mr. Rosevelt
to President Hunter and made her adieu.

Just as she was turning away, some one touched her on the arm.

“Miss Gladstone, allow me to present my brother, Mr. Ralph Meredith.”

It was Miss Meredith—Grace Meredith she had told Star she was called—who
spoke, and looking up, she found a pair of brilliant dark eyes looking
into hers, a handsome face smiling down upon her, while a musical voice
acknowledged the introduction with evident pleasure.

“I expect you are _the ‘star’_ whom I have been wishing to know for a
long time,” he said, significantly, as he took the hand she held out to
him, and thought he had never seen a lovelier face in his life.

Star thanked him with a charming smile for his interest in her, and
introduced him to Mr. Rosevelt; then turned to Miss Meredith to escape
from the praises which she saw he was longing to pour into her ears.

The young man was somewhat chagrined at being thus summarily disposed
of, but he was too polite and good-natured to betray it, and did his
best to make himself agreeable to the old gentleman and win his
good-will.

Gradually, however, he managed to attract the attention of the young
ladies, and then the conversation became general, and they chatted
pleasantly for several minutes, until, at a look from Star, Mr. Rosevelt
declared they must go, “for he was not used to late hours, and Star, he
knew, was nearly worn out with the excitement of the day.”

Mr. Meredith regretted that they must leave, but begged, with his most
captivating smile:

“May I have the pleasure, Miss Gladstone, of coming with my sister to
call upon you?”

“Certainly,” Star answered, graciously, for she was pleased with both
brother and sister. “I shall be very happy to have you do so. We live——”

“Wait a minute, Star, and I will write our address down for them. It is
so difficult to remember numbers, I am afraid they will forget;” and
taking a leaf from a small notebook that was in his pocket, Mr. Rosevelt
wrote both street and number and passed it to young Meredith.

Star thought he looked surprised as he read it. Was it because of the
humble locality? she wondered.

They then exchanged good-nights and parted. When they reached the
street, Mr. Rosevelt said:

“I am going to call a carriage, dear, for I know you are just ready to
drop from weariness;” and Star did not object, for she was indeed
exceedingly tired.

When they reached home she insisted upon making a cup of tea for Uncle
Jacob, saying that he was not accustomed to such late hours and
dissipation; “and besides,” she added, with a smile, “she felt like
having a drop herself.”

But the old gentleman was so absent-minded over his tea, that she felt
almost guilty for having kept him up so late, and feared he would be ill
to-morrow.

She put away the tea things when they were through, and was about to
light her lamp to retire, when he stopped her, saying:

“Star, my dear, come and sit down upon this ottoman by me; I have
something I wish to say to you.”

She obeyed, wondering what had happened to make him look and speak so
gravely.

“Are you _really happy_ to-night, my child?” he asked, tenderly.

A startled look came into the girl’s eyes at this question, and her
heart leaped with sudden pain as her thoughts went bounding over the sea
to one to whom she had given the first grand passion of her soul.

“Uncle Jacob,” she answered, gravely, though he could see the quiver
about her lips, which she tried in vain to repress, “I am happier than I
ever expected to be again. It is useless to regret or mourn over the
past. I have tried to be sensible over it, but sometimes, I am afraid, I
have not succeeded very well,” she said, with a smile that was a trifle
bitter. “If,” she added, more brightly, a moment after, “that _one
episode_ could have been left out of my life, I believe there would be
nothing to mar it now.”

“I would that it could have been so,” Mr. Rosevelt sighed. “But I want
you to listen to me for a little while. I know it is late, and you ought
to go to rest, but I particularly wish to tell you a short story of my
life to-night. It is a page which has been turned from sight for many
years, and no one has ever read it save myself. You are about entering
upon a new era in _your_ life. I have learned to love you very tenderly,
my child, and I want to bind you yet closer to me.”

“Why, Uncle Jacob, you do not think I have any idea of going away from
you, I hope,” Star said, in surprise.

“No, for I have grown to feel that you belong to me. I want you to think
so, too, and I am going to tell you why. Fate—or Providence, I suppose,
_you_ would say—has thrown us together in a strange way, considering all
things. Do you remember telling me, on board that ill-fated steamer,
that your name was Star Rosevelt Gladstone, and how surprised you were
when you learned that my last name was the same as your middle one?”

“Yes, sir; and I still think it a strange coincidence,” Star answered.

“Perhaps you will be more surprised when I tell you that you were named
_for_ me.”

Star looked up astonished at him.

“How can that be possible?” she asked.

“In this way,” Mr. Rosevelt returned, a shade of pain crossing his face.
“When your grandmother, Stella Winthrop—that was her name before her
marriage, was it not?”

“Yes; and that is all I know about her, Uncle Jacob,” Star answered,
with a troubled look. “Papa never said much about his friends. Indeed,
he did not appear to have any relatives, and never would allow me to
question him about them. Once I said something to him about my name, and
he remarked: ‘Your grandmother once told me that if ever I had a little
girl of my own, she would like me to call her Stella Rosevelt, and that
is how you came by it.’

“‘Where is my grandmother, papa?’ I asked.

“‘She is dead,’ he said, and immediately left the room, looking so pale
and miserable that I never dared ask him anything more about her.”

“It seems strange that _I_ should be the one to tell you about her,” Mr.
Rosevelt said, thoughtfully, “and I am puzzled to know why he should
have been so reticent. Did your father ever have any trouble with his
family?”

“Not that I know of; and yet,” Star said, flushing, “there _was_ some
trouble about his marriage with mamma, though that seems to have been on
the part of her family rather than his. Mrs. Richards once twitted me
about mamma—who was a sort of cousin to her—having married beneath her.”

“I do not see how that could have been, for the Mr. Gladstone who
married Stella Winthrop was a very wealthy and important man in the
county of Devonshire—at least, I was told so—and if your father was his
son, he might have married almost any one he chose, and have conferred
an honor in so doing. But this is not telling you my story.

“When Stella Winthrop was of your age, and I three or four years older,
we met at a large reception in London. That meeting was fatal to us
both, for we loved from that hour as true lovers ever love. For six
months the world was like Paradise to us, and then I was called away to
the far East on business for the firm with which I was connected. I am
an American, but most of my life has been spent abroad.

“If I was successful in my business undertaking, it was agreed that I
might claim my bride when I returned at the end of two years. The vessel
on which I sailed was wrecked—I have had more than one such experience
you see, my dear—and it was reported that every passenger on board was
lost, while only a very few of the crew lived to tell the story of the
disaster. But I was fortunate enough to secure a large cask, and with
this I managed to keep afloat for two days, when I was picked up by a
sailing-vessel bound for the Philippine Islands.

“My first work upon reaching land was to write to Stella and tell her of
my safety; but my letter never reached her. I also notified the firm
that I was all right, and should proceed directly about the business
upon which I had been sent, but they knew nothing of my connection with
Miss Winthrop, and accordingly did not communicate with her. I kept
writing at intervals to my beloved, but never heard anything in return.
At last, in despair, I wrote to the firm, telling them of my engagement,
and asking them to notify her of my safety and give her my address in
case she should have happened to lose the one I had given her. In reply,
they said that the Winthrop family had gone abroad for an indefinite
stay. Of course this was a great trial to me, and I was exceedingly
impatient; but my two years were over at last, and I turned my face
toward England once more. I had succeeded in my business beyond my most
sanguine expectations, and I looked forward to the immediate fulfillment
of my hopes when I should return.

“My first duty on reaching London was to acquaint my employers with the
result of my transactions, and my next thought was for Stella—my bright
Star. Never for an instant had I doubted her fidelity; I believed she
would be as true to me as I was to her, and my heart beat high with hope
as I bounded up the familiar steps leading to her home and rang the
bell. I asked for Miss Winthrop of the maid who answered my summons, and
she stared at me as if she thought me demented.

“‘Miss Winthrop?’ she repeated. ‘There is no Miss Winthrop, sir; she was
married and went away nearly a year ago.’

“‘Married!’ The word was like a thunderbolt to me, and in an instant all
the light went out of my life—my heart was paralyzed. I staggered from
the place, and hid myself from every one for a week. Then I gained
something of calmness and courage to go out among my friends and try to
learn how it happened that Stella Winthrop had married. As I told you
before, it was reported that every passenger on the vessel in which I
sailed was lost. Those of the crew who were saved affirmed that such was
the case, and my betrothed had believed that I was dead.

“She grieved herself almost to death over my loss, and her parents,
fearing they would lose her also, took her abroad and traveled for many
months. It was during this absence that the firm received my letter
relating to her, but were unable to learn her address, as she was moving
from point to point, and so could not communicate with her.

“Six months after learning my fate, she met Mr. Gladstone in Paris. He
fell in love with her, and offered himself to her. He was a gentleman in
every sense of the word, was kind and sympathetic, and she liked him as
a friend. She told him the story of her grief, and that she could never
marry. He did not sneer at her ‘girlish folly,’ as many would have done,
but comforted her, speaking so kindly and regretfully of me that he won
even a warmer place in her heart. He was patient with her, and when at
length a second time he asked her to marry him, she told him that she
could never love him as she had loved me, but if he could be content to
take her with what respect she could give him, and the duty she would
strive to yield him, she would become his wife. He told her he would be
content, and they were married—a year and three months after I sailed on
the fatal voyage.

“They traveled several months longer, and when at length on their return
to London, only three or four months before I arrived there, she learned
that I had not perished, but was soon expected back, the shock nearly
killed her a second time. Her husband was all kindness and attention,
took her immediately away again, and showered everything that wealth
could buy upon her; and after a time children were born to her, and
those new ties aroused her to her sense of duty as a mother. I never saw
her, for I had not courage to look upon her dear face, knowing that she
was the wife of another; for I never ceased to love her, with an
affection that amounted to idolatry. They told me that she had two
children—two noble boys, one of them resembling her, the other his
father—that she was a tender, faithful mother, and very much beloved by
every one who knew her.

“That was forty years ago, Star, and for thirty I have not heard one
word concerning either her or her family; but I have lived my life out
alone; I could never take any one to my broken heart; and perhaps, if
your belief is true, my child, and I can ever be made clearly to see it,
I may find my lost love somewhere in the great future; but I do not need
to tell you that my past has been one long season of longing and regret,
of sadness and loneliness.”

His voice broke, his lips quivered painfully, and it seemed for a moment
as if he must break down utterly.

Star softly slipped one of her small hands into his, and the sympathetic
little act comforted him greatly. His closed over it in a strong, yet
tender clasp.

“You pity the old man’s weakness, don’t you, dear?” he said, with a sad
smile; “but it is not easy to open the secret chambers of one’s heart
when they have been closed for forty years.

“When I first saw you,” he continued, after a moment, “there was
something in your face that touched me—a light in your eye, a sheen on
your hair, that somehow smote a familiar chord in my heart. I watched
you, although you were not aware of it, and felt sorry for you during
that dreadful storm at sea; for your white face and great, startled eyes
appealed to me as nothing had done for many a year. But I would not
yield to it. I had shut my heart to every one; I had vowed that I would
never love any one again, and I mistrusted every one who sought to win
me to a better mood. But when that lurch of the boat threw you directly
into my arms, and you clung to me in such a helpless way, I could not
resist you, and some good angel prompted me to gather you close to me
and make you rest upon me. When you told me your name, the shock nearly
unmanned me—‘Star Rosevelt Gladstone,’ you said—and I knew as well as if
I had been told, that you were in some way connected with _my_ lost
Star, and I watched over you all the night through, feeling almost as if
some sweet spirit had been sent from her to me, to give me a little ray
of comfort at the end of my long, loveless life.

“When, the next morning, you told me that your grandmother had named
you, and that her name was Stella Winthrop, I had not a doubt; I felt
convinced that you must be the child of one of her sons. You thought it
merely a strange coincidence, but I knew better, and all my boasted
coldness and hardness melted away, and I began to love you then and
there. When that dreadful explosion occurred, and you urged me to save
myself, as ‘doubtless I had dear friends’ and ‘you had no one to love
you’—when you refused to leave me, and took up your station by my side
to die with me, as we both believed, I felt as if something of the
spirit of my lost love was shining through you. Then your tenderness
toward, and your care of me—your heroic self-denial and efforts to save
my life while we were helplessly afloat on the mighty ocean—your sweet
voice singing those hymns of faith and cheer, completed the conquest of
my hardened nature. I can never make you understand how disappointed I
was, on arriving in New York, to find you gone. I meant to tell you
something of myself, and learn your own destination, so that I might see
you once in awhile.

“But I never forgot you; and when I visited my nephew in the West, and
met only coldness and neglect, simply because of my misfortunes, I could
not help contrasting it with your kind attention to an entire stranger.

“I left those heartless people and came to my niece, and met with the
same reception, when before they had always fawned at my feet, flattered
and humored me as if I had been something more than common clay.

“I felt forsaken; no one loved me, no one wanted me; I was a burden and
incumbrance. But just then you appeared to me, and your heavenly
kindness made my poor old heart glow again. Still, I was so embittered
by finding my only brother’s children so heartless and selfish, that I
was not quite sure of you. It made me mistrust everybody, and I feared
you might grow to be like them. But for that I should not have remained
a day beneath Ellen Richards’ roof; I should have gone my own way again
as soon as I became rested and recruited. Do you remember how you came
to me the next morning after my arrival, and cheered me with your merry
chat and your thoughtful little gift? I said, ‘Surely this child must be
artless—she must be true;’ but I resolved to stay awhile and test and
study you, and you have been a blessing to me from the first. My dear, I
began to love you for my lost Star’s sake; now I love you for your own.
There, you have all my story now, and you must go to rest, for to-morrow
will be your birthday, and we must celebrate a little in honor of it,”
Mr. Rosevelt concluded, patting her softly on the shoulder.

Star lifted a flushed and tearful face to his.

“Uncle Jacob!” she cried, tenderly; “it seems as if you are _really_
that to me now; and I am so glad that you have told me how you have
loved my grandmother, and I shall try more than ever after this to make
your life as bright as possible. I do not see how any one could ever
have treated you unkindly or disrespectfully.”

Uncle Jacob smiled fondly at her.

“I know there is one at least who treats me kindly for my own sake, and
who would share all her laurels with me. My child, I was very proud of
you to-night.”

“And I of you,” Star added, quickly. “I never saw you look so nice—so
like an _aristocratic_ old gentleman.”

He laughed, such a bright, hearty laugh that she wondered to see him so
pleased over her little compliment.

“Now, good-night,” he said, rising; “I want you to be as fresh as
possible to-morrow.”

He led her to the door of her room, and then, with a softly breathed
“God bless you!” sought his own.

God bless you! Those words rang in Star’s ears. Was he beginning to
believe in her God, after all? She hoped so—she _prayed_ so.

But she did not go directly to bed, as he bade her; his story had
strangely stirred her heart, and she could not rest until she had
decided some questions that were troubling her.

She opened a drawer of her dressing-case, and taking that worn portfolio
to which we have before referred from it, unlocked it, and drew forth a
sealed package.

“Papa told me to wait until I was eighteen before I opened and read it,”
she said, musingly; “but a few hours can make no difference, and I feel
now as if I must know if he was _her_ son, and why he never would tell
me anything about his family.”

With reverent fingers she broke the seals, a sob rising to her lips as
she thought whose hand had fastened them there, and how tenderly it used
to stroke her hair and call her “My bright little Star.”

The package contained several papers, and it took her more than an hour
to examine them; but when she had read them through, there was a look of
wonder in her large blue eyes and an almost blank expression on her
white face.

                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                               WHAT NEXT?

Star Gladstone’s eighteenth birthday dawned as bright and charming as it
was possible for a morning to be. At eight o’clock she and Mr. Rosevelt
sat down to their breakfast, and a merry meal they made of it, for both
appeared in the best of spirits, in spite of the sad and exciting events
of the previous evening upon which they had conversed.

About nine a handsome carriage drove to their humble abode, and the
driver rang and asked for the “gentleman and lady who were going for a
drive in the park.”

Star looked surprised as she peered from the window and saw a pair of
sleek, coal-black horses, with their silver-mounted harnesses, and the
shining, velvet-lined coach.

“Uncle Jacob, did you order that carriage to come for us?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear,” he said, with an expression of satisfaction, as he, too,
looked out and saw the team. “It is not often that I ride, as you well
know, but when I do, I like to go in style. One ride a year in
‘ship-shape’ would satisfy me, where a half-dozen in some broken-down
hack wouldn’t give me a bit of pleasure. Now, put on your hat, and tuck
some roses in your belt, as you did yesterday, for this is to be a gala
day, and I want you as fine as possible.”

Star laughed and tripped away to obey, coming back after a few moments
with such a bright and happy face that Mr. Rosevelt thought she had
never looked so lovely before.

All the morning they drove, four long, delightful hours-hours that were
always a pleasant memory afterward to both of them; and many who saw the
nicely dressed old gentleman, with the fair, bright, golden-haired girl
beside him in their elegant carriage, thought what a green old age must
be his, with so much to make life pleasant.

About one o’clock they turned toward the city once more, and Star said,
with a sigh of pleasure:

“Uncle Jacob, I believe there never was such a perfect day before, and
I’m sure I never enjoyed a birthday more. You were very kind to plan
this pleasure for me.”

The old gentleman’s eyes twinkled. Her delight, her bright, animated
face were such a joy to him.

“If I had only been rich as I used to be, I should so like to have made
you some nice present to-day—a watch, for instance,” he said.

“You gave me something last night which I value far better—your
confidence,” Star said, softly. “I should like a watch,” she added,
after a moment, “and I mean to have one some time. When I have earned
it, you shall go and select it for me, if you will. But what have you
done with your own, Uncle Jacob? You had a very nice one when I first
met you, and I remember seeing it on you after the wreck.”

“Watches and I have not had much in common during the last two years,”
he answered, evasively; and she thought perhaps he had been obliged to
sell it since he became poor.

All at once the carriage stopped in a quiet street up town, which, Star
noticed, was lined on both sides with elegant brown-stone dwellings.

“What are we stopping here for?” she asked.

“A good woman whom I used to know lives here, and I thought, as we were
in gala attire to-day, I would like to stop and make a call,
and—introduce my Star to her,” Mr. Rosevelt said, preparing to alight.

He helped Star out, and together they went up the marble steps.

Mr. Rosevelt rang the bell, and then took a card from one of his
pockets, and, with an arch smile, said:

“It almost seems as if we were really fine people, doesn’t it, dressed
in our best, riding about in our carriage, and sending our cards in at a
brown-stone house?”

“Yes, indeed; and it would be such fun if we could keep it up for
awhile,” Star said, gayly. “But,” with a regretful little sigh, “like
Cinderella of old, I suppose we shall soon be aroused to the fact that
our coach and horses are gone, and find the stern realities of life
staring us in the face again.”

Mr. Rosevelt laughed.

“Would you like to be a fine lady, Star?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered, thoughtfully. “I believe I should like to
_try_ it for a little while, just to see how it would seem.”

There was not time for any more conversation, for the door was at this
moment opened by a neat-looking servant.

She appeared to recognize Mr. Rosevelt, for she greeted him with a
smile, and then her eyes wandered inquiringly to Star’s lovely face.

She invited them to enter, and conducted them into a handsome
drawing-room on the right of the hall, when, taking Mr. Rosevelt’s card,
she retired, leaving them alone.

“What a lovely room!” Star breathed, as her eyes roved about the
apartment, over the beautiful pictures, the bright, rich carpet, the
carved ebony furniture, upholstered in warm-hued satins, choice
bric-a-brac, and all those fine things which add so much to a place like
that. “Your friend must be a ‘fine lady,’ with plenty of money,” she
added.

Mr. Rosevelt merely nodded his head in reply, while he watched the door
with evident impatience.

It was soon slowly opened, and a familiar face appeared in the
aperture—a face all beaming with smiles of pleasure and good nature.

“Mrs. Blunt!” cried Star, in astonishment; and springing toward the
woman, she grasped both her hands warmly.

“Yes, Miss Star,” the woman returned, half laughing, half crying; “I
_am_ Mrs. Blunt, or I’m much mistaken, as I sometimes imagine I may be
when I get to thinking about everything, and how strange it has all
turned out. How well you’re looking, miss, and it does my old eyes a
wonderful sight of good to see your bright face again.”

Star thought her language somewhat ambiguous; but everything seemed
rather ambiguous just then.

“Do you live here?” she questioned.

“Yes, I live here; or——”

“Have you been in New York long? and why haven’t we seen you before? and
what are you laughing at?”

The young girl’s astonishment seemed to increase, for the woman appeared
strangely, and was shaking with suppressed laughter.

“I’m laughing because I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been in New York a
month, and haven’t been to see you because the last time I saw Mr.
Rosevelt he told me he was going to bring you to see me soon; so I’ve
been content to wait,” Mrs. Blunt explained.

Star wondered if the present occupant of that elegant place allowed her
housekeeper to entertain her friends in the drawing-room; if so, it was
surely a new departure, and not exactly in accordance with Mrs.
Richards’ ideas of the treatment of servants.

“Take off your hat, dearie,” Mrs. Blunt continued, “for I have a nice
little lunch waiting for you.”

“A lunch?” repeated Star, in amazement, and with a puzzled look at Mr.
Rosevelt, who was regarding her attentively.

“Yes; I had orders to get up the nicest lunch I could for my old
friends, and I’m much mistaken if I haven’t done it,” the woman replied,
with an air of satisfaction.

“You must have a very kind mistress,” the fair girl said, as she drew
off her gloves and removed her hat.

“I have, the best in the world,” the queer creature returned, with a
chuckle. “But come, I’ll show you the way to the dining-room.”

Mr. Rosevelt arose, and drawing Star’s hand within his arm, followed her
to a room on the opposite side of, and farther down the hall.

As she opened the door, Star saw a charming dining-room, furnished in
costly woods of different colors, its floor inlaid in an intricate and
lovely pattern.

In the center stood a table, covered with a heavy white damask cloth,
and spread with a glittering array of silver and cut glass, and where
also a most tempting repast was awaiting them.

Mr. Rosevelt led his wondering companion to one side of the table, and,
looking down upon her with the fondest look in the world, said, in a
voice which was not quite steady:

“Star, my dear, my pure-hearted, faithful little friend, I here formally
install you as _mistress of your own table and of your own home_. This
is to be your seat henceforth—mine opposite; and, my darling—for such
you have become to me—I trust you will be as happy as an old man’s love,
gratitude, and wealth can make you.”

Star had grown suddenly pale while he spoke, and regarded him with a
puzzled expression.

“I do not understand,” she said, clasping both her small hands around
his arm and leaning heavily upon him.

“I will tell you,” he answered, tenderly. “When you met me on board that
ill-fated steamer I was a very rich man. When it was wrecked, and I had
discovered that you were the grandchild of the only woman whom I ever
loved, and also what a kind, tender little heart you had, I formed a
sudden resolution. I had always, as I told you last night, been
flattered and cajoled by my relatives, who knew I was rich, and I
resolved that I would test their sincerity. If they stood it, I would
divide my fortune into three portions, one of which should be yours, the
others theirs. If they did not, it should _all_ be yours, if _you_
proved the true, noble character which I believed you to be. That was
one reason why I was so keenly disappointed to find you gone when I went
to bid you farewell on the steamer; but I meant to search for you all
the same. And so I pretended to be the poor old man whom you remember
coming to Ellen Richards’ that night. You know the result. No one was
true to me or kind to me but my Star. Yet I had become so suspicious of
everybody, that I resolved to study even you thoroughly before I
committed myself; and so I concluded to wait until you had completed
your education before telling you of my actual position in life. It was
very hard, though, when you were in such trouble that last night in
Yonkers, when you told me your secret about writing your book, and
offered to share your little all with me ‘because I was not happy
there,’ and I was sorely tempted to tell you all, surround you at once
with everything to make life beautiful, and place you in a position far
above the daughter of the woman who had treated you so shamefully. On
second thought, however, I deemed it best to wait until your education
should be completed, for then you would be more free to enjoy the good
things of life.”

“Then you have not been poor at all?” faltered Star, as he paused for a
moment.

“No; I have had abundance. I own this house, and have for years. I own a
block on Broadway, and—well, little one, there is enough to enable you
and me to do pretty much as we like for the remainder of our lives,” he
answered, with a fond smile.

“Then I cannot take care of you. I thought I was going to make _you_ so
comfortable, and that, with teaching and the income from my book, we
could have such nice times together,” Star said, wistfully, and hardly
able, even yet, to comprehend the change in her circumstances.

Mr. Rosevelt patted her softly on the shoulder, though a tear sprang to
his eyes at her words.

“No, dear,” he returned; “you cannot take care of me in that way. I am
going to take care of you; but you can still make me so comfortable. We
can still have nice times together, and I shall be very proud to
introduce the young authoress of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride’ as my _ward and
future heiress_.

“Bless you, child!” he continued, his fine face glowing with happiness;
“don’t you suppose it is going to be a comfort to me to try to make you
happy and give you everything you wish, after all your constancy,
patience, and self-denial for me? Don’t you suppose I enjoyed fitting up
this house for you after my tenant gave it up, some six months ago? And
don’t you believe, too, that Mrs. Blunt was glad to come and be
housekeeper for us?” and he turned kindly to the woman, who had been
standing in the background during these explanations.

“You may be sure I’m much mistaken if I wasn’t,” she returned, eagerly,
her eyes gleaming with delight, and her gratitude for the position
shining through her homely but good-natured face.

“And I am very glad, too. It is the nicest arrangement in the world,”
Star said, heartily; “and just to think,” glancing around the elegant
apartment with a sigh of supreme content, “that I am to be surrounded
with all this beauty! It is like a fairy tale, or a dream of
enchantment.”

“I _told_ you I had the best mistress in the world,” Mrs. Blunt said,
chuckling; “but we didn’t imagine anything like this, Miss Star, that
Sunday when we were stoning raisins and stemming currants.”

“No, indeed,” Star answered, laughing. “But you don’t mean to tell me
that you consider _me_ your mistress.”

“I never’d ask for a better,” the woman said, earnestly; then, turning
to Mr. Rosevelt, she resumed:

“And now, sir, won’t you please eat your lunch and tell the rest of the
story afterward, for everything will be spoiled waiting.”

“Yes, indeed—yes, indeed; to be sure we will. There, Miss Gladstone, sit
down by your tea-urn, and make me the best cup of tea that was ever
brewed, while I serve you to some of that tempting salad.”

He forced her gently into her chair, and going around to the opposite
side of the table, began to wait upon her in the most chivalrous manner.

“Ah! this is what I call comfort, dear,” he said, in a satisfied tone,
after Mrs. Blunt had withdrawn to see that the strawberries and cream
were properly served; “this is what I have been dreaming about for a
whole year; and now, after we have appeased our hunger—and, by the way,
I believe I am half-famished, or else Mrs. Blunt’s efforts in the
culinary line are wonderfully successful—we will go over the house, and
see if everything suits you. What are you looking at the clock for? Your
school days are over, Miss Gladstone.”

Star laughed somewhat nervously, and flushed.

“I was looking to see how many hours would elapse before the clock would
strike twelve, and wondering if it would dissolve the spell that is on
me.”

“No fear of that, Starling. The hours, days, and months, and years, I
trust, will roll by and bring you only joy and pleasure, with no rude
awaking. You are to have everything that you want—and mind, by that I do
not mean just what you _need_, and have you stop to count the cost on
those pretty fingers of yours, as I have seen you do so often. You shall
have music and painting to your heart’s content. You shall have a pair
of ponies and a phaeton of the most approved style; and, in fact, little
girl, it will take you a good while to find the bottom of my purse. But
how do you like your tea-service? I chose it myself, and had it marked
expressly for you.”

“It is perfectly lovely,” Star replied, as her eyes roved admiringly
over the beautiful and costly equipage, upon each piece of which there
gleamed a star in delicate frost-work.

“I’m glad you like it. And now, my dear, suppose you open that small box
by your plate.”

Star gave him a wondering look—indeed, all her looks had been wondering
ones during the last hour—and opened a little white box, which had until
now lain unnoticed beside her plate.

She found inside a morocco case, and springing back the lid of this, an
elegant little watch and chatelaine were exposed to her delighted eyes.

“Uncle Jacob! I cannot tell whether I am awake or dreaming,” she cried,
a rosy flush spreading over her whole face. “It is the dearest little
watch in the world. And is this star on the case made of diamonds?”

“Yes; diamonds are none too good for _my_ star.”

“And you had this waiting for me, even when we were talking about my
having a watch while we were driving?”

“Yes; I was only sounding you a little to see if you would like a watch
best or something else. Now, if you are through, put it in your belt and
come with me,” he said, rising from the table.

She followed his example, and together they passed from the beautiful
dining-room out into the hall, and thence to another room on the front
of the house, which was fitted up as half library, half music-room.

In it there stood a new Steinway piano, with a richly carved case and
pearl keys. The handsome bookcases, each surmounted by books of popular
authors, were filled with choice volumes, while the other furniture,
upholstered in olive and crimson, was most luxurious.

From here they went up stairs, and over the drawing-room found a most
charming suite of rooms, furnished throughout in blue and white.

The dainty bed, in its pretty chamber, was draped with antique lace,
over blue silken curtains, with a spread to match; draperies of the same
kind hung at the windows, and all the toilet articles were of costly
china, most beautifully decorated. The boudoir, or sitting-room, was
fitted up with every convenience, and all those pretty trifles which
young girls so much admire, carpeted with wreaths of forget-me-nots and
golden-hearted daisies. The furniture was covered with richest brocade
of the same design, while the full-length mirror, in its massive blue
and gold frame, revealed, as Star went up to it, a beautiful maiden,
with shining hair, gleaming eyes, smiling coral lips, and glowing
cheeks—a fitting tenant for this lovely bower.

“Allow me to introduce you to the heiress of Jacob Rosevelt, the
millionaire,” said the old gentleman, taking her hand and bowing before
the fair apparition in the glass. “How do you like her?”

“I can’t tell just yet, she is such a new creature; but,” with a roguish
look up into his eyes, “I’m very fond of the millionaire.”

“Thank you, Miss Gladstone; your favor is most highly appreciated,” he
returned, laughing. “But come, you must see my bachelor den;” and he led
her across the hall to a room over the dining-room, and here she found
every comfort, if something less of elegance.

Opposite her sitting-room there was a great chamber, furnished in
crimson and gold, while up another flight were the servants’ rooms. Mrs.
Blunt’s room was on the lower floor, where she could conveniently
overlook her assistants at all hours.

“It is like a story,” Star said, when they had been the rounds and came
back to the library; “and now what are we to do next, Uncle Jacob?”

Her plans had all been for work, and now that she found there was to be
no more toil or care for her—nothing but pleasure and what her own sweet
will dictated, she hardly knew where or how to take up the thread of her
life again; therefore the query:

“What are we to do next, Uncle Jacob?”

                              CHAPTER XXV.
                            STAR’S DELIGHT.

“What are we going to do next?” Mr. Rosevelt repeated. “Why, enjoy it
all, to be sure. I have waited a good while for this good time, and now
I am going to make the most of it. First, Miss Gladstone must attend to
that very important item, Miss Gladstone’s wardrobe, which must be
suitable for her position; and Star, I shall be quite particular upon
that point; let it be both rich and elegant. Then, as the hot weather
comes on, there will be a trip to Newport and the White Mountains, or
some other place equally pleasant, and after that—well, something else,
I suppose,” he concluded, with a smile.

Star heaved a sigh of delight.

It was nice, after all, to be surrounded by all this beauty and
elegance, and to have everything heart could wish.

She had applied for a position as a teacher, and had hoped also to do
something toward writing another book during the coming year; but now,
of course, she could not teach, and there was no actual need that she
should use her pen, although the enticing finger of fame seemed
beckoning to her, urging her to try for even greater literary honors.

Her wardrobe!

Of what should it consist, to be suitable for her position as the
heiress of a millionaire?

It was rather a difficult question to decide, when, during the last two
years, her means had been too limited to allow of her gratifying her
naturally exquisite taste, and all she had possessed in the way of
dresses had been scarce half a dozen, and those of the commonest
material.

The next fortnight was a busy one with dressmakers, milliners, and
seamstresses; for Mr. Rosevelt said he wished to go to Newport by the
middle or last of July, if possible.

Mrs. Blunt was jubilant over the change in “Miss Star’s fortunes.”

“Just to think of it!” she would exclaim every little while. “Who would
have dreamed of it two years ago, when you were at Madam Richards’, and
she trying to make a drudge of you. Don’t I wish I might be on hand when
you and Miss Josephine meet, if you ever do, and she hears that Mr.
Rosevelt was only playing poverty all the time, just to try his proud
relations! I tell you there’ll be music by the full band.”

The young girl flushed.

Josephine had, indeed, been very unkind to her, and it had been hard not
to resent the theft of her beautiful little cameo but she was not one to
treasure ill-will. Her little heart was full of “Christian charity,” and
full of gratitude for the blessings which were surrounding her, and she
was ready to forgive all past injuries.

“I should at least try to remember,” she returned, quietly, in reply to
the housekeeper’s somewhat vindictive speech, “that _I_ wish to be a
_lady_ in the truest sense of the term, and treat her accordingly. But,”
she continued, wishing to change the subject, “you have never told me
yet how you happened to come to keep house for us. I think it was one of
the nicest arrangements that was ever made.”

“Thank you, Miss Star,” the woman answered, with a beaming face; “and
you’d better believe it was a chance that I jumped at. I suppose I
should have been slaving it for that ungrateful set now if I hadn’t come
over to New York one day about three months ago, and met Mr. Rosevelt on
Broadway, all by chance. He seemed glad to see me, and asked how I was
getting on; and I was that discouraged with the way things were being
managed, the cross words, complaints, and everything, that I told him I
was sick and tired of it all, and meant to find another place just as
soon as ever I could, though goodness knows I hadn’t an idea where that
would be. Upon that he looked thoughtful, and, after a moment, said ‘he
didn’t believe in hiring people away from their employers, but if I
really meant to go away, he thought he knew of some one who would like
just such a person for a housekeeper.’ I tell you I jumped at the
chance, for ever since that young lord took himself off so quick, the
madam has been so irritable that nothing would please her; and Mr.
Rosevelt said when I had worked out my notice to come to him, and I’d
find him any day at home at ten o’clock. I suppose he set that hour
because he didn’t want you to know what was going on. I gave my notice
the next day, worked out my two weeks, and came over to New York lighter
of heart than I’d been for years.

“When Mr. Rosevelt told me about what he’d been doing, and what he was
going to do, and said he wanted me for his own housekeeper, my eyes
stuck out so that I thought they’d never feel natural again; but if ever
an old woman was happy, I was, to think I was going to serve you; and
here I’ve been ever since, helping him fix up for you.

“It’s like a beautiful story, Miss Star,” continued Mrs. Blunt, waxing
sentimental, “to see you here among all these elegant things, for which
you were just made, or I’m much mistaken; and when I see you coming out
in all of these lovely clothes, nobody’ll be prouder than I.”

“You are very good, Mrs. Blunt, to be so interested for me,” Star said,
with a smile; “and if what you want is to see me ‘come out in these fine
things,’ you will have your wish, for we shall have to take you to
Newport with us, as I must have some one to attend me, and I cannot
consent to take a stranger.”

“That will be almost as good as to come out myself,” the woman said,
with a chuckle of delight.

Star’s wardrobe and pretty things were all ready at last, and Mr.
Rosevelt, who had taken a strange interest in it, for a bachelor, was
perfectly satisfied.

He had made her elegant presents in the way of jewelry and laces, until
she felt almost overwhelmed.

“Diamonds!” she had exclaimed, her face flushing all over with delight,
when, the day before they were to leave, he came into her sitting-room
and laid a case in her lap, telling her to open it. He had already
purchased her several other sets, but this was the crowning gift of all.

She had thought when he had given her some beautiful point-laces, that
if she only had some diamonds to go with them she should like it; they
were the two things for which she had an especial passion—rich laces and
those pellucid stones, like drops of dew which send back the light in
gorgeous tints. She would have been content with just a pair of
ear-pendants and a solitaire ring—she was content, indeed, without them,
but she thought how nicely they would go with her laces; but there,
dazzling her eyes upon their velvet bed, were ear-pendants, a cross
attached to a beautiful chain, a solitaire ring, and a star for her
hair.

“Oh, Uncle Jacob,” she faltered, “I am afraid you are spending too much
money for me.”

“Don’t you like them?” he questioned, although her glowing face should
have told him all he wished to know.

“Like them? They are perfectly lovely; and I _do_ particularly love
diamonds.”

“Then don’t trouble your pretty head about the money. You know I have
been denied all my life the pleasure of spending it for either wife or
child, and now that I have found some one who appreciates and is worthy
of it, let me get all the comfort I can in this way. You forget,” he
continued, with a smile, “that there are two years’ income to be
disposed of in some way, and I am only making up lost time. I like to go
about the world, and I like to go in style, as I told you once before,
and so my heiress must help me keep up appearances.”

“Are you sure you are doing just right, Uncle Jacob, in giving me _all_
your money?” Star asked, hesitatingly, after a few minutes of thoughtful
silence, while she watched the sunlight play among her new treasures.

“To whom should I give it, I should like to know?” he questioned,
bluntly.

“But I have no _legal_ claim upon you, and you have relatives. I’m
afraid it will make trouble——”

“No, it won’t; I’ve taken care of that, I can assure you,” he
interrupted. “My will is made, signed, and sealed, and in the hands of
one of the best lawyers in the city. _You_ are to have the whole of my
fortune, excepting what the law demands for blood. I’ve given a dollar
to each of them, just to clear myself and keep them from breaking my
will; and they’ll never get another red cent,” he concluded, with more
asperity than she had ever seen him betray before.

“I’m afraid you are piling a mountain upon my small shoulders,” Star
said, with a little laugh.

“It is a mountain which I shall take care won’t crush you; and, besides,
I hope to help you bear it for a good many years to come, if my health
keeps on improving as it has done during the last few months; and then,
I reckon, it will not be _very_ difficult to find some one else who
would be willing to take a share of the burden,” Mr. Rosevelt concluded,
slyly.

Star flushed, and then her face grew sad.

She knew that he meant she would find suitors for her hand; but she
could not forget her first love, and she knew that she should never meet
another who would win the place in her heart which she had given to
Archibald Sherbrooke, unworthy as she believed him to be of it.

That evening Miss Meredith and her brother called.

“How fortunate that you came to-night,” Star said to the young lady
during their conversation. “You would have missed us if you had waited
longer, for to-morrow we go to Newport for a few weeks.”

“Do you? That is delightful, for we have our rooms engaged there also
for next week, and intend to remain a month,” Miss Meredith returned,
with evident pleasure, while Mr. Ralph Meredith, who was conversing with
Mr. Rosevelt, but with one ear open toward the young ladies, felt a
sudden heart-throb at the intelligence.

“Newport is very gay this summer, I am told,” Miss Meredith continued.
“‘Everybody,’ so to speak, is there, and it is one of the most charming
places in the world to visit. Have you ever been there, Miss Gladstone?”

“No,” Star answered. “I have been so busy with my studies ever since I
came to this country, that I have not been anywhere.”

“Since you came to this country!” Grace Meredith repeated. “Are you not
an American?”

“No; I am an English girl, and it will be two years in November since I
left merrie England.”

“Are you some lady of high degree, come here to get your education? I am
almost inclined to think so,” laughed her friend, bending an admiring
glance upon Star’s beautiful face.

“No, indeed. Don’t go to weaving any romances about me,” she answered,
flushing slightly, “for I am only plain Star Gladstone.”

“But ‘plain Star Gladstone’ belongs to a very good family,
nevertheless,” interrupted Mr. Rosevelt, who had overheard the latter
part of their conversation, and would not allow Star to depreciate
herself; whereupon Miss Meredith did feel at liberty to “romance” a
little on her own account.

Star was asked for some music, and delighted her listeners with her
exquisite playing. Miss Meredith and her brother sang a charming duet,
and after an hour spent in the most social manner, they took their
departure, having formed numerous plans to be carried into execution
when they should meet a week later at Newport.

“Miss Gladstone is the loveliest girl I have ever met, and you wouldn’t
let me get a word in edgewise with her, Grace,” Ralph Meredith said, in
a grieved tone, after they left the house.

“Are you ‘star’-struck so soon, brother mine? You’ll have opportunities
enough to ‘get your words in’ widthways during the next few weeks, and
you can comfort yourself for your disappointment to-night with the
thought that I was paving the way to glory for you,” laughed his sister.

“Were you not surprised to learn that she is English?” she asked,
thoughtfully.

“Yes, rather; for I have been told that English girls are not very
pretty; but she is wonderfully beautiful.”

“What will you wager that she does not turn out to be some lady of high
degree?”

“Pshaw! Grace, you are always imagining some unlikely story or other.
You should not read so many novels. Don’t put her entirely beyond our
reach, if you please. It is quite enough for the present to know that
she is Mr. Rosevelt’s heiress and the author of that charming little
book, without being some princess in disguise,” returned the young man,
somewhat impatiently.

“I think I shall like Miss Meredith,” Star said, musingly, to Mr.
Rosevelt, when their visitors were gone.

“She appears to be a very agreeable young lady. I should like you to
form some pleasant friendship,” the old gentleman returned; then, with a
keen glance, he asked: “How are you pleased with her brother?”

“He is quite entertaining.”

“Very fine-looking young man; don’t you think so?”

“Is he?—yes—rather,” was the absent reply; for speaking of England had
sent Star’s thoughts across the ocean again, where she saw in
imagination a noble, patrician face, with dark, fathomless eyes, and
curling chestnut hair; for Archibald Sherbrooke—she could never think of
him in any other character—was her ideal of all that was manly and
grand.

                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                         “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”

Newport was teeming with all that was gay, beautiful, and attractive
during this particular season of which we write.

Never had so much wealth and luxury been represented there, or so many
elegant equipages seen driving through the streets or along the smooth,
sweeping beach.

Not the least attractive among these equipages was the light and airy,
though costly phaeton of “Mr. Rosevelt’s ward,” with its embroidered
lap-robes, its luxurious velvet-cushioned seats, its plump, sleek, and
spirited gray ponies in their gold-mounted harnesses.

Star had created quite a sensation when she arrived at the hotel where
they had taken rooms; and the tall, distinguished old gentleman, with
such silvery hair and beard, and who appeared so devoted to her, was
scarcely less a target for all eyes. But when it began to be whispered
that Miss Gladstone was not only the heiress of Jacob Rosevelt, the
millionaire, but also the authoress of that bright little book which for
a year had created such a sensation in New York circles, the excitement
increased, and everybody was on the _qui vive_ to obtain an
introduction.

When, on the second evening after her arrival, she came into the great
parlors of the hotel—for there was to be a grand hop or assembly there
that night—leaning on Mr. Rosevelt’s arm, and looking “so divinely fair”
in her shimmering robe of cream-colored silk and mist-like tulle,
garnished with velvet-leaved, golden-hearted pansies, her shining hair
coiled like a crown about her small head, with a little cluster of
pansies nestling lovingly among its glossy plaits, every eye was
attracted by her loveliness, and everybody—of the masculine gender, at
least—was ready to “rave over” her, “swear by” her, and “fight for” her
if need be.

It is needless to say that she was not allowed to become a wall-flower,
and it was amusing to observe the maneuvers of the battalion of gallant
young knights who swarmed about her, like bees around their queen, eager
to secure an introduction.

And now the excitement for Star began.

She was whisked away to the ball-room, and the evening sped like a
vision of delight.

She had been taught to dance at home, notwithstanding the fact that her
father was a clergyman, for in all English homes dancing is considered a
necessary accomplishment, because it imparts ease and grace to the
manners of the young.

Mr. Rosevelt followed, for he enjoyed looking upon the merry dancers,
and taking up his station near a window, and by a stand of flowers where
he was partially shielded from observation, he watched his pet with a
fond smile upon his lips, proud of her beauty, proud of her intelligence
and of the admiration she was attracting.

While standing here, a group of half a dozen ladies and gentlemen
gathered near him, and he overheard a conversation which amused him, and
caused at the same time something of a feeling of triumph to pervade his
heart.

“Have you seen the new arrivals?” asked a gentleman of one of his
companions.

“No; what new arrivals do you refer to? There are many every day.”

“An old codger from New York—rich as a king, they say—and his ward, who
bids fair to be _the_ beauty of the season.”

“_In_deed!” returned the lady, assuming a piqued tone. “How dare you
make such an assertion, and in the presence of three acknowledged
beauties, too?”

“I beg pardon if I have offended,” the gentleman roguishly replied;
“but—I have had _Washingtonian_ instructions regarding the principle of
_truth_.”

The young lady tapped him playfully upon the arm with her fan, while she
remarked, significantly:

“How glad I am that you have _told_ me of it!” whereupon the whole party
joined in a laugh at the “truthful” gentleman’s expense.

“But about this fair charmer,” the lady pursued; “who is she, and what
is the name of this ‘old codger’ who is ‘rich as a king’?”

“The lady’s name is Miss Gladstone, and she is not only beautiful,
charming, and rich, but is also the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’
which you have doubtless read.”

“Oh! a blue-stocking!” cried the gay girl, with well-affected horror;
and just here another voice chimed in—a voice which made Mr. Rosevelt
start and listen more intently:

“Miss Gladstone! How strange I never heard the author’s name before!
There was only a simple star upon the title page where the author’s name
should have been. Mamma!” in a startled tone, as if a strange idea had
suddenly come into the speaker’s mind, “it cannot possibly be _Stella
Gladstone_, can it?”

“Certainly not,” returned Mrs. Richards—for both she and Josephine were
among the group referred to, having come from a neighboring hotel to
attend the hop. “Such a thing cannot be possible; _she_ could not write
a book.”

The woman spoke contemptuously, and yet the utterance of that name
produced an uneasy sensation in her mind.

“What is the gentleman’s name? Whose ward did you say she is?” she
asked, a moment later, thinking that would throw some light on the
subject.

“I declare I have forgotten,” the gentleman returned; “it’s a
high-sounding name, though, and he is an aristocratic-looking old
fellow, too. By the way, Miss Richards,” he continued, turning to the
young lady, “I am willing to wager a handsome fan against a new pair of
gloves that Miss Gladstone’s phaeton and pair of ponies will be the envy
of every lady in Newport, for a more trappy turn-out I’ve never seen in
my life.”

“Then she drives her own ponies, does she? Well, I must say you have
aroused my curiosity to the highest notch, and I’d like to see this
paragon of perfection, Mr. Pendleton,” Josephine said, a feeling of
jealousy springing up in her heart at hearing another’s praises sounded
so profusely.

“You can be gratified, for there she stands now—that slight, graceful
girl in the cream-colored silk trimmed with pansies,” replied Mr.
Pendleton, drawing her attention to the spot where Star stood surrounded
by an admiring crowd.

Her back was turned toward them, and they could not judge of her beauty;
but they saw a tall, willowy figure in trailing robes of exceeding
richness, a stately head crowned with golden hair, and there was a
familiar something about the fair stranger which made both mother and
daughter look more closely, while their eyes were filled with anxious
foreboding.

“She is elegantly dressed, I must confess,” Josephine said, putting up
her glass to get a better view of the “belle of the evening;” “and,
mamma,” she added, in a lower tone, “is it my imagination, or is there
something really familiar in that figure? _Can it be Stella?_”

“Impossible! What could have put such a foolish notion into your head?
Where under heavens could _she_ get money enough to flourish in such
style?” Mrs. Richards retorted, impatiently.

“But if she is really the author of the book—it has been very popular,
you know——”

“Nonsense!” interrupted her mother. “I tell you such a thing could not
be possible.”

Nevertheless, Mrs. Richards was closely watching the object of their
conversation, and her heart was beating with a painful throb, for the
young girl did strangely resemble that poor orphan whom she had so
despised and ill-treated, and who had fled from her tyranny.

But her uneasiness increased, for just now she observed a tall,
white-haired gentleman moving toward the girl, and upon reaching her
side, he bent down and spoke a few words in her ear.

His back also was toward them, but the matron’s face was dark with
trouble; she grew white with the sudden fear which possessed her, and
she moved forward to get a better view of the couple.

At that instant Star turned and lifted her bright face to reply to Mr.
Rosevelt, who had left his position by the stand of flowers when she
ceased dancing and approached her, her eyes shining, her cheeks glowing,
and her coral lips wreathed with bright smiles, and both Josephine and
Mrs. Richards recognized her instantly.

A low cry of surprise and dismay broke from Josephine Richards’ lips.

“It is—it surely is Stella Gladstone,” she said; “and that man talking
to her is certainly Uncle Jacob Rosevelt! What can it all mean?”

“Rosevelt! Yes, that is the name,” said Mr. Pendleton, who had caught
it, and who had first called their attention to Star. “‘Jacob Rosevelt,
the millionaire,’ I heard him called this afternoon, but I forget names
so easily.”

“Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire!” repeated Mrs. Richards, with white
lips and astonished eyes, while a tumult of emotions raged within her
heart.

“Yes; he must be very rich, for they have every appearance of it, and
Miss Gladstone’s turn-out, which was sent on before them, is a marvel of
luxury and elegance. But—do _you know_ them?” Mr. Pendleton asked,
regarding her curiously.

Mrs. Richards’ thoughts worked very rapidly.

If this was really Jacob Rosevelt, and she could not doubt the evidence
of her own eyes, he must by some stroke of luck have recovered a
portion, if not the whole, of his fortune since leaving her house; and
in this case he became at once an entirely different person from the
feeble, poverty-stricken individual who had come to her a little more
than a year ago to sue for food and shelter.

He had been a person of no account then—one to be ignored and neglected,
for there was nothing to be gained by treating him otherwise.

But “Jacob Rosevelt, the millionaire,” if such he had become again, must
be propitiated, flattered, and cajoled.

Therefore she had a new role to play, and she would begin at once by
claiming him as a relative before these friends of hers.

“It would be very strange if I did _not_ know him, for he is my father’s
brother,” she said, calling to her lips her blandest smiles; “but I am
sure I had no idea that he was here in Newport. Come, Josephine, we must
go and speak to him;” and she drew the astonished girl away before they
could question them any further, and she wished to collect her own
scattered senses a little before encountering those two whom she had so
deeply injured.

“What can it mean, mamma?” Josephine repeated, with a blank look, for
she had no longer any doubt about the identity of the strangers.

“I don’t know, but I am going to find out,” she answered resolutely.

“Then you are convinced that it is Stella?”

“Yes, it is _that girl_ fast enough; there can be no mistake about it;
and what a sensation she is making! She seems to checkmate us at every
move.”

“Where can they have been hiding all this time?” Josephine asked.

“How do you suppose I know?” retorted her mother, sharply. “I am more
interested to know where all the money comes from to enable them to cut
such a swell. Why, the dress she has on must have cost a cool three
hundred, to say nothing about her other expensive fixings; and then you
heard what Pendleton said about her carriage and ponies.”

“Well, he said she was the author of ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’ and if that
is so, it must have brought her a good deal.”

“Pooh! you don’t suppose one book is going to enable her to live and
dress like a young empress, do you?” returned Mrs. Richards, scornfully.
“No; Uncle Jacob has recovered his fortune, or else——”

“Or else what?”

“He has played it upon us.”

“Played what upon us?”

“Why, poverty, you goose!”

“Mamma! that would be too dreadful. I never thought of such a thing,”
Josephine said, feeling almost faint.

“Nor I, until this moment; but I can account for their appearance here
to-night in no other way. If he has done this thing, and that girl gets
all his money, it will be a bitter pill to swallow, I can tell you.”

“But she could inherit nothing; she is no blood relation.”

“But he could make a will.”

“And we could break it.”

“Not a bit of it; your Uncle Jacob is keen enough to look out for that,
I assure you. But come this way; they are passing out into the hall, and
I am going to sift this matter at once.”

She drew her daughter from the upper door of the parlor, just as Star
and Mr. Rosevelt passed out at the lower one, intending to waylay them
and demand an explanation of their presence.

They turned and came toward those waiting women, walking slowly and
chatting pleasantly, and wholly unconscious of the exciting interview in
store for them.

                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                               DEFEATED.

When they were within a few feet of the upper door, Mrs. Richards
stepped toward them and stood directly in their path.

The hall was nearly empty, almost everybody being in the parlors or the
dancing-hall, so there was no one by just at that moment to witness what
transpired.

“What does this mean?” Mrs. Richards demanded, in a low but
authoritative tone. “Stella Gladstone, how is it that I find you here?
Uncle Jacob, where have you been all this time, and what strange freak
of fortune brings you here in this unaccountable fashion?”

Mr. Rosevelt started slightly on beholding his niece standing in that
excited attitude directly in his path; while Star grew pale at first,
for she had always stood somewhat in fear of the arrogant woman while
she was an inmate of her house. But remembering that everything was
entirely different now, she quickly recovered herself.

But for all that, she clung a little more closely to Mr. Rosevelt’s arm,
as if she was glad that he was there, though in no other way did she
betray how disagreeable this encounter was to her, or appear as if she
had ever met them before.

“Tell me what this means?” Mrs. Richards repeated, looking from one to
the other, noting Star’s delicate beauty with a pang of bitter jealousy,
her self-possession and grace; Mr. Rosevelt’s improved appearance, his
rich apparel, and more than all, the air of pride and fondness which
pervaded every look and attention which he bestowed upon his companion.

“Well, niece Ellen,” Mr. Rosevelt returned, in a quiet tone, while he
met her eye with a cold, steady glance that made her very uncomfortable,
“it appears that you are considerably excited over this unexpected
meeting. Suppose we retire to yonder anteroom, where we can converse
unobserved.”

He turned and led the way, with Star still upon his arm, to a small room
upon the opposite side of the hall; they entered, and he shut the door,
for he did not care that any one should overhear what passed between
them, nor did he intend that Ellen Richards should do or say anything
which should make them objects of remark.

“Now, Ellen, what is it that I am to account to you for?” he asked, in
the same quiet tone which he had before used.

She colored angrily, but she was determined to get at the bottom of the
matter.

“I have heard strange rumors to-night,” she remarked. “I am told that
Stella has become an authoress—that she is very popular, as well as her
book, and I want to know what it means. A year ago you were both
dependents upon my bounty; now I find you sailing about, like a couple
of meteors, among the other shining lights of society. I want an
explanation of the cause of this change.”

“Certainly, Ellen; since you desire it, I will explain with pleasure. We
left your house last October, as you doubtless will remember, and took
up our abode in New York city. Star entered the Normal College at once,
and by assiduous application to her studies, succeeded in completing the
course, and graduated in June, since when we have been trying to get all
the enjoyment out of life that we could. You have heard rightly, Ellen;
she did write that popular little book, ‘Chatsworth’s Pride,’ and it is
a source of pride to me that I have the honor of introducing in society
its popular author as my ward and heiress——”

“Your _heiress_!” Mrs. Richards cried, growing pale.

“Yes; Miss Gladstone is named as such in my will, which is now in the
hands of my lawyer,” the old gentleman replied, quietly.

His niece looked from one to the other in blank dismay. She had feared
she should hear something of the kind, but it was none the less a shock
to her when it came.

“Your heiress—heiress to _what_?” she demanded, sharply.

“To the whole of my fortune, madam.”

“Your fortune!” she sneered, but her voice was hoarse from passion and
baffled hopes. “A year ago it was—_beggary_!”

Mr. Rosevelt smiled serenely.

“_Apparently_, yes,” he answered. “But I was _then_, what I am _now_—a
millionaire. The mistake of your life-time was made then, Ellen; for if
you had cordially received the feeble old man who came to your house in
such a forlorn condition; if you had given him kindness and sympathy,
such as you were wont to do when he was rich and prosperous; if you had
shown him something of love and tenderness, instead of coldness and
contempt, making him feel that he was a burden and an intruder, _you_
would have had the bulk of my fortune, for your brother had already
forfeited his share. I thought that my final return to this country
would give me a good opportunity to test your and Henry’s sincerity, and
I resolved to do so. I went to him as a poor man; I was received coldly,
and made as uncomfortable as it was possible for any one to be made.
Then I said to myself, ‘Ellen’s womanly heart will prompt her to be kind
to me, if not for my own sake, for her father’s,’ and so I came to you
also in the guise of poverty.”

“It was mean—it was dishonorable to take advantage of me in that way,”
Mrs. Richards said, with white, quivering lips.

“Not at all. I wanted to _know_ you as you were, not what you pretended
to be. I do not need to tell you the result of my plan; we all know it
but too well. No one gave me a word of sympathy or kindness save this
dear girl”—he laid his hand tenderly on Star’s shoulder—“who did her
utmost to make the old man forget as far as was possible his bitter
disappointment, and who had already earned his love and gratitude by
saving his life, almost at the sacrifice of her own, during that
terrible voyage across the Atlantic. She has been like a sunbeam to me
from the first; and when I saw how unkind you all were to her also—how
you were betraying your trust and breaking your promise to her dying
father—I resolved that she should become my especial care for the
future.

“I do not need to recall to your memory the last night that we spent in
your house in Yonkers. It must be as fresh to you as it is to me. You
taunted us both with our poverty and dependence. You drove _her_ to
desperation by your unjust accusations and your heartless language. She
could not endure that kind of a life any longer, and she knew that I
also was anything but happy; so she came to me, told me the secret of
her success as an author, and of the income which her book bade fair to
bring her, and begged of me to go with her to share her substance,
asking in return only the comfort of congenial companionship and the
protection which my presence would give her. I was sorely tempted, as I
have told her, to confess the part I had been playing, and proclaim her
my heiress on the spot. But I thought, considering all things, it would
be better to wait until she was through with school, while I wanted to
study her a little more closely before committing my all to her. She has
stood the test most nobly. She has been the light of our home. She has
labored early and late to minister to my comfort and happiness, and
_now_ she is going to reap her reward. Everything that I _can_ do for
her to make her life bright, I _shall_ do while I live, and when I am
gone, she will have the fortune which, under different circumstances,
would have been mostly yours.”

Mrs. Richards was pallid with anger, mortification, and bitter
disappointment when Mr. Rosevelt concluded.

It was a terrible blow to her to lose this great fortune, and remorse
for her heartless treatment of her uncle was gnawing keenly at her
heart-strings.

Mr. Richards had met with heavy losses in his business of late, and it
was only by straining every nerve, calculating, and contriving, that she
and Josephine had been able to come to Newport at all that season, and
it was simply maddening to think that Star, whom she had so disliked
from the first, should have won, by little acts of kindness, what she
would have spared no pains to secure had she once suspected the truth.

“Well, miss, you have played your cards very cleverly, haven’t you?” she
finally found breath to ejaculate, and turning with blazing eyes upon
the fair girl who, all unwittingly, had usurped her place in her uncle’s
affection and will.

Mr. Rosevelt’s face grew stern.

“She certainly has, Ellen,” he said, before Star could speak, even had
she wished to do so, “especially as she could not, by any means, have
known that there was anything worth winning by her acts of devotion and
self-denial. And now let me tell you, that true kindness and sympathy
will _always_ win, where arrogance and pride will only gain contempt,
and lead to disappointment and regret.”

“Uncle Jacob, you cannot mean what you have said. Surely you will not
discard those of your own blood, your kin, for the offspring of a
stranger!” Mrs. Richards said, appealingly.

Mr. Rosevelt looked down at Star with a tender, tremulous smile.

“The offspring of a stranger!” he repeated, softly; then added: “Ellen,
there is a stronger bond uniting this dear child to me than _ever_ bound
me to either of my brother’s children.”

“What do you mean?” cried his niece, in a startled tone.

“Surely, at _your_ age, you do not contemplate——”

Mr. Rosevelt stopped her with a motion of his hand before she could
complete her sentence.

“No; you are wide of the mark; although I am not surprised that a
designing woman like yourself should jump at such an absurd conclusion.
But, lest you should wound her by your foolish insinuations, I will tell
you that Star is the granddaughter of the only woman whom I ever loved;
and, therefore, you perceive that I had additional cause to be
displeased with you on account of your unkindness to her.”

“Really, Mr. Rosevelt, you have more of sentiment in your composition
than I gave you credit for. There _was_ a love passage, then, in the old
bachelor’s life!” sneered Mrs. Richards while an angry flush mounted to
her brow.

Then, with more bitterness than she had yet betrayed, she continued,
with a look at Star:

“I can congratulate Miss Gladstone upon being more successful in
wheedling you out of your fortune than she was in her maneuvers to
become Lady Carrol.”

This was a cruel thrust, and wholly unexpected on the part of either Mr.
Rosevelt or Star.

A shiver of agony ran through every nerve of her body at this rough
probing of the still unhealed wound, and a painful crimson shot over her
beautiful face.

But it quickly subsided, leaving only the bright spots on her cheeks.

She arose from the chair where Mr. Rosevelt had placed her, drew herself
up proudly, her eyes gleaming as bright as the diamonds in her ears,
and, entirely ignoring the coarse woman’s malicious thrust, she looked
up at her companion, and said, in her clearest, sweetest tones:

“Uncle Jacob, I believe we were going out to see the illumination.”

“True, child, true,” he said, taking her white-gloved hand and laying it
upon his arm, while he cast a dark look upon his niece for her cowardly
attack. “Come, we will go at once;” and with a formal inclination to
Mrs. Richards and her daughter, but with an angry gleam in his eyes, he
led Star from the room, shutting the door, with no gentle sound, after
them.

“Did you ever hear anything like it!” Mrs. Richards said, hopelessly,
after they had gone.

“No, indeed; and it is just as you suspected—he was _playing_ poverty
all the time,” Josephine answered.

“Oh, if I could only have known it!” groaned her mother, to whom the
calamity appeared to grow more appalling every moment.

“He makes a perfect fool of himself over that girl,” snapped Josephine,
ill-naturedly. “Just think of the amount of money it must have cost to
deck her out to-night.”

“I am going back to our hotel,” Mrs. Richards said, rising, with a
desperate air. “I am not going to stay here to see her play the fine
lady and crow over us.”

“I’m ready to go. I’ve had enough of this thing, and I never did like
the —— House very well, anyway,” replied her daughter, in no amiable
tones.

                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                     RESCUED FROM A HORRIBLE FATE.

If Mrs. Richards had conducted herself according to her own inclination,
she would have left Newport at once. But she was unwilling that Mr.
Rosevelt or Star should think that she had run away from them, or that
she was heart-broken over the disclosures which her uncle had made to
her.

Besides, Newport was full of wealthy and fashionable people, and among
them several eligible young gentlemen, whose acquaintance, for
Josephine’s sake, she was desirous of cultivating; and surely she was
not going to sacrifice all these advantages, and leave the field clear
for Star to win even greater victories.

No; she would stay, and she resolved she would make things just as
uncomfortable for the young girl as possible, while Josephine should be
made to shine with all the splendor of which their means, and Mr.
Richards’ credit, were capable.

But all the proud woman’s efforts were of no avail, for our fair heroine
had created a sensation which threatened to turn the heads and lead
captive the hearts of every unmarried man, at least, in Newport.

A week passed quickly by, and then Grace Meredith and her brother
arrived at the watering-place, and immediately attached themselves to
Mr. Rosevelt and Star by mutual consent; and many envious looks were
bestowed upon the dark, handsome stranger, who appeared to assume the
right of acting as escort to the two beautiful girls upon every
occasion.

But Star, whenever she appeared in company, laughed, chatted, and danced
with all that was possible of her admirers, dispensing her smiles and
favors with an impartiality that was exasperating not only to her
victims—if such they could be called who were each anxious to win the
prize—but also to the many forlorn damsels who were all sighing for the
attentions she was receiving and the honors she was usurping.

One day, about a week after the arrival of the Merediths, an excursion
was arranged to visit a point on Narragansett Bay, and it was to be a
picnic after the good old-fashioned style of carrying each his own
basket and sharing with his neighbor.

A boat had been chartered to take the party down the bay in the morning
and return at night by moonlight.

Ralph Meredith and two or three of his friends were the originators of
the affair, and the invitations were very select, and limited to one
hundred.

As it happened, Mrs. Richards and Josephine, with quite a number of
others from their hotel, were included in this party.

The morning was delightful, and the spirits of the whole company at
their highest point, while the jaunty, white-winged boat, with its
inspiriting band of music and its gayly dressed picnickers, seemed like
a little floating world devoted entirely to pleasure, as indeed it was.

Josephine Richards had arrayed herself in a very elaborate costume for
the occasion, determined that Star, who she knew was to be one of the
company, should not outshine her.

It fitted her like a glove, and was vastly becoming; she never had
looked more brilliant in her life, but she was too fussy for a picnic,
and looked as if she was decked out for a fashionable reception rather
than for a day in the woods.

In direct contrast to all this “fuss and feathers,” was Star, in a
simple suit of white lawn, a belt of blue, of her eyes’ own hue,
girdling her slender waist; a dainty, broad-brimmed hat, set in a jaunty
way upon her golden head, and a little cluster of blue-fringed gentians
nestling beneath her beautifully rounded chin.

The very simplicity of her attire made her conspicuous, and fashionable
maidens, who had groaned in spirit over what they should wear and how
they should wear it, glared at her with envious eyes.

Ralph Meredith had arranged a cozy little nook on the boat for Star and
his sister, by taking some camp-chairs along and cushioning them with
handsome rugs, with a couple of hassocks for their feet, while a sail
had been adjusted as an awning to screen them from the hot sun.

But when, after they were well on their way, he conducted them thither,
he found to his chagrin that this snug corner, upon which he had spent
so much care, had been appropriated by Mrs. Richards and her brilliant
daughter, who were holding a little court by themselves.

“Never mind,” Star whispered; “I do not care to sit just now, and I
particularly wish not to disturb them.”

“But _I_ particularly wished you and Grace to have a comfortable place
where you could enjoy your sail,” he returned, indignantly.

“I know, and you were very kind and thoughtful; but I shall feel better
to leave them to get what enjoyment they can from occupying seats which
they must know were intended for others. What do you say, Grace?” Star
asked, appealing to Miss Meredith.

“I do not see but what we shall be obliged to submit, since I do not
wish to be rude to any of our party. But I must say I think they are
very cool.”

They moved away to another portion of the boat, but when, an hour later,
they saw the interlopers promenading the deck, they quietly slipped into
the vacated seats, and settled themselves for the remainder of the sail.

Here they were soon chatting in the most sociable manner, and were right
in the midst of a most interesting discussion regarding their toilet for
an approaching reception, when a cold voice broke out upon them, saying:

“Miss Gladstone, may I trouble you to vacate our chairs?”

Star started and flushed. Too well she knew those incisive tones.

But she quickly recovered herself, however, and looking up at Mrs.
Richards, for it was she who had spoken, said:

“_Your_ chairs? Are they yours?”

“Certainly; you have already seen us occupying them, I believe,” the
woman responded, haughtily.

Star’s face began to dimple with amusement, for she knew well enough
that this demand was only made to annoy her and make her unpleasantly
conspicuous, and she was determined to turn the tables to their own
mortification; for they could not fail to learn when they landed to whom
the chairs and other comforts belonged.

She made a motion to Grace, who, she saw, was bristling with
indignation, to keep silent; then she arose, bowing with graceful
politeness to Mrs. Richards and her daughter, though her eyes were
gleaming with suppressed laughter.

“I beg pardon if I have been occupying what does not rightfully belong
to me, and I cheerfully resign _my_ chair to your _prior claim_.”

Josephine flushed, for she saw that it was all Star could do to restrain
her merriment, though what should have caused it she could not
understand; while she looked so pretty and was so lady-like, it made her
angry.

“I’m sure,” she began, hotly, and raising her voice so that others could
hear her, “I don’t see what you’re so amused over, Stella Gladstone; and
it seems to me that you’re putting on altogether too many airs for a
girl who used to perform the services of a chambermaid in our house.”

For a moment Star stood as if dumfounded; then she lifted her bright
head a trifle, as if in conscious superiority, gave Miss Richards a cool
stare of surprise, and turned away without a word.

Not so Miss Meredith, however.

She kept her seat with the utmost composure, watching this little scene
with both interest and amusement until Josephine so tauntingly insulted
her friend.

Then she, too, arose, drawing her tall form to its fullest height.

“I cannot understand,” she said, in a voice of scorn, “why you should so
maliciously insult Miss Gladstone; but allow me to say for your
enlightenment, that these chairs, rugs, and so forth, belong to my
brother, Mr. Ralph Meredith, and he arranged them here especially for
Miss Gladstone’s and my comfort. However, I will emulate her example,
and resign my right to ladies who have proved themselves so superior in
point of _refinement_ and _politeness_.”

Having uttered this cutting sarcasm, Miss Meredith bowed mockingly and
walked away to rejoin her friend, leaving those haughty and overbearing
women about as chagrined and crestfallen as it is possible for two
people to feel.

The gay company reached their destination after a delightful sail of two
hours.

It was a lovely grove upon the shore of the bay, which people were in
the habit of frequenting for picnics of this sort, and the party
wandered about in groups for another two hours, exploring the beauties
and attractions around them.

At two o’clock everybody gathered to dine in a place which had been
prepared for that purpose; the tables were spread with the contents of
the numerous baskets, which contained every delicacy which the season
afforded, and the gay company, making the woods resonant with laughter
and merriment, sat down to their rural meal.

It was four in the afternoon before this important part in the day’s
programme was concluded, and then the company scattered, some to lounge
about and rest, others to stroll into the deep, inviting shadows of the
woods.

Mr. Rosevelt and Star, Miss Meredith and her brother, with two or three
others, wandered away by themselves, and finally sat down beneath a
wide-spreading tree for a quiet chat.

While they sat there, Star got up quietly and slipped out of sight, some
spirit of restlessness possessing her to get away for a ramble still
farther into the far-reaching woods.

She had walked some distance, when she heard voices, and soon saw a
gentleman and a lad, both with guns over their shoulders, approaching
her, and looking heated and anxious.

They saluted her courteously, and then the gentleman said, abruptly:

“Have you seen anything of a small, white Spitz dog, miss? It is a
pretty little creature, wearing a silver collar around his neck, and
tiny blue bows tied in his ears.”

“No,” Star answered; “I have seen no dog to-day.”

“We are in search of it because we are afraid it has run mad,” the
stranger continued, peering about with a troubled countenance. “It has
not been well for several days, and this morning showed unmistakable
signs of hydrophobia. It escaped confinement from the cottage, a mile or
so from here, and ran toward these woods about an hour ago.”

They passed on, and Star thought it would be best for her to go back to
her friends, and therefore turned to retrace her steps.

She had only accomplished about half of the distance, when she heard a
clear, musical laugh ring out from among the shrubbery on the right of
the path.

Thinking it must be some of her party, she stepped forward to warn them
of their danger. She parted the branches with her hands and looked
through.

What was her horror to see Josephine Richards sitting at the foot of a
tree, her hat tossed upon the ground beside her, and _holding in her lap
the little mad dog_ against which she had just been warned.

It was a beautiful little creature, and had evidently been made a pet
and plaything. It had lovely brown eyes, looking out from beneath its
shaggy brows; its coat was as white as snow, while around its neck there
glistened the silver collar, and in its pretty ears were the tiny blue
bows of which she had been told.

Miss Richards evidently had just coaxed the little pet into her lap, and
was playing with it without a suspicion of the terrible danger that she
was in, while just for that moment it showed no signs of the madness
which possessed it.

Star’s face was as white as her spotless dress as she took in the
dreadful situation; then she stepped quickly forward and said, in clear
but authoritative tones:

“Miss Richards, put that dog down as quietly as you can, and come away
with me instantly, for I have just been told that it is mad.”

Scarcely were the words uttered, when the little creature snapped at the
hand raised to caress it, and, with a scream of fright, Josephine sprang
to her feet and turned to fly.

But the act aroused all the fury of the maddened animal, and he seized
hold of her skirts, biting and tearing them in the most furious manner,
foaming at the mouth, and howling frightfully in its sudden paroxysm of
frenzy.

“Save me! save me!” Josephine screamed, and flying toward Star for
protection.

There was not a thought of personal danger in the fair young girl’s
heart—not a thought of enmity, or of malice or evil; all her mind was
concentrated upon one thing—how best to save her companion from this
terrible danger and from a horrible death.

“Stand still!” she commanded, in steady, almost stern tones. “Let him
bite at your clothes all he chooses, but do not allow him to get at your
feet; if you run, he will seize them and bite right through your boot.
Have you courage to stand where you are for a moment? I will go behind
him and slip the end of my parasol through his collar and pin him to the
ground; then you can go and call help for me.”

She spoke calmly but rapidly, and Josephine saw at once how much wisdom
there was in her plan.

“Yes, yes; I will do anything,” she said, hysterically; “but be quick,
for I cannot bear this much longer; I shall faint dead away.”

“If you faint,” Star returned, in an awful voice, “you are lost! There!
he has entangled himself in that ruffle which he has torn from your
dress. Be still just a moment longer, and I will save you if I can.”

Watching her opportunity, she stole softly behind the struggling animal,
and, by a dextrous movement, slipped the end of her parasol, which was
quite a stout one, into his collar, and then, with all her strength,
drove it into the ground and held it there, though the creature
struggled furiously to release himself.

Her face had not an atom of color in it, but her lips did not falter as
she said to the horror-stricken girl watching her:

“Go now quickly and call help for me, for, small as he is, I cannot hold
him long.”

Josephine did not need a second bidding, but went shrieking back to the
company in a way to arouse the dead almost.

She had not been gone two minutes—though those two minutes seemed like
an age to Star, who found an almost superhuman strength in that
writhing, twisting thing at her feet—when the bushes behind her parted
again, and the same gentleman who had met and warned her of this danger
sprang toward her, with his gun cocked and aimed at the dog.

His face was almost as colorless as her own.

“Can you hold him just an instant longer?—will you _dare_ hold him while
I shoot him? I will not harm you in the least,” he questioned, in rapid
tones.

“Yes, I _will_ hold him,” she said, resolutely. “If I let him loose now,
he will surely bite somebody.”

Although she spoke so steadily and with so much fortitude, she _looked_
like some beautiful spirit from another world, and the gentleman knew he
must do what he had to do quickly, or it would be too late.

There was an instant of silence, then a quick, sharp report rang through
the woods, and the little danger-fiend lay bleeding and dead at her
feet.

All peril was past.

Star had saved an enemy from a horrible fate—she had done a heroic deed;
but the tension on her own nerves gave way when it was over. She swayed,
tottered, and would have fallen to the ground, but another figure sprang
through the bushes to her side, and her fainting form was received into
the strong arms of Ralph Meredith.

                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                        JOSEPHINE’S INGRATITUDE.

Confusion reigned during the next half hour among the company who had
hitherto been so gay. Josephine Richards had rushed into their midst,
startling everybody out of their senses by shrieking out:

“Go to Miss Gladstone! A mad dog! a mad dog!”

It was all that she could say, for she immediately after sank down
helpless in a violent fit of hysterics, while the women, with white
faces, huddled together in fear and trembling, and the men, with
horrified eyes and quaking hearts, ran hither and thither in search of
Star.

Then there had come that quick, sharp report, directing them to the
spot, and telling them that all danger to them was past. But the
terrible question arose:

“Was Miss Gladstone safe?”

Ralph Meredith, his feet winged with love and fear, was, as we have
seen, first upon the scene of the tragedy, and caught her frantically to
his heart just as she was falling to the ground.

“Is she bitten?” he cried, in a voice of agony, and with ashen lips, to
the stranger, who stood, gun in hand, over the dead dog.

“No; she has not even a scratch; she has merely fainted from fright,” he
answered; and throwing down his gun, he took a long pocket-flask filled
with brandy from his hunting-pouch, and approached the unconscious girl.

He knelt upon the ground beside her and poured a few drops between her
lips, though his hands trembled violently from the terrible excitement
and anxiety under which he had been laboring.

“Go for some water,” he said to his son, who, having heard the report of
his father’s fowling-piece, now appeared upon the scene.

He darted away like a fawn, and was back in less than three minutes with
a pitcherful, which he had seized from the camp, while a frightened
crowd followed at his heels.

But it was a long time before Star revived. The shock to her nervous
system had been a terrible one, and nature seemed loth to resume her
sway after it. But at the end of half an hour her chest began to heave,
and a slight tinge of color returned to her lips.

Ralph Meredith, who hung over her in an agony of suspense and fear,
would let no one touch her or come near her, save his sister and Mr.
Rosevelt; and he found that it required all the strength of his will to
keep him from betraying to the gaping crowd the passionate love he
entertained for the senseless girl.

Finally, to everybody’s relief, those white lids were unclosed, those
beautiful eyes looked up, and a long, shuddering sigh shook her whole
frame.

“What has happened?” she questioned, with a vacant look.

“You are faint, dear. Drink this and you will be better,” Grace Meredith
said, gently, while she held a silver cup to her lips.

She swallowed the stimulus mechanically, and then began to shiver, as if
from the cold.

“I remember,” she murmured, all the color fading from her face again,
and they feared another season of unconsciousness would follow.

“Is he dead?” she asked, a moment after, beginning to rally once more.

“Yes; he was killed instantly,” Ralph Meredith returned.

“And Josephine—Miss Richards—is she safe?”

Everybody looked surprised at this query, for no one had had any idea
that that young lady had been in any danger until now.

“Yes; Miss Richards is safe,” Mr. Rosevelt answered; but a frown
contracted his brow as he began to understand that Star had sacrificed
her own safety and endangered her own life to save that of an ungrateful
girl.

No one had been able to gather from Josephine’s excited and incoherent
account anything save that a mad dog had attacked Miss Gladstone in the
woods. She said not a word of how the noble girl had come to her rescue,
warned her of her danger, and then put into execution a hazardous plan
to secure her safety.

There was not an atom of gratitude in her heart toward Star for having
done this heroic deed—no softening, no sense of sorrow or repentance for
her own unkindness in the past, or for the insult which she had only
that day offered her; there was only a sense of triumph that she herself
was safe, no matter how or at whose risk.

When they came, bringing Star back—for she was still too weak to walk—to
the spot where they had all gathered so gay and thoughtless that
morning, there was a look of sadness and sympathy in every countenance
save those of Mrs. Richards and her daughter, who stole away by
themselves, jealous of the interest and concern manifested by the whole
company for the object of their hatred.

When Star found that Josephine had kept the facts of the encounter with
the mad dog to herself, simply stating that Miss Gladstone had been
attacked by it, she also appeared very reluctant to converse about it,
and as the subject seemed to excite her, no one felt disposed to press
her with questions.

The gentleman who owned the dog sent to his home for his carriage to
have her conveyed to the steamer, although she had smilingly affirmed
that she should be “able to walk with the help of Uncle Jacob’s arm.”

Upon reaching the boat they improvised a couch for her on deck, as she
objected going into the saloon, and by resting quietly during the two
hours’ sail, she seemed almost like herself, save her unusual pallor,
when the vessel touched the pier at Newport.

A carriage was here procured, and she was driven, with Mr. Rosevelt,
Miss Meredith, and her brother, to her hotel.

Grace insisted upon remaining through the night with her.

“You are not fit to be left alone, and—I _want_ to stay,” she pleaded,
as Star hesitated about accepting her offer.

So the two young girls passed the night together, and Star, growing
confidential, and feeling that some explanation regarding Josephine’s
insulting remarks that morning was due her friend, told her much
concerning her life, and how it had happened that she was at one time an
inmate of Mrs. Richards’ family; also relating the events that had
transpired since she and Mr. Rosevelt left them, and how she had rescued
Josephine from the mad dog.

Star was really ill from nervous prostration the next day, and obliged
to keep her room; but Miss Meredith regaled curious ears with the whole
story of Josephine Richards’ danger and Star’s courageous defense of
her, and all Newport did indeed “ring” even as she had hoped.

Enough could not be said in admiration of the brave girl, while scorn
and contempt were freely expressed for the recipients of so much heroism
for refusing to acknowledge their indebtedness, and awarding her the
commendation she deserved.

Mr. Rosevelt was even more unnerved, when he learned the truth, than he
had been the previous day.

He came to her room, wan and haggard, after talking with Miss Meredith,
and sank, weak and trembling, into a chair at her side.

“My child,” he said, brokenly, as he took both her hands and looked them
carefully over with tear-laden eyes, “are you _sure_ you did not get a
scratch anywhere?”

“Quite sure, Uncle Jacob,” Star replied, reassuringly; “the dog did not
touch me anywhere, and if he had, I had a pair of stout undressed kid
gloves on, and they would have protected me.”

“But you were in terrible danger. Suppose you had not succeeded in
pinning him down, and he had turned upon you?” he said, with a shudder.

“I did not think of that,” Star answered; “but if I had _known_ that he
would turn upon me, I believe I should have tried to save Josephine just
the same. _Somebody_ was in danger of being bitten even if she escaped
unharmed, and I felt that I must strain every nerve and not allow him to
get among the company. The dog was a tiny little thing,” she went on,
flushing and becoming excited as she seemed to live over again that
dreadful experience; “but, oh, Uncle Jacob, he was terribly strong. I
thought once that I should have to let him go; I could not have held him
one minute longer;” and she covered her face with her hands, weeping
from nervousness.

“We must not talk about it any more; it excites you,” Mr. Rosevelt said,
soothingly; “but the world would have been very dark for me if anything
had happened to you; and—I am bitter enough to feel that Josephine
Richards’ safety is dearly bought, even at the sacrifice of nothing more
than your nerves and strength,” he concluded, in a stern tone.

Star reached out one white hand and laid it gently upon his, saying,
with grave sweetness, while she wiped away her tears:

“Uncle Jacob, let us not judge too harshly nor be unforgiving.
‘Charity,’ you know, ‘suffereth long and is kind, and never faileth.’
Surely you would not have had me run away like a coward, and leave her
sitting there playing with that mad creature, _knowing_ that she was in
such fearful danger?”

“N-o,” he admitted, reluctantly.

“Just think,” Star went on; “she had him in her lap, and I did not speak
one instant too soon, for hardly had I told her that he was mad, when he
snapped at her. No; I am glad that I did what was right, and Josephine
Richards’ life was every bit as precious to me yesterday as that of any
one else, and I should have done just the same had she been an enemy a
hundred-fold more than she is. She has endeavored to injure me, I know,
in every possible way, and, in all the ordinary walks of life, I should
let her alone. Her spite and ill-will, however bitter, cannot do me any
real harm, although they may annoy me exceedingly, and doubtless will,
in the end, rebound upon herself; but I am glad that I did not falter
yesterday. I did what I could with the kindest of motives; and if _she_
does not feel that she owes me anything, it cannot alter the fact that I
did _my_ duty.”

Mr. Rosevelt regarded her with an almost worshipful look.

“That good book, which you love so well, says that ‘a little child shall
lead them;’ and truly, Star, you in your youth shame me in my maturer
years by your Christian spirit,” he said, in an humble tone.

Star did not reply, but she looked very happy.

“Surely Uncle Jacob must have been reading some in ‘that good book,’ to
quote thus from it,” she thought, while his remark about a Christian
spirit told that he was thinking upon the more serious questions of
life—all of which was very encouraging to her who had so often been
wounded by his bitterness and skepticism.

                              CHAPTER XXX.
                          “I LOVE HIM STILL.”

The first of the week following the events just related, Mrs. Richards
and her daughter were suddenly “recalled to Brooklyn.”

Newport had become, as Miss Meredith had prophesied, “too hot for them.”

They were gone almost before any one knew that they contemplated going;
and, it must be confessed, that it was a great relief to both Star and
Mr. Rosevelt when they learned of their flitting, and knew they would be
obliged to meet them no more.

Star had recovered her usual health and strength, but she had suffered
such a shock that she could not meet or see a dog without a feeling of
fear and an almost overpowering weakness, and she never entirely outgrew
this feeling during her life.

She had seemed unusually thoughtful, too, since the event. Most people,
noticing it, thought it but natural, considering the fearful danger she
had been in, but Star had a very different reason for it.

The moment she had returned to consciousness and found herself in Ralph
Meredith’s arms, seen his agonized looks, heard his tones of fear,
realized the passionate, though trembling clasp in which she was held,
the terrible throbbings of his heart as she lay against it, and noted
the quiver of his pale lips as he hung over her and begged her to assure
him that she was unharmed, she knew that he was no longer what she had
hitherto regarded him—merely a kind and congenial friend.

Those signs she had interpreted in a way to make her feel very grave and
deeply troubled.

She felt that he regarded her with feelings which she knew it would be
impossible for her ever to return, and she feared he was cherishing
hopes which, if not “nipped in the bud,” might ruin his whole life.

His every look and act since that day had told her as plainly as words
could have done that he loved her, and she was constantly trying to
think of some way to make him discover how hopeless his passion was
without bringing matters to a crisis.

But this was not to be.

One evening they all went for a walk in the park, where they spent an
hour listening to the music and strolling about.

As they were returning, Ralph succeeded in securing Star as a companion;
perchance his sister knew his design in so doing, and aided him by
asking Mr. Rosevelt for his arm and making herself as agreeable as she
could to him.

“Come this way,” Ralph whispered, leading the fair girl down a path at
right angles to the one they had been traversing; “we shall all meet at
the gate;” and Star could find no reasonable excuse to offer, although
her heart beat ominously at the request.

The evening was delightfully cool and pleasant, the air fragrant with
the perfume of many flowers, while the music in the distance lent its
own enchantment to the place and hour.

It was just the time for Cupid to be busy with his arrows, and Ralph
Meredith felt that it was an opportunity not to be lost, and governed
himself accordingly.

“Miss Gladstone,” he said, abruptly, after a rather awkward silence, “I
am obliged to return to New York to-morrow.”

“Are you?” Star asked, in surprise. “Is it not a sudden departure?”

“Rather. I had hoped to remain a week longer.”

“Surely your sister does not accompany you? I should miss her sorely; I
should regret to lose her more than I can tell you.”

The young man’s face fell. _He_ had not been included in her regret. But
he rallied, and said, lightly:

“My sister is highly favored, Miss Gladstone; but I had flattered myself
that I also should be missed.”

“Pardon me, if my words conveyed to you the idea that you would not,”
Star said, quickly. “You have been most kind, Mr. Meredith, and I shall
most certainly miss your companionship and your friendly attentions.”

_Friendly_ attentions!

Mr. Meredith had received another stab.

“But,” she added, “will Grace go with you? You have not yet told me, and
I have not heard her say anything about leaving.”

She hoped thus to ward off what she feared was coming, and turn the
conversation in another channel.

“No; Grace will remain for another week. But, Miss Gladstone—Star,” he
began, desperately, “I could not leave without seeking this private
interview with you to learn my fate. You have called my attentions
‘friendly.’ Have you not realized that they have been vastly more than
that? Have you not seen that I have grown to love you madly,
idolatrously? You are modest as a violet, my bright Star; and although I
have tried to win some sign of answering affection from you, yet you
have not given me one. You have evaded my every look, my every word of
love. But, my beautiful darling, it seems as if my true heart _must_
find in yours a fond return. You will tell me to-night, will you not,
dear, that you will give yourself to me? Star, how shall I tell you of
the depth of my love?—how you have become so necessary to me, that if
you should send me away without hope, the future would hold nothing to
tempt me, nothing to make life worth the living. When I held you in my
arms last Wednesday, and believed that your life had been
endangered—when you lay unconscious upon my breast, close to my heart,
so white and still, so exactly as if you _were_ dead, I said to myself
that I could not, I cared not to live, if you were taken from me. My
love, look up into my eyes, lay your hand in mine, and tell me you will
give yourself to me.”

He stopped in the path and waited for her answer—waited for her to lay
her hand in his, as he had asked her to do, and bid him to hope and be
the happiest man in the universe.

But her beautiful golden head was bent, as if weighted with some heavy
care or sorrow. The star-like face was pale and downcast, and the lovely
eyes, into which he longed to read an answering tale of love, were
hidden by their white lids and curling lashes.